"When I think of my mother, I taste desert." Adam Gopnik
When I think of my mother, I taste meatloaf, the kind she baked after a day of work at the bank, mixed with onions, tomato paste, bread crumbs, and cheddar cheese in the middle. When thinking of my father, I smell roasting chestnuts, taste their sweet earthiness on my tongue. For my grandmother, there are those ribbon shaped cookies made by her hands, fried but still soft inside, drenched in honey and powdered sugar. And that sauce, with the thick layer of olive oil sitting on the top that you pierced with fresh Italian bread to meet the tangy tomato underneath. For Nunzio, I taste the grapes that sat in a bowl on the kitchen table, sometimes plump, sometimes wilted, a bit of sweetness after a meal of weighty textures and flavors. For Louie, there are walnuts cracked fresh from their shell and wrapped in dried figs. "Try this," he said offering me the cracked nuts snug in their sticky friends.
Now there is E like a cinnamon sugar donut melting in my mouth and J fava beans soaked in salted water and simmered to oblivion with garlic, stewed tomatoes, rosemary, and oil.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Louie's Lupini Beans
My grandfather Louie like his lupini beans chewy not mushy, with salt and pepper, a little olive oil and lemon drizzled on top. His son, Mikey (my father), made sure to have lupini beans (salted, peppered, and oiled) when Louie came for Christmas Eve dinner. Before Mikey, it would have been Philly (my grandmother) who hosted Christmas Eve dinner. Still, it was probably Mikey who made sure that lupini beans arrived at the table prepared in the way that Louie liked.
Mikey bought lupini beans from a jar(Pastene). Each large yellow bean, soaked in a briny water, was encased in its own waxy sheath. The sheath was removed with the tongue releasing the creamy bean from within. When Amelia (Louie's wife) made Louie lupini, she bought the beans dried, soaked them in salted water for the afternoon, then boiled them on the coal fired stove until they were tender but firm.
After Amelia died, Louie ate lupini only when the neighbors or cousins brought them for Sunday dinner. While he learned to make his own tomato sauce, roasted meat, white bean and escarole soup, Louie didn't have the heart to make lupini.
"Pass the lupini," Louie would call down from the end of the dining room table where he sat next to Philly and Nunzio (my grandfather)_ at Christmas Eve dinner. He would place one bean at a time on his tongue, chewing and talking in Italian with Philly and Nunzio about "the old country," a pile of waxy sheaths growing by the side of his plate.
Mikey bought lupini beans from a jar(Pastene). Each large yellow bean, soaked in a briny water, was encased in its own waxy sheath. The sheath was removed with the tongue releasing the creamy bean from within. When Amelia (Louie's wife) made Louie lupini, she bought the beans dried, soaked them in salted water for the afternoon, then boiled them on the coal fired stove until they were tender but firm.
After Amelia died, Louie ate lupini only when the neighbors or cousins brought them for Sunday dinner. While he learned to make his own tomato sauce, roasted meat, white bean and escarole soup, Louie didn't have the heart to make lupini.
"Pass the lupini," Louie would call down from the end of the dining room table where he sat next to Philly and Nunzio (my grandfather)_ at Christmas Eve dinner. He would place one bean at a time on his tongue, chewing and talking in Italian with Philly and Nunzio about "the old country," a pile of waxy sheaths growing by the side of his plate.
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Fabric of Your Skin
What is the fabric of your skin like today?
Perhaps, like mine, the skin of the elbow is rough like burlap, hungry for moisture and warmth. What about the skin of the throat, the under side of the heal, the palms? Where is it tight, itchy, smooth, glossy, folding over onto itself? Does the skin of the front body drape down like a heavy woolen cape or is it more like spandex, springy, taught, and rising up from the belly?
The skin perceives, embraces, feels what is inside and out. It gives the illusion of separateness and armor but in fact is permeable and as changeable as the atmosphere. The surface of the skin vibrates microscopically when touched, in the presence of beauty, by your baby's tears.
Perhaps, like mine, the skin of the elbow is rough like burlap, hungry for moisture and warmth. What about the skin of the throat, the under side of the heal, the palms? Where is it tight, itchy, smooth, glossy, folding over onto itself? Does the skin of the front body drape down like a heavy woolen cape or is it more like spandex, springy, taught, and rising up from the belly?
The skin perceives, embraces, feels what is inside and out. It gives the illusion of separateness and armor but in fact is permeable and as changeable as the atmosphere. The surface of the skin vibrates microscopically when touched, in the presence of beauty, by your baby's tears.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Too Old
Now that you are getting older, what are you too old to do?
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Fiction writer Barb Johnson published her first book More of This World or Maybe Another when she was 52. (My hero!) Before entering the MFA program at the University of New Orleans at 50 she had worked as a carpenter for 20 years. Her closets filled with scraps of writing (like my own) called out for loving attention but for a long while she was hard of hearing. She writes, "And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough."
What is it you have longed to do but fear it is too late, that you are "past your prime", won't be "good enough"? What obstacles do you place in the way of your soul's deepest desires?
I struggle with deafness to my soul's callings. "Its just too late; there is no time; better to make more money, clean the bathroom, feel badly than do what it is you long to do just for the sheer pleasure of it."
Where I finally find the grace to give my soul what it craves is a mystery; could be sheer misery that finally drives me to try something different, to stop banging that head against that wall.
And the soul is so kind. The more she is loved the more ease I find in my body, the more grace there is to follow her lead. Surprisingly, I do not find grace through effort but in letting go. Letting go is what the soul gently prods me to do, of ever single thing (beauty, strength, money, control, joy, sorrow, love, hate, the breath) things we really don't "have" in the first place even though the mind would tell you this is not so.
Surely, I will drown in this tumultuous river, be drawn under for good, if I don't cling to the raft, the splintered fragment of wood, this shard of a life raft. "Just let go a little," my soul sings to me. There are sharp rocks, falling waters, places that are deep, cold, unfamiliar. How can it be that the more I let go the easier it gets, the less work I need to do? The river moves me away from all that I know to surprising and mysterious places. I survive, thrive even.
I see, in small glimpses, why this is so. I am the river. There are no hands for gripping, no pieces of wood to grab, no being unchanged.
Thanks Barb for your lovely reminder of this!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Three Women Walk into a Cafe
They came in together, burst through the door with a blast of cold air. Three, friends, that is what they looked like, together out for coffee and breakfast muffins. There was a young woman with a German accent and a white haired one with a tired look in her eyes. Young and Whitey peeled a plaid scarf off of the third woman who had brown dyed hair, high cheeck bones, large brown eyes, a smile.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
“There is a couch over there, we can sit,” Young said. Young and Whitey led the third friend over to the couch, by the hand since she was shaky on her feet and looked lost.
Whitey sat next to Shaky, close, thigh touching thigh, like long time companions would. She clasped a paper cup filled with coffee and warmed her hands. Then she took Shaky’s hands in hers to warm them as well.
“Feels good doesn’t it Irene,” Whitey asked Shaky.
“Yes, feels good,” Shaky said back.
Young brought a mug of hot chocolate over along with a thick slice of freshly made coffee cake. There were three forks.
Whitey fed Shaky small pieces from a fork. One for herself, one for Irene.
“Buttery,” Irene said licking her lips.
Young blew on the skin of hot chocolate and tested it with her tongue. When it was cooled she held the mug to Shaky's lips.
"Very nice," Shaky told Young politely.
They didn’t stay long. Shaky had slippers on and didn't take her long purple down coat off. She had forgotten where she was.
“Is it cold out?” she asked.
“Yes, we had that scarf on you when you came in.” Whitey said.
“Oh,” Irene replied.
“I don’t like it on, though,” Irene frowned.
“We won’t put it on tightly, not too tightly,” Young said. “Up we go,” Young helped Shaky to her feet.
“Wo, Wo,” Irene wobbled but there was a soft blue couch behind her to catch her if she fell But she didn't fall. She held tight to Young's hands and Whitey had her back.
“I don’t know where I am going,” Shaky told Whitey and Young.
“It’s okay,” Young said, “We will follow the leader.”
“Okay,” Shakey said. She was laughing and laughing now. The scarf had fallen off her neck and was hanging down towards the floor.
“What is this? What is this?” she asked when Whitey pulled the scarf up from the floor and wrapped it back around Irene's head.
“I won’t do it too tight,” Whitey told her.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Little Deaths
"Equanimity allows for the mystery of things: the unknowable, uncontrollable nature of things to
be just as they are." Frank Jude Bocco
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
When the ego (the small I) in desperate need of purpose, of permanence, asserts control, we die, just a little. In these little deaths, silence creeps into the body; there is less tenderness in the heart space, more stiffness in the spine, numbing of the tailbone. In these silences, we loose our connection to God (Soul, Self) which can only be experienced in the body and turn outside of our anesthetized selves for feeling, for the unconditional love we long for. But nothing outside is permanent so anxiety and ambiguity erupts. Still, we can continue to grip even tighter the reins of the wild horse which can't be tamed.
Yoga shows us a different way, to come more fully alive (our birthright afterall). Through the practice of asana (poses), devotedly, steadfastly, with vigor and great compassion, the threads binding the ego to the Soul loosen. We get glimpses of a divine spark deep in the bones, an experience of completeness that remains even as everything we love leaves us. In asana practice, after a long time, there can come (I am told, I am hoping) an effortless effort; movement for the pure experience of movement towards the soul's embrace and guidance that we long for.
Once when I felt quite lost in life a yoga teacher told me, "Just keep doing yoga." How could that possibly help me to figure out where to live, who to love, what kind of work would satisfy? I continued my practice because it felt good to be less anxious and stiff. I noticed, over time, that my body became noisy, louder, more awake. I began to listen, naturally, to my body about what it needed in each moment (for the body, the soul, god speaks to us only in the moment); a nap, a friend, a walk in the woods. Because it hurt not to, I began to follow my body's wishes and make choices that felt deeply nourishing. My life unfolded without so much effort. Not without pain, sadness, loss, and regret, but with less fear, anxiety, anticipation, little deaths.
As yoga guru BKS Iyengar tells it, with a devoted yoga practice we may be able to tie our shoes when we are 85; and more importantly live fully until we die.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Where Art and Science Meet
I find it intriguing to think how we rely on metaphors to describe chemical, physical, biological processes. Metaphors allow us to “see” and come to understand processes that are otherwise unknowable by our senses. We come to knowing through our imagination, using math, poetry, pictures, stories as metaphors. Metaphors, precisely because they come from our imagination and are fed by our subconscious selves, pack a powerful punch to both the brain and the heart.
Metaphors are sticky because they allow us to build new knowledge from what is already known and, in this way, allow us to make new neural connections or ways of knowing. Since they come to us unbidden, metaphors are necessarily subjective; the images that move us do so because they resonate with (in harmony or dissonance) our deep selves. Does the sperm penetrate the egg or does the egg receive the sperm? Is gravity bent by planets or curved from its own weight/forces? Does the protein merge with the cell or is the cell destroyed by the protein? There is no right or wrong metaphor but only a different perspectives or pathways into the cell, into space.
New animation technology makes this intersection of art and science more apparent. A recent NYT article on the subject highlights the new science animation taking hold in the field of cell biology. “The ability to animate gives biologists a chance to think about things in a whole new way,” says Janet Iwasa, a cell biologist who now works as a molecular animator at Harvard Medical School. “Just listening to scientists describe how the molecule moved in words wasn’t enough for me,” she said. “What brought it to life was really seeing it in motion.” At the “Inner Life of the Cell” (http://multimedia.mcb.harvard.edu/media.html) you can see animation of how, for example, “cells internalize molecules on its surface; the three-legged white protein, clathrin triskelions forms a latticelike cage that causes the membrane to deform and form a vesicle.” Someone should put in music and other sound effects!
Here science is revealed through art; metaphor, images, stories and shown to be the imaginative practice that it is.
Metaphors are sticky because they allow us to build new knowledge from what is already known and, in this way, allow us to make new neural connections or ways of knowing. Since they come to us unbidden, metaphors are necessarily subjective; the images that move us do so because they resonate with (in harmony or dissonance) our deep selves. Does the sperm penetrate the egg or does the egg receive the sperm? Is gravity bent by planets or curved from its own weight/forces? Does the protein merge with the cell or is the cell destroyed by the protein? There is no right or wrong metaphor but only a different perspectives or pathways into the cell, into space.
New animation technology makes this intersection of art and science more apparent. A recent NYT article on the subject highlights the new science animation taking hold in the field of cell biology. “The ability to animate gives biologists a chance to think about things in a whole new way,” says Janet Iwasa, a cell biologist who now works as a molecular animator at Harvard Medical School. “Just listening to scientists describe how the molecule moved in words wasn’t enough for me,” she said. “What brought it to life was really seeing it in motion.” At the “Inner Life of the Cell” (http://multimedia.mcb.harvard.edu/media.html) you can see animation of how, for example, “cells internalize molecules on its surface; the three-legged white protein, clathrin triskelions forms a latticelike cage that causes the membrane to deform and form a vesicle.” Someone should put in music and other sound effects!
