I Hide My Chocolate

August

Anticipation

The shift happened. Did you notice?

After the heat wave where it took energy just to go out and pick up the newspaper.

(Yes, I proudly read and relish my physical copy of the newspaper. Saving longer articles to read later. Bringing recipes home, so sure I will be inspired to try something new over the weekend. Lugging entire sections around in my chaotic bag for days to share with anyone who is in synch with my sensibility: You have to read this – it’s funny, fascinating, horrifying! My energetic optimism for potential reading eventually ends up in recycling. Besides, I can always find it online.)

After the days and days of drenching rain where I actually took the subway across town (something I never do, preferring to walk), multiple times, because I was fed up with soaking my sandaled feet in the puddles and fighting with the other umbrellas.

After the June first-burst of roses faded and the black-eyed susans took over, the shift happened.

The sound changed. Did you notice? Last week. The cicadas are brurzing. (One of my father’s invented words.) The tree frogs are singing. I heard geese honking the other day. Flying south already? Too soon! I am not ready for September! It can’t be!

You see, I love August and can’t stand the thought of it ending. It hasn’t begun yet, but I am already preparing myself for August to be over. For the Summer to be over. Kind of like how I both love and dread Sundays. Or life. Instead of living it and loving it, I am anticipating my sadness at being at the end of it.

I love August. The anxious transition to Summer is behind us. The kids are settled into their Summer. There is no homework. Unless you count Summer Reading.

(Who thought Atlas Shrugged was a good choice for Summer Reading anyway? I am encouraging my daughter to read the Cliffs Notes and don’t care if anyone accuses me of being a bad mother and a defiant English Lit major who should be ostracized for disrespecting the canon!)

The days are still blissfully long. Minimal clothes. No shoes. (Well, I go barefoot year-round. Thank you Yoga.) Work slows, a touch. And we have our vacation week on the horizon. Resting, reading, writing, walking, cooking, connecting with my family and friends at the beach, free from routine. I can’t wait.

Then it is over. September. The relentless pace will be back. School, activities, deadlines, pressure to perform. The kids are in the next grade. I am another year older.

I get depressed in August.

Last year, I forbade myself to get depressed. As if by sheer force of will, I could control my mood. Deny my mood. Instead, I launched full tilt into two enormously demanding, challenging, and creative projects. I began teaching yoga consistently once a week. I started my blog, writing consistently once a week. (More or less.) Determined to not quit, I persevered even when my confidence waned and my enthusiasm was shaky. I find myself looking back on those early yoga classes, those early blog posts, with a blushing mixture of pride and embarrassment at their amateur quality. Because, you know, I am so sophisticated now. Beware the sophomore year. Beware the pressure to perform at a higher level. Hang on to beginner mind. I teach because I love sharing yoga and how it makes me and my students feel happy. I write because it is my way of understanding and revealing who I am in a way I have never had the guts to do before. It is not about how many students I have, how many followers I have. Process not results.

This year. What? What shall I do with this seasonal pause? The sabbatical before September. How can I stay in the present moment and enjoy every minute of this long wonderful month? I do think one can make choices about ones’ mood, or at least how one reacts. I can choose to be sad about Summer ending or I can choose to be grateful that my favorite month is here. I choose to be grateful. To live and love my life. Every moment of it. Every person in it.

It is tempting to set myself an assignment. To get through August with GOALS. I will begin to meditate! That’s it! I will meditate EVERY DAY in August. I will post something I am grateful about EVERY DAY in August. I will connect with one friend EVERY DAY in August. I will look at the moon EVERY NIGHT in August.

All worthy ideas, but the pressure to perform them makes me feel depressed. And anxious. Well, to be honest, the ideas kind of jazz me up to a manic achievement-oriented state. YES! That’s how I am going to handle August! I am going to do ALL of those things! The depression comes later. Either when I’ve done all those things and still feel sad or I haven’t done all those things and berate myself for failing. And still feel sad.

To hell with good intentions and impossible-to-achieve resolutions. Perhaps I should take a cue from the seasonal pause of nature. And let myself pause. Pause and breathe.

And maybe, just maybe, do something completely out of character, like watch Sharknado, with laughter instead of my customary derisive judgment. Laughter with my family.

August with my family. I can’t wait for it to begin.

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July 27, 2013

You Will Go To Summer Camp Dammit!

Happy at Home

I have decided my 14-year-old son should go to sleep-away summer camp.

It’s a little late for me to have decided this.

Especially since he is completely appalled at the prospect.

Which is why I’ve decided it would be “good” for him.

Forget that it’s the end of July. Forget that the kids who go to sleep-away camp have been going since they were 10 or younger. I actually have found a camp for teens that has a one week option that sounds idyllic. To me. Hiking, Swimming, Yoga, Creative Writing. I want to go.

How could he not want to go? Why doesn’t he want to go? How much should I worry that he doesn’t want to go? Should I force him to go? Would it be like the time I forced him to go to yoga? Which turned out to have been not very yogic. Recalcitrant-son-determined-to-be-miserable prodded by frustrated-type A-mother. You Will Go To Yoga Dammit.

He seems to be happy. He plays tennis three mornings a week. I enrolled him in swimming lessons, much to his annoyance. A crucial life-survival skill, I told him. Non-negotiable. When the teacher said he was doing so well he should join the swimming team, my son told me he was kind of enjoying it after all and might want to continue. Aha! See? I should push him more!

The rest of the time, he pads around the house watching television, checking on his basil and tomato plants, playing with our beloved parakeets, lying on his bed daydreaming. He’ll practice his guitar and do his summer reading with some nagging. He’ll even do some chores around the house – though it takes some pleading followed by a stern threat that tv-watching privileges will be revoked. Occasionally a neighborhood friend of his will stop by, grateful for the tranquility of our house compared to the rambunctiousness of his house filled with siblings. But mostly my son is alone. Or leading a parallel life with big sister in another room. Seemingly happy.

