life, death, and a ghetto boogie

Mmm.. sitting by the fire, reflecting.
Just a couple random thoughts from the last couple days.

One was about the circle of life and rejuvination. I heard a one of those songs that says that the holidays more or less stink and are depressing because of all the losses or pain that one has experienced over the years during this time that the season only seem to commemorate, or the loved ones that one does NOT have near them, because of death, or seperation of some variety like break-up, divorce, etc.
I haven't had any great history of tragedy coinciding with this season, which I know some people have. I can only cite the loss of my Grandma with whom I was very close, 3 years ago, Dec. 15th. Death and divorces bring one down, but then I looked at Anna, and I just realized how the cycle of life makes you look forward. Children are so very time consuming, but one benefit of that is that it makes you move on, and it supplies you with an abundance of new memories. They are so fresh and full of new life, new ideas, new explorations, excitements, innocence... you can't help but have a smiley face painted on the frowney spots in your memory. A built-in survival mechanism God put in our lives and world to turn sorrow into joy. Pretty cool. Of course I'm not offering this as a one dimensional cure for sadness, but that life does bring hope.

Then I heard one of my favourite songs again last night, for the first time in a couple years: Killing me Softly. Yes, the new ghetto version by Lauryn Hill. I love it. It came out when I was in high school, and I used to sing harmonies with a bunch of black girls in the orchestra room, doing our own little rendition of it. A great memory. I just love the song. Maybe some will find this sacreligious , but I find Sinatra's version SOOO white now. Oh well. My apologies to his faithful admirers. So I heard this song again, and all the associated memories came rushing up. My shoulders instinctively began that little shrugging/bounce dance thing that we always did and all these ghetto gestures, (the Mary J. Blige etc.) that are undoubtedly laughably out-of-date now to any current ghetto kid, nevermind my rural-white-mom rendition of them.

More often than not, when a person lets go, expresses themselves with very much freedom and liberty, they don't end up looking super cool. Like the interpretive dances I perform for Anna to various classical pieces, in my own little version of ballet/modern/freestyle. Ya. I grew up doing this style of dance on a daily basis, and loved it, my parents loved it, but they were biased. And Anna loves it. But she hasn't yet a concept of "cool", for which I am utterly thankful and dread her learning that word. There's singing too. I'm a "nobody's-home diva".
Boy, if there's no one to think critical thoughts, watch out Mariah, Jenni is on the stage.

I know full well that I neither sound the way I hear in my head, nor look the way I imagine when I dance. I can't actually execute these imagined beauties.

This is precisely what I am lamenting. That inability to express what one imagines. Beautiful songs I hear and dances I choreograph, but are stuck in my head to be enjoyed by an audience of one: me. Then there is the unfortunate reality that if I ever do my little shoulder shrug dance when Anna is older, even though it will seem perfectly cool and natural to me, I will look completely ludicrous to her. This stinks. I don't know how else to say it.

Just blather. No real commentary or anything deep to glean from it.
On a totally side note, I totally endorse Lauryn Hill's rant to the Vatican. You go girl.