Here science is revealed through art; metaphor, images, stories and shown to be the imaginative practice that it is.
Friday, November 5, 2010
My devotion
Devotion: (v) 1. feelings of ardent love;
2. commitment to some purpose;
This morning I was thinking "to what I am devoted". This question did not come out of the blue. E, my yoga teacher, asked us all to consider this in the coming week. Patanjali's Sutra 1.23 states that devotion to god can lead to enlightenment, which in the yoga tradition, is a freedom from the fluctuations of an unruly mind.
I can tell you what I have ardent love for; my daughter's small soft hands, Red's fur, my grandmother's cheeks. I love the cold darkness of the mornings, catching a heron in flight, seeing the wild geese, bellies flecked with morning sun, flying low overhead. I can hear their wings beating the air. While surely love is part of devotion, love does not always come easily. So devotion can require hard work, repetition, daily practice.
I practice yoga, cultivating a writing life, being kind to bring me back to that ardent love space or compassion. These practices feel devotional not solely because they offer me so many gifts but because I practice even when it feels hard to do so, when I am faithless. In this way, perhaps, devotion entails a certain kind of hopelessness and surrender, letting go of things turning out this way or that way.
Practicing yoga when I feel very tired, heavy, anxious teaches me how such feelings change and move, are of my body but not my body. Writing when I hear voices that tell me "This is a waste of time, not very good, presumptuous of you," shows me compassion, humility, and courage. Being kind when I am angry, tired, afraid shows me that I am always connected to my heart even when the lines are frayed.
Devotion to something more than myself brings me gratitude and compassion for my body, mind, life just as it is and a greater acceptance of another's struggle. Where is god in all of this? For me, god resides in that restful, quiet, infinite space right beneath my breast bone, waiting to greet me whenever I return from straying; my devotional practices helping to bring me back, bring me back, bring me back to this home.
2. commitment to some purpose;
This morning I was thinking "to what I am devoted". This question did not come out of the blue. E, my yoga teacher, asked us all to consider this in the coming week. Patanjali's Sutra 1.23 states that devotion to god can lead to enlightenment, which in the yoga tradition, is a freedom from the fluctuations of an unruly mind.
I can tell you what I have ardent love for; my daughter's small soft hands, Red's fur, my grandmother's cheeks. I love the cold darkness of the mornings, catching a heron in flight, seeing the wild geese, bellies flecked with morning sun, flying low overhead. I can hear their wings beating the air. While surely love is part of devotion, love does not always come easily. So devotion can require hard work, repetition, daily practice.
I practice yoga, cultivating a writing life, being kind to bring me back to that ardent love space or compassion. These practices feel devotional not solely because they offer me so many gifts but because I practice even when it feels hard to do so, when I am faithless. In this way, perhaps, devotion entails a certain kind of hopelessness and surrender, letting go of things turning out this way or that way.
Practicing yoga when I feel very tired, heavy, anxious teaches me how such feelings change and move, are of my body but not my body. Writing when I hear voices that tell me "This is a waste of time, not very good, presumptuous of you," shows me compassion, humility, and courage. Being kind when I am angry, tired, afraid shows me that I am always connected to my heart even when the lines are frayed.
Devotion to something more than myself brings me gratitude and compassion for my body, mind, life just as it is and a greater acceptance of another's struggle. Where is god in all of this? For me, god resides in that restful, quiet, infinite space right beneath my breast bone, waiting to greet me whenever I return from straying; my devotional practices helping to bring me back, bring me back, bring me back to this home.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Subtle Body
I spent the weekend studying yoga with Matthew Sanford. At 13, Matthew was in a car accident which killed his father and sister and left him with a broken spine. In learning how to embody, move, breath in his body - and after many many years of yoga practice and training (along with failure, giving up, pain, anger, love, and surrender) - Matthew has cultivated a remarkably sensitive, engaging, and profound connection to the body, the self, the soul and an amazing ability to show us all how to connect more deeply to ourselves.
Learning from Matthew was transformative. That there is an energy in the body that transcends muscles, bones, the hard wiring of nerves became apparent. Awareness of this energy offers great ease in the body, the psyche, the emotions, offers us a place to rest deeply and find comfort even for the most hard to love and dark inner places.
That this energy is the bodily experience of the divine which inspires us is something our culture or way of life can keep us from knowing; pushing us as it does relentlessly to look outside of ourselves, to the material world, for sustenance.
Allowing for this possibility of an embodied spirit can change the entire fabric of your life including the way you sit, eat, see the sky, touch your child, contemplate literature and death, make love, pray. From this perspective, God, cannot be conjured in the mind but is a lived and ever changing experience of the body, the skin, organs, bones, muscles, arteries, and blood.
Matthew has found the divine in his body (as his body) - even as it is broken, paralyzed, disfigured. Since all of us have "paralyzed" or "silent" parts in our bodies, along with pain, disfigurement, shame, and weakness, his experience and teaching can help us to find a way back to all those places we have abandoned and retreated from and in this way know our "unseparateness" from God (or wholeness, soul, truth, love, you put in your word for this).
Learning from Matthew was transformative. That there is an energy in the body that transcends muscles, bones, the hard wiring of nerves became apparent. Awareness of this energy offers great ease in the body, the psyche, the emotions, offers us a place to rest deeply and find comfort even for the most hard to love and dark inner places.
That this energy is the bodily experience of the divine which inspires us is something our culture or way of life can keep us from knowing; pushing us as it does relentlessly to look outside of ourselves, to the material world, for sustenance.
Allowing for this possibility of an embodied spirit can change the entire fabric of your life including the way you sit, eat, see the sky, touch your child, contemplate literature and death, make love, pray. From this perspective, God, cannot be conjured in the mind but is a lived and ever changing experience of the body, the skin, organs, bones, muscles, arteries, and blood.
Matthew has found the divine in his body (as his body) - even as it is broken, paralyzed, disfigured. Since all of us have "paralyzed" or "silent" parts in our bodies, along with pain, disfigurement, shame, and weakness, his experience and teaching can help us to find a way back to all those places we have abandoned and retreated from and in this way know our "unseparateness" from God (or wholeness, soul, truth, love, you put in your word for this).
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Altar for Grandmother
This week at E's school, the older kids displayed their Day of the Dead Altars; Tombstone sized collections of artifacts representing a dead love ones life. There were many pictures of WWII veterans along with hand made hats, playing cards, scratch tickets, menorah's and crosses, Oreos and snickers (favorite foods). It was hard to pass by these alters without remembering our own losses and the detritus which remind us of them
Altar for Grandmother: For my grandmother's alter, there would be plastic curlers and bobby pins, a large can of hair spray, the girdles she wore for most of her life, washed each night, and then hung to dry on the shower curtain rod. I would place a large black pocket book right in the middle of the display; the suitcase sized one filled with lipstick, sen sen, gum, tissues, scissors and nail cutters, change and bills, pens, paper and ruler, perfume, nail polish, an extra pair of underwear and nylons, address book, rosary beads (two pair), wooden and silver crosses, pears, apples, rolls from the diner that went uneaten, sugar packets, as well, and ketchup in packages. There would also be three deck's of cards, poker chips and bingo chips, coupons, newspaper circulars, a wrench, a knife or two, a screw driver, and three bottles of orange soda.
The pocket book, which weighed at least 20 pounds, would enable two adults and a child to survive a flood, snow storm, typhoon or a fortnight lost in an urban jungle. Grandmother was well prepared if anything.
On her alter, I would also include a package of white flour and sugar, olive oil, garlic and eggplants, a can of tomato past, and onions for the cooking she did every day and a picture of my grandfather with whom she spent a lifetime Also, I would put the two wrist watches she wore - one on each wrist - during her ten year stint in the nursing home. There would be the dentures she abhorred but kept in the house dress pocket in case they were needed for a particularly tough piece of meat or unexpected company and the witch hazel, vinegar, aspirin, and aloe which could cure all but the most persistent of viruses, aches and sprains. All of these things I would sit on the orange and brown afghan she crocheted each evening while watching the 11 O'clock news.
Altar for Grandmother: For my grandmother's alter, there would be plastic curlers and bobby pins, a large can of hair spray, the girdles she wore for most of her life, washed each night, and then hung to dry on the shower curtain rod. I would place a large black pocket book right in the middle of the display; the suitcase sized one filled with lipstick, sen sen, gum, tissues, scissors and nail cutters, change and bills, pens, paper and ruler, perfume, nail polish, an extra pair of underwear and nylons, address book, rosary beads (two pair), wooden and silver crosses, pears, apples, rolls from the diner that went uneaten, sugar packets, as well, and ketchup in packages. There would also be three deck's of cards, poker chips and bingo chips, coupons, newspaper circulars, a wrench, a knife or two, a screw driver, and three bottles of orange soda.
The pocket book, which weighed at least 20 pounds, would enable two adults and a child to survive a flood, snow storm, typhoon or a fortnight lost in an urban jungle. Grandmother was well prepared if anything.
On her alter, I would also include a package of white flour and sugar, olive oil, garlic and eggplants, a can of tomato past, and onions for the cooking she did every day and a picture of my grandfather with whom she spent a lifetime Also, I would put the two wrist watches she wore - one on each wrist - during her ten year stint in the nursing home. There would be the dentures she abhorred but kept in the house dress pocket in case they were needed for a particularly tough piece of meat or unexpected company and the witch hazel, vinegar, aspirin, and aloe which could cure all but the most persistent of viruses, aches and sprains. All of these things I would sit on the orange and brown afghan she crocheted each evening while watching the 11 O'clock news.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Prayers for Angel Baby
What part of your body do you despise? Is it the back of the eyes during a migraine, the thick belly than hangs over the belt, the scar that runs the length of the torso? What would it take for you to love each limb, organ, twitching ligament in its imperfect entirety? What would it mean to be so beloved and appreciated by yourself?
Angel Baby undergoes brain surgery tomorrow. The skull, not quite large enough, needs rebuilding to make room for her growing brain. Angel Baby has blue eyes that shine with laughter and halo of golden hair to frame a soft face. She can be sensitive and cares very much what others think of her, whether or not she is beloved, good enough, deserving, beautiful (And who of us do not have such cares?)
Yes, I want to tell her as if my words could make her know her worth, you are quite beautiful. Tomorrow, mother and father will sit in the waiting room at Children's Hospital with all the others waiting for children to emerge intact from procedures that no child should have to endure. It is Angel Baby's second surgery. The first was before she could walk. Back then, Mother sat in the chair meditating as she waited a lifetime for the surgery to be over. In the waiting and meditation, mother entered the river of fear but was not swept away. After the current tore at her heart and pulled her thrashing underneath, she emerged gasping for breath no longer alone but connected all those who had sat before her in that same chair.
I imagine the wildest of geese will hold Angel Baby while she sleeps, transporting her to a soft sweet place and then back again into mother and father's arms. She will know her beauty (my prayer for her), even as her face swells and aches and bandages cover her shaved head, through our love.
What compassion can you find in your own heart to know your beauty, wholeness, connection to all who have sat in this chair before you?
Angel Baby undergoes brain surgery tomorrow. The skull, not quite large enough, needs rebuilding to make room for her growing brain. Angel Baby has blue eyes that shine with laughter and halo of golden hair to frame a soft face. She can be sensitive and cares very much what others think of her, whether or not she is beloved, good enough, deserving, beautiful (And who of us do not have such cares?)
Yes, I want to tell her as if my words could make her know her worth, you are quite beautiful. Tomorrow, mother and father will sit in the waiting room at Children's Hospital with all the others waiting for children to emerge intact from procedures that no child should have to endure. It is Angel Baby's second surgery. The first was before she could walk. Back then, Mother sat in the chair meditating as she waited a lifetime for the surgery to be over. In the waiting and meditation, mother entered the river of fear but was not swept away. After the current tore at her heart and pulled her thrashing underneath, she emerged gasping for breath no longer alone but connected all those who had sat before her in that same chair.
I imagine the wildest of geese will hold Angel Baby while she sleeps, transporting her to a soft sweet place and then back again into mother and father's arms. She will know her beauty (my prayer for her), even as her face swells and aches and bandages cover her shaved head, through our love.
What compassion can you find in your own heart to know your beauty, wholeness, connection to all who have sat in this chair before you?
Monday, October 18, 2010
My Undoing
In order to practice asana (yoga poses) as a meditative path, you'll need to learn how to let go of habitual responses to physical and mental distractions during practice. This will allow you to shed unnecessary effort in each pose, which will ultimately lead you to the feeling of effortless effort. Developing effortless effort transforms your practice of asana from mere exercise into a yogic journey toward absorption into your true infinite Self. John Schumacher
I practice my own undoing early each morning before the sun comes up, the dog has been walked, the child fed. Yoga does my undoing through the release at the root of the tongue, the grip of the right ribs, the letting of breath into the torque of the left shoulders. Undoing the knots of resistance to (inevitable) change, uncertainty, loss, and kindness, allows the breath to flow more deeply in the lungs, makes me aware of space in the body, peels back layers of self-doubt, regret, and shame encrusting the Soul. In that final back bend of the morning, when the sky is taking up a steely light, I let loose the birds from my chest and join them in song and flight.
