Mid Night

Ripest summer peaches in an assembly line on the chopping block. My knife slicing to the rhythm of a soothing, silent beat. The surrounding quiet is friendly, familiar, just listening. Its lack of input allows my cells and senses to realign themselves. Absorbs the waves of discord that exit my brain.

This middle of the night is mine.

It is free from the careening rush of requests that lurch and lunge at me during every waking hour.. To the casual observer, these interactions might seem quite pedestrian. Quite unimportant. An obvious component of being a parent, of being a functioning person. But they don’t see what’s going on behind my eyes. That my mind is climbing, climbing, chugging along- and each interruption lobs itself at my train of thought, derailing it from its track.

The dog, the doorbell, the lists and lists of silly little things. MOM, can I have a Coke? MOM, when can we go to New York again? MOM, after we finish this can we go to the mall, movies, park, bowling alley, batting cages? MOM, can you buy me new shoes, new bat, new game, new toys, new everything? MOM, will you play ping pong with me? Sit with me? Play with me? Me me me?? Why can’t they understand that each insistent, innocent question is an assault on the precarious order in my mind?

I can already hear your clucking warning. Yes, it will be over all too quickly and I will long for these days. It already is. I already do. But as their days are racing along, they are taking my days with them. And soon, I will blink and look up and wave goodbye-to them and to my youth- and I will wonder, what the hell was it I was trying to get done, again??

In the middle of the night, I am anything I want to be. I am nobody, to no one.

I have time to think. My mind is on the verge of all the answers. I don’t know them, but I know they are there. I also know it doesn’t matter if I figure them out, because the answers exist independent of my understanding. Of anybody’s. Sometimes it’s kind of lonely. I have to be all by myself to be myself. But it’s also healing. It’s right. It taps into the part of me, the part of all of us, that is already everything and nothing at all.

In the middle of the night, I am in charge.

My knife and my thoughts have stamina. They are supreme athletes, conditioned and poised for the long race. They will work tirelessly and efficiently towards the triumph of the finish line, the finished product. Nothing is too difficult, too complicated, too much effort. Nothing is too unimportant, too unnecessary, too frivolous, too expendable.

In the middle of the night, I don’t come in last place.

As my hand reaches for the last peach in line, I feel a wistful sense of accomplishment. The task comes to a close and takes my sense of purpose with it. Grudgingly, my eyes and my mind know that it is time. That, in a blink, the dawn will bring with it a new list of mundane demands for me to get behind.

HERE AND HEREAFTER

I have nothing to attribute the stories to (in which to attribute? Nope. Too formal.) that I am about to share. No hidden agenda, no expectation that the experiences have any significance past the witness I bear. For me, they are not solid evidence of some particular doctrine. I can’t tell you why, and frankly, in my mind- if it’s all the same to you- you can’t tell me why, either. Because, in all fairness, my guess would be every bit as good as yours, and vice versa. You may feel free to call your convictions “beliefs” or “faith” and I will understand. But for me, I find comfort in the notion that these occurrences happen, in whatever relative consciousness or perception I assume I possess, simply because they just “do.” 

And maybe my mind has the ability to weave these meanings together from the threads of memory, from leftover pieces of information, affection, energy- all earmarked in the person’s name. To create significance out of what others choose to call coincidence. Who knows? (Your guess or mine?)

So, enough preface. I will get to it: Whenever someone dies that I am close to, I feel like the conversation with them continues. Like a vague, nagging thought about them turns into a phrase, or an observation of exactly what they want me to know. In particular, this seems to apply to close relatives, although it has happened with friends who have died unexpectedly, or parents of close friends.

The night my Grandpa died (although I was unaware that he had died), I was sitting next to John in a giant arena after the theatre performance that had brought us together. We were holding hands, high with the excitement of new love. This was not something I could have verbalized at the time, (more of a looking back and understanding what it is that I understood) but at one point, I sensed my grandpa there with us, even said (somewhere in my mind to somewhere in his mind) “Here he is, Grandpa. This is the one.” Like I somehow introduced them. Got his approval. My mom waited until the next day to give me the news because she didn’t want to ruin all our hard work by making me sad. That was when it made sense. When I “knew” he really had been there, after all.  Visiting us in California, like he never had been able to when he was alive.

Things were slightly different when my Grandma died, because a good deal of our energy was focused on helping my Papa through the agony of losing his lifelong companion. I learned a lot about the social and communal aspects of death. How to help. What to say. What to do. How to lose someone, but also how to console the living.

