I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations
December 3, 2014

The Breath

IMG_0564

Good-Bye Mom

Dying is a harrowing experience for the ones not dying. I wonder what it feels like to be the one who is dying? What was she thinking? Anything? What was she feeling? Pain? Fear? Sadness? Relief? I hope and pray it was like slipping into Savasana. Please let it be so.

On Saturday, I called the hospital to see if I could get a more clear idea of what was happening with my mother. My father had been providing contradictory information to me for the last few days and seemed frighteningly unsure. The case worker got on the phone and said, quite clearly, “You need to get here today.” Well then. It must really be time. I arrived in the evening. She was having trouble breathing, so they were administering morphine, which reduces pain but also reduces the panicked sensation of not being able to breathe thus slowing down the pace of breathing in and breathing out. Morphine was all she was on at that point, having been transitioned to palliative care. It was the end. I spoke to her and held her hand but she was quite out of it. I debated spending the night at the hospital, but my father was so upset and confused that I decided to go back to the house to be with him.

In the middle of the night, not sleeping, I thought about what I wanted to say to her. The time was here. No time to hold back. But I didn’t have anything to say. The desire for questions and regrets and what if’s was gone. I didn’t have all my questions answered. I didn’t tell her everything. But it didn’t matter any more.

When I was very little, my mother read out loud to me. The first books I remember her reading to me were the Winnie the Pooh stories. It occurred to me that she might be able to hear me and to be more aware of what was going on than I realized so I combed through the house looking for these old books and found the books of poems by A. A. Milne, When We Were Very Young and Now We Are Six. I left my sad and exhausted father at home and arrived early at the hospital Sunday morning.

I spoke to the doctor who was mercifully kind – so kind – and clear and blunt. She is dying. It will be soon. There is no hope. We will make her comfortable. (An infection due to complications following a hip fracture led to sepsis.) Doctors: we are overwhelmed and beg you for your clear guidance. Overcome with guilt and doubt, wondering if we should do more, it was a bitter relief to be told that there was no more to do.

Left alone with my mom. I gazed at her, my beautiful old frail mom who I have been mourning for so long. The vibrant and exceptionally accomplished woman who I knew as my mother had faded many years ago.

I began reading. The matter-of-fact tone and silly language of the poetry was so familiar and so enjoyable. I read a poem. Paused and sat quietly.   Held her hand. Read another poem. Took another break. And so the morning went.

I offered her Reiki. I don’t really feel like a “certified” Reiki practitioner. It always seems mysterious and slightly ridiculous for a card-carrying intellectual to find such comfort in Reiki, but if ever there was time for me to have faith, this was it. I felt the energy in my soul and I offered it to her, praying that it ease the transition between the physical world and the spiritual world.

This is what I said to her that day:

I love you Mom. You can go now. I am happy. You don’t need to worry about me. I will take care of Daddy. You are the best mom. It is because you are a good mom that I am a good mom. I have two amazing children. Thank you. I love you.

Later that afternoon, I brought my father to the hospital. He was overcome, broken-heartedly exclaiming “Oh Sweetheart!” It broke my heart to see my stoic father lose his beloved sweetheart of 54 years. She was more agitated, less comfortable but more alert. She opened her right eye half way and stared and stared and stared at each of us. We just gazed in each other’s eyes. She drifted out of consciousness and we took a dinner break. We returned that evening and she seemed quite out of it. The lovely nurse assured us she was aware we were there and was calmer when we were there. So we sat quietly holding her hand. After about an hour, she breathed out and did not breathe in again. Then her breath returned. Not for long. Gradually, her breath faded away.

I love you Mom.

 

8 Comments
November 29, 2014

A Simple Roast Turkey

2013_44v1

Prepared With Complicated Emotions

For those of us with eating issues, Thanksgiving is fraught. I’ve made the long journey from lonely eater, to competitive pie-baking guest, to overwhelmed hostess, to becoming a more loving and thankful person. I have gradually realized that no one wants the turkey with exotic spices; no one wants the healthy version of mashed potatoes; other people want the sweet potatoes with marshmallows even if I don’t. (Surprise, they are now a favorite of mine!) Like the Grinch, I have very slowly realized that it’s not about me, nor the food, nor my ability to control the holiday experience. It’s about everyone being together. And who wants a hostess that is tense and competitive and judgmental? A hostess should be happy and inviting and joyful, like a beloved yoga teacher, making you feel like the most important and most loved person. Yes, I know. Duh. A mundane epiphany. It only took 52 years.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that I was going to enjoy the holidays. Making my resolve more concrete, I shared my decision out loud with my husband. He characteristically said in his no-nonsense way, “Good! Our kids love the holidays and you should be proud that we’ve created traditions that make them feel loved and happy. Besides, the more you enjoy the holidays, the more they will want to come home for the holidays.” Ah. There it is. The circle of life. As they grow older, I want them to want to come home. Unlike me, I want them to want to visit their parents.