For me, his quiet aloneness raises the specter of my lonely only child summers. Where watching television meant watching whatever was on one of the main channels at the time: All My Children, Let’s Make A Deal, or Star Trek. I renounced television as a pitiful waste of time. Why watch game shows when I could be Achieving Something Great? I am still quite disdainful of tv-watching, which means I am regularly condescending to my family because they are quite content planted in front of the television. While they are, god-forbid, relaxing, I busy myself with whatever it is I busy myself with. Busy Busy Busy. Achieving Something Great. I think they are the wiser ones. Besides, the offerings on television are now so incredibly varied and sophisticated that getting lost-in-tv is way more entertaining and culturally acceptable than 40 years ago. Indeed, I am beginning to appreciate getting lost-in-tv and am convinced I am going to wish I had figured this out about 20 years ago instead of now. I am not sure that my son’s multiple viewings of every episode of The Big Bang Theory count though. Or my daughter’s obsession with The Royal Baby. Or my husband’s inexplicable fascination with Pirates of the Carribbean, over and over again.

I am coming to the realization that I am quite possibly the most extroverted, sociable, and exploratory person in my family. Well, perhaps it is more accurate to claim I am the most neurotically driven one. To say I am an extrovert is saying a lot, because it is with intentional effort that I have overcome shyness to meet new people and try new things. I have tested, firmly and on multiple occasions, as an INFP on the Myers-Briggs Type Inventory test. The “I” stands for Introversion and means I am someone who is happy alone and prefers to think through things myself without a lot of input on others. Check. The “N” stands for Intuitive and means I am someone who is creative and can spend a great deal of time imagining and dreaming in my mind. Check. The F stands for Feeling and means that I am eager to please and very influenced by the desire to connect with others. Check. The J stands for Judging and means I am someone who is measured, planful, disciplined. Oh yeah, that’s me. Check.

In retrospect, however, I enjoy meeting people and trying new things and have regularly challenged myself to do so all of my life. At least as soon as I could break free from my over-protective and risk-averse parents. It was a badge of honor to push myself to do something new. In ninth grade, I auditioned for the school musical, alone. A non-singer, I croaked “Happy Birthday” to Mr. Duncan, the most open and supportive teacher EVER. I never did get a singing role in high school, but I danced and acted and worked backstage. Being involved with theater is one of the happiest and most fun things I’ve done in my life. And all because I felt in my gut that I had to audition on that fateful September afternoon in 9^th grade.

As my son pauses this summer before entering 9^th grade, I panic. Will he be okay? Have I done enough for him? Shouldn’t he have more friends? Shouldn’t he be doing more? Shouldn’t he be busy busy busy? Do the kids who go to sleep-away have a leg up on him? Should I force him to do more? Should I let him be? Where is the balance? The balance between pushing him and letting him be. What will be the feeling in his gut that compels him to take a risk?

When we had a family meeting to discuss how much structure to enforce on our kids’ summer schedule for the rest of the summer, my son reiterated that he did not want to go to sleep-away camp and was terrified I would come home one day and gleefully announce that I had enrolled him. Yep, that is something I would do. My husband asked him to articulate why he didn’t want to go.

“Why would I want to leave my comfort zone?” he replied, stating what was obvious to him.

Why indeed. He has a beautiful life. Loved and safe. I spent my life fighting against getting too comfortable because I wanted to Achieve Something Great. I spent my life avoiding my childhood home because it was an unhappy hide-out for me, not a happy cocoon. We have created a happy life for our children. A happy life they are not rebelling very hard against. At least not yet. Perhaps that is a Great Achievement I should be proud of.

The desire for him to go to camp is my need, not his, based on my fear that he needs to escape the confines of shyness that I struggled against. I will honor who he is. Nurture. Push gently. Balance opportunities for exploration with time in his comfort zone. And I will be happy that he is happy at home in his comfort zone.

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July 21, 2013

On the Cover of the Rolling Stone

Beautiful Boy

When I first saw the photos of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, I was on the way to Boston with my daughter on our first trip to tour colleges. We never made it to Boston. Frightened at the attack and saddened by the losses, we diverted to Rhode Island, where we were transfixed by the manhunt. I couldn’t bear the photos. This beautiful boy with soft curly hair and soulful eyes looking at me. How could he have performed an act of such horror and destruction? He could be my son, my son’s friend, my daughter’s boyfriend. A boy poised on the brink of manhood, on the brink of his unique life journey. But he went terribly wrong. How? Why? What made him face his array of possible paths and choose the violent one? What drove him to feel so angry and hopeless, so angry and determined, that bombing innocent people made sense to him?

When the May 5^th issue of the Sunday New York Times arrived with the photo of Tsarnaev on the cover, I couldn’t leave it lying around the house. I read the article and then slid the front section with his photo, those eyes looking at me, under a pile of other newspapers in the recycling bin. I couldn’t stand to look at his young face. I wanted to hate him, as I hate the terrorists who attacked us on September 11^th. The profile that was emerging was of a young man who was a chameleon, moving quietly among different social circles, well-liked, compliant, private, unknowable. As grown up life got more challenging and confusing, he seems to have been influenced by his brother and other extreme influences, inciting his anger and demanding his loyalty. For someone without direction, it must have felt good to feel close to the brother he revered and to have a sense of purpose. Even an awful purpose.

Two months went by and those of us not directly affected by the bombing went on with our lives. Then that photo showed up again. The same photo we all saw on television, the internet, and on the cover of the New York Times, but this time Dzhokhar Tsarnaev made the cover of Rolling Stone, with his rock star nickname Jahar. Same photo. New context. Rolling Stone, the iconic magazine that confers rock star status with its iconic cover images. The magazine with songs written about its power and glamour. How dare they put Dzhokhar Tsarnaev on the cover, recalling young Bob Dylan or Jim Morrison with their moody and handsome good looks? My gut reaction was, and is, outrage – even after I’ve calmed down, read all the articles, and digested all the arguments defending journalism and free speech.