I practice my own undoing early each morning before the sun comes up, the dog has been walked, the child fed. Yoga does my undoing through the release at the root of the tongue, the grip of the right ribs, the letting of breath into the torque of the left shoulders. Undoing the knots of resistance to (inevitable) change, uncertainty, loss, and kindness, allows the breath to flow more deeply in the lungs, makes me aware of space in the body, peels back layers of self-doubt, regret, and shame encrusting the Soul. In that final back bend of the morning, when the sky is taking up a steely light, I let loose the birds from my chest and join them in song and flight.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Know Your Hunger
If I do not know my hunger, how can I feed myself? If I do not know my emptiness, how can I know love? If I do not know my illness, how can I heal? There, in the quiet darkness, is where I find myself, my compass, my knowing, which shows me what to do next.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
What She Thought of When She Thought About Going Home
It might have the anniversary of my grandmother's birthday the other day; we are not quite sure what year she born. She spent the last ten years of her life in a nursing home.
When she thought about going home, Philly imagined walking up the back steps to the upstairs apartment with no pain in her knees. She carried a paper bag of groceries from the Start Market and entered a clean, if cluttered, kitchen. If she was tired, she could sit at the kitchen table and have a Kent, sip sweet coffee, soften a hard biscotti in the milk. The windows would be open allowing an autumn breeze to flow through the entire house; it was just the right temperature for making sauce. Not like the sweltering days of August when just turning on the front burner made her sweat.
The wist party at Knights of Columbus Hall would be starting up after the summer break. Philly, Carmela, and Nancy would go to Catholic Daughters meetings, once a month, to plan for the Halloween party, the holiday bazaar, the cape cod retreat. She would dress up as a Spanish dancer this year, long black veil made of lace pinned to her teased blond hair.
At home, she wouldn’t have to share a bedroom with a woman who groaned throughout the night or the one who snored whenever her chin dipped into her caved-in chest. She could move, effortlessly, in and out of the tub, up and down the steps, and look forward to preparing the salted cod for Christmas Eve dinner.
When she thought about going home, Philly imagined walking up the back steps to the upstairs apartment with no pain in her knees. She carried a paper bag of groceries from the Start Market and entered a clean, if cluttered, kitchen. If she was tired, she could sit at the kitchen table and have a Kent, sip sweet coffee, soften a hard biscotti in the milk. The windows would be open allowing an autumn breeze to flow through the entire house; it was just the right temperature for making sauce. Not like the sweltering days of August when just turning on the front burner made her sweat.
The wist party at Knights of Columbus Hall would be starting up after the summer break. Philly, Carmela, and Nancy would go to Catholic Daughters meetings, once a month, to plan for the Halloween party, the holiday bazaar, the cape cod retreat. She would dress up as a Spanish dancer this year, long black veil made of lace pinned to her teased blond hair.
At home, she wouldn’t have to share a bedroom with a woman who groaned throughout the night or the one who snored whenever her chin dipped into her caved-in chest. She could move, effortlessly, in and out of the tub, up and down the steps, and look forward to preparing the salted cod for Christmas Eve dinner.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Hungry for a Blessing
Today I hunger for a blessing, a hand on my chest, forgiveness for my small mindedness. I bravely search for beauty in the brokenness, the ache under the ribs, the emptiness that remains. Can I be more like the oak, who gently let's go of everything that is dear to her even as the wind turns to winter and only the thinnest of nectar flows through her veins? She mourns the passing of paper thin leaves bursting with color as I mourn the bruised and fragile skin of my grandmother's shins. What did grandmother bless when she sat in the wheeled chair, a watch on each bent wrist marking a time that no longer existed for her; the wooden spoon to stir the sauce, the oil rising to the top, the stains on apron that would not be washed away?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
What Remains
Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have. Rilke
I see the leaves changing color. The reds merging into the green, leaf litter on the earth, cool mornings. After the fall and the first frost, after your love leaves you, the cancer ravishes, the storm passes, the sun turns to the moon, what endures? What remains after everything else has passed through your fingers, like sand, as it always does? The sky, the sky, the sky...the sky remains and it is all that you need.
It is what you have. Rilke
I see the leaves changing color. The reds merging into the green, leaf litter on the earth, cool mornings. After the fall and the first frost, after your love leaves you, the cancer ravishes, the storm passes, the sun turns to the moon, what endures? What remains after everything else has passed through your fingers, like sand, as it always does? The sky, the sky, the sky...the sky remains and it is all that you need.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Inner Sanctuary of Autumn
"And that there is a place in you where you have never been wounded, where there's still a sureness in you, where there's a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you. And I think the intention of prayer and spirituality and love is now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary." John O'Donoghue
Fall is a time for gathering, winnowing, turning inside and then back out to face a cold wind. It is almost impossible to walk through the beloved woods without getting bonked by a falling acorn, the squirrels are working so hard to build their winter stash. The grasses in the wetlands have stopped growing bent at the waist by the weight of seeds and red winged black birds. I am turning to the East later and later eager for the sun's breech. I gather wool and needles; knit shawls, hats, mittens of every color to welcome snow and dark. The wood is stacked high, the squash piled in the bowls, apples tart and hard just plucked from sister tree. The strength of the turning has entered my body; my bones harden, muscles flex, joints glisten with grease. I crave the poetry of John O'Donoghue, of lichens and cold granite and the trembling beauty of the cold wind. Know me I sing to the jewel weed, the beaver, the stiffening mud.
Fall is a time for gathering, winnowing, turning inside and then back out to face a cold wind. It is almost impossible to walk through the beloved woods without getting bonked by a falling acorn, the squirrels are working so hard to build their winter stash. The grasses in the wetlands have stopped growing bent at the waist by the weight of seeds and red winged black birds. I am turning to the East later and later eager for the sun's breech. I gather wool and needles; knit shawls, hats, mittens of every color to welcome snow and dark. The wood is stacked high, the squash piled in the bowls, apples tart and hard just plucked from sister tree. The strength of the turning has entered my body; my bones harden, muscles flex, joints glisten with grease. I crave the poetry of John O'Donoghue, of lichens and cold granite and the trembling beauty of the cold wind. Know me I sing to the jewel weed, the beaver, the stiffening mud.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Where we come from
I was wondering today about how my father grew into the man he was, with views of the world so much broader than those of so many men of his generation and culture who clung to a small and narrowly prescribed role that was both domineering and scarred.
In part, I think, it was something about how his parents thought and treated him that allowed him to imagine a bigger life. I find this extraordinary because neither Louie or Amelia had a chance to explore much beyond the bounds of theirown Italian immigrant backbone. Neither had the chance for education, yet Mikey got his Master's at Boston University. (I was two when he graduated and have the pictures of daddy in his cap and gown holding onto a pouting me.)
Perhaps it was the way his mother read to him and took him to the library or the way Louie, a barber, allowed more for Mikey than life on the same block, in the same shop. Amelia, before she died so young, may have told Mikey about her dreams of an easier, richer life. She never had it easy, abandoned by her mother at 12, pulled out of school after the sixth grade to care for her father and brothers, never once taken on vacation. Imagining a different life took a kind of courage I can barely conceive of.
In part, I think, it was something about how his parents thought and treated him that allowed him to imagine a bigger life. I find this extraordinary because neither Louie or Amelia had a chance to explore much beyond the bounds of theirown Italian immigrant backbone. Neither had the chance for education, yet Mikey got his Master's at Boston University. (I was two when he graduated and have the pictures of daddy in his cap and gown holding onto a pouting me.)
Perhaps it was the way his mother read to him and took him to the library or the way Louie, a barber, allowed more for Mikey than life on the same block, in the same shop. Amelia, before she died so young, may have told Mikey about her dreams of an easier, richer life. She never had it easy, abandoned by her mother at 12, pulled out of school after the sixth grade to care for her father and brothers, never once taken on vacation. Imagining a different life took a kind of courage I can barely conceive of.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
How to Write?
Find a sacred place, one that draws you to it with its beauty or smell, strong coffee or lively conversation. Some writers light candles, invoke angels, hold river stones, to give them the courage to open up one large artery and let blood pour, over the page, onto the table, through the door, into the lake.
A woman told me, "After writing for many years, happy and bright things that I believed would draw people closer to me but didn't, the dark stories inside of me starting screaming to come out, 'We are here too, your monsters and demons, we want to be heard.' It was either let them out or stop writing. But I needed to write to stay alive. So I wrote about wanting to kill my husband, with the knife I carried around the kitchen to cut up eggplant, children snug in their beds. I was too tired to walk up the steps to do it so didn't kill him. But, I wanted to." She paused then looked into my eyes, "I read that to people I trusted and no one hated me. The writing drew them closer to me. And I felt free enough to fly."
I prefer the strong coffee, long wooden tables, jazz music places to write, where you can sit for hours nursing one strong brew and nobody will notice or care, where some of the same people come day after day to wrangle with words, ideas, theories, memories.
What is the story that you are compelled to write, that you can't put down, that pulls you over the edge like water falling? Who are the characters that come to you, unbidden, with their wounds exposed, their hair teased and bleached, their ignorance, and failed attempts at life, their unruly loves? How do they wrestle with the questions you can't stop asking even though know there are no answers?
A woman told me, "After writing for many years, happy and bright things that I believed would draw people closer to me but didn't, the dark stories inside of me starting screaming to come out, 'We are here too, your monsters and demons, we want to be heard.' It was either let them out or stop writing. But I needed to write to stay alive. So I wrote about wanting to kill my husband, with the knife I carried around the kitchen to cut up eggplant, children snug in their beds. I was too tired to walk up the steps to do it so didn't kill him. But, I wanted to." She paused then looked into my eyes, "I read that to people I trusted and no one hated me. The writing drew them closer to me. And I felt free enough to fly."
I prefer the strong coffee, long wooden tables, jazz music places to write, where you can sit for hours nursing one strong brew and nobody will notice or care, where some of the same people come day after day to wrangle with words, ideas, theories, memories.
What is the story that you are compelled to write, that you can't put down, that pulls you over the edge like water falling? Who are the characters that come to you, unbidden, with their wounds exposed, their hair teased and bleached, their ignorance, and failed attempts at life, their unruly loves? How do they wrestle with the questions you can't stop asking even though know there are no answers?
Friday, July 23, 2010
One Wild and Precious Life
In her poem, "The Summer Day," Mary Oliver asks us to consider: "..what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
Its a good question to consider but hard for me to do. Because, I keep forgetting that I have only one life. My mind tells me, "You can do that later, next time, once things settle down and you are more secure. You have other lives to live, this one is just practice."
My mind draws comfort from these these words "next time" and "later" convinced that what really matters has either already happened or is yet to come. But, in truth, as the sages have taught us, "next" and "later" don't really exist. All we have, for sure, is this moment. This present moment in which we breath in and out, where we feel the hard knot of loneliness, the baby's soft cheek.
Surprisingly, time is infinite in the present moment, spacious, forgiving, and kind. And when I am awake, it is where I find my one wild and precious life.
Its a good question to consider but hard for me to do. Because, I keep forgetting that I have only one life. My mind tells me, "You can do that later, next time, once things settle down and you are more secure. You have other lives to live, this one is just practice."
My mind draws comfort from these these words "next time" and "later" convinced that what really matters has either already happened or is yet to come. But, in truth, as the sages have taught us, "next" and "later" don't really exist. All we have, for sure, is this moment. This present moment in which we breath in and out, where we feel the hard knot of loneliness, the baby's soft cheek.
Surprisingly, time is infinite in the present moment, spacious, forgiving, and kind. And when I am awake, it is where I find my one wild and precious life.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Father's Hands
Mother packed a new pair of boxers and a t-shirt to go under the dark wool suit. She wanted to bring dark socks but I insisted on the white cotton socks that he preferred later in life. N. brought a light blue shirt to go under the suit and A. picked out a dusk blue tie with narrow black stripes.
The night my father died a woman from the organ bank called our house. I answer the phone. She asked me if we might want to donate father's legs and arms to help children born with cleft palettes. "The bones and tissues would help children to live normally, heal them," the woman from the organ bank continued through my silence. "We would put in prosthetics. He could still have an open casket."
My first thought was that this sounded like a good idea, that in his death he could help others to live better. It is only a body now, I reasoned, he is not "in it" anymore, there is nothing left he needs from those skin and bones.
But, we had picked out such a beautiful suit for him to wear. And whether or not we could actually see the legs, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of them cut from him on ice in a plastic bucket. And my stinginess made me feel small and brittle. "No," I told the woman from the organ bank,"This is not something we are interested in doing."
At the funeral home the next day, we saw father laying in the brown glossy casket his head "resting" on a white pillow. It didn't look much like him, though, unless you focused in on a single eyebrow or one of the age spots on his large hands. I would have missed seeing his hands one more time, the oversize thick fingers folded together and resting over his belly, the rosary draped around the knuckles. They were cold now, though, and yellow not like in the hospital when he seemed to squeeze just a little tighter if you asked loud enough.