I dug out the recipes, made my shopping list, even found the notes I had made a year ago of missing items and ways to improve the process. I was calm, organized, and ready. And So Excited for my daughter to come home from college for the week.

Then my father called. My 92-year old mother was back in the E.R. The “rehab” center where she was barely surviving the recovery from a broken hip had rushed her there. She was on Coumadin and her blood was too thin. This was it, according to my father. I better prepare to abandon my family and my Thanksgiving to rush to her side to say good-bye. I was, sadly, somewhat immune to his dire predictions. He’s been predicting her demise for the last ten years or so. I went through a laundry list of self-questioning:

  • Was my father’s dramatic pessimism warranted? Maybe. After all, she is 92 and one of these days his dire prediction is going to come true.
  • Did it make sense for me to abandon my family and my Thanksgiving to rush to her side and to help my father? Probably not. It was snowing and the worst travel day of the year.
  • How would I feel if my mother died before I could see her? Deeply sad.

The range of emotions over the next 48 hours was wide and intense.

  • Guilt that I am not near by and don’t want to be more of a caretaker.
  • Anger that my father can still make me feel like a scolded bad girl who must resort to explanations of duty and responsibility to explain why I don’t visit more. (I’m busy, busy, busy!) As opposed to the truth: I am angry at what you did. (Make peace with it, Sally. It’s part of your journey.)
  • Compassion for my father who is so devoted to caring for my mother that he feels shattered at this latest crisis leading to her further deterioration. Compassion for his loneliness and worry about his increasing confusion.
  • Despair that the care options for our aging parents are so medicalized and impersonal, based on aiding survival, not on facilitating love.

48 hours later, on Wednesday, after the hospital treated her for the Coumadin overdose and discovered that she had a UT infection which they were now treating with antibiotics, my mom perked up. About to hop on a train, because my father just that morning had insisted that I really probably should come say good-bye, I spoke to the nurse who said she was doing better. Feeling jerked around but relieved, my father held the phone up to my mother’s ear and she kind of squeaked in greeting. My heart jumped up to my throat and I was overcome with emotion.  Would that happy squeak be the last sound of maternal love I hear from my mother?

I decided that I was going to enjoy Thanksgiving. I do believe you can change your thoughts and make thoughtful decisions about how you are going to react and make conscious choices about what emotion will prevail. More and more, I am choosing joy and laughter. I am still angry, guilty, sad, confused, anxious. I am also loving, capable, funny, generous, thoughtful, and frequently happy. My daughter is home. My mother is alive. I am thankful. So thankful that, at midlife, I feel fully thankful along with all the emotions that come with a poignant sense of gratitude.

(P.S. It’s now Saturday and I am, sadly, on my way to say good-bye to her.)

Simple Thanksgiving Roast Turkey

  • Brine the (≅13 lb) turkey Thursday morning.
    • Dissolve 1½ cups kosher salt, ½ cup dark brown sugar, 1 container orange juice concentrate in a quart of boiling water.
    • Remove neck, giblets and metal truss from the turkey.  Throw away because the giblets make your husband gag.  Rinse and place turkey in a cooler or bucket.
    • Pour brine mixture, 1 gallon of cold water, 1 gallon of ice cubes to submerge turkey. Add chicken broth if turkey is not submerged. Place container out on back porch where it is 40°.
    • Let soak in brine for 5-6 hours.

Go take a yoga class. Marvel at how beautiful the class is and wonder what it is about the teacher that makes her so popular. Perhaps it is because she is the most welcoming hostess, making each person feel special. Let the revelation sink in. Maybe I too can be a joyful yoga teacher, a welcoming hostess.

Back home to make sides, side by side with my daughter. Imagine Thanksgiving someday at her house where I hope to be a gracious and loving and helpful and proud guest.

After a light lunch, it’s time to deal with the brined turkey.

  • Preheat the oven to 500°. Lug the turkey inside and haul it into the kitchen sink. Pat it dry. Do NOT stuff it. Slather it with canola oil. Think about how you feel about eating turkey and honor your hesitation. Give thanks to the poor turkey for giving its life so you can honor a family and cultural tradition. Place the turkey on a rack inside a roasting pan and place it in the very hot oven for 25 minutes. Do not peek. (Alton Brown taught me this.)

Go watch football with your husband and son for 25 minutes. Wonder why this violent sport is so popular. Acknowledge that you find the familiar sound of whistles blowing on the tv in the background to be nostalgic and comforting. Muse about what Janay Palmer is doing today and how her relationship with Ray Rice will evolve when it is announced that he is being reinstated into the NFL.