Having spent my entire career in the magazine industry, selling magazines, I know how impactful the cover is for branding and for selling copies. A strong-selling cover can make a hugely significant difference in the profitability of a magazine. Frankly, a compelling cover with important editorial content is what magazines are all about and why I love them. I could imagine the meetings at Rolling Stone. The excitement building. It’s a gripping story. It has some new quotes from friends and classmates. Published in a timely way, just as Dzhokhar is pleading not guilty and back in the news. The editor is under pressure to sell copies. Magazines are under pressure to be relevant. And who is going to say no to Jann Wenner? I wonder how much they anticipated the backlash or whether they were beguiled by the thrill of knowing they had a story that would provoke tremendous publicity and sell a lot of copies? I wonder if they considered putting an unflattering image of Tsarnaev on the cover? An image vilifying Tsarnaev, like Sgt. Murphy’s now famous photo, might have gotten the same media attention and would have changed the context from rock star to anti-hero. Now that would have taken guts.

If I worked at Rolling Stone, would I have gotten pulled into the excitement and optimism about having a provocative cover that would get attention and sell copies? Would I have jumped on the bandwagon disparaging CVS and Walgreen’s for being cowards and refusing to sell the issue? Or would I have had the nerve to say no to Jann Wenner? Urged him to anticipate the understandably righteous indignation of Boston and the friends and family of the victims? Insisted that the cover malign Dzhokhar not glorify Jahar? Suggested that he put Jay-Z or Willie Nelson or Robin Thicke on the cover and Tsarnaev in a smaller inset? Always able to see both sides of every argument and eager to be accepted into the inner circle, I suspect that I would have suppressed any misgivings and gone along with the collective corporate enthusiasm for a major piece of relevant long form journalism.

If the accused bomber looked more like what I have come to imagine a terrorist looking like, post 9/11, a bearded and menacing 20-something middle eastern man, would Rolling Stone have put him on the cover? I doubt it. It’s the image of a western-looking youth that is so jarring. It is easier to hate someone who looks and lives so differently from us. It is more deeply disturbing when it is the boy who lives next door. Perhaps that is the point Rolling Stone was trying to make. Mocking us for our racial profiling. Demanding that we look at our assumptions about what evil looks like. The magazine certainly achieved publicity, traffic, clicks, and sales through provoking controversy. After deep reflection, I remain outraged by the cover and mourn the tragedy of it all.

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July 12, 2013

“Enjoy the Food!”

Secret Eating

When I got engaged to my husband, 20 years ago, perhaps my biggest worry was how I was going to keep my eating weirdness a secret. I recall that I also had more typical concerns, like: are we still going to be in love 20 years later? (Yes, but it takes work to navigate the differences as we have matured into our older, more distinct selves.) Funny, the eating concern is vivid and fresh, like it was yesterday.

Food was and is a big part of our relationship. In the beginning, dates and weekends together revolved around either eating out at a new restaurant or eating in by picking a recipe and planning a meal to cook together. We were both very active and thoroughly enjoyed eating a lot to offset all the physical activity. Cocooned in our relationship, we developed a repertoire of delicious meals together. Before our engagement, we spent the weekdays apart, where I happily could revert to eating alone my secret meals.

I would eat alone, secretly, so I could indulge my desire for gorging. I learned to gorge on food that has few calories so I could eat a lot of it without gaining weight. A classic strategy for a ballerina. Some of my favorite foods for gorging, because they can be consumed in large quantities with little adornment except for some olive oil & vinegar or plain yogurt, include: Shredded Wheat, Oatmeal, Quinoa, Lentils, Baked Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Escarole, Broccoli Rabe, and FRUIT. Staggering quantities of fruit. So sweet and refreshing, I still eat a lot of fruit every day. Now I am better able to manage portion sizes and enjoy what I eat mindfully. Back then, I would make the meal last by reading while I ate and not letting myself take another bite until I finished a paragraph. There is so much food I did not savor because I was reading and so many books I did not retain because I was eating. Both the eating and the reading were stalling devices – I was avoiding dealing with whatever anxiety I did not want to face at the time. Avoiding human contact and conflict, avoiding taking risks to put myself out there in the world to claim who I really was instead of who I thought I should be. Or who I thought they wanted me to be. Anyone other than me.

In those happy years of early marriage and those busy years of raising young children, I did not have time to be so anxious and did not miss being lonely. My husband accepted and ignored or laughed at my food oddities. I adapted my rules, strategies, and preferences to our life together, eking out some secret eating time when he had his tennis nights. But when the weight gain of mid-life settled in and the anxieties of mid-life settled in, I found myself pulling out my bag of tricks. But this time, my kids were watching. Desperate to model healthy food choices to my son who would prefer to eat macaroni and cheese exclusively; desperate to model “normal” eating behavior to my daughter who regularly lounges in front of the tv, eating alone; I became obsessive with healthy food choices and regular meals with minimal snacking. I lost my 20 pounds but am not convinced there isn’t collateral damage. I can no longer control when and what my children eat. Perhaps I never did.

When I found out I was pregnant with a girl, 18 years ago, perhaps my biggest worry was how to raise a girl without an eating disorder. I vowed to raise a daughter with a happy sense of her self and her body and a healthy approach to eating that included enjoyment of food. I recall that I also had more typical concerns, like: will she be healthy? Will she be happy? Will I be a good mother? (She is healthy. I hope she is happy. And, good or bad, I certainly am the mother I was meant to be.) Funny, the eating disorder concern is vivid and fresh, like it was yesterday.