The night my father died a woman from the organ bank called our house. I answer the phone. She asked me if we might want to donate father's legs and arms to help children born with cleft palettes. "The bones and tissues would help children to live normally, heal them," the woman from the organ bank continued through my silence. "We would put in prosthetics. He could still have an open casket."
My first thought was that this sounded like a good idea, that in his death he could help others to live better. It is only a body now, I reasoned, he is not "in it" anymore, there is nothing left he needs from those skin and bones.
But, we had picked out such a beautiful suit for him to wear. And whether or not we could actually see the legs, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking of them cut from him on ice in a plastic bucket. And my stinginess made me feel small and brittle. "No," I told the woman from the organ bank,"This is not something we are interested in doing."
At the funeral home the next day, we saw father laying in the brown glossy casket his head "resting" on a white pillow. It didn't look much like him, though, unless you focused in on a single eyebrow or one of the age spots on his large hands. I would have missed seeing his hands one more time, the oversize thick fingers folded together and resting over his belly, the rosary draped around the knuckles. They were cold now, though, and yellow not like in the hospital when he seemed to squeeze just a little tighter if you asked loud enough.
Monday, July 5, 2010
How will I find happiness if I don't seek it?
Adyashaniti writes, "The old Zen Master knew that seeking happiness (or truth, or reality or fill in the blank), is as silly as a dog thinking that it must chase its tail in order to attain its tail. The dog already has full possession of its tail from the very beginning. Besides, once the dog grasps his tail, he will have to let go of it in order to function."
If I possess, already, what I yearn for - love, acceptance, serenity, gracefulness, health, (a seemingly endless list if I am truthful) - why do these things often feel out of reach? My mind rebels against such ridiculousness as the dog story and tells me, "Surely, you will be much happier if you (and you can again fill in your own blank), had "enough" money, practiced more yoga, ate more organic vegetables, gave more to charity, traveled, were more successful in your work." My mind is convinced it can protect me from suffering, pain, illness, loss, boredom, fear, failing.
But, the mind is not to be trusted. That is what the Zen Masters teach us. The mind longs, yearns, pesters you for your slouth. "If only you worked harder, did this with more devotion...then you could be happy." The mind is an unruly monkey.
The Buddhists tell us, then, to watch the mind but not let it lead you astray into that place of "not enoughness". In the present moment, we already embody in the all that is. Watch the mind, quietly, and then see if you can surrender your thoughts to the heart which provides all that you require and can show you the way.
If I possess, already, what I yearn for - love, acceptance, serenity, gracefulness, health, (a seemingly endless list if I am truthful) - why do these things often feel out of reach? My mind rebels against such ridiculousness as the dog story and tells me, "Surely, you will be much happier if you (and you can again fill in your own blank), had "enough" money, practiced more yoga, ate more organic vegetables, gave more to charity, traveled, were more successful in your work." My mind is convinced it can protect me from suffering, pain, illness, loss, boredom, fear, failing.
But, the mind is not to be trusted. That is what the Zen Masters teach us. The mind longs, yearns, pesters you for your slouth. "If only you worked harder, did this with more devotion...then you could be happy." The mind is an unruly monkey.
The Buddhists tell us, then, to watch the mind but not let it lead you astray into that place of "not enoughness". In the present moment, we already embody in the all that is. Watch the mind, quietly, and then see if you can surrender your thoughts to the heart which provides all that you require and can show you the way.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Who to give my change to?
There was the injured vet, (that's what his sign said) a clear plastic jug that once held candy, a top of a milk crate, which he stood behind while smoking. The woman with diabetes (it said so on her cardboard sign) crocheting hats in exchange for change. The two men, their incense smoking the air, who ask me every time that I pass, "Dollar to send poor kids to camp?" or "Dollar to feed a hungry child, just need $100 then I can go home." One tells me how pretty my smile is or how much he likes my hat. Another man, no front teeth, with a voice like port, strumming his guitar. Whatever he sings sounds blue. The young hobos, usually with dogs (Feed my dog! their signs say) dred locks, filthy calves, barefeet. The man that stands at in the middle of the median, unemployed (his sign says) needs money for food, and by the way, god bless.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
First Summer's Day
On the first day of summer, I rise early and stretch towards the sun. Red looks at me from the floor raising one eyebrow and then another as if to say, "Are you done yet?" She is anxious for her walk. But I take the time to reach and bend, to bring summer into my bones and muscles, the deep joints of the hips, under the shoulder blades.
We take the trail by the river, not too many bugs, but lots of other dogs and their people. We all look goofy in our own way, the dogs with lathering tongues and lopsided grins, the people with floppy hats, mis-matched socks, glasses fogged with sweat. Red cries when another dog approaches even the old ones that limp along still happy to be a dog outside in the sun. She tolerates puppies who can't help but jump and nip at her red ears.
It is a good morning to drink hot sweet tea on the front steps, read the paper, take a nap.
It smells so fragrant, the day after a night of rain, the air rich with chamomile, pitch pine, unfolding ferns.
A good day to read a poem or two, Mary Oliver, to watch the dog sleep in the sun, wave at the young child next door drawing with chalk on the driveway.
There is time for more tea, writing in my journal (not the computer), talking on the phone with an old friend.
And late in the evening, when the peepers start to peep, the red wing black birds cease their chatter, the cattails rattle in the wind, a swim in the cool dark lake.
We take the trail by the river, not too many bugs, but lots of other dogs and their people. We all look goofy in our own way, the dogs with lathering tongues and lopsided grins, the people with floppy hats, mis-matched socks, glasses fogged with sweat. Red cries when another dog approaches even the old ones that limp along still happy to be a dog outside in the sun. She tolerates puppies who can't help but jump and nip at her red ears.
It is a good morning to drink hot sweet tea on the front steps, read the paper, take a nap.
It smells so fragrant, the day after a night of rain, the air rich with chamomile, pitch pine, unfolding ferns.
A good day to read a poem or two, Mary Oliver, to watch the dog sleep in the sun, wave at the young child next door drawing with chalk on the driveway.
There is time for more tea, writing in my journal (not the computer), talking on the phone with an old friend.
And late in the evening, when the peepers start to peep, the red wing black birds cease their chatter, the cattails rattle in the wind, a swim in the cool dark lake.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Keep That Barn Door Closed!
Today they teach puberty to the fifth graders at E's school.
The teachers are groovy, hip, feminist, so I am hoping it will be an improvement over what we got back in the early seventies.
Back in the day (of course you remember) the boys and girls were shuttled, separately, into the auditorium for a film. I suppose that the film shown to the boys was different than the film showed to the girls but am not certain. Teachers taped a sheet of paper over the windows to the auditorium so you couldn't peak. No Peaking!
I knew all about menstruation and where babies came from (thanks to my buddy D.P. who told me all about it one spring afternoon when I was five. "That can't be possible!!" was my startled reaction.) Still, the film was confusing. Moving through that old black and white, the girl and her lipsticked mother (or was it a nurse) hugged and then fumbled around with the menstruation apparatus of the day: a tangle of belts and buckles that secured a thick pad between the thighs. How would I manage such manipulations in the small girl's bathroom stall?
Then there was the "ovulation" animation; a sketchy drawing of the fallopian tubes with the wilting flowers on top. Was that INSIDE MY BODY!!! We watched as the tiny egg made its way into the flower and then down, down to the waiting V-shaped chamber below (way down below..). "There the egg waits in the ready for the millions of sperm swimming up to penetrated its delicate membrane," the announcer with that Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom Voice said with inflection.
That's why grandma always told you to "Keep those legs shut!" Wouldn't want any loose sperm getting inside unbeknown to me!. And then what???
The teachers are groovy, hip, feminist, so I am hoping it will be an improvement over what we got back in the early seventies.
Back in the day (of course you remember) the boys and girls were shuttled, separately, into the auditorium for a film. I suppose that the film shown to the boys was different than the film showed to the girls but am not certain. Teachers taped a sheet of paper over the windows to the auditorium so you couldn't peak. No Peaking!
I knew all about menstruation and where babies came from (thanks to my buddy D.P. who told me all about it one spring afternoon when I was five. "That can't be possible!!" was my startled reaction.) Still, the film was confusing. Moving through that old black and white, the girl and her lipsticked mother (or was it a nurse) hugged and then fumbled around with the menstruation apparatus of the day: a tangle of belts and buckles that secured a thick pad between the thighs. How would I manage such manipulations in the small girl's bathroom stall?
Then there was the "ovulation" animation; a sketchy drawing of the fallopian tubes with the wilting flowers on top. Was that INSIDE MY BODY!!! We watched as the tiny egg made its way into the flower and then down, down to the waiting V-shaped chamber below (way down below..). "There the egg waits in the ready for the millions of sperm swimming up to penetrated its delicate membrane," the announcer with that Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom Voice said with inflection.
That's why grandma always told you to "Keep those legs shut!" Wouldn't want any loose sperm getting inside unbeknown to me!. And then what???
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Lake and the Lotus
One night this winter, the water on the pond froze, diamond hard and clear. There wasn't any snow so the ice was smooth, hardly a bump or ripple along the surface. "Its like heaven," a woman whose face I recognized told me as she slung her skates over her shoulder.
E and I went that afternoon and all the days after until the snow fell. It was like a dream come true; my dream, that is, to skate on the canals of Amsterdam in winter. We could skate forever, never hitting a board, surrounded by the beaver dams and winter bare trees.
In the muddy part of spring, I saw that woman again. We remembered each other now that our heads and faces were free from woolen hats and scarfs. Many years ago, we had worked at the same little nature camp in Southern New Hampshire. Every morning just as the sun was rising, she tapped on the side of my cabin. Four knocks would wake me. I'd drag myself out of a warm bed to meet her down at the lake still rising with fog. No way I could have gotten out of bed without her knocking at my door. Without saying a word, we jumped into the water then tied our bathing suits to the dock. Had to swim fast at first to get warm, then more slowly, languorously, through the dark and fog to the other side of the lake. Sharp tailed swallows dipped and twirled above our heads. The water was thick like syrup and filled, in parts, with long stemmed lilies that tickled when we passed. Some had lotus flowers balanced judiciously on floating leafs that released a sweet mossy fragrance.
Camp was still quiet when we returned back to our side of the lake and I felt holy for the whole rest of the day.
E and I went that afternoon and all the days after until the snow fell. It was like a dream come true; my dream, that is, to skate on the canals of Amsterdam in winter. We could skate forever, never hitting a board, surrounded by the beaver dams and winter bare trees.
In the muddy part of spring, I saw that woman again. We remembered each other now that our heads and faces were free from woolen hats and scarfs. Many years ago, we had worked at the same little nature camp in Southern New Hampshire. Every morning just as the sun was rising, she tapped on the side of my cabin. Four knocks would wake me. I'd drag myself out of a warm bed to meet her down at the lake still rising with fog. No way I could have gotten out of bed without her knocking at my door. Without saying a word, we jumped into the water then tied our bathing suits to the dock. Had to swim fast at first to get warm, then more slowly, languorously, through the dark and fog to the other side of the lake. Sharp tailed swallows dipped and twirled above our heads. The water was thick like syrup and filled, in parts, with long stemmed lilies that tickled when we passed. Some had lotus flowers balanced judiciously on floating leafs that released a sweet mossy fragrance.
Camp was still quiet when we returned back to our side of the lake and I felt holy for the whole rest of the day.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Happier at 85
According to a recent NYT article, people get happier as they age. The "sad o meter" rises up until we turn 50 and then starts to decline as we age.
If this is true (and surely there are old people we know who need more love, attention, food), I think I know why.
By 50, every plan you have made since the age of ten has either failed or turned out unimaginably different than you had expected. So, you give up on making plans and instead watch as your life unfolds in all those remarkably surprising and unintended ways.
You have eaten enough mottled and bruised peaches to delight in the perfectly ripe one that melts in your mouth and sends streams of juice down your chin.
You get more excited from the delicacy of the blooming orchid than you ever did from your first husband H (sorry H) and the birds singing, oh, more soothing than any drug.
You have given up on all attempts to look smoother, trimmer, fitter, shinier, sexier, and robust and take great pleasure from the rolls of flesh that hang unembarrassed from limbs that still move with a stubborn grace and harmony. Fed by spoon from the aids in the nursing home you feel the purest gratitude.
You have lost so much already, a son to suicide, a father to alcohol, a friend to depression, that letting go of your last breath doesn't seem so hard.
If this is true (and surely there are old people we know who need more love, attention, food), I think I know why.
By 50, every plan you have made since the age of ten has either failed or turned out unimaginably different than you had expected. So, you give up on making plans and instead watch as your life unfolds in all those remarkably surprising and unintended ways.
You have eaten enough mottled and bruised peaches to delight in the perfectly ripe one that melts in your mouth and sends streams of juice down your chin.