  • After 25 minutes, remove the turkey from the oven. Watch the smoke! (Gotta clean the oven!) Turn the temperature down to 350°. Cover the breast with a double layer of foil, cutting out a little hole for the button to pop so you can see it. Place the turkey back in the oven. For 2 hours. Do nothing. REALLY. No basting, no checking, no nothing. (Alton Brown taught me this.)
  • After an hour and 45 minutes, begin peeking at the button to see if it’s popped. It should pop at 2 hours. If it doesn’t pop at 2 hours, take it out anyway and use your own thermometer to check the temperature. I swear it’s done. Do not overcook.

While it is resting, finish your sides and consider making gravy. Have someone else carve it. Serve buffet style, because you are done! How simple was that?  Ask everyone to help with the clean-up.

 

Image Credit:  Wild Turkey Cock, Hen and Young by John James Audubon

 

6 Comments
November 9, 2014

Find Bliss in What You Follow

?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

But Whatever You Do, Don’t Be an English Major!

Right on schedule, a little bit more than halfway through her first semester of college, my daughter is wondering what she wants to be when she grows up. Enrolled in the engineering school, slogging her way through Calculus and Chemistry for Engineers, elbow-to-elbow with “nerds,” she is wondering, “Do I really want to be an engineer?”

College is the transition time where you begin to fully absorb that you may not be a prima ballerina or a number one tennis champion or a talented singer-songwriter with millions of screaming fans or any number of other glorified, popularized, famous and lucky celebrity success stories that get served up as role models. How do you integrate your childhood dreams into a viable career that is fulfilling, soul-satisfying, contributes to the world, and earns you a living?

Since I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up, I have a host of reactions to the smorgasbord of life choices she is now facing. Hope, anxiety, and excitement mingle with some midlife regret and wisdom. What kind of advice and support can I give her? Follow Your Bliss versus Gotta Get A Job? Live for Today versus Plan for Tomorrow? Whatever you do, don’t be an English Major (like me)!

Mainly I stay calm and coach her: “Be patient and be open. You will be surprised at the opportunities engineering will offer you.” Inside, I am less calm. The thoughts swirl:

  • Please don’t go into communications. There are a bazillion girls like you working for nothing in Manhattan.
  • When the apocalypse comes, we will not need more pop rock and fashion critics, we will need engineers!
  • You want to be a healer? Engineers do more to heal and build than celebrity talk show hosts!

(Nobody is more surprised than me, the ultimate humanities/arts girl, that I am championing engineering. Go S.T.E.M for women!)

Really though, if life is uncertain, unfair, and short – how do you want to spend it? When all is said and done, what I want her to be when she grows up is … happy.

I grew up with parents who wanted to encourage me to do or be anything I wanted to be. The fortunate benefit of this philosophy is that I was exposed to many different activities and allowed to try new things and quit things as I tired of them. The downside is that while I became good at many things I never became great. I expected to feel a calling, a life purpose, and that I would follow this path to great success. The reality of earning a living was glossed over.

Very few of us have one specific life purpose. Very few of us are so talented and so disciplined and so well-connected that we rise to the top. Very few of us don’t have to earn a living. We do our children a disservice to hold out a vague promise that they should follow their bliss (if they even know what their bliss is) and the money will come.

Oprah is on tour with many people I follow and adore. (I love you Elizabeth Gilbert!) I am not an Oprah fanatic, but I do appreciate that her charismatic message of responsible self-empowerment is important and transformational, especially for those of us lucky enough to have the resources to transform. I am, however, having trouble with her mantra (intermixed with commercial marketing messages) that “You are the master of your fate!”

Well, yes and no. I believe we have the power to control our attitude towards our fate, which very definitely can affect the choices we make and the direction of our lives. But we do not have control over whether we are born into freedom or wealth or an educated environment. The Nigerian girls (remember them?) are not in control of their fate. My nephew’s girlfriend’s 23-year old friend who died suddenly of an aneurysm last week is not in control of her fate. (God forbid! Can you imagine? Those poor parents.)

The truth is, dear girl, that there is no clear-cut path for you to choose. You must make your own path. Your Own Path. The one that makes you happy. Not me. Not Dad. Not anyone else. It will have many turns and branches along the way. Any path you choose will require some boring and tedious and frustrating and just plain hard tasks along the way. It is your approach to your path that will contribute to your happiness and success.

Perhaps, though, the question should be reframed from “What do you want to be when you grow up?” to “What kind of person do you want to be?” When reframed in this way, it becomes more clear that there is no one answer. There is no one direction. Grow up to be you. Wise, honest, and compassionate. The rest will follow. Find bliss in what you follow. Because if you wait for bliss to find you, you will be disappointed.

Oh, and be patient and be open. You will be surprised at the opportunities life will offer you.

