American painter, is awarded the Legion d'honneur by the grateful nation of France, 1904.



Detail.  Mary Cassatt, Breakfast in Bed, oil on canvas, The Huntington, San Marino, California

Last night friends and I attended a program in the UCLA Live series at Royce Hall of "An Evening with Anne Lamott and Elizabeth Gilbert"  Liz started things off by sharing an anecdote about her brother-in-law -- a "lapsed Quaker" and businessman -- who got through the first year of fatherhood by reading Annie's "Operating Instructions," which chronicles her experiences having and raising her son Sam.  Liz explained that her brother-in-law recommended the book to colleagues at a business conference, and she conjured up a room full of "guys who looked like Donald Rumsfeld" in dark suits, quickly typing messages on their Blackberries to their secretaries to go out and get this book by someone named Lamott on how to Operate a Business.  In short, Liz was very charming and (as Annie told us later) made good on her promise back stage to warm up the crowd. 

Then Annie read one of her essays from "Grace, Eventually," after which the two talked and asked each other questions on subjects ranging from the Spiritual (Faith, Compassion, Fear, Loneliness) to the Mundane (having and not having a child, teaching, writing habits, politics, their respective tattoos). 

It was an inspiring evening, not least for the fact of our being among the less than two percent of the audience's male demographic.  When Annie told us Liz's book had sold four million copies so far you could believe it, judging from the full house, and you could also believe what publishing experts say, that women drive book market sales.  As you know, I've taught in girls' schools and so have been accustomed to finding myself the only male in the room, but this was a different vibe.  This reminded me of those times when I was very very young and out with my mother and necessity dictated we go somewhere normally off-limits.   The women's changing room at a public pool is one I remember, vividly and dimly at the same time, a place that left me with an awareness of being a small, ineffectual (male) intruder in a place of shadowy and mysterious (female) power. 

I'm told Henry Moore's immense sculptures of women come from his experience as a little boy, giving his mother back massages -- at least, looked at that way, these benign giantesses with their enormous backs make a sort of loving sense to me.  That kind of sensation last night is what I mean, I think; being surrounded by an obvious majority of women is impressive.  Not the way you might imagine a harem quarters either; this was quite a different energy.  The women around us, young and old, mothers, wives (there were a couple supportive husbands), were not a full representation of the gender but a particular dynamic variety: smart, creative, educated, professional, book-lovers, social activists, and probably mostly Democrats who believe as Annie said she did, that for poor people and women and children, an America with a Democrat for a president is a safer place to be.  

Oh yes, I know people who'd quibble with that characterization of the Liberal position, but I understood what she meant.  As these two women spoke with such confidence and honesty about the writing life and about faith and about the struggles and joys of living in this world, the atmosphere of the room was exhilarating. "Do you feel it?" one of my companions asked me. 

"We're outnumbered," I replied, stating the obvious.

"It feels nice though, doesn't it," he observed.

"Safe," I said.  An absense of hostility perhaps, or aggression, which was hard to describe.  Not that Annie or Liz weren't irreverent or funny or even occasionally a little mean about the stupidity of people in general and a couple men (Reagan, McCain for instance) in particular, but there's a difference between abusive and assertive, between cruel and simple unadorned honesty.  Certain women (and maybe even some men) can pull it off -- and not only that, but can manage to achieve what Annie described as "holding a space" for another person when he's in pain or in anger or hurt -- not trying to fix them or judge them or excuse or justify or solve or condemn or erase or deny or cure or change them -- but to simply hold the space open for that person in need so they can breathe and have the room they need to feel and to find the truth and to be.  And evenutally to heal.  That's what it felt like last night.  That a group of women had come together to hold a space and at the same time share and honor the spirit of those among them who know how to do that.  And it felt good, being there.

"Comforting,"my companion said, looking around with satisfaction and contentment, as though we were a couple of boys who'd managed to escape the grim masculine world of bravado and responsibility and competition and road rage outside, but no one was going to turn us in or throw us out, as long as we didn't try and cause any trouble.  As long as we didn't try to misbehave too badly or try and hurt anyone, they would allow us the space to be with them, and be okay.