You get more excited from the delicacy of the blooming orchid than you ever did from your first husband H (sorry H) and the birds singing, oh, more soothing than any drug.
You have given up on all attempts to look smoother, trimmer, fitter, shinier, sexier, and robust and take great pleasure from the rolls of flesh that hang unembarrassed from limbs that still move with a stubborn grace and harmony. Fed by spoon from the aids in the nursing home you feel the purest gratitude.
You have lost so much already, a son to suicide, a father to alcohol, a friend to depression, that letting go of your last breath doesn't seem so hard.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Story in My Spine
"The whole story is in the spine." Mary Oliver
The bones of the spine frame a tightly coiled roll of fibers. Alternative layers of fiber spin in different directions. They are spongy so if you twist to the right or the left in just the right way they wring out like a wet towel releasing its catch. Twist back to center and they are flooded with fresh ocean water. Over the years of bending, reaching, scraping by, the vertebra are pulled and pushed, cracked, crunched, loved, and misaligned and, in this way, come to embody the story of your life.
The story of my spine tells of the past, longing, vibrancy, surrender, and as much sorrow as joy (can there really be one without the other?) Stretching laterally towards the rope, my hips facing front, a ferret tickles out from the intercostal muscles of the right ribs. Push up into a back bend with firm hands and feet and a waterfall of tears slides in two directions down to the still pool below. Head to knee in a sitting position, my spine vibrates with the moon. In my final resting, over a bolster or chair, the pine releases her startling scent.
The bones of the spine frame a tightly coiled roll of fibers. Alternative layers of fiber spin in different directions. They are spongy so if you twist to the right or the left in just the right way they wring out like a wet towel releasing its catch. Twist back to center and they are flooded with fresh ocean water. Over the years of bending, reaching, scraping by, the vertebra are pulled and pushed, cracked, crunched, loved, and misaligned and, in this way, come to embody the story of your life.
The story of my spine tells of the past, longing, vibrancy, surrender, and as much sorrow as joy (can there really be one without the other?) Stretching laterally towards the rope, my hips facing front, a ferret tickles out from the intercostal muscles of the right ribs. Push up into a back bend with firm hands and feet and a waterfall of tears slides in two directions down to the still pool below. Head to knee in a sitting position, my spine vibrates with the moon. In my final resting, over a bolster or chair, the pine releases her startling scent.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Goodbye Louise Bourgeois
The artist Louise Bourgeois passed away yesterday at the age of 98. I was fortunate to see some of her work last year at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington DC. At one point in her career, she made a series of gigantic spider mama's with long spindly legs and a big sack of babies hanging from the fulcrum where the legs gathered into a head. In other pieces, she created "rooms" from tall pieces of wood hinged together door like with tiny windows to peer into. There she lay objects evocative of female spaces, lace, white gloves, marbled hands, a sewing basket, and then the smear of blood on a wall, a heart, a syringe. In her art, she sought to find the trembling safety of unsafe places, emotions, situations.
There were many many years when she was ignored by the "Art" world, because women weren't taken seriously as anything, let alone artists. But, she pressed on with beautiful sculptures in marble and bronze. "Arch of Hysteria," shows a body flung into a wildly arching back bend, the head severed from the neck (see the NYT obit for this).
Her work evokes in me feelings of wonder, vulnerability, strength, surrender. And a strong desire to embrace things ignored, forgotten, left behind; the beating heart, the spider's egg case, my father's voice.
There were many many years when she was ignored by the "Art" world, because women weren't taken seriously as anything, let alone artists. But, she pressed on with beautiful sculptures in marble and bronze. "Arch of Hysteria," shows a body flung into a wildly arching back bend, the head severed from the neck (see the NYT obit for this).
Her work evokes in me feelings of wonder, vulnerability, strength, surrender. And a strong desire to embrace things ignored, forgotten, left behind; the beating heart, the spider's egg case, my father's voice.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Your Diaphragm
Here are some things about your diaphragm that you may not know and why they are important.
The diaphragm is the floor of the thoracic cavity and the roof of the abdominal cavity. The upper most of the diaphragm reaches up to the nipples and the bottom most space to the navel. The shape of the diaphragm is created by the organs it encloses and supports. Deprived of those organs, it would collapse much like a knit cap does when not on a head. The right side of the diaphragm is higher than the left because of the liver pushing up on the right and the heart pushing down from the left. The diaphragm is connected in three places to bone; the ribs, the sternum, the anterior lumbar spine.
Each time you inhale then exhale, this bulging mass of muscle massages all the internal organs; liver, kidneys, intestines, adrenals. The pull of this large muscle on the spine, the sternum, the ribs lubricates the bones and their attachments, the nerve endings, blood vessels, lymph channels.
Take a moment to enjoy the breath, the rising and falling of the diaphragm inside you, the energy of life.
The diaphragm is the floor of the thoracic cavity and the roof of the abdominal cavity. The upper most of the diaphragm reaches up to the nipples and the bottom most space to the navel. The shape of the diaphragm is created by the organs it encloses and supports. Deprived of those organs, it would collapse much like a knit cap does when not on a head. The right side of the diaphragm is higher than the left because of the liver pushing up on the right and the heart pushing down from the left. The diaphragm is connected in three places to bone; the ribs, the sternum, the anterior lumbar spine.
Each time you inhale then exhale, this bulging mass of muscle massages all the internal organs; liver, kidneys, intestines, adrenals. The pull of this large muscle on the spine, the sternum, the ribs lubricates the bones and their attachments, the nerve endings, blood vessels, lymph channels.
Take a moment to enjoy the breath, the rising and falling of the diaphragm inside you, the energy of life.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Don't Pray for Love
After yoga, EM read, "Don't pray for love for then you remain loveless. Don't pray for wealth for then you remain poor. Don't pray for security for then you remain on shaky ground."
What is true for me is that if I can't find peace and spaciousness in the present moment, I won't find it in the next. If I long for my beloved, I remain alone. If I look for contentment in the spring during winter, on the mountain top while in the valley, in the light when it is dark, I cannot find contentment.
If I can't find God in myself (or kindness, joy, love, completeness) then there is no God.
What is true for me is that if I can't find peace and spaciousness in the present moment, I won't find it in the next. If I long for my beloved, I remain alone. If I look for contentment in the spring during winter, on the mountain top while in the valley, in the light when it is dark, I cannot find contentment.
If I can't find God in myself (or kindness, joy, love, completeness) then there is no God.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Why they wore black
I know why those Sicilian widows wore black.
That scratchy wool dress told everyone in the village, "Lay off, go easy, touch me gently."
Seeing that scratchy wool dress hanging like a sack over her rounded waist, the fishmonger dared not press his heavy thumb onto the scale, the priest brought wine for dinner, the shopkeeper scooped lentils into her apron. They knew how the recently dead could hover and dared not tempt the evil eye.
"Be kind to me," her black dress said to the woman whose house she cleaned, to the goats she milked, to the chickens that laid perfect pink eggs all winter long.
What I don't know, however, is when or if she considered something different, a splash of color along the neckline, a silver broach at the breast, the purple shawl passed down from grandmother to mother.
She wasn't that old, didn't walk with a cane, could still remember the pleasure of walking barefoot through the wet grass. It had been over a year since he had left her alone and she had worn the black dress every day since his death.
It hung looser now than when she had first put it on, stained from the grease of a thousand meals. She cleaned it every week in the river where the women went to wash and bath.
One Sunday morning, before the sun had risen over the Messina hills, she made her way down the stone path to the river to wash. Starting from below her hips, she gathered dress into folds and drew it up over her head. A breeze sent ripples across the water, across the tiny hairs of her skin. She pulled off each worn leather shoe, each wool stocking, and walked over the hard stones to the edge. The cold took her breath away but she continued walking holding the black dress gently and firmly like the infant they never had. Deep inside the river, halfway to the other shore, she stopped and waited while the sun crested the hills. A blue heron glided high above the cedars. She was surprised to see how far she had come never before having ventured this far out. The current was strong. The thought that she might get swept away didn't frighten her.
She pressed the billowing dress into the water until it lay wavering just underneath the surface. Then, she let it go.
That scratchy wool dress told everyone in the village, "Lay off, go easy, touch me gently."
Seeing that scratchy wool dress hanging like a sack over her rounded waist, the fishmonger dared not press his heavy thumb onto the scale, the priest brought wine for dinner, the shopkeeper scooped lentils into her apron. They knew how the recently dead could hover and dared not tempt the evil eye.
"Be kind to me," her black dress said to the woman whose house she cleaned, to the goats she milked, to the chickens that laid perfect pink eggs all winter long.
What I don't know, however, is when or if she considered something different, a splash of color along the neckline, a silver broach at the breast, the purple shawl passed down from grandmother to mother.
She wasn't that old, didn't walk with a cane, could still remember the pleasure of walking barefoot through the wet grass. It had been over a year since he had left her alone and she had worn the black dress every day since his death.
It hung looser now than when she had first put it on, stained from the grease of a thousand meals. She cleaned it every week in the river where the women went to wash and bath.
One Sunday morning, before the sun had risen over the Messina hills, she made her way down the stone path to the river to wash. Starting from below her hips, she gathered dress into folds and drew it up over her head. A breeze sent ripples across the water, across the tiny hairs of her skin. She pulled off each worn leather shoe, each wool stocking, and walked over the hard stones to the edge. The cold took her breath away but she continued walking holding the black dress gently and firmly like the infant they never had. Deep inside the river, halfway to the other shore, she stopped and waited while the sun crested the hills. A blue heron glided high above the cedars. She was surprised to see how far she had come never before having ventured this far out. The current was strong. The thought that she might get swept away didn't frighten her.
She pressed the billowing dress into the water until it lay wavering just underneath the surface. Then, she let it go.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
One Year
It has been one year since we last said our goodbyes.
That was a sad and scary day. We didn't know what would happen to you when the doctors removed the breathing tube but we knew it had to be done. We wanted you to rest and be comfortable. We didn't know how much time we would have with you. We sat near you in the white room with the big window. It was quieter now without the whirring machine that had been drawing your breath in and out for two days. We sat on your bed, rubbed your cold feet with cream, held your hands, stroked your cheek. You opened your eyes several times and looked right at me. I sang to you and threaded my fingers through your magnificently white hair.
A and N were there the whole time.
We thought we would have more time with you. M and A came unexpectedly. We talked as if we weren't in the white room, but sitting around the kitchen table dipping licorice flavored biscotti into our coffee's. As you always did, I imagine that you enjoyed the company of gathered women.
I stepped outside the white curtained room to say goodbye to A when that women, the angel who had prayed with us and told me that god was waiting for you, pulled me inside, "It's time," she said. Machines started beeping. A nurse came in to listen to the last beats of your heart. You breathed in and then out, in and then out.
The room was filled with the sound of Ohm, the heavens indeed had broken open as eager hands reached out to gather you into their arms.
That was a sad and scary day. We didn't know what would happen to you when the doctors removed the breathing tube but we knew it had to be done. We wanted you to rest and be comfortable. We didn't know how much time we would have with you. We sat near you in the white room with the big window. It was quieter now without the whirring machine that had been drawing your breath in and out for two days. We sat on your bed, rubbed your cold feet with cream, held your hands, stroked your cheek. You opened your eyes several times and looked right at me. I sang to you and threaded my fingers through your magnificently white hair.
A and N were there the whole time.
We thought we would have more time with you. M and A came unexpectedly. We talked as if we weren't in the white room, but sitting around the kitchen table dipping licorice flavored biscotti into our coffee's. As you always did, I imagine that you enjoyed the company of gathered women.
I stepped outside the white curtained room to say goodbye to A when that women, the angel who had prayed with us and told me that god was waiting for you, pulled me inside, "It's time," she said. Machines started beeping. A nurse came in to listen to the last beats of your heart. You breathed in and then out, in and then out.
The room was filled with the sound of Ohm, the heavens indeed had broken open as eager hands reached out to gather you into their arms.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Yoga Sutra II.40
Kate Holcombe writes that, "In verse II.40 of the Yoga Sutra, Patanjali speaks of saucha (purity or cleanliness) as a means to help you reach a state of yoga, or focused concentration."
It's a paradox though because as you clean and purify the body through yoga and pure thoughts, there is decay.
But that is the teaching. You lovingly care and tend to the body even as it ages and weakens and this makes the soul grow stronger.
Kate Holcombe says it better than I, "In time, you see that no matter how diligent you are, your surroundings and even your body are decaying every moment, whereas your inner or true, Self is permanent and unchanging this realization gradually leads you to focus your attention inward..and connection with your higher power."
It's a paradox though because as you clean and purify the body through yoga and pure thoughts, there is decay.
But that is the teaching. You lovingly care and tend to the body even as it ages and weakens and this makes the soul grow stronger.
Kate Holcombe says it better than I, "In time, you see that no matter how diligent you are, your surroundings and even your body are decaying every moment, whereas your inner or true, Self is permanent and unchanging this realization gradually leads you to focus your attention inward..and connection with your higher power."