Leave a comment
November 2, 2014

Remembering All Souls

???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

For Elizabeth

I was not brought up in any religious tradition, and don’t “belong” to any religion, but I am most familiar, culturally, with Christianity. I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell or an omnipotent God. But I have come to believe there is sacredness in the moments of connection between people and in the rare moments of peace we experience in stillness and in nature.

What happens when we die? Where do our souls go? Why are we here? Without religious tradition and faith, these questions can be troubling, leading to existential angst. These questions can also drive an urgency to live this life with meaning. Because, what if, there is nothing after this life? Better make this one count.

I believe that we are here for those sacred moments of connection and peace. I don’t know what happens when we die, but I know where our souls go. They are part of us who live on.

The daughter of my cousin Elizabeth – Elizabeth, my surrogate sister, the one who was killed by a drunk driver, leaving behind a 10 year old girl – is now grown and got married this weekend. It was a beautiful and joyous and emotional event. With great care, she and her groom planned a ceremony and a party that reflected their open and loving personalities and they included all the people they loved, both alive and dead. The dead ones were there. I felt them.

Elizabeth, Frank, Mary, Melvin, Fran, Earl, Sadie.   Those are the ones from my life that I felt. Present. At the wedding. Imagine if every person brought all their dead loved ones with them. (They did.) It was a big party!

There we all were, living and dead, celebrating the sacred connection of love.

Elizabeth, who I still miss deeply and so acutely at our rare family gatherings, lives on in her daughter and all of us connected to her. I know she is so full of love and pride for her daughter. I can feel it.

If there is no heaven nor hell after life, then surely it is here in this life. And if there is no afterlife, then it is urgent and imperative that we maximize heaven and minimize hell in this life. Love deeply. Those moments of sacred connection are heaven and those moments of sacred connection are the only way to minimize hell. Know that our loved ones’ souls live on in us.

Dear souls, may we find peace.

6 Comments
October 19, 2014

The Ones Left Behind

IMG_0491

What If?

If I had worked in the World Trade Center, I would have been one of the obedient workers who listened to the announcements urging employees to not panic and to stay in their offices. I would have died. Instead, I went to a meeting in a windowless conference room in midtown Manhattan from 9-10 am, only to emerge to the horror unfolding on the television in another conference room. It was surreal. I was numb, unable to process that this was really happening 2 miles downtown. When it seemed that finally outbound trains were running, I made the walk across town to Grand Central to make my way home. Sirens. Smoke. Dazed people. I looked down Fifth Avenue where those ugly mammoth towers that I took for granted no longer stood. There was no anchor to the Manhattan skyline.

I was not a first responder. I did not lose anyone close to me. I got home safely. But my life felt changed that day. We watched the constant coverage. Perhaps the most horrific images were those of the people jumping. Regular people who woke up, chose what to eat for breakfast, chose what to wear to work, and then had to choose whether to die by burning to death or to die by jumping to death. What was that like? It still brings my husband to tears.

My numbness suppressed my tears at the time. But when they surface, occasionally, when I let them, my tears are for the loved ones left behind. The frantic last cell phone calls saying “I love you.” The 2-year-old neighbor waiting for her Daddy to come home from the train, who is now 15, my son’s age. The parents who lost their children. The “Missing” posters. Unspeakable. Grief.

We went to the 9/11 memorial yesterday. Normally, I would have been too busy busy busy at work. And I am! I am! But, my husband was downtown for a ceremony honoring his (and others’) longevity as City of New York employees. It’s so easy for me to be dutiful to my work and to take my husband and my family for granted. But, what if, today is your last day? What if today is my last day? I would be sad that I did not share this celebration with my husband. So, I played hooky. I took care of a few things at work and then hopped on the subway to meet my husband for a celebratory lunch. And then. We went to the 9/11 memorial yesterday.

It is profoundly somber and massive. From the water pools in each tower’s footprint bordered with the names to the processional ramp down. Down to the foundation. As you process down and down and down, you hear the voices of the loved ones left behind sharing their love for their lost loved ones. Heart breaking. The beautiful and poignant art installation by Spencer Finch, Trying to Remember the Color of the Sky on That September Morning. It is overwhelming. At the pools, I paused and placed my hands on the names bordering the water pools. Trying to imagine. Trying to connect. Where are their souls now? How are their loved ones coping? What if it had been me? Me, who died. Me, who was left behind.

In the aftermath of 9/11, we were desperate to be helpful, desperate to connect with others and to show our pride in New York City and in America, and desperately afraid. I hugged my children tightly. I held my breath commuting in the tunnel to Manhattan. I looked up fearfully at every airplane. Even when we got back to “normal,” there was a new and consistent desire to make every day count and to make sure nothing, no one, was taken for granted.