After the funeral, I accompanied my aunt to the grocery store to get more supplies for the house full of guests and mourners. As we loaded items onto the belt, the ring my Grandma had given me on my 13^th birthday- that had been her mother’s, that I had worn ever since- got caught (I’m not even sure on what) and snapped at the base. I burst into tears, relieved that the pinch of the metal gave me an excuse. My heart was broken that such a special heirloom had to choose THIS particular moment to break. My aunt just looked at me and smiled. “ You know, that’s actually very special. They say that when someone dies, if something that they gave you breaks, it means that they are here with you.”

My Nana died during a bitter frozen winter in Upstate New York. She had been single and alone in her apartment for 26 years. The whole family was there for her funeral, but from the minute I crossed the threshold into her apartment, I knew in no uncertain terms exactly what she wanted. We had only one week to orchestrate the disassembly of her belongings- into boxes, to friends, to donation, to the post office- and that was exactly what we were to do.In frozen 2 degree weather, we huddled together at her graveside stunned silent by the new education of how cold could permeate layers of jacket like they weren’t even there. As the Rabbi began speaking, a chilling wind whipped up, and I felt my Nana pass through us. Lamenting things undone, unsaid. She couldn’t rest with dignity until her affairs were all settled.

As we combed through dishes, drawers, personal belongings, my brother found an old bag of cassette tapes. And (coincidentally??) he also found an old tape player. In my haste to complete the daunting task, I probably would have thrown them away. But as we took clothes off of hangers, pictures off of walls, my brother pushed play. And we listened to my Nana’s voice, young and clear, audio journaling her solo drive across the country-from New York to Riverside- to visit our family. She described each day’s drive, the people she met along the way, the landmarks she had always wanted to see. And the excitement (and exhaustion) grew as she neared her destination. Her voice a notch higher in Arizona, then filled with anticipation as she crossed the threshold into California. And as an unfathomable finale, she shouted into the tape recorder with excitement as she spotted our house. The car door opened, and the screams of our childhood selves shattered the room. Celebrating her arrival. “You’re HERE!! YOU’RE HERE!!!” She was there and we were here and it was then and now all at once.

My Papa couldn’t understand what was taking him so long to die. Once Grandma was gone, he engraved his own headstone next to hers and visited it regularly. The only nagging detail keeping them apart was the blank spot after the dash that would one day separate his birth from his death. It took ten years of Papa impatiently waiting to be with Grandma again. When he died, I felt sad for the obvious reasons, but also because it was the first time I just didn’t feel a thing. No energy at all. No trace. Gone. We packed up his belongings- he wasn’t there. Went to the temple services- still nothing. Like he finally got his dying wish, and never looked back.

But then we got to the graveside. In a Jewish funeral, they lower the coffin into the ground, and every person takes a turn returning the loved one to the earth- scooping a shovel of dirt into the grave, but holding the shovel upside down as a symbol of regret for the action. My Papa had thrown himself, wailing, onto my Grandma’s coffin when it was her turn to be lowered, and I expected to feel similarly solemn about the experience the second time around. To my surprise, it was quite the opposite. As soon his coffin hit its long awaited resting spot, I felt a burst of happiness that spun high into the air. My grandparents together again, twirling in a spirited dance of joy! I had to suppress a giggle, and assumed it was the inappropriate reaction that nervousness sometimes brings. But my brother Geoff caught my eye, and he asked me (out loud, in actual verbal language) if I had felt that. We laughed together, in knowing celebration.

It took me my entire life- and especially the three years of illness leading up to the end of my dad’s life- to become strong enough to handle losing him. The night my father died, I was sitting at his side, holding his hand.  Our whole family surrounded him, and our breathing was his breathing. We were one in the way that ancient texts describe everyone being connected. And my dad was carried along through our current of love.  I don’t know how and I don’t know why, and I don’t know if it really happened or if I imagined it, but I felt him travel through me on his way out. And it was every emotion you could imagine, all at once. Of course sadness, and a touch of fear, but also support and encouragement, and exhilaration, and a surprising component of outright joyousness. Of freedom and light and movement and color and sound and transformation. From where to where? I don’t know.

In his final breath, his final descent, I felt the cool tingle of his energy as it left through my fingers. And we all knew he was gone.

Gone isn’t the right word, though. Not here? Not him? Not in his body?