Thursday, May 13, 2010
A Writers Voice
I recently gave my first public reading of a piece of fiction. It wasn't as scary as I thought it might be but it wasn't as I had expected either.
Taking the advice of a writer friend, I practiced beforehand. I only had fifteen minutes to read so had to cut my story down several pages. I found it difficult to cut away pieces of the story I had worked so hard to craft and in a way that preserved its meaning and flow. But, reading aloud helped me to find the excess verbiage, words that just took up space but added nothing important. I got rid of scenes that, while interesting, weren't (yet) tied into the heart of the story. I got rid of characters that didn't pertain to the singular journey of the protagonist in this story. I cut away the fat and came closer to the bones and blood of the moment. Reading aloud forced my mind to notice the awkardness in what had become familiar.
I found the reading itself rather perplexing. Was that my voice ringing out through the microphone? Why was everyone so silent? A few people out of about 30) came up afterwards to say they liked the piece.
I am glad to have had the experience mostly because it forced me to read my writing aloud. (And I'd certainly do it again if only to have a deadline!) But as to the actual reading to strangers, and almost as if in a vacuum, I am not sure of the point of it.
Taking the advice of a writer friend, I practiced beforehand. I only had fifteen minutes to read so had to cut my story down several pages. I found it difficult to cut away pieces of the story I had worked so hard to craft and in a way that preserved its meaning and flow. But, reading aloud helped me to find the excess verbiage, words that just took up space but added nothing important. I got rid of scenes that, while interesting, weren't (yet) tied into the heart of the story. I got rid of characters that didn't pertain to the singular journey of the protagonist in this story. I cut away the fat and came closer to the bones and blood of the moment. Reading aloud forced my mind to notice the awkardness in what had become familiar.
I found the reading itself rather perplexing. Was that my voice ringing out through the microphone? Why was everyone so silent? A few people out of about 30) came up afterwards to say they liked the piece.
I am glad to have had the experience mostly because it forced me to read my writing aloud. (And I'd certainly do it again if only to have a deadline!) But as to the actual reading to strangers, and almost as if in a vacuum, I am not sure of the point of it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Necco Wafers
Necco Wafers were my father's favorite candy. As a boy, he worked in the Boston factory where they were made. I am not sure what kind of work he did but do know that he took home bags of the broken ones to eat at his leisure.
Growing up, whenever we passed by the factory he would point it out saying, "Oldest candy factory in the US," which impressed me each time I heard it. If he had some Necco Wafers in his pocket, which he often did, he would flip two out of the waxed paper packaging; one for him, one for me. The wafers, thin circles of pure confection, came in different flavors. You didn't know what you were going to get until it popped out of the circular packaging.
I happened to find a small package of Necco Wafers around the house during the early hours before my father's funeral. I slipped it into the pocket of my new linen pants before we made our way to the funeral parlor for our last goodbyes. I found father floating around the room, no longer in his body, hovering. I figured he might need something for his journey, so I slipped the package of Necco's into the small draw at the heart of the coffin made for such last gifts and mementos.
When grief or fear or unease is at its worse, I think of how Necco Wafers are made to savor one slice at a time. If you chew them or stuff the whole package into your mouth, you will loose the pleasure of feeling each one melt slowly on your tongue the flavor blossoming as the sugar melts. One slice, then the next slice, then the next slice. This, then this, then this, each moment a slice that melts easily before the next.
Growing up, whenever we passed by the factory he would point it out saying, "Oldest candy factory in the US," which impressed me each time I heard it. If he had some Necco Wafers in his pocket, which he often did, he would flip two out of the waxed paper packaging; one for him, one for me. The wafers, thin circles of pure confection, came in different flavors. You didn't know what you were going to get until it popped out of the circular packaging.
I happened to find a small package of Necco Wafers around the house during the early hours before my father's funeral. I slipped it into the pocket of my new linen pants before we made our way to the funeral parlor for our last goodbyes. I found father floating around the room, no longer in his body, hovering. I figured he might need something for his journey, so I slipped the package of Necco's into the small draw at the heart of the coffin made for such last gifts and mementos.
When grief or fear or unease is at its worse, I think of how Necco Wafers are made to savor one slice at a time. If you chew them or stuff the whole package into your mouth, you will loose the pleasure of feeling each one melt slowly on your tongue the flavor blossoming as the sugar melts. One slice, then the next slice, then the next slice. This, then this, then this, each moment a slice that melts easily before the next.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Other Mothers
At the Spring Music Festival last week, (almost) three year old S was running up and down the aisles, bouncing from one set of open arms to another as his father C played the piano or the accordion accompanying the singing and dancing. He would run up to be near C. then back along the long red carpet of the chapel to whomever he could manage to tickle with his laughter.
I remember that S was born in June because a few days after he was born his mother died. All winter long, I watched as H's belly grew and blossomed, the excitement and longing for her baby cresting just as the forsythia burst through. Love of music, dance, the wild places where we live brought C and H together and their beautiful son into the world. In the days before she died, she got to hold him and look into his eyes and feed him from her milky breast.
At the memorial service, S was passed between what have become his other mothers; C's ex-wife, the mother of the severely disabled child that H cared for in her work as a physical therapist, the members of the choir. There was poetry, stories, dancing from the improve group where H danced. They glided by the alter at the old Congregational Church, arms and bodies folding and unfolding around each other, coming together then falling apart. In that standing room only church, we all saw friends (old and new) from the overlapping parts of our lives in this small town; friends from the bakery, that shelter where you volunteered ten years ago, the yoga class when it was taught in the church basement. Brought together in grief and celebration, we held C and S and H in our hearts and through the years with food, money, shelter, shoulders to cry on.
For me, the miracle in all this is that C continues to create the sweetest music. Pulling it out from dark places, S's love of cinnamon buns, the hands reaching out to take over when he needs a rest.
I remember that S was born in June because a few days after he was born his mother died. All winter long, I watched as H's belly grew and blossomed, the excitement and longing for her baby cresting just as the forsythia burst through. Love of music, dance, the wild places where we live brought C and H together and their beautiful son into the world. In the days before she died, she got to hold him and look into his eyes and feed him from her milky breast.
At the memorial service, S was passed between what have become his other mothers; C's ex-wife, the mother of the severely disabled child that H cared for in her work as a physical therapist, the members of the choir. There was poetry, stories, dancing from the improve group where H danced. They glided by the alter at the old Congregational Church, arms and bodies folding and unfolding around each other, coming together then falling apart. In that standing room only church, we all saw friends (old and new) from the overlapping parts of our lives in this small town; friends from the bakery, that shelter where you volunteered ten years ago, the yoga class when it was taught in the church basement. Brought together in grief and celebration, we held C and S and H in our hearts and through the years with food, money, shelter, shoulders to cry on.
For me, the miracle in all this is that C continues to create the sweetest music. Pulling it out from dark places, S's love of cinnamon buns, the hands reaching out to take over when he needs a rest.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Enough
"Her search for God had been like a hand trying to grasp itself." from Lying Awake by Mark Saltzman
When will there be enough? Food, money, love, friends? Is there a point of satiation, satisfaction, ease, contentment, no more longings?
When Alice and I hiked up Mt. Olympus, we camped by a raging river, a stormy run-off from the glaciers above. The slim shore that hugged the riverbed was marbled with smooth stones which were hard and soft at the same time. We had come down from the mountain late late in the night (after a rather harrowing attempt at rescuing another climber who had broken his leg) and were luxuriating in the sun, the cold water, strong coffee. There was nothing missing in that moment of clear skies, fragrant massive conifers, the river. And if I had tried to hold that river in my arms, tried to gather it in and make its power my own, I would have lost everything.
This morning our yoga teacher told us that when you release the hands, the heart opens. Loosen your grip, even just a little, of the things that you can never really possess in the first place (a lover's heart, a child's smile, the candle light flickering in the darkness), and feel how your heart unfolds, petal by petal, opening to everything with love. Then there will be enough.
When will there be enough? Food, money, love, friends? Is there a point of satiation, satisfaction, ease, contentment, no more longings?
When Alice and I hiked up Mt. Olympus, we camped by a raging river, a stormy run-off from the glaciers above. The slim shore that hugged the riverbed was marbled with smooth stones which were hard and soft at the same time. We had come down from the mountain late late in the night (after a rather harrowing attempt at rescuing another climber who had broken his leg) and were luxuriating in the sun, the cold water, strong coffee. There was nothing missing in that moment of clear skies, fragrant massive conifers, the river. And if I had tried to hold that river in my arms, tried to gather it in and make its power my own, I would have lost everything.
This morning our yoga teacher told us that when you release the hands, the heart opens. Loosen your grip, even just a little, of the things that you can never really possess in the first place (a lover's heart, a child's smile, the candle light flickering in the darkness), and feel how your heart unfolds, petal by petal, opening to everything with love. Then there will be enough.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Hips
Last night in yoga, we worked on opening up the hips, that clever ball and socket joint that binds old memories with muscle, blood and bone into twisted into knots. Stuff gets stuck in the hip sockets; the failed marriage, trip not taken, the easy chair where father snored. Opening up the hips, there is the potential of letting go of tight fistedness, rules that no longer apply, muscles that haven't relaxed in ions. There is tremendous fresh energy in the release of this pain. Open up the hips to wipe the dust off of the old furniture, the cobwebs that have collected corners, the stains on the table cloth.
Its nice to do some back bends after hip openers, to let loose the birds from the cage of the ribs into the sweet green sunshine.
Its nice to do some back bends after hip openers, to let loose the birds from the cage of the ribs into the sweet green sunshine.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A ton of bricks
Grief hit me again last week, like a ton of bricks falling out of the sky and landing with a thump onto my chest. It took my breath away, spun me around to a direction I wasn't planning on going.
Its the first year anniversary of when my father got sick - he had a series of strokes that we were just learning about - in the middle of last April. He died a month later on May 20. I had been feeling mostly fine for several months, missing my father but in a more joyful less sorrowful way. I didn't expect such strong grief to wash over me yet again just because of this anniversary. It didn't seem right or appropriate that I should feel so lousy after so much time had passed - feelings which inevitably made me feel even worse. I told some friends. Each one reminded me that it does make sense to feel hard grief again and again and in unexpected ways. Knowing this makes it easier to endure.
Its like earlier grief in tone but not tenor, less sharp and overwhelming and harder to unearth because its not so fresh. It seems to get worse in the afternoons and makes me want to take to my bed until the hardest part passes which I (guiltily) do sometimes when concentration on anything else becomes impossible.
Yesterday at the corner store, an old man took my money for the juice I bought for E.and gave me back some change. He had hands like my father's with thick fingers that make picking up dimes and quarters difficult. I miss my father's hands, his eyes, his gorgeous smile. How lucky, I thought, that this man has such old hands for someone who loves him to hold.
Its the first year anniversary of when my father got sick - he had a series of strokes that we were just learning about - in the middle of last April. He died a month later on May 20. I had been feeling mostly fine for several months, missing my father but in a more joyful less sorrowful way. I didn't expect such strong grief to wash over me yet again just because of this anniversary. It didn't seem right or appropriate that I should feel so lousy after so much time had passed - feelings which inevitably made me feel even worse. I told some friends. Each one reminded me that it does make sense to feel hard grief again and again and in unexpected ways. Knowing this makes it easier to endure.
Its like earlier grief in tone but not tenor, less sharp and overwhelming and harder to unearth because its not so fresh. It seems to get worse in the afternoons and makes me want to take to my bed until the hardest part passes which I (guiltily) do sometimes when concentration on anything else becomes impossible.
Yesterday at the corner store, an old man took my money for the juice I bought for E.and gave me back some change. He had hands like my father's with thick fingers that make picking up dimes and quarters difficult. I miss my father's hands, his eyes, his gorgeous smile. How lucky, I thought, that this man has such old hands for someone who loves him to hold.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A Glue the Mends Us
I read in Tuesday's NYT that a handful of scientists are looking at insects to learn more about glues to mend us. There is a tube worm that lives its entire life in a tube that it creates from grains of sand. It excretes a glue like substance from the top of its head to secure each grain in place. Another insect creates a firm and flexible egg case from grains of river sand held together with the silk like filaments its body creates.
A glue to mend us must be both strong and flexible, like shoe letter, and cure in water. If discovered, then someday, there may be a pill you can take to stitch together torn fibers of a thigh muscle, holes in the lining of the stomach, detached retinas.
Other tears will prove harder to mend with only the silky filaments of katydid glue like the pull at the throat when words get stuck, the spill of shame into the chest, the hole carved in the back of the heart from loneliness.
The glue that mends these tears is also offered up from the earth waiting for us to discover in the melting of winter ice, a mother's embrace, the bulbs you planted the summer before you died.
A glue to mend us must be both strong and flexible, like shoe letter, and cure in water. If discovered, then someday, there may be a pill you can take to stitch together torn fibers of a thigh muscle, holes in the lining of the stomach, detached retinas.
Other tears will prove harder to mend with only the silky filaments of katydid glue like the pull at the throat when words get stuck, the spill of shame into the chest, the hole carved in the back of the heart from loneliness.