As girls, it makes complete sense to me why we eat alone. There is too much pressure to eat socially. Like Scarlett O’Hara, we have to eat a private meal before (or after) the public meal. We are so laced into our form-fitting party attire and so expected to eat properly, pretending we don’t need or enjoy the sensual pleasure of eating to satiety.

There is too much pressure to eat what everyone else is eating. Either too much or too little. What if it doesn’t taste good? What if it does taste good, so good I can’t stop eating it? No, better to sit quietly with a vat of fruit, filling up on something healthy and tasty that won’t make me fat.

There is too much pressure to make food choices that are what “normal” people would choose to eat. The homemade pasta with short ribs sounds delicious, but I am afraid of the calories and am cutting back on meat. I’d really rather have the vegan farro with grilled vegetables. Does that make me weird, someone to look askance at?

When the meal arrives, it is unseemly to devour the entire plate load of food. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite” is what the good girls say, covering their plate with a napkin or mushing the food so that it is no longer appetizing or (my personal tactic) simply dividing it in half mentally and using their tremendous self-discipline to stop. I don’t believe the thin celebrities who brag that they eat burgers and fries without guilt. They go to the gym to work it off – or worse if they are bulimic. They pay a price for their bodies.

Our children watch us, learn from us, imitate us, reject us. When all is said and done, they take parts of us even as they separate and evolve into their own selves. I am regularly terrified that some characteristic of me that I can’t stand lives on in my children. Cuticle picking, secret eating, and all sorts of obsessive-compulsive and perfectionistic anxiety. But they are not me. They did not have my parents, my life. They are loved, I think they know they are loved, and they have different life experiences and coping skills to grow into emotionally strong and honest adults. Still, I can’t help but have a frisson of terror when I see myself mirrored whenever they exhibit anxious behavior traits.

When my brother-in-law urged me to “enjoy the food!” on a recent trip to New Orleans, I laughed. He had no idea what a complicated feat that would be for me. (Or did he?) Balancing my fear of getting fat with my desire to eat, it used to be easy to lose track of what really tastes good and what really satisfies my body. Now, though, with years of eating behind me and an increasing yogic sense of awareness of my body, I am more able to choose what I really want to eat and to enjoy it. Nothing beats a delicious bowl of fruit. Now, though, I prefer to share it.

July 3, 2013

From Boy To Man

A Talisman for My Son

We gave away the swing set today.

Ten years ago, at the peak of the building euphoria when we completed the renovation of and addition to our house, we bought this childhood accessory, fantasizing about the fun times our children would have flying through the air. They were 3 and 7. We had some metal monkey bars from a neighbor, but I wanted swings. I had had a swing set as a child and was determined to provide this accoutrement for my children, hoping it would attract friends and laughter. Happy solitude would be okay with me also. The swing set got a lot of use that first summer. Pretty quickly though, the slide didn’t seem very slippery or very steep. The monkey bars were wood and gave my son splinters. He preferred the ugly metal hand-me-down from before. My daughter could no longer hang upside down without her head touching the ground. The squirrels chewed up the canopy. The next-door neighbors used it more than we did. It has completely languished for the last few years. Finally, it was time. The decade of having young children has passed. The neighbors up the street eagerly accepted the offer, carting it away and power-washing it with enthusiasm. The swing set has new life. They completely surprised me with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine to say thank-you. Four and two, the young girl looked me in the eye and handed me the bouquet of flowers. It was all I could do to not cry. It is time. I wish them friends and laughter; happy solitude; and the sensation of flying to the sky when they swing.

My son turns fourteen this week. My sweet boy is turning into a young man. He doesn’t ask for a lot, but when he does he is very determined to get it. We usually come up with a way to give him what he wants if we see it is important to him. When we asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he surprised us with a thought out answer. He wants a coin on a chain, like my husband. Many of his peers wear a chain with a cross. I suspect he may want a chain like theirs to fit in. But we are not Christian, so he knows the symbolic cross does not belong around his neck. No, better to aspire to the trappings of manhood that his father has adopted and make them his own. My husband’s grandmother gave him an ancient Roman coin that he had mounted and wears on a chain. He treasures this coin and never takes it off. A talisman of extraordinary power and magic. What son would not want the same?

My husband and I were both touched by his request and set about researching the options. My husband found a coin with Neptune/Poseidon on one side (my son’s favorite god) and a boy on a dolphin on the obverse. The boy on the dolphin is, Taras, Poseidon’s son who was rescued from a shipwreck by a dolphin. It also could be the boy version of Genius – representing the notion that a divine inner spirit resides within us and guides us and determines our character. I like that interpretation. And don’t we all need a guardian angel?

As my son turns 14, we are saying good-bye to so many of his childhood ways. His voice is changing. I must get a video of him – IMMEDIATELY – before his young voice completely vanishes. I feel quite urgent about this. He no longer crawls into bed with us. Really. Finally. It is over. For 14 years, he has slipped into bed with us eager for a comforting snuggle, a soothing backrub. When he was a little boy, this was a nightly occurrence. Gradually, it became just weeknights in the early morning hours around 4 am. On the weekends, non-school-nights, he was more relaxed and able to sleep deeply and securely. In the last year or so, the early morning visits have become less frequent – though he remains an enthusiastic hugger and snuggler at other times of the day. Now, I can’t quite remember the last time he came in. Just as well, he is getting so big, he really doesn’t fit – galumphing in between us to find a spot. We knew this day would come. We were pretty sure he’d stop climbing into bed before he left for college. And with high school right around the corner, he seems to be on schedule. I miss my little boy. I am holding my breath for the man he is going to become.

One of the many things I feel I have missed out on by not belonging to a religious community is the tradition of ritual. As he transitions from boy to man, it is an occasion to celebrate with a rite of passage. Without a Confirmation ceremony or Bar Mitzvah, I feel the need to mark his growing maturity and sense of responsibility in some meaningful way. We will have a family party and make a favorite meal and gift him with his Roman coin. We will dance to the Beatles’ Birthday song. And perhaps we will share our thoughts on what makes a good man.

