Leana Delle

I recently went to see Little Mermaid – The Musical as part of a season package that I purchased, and the entire production far surpassed my expectations. Thoroughly impressed by the performances, I found myself the verge of tears more than once as the vocalists channeled God Himself, but the story? Well . . .

Girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl finds boy, girl marries boy. End of story.

Okay, so here’s my issue: What happens next? Does she go to school? Does she get a degree in oceanography? Does she sail around the world, teach swimming, design wet suits? Surely there’s more to make a splash about than just this??

During the show, I watched the faces of the numerous little girls in the audience and my heart ached for them. The message of the story is that love conquers all, and that finding “the one” is not only the mission – it’s the end goal. What we need to show them is that relationships are icing. Potentially fabulous icing, it’s true, but the cake underneath has to all come from within or the thing will collapse down into a heap.

I’m actually a hopeless romantic, believe it or not, and I like to feel like a princess as much as the next girl, but come on! A large percentage of these little theatre goers are going to grow up wanting $40,000.00 weddings in their 20s and wondering why the hell they feel so empty in their 30s. They’ll then leave that relationship, because “surely it must be his fault” and repeat the whole damned cycle over again. Not to mention the poor guy who grew up just wanting to slay dragons, and who doesn’t know that he’s supposed to sing love songs for the rest of his life and not fart. Who can live up to that level of expectation? It’s not fair.

Poor old Walt. It’s not really his fault. Finding the guy was the end goal in his day, and it made for a lucrative business, so I get it, but I think that we need to present a picture that’s a bit more realistic, and stop filling the heads of impressionable young children with hogwash.

Or maybe, just maybe, I need to be a bit less cynical.

Thoughts?

I passed another milestone last week, and in so doing, found myself reflecting on the past year(s) and wondering what the future holds. Funny (or maybe not so much) how birthdays of my youth were so much more about outward thinking than they are now.

‘What will I get for presents?’

‘Where will I go to party?’

‘Who will party with me?’

‘How many of us will there be?’

Now it’s more about presence than presents. Just being here is pretty special, and that appreciation has led to a whole new variety of questions:

‘Who are the quality people I most want to spend my day with?’

Or . . .

‘Where can I go on a work night that will allow me to get home at a decent hour and not feel like I danced with a Mack truck?’

That may sound depressing to some, but it’s really not.

I’m blessed to still be here and healthy. No, I’m not old, unless you’re looking at me through the eyes of a child (or a 20 year old birthday girl) but I have reached the age of facing one’s mortality. The newly diagnosed of my generation – close friends among them – seem to be multiplying, and I have learned to appreciate the people I care about with an open heart.

Being long past the age of feeling immortal, and thinking that my generation will last forever, I now make a point of practicing gratitude on a daily basis. True, I’m often too fatigued to fully grab the world by the tail and swing it over my head, anymore, but I do think that I’ve become better equipped at recognizing a decent tail when I see one (mind out of the gutter – I was referring to opportunity).

The key, I’ve discovered, is presence, and I want lots of it. I want it in the conversations I have with friends, the time I spend with family, and the daily task of just being me. I think we should all ask for presence on our birthdays, and we should be generous with it, as it just occurred to me that it’s the present we give ourselves.

The movers arrived in Ottawa a few weeks ago, and I watched their comings and goings from my sofa until they kicked me off of it. I’ve moved umpteen times in my life, so I pretty much have the process down to a science. The things I always take in the car with me include: an inflatable bed with linen, towels, CD player, toilet paper, a few knives and forks, clothes, two pairs of shoes, some tools, and a small cooler for water and snacks. When everything else gets moved out, I have just what I need to get by on.

I think that presents the obvious question, don’t you? If that’s all I need to get by on, why in hell did I have so many boxes to go on the truck?

I do purge during my moves – both at the start, and at the destination – but it doesn’t seem to cut down on much. I wonder what I’d really miss if – God forbid – the moving van went off the road into a ravine. Probably not a lot, although I’ll admit to have jonesed for my couch more than once this time around. Just something comfortable to sit on. I’d never want to give up my guitar, my pictures or my laptop, but the rest of it . . . I think I’d get by without just fine.

When I was a teenager, I fantasized about living out of VW van on a beach in California (same dream every kid had in the 70s). I’d don a leather band around my hair and have a golden retriever named Aura at my feet. Everything I’d need could be stored in the back of that van, and I’d want for nothing.