The glue that mends these tears is also offered up from the earth waiting for us to discover in the melting of winter ice, a mother's embrace, the bulbs you planted the summer before you died.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A baseball cap and a kiss
We are coming around to the time of year when my father fell ill and then died. This first anniversary hits me hard, unexpectedly so. Its like slamming into the brick wall you hadn't seen because you weren't paying attention (you're texting while driving or fooling with the CD player.) I am filled with an unsettling scratchiness that doesn't seem like sadness but boredom, unease, allergies, anger. Its only when I am pulled beneath skin- maybe by the old man walking shakily down the street or the women in the YMCA locker room discussing chemo treatments) does the sadness bubble up to the surface, dissolving the confusion and agitation.
Today, I am thinking about when my mother, aunt, uncle, and myself sat in the funeral home parlor, planning the wake, making arrangements for the casket, the prayer cards, the obituary for the Boston Globe. My mother brought the charcoal wool suit from home along with a pair of bright new underwear. There was also the white cotton socks that my father favored, a cotton button up shirt, a tie whose color I cannot remember. He would be dressed up as if going out to a wedding or anniversary celebration - maybe what he would have worn to his 50th wedding anniversary which was instead spent in the nursing home where he was sent after the first strokes.
On that anniversary Sunday, he was working so hard to do everything that the physical therapist asked of him; push up and down from the chair, stand by the table and reach diagonally to the right and then the left, walk down the hall with the walker. For their anniversary, J and I gave my parents a soap stone carving of three figures holding hands and dancing in an endless circle. In our family, there are several threes that could make up that circle. My daughter wasn't there that day but would visit the next week on mother's day, to share the chocolate honey cake she and I made for the occasion. Father was too nauseous to eat but a few crumbs of the cake but E couldn't tell he was ill. He wore a navy blue baseball cap when he went down to meet her which hid his drooping head. It was hard for him to hear the conversation but he asked her the old questions about school, the dog, chess which made it seem like, to her at least, that he was pretty much his old grandpa self.
When it was time to leave, E and J. said good bye at the elevator while mom and I brought father back up to the darkened room he shared with an elderly bedridden man. Mother changed father's clothes while I waited by the nurses station offering them the left over cake. We helped father from the wheel chair into the hard back chair he liked to sit in to watch TV. He still had the baseball cap on when I went to say goodbye and with his head drooping, I couldn't see his eyes but only his chin and lips. Before I could lean in to kiss his cheek, he took my hand and pulled it to his lips to kiss. Quietly, almost shyly, he said goodbye to me for the last time.
Today, I am thinking about when my mother, aunt, uncle, and myself sat in the funeral home parlor, planning the wake, making arrangements for the casket, the prayer cards, the obituary for the Boston Globe. My mother brought the charcoal wool suit from home along with a pair of bright new underwear. There was also the white cotton socks that my father favored, a cotton button up shirt, a tie whose color I cannot remember. He would be dressed up as if going out to a wedding or anniversary celebration - maybe what he would have worn to his 50th wedding anniversary which was instead spent in the nursing home where he was sent after the first strokes.
On that anniversary Sunday, he was working so hard to do everything that the physical therapist asked of him; push up and down from the chair, stand by the table and reach diagonally to the right and then the left, walk down the hall with the walker. For their anniversary, J and I gave my parents a soap stone carving of three figures holding hands and dancing in an endless circle. In our family, there are several threes that could make up that circle. My daughter wasn't there that day but would visit the next week on mother's day, to share the chocolate honey cake she and I made for the occasion. Father was too nauseous to eat but a few crumbs of the cake but E couldn't tell he was ill. He wore a navy blue baseball cap when he went down to meet her which hid his drooping head. It was hard for him to hear the conversation but he asked her the old questions about school, the dog, chess which made it seem like, to her at least, that he was pretty much his old grandpa self.
When it was time to leave, E and J. said good bye at the elevator while mom and I brought father back up to the darkened room he shared with an elderly bedridden man. Mother changed father's clothes while I waited by the nurses station offering them the left over cake. We helped father from the wheel chair into the hard back chair he liked to sit in to watch TV. He still had the baseball cap on when I went to say goodbye and with his head drooping, I couldn't see his eyes but only his chin and lips. Before I could lean in to kiss his cheek, he took my hand and pulled it to his lips to kiss. Quietly, almost shyly, he said goodbye to me for the last time.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Moose, the Bear, and the Salamandar
Last spring, in early June and soon after my father had died, I went for a walk with "Penny" in the woods and fields by the house. I walked as if in a bubble not feeling the breeze or smelling the fresh wet earth. Colors were dimmed, the forest many shades of grey, and I wondered how it was that the body stops breathing and where my father had ended up.
My dog and I walked directionless along familiar paths; Penny stopping to smell this or that pile of leaves or twigs or running into the woods after a squirrel or chipmunk. Grief moved like a low toned vibration under my skin and through my spine. Suddenly, Penny froze several feet away from me and up the trail. I thought maybe there was another dog approaching but when I looked up saw the large eggplant shaped head of a moose staring at me and Penny. For seconds, we all stood still and looked at each other, the moose looking as curious as myself and Penny. But Penny couldn't hold still for long and soon sped towards the moose flushing her back into the woods. Wow, I had never seen a moose so close to home and in these woods I have walked now for almost ten years! And it hit me that the moose had been sent (somehow) by my father to let me know that everything would be okay, eventually, just fine.
Deeply comforted by the moose's visit, we turned to head back home. After a while, Penny stopped again, stock still. To our surprise, a black bear lumbered towards us through the woods. What luck! another visitation. If this bear could make due in the little patch of woods between our town and highway, I surely would be okay. Penny chased that bear away. Almost back to the edge of the woods now, color began to seep into my field of vision; vibrantly green mosses, yellow lichens, and the orangest of salamandars alert in the mud.
My dog and I walked directionless along familiar paths; Penny stopping to smell this or that pile of leaves or twigs or running into the woods after a squirrel or chipmunk. Grief moved like a low toned vibration under my skin and through my spine. Suddenly, Penny froze several feet away from me and up the trail. I thought maybe there was another dog approaching but when I looked up saw the large eggplant shaped head of a moose staring at me and Penny. For seconds, we all stood still and looked at each other, the moose looking as curious as myself and Penny. But Penny couldn't hold still for long and soon sped towards the moose flushing her back into the woods. Wow, I had never seen a moose so close to home and in these woods I have walked now for almost ten years! And it hit me that the moose had been sent (somehow) by my father to let me know that everything would be okay, eventually, just fine.
Deeply comforted by the moose's visit, we turned to head back home. After a while, Penny stopped again, stock still. To our surprise, a black bear lumbered towards us through the woods. What luck! another visitation. If this bear could make due in the little patch of woods between our town and highway, I surely would be okay. Penny chased that bear away. Almost back to the edge of the woods now, color began to seep into my field of vision; vibrantly green mosses, yellow lichens, and the orangest of salamandars alert in the mud.
Monday, March 1, 2010
A good catch
How did Nunzio, my grandfather, get Philly, my grandmother, to marry him?
Maybe he wooed her with a new flashy hairstyle? He was a hairdresser with several shops. They met at a cousins funeral in Brooklyn where Philly lived in a Flatbush tenement with her mother Antoinette. Nunzio drove down from Boston not realizing he would meet the woman of his dreams in a dreary threadbare funeral home by the casket of a distant cousin. As I see it, he only needed one look at her generous hips and wide mouth smile to know she was the one for him.
I imagine him driving down to Brooklyn for months, on weekends, to court her (and Antoinette) with his charming good looks and startling bright blue eyes. Finally, on one such Saturday visit, he sat her down in the kitchen chair, pulled a comb gently through her short brown hair, and told her to trust him. He led her over to the sink and held her head while she leaned back into the warm flowing water. He lathered her hair with lemon smelling suds then wrapped the whole things in a short white towel. Antoinette was watching and smiling wondering when she would get a turn. He trimmed Philly's hair into a neat bob, plied it into wide waves with wax then asked her to marry him.
How could she resist?
Maybe he wooed her with a new flashy hairstyle? He was a hairdresser with several shops. They met at a cousins funeral in Brooklyn where Philly lived in a Flatbush tenement with her mother Antoinette. Nunzio drove down from Boston not realizing he would meet the woman of his dreams in a dreary threadbare funeral home by the casket of a distant cousin. As I see it, he only needed one look at her generous hips and wide mouth smile to know she was the one for him.
I imagine him driving down to Brooklyn for months, on weekends, to court her (and Antoinette) with his charming good looks and startling bright blue eyes. Finally, on one such Saturday visit, he sat her down in the kitchen chair, pulled a comb gently through her short brown hair, and told her to trust him. He led her over to the sink and held her head while she leaned back into the warm flowing water. He lathered her hair with lemon smelling suds then wrapped the whole things in a short white towel. Antoinette was watching and smiling wondering when she would get a turn. He trimmed Philly's hair into a neat bob, plied it into wide waves with wax then asked her to marry him.
How could she resist?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wisdom
I thought having wisdom would be different, that it would make life easier, less painful, more clearcut. Gathering up bits an pieces of enlightenment over the years (almost 50!) would, I had hoped, lead to a more blissful, peaceful, confident way of being in the world. Automatically less mess-ups. Shouldn't I know more, make fewer mistakes, experience less shame, fear and indecision at 50 than I did at 20?
I see now that I have misunderstood wisdom. Rather than a lack of fear and confusion, wisdom has made me more keenly aware of their presence in my life. The landscape hasn't settled down as I had hoped it would (I thought I could keep it steady if I did the right things) but rather shifts seismically with the inevitable losses that fleck all our lives. Wisdom doesn't stop bad things from happening, but what it can give is far greater; grace, humility, curiosity and through these both inner strength and stronger human connection.
This pertains to the writing life. I recently read that "Fear is fundamental to writing. Indeed, fear and not knowing is what adds life and momentum to your story." In life also, fear and uncertainty, confusion, misplaced anger or love, gives us over and over again the chance for humility which is the fertile soil compassion, creativity, and authenticity.
When loving attention, perseverance and kindness, truthfulness and compassion guide my steps, the path is not less rutted or steep but surely I am better able to find those easy places when I need them most where I can sit and sip the sweet lemonade from the child's lemonade stand.
I see now that I have misunderstood wisdom. Rather than a lack of fear and confusion, wisdom has made me more keenly aware of their presence in my life. The landscape hasn't settled down as I had hoped it would (I thought I could keep it steady if I did the right things) but rather shifts seismically with the inevitable losses that fleck all our lives. Wisdom doesn't stop bad things from happening, but what it can give is far greater; grace, humility, curiosity and through these both inner strength and stronger human connection.
This pertains to the writing life. I recently read that "Fear is fundamental to writing. Indeed, fear and not knowing is what adds life and momentum to your story." In life also, fear and uncertainty, confusion, misplaced anger or love, gives us over and over again the chance for humility which is the fertile soil compassion, creativity, and authenticity.
When loving attention, perseverance and kindness, truthfulness and compassion guide my steps, the path is not less rutted or steep but surely I am better able to find those easy places when I need them most where I can sit and sip the sweet lemonade from the child's lemonade stand.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Love your babies
Listening to Democracy Now! yesterday, the host Amy Goodman interviewed Dr. Gabor Mate, a physician at the Vancouver Safe-Injection Site and an award winning writer. Dr. Mate reminded me of how important love is for healthy brain development and functioning.
At the clinic that he runs, most of the drug addicts suffered terrible abuse as infants and children, abuse that prevented their brains from getting what they needed for healthy development. Love, Dr. Mate reminds us, is what enables baby's to grow and not just physically. When baby's receive deep nurturing and attention, the dopamine receptors in their brains learn how to work properly.
(Dopamine is the feel good hormone that helps us to feel pleasure, love, connection, satiation. When not working properly, we are left with a feeling of profound emptiness and disconnection. People turn to drugs, binge eating, alcohol, violence, obsessive shopping etc. to get their dopamine fix when healthful options are out of reach.)
Mate knows about this from a personal and not just scientific level. As a small child, he lost his parents to the Nazi's and with them the security and acceptance that comes from parental love. At his clinic, drug addicts are given a safe place to inject, clean needles, doctors to help if they overdoes. They are also helped to overcome their additions. The "war on drugs", in Mate's view in reality is a war against some of the most neglected and hurting among us. We need to treat addicts with compassion and not disgust. Who among us does not know profound emptiness and loss? Some of us just got enough of what we need (love, acceptance, support) so our bodies and brains don't need harmful life sucking drugs to lesson the pain.
At the clinic that he runs, most of the drug addicts suffered terrible abuse as infants and children, abuse that prevented their brains from getting what they needed for healthy development. Love, Dr. Mate reminds us, is what enables baby's to grow and not just physically. When baby's receive deep nurturing and attention, the dopamine receptors in their brains learn how to work properly.