It took a little time to settle into whatever form of consciousness (for lack of a better term) he took on, or perhaps returned to, in death.  Like those crazy Magic Eye posters we all used to stare at- not sure what we were trying to look for, how it would appear- I had to blur my realistic focus and recognize that what I was seeing had to be perceived in a different way than I was used to.

The colors, same as the ones I had seen when he died, were the easiest for me to comprehend. I know what I have seen before, and I know what I haven’t. These colors seemed to be more than one thing at a time, and never stopped changing. They were not the static forms of energy we are accustom to calling a table, or a vase of flowers. Closer to the notion of a sunset.

I “heard” him telling me things. Insistent things. Omniscient things. Not in words, exactly. More like I had thought the words, but they weren’t mine. Like there is a big story and a lot of answers and he wanted to share them with me, but we suddenly had a language gap. Or perhaps there isn’t language to explain what we have tried, in every configuration, to manifest.

The most surprising sensation I experienced was physical, and lasted for days, if not weeks, after his death. My upper body felt the queasy, non-specific uneasiness you feel when your finger accidentally gets in-between the plug and the socket and you get zapped. I attributed it to the unfamiliar level of grief, or to being tense, (or perhaps the absence of being tense) until one day, the sensation was so pervasive that I actually mentioned it out loud to someone. “It is odd. I don’t feel it in my head or neck, or lower arms, just right around my upper arms and back. Almost like I could draw a line around me… almost like a………hug.”

There are too many stories to fit them all here. Songs, influences, reparations, phrases that I hear until I have to say, “OK, OK, already!” and repeat the message out loud, so he knows I heard. And over time, the sharpness, the rawness of our connection has mellowed. Sort of like a song you have heard so many times, you feel like you almost can’t hear it anymore.  

I can tell you that from my experience, what is “here” and what is “there” has become a whole lot more interesting. I try to listen the best I can. I want to get the whole story. But, similar to the bits that are lost in translation when a book written in one language is told in another, there are pieces missing. Subtle nuances that change the entire meaning. Ones that can’t quite be replaced.

It has been nearly two years since my dad died, and on what would have been his 69^th birthday, I find myself thinking about him. Reminiscing. It still feels like an odd dream, like I haven’t talked to him in a while and owe him a phone call. Like he’s perfectly content sitting in a comfortable chair overlooking the view, pouring over his medical and law journals, or blissed-out , following his fingers on the piano. He’s busy somewhere living his life and we are busy living ours. Which is largely true, for the most part. Only his forwarding address is to parts unknown. At least for now, I suppose.

How strange it is, typing into the night and then sending my thoughts into the stratosphere. It’s a one-way ticket. I never know where they land. I wonder if you’re skeptical. Searching for tangible explanations, excuses. Or you might have a perfectly good answer for why these things happen. Or maybe you really couldn’t care less either way. But if you have read this far, then perhaps you ponder the bigger meaning, the deeper connection. If so, then maybe sharing my experience will at least give you some form of peace, fill in a few pieces of the puzzle you are trying to solve. (Or you may just get a good chuckle at the latest confirmation that I am a whack job!!) At the very least, I hope you will find some comfort in the thought that there is comfort to be found. Why? How? I will leave those questions and their answers up to you. 

FIRE AND RAIN

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone…..

The circles are spiraling again.

A few days ago, I drifted past posts of various sorts, chuckling here, commenting there, when I came across a picture of two sisters, whose lives intersected with ours a few times throughout our childhoods.  My eye stopped, as I considered the history, the significance of seeing these two friends as adults. They had been through challenging times, as so many of us had, and it was gratifying to know that somewhere, out in real life, they still existed, even if my only contact was in this glowing box in front of me.  

My mind wandered to a specific memory of Lisa, a few years older than Wendy and myself, who I became closer friends with through our involvement in theater. One year, when Lisa was a senior, we were in a play together, and we both happened to have extremely dramatic roles that talked about dying, involving many tears. I specifically recalled Lisa’s performance- a scene recalling the death of her sibling as he sat with his girlfriend, carbon monoxide filling the car and killing them both. The end of the scene shattered her numbness, left her sobbing and screaming in a fit that broke your heart. I made sure I was in the audience watching every single time she gave that performance. And for some reason, that was what I was thinking of the other night, when I saw this picture of these girls.

An introductory piece of music was chosen to set the tone for each monologue or scene. Before Lisa’s scene, the obvious choice for a lead-in was Fire and Rain, by James Taylor. My mind trailed through that song when I saw their picture, as well.

So many years ago, Lisa sat preparing herