Cathy Bowman, May 12, 2007
It’s a hard job, being a mother. No pension, no bonuses, and no prestige – unless you’re the Madonna. People sometimes ask, “so what do you do?†because in today’s world, the mere act of raising a child is not enough. Being a mother has stretched my heart farther than I ever thought possible. It has also brought me to my knees. I did not know I could love so fiercely, so purely, so strongly. I did not know I could make so many mistakes. Do so much laundry. Re-enact the Nutcracker again and again. I did not know I could have so much fun or be so bored. My children force me to accept that nothing is permanent, for they are always changing. They have taught me there will be joyous days in the park along with the tears and the temper-tantrums (mine, too) and that the fevers will pass. I know my girls will navigate this troubled world to become open-hearted, strong women. They don’t have to learn to be leaders; they already are. To mothers everywhere, I say: Happy Mother’s Day.
Cathy Bowman, May 1, 2007
In England, I often have the uneasy feeling that I am being watched. And I am. There are as many as 4.2 million surveillance cameras in Britain – about one for every 14 people, according to an AP story. Britain is at risk of “sleepwalking into a surveillance society,†says Richard Thomas, the UK’s Information Commissioner. CCTVs are everywhere – in buses, gas stations, busy intersections – even the Victoria and Albert Museum of Childhood. I’ve been photographed kissing my husband goodbye at the train station, holding my screaming toddler on the bus and shopping for yogurt. Can you say I spy? You’d think with all these cameras that crime doesn’t happen, but it does. Britain is also testing cameras embedded in lampposts that have loudspeakers. People are warned to stop doing naughty things – like dropping their cigarette butts on the ground. Makes you wonder about the moral choices. And who are the officials in the control rooms, monitoring the rest of us? Sheesh. What a way to earn a living.
Cathy Bowman, April 26, 2007
Today I attended an assembly at my daughter’s school. She was wearing the summer uniform – a blue and white polyester dress similar to what Dorothy wears to Oz. Her hair was tightly braided and trimmed with bows; on her feet were frilly socks to match her dress. I was thinking how well she’s adjusting to life in England when she jumped up with the other kids, squeezed her eyes tight and clasped her hands. The room grew quiet. My husband and I exchanged looks. She’s praying! We stopped whispering about the video camera and bowed our heads. It felt strange. Don’t get me wrong – I pray a lot. I believe in the power of prayer. But isn’t this supposed to be, um, voluntary? Are there kids who don’t want to pray? This doesn’t concern my kid. She is happy praying for her school. Happy to ask God for help. Happy to be singing about Noah’s Ark. She is finding her own way while I am fidgeting in my seat. There’s a new study that says religion can be good for kids. It is for mine. She is fully in the moment – and isn’t that what spirituality is all about?
Tom Murphy, April 11, 2007
We normally don’t get caught up in celebrity journalism, but the Don Imus incident isn’t really about Don Imus. It’s about racism and sexism in America. And the "debate" over the fate of the popular radio talk show host is really a debate over what level of tolerance we should show to intolerance. Is is OK for someone to use racial and sexual slurs to demean fellow citizens if they otherwise generate good will by helping charities? No. No more than it’s OK for someone to rob banks if they also volunteer at hospitals. There have always been kind-hearted racists, and they are not excused from acting ethically within a society where all people deserve to be treated equally. We have raised the bar in our society to a point where such remarks can no longer be overlooked. This is a good thing. We cannot lower the bar to make exceptions, not for Imus, and not for ourselves. Whatever happens to Imus, let us all become better people because of his sin.
Cathy Bowman, March 26, 2007
This morning I went to a nursery for primroses and daffodils. Being in England makes you want to garden. I’m reading “Wuthering Heights†and eating parsnips, too. Maybe it’s something in the water. It’s a rainy, misty day – a good time to think about Spring. While at the store, I see a customer with a coupon. Great. The flowers I want are half price. But I have no coupon. “I’m not allowed to tell you about the sale unless you know about it,†the clerk says sweetly. She gives me directions to a nearby office where I can get the newspaper containing the coupon. I do this, then return to buy my flowers. In the US, consumer spending is up; this is because people know about the sales. Next stop? A dental/aromatherapy office. It’s my third attempt to find out whether the water is fluoridated here. “Oh, you’ll have to call the water department,” says the receptionist. “They don’t tell us when they put it in.†Is everything a secret? I go home. The baby won’t nap. I eat chocolate to calm my frayed, American nerves. What else can I do?
Cathy Bowman, March 26, 2007
I hate cleaning the house. Wouldn’t it be great if there were another me? She could do the mindless chores that accompany Life With Children, while I, the superior being, could be putting the finishing touches on my novel, going to Paris or lying on a warm beach. Now I see that scientists want to pursue interspecies cloning. Cow plus dog plus Joe equals y. Pig minus duck divided by Fritz equals z. Or something like that. I understand the need to learn more about diseases and how to cure them. But despite scientists’ promises that they won’t try to whip up a living animal from the interspecies brew, I wonder if laboratory citizens are coming our way. Instead of Dolly the sheep, meet Dolly, the statuesque blond with violet eyes who is a nuclear physicist, classical pianist and NASCAR driver. Honestly, I miss the days when we worried that robots would take over the world. I don’t need to duplicate my life or my dead golden retriever, thank you. I just need a little more help around the house, ok?