(Dopamine is the feel good hormone that helps us to feel pleasure, love, connection, satiation. When not working properly, we are left with a feeling of profound emptiness and disconnection. People turn to drugs, binge eating, alcohol, violence, obsessive shopping etc. to get their dopamine fix when healthful options are out of reach.)
Mate knows about this from a personal and not just scientific level. As a small child, he lost his parents to the Nazi's and with them the security and acceptance that comes from parental love. At his clinic, drug addicts are given a safe place to inject, clean needles, doctors to help if they overdoes. They are also helped to overcome their additions. The "war on drugs", in Mate's view in reality is a war against some of the most neglected and hurting among us. We need to treat addicts with compassion and not disgust. Who among us does not know profound emptiness and loss? Some of us just got enough of what we need (love, acceptance, support) so our bodies and brains don't need harmful life sucking drugs to lesson the pain.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Winter Fields
It was sunny and cold on Saturday. I drove out the Berkshires, where the snow was still deep, for a morning cross-country ski. The snow was hard packed like crystallized vanilla frosting. I was soon warm from the exertion and peeled off layers of clothing. I love the rhythm of the sport; pump, pump, pump with the legs, plant pull, plant pull, plant pull with the arms. The cold air flooded my body, flushing out the dullness, pouring in the prana to every cell. I moved ever so slowly but steadily up, up, up the steep trail that wound its way through the wintering woods. Then in a flash, down the the slope, picking up speed, fretting all the way, "Will I fall?? Will I fall???"
The trail broke through the woods into a large south facing field that was flooded with sun. I carved a path through the vanilla frosting snow through a parallel stand of gnarly oaks. There was a stone wall and a depression in the earth paved with stones where a house had once stood. Thorny scrub poked up through the snow where the it was shallow. When I stopped moving, the silence was stunning. Oh to live in the old farm house by the field embraced by the lichen splashed stone wall. I pulled up my sleeves to take in more sun.
The trail broke through the woods into a large south facing field that was flooded with sun. I carved a path through the vanilla frosting snow through a parallel stand of gnarly oaks. There was a stone wall and a depression in the earth paved with stones where a house had once stood. Thorny scrub poked up through the snow where the it was shallow. When I stopped moving, the silence was stunning. Oh to live in the old farm house by the field embraced by the lichen splashed stone wall. I pulled up my sleeves to take in more sun.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Comfort
There have been many losses for the women in my writing group this year. Usual (and unusual) losses of family, friends, jobs, houses, that pass through our lives and change us. This month, we wrote about what comforts us. There were sighs of recognition over the amazing balm of hot baths during the darkest coldest months, reading before bed, fuzzy pets, and rich stews. This is what I wrote...
One of my favorite things to do to de-stress (I look forward to it each day) is watching old tv shows at night with my 10 year old daughter. For the past year or so, we have been rotating between The Brady Bunch, Family Affair, and The Waltons. I love all of these shows for different reasons.
In the Brady Bunch, I love Alice the best. I wish Alice lived in my house. She would cheerfully clean up our messes, cook, clean, shop and love doing it. She'd be part of the family, come on vacations, pay attention to us when we hurt. Mr. and Mrs. Brady are unfailingly understanding. There isn't a fuck-up big enough to cause either of them to yell or hit, or shame the children. The children accept all punishment with mature acceptance that they deserved it. I love the groovy clothes and when they sing....WOW!!
Family Affair I love mostly due to the relationship between Mr. French and Uncle Bill. I think they are lovers (With a name like Mr. French...). Uncle Bill is so tall and muscular and handsome while Mr. French is round and soft with a stylish beard. Uncle Bill appears to be quite wealthy; the family lives in a five bedroom apartment high rise somewhere in mid-town Manhattan. Uncle Bill dates a different mod looking woman (think hair spray, fake eyelashes, and wonder bras) each episode but its clearly a ruse. Mr. French runs Uncle Bill's bath, packs and unpacks his bags (he frequently travels to third work countries to build bridges) smooths the tension out of his stiff shoulders. On the camping trip episode, Mr. French brought along the steaks that they ended up eating when Uncle Bill and Jody were unable to catch any fish for dinner. French stood by the fire pit, his fitted linen suit wrapped in a clean white apron, happily rustling up grilled steaks Au Poirve for all the hungry mosquito bitten campers. Like Alice, Mr. French is part of the family. He and Uncle Bill discuss child psychology, Sissy's boyfriend dilemmas, the twins separation anxiety with thoughtful, caring, motherly insights.
It's The Waltons I long for when I am feeling most lost. There is perfect acceptance, calm persistence, and hope in this most inauthentic circa 1930's family. Grandma and Grandpa have a respected place in the family (no old age home for them). They are loved and productive even in old age. Mamma and Grandma make just about everything from scratch; butter, cakes, breads, pies, sausages. They had spaghetti in one episone which I can't imagine really existed in rural Virginia back then. Nonetheless, like the time they let the Jewish family down the road hold a bar mitvah in their living room, it showed an enlightened and untimely spunk and cultural sensitivity . John Boy would make the perfect young lover so innocent and sensitive and eager. Everyone is tired and fulfilled at the end of a day of hard work. They go to bed early, stomachs filled with roasted chicken, mashed buttered potatoes, milk, and black berry pie.
One of my favorite things to do to de-stress (I look forward to it each day) is watching old tv shows at night with my 10 year old daughter. For the past year or so, we have been rotating between The Brady Bunch, Family Affair, and The Waltons. I love all of these shows for different reasons.
In the Brady Bunch, I love Alice the best. I wish Alice lived in my house. She would cheerfully clean up our messes, cook, clean, shop and love doing it. She'd be part of the family, come on vacations, pay attention to us when we hurt. Mr. and Mrs. Brady are unfailingly understanding. There isn't a fuck-up big enough to cause either of them to yell or hit, or shame the children. The children accept all punishment with mature acceptance that they deserved it. I love the groovy clothes and when they sing....WOW!!
Family Affair I love mostly due to the relationship between Mr. French and Uncle Bill. I think they are lovers (With a name like Mr. French...). Uncle Bill is so tall and muscular and handsome while Mr. French is round and soft with a stylish beard. Uncle Bill appears to be quite wealthy; the family lives in a five bedroom apartment high rise somewhere in mid-town Manhattan. Uncle Bill dates a different mod looking woman (think hair spray, fake eyelashes, and wonder bras) each episode but its clearly a ruse. Mr. French runs Uncle Bill's bath, packs and unpacks his bags (he frequently travels to third work countries to build bridges) smooths the tension out of his stiff shoulders. On the camping trip episode, Mr. French brought along the steaks that they ended up eating when Uncle Bill and Jody were unable to catch any fish for dinner. French stood by the fire pit, his fitted linen suit wrapped in a clean white apron, happily rustling up grilled steaks Au Poirve for all the hungry mosquito bitten campers. Like Alice, Mr. French is part of the family. He and Uncle Bill discuss child psychology, Sissy's boyfriend dilemmas, the twins separation anxiety with thoughtful, caring, motherly insights.
It's The Waltons I long for when I am feeling most lost. There is perfect acceptance, calm persistence, and hope in this most inauthentic circa 1930's family. Grandma and Grandpa have a respected place in the family (no old age home for them). They are loved and productive even in old age. Mamma and Grandma make just about everything from scratch; butter, cakes, breads, pies, sausages. They had spaghetti in one episone which I can't imagine really existed in rural Virginia back then. Nonetheless, like the time they let the Jewish family down the road hold a bar mitvah in their living room, it showed an enlightened and untimely spunk and cultural sensitivity . John Boy would make the perfect young lover so innocent and sensitive and eager. Everyone is tired and fulfilled at the end of a day of hard work. They go to bed early, stomachs filled with roasted chicken, mashed buttered potatoes, milk, and black berry pie.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Special -K
Special K cereals has a new ad campaign out. The ads feature "regular" looking woman doing everyday types of things. There is no mention of the cereal just a message about how you can "be more yourself" or something along those lines. in the past Special-K has used young emaciated women to sell their cereal. The women are so happy to be sliding into their super slim jeans and all as a result of eating Special K cereal for two meals a day. The ad, perhaps, has fallen flat so they are moving to this new strategy of using more rounded older women to sell their product. The move to get women to eat more cereal (two times a day instead of just one!) was rather brilliant. The market for cereal is pretty saturated - close to 100% of us already eat the stuff. How to get us to eat more? Tie it to weight loss, beauty, hopes for incredible sex!
I'm so tired of being manipulated, shamed, embarrassed, harassed by corporate America/Madison Avenue, made to feel inadequate, dried-up, witchy/bitchy, used up but fixable by a cream, lotion, potion, hair spray, tonic, food processor, or breakfast cereal. Isn't there a better us of our collective creative power. Instead of spreading fear and self-loathing, why not harness our creative energies for better nutrition, well-being, spiritual connection for us all, old and young alike? Just for today, by pass the "beauty" aisles; try seeing the elegance in the wrinkled, bulging, broken, and bent parts of our bodies and lives.
I'm so tired of being manipulated, shamed, embarrassed, harassed by corporate America/Madison Avenue, made to feel inadequate, dried-up, witchy/bitchy, used up but fixable by a cream, lotion, potion, hair spray, tonic, food processor, or breakfast cereal. Isn't there a better us of our collective creative power. Instead of spreading fear and self-loathing, why not harness our creative energies for better nutrition, well-being, spiritual connection for us all, old and young alike? Just for today, by pass the "beauty" aisles; try seeing the elegance in the wrinkled, bulging, broken, and bent parts of our bodies and lives.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Precious
I saw the movie Precious last night and can't stop thinking about it. If you don't know, its a story about a young African American girl who through grace, strength, hope, keeps putting one foot in front of the other in the face of terrible abuse and violence. She is very obese, only 16 and pregnant with her second child from her father. She lives in a small apartment in Harlem with her mother who hits and yells at her, tells her she is stupid and dumb, an animal that shouldn't have been allowed to live. Her three year old daughter has down syndrome and lives with her grandmother. She is teased at school, can barely read, and has just about nothing to keep her going in life.
Sounds like a fun movie to see, right?
But, Precious (the girl) has such strength, humility, hope that incredibly we are uplifted by her ability to love, the courage to learn, to trust. She is perfectly beautiful in her largeness and blackness. She keeps going to the alternative school, learns to read and write, reads to her new baby son every day. She tells her son that he is very much loved. She finds love to give him even though she didn't receive anything close to such love from her mother or father. She walks away from the mother that hated her, trusting in the graciousness of strangers (a teacher, a social worker, a nurse assistant) that she has a right to a good life for her and her children.
Her story is a testament to how much we have inside, our birthright, God, to fill all the holes and heal the wounds, share the love we didn't know we had to give.
Sounds like a fun movie to see, right?
But, Precious (the girl) has such strength, humility, hope that incredibly we are uplifted by her ability to love, the courage to learn, to trust. She is perfectly beautiful in her largeness and blackness. She keeps going to the alternative school, learns to read and write, reads to her new baby son every day. She tells her son that he is very much loved. She finds love to give him even though she didn't receive anything close to such love from her mother or father. She walks away from the mother that hated her, trusting in the graciousness of strangers (a teacher, a social worker, a nurse assistant) that she has a right to a good life for her and her children.
Her story is a testament to how much we have inside, our birthright, God, to fill all the holes and heal the wounds, share the love we didn't know we had to give.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Other Winters
Now that we have gotten through the holidays, I feel up to blogging again. I found it to be a very sad time not having my dad with us for Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years for the first time. I keep wanting to know where he is, is he okay, to know I haven't forgotten him.
When we were younger, we would spend the entire week between Christmas and New Years up in Northern New Hampshire skiing (as well as every winter weekend!) My dad (and mom) learned to ski when they were in their thirties which is much harder to do than when you are young. I hated skiing when I first tried learning, the cold fingers and toes, falling down and not being able to get up, the damn rope toe kept slipping through my fingers. Through the tears, my dad grabbed onto my poles and pulled me up the little hill over and over and over until I managed to make it down without falling. Once I got stronger, skiing got really fun. How did we manage to spend entire winter days falling through snow storms, ice clinging to eyelashes, crashing down slippery icy slopes? I made skiing friends, grew bold, hungered for more wintry mountain adventures. Skiing was a good antidote to manufactured girl helplessness, Seventeen Magazine, voicelessness.
When we were younger, we would spend the entire week between Christmas and New Years up in Northern New Hampshire skiing (as well as every winter weekend!) My dad (and mom) learned to ski when they were in their thirties which is much harder to do than when you are young. I hated skiing when I first tried learning, the cold fingers and toes, falling down and not being able to get up, the damn rope toe kept slipping through my fingers. Through the tears, my dad grabbed onto my poles and pulled me up the little hill over and over and over until I managed to make it down without falling. Once I got stronger, skiing got really fun. How did we manage to spend entire winter days falling through snow storms, ice clinging to eyelashes, crashing down slippery icy slopes? I made skiing friends, grew bold, hungered for more wintry mountain adventures. Skiing was a good antidote to manufactured girl helplessness, Seventeen Magazine, voicelessness.
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