My dear son, as you make the transition from boy to man, know that I am so proud of you. We tend to think of good men as handsome and strong protectors. These physical characteristics don’t last. It is the strength inside you that will make you a good and honorable man. I wish for you to have the courage to speak what is true and important to you and to live according to what you value. Accept responsibility. Seek adventure. Be generous, patient, and loving. Fight for truth. Fight for love. Live with integrity. Live like you have only one life.

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June 28, 2013

Hide-and-Seek

I am at my childhood home, playing Hide-and-Seek with a little girl. Myself as a child? The little girl and I go to hide while another little girl (also young sally?) counts to 60. Or is it 50…my age? Yes, there are two little girls. They are both me as a child. One is hiding and one is seeking. Hiding girl waves to me and urges me to hide with her. She slips seamlessly into some bushes. Small, young, lithe, flexible – poof! Young sally is gone. I study the bushes. There is no place for me in there. I cannot hide. I don’t want to disappoint this sweet and innocent girl so eager to play with me, so eager for a friend. I crouch into a nook beside the house and behind the bush where hiding girl is obscured. I know I will be found – ending the game…ruining the game. Seeking girl’s counting is coming to an end. “48! 49! 50! Ready or not! Here I come!” I hold my breath. Here she comes. Humming around the corner of the house, she spies me immediately. Yelping, “I see you!” Exposed. Found out. Game over.

I am “it” – my turn to be the seeker. I walk to the side of the house, unsure of the spot where I should count or to what number I should count. 100? I find a spot (not sure it is the right spot), cover my eyes, and begin counting out loud. “1! 2! 3!” I hear everyone sneaking behind me to find their hiding place. I raise my voice. “98! 99! 100! Ready or not! Here I come!”

The sneaking footsteps were heading down the hill to the backyard. I begin my search in that direction.

I walk toward the backyard where the swing set used to be, like the swing set my children have outgrown and that we are now passing on to a younger family. The childhood swing set was where I bit Mary-Ellen because I was so angry and didn’t know how to deal with my frustration. I don’t remember what I was angry about but I felt so provoked that all I could do was lash out with my teeth. My father was furious with me. I remember no effort on his part to discover why I was angry; to support my side of the argument; or to teach me a more constructive way to be angry. In shame, embarrassment, and with complete humiliation, I had to face her scary and formidable father and go to her to apologize. My father made me do it after dinner. You can’t disrupt the dinner routine. It was the end of my friendship with Mary-Ellen, because I didn’t know how you could be angry and still love someone.

Heading to the backyard in my dream, the swing set is gone. In its place are cats. Not small cats. Big cats. Cougars. Pumas. Panthers. Sexy older women? Cougars everywhere. Baby Cougars. Adult Cougars. Slinking, Stalking, Hunting. Frightened for my life, I become desperate to find my husband. Where was he hiding? I had to find him and save him. He wasn’t in the backyard. I run to the front yard. More cougars. A voice was speaking to me in my head. “They may seem to not notice you, but they are aware of you and very dangerous to you. BEWARE!” I could not find my husband. The little girls were gone also. Just me, grown up Sally, exposed. Heart beating with fear at the danger.

June 16, 2013

What Did You Learn From Your Father?

I Wonder

I hope that my children will like me and my husband, their father, and that they will want to spend time with us when they are grown and we are old.

For me, I choose to spend as little time as possible with my father. The only way I could become my grown-up self was to leave home. Whatever love I felt for him could not coexist with the suppressed rage I felt at the life-long expectation that I be obedient. “Children should be seen and not heard,” was his not-so-joking mantra. I rarely visit. I feel guilty that I don’t visit; that I don’t want to visit. My father’s grip on me is subtle but pervasive and insistent. I silently stay away, unable to fight his hold, unless I stay away.

For Father’s Day, as we honor our fathers and fatherhood, I am sensitive to the poignant images of loving fathers. I wonder how many of us long for a relationship with our father that we didn’t have? I wonder if I can allow my anger and disappointment to recede for the day so that I can acknowledge what my father has given me? I wonder what his father did to him?

Like me, my father was an only child. He describes his early childhood as being unsettled. While his father opted to continue his education because he couldn’t find work, my father and his mother lived with her parents. He was very close to his mother and describes her as adventurous and very smart and well-educated. His father was absent, preoccupied, and didn’t really understand my father. Like me, my father was a sensitive and introspective child. He discovered the violin around the age of 12 or so and poured all his energy into learning to play. When his father invited him to spend the summer in New York with him while he had a short-term job there, my father refused. He wanted to stay home and practice the violin all summer. What young teen refuses their father and what father accepts such a refusal? Didn’t the family function as a family or was it a collection of individuals? At a young age, my father prioritized his own pursuits over family and friends.

Music formed the backdrop of my childhood. As a young child, I fell asleep to the sound of my father practicing his violin. On Saturday nights, he played string quartets with a loyal foursome who formed my father’s primary social circle. My mother and I would watch tv (The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Carol Burnett Show). When they were done playing, they would have coffee and dessert. When I was older, I was allowed to join.

I started playing piano when I was about 5. Endless years of practicing, lessons, and recitals. It’s amazing I wasn’t a better piano player. I would complain about practicing, but my father insisted. When I looked to him for approval after working on a piece, he would say in his undemonstrative way, “Hmmm, it was good,” which seemed the ultimate put-down. Of course, there was the recital where I forgot the notes, so my teacher brought me the music and I had to start over. Beyond mortifying. I found out much later that the reason my father did not become a professional violinist was that he had severe stage-fright.