Cathy Bowman, March 22, 2007
Looking at the tragic state of affairs in Iraq, it’s hard to see any bright spots. I feel powerless, angry, disappointed. I pray, I write letters, I give money. The fighting goes on. For me, there is no justification for this war. It needs to stop. Now. But if Nancy Pelosican get the votes to pull the troops before fall 2008, that’s a step. I wish the timeline were shorter. When President Bush asks for patience, he’s asking for the wrong thing. He needs to ask for prayers. Lots of them. Daily prayers, evening prayers, prayers when we carpool, eat breakfast, go running, brush our teeth, 24/7 prayers that we can tap into the brilliance and talent at the root of our humanity and transform this situation. I try to remember what I have been taught: To hold every person with compassion in my heart, even if I do not condone his or her actions. But when I think of what has happened, when I hear President Bush asking for more money, more time, more young kids to put on the line, it is hard to be spiritual. Very, very hard.
Cathy Bowman, March 20, 2007
I’m a funny person. But here I’ve lost my footing here in England. When I tell a joke, you can hear the thud. I’m like the aging comedian who doesn’t know when to quit; the folks in the audience are fiddling with their napkins, praying I’ll get off the stage. It’s a strange feeling, since the English I’ve met tell wonderfully funny stories. I’ve tried to play the straight gal – quiet, polite. Then I went to a “mum’s†coffee and met another American. My hidden personality, the gabby girl with the shtick, jumped out of my body. My voice grew louder. Faster. I tossed off one liners, gestured with my hands. I laughed. Loudly. The English mothers nearby looked puzzled. I imagined them going home and saying to their husbands, “Hmm, yes, met the American. Bit of a split personality, I’d say.†Now comes word that laughter makes you more altruistic. If our leaders chuckled more, would they make better decisions? Treat other countries more compassionately? Probably.
Cathy Bowman, March 19, 2007
With global warming all over the news, I’ve been feeling pretty discouraged. Then today I read a story about rock stars going green and making their tours eco-friendly. Who would have guessed that guitar strings could be transformed into jewelry? Here in England – at least in my town – people take recycling seriously. Food waste must be put into a can for recycling. Usually I just toss ours on the compost pile. Ah, if I only had a pig. How fat and happy she’d be on my slop of Gruyère rinds, parsnip peelings and the flesh of an overripe mango! I can recycle my used batteries by mail – for free. At the moment, my gift to Gaia is living without a car. I couldn’t have done that when I lived in the Bay Area. Not with kids, and not in the suburbs. But now that I am in a new place, I find myself looking at everything with fresh eyes. I am willing to look at new ways of living, new ways of getting around.
Cathy Bowman, March 15, 2007
I’ve always liked Saturn. If you were going to live in outer space, it’s about the right size. Great views, cute name. So now scientists think that one of Saturn’s moons – Enceladus – may have what it takes to support life. I’m glad. I’ve always thought it was naive to assume we were the only intelligent beings in the universe. OK, I know – the stories of people being kidnapped by aliens are really out there. But you read them, don’t you? I do. Because I always wonder. You have to admit, Enceladus sounds a like a trendy salad mix. So if there is life in Saturn’s E district, here’s what I want to know: Do they pay hefty mortgages to get into a good school district? Do they dance? If they crash your backyard barbecue, would you offer them a beer or call the police? I try to treat people the way I want to be treated. But does that include aliens? I know what my mother would say. Of course, honey. Of course.
Cathy Bowman, March 13, 2007
We have a ghost, and he’s a drunk. He came to us we bought a small pine refectory table from a second-hand shop. The table had soul, and the price was right. I was sure it had been loved – in a church, perhaps, or in a boy’s school. My husband brought in the dinner plates and for himself, a glass of red wine. What made his hand slip? Like a horror movie, the red stuff splattered everywhere – on the white couch, the beige carpet, the radiator – even the walls. I said a bad word and ran for the paper towels. My 7-year-old called my parents. “We’re having a disaster,†she said. We blotted. We prayed. My husband apologized. I wish I could tell you I consoled him. But I gave him The Look that needs no translation: “Why didn’t you use a sippy cup?†Then I remembered. The table had come from a troubled soul who drank himself to death. It was his ghost who made my husband spill. England has plenty of them. As for ours, I’ve asked it to leave. The stains? They’re gone. Almost.
Cathy Bowman, March 10, 2007
Now that we’ve left the US, my 7-year-old loves her new school, my husband is relaxed, and the baby just learned to walk, so she is happy, too. And me? I am lost. I look the wrong way when crossing the street. I’m confused by the money. But I wanted this move, and I never expected culture shock. Every spiritual class I have ever taken has led me to this journey. I’ve traveled around the world. I was a Peace Corps volunteer. I’ve gone camping with a baby. I even studied British customs. I am 45. If I didn’t jump now, I never would. When the sun finally appeared the other day, I walked along the Thames. The geese nibbled on bread crusts. Three faded rowboats bobbed in the water. An old man in Wellingtons walked his gleaming Irish setter. I felt as if I had stepped into a 19th century painting. I hadn’t cried in three days. At last, I could say it: I am on my path. I am finally on my path.
Cathy Bowman, March 1, 2007
I am a pack-rat. In the days of primitive man, I would have won the Golden Tusk award for Gatherer of the Year. As I got ready to move from California to England, I had to empty my cave. With so many books devoted to clutterholics, I’ve been wondering why most of us still have bulging closets. I think it’s because facing our clutter means facing our mortality. Should I save my sixth grade yearbook? What about the hat I bought in Paris? When I say goodbye, a voice asks: are the best years gone? No, Virginia, of course not! The beauty of aging is I can’t remember what I took to Goodwill. All of the big boo-boos—the sexy mules that pinch my toes, the golf clubs I never use—gone. I have read Karen Kingston’s "Clear Your Clutter With Feng Shui" more times than I can count. The tricky part is dealing with the stuff I kinda, sorta like. I’ve been trying to keep only things I feel passionate about – and teach my kids to do the same. The other day I was helping my 7-year-old daughter clean out her room when we came across a box of my old dolls. Did she want them? "It’s up to you, Mom," she said. "I don’t really have an attachment to them." (OUCH!)