like we weren't in a rush

yesterday night, i took my stuffy nose and pounding head up to the swedish american museum, found a spot on the floor, and examined the jacket of the new anne lamott book while about 150 of us waited for anne to present "plan b: further thoughts on faith."

a long pink scarf hung loosely on her shoulders as anne sauntered up to the podium and opened to chapter three. her dreadlocks were not only beautiful, but seemingly quite useful as well that evening, since she never had to pull them back while her head was bowed reading. she read the way a schoolkid reads a paragraph of his 8th grade sex ed textbook when called upon - real fast and almost embarrassed, in a way that says "miss jones, you're asking me to read about menstruation in front of the class? you do understand that i'm a 13-year-old kid who just wants to fit in, right?" it seemed right that she would read that way. after all, it's honest non-fiction. it's one thing to send a book along to someone about your life, but it's quite another to read what you've written to an immediate audience. while she spoke, i wonder if she heard those little voices ask her what in the world she thought she was doing reading all these private things out loud to STRANGERS?

i'm so glad she did.

the night's audience was vastly female. all ages. and judging by the laughter during the night, there were a lot of mothers and a lot of menopausal women. i like that. i don't know what other people say feminists are, but being in that room, i felt like a feminist. like i love being a woman. like i was sitting in a room with these brilliant and beautiful, wise and wonderful, hopeful and hampered, sensitive and steadfast souls, and how incredible is that? i think it's that the city makes you feel alone; it encourages isolation, segregation, desperation. but then here, god comes through and provides an oasis in the desolation and it satisfies in a way nothing else can. like a generational hug.

to be honest, i haven't much liked my 20s. perhaps i'm alone in this. i know a lot of people who've experienced their 20s much like thrill-seeking children at amusement parks. each ride is bigger and better, and easily catapults them to the next. they don't care how long the wait is or if they barf afterwards or if their legs burn on the molded plastic.

but my 20s haven't led me to any sort of amusement park. i've heard it talked about, but i kind of have no desire to go. my friend liebe takes me to a real amusement park up in gurnee where i get to eat funnel cake and fly like superman once every year. that's fun. and also, enough.

i suppose i don't know what kind of venue my 20s live in. but it's definitely not an amusement park.

that's why it was nice to hear from the folks last night that their 20s were certainly not the best days of their lives. they applauded anne when she said 43 felt like really late youth. in your 40s and 50s, you stop tolerating so much BS and you learn that "no" is a full sentence. and you get to enjoy life in a way you couldn't when you were 20-something.

that's when it hit me that many of my generation may forever live in an amusement park, an isolated carnival that calls to you with thumping pop songs and glo-sticks and happy clown faces. and some of them will never leave, no longer racing from ride to ride, wondering if maybe they bought tickets to the wrong show.

i digress. but being with all these older women, hearing them laugh real deep belly laughs, seeing the character wrinkles in their faces, identifying with each other, catching the looks of agreement and understanding between friends and sisters, mothers and daughters, i laughed fuller and lighter, too. life felt fuller and lighter.

anne said last night that she gets by by taking leaps of faith, by praying all day long those little prayers that give god the freedom to answer how ever god wants: help me, help me, help me. "i pray all day," she said, "because left to my own devices, i'm full of judgment, blame and worry. i pray to get out of my head. and i take deep breaths.

"breathing," she concluded, "is the secret of life."

she moved away from the microphone after her 60 minutes up front were up, but it felt like she had been with us for hours, like a mom who wasn't too busy to sit with and enjoy her kids, like she wasn't in a rush to do anything, go anywhere, be anybody. and we embraced it. because for an evening, we, too, felt like we weren't in a rush.