We seem to be in a new era of fear. War, genocide, rape, poverty, climate change, disease. Ebola. Yes, I know, I’ve read the articles calming us down. The risk of Ebola is nothing compared to the risk of crossing the street or getting the flu. Really though, who knows? Like the announcements telling workers to stay in their offices, no one seems to know what to do. The one thing that seems certain is that the next 50 years I was counting on living is not certain. It changes the calculus of decision-making. From what should I do over the long term to what is meaningful if today is my last day? I will be hugging my family and friends a little tighter.

2 Comments
October 5, 2014

Scrubble

IMG_2079

IMG_2080

Boys Soldier On

I’ve spent the last year focused on preparing my daughter (and myself) for her leaving the family nest and starting college. My son, on the other hand, spent the last year quietly growing up. I think he thinks no one noticed. Maybe he wishes no one noticed. But I did. We did.

Not that long ago, he was still sneaking in (occasionally) for a reassuring snuggle around 4 am one or two nights a week. We never chased him out because we knew the day would soon come when our boy-man would no longer galumph into bed with us. Sure enough, that day came.

Not that long ago, his little boy voice would crack as his young man voice began to assert itself. Now, the little boy voice is gone. Family and friends mistake him for my husband when he answers the phone.

Not that long ago, he would chatter away endlessly. Now, I get one-syllable answers mixed in with eye-rolls and grunts.

I recently read a post about creative ways to get your child to talk to you about their day. Instead of “How Was Your Day?” try “What’s the funniest thing that happened today?” Yeah right, I tried that years ago and just got “M-o-m!” accompanied by an eye roll. It didn’t help that as a working mom, his school day was over eons ago by the time I got home, hindering spontaneous sharing sessions.

Now, he is shaving the scrubble from his face, at least once a month. (“Scrubble” is a combination of scruffy stubble, appropriately descriptive.) And learning about styptic pencils, while I grimace as I imagine the razor slicing his still-quite-smooth face.

The signs appeared on his door over the summer, around his 15th birthday. We had gotten into a bad dynamic where I nagged him to clean his room and he passively-aggressively didn’t. Keep Out! No Coming In! Fair enough. I don’t really like nagging him anyway. Clearly, he was ready for some privacy and some ownership of his space, of his self.

My son is sweet, empathetic, and sensitive. When he was a little boy, I worried that he would get teased. I balanced my desire to keep him sweet and naïve forever with the knowledge that at some point protective layers would envelop him. And so they have. Part of growing up, especially for boys figuring out how to be a man in our culture today, is to adopt some outward characteristics of being cool, which usually means acting like you don’t care, even if you do care. Deeply. And I know he cares. Deeply.

As John Mayer sings in Daughters:

Boys, you can break

You’ll find out how much they can take

Boys will be strong

And boys soldier on

But boys would be gone without warmth from

A woman’s good, good heart

I listened to Emma Watson’s HeForShe speech at the UN. Intently and gratefully. The one where she mourns the fact that her male friends stopped expressing their feelings by the age of 18. The one where she invites men to support feminism and to recognize that men are damaged by gender inequality. The one where she hopes for a world where men can be sensitive and vulnerable and valued as fathers. Because when men don’t feel they have to be aggressive and controlling, then women won’t feel they have to be submissive and controlled. I encouraged my son (who has had a long-standing crush on Emma Watson, though I’m sure I’m supposed to not know that and I’m sure I’m not current on his current crushes) to listen to her speech. Just as I hope my attempt to expose him to lots of nutritious food will someday pay off with him opting for a broader range of food choices beyond macaroni and cheese, so I hope my offerings about life and love and the search for meaning will serve him well as he learns to be true to himself and not be overly bound by social conventions.

Right now, he is eager to fit in and to become a man. Right now, that means appearing to be too cool to care too much. Right now, that means spending more time with friends, identifying with Dad, and carving out some personal space where Mom is not welcome. At 15, that is as it should be.

Mothers (and Fathers), let’s be good to our sons. They will learn how to love from us. While he sorts out who he is and what kind of man he is becoming, I will follow his lead. I’ll listen when he’s ready to talk. I’ll help when asked. I’ll cherish our hugs and Mother-Son movie nights. I’ll imprint those last boyish expressions before they are gone forever, so proud of my young man, who feels so deeply.

1 Comment
September 29, 2014

Live With Passion

YOUCANT-master675

Because You Can’t Take It With You

A revival of Moss Hart’s and George S. Kaufman’s You Can’t Take It With You opened last night on Broadway. Ben Brantley gave it an amazing review. I don’t always agree with him, so I am reserving judgment, but it brought up a wave of nostalgia. And a nagging feeling that I’m not remembering it exactly right, but this is what I remember.