Around 7, he introduced the violin to me. What a mistake. Screechy and my father’s instrument. I quit. Then there was the year when I played the flute, around 9. When my father revealed that violinists don’t like flautists because they compete for the same melodic line, I quit. Later, around 11, he persuaded me to try the cello. He explained that I didn’t have to be as much of a virtuoso to get an opportunity to play. Somewhat of a backhanded rationale, but I complied, as usual. More practicing, more lessons, more recitals and competitions. It’s amazing I wasn’t a better cellist. My mother says I was a very good cello player, that I got a deep and robust sound out of the cello that spoke to her. My father hangs on to my cello asking periodically if I wouldn’t like to take it back to my grown up home. Maybe next time.

When my husband and son took up the guitar two years ago, I contemplated joining them, gently strumming the guitar, picking at the notes and paging through the instruction book. I enjoyed their lessons and usually beat everyone at “Name That Tune.” No. I didn’t want to practice an instrument any more.

The only time I saw my father cry (when I was a child) was when he was watching a violinist perform. “Daddy, why are you crying?” I exclaimed in confusion and alarm. I don’t remember that he answered. My mother explained that he was moved by how beautiful the music was.

I too am moved by music. (Thank you Dad.) The sound of a violin or a string quartet brings back the entire aura of my childhood. But the music that moves me is music that I associate with dance, for that was my world, and not his. Or pop music from the 70’s. Other teens rebel by breaking rules and having fights that allow them to bond with their peers. I rebelled by replacing music lessons with ballet lessons and by replacing classical music with Fleetwood Mac and Aerosmith. It was the closest I could get to breaking the rules of our family, without leaving home, until I did leave home.

I wonder if his father had been able to be more present, more emotional, more tuned in to him if my father would have been less self-absorbed and more able to allow for differences and dischord to coexist with love within the family. I wonder if something darker happened to my father to cause him to retreat into his own world, unable to express or share love in a mature way. How much of my tendency to retreat, to go to a place of depression and anxiety is a habit learned from him and how much is cellular, genetic? How much of the anxiety gene did I pass on to my children? They say trauma, and how one reacts to stress, is passed on through the genes.

Now I see an aging man who is frightened of the end of life. Exhausted at the amount of energy required to take care of his and my mother’s survival. Unapologetic. Needing me most just as I am most determined to assert my grown up self and establish severely distinct boundaries. I wonder if I can allow my anger and disappointment to recede so that I can acknowledge what my father has given me? I wonder if anger and love can coexist? He did not show me how they could, being perhaps more conflict-avoidant than me, but it seems important to reconcile these emotions honestly so that I can model a better way of being for my children and theirs. After all, they will need to leave home and become their grown up selves. I hope they will want to visit.

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June 9, 2013

M.C. “B”

Boys and School

“You know Mom, I think the only thing I’m going to miss about 8^th grade is Mr. B.”

I smile quietly, “Yes, you’ve really enjoyed Social Studies this year.”

I whoop inwardly: YES! Finally! There is something about school that he likes! YAY!!!!!!

Thank you Mr. B., energetic rapper, grandfather to another Aidan, and devoted teacher. With your sense of humor and enthusiasm, you sparked Aidan to have an interest in politics, the electoral process, and World War 2. It was the one subject this year that neither I nor my husband needed to coach. (I do the humanities, my husband does math and science. At least until we get so frustrated that we opt to switch places. My husband has assisted with writing some remarkable poems. And everything Aidan knows about linear equations, he learned from me.) Mr. B., you were organized and predictable, which helped him tremendously. You listened to Aidan and allowed him to play a prominent role in the classroom, inspiring him to be more confident. In short, you connected with him. For that, I am profoundly grateful. P.S. I heard your rap was awesome.

When my son was about a year and a half, our babysitter’s husband fell ill and she couldn’t take care of Aidan. For this period, I brought him to back-up daycare at my office. The daycare center was well-run with good people, but it was not home and the good people were not “Grandma Phyllis.” Day 1, I followed instructions to minimize the separation torture – ie, quick hug and walk away. Off to work, I spent the day worrying. I did not visit him at lunchtime – I was assured a mid-day visit would make the separation worse. Day 2, he knew where we were going. This little 18 month old who was hardly speaking any words yet, sat next to me on the Manhattan-bound train and gave me the silent treatment: proud, stubborn, hurt. He looked out the window, refusing to make eye contact or snuggle with me in any way. Enraged at the person he loves most, he stared stiffly out the window. I took his hand and tried to explain. He said one word: “Home.” This from the boy who did not speak yet. My heart broke.

My mother tells the same story about my first day at Nursery School. When she asked me how I liked it, I said: “Too shy.” Never an extrovert, I did grow to love school. Eager to please and competitive for the A’s, I thrived at school. I wanted my children to do so as well. Not just for the intellectual stimulation and social life – and social validation – but because I was busy busy busy with my career and couldn’t really deal with them not fitting into the realm of “normal” school life with its structure and schedule. I have fantasized about living a more adventurous life of travel and home-schooling them, but alas, I am very risk-averse and quite embedded in our suburban life. My children have had no choice but to plod off to school dutifully every morning and work on their homework diligently every evening. No breakdown in the routine allowed for working mothers, nor their children.

So the years go by. After Grandma Phyllis, there is Pre-School, Kindergarten, Elementary School. We are in a “good” public school district with an array of teachers. Most of them are competent. Many of them are truly gifted and dedicated educators. My older daughter got the competitive-for-A’s gene and sailed right to the top of the class and has stayed there. Because she is a girl, who is smart, funny, and obedient, her teachers adore her and encourage her. My son is also smart, funny, and obedient, but he really has not liked school very much. He is not competitive for A’s. That is his sister’s territory. His motivation stems mainly from a desire to not disappoint us, not from a burning desire to learn. Because he is a boy, who is sensitive, distractable, and disorganized, most of his teachers have treated him like just another boy in the middle of the pack. He doesn’t get the encouragement that the top of the heap gets, nor the attention that the truly challenged genuinely require. There have been a few exceptions. Pre-School was nurturing and safe, a supportive entry point. First Grade teacher Mrs. G. whispered that he is a treasure. Fifth Grade teacher Mrs. B. tried a tough approach, recognizing that he was smart and demanding that he actually work. But mostly, Aidan has just wanted to come home. Homework was a chore that took him away from more comfortable at-home activities, like tending his garden, playing with his birds, or getting lost in the stories on tv.