I still dream that dream in my mind, and I relive a little piece of it every time I head out on one of my lengthy road trips. Mind you, I no longer want to sleep in the van. I just want to sit on the tailgate and sing before pulling in to a Marriott Courtyard, but I’ll always possess a bit of gypsy longing.

Alas, my accumulation dilemma. Stock pile it, throw it in cardboard, tape it up, then unpack the unsightly mess and try to find room for it all. Once it’s put away behind closed closet doors it can be ignored again, although my junk drawer already needs going through, and I’ve lived here two weeks. <sigh>

I think it’s good once in a while to see all of your stuff piled in one room in boxes. It makes you think twice, if nothing else, and thinking more than once is kind of what moving’s all about.

Oh, yes, it’s true. Every year as a child, I got so excited about Santa that I became physically ill. No lie. I couldn’t eat Christmas dinner until the age of seven, or so, and the smell of turnip turned my stomach for years.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t this particular Santa that I got excited about. He appears a tad bit sinister, but the jolly version that came down our chimney? I’d go into a frenzy over his arrival.

I don’t know what got me so excited in hindsight. It wasn’t entirely the toys, as much as I loved to receive them, and obviously I didn’t anticipate dinner. Maybe the magic of the season caused the upset stomach and pasty shade of pale. Believing that someone with that generous a spirit would visit our house, eat our cookies, and think in some way that we were special? Wow! Then again, maybe the fact that my older brother made the nice instead of naughty list made my stomach turn. Tee hee.

I don’t know how kids can stand it in this “modern age.” It’s ridiculous how advertising for Christmas begins right after Halloween. If they’d done that in the 60s, I would have ended up hospitalized.

Is it just me, or does Christmas come far too early now? Must we perpetuate the commercialism of the season by advertising on the first of November? Could we not just let kids feel the mystery and magic of the season in a less price-tagged, down-your-throat manner, and for a shorter period of time? Postpone the insanity by a few short weeks?

Of course, the question that begs to be asked here is: “Has Leana finally reached the age where she’s spouting off sentences that start with Back in my day . . . ?”

Yes, I suppose I have, but back in my day things seemed a whole lot simpler, and I’m grateful to have grown up when I did. Of course, if you don’t know any different, I suppose it all seems just as magical to kids now as it did to me then.

Does the prolonged Christmas madness deprive kids of getting sick over Santa’s arrival, or does it save them from it? Maybe having more time to think about it stretches the nauseating anticipation out to a thin, benign thread.

I have no idea, but I do know one thing: If I hear Madonna’s version of “Santa Baby” one more time, I’m going to vomit.

Ah, yes. The open road. I honestly love driving as much as I love writing. Dare I say it? Maybe even more. Now, if I could just write while driving . . . I’d be in heaven. Quite literally, actually. Not such a good idea.

I’ve had a few discussions lately about long road trips and how much I love them. Generally, unless people actually get it, I see a glazed and befuddled expression beforeme that translates into something like . . . Drive across the country? For days? Alone?? You can’t be serious.

But I am serious. It’s so cathartic making a journey like that by yourself – especially if you’re moving from one part of the country to another. There’s time to process and reflect, and somewhere around half way to your destination, you begin to shift from what was to what will be. You transition from one physical and mental state to another, and you do it without interference.

Spending time alone – lots of it – has, for me anyway, been integral in my defining who I truly am. The thing I’ve come to realize about my love affair with long road trips, is that they force me to do one thing, and one thing only, while being fully present in the moment. You can’t text (unless you’re a complete idiot) or type, or surf the web. You can’t scroll through Facebook or email friends. Sure, you can talk on the phone, but why in hell would you when there’s a new and inspiring scene around each bend in the road that’s ready to inspire? Multi-tasking, be damned.

I’m gearing up for another cross-country trek in January, and I can’t wait. I’ll be taking a familiar stretch of highway this time to fit in a little research in Paris, TN – the home base of the protagonist in book two. My final destination’s familiar to me as well, but I’ll be arriving there with new eyes and a new vision for the future – all facilitated by five glorious days on the road.

I can’t imagine being prepared for a new start without a transition mission. I’d never want to get on a plane to begin someplace new – not unless I absolutely had to.

As long as I’m able to make the journey on two legs and four wheels, I’ll be doing it – solo. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes a free spirit feel more at home than spending quality time alone without one.

What about you? How do you feel about road trips, and why?