Last night, as I slept fitfully having to prop myself up in bed more that I'm used to (long, self-destructive story not worth relating here), I looked out my window to see a big orangish moon, framed by trees. I've been looking for a meditation word. It came to me. Faith. Not the faith associated with organized religion; a more eclectic faith.
I've not written about support from friends. Finding that inspiration in emails this morning, what else could pop into my head but one of my favorite songs, Bette Midler's, Friends. It not only makes me perk up every time, it is one I sometimes perform a credible, if off-key and missing-phrases but very loud rendition of.
As I look back at that paragraph, I think of my friend with a Ph.D. in rhetoric with whom I correspond weekly (via email, no worries about me actually writing letters). Casual as those communiques are, I always take care with my use of the English language. I'm not sure that one italicizes names of songs in either academic or Associated Press style. I am quite sure I am going to hell, however, for ending a sentence with , "Of." I also have a tendency to over-use commas, influenced no doubt by learning to write radio scripts from a broadcaster friend from long ago (now a Facebook friend).
At one point in my career, I was the same age or younger than most of my closest colleagues. That changed at some point. I came to enjoy and relish my work with younger colleagues. I remain in contact with a handful of them who have gone on to become very successful. High energy and scary intelligent young people who are now encouraging me at every step in my transition to apply myself to something other than getting through level 245 of Bubble Witch Saga.
There are others still serving in government positions keeping their eyes out for me in that sector, giving me ins to make my presence and expertise known to their current colleagues. And still others of more recent acquaintance sending me emails about jobs identified out of our shared interests.
Then there's my partner/spouse/lover/main squeeze Maureen.
Writing that many slash description brings a memory of being in a van with five other lesbians, powerful and political women with whom I served on the board of directors of Bay Area Career Women (BACW). We called ourselves, "Professional Lesbians," referring to ourselves as being in "straight" jobs, often of considerable corporate influence, not as in making money from our "preference." The queens called us, "Dykes on spikes," and, "Lipstick lesbians." We were in the middle of the god awful California Central Valley, coming home from having met with women in San Diego to help them form a group like ours. We spent at least an hour talking about, when/if the day came that same sex couples' relationships were recognized, what term we'd use to describe our relationships. As I recall, we concluded that partner was the least sexist and most politically correct. Did I mention that this was in the wee hours of the morning?
I still primarily refer to Maureen as, "My partner," as she does me. If I knew anything about writing sonnets or odes, I'd insert one about Maureen here. She's lived through so many of my black Irish funks, so many of them originating with my work. Of late, she's taken to uttering an effective admonition to me to, "Quit beating up on my partner!" Thank you, best friend, for your faith and for being you.
P.S. I would insert here a picture of Maureen from when we first got together. She was all gussied up for the BACW New Year's Eve gala, and giving the photographer (me) her best come hither look. I suspect she'd kill me, though, so I'll resist the temptation. Instead, here's one of us together from that same night.
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