Every year, we are all relieved when Summer arrives and the school routine ends. No more checking the homework, coaching the hard subjects, organizing the backpack. No more nagging – “Did you remember: your library book, your lunch, your homework, your essay, your permission slip, your housekey, your instrument, your gym clothes.” Constant nagging. We try to encourage Aidan to read and write and practice math over the summer, but I really don’t have it in me to insist. September re-entry is rough. It’s a long uphill slog until December. He gets grounded January – April and then really catches some wind and sails through to June. Here we are at June. I am so proud and so relieved. Finals still to go and then graduation from Middle School. I remember Kindergarten orientation where I had to leave the room with a lump in my throat after the Principal said: “Don’t blink! Before you know it they’ll be on their way to college!” Sure enough, I blinked, and my daughter is beginning the college admissions process and my son will soon be embarking on high school.

And so, as I wonder how to help my son navigate the choppy waters of puberty and high school when all he really wants is to be home, I thank the teachers who muster their entire arsenal of professional and personal experience to connect with their students – recognizing and encouraging what is unique about each individual in the hope that they will shine forward and become a fully realized human being, even if they are not competitive for the A’s.

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June 2, 2013

Yogini Guru

Help! Get Me Out of This Tight Spot!

I am angry. At my yoga teacher, Yogini Guru. Which is a little like being angry at your therapist, or your most honest and compassionate best friend, or even a generous stranger doing you a favor, when they hold you accountable and don’t cater to your neediness. Because they love you and want you to be your true self.

I have decided that identifying that I feel anger is a positive sign of personal growth. Instead of numbing low-grade depression or frenetic ruminating anxiety, I now feel anger! At everyone! Constantly! Is there a diagnosis of Generalized Anger Disorder in the new DSM-5 just released? Because I am angry at the ubiquity of Generalized Anxiety Disorder and ready to free myself of that label – the one that has been with me for 30+ years – ready to free myself of being a good girl seeking the approval of others.

Yogini Guru doesn’t know I am angry. I haven’t told her. She probably would not be surprised. She knows me pretty well. I imagine her laughing knowingly or hugging me with acceptance and compassion or simply wondering why I wouldn’t just talk to her directly. My reasons are based on old habits and are constructs in my mind. I have twisted what she has said and fabricated what she is thinking in my mind and haven’t given her the opportunity to be her self. For what it’s worth, Yogini Guru is petite, funny, self-deprecating, inclusive, loving, supportive and not at all austere. I want her to tell me I’m good, a good yoga teacher, but she knows I need to feel my worth without her validation.

After graduating from the 200-hour yoga teacher training program that she directs – essentially a masters degree without the bells and whistles of academia – and apprenticing with a more experienced teacher, I auditioned to teach for Yogini Guru. I was nervous, serious and stiff. She stopped me after just a few minutes and we discussed what I needed to work on. Chagrined (and angry), I wondered if I would ever be a teacher worthy of teaching at her studio. This is the type of obstacle – feedback that suggests I am less than perfect – where I feel overwhelmed and give up. Rejected! Fuck You! I quit! But I love yoga. I love Yogini Guru. I knew this was another crucial crossroads where I have given up in the past. I had to fight through it. It was time to move past depending on others’ evaluation of me to feel good about my self. It was time to feel good about my self.

What I imagined I heard from Yogini Guru: You are a terrible teacher. Worse than I realized. You are a failure.

What she actually said: I like your theme. Your assists are good. Your students trust you. Eliminate the repetitive language so that you are more succinct. Keep practicing. You’re not ready yet. Have fun and be joyful.

Another year later. (Personal growth takes a long time.) I am teaching once a week at a near-by gym refining my teaching skills and my teaching style and nurturing my growing group of beloved students. I have signed on to take a 30-hour continuing education module of teacher training. With Yogini Guru of course. One of the requirements is that I video myself teaching a class and critique it. Then she critiques it. Good God. This is torture. What if I am still not good enough? I schedule time in her studio to video myself, inviting some of my regulars to be my students for this videoed class. I succumb to my anxiety and tense up. The class is well-designed, but flat. I am too mechanical.

I reach out to Yogini Guru: What is the goal of this video? Can we work with my stiff anxiety or should I keep trying?

I wanted reassurance: Oh Sally. I can’t wait to see your video! I am sure it will be fine. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. We’ll talk about it.

Instead, she is holding me accountable for the decision and not catering to my neediness. She said it was my decision. After spending three days alternately fuming, panicking, and on the precipice of giving up – which would sabotage my potential for success – I videoed a second class – my regular class at the gym. It’s not perfect and it is a less well-designed class than the first video, but I was my self. And that is all I can be. My anger (at least at Yogini Guru) is resolved. After all, she has done nothing except be true to her self and compassionate to me. She deserves the same from me. Besides, if and when I teach at her studio, there will always be another challenge, another obstacle, another achievement, another rejection. I need to do this for my self. Not for her or anyone else. Which changes my perspective on the process. If I am not attached to her evaluation of me as a teacher, what is my goal for teaching? Can I enjoy teaching for the sake of sharing my yoga with others and feel confident, in my grounded self, that yes indeed I am a good teacher?

Thanks on the road to personal growth goes not only to the teachers, therapists and coaches, family, friends and enemies (they always have lessons), but also to the random strangers who help you along the way. The other day, as I was leaving an early morning session with my therapist – who was encouraging me to voice my anger in a safe and constructive way – I discovered that my car was blocked in.

I had the new car and had carefully parked it in a corner spot where it had less of a chance to get a ding (and less of a chance to incur the anger and dismay of my husband who adores this car). I fumed and panicked. My instinct was to call my husband. Help! Get me out of this tight spot! My instinct was to run in and implore my therapist to find the offending parker. Help! Get me out of this tight spot!

I took a breath. I spied a woman in the car parked next to mine and asked her for help. She willingly jumped out of her car to direct me out of the spot (such a good woman). I maneuvered carefully back and forth. She assured me that I could do it. I fumed, panicked and was on the precipice of giving up. She went into the building to fight my battle for me (such a good woman) – to find the offending parker. No luck. Back to the maneuvering, she assured me that I could do it. I fumed, panicked and was on the precipice of giving up. Then it was my turn: I went into the building to find the offending parker. No luck. When I reemerged, she had left. My alter ego was gone. I fumed, panicked and was on the precipice of giving up.

On the verge of a panic attack (does this nascent feeling of anger lead to increased anxiety?), I took a breath. I decided to trust her confidence that I could do it. I decided to trust my self. I got in the car. Maneuvered back and forth. Got out of the car to see how much room I had. 6 inches. I got in the car, maneuvered back and forth, got out of the car to see how much room I had. 5 inches. I did this a seemingly endless number of times, not quite sure I was going to succeed – kind of like personal growth. And then I was free. I inched past the obnoxious, self-absorbed car who had parked in the non-spot blocking me. The relief flooded over me.

Who was that woman who helped me? I didn’t get her name. Generous woman in a black dress – I thank you.

Image is Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions

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May 24, 2013

Beautiful Girls

I Am a Prude

The New York Times style magazine, T Magazine, published an issue with a cover photo and inner photo spreads that sparked some controversy: Too Tough To Handle – Harnessing the dark side with black bikinis and a leather cover-up. I actually missed the physical issue, because it was Mother’s Day and I was busy not running errands in a very determined way. So I followed the controversy after the fact in the blogs with intense professional interest. I market magazines for a living. Beautiful girls and sex help sell magazines. I have worked with the editor of T Magazine, Deborah Needleman, and was curious about how she would present her point of view publicly.

In short, readers complained that the girls were too young and too thin and that the imagery was too referential to sexual bondage. The commentary from Jamie Peck at thegloss.com and Margaret Sullivan as Public Editor of the NYT was remarkably benign about the images. Peck acknowledged liking the look. Sullivan focused on the issue of photo-shopping images in fashion photography (forbidden in journalism, but practically de rigueur in fashion photography). Needleman was quoted as saying she also thought the cover model was too thin and considered photo-shopping some plumpness to her but opted not to do so.

Given my personal experience with too-thin-ness, I decided I really should look at the images and check in with my own gut.

My professional distance dissolved.

Two young too-thin girls, perhaps they are all of 20, dressed in black bikinis with a leather cover-up (you know, “harnessing the dark side”) with an aloof and unsmiling gaze. Their skin is pale. Their expression is almost hostile (you know, “too tough to handle”).

I imagined the photo shoot. I imagined myself as one of the models at 20. Eager to please. Flattered they think I am beautiful. Lucky to be wearing couture. Anxious to be considered grown-up, sophisticated, sexy, not naïve. Obedient – I, too, would have endured, willingly, the scrutiny of my body, if it meant I was special. Can’t you hear the photographer (Craig McDean) and the stylist (Joe McKenna) commanding them to be sexy? Why does sexy equate with haughty and aloof, hostile and hard, breastless and bony?

Shouldn’t sexy mean bare souls connecting with intimacy, love, passion? Shouldn’t sexy be happy? These girls don’t look happy. These girls don’t look like they know anything about love, joy, and happiness. Shouldn’t beautiful girls be smiling? Who are the people that think these girls are sexy? Who are the girls that want to look like this?

Sadly, we are everywhere.

In the magazine world, whenever we engaged in serious self-questioning about what kind of models and celebrities to use on the cover and on the inside spreads, we bemoaned the fact that white blonds sold better than ethnic girls and that thin sold better than curvy. I always cheered when a magazine would take a stand against too-thin models. Alas, the readers might say they want to see real women in their magazines, but they don’t buy the magazines with the real women.

I did have some genuine conversation with the editor of Teen Vogue, Amy Astley, across several years of working on that title. Like me, she had been a ballerina. Like me, she was a mother. Like me, she understood issues around body image and eating. In my experience of her, Amy loves all things related to girls and works hard to create a magazine that encourages healthy and positive, honest and open points of view – though within the framework of a fashion magazine. She advocates for no smoking. She advocates for no drinking and driving, no texting and driving. She addresses important issues of body image and bullying and sex. Once, when I came to her requesting images of happy girls making eye contact for a marketing piece, I remember her saying – poignantly – something like: Oh Sally, these girls don’t smile.

Beautiful girls who don’t smile. Sad.

I revisited the T magazine fashion spread and the commentary about it. Blasé, the bloggers commented that the images were unremarkable. I too wanted to be blasé. Not a prude. Yea, these images are unremarkable and the controversy is ridiculous. Everyone wants $500 black bikinis and $5,000 leather jackets to wear to the beach. And then it hit me. Yes I am. I am a prude. An outraged prude! These images are remarkably ridiculous. These images are insidiously dangerous. These images are sad, not sexy.

Now pejorative, “prude” actually means “honorable woman” and was originally a noble compliment, associated with wisdom, prudence, sound judgment. Where are the prudes protecting our beautiful girls? We should be creating a world where girls can allow their bodies to feel. Feel hungry. Feel pleasure. Feel pretty. Feel safe, sexual intimacy. Feel happy. Happy enough to smile.

(Photo is from T Magazine: The New York Times Style Magazine)

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