At the beginning of 9th grade, of high school, a new school, I was determined to reinvent myself. I wanted to be bold, brave, and in the limelight – living life with passion! (I still want this. Well, I am a bit more muted about craving the limelight, but I still want to be bold and brave and to live with passion.) Somehow, I heard about or sought out the theater club. Somehow, I just had this gut intuition that I wanted to be part of this group. It was a loud and insistent and completely uncompromising inner voice that I could not deny. When I inquired about the theater group, the other kids would look at me slightly aghast and laugh. Oh no. You don’t want to be part of the theater group. They are weird. The DQ’s. Drama Queers.

Oh no. I DID want to be part of the theater group. They were creative and interesting, bold and brave, and maybe a little bit weird.  What these other kids did not know was that I was a little bit weird. I just kept it so hidden and suppressed, no one knew.

This is where my memory fails me. I don’t remember auditioning for the show, but I am quite sure I did and that the first show that school year was the comedy, You Can’t Take It With You. I do remember listening to my incredibly clear and demanding inner voice and showing up for rehearsals even though I didn’t have a part. I just showed up over and over again. I had to do it. The director, John Duncan, inspired love and devotion in me and all the club members like I’ve never seen before or since. He welcomed everyone into the club with joy and laughter. He put me on the team handling props. Have you seen You Can’t Take It With You? There are a lot of props. The Props Mistress and I would scavenge the town, and neighborly basements, for all the myriad items that would make up a depression-era apartment and convey each character’s narcissistic quirks properly, like the typewriter.

The show is hilarious. (I wonder if it holds up another 40 years later? Ben Brantley says it does. I’m scared to see it. I must see it.) Mr. Duncan would work the timing of the comic lines over and over until they were just right and then he would laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh until he cried. It makes me cry to remember how much he loved us and believed in us. I am on an airplane with tears coming down my face. Sigh. Live life with passion!

The next show we did was a musical, The Fantasticks, a beautifully simple show about young love and life. I auditioned. I can’t sing, but I auditioned anyway.

I can’t sing because I am afraid to sing. In second grade my friend Lucia and I sang Leaving on a Jet Plane at the school talent show. Okay. Think about that. Two 7-year-old girls singing Peter, Paul, and Mary’s Leaving on a Jet Plane. We knew nothing of love. We knew nothing about singing. We knew nothing about microphones. The echo back from the microphone threw us off. We were out of tune. We lost our place. We were out of synchronicity. Everyone laughed. Of course they laughed! I was mortified. I never sang again. Except at home or in the car alone, screaming to Aerosmith’s Dream On or soulfully pretending to be Stevie Nicks singing Landslide.

Mr. Duncan, who had earned my trust by this time, asked what song I had prepared. Um, nothing. He didn’t laugh. He suggested I sing Happy Birthday. I did. He didn’t laugh. To this day, Happy Birthday is the one song I feel comfortable singing. I didn’t get a part – it’s a small cast. But I remained determined to be part of this club. I was the assistant stage manager. A good role for me – careful and organized and a bit bossy. I treated this assignment like my life depended on it. Maybe it did. For some reason, I earned the nickname “Silly Sally.” Now, if you know me, you know I am not very silly. Well, maybe I’m a little silly.  Sometimes.  They saw these glimmers of silliness. They saw the hidden part of me that I don’t show. (Shoot, I am crying on the airplane again. Good thing the man next to me is sleeping.) I was accepted for who I was and what I was able to contribute. Everyone was welcome. Everyone played a role, even if it wasn’t the starring role.

Oh how I wanted to be the star and envied those performing on the stage. The ingénue with the incredibly beautiful voice. The comic team that cracked us all up. The mime who was so petite and spontaneous, braver than me. I got my chance later on, thank you Mr. Duncan. Gwendolyn in The Importance of Being Earnest. Elvira in Blythe Spirit.  That is the extent of my acting resume, but those moments on stage were thrilling and I wonder why I didn’t let myself dive deeper. Afraid to live life with passion.

Those weird DQ’s. My tribe. Actors, Singers, Dancers, Musicians. Non-actors, non-singers, non-dancers, non-musicians. Scenery artists, makeup artists, costume designers, lighting technicians, sound technicians, careful and organized and bossy stage managers. Funny people, emotional people, gay people, straight people, kids from happy households, kids from not-so-happy households, impulsive people, responsible people, flamboyant, repressed. We were all there, like any other group. After all, everyone was welcome, even if we were weird. Maybe what made us weird was that we were all just a little bit willing to reveal our differences rather than conform to expectations of what is “normal.” After all, there is no normal. It’s a spectrum.  We are all a little bit weird. Thank you Mr. Duncan. Thank you to all my DQ friends. You changed my life. (I am crying again.)

Photo Credit:  Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

Leave a comment
September 21, 2014

“Hi Sweetie!”

Celeste-Christmas-Outfit-babar-the-elephant-17825381-682-790

Celeste

I was in our local wine shop this morning, running my litany of weekend errands. I was in a contemplative and compassionate mood – always trying to bring the principles of Yoga and Reiki to my life off the mat, with mixed levels of success. Sundays are good days. I am rested and have more time to be patient, to be open, to listen.

The guy at the local wine shop knows me. (Really, I don’t buy or drink that much wine.) We chat. I tell him what wines I like and what wines my husband likes and he shows me new inventory. When impatient, more affluent customers come in, eager for their more expensive selections right away, I wink at him and tell him I am not in a hurry.  I go and browse while he helps the Very Important Person who lives in the Very Rich Suburbs of New York.

As I was browsing, I felt my cell phone vibrating. Hurriedly, I fumbled for it. It was my daughter! She’s been at college for 3 weeks now, and we all agree it feels like 6 months. Our textversations and conversations are truly the highlights of my days. I grabbed my phone, knowing I could go quietly to a corner of the store, welcome and undisturbed, to connect with my beautiful girl.

“Hi Sweetie!” I exclaimed in greeting.

Suddenly, the lovely old woman near me looked me in the eye and smiled.

“I thought you were talking to me!” She laughed.

I laughed at how my exuberant greeting must have come across to her.

I snuck off and had my delicious conversation and then went to the counter to pay for my wine. The old woman and her daughter, a woman of a certain age, like me, were finishing up. I waited. When they turned to leave, the old woman and I cried “Bye Sweetie!” and high-fived. The daughter, quite perplexed, asked her mother if she knew me. We explained our chance meeting and said our good-byes.

The guy at the wine store commented that I made friends so easily. Ha! Not really. At least I don’t think of myself that way. But maybe that is another aspect of my personality that is evolving. Softening.

As I was driving away, I spied the mother and her daughter walking home. I impulsively stopped and offered them a ride. After all, we were friends now! We introduced ourselves. Celeste is 97. She looks 77. I told her that she looks fantastic for her age (yuck, what a horrible way to say that I can’t believe I said that but she didn’t seem to mind). I told her that my mom was 92 and in rehab for a broken hip. Celeste reassured me that she will be fine. That her generation is strong and resilient. They’ve been through World War 2 after all. We parted ways, expecting to never see each other again, but grateful for the serendipitous connection. Of course, now I can’t get her out of my mind and I wish we had exchanged more than just our first names. Since I am too far away to help my 90-something mother, it alleviates some of my guilt to offer help to someone else’s 90-something mother. Though Celeste doesn’t seem to need a lot of help. She is not frail and has a good attitude. May we all live to be 97, as cheerful and healthy as she is.

I’ve never met a Celeste – it’s one of those lovely older names not in common use now. The only Celeste I know is from the Babar books. Babar tragically lost his mother to hunters. This always shocked and saddened me. Orphaned, he befriended an old lady who mentored him. Babar married his 2nd cousin, Celeste, where they ruled with lovingkindness. I loved the Babar books but kind of forgot them. I am feeling soon-to-be-orphaned.  Is this my old lady mentor?  And elephants always make me think of my daughter.  She is in awe of elephants after one waved his ear at her when she was a little girl visiting the zoo.

All in all I think my new friendship must be a good omen.

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking, By Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Image:  Celeste from the Babar series  by Jean de Brunhoff

 

1 Comment
September 14, 2014

Stand By Our Women

NO_MORE_STACK_RGB

Even When She Stands By Her Man

I haven’t watched the video. It’s enough that I can imagine it.

Janay

Reeva

Nicole

My first instinct was to sympathize with Janay and worry for her safety.

But what was floating in the internet ether was judgment and condemnation:

  • She hit him!
  • She married him the day after he punched her!
  • She wants his money!
  • She’s defending him!

My second instinct was to sympathize with Janay and worry for her safety.

I read #WhyIStayed.

I read #WhyILeft.

I looked at the photos. You know, the ones where he looks like a cocky bastard and she looks like a passive and withdrawn victim.

I read more articles. Each one turning up yet another incident of an NFL player abusing his wife. I mean killing his wife.  The list was growing longer.

Janay

Reeva

Candace

Kasandra

Nicole

My third instinct was to sympathize with Janay and worry for her safety.

I wondered what she was doing this weekend. I googled it. How about that! They’re in the next town over at the local high school where he was a football star. They’re watching the local high school game. He’s being cheered as a hero and there is a photo of her laughing, carefree as can be. Hmm, it must be a good day.

My fourth instinct is to sympathize with Janay and worry for her safety.

To me, it’s not hard to imagine what might have happened. They met as teenagers. She was young and not financially secure. He was a charismatic football star. They were attracted to each other and began a passionate relationship. He showered her with gifts and status and excitement. She became more and more wrapped up in him and his career, devoting herself to Ravensnation and naming their daughter Rayven. Then the infatuation ended. The realities of life, being a parent, negotiating the different wants of two distinct humans intruded. Maybe he didn’t like what she was wearing. Maybe she wanted to see a friend. Maybe he didn’t want to “babysit.” Maybe she didn’t want to have sex. Who knows?

I bet the elevator incident was not the first time he hit her. I bet it will not be the last time he hits her.

What happens now? What is she doing today? Is today a good day?

I sympathize with Janay and worry for her safety.

Janay

Reeva

Candace

Kasandra

Brooke

Rihanna

Halle

Nicole

Mary Jo

Natalie

Domestic violence is not the victim’s fault. The choice to be abusive lies solely with the abusive partner:  The National Domestic Violence Hotline. 1-800-799-7233.

Image Credit:  NoMore.org

4 Comments
August 18, 2014

Savasana

savasana

Ready to Rest

If death is like Savasana, maybe we have nothing to fear.

Savasana, the deeply restorative “corpse” pose at the end of yoga class, at the end of practice, at the end of life, is when you put aside the ups and downs, the effort and the ease, the breathing in and the breathing out. You just be. Usually, it is simply a sweet break at the end of class. Sometimes, it’s an impatient pause, the anxious to-do list intrudes. Every now and then, it is bliss. Nirvana. Samadhi. It takes a long Savasana for me to reach this point. (Take note yoga teachers! A 2-minute Savasana is not enough!) I float into a state of consciousness that is not awake, not asleep. Sometimes I see colors, feel tingling, radiate intense warmth. But generally I hover, aware of my soul, but not really aware. At these moments, it is profoundly enough to just be.

If death is like Savasana, maybe we have nothing to fear.

But we fear death – for ourselves, for our loved ones – fighting our body’s evolution/devolution, attempting to stave off the inevitable with doctors, pills, and procedures, prolonging life until … until it is not life anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m in favor of life. I want to live to be old. VERY OLD! I am disciplined to the point of being obsessive with eating healthily, staying thin, keeping active. I plan to fight my evolution/devolution HARD!

But maybe, for the person at the end of life, they are ready to rest in Savasana. Maybe we should help them go peacefully to a place of bliss. Maybe we shouldn’t hang on to them so hard, with doctors, pills, and procedures.

My mother is nearing the end of her life. I visited her and my father last weekend, with my daughter. It was painful. Every aspect of their lives is focused on getting her to survive another day. He measures out her pills. He coaxes her to eat. He trains the aide on how he wants her bathed and dressed and exercised and which diapers are for the daytime and which for the nighttime. My mother has stopped speaking and spends most of the day sleeping, exhausted from being fed, medicated, bathed, dressed, exercised. It was the first visit where she was unable to exhibit much enthusiasm for my presence and none for my daughter’s.

As an only child, the aging and inevitable death of my parents is an unshared burden. No siblings to mull over what to do. No siblings to compare notes with. No siblings to mitigate the dysfunction. Just guilt that I am far away and not doing enough. Just anger that there are still so many unresolved issues and things unsaid. Just grief at my beautiful and vibrant mother’s deterioration and regret at the adult mother-daughter friendship we were never able to establish.

People tell me how lucky we are, how sweet it is that my father is so devoted to my mother. I smile and nod agreeably, not wanting to diminish his faithful attachment to her.  It is taboo for me to tell them what I am really thinking. He is terrified of being alone. It is an act of selfishness to keep her alive. Let her go. Let her go to her Savasana.

Every visit I am armed with good intentions to say more, to ask more, to do more. All with the goal of resolving the past, healing the present, trying to find more love and compassion for the future. I try. I never say, ask, or do as much as I intend. I tried waking my mother up in the mornings by offering her Reiki. If nothing else, perhaps it would be soothing to have someone she loves and who loves her offer her healing and loving touch.  I tried to not be judgmental and annoyed with my father.  He tried to not be judgmental and annoyed with me. Negativity begets negativity. In the midst of our awkward attempts to not succumb to judgment and annoyance, he tried to tell me I was a miracle. He tried to be interested and loving and not self-absorbed. I tried to appreciate his terror at being alone, his grief at losing his beautiful and vibrant wife. We tried.

We took pictures. Is this last time I will see her? Is this the last photo I will have of her? I smiled, because that is my habit. It was not all painful – there was some joy in the visit. I am no longer sucked into the dysfunctional triangle that is formed by my parents and me.   I can honor how who they are helped me become who I am.  I can love them for that.  My daughter was with me, thank God, and I am looking forward to being able to build, with her, an adult mother-daughter friendship. It begins now.

Image Credit:  Savasana sketch by Missy Briggs on her blog The Rascally Rabbit, used with permission.  Thank you Missy!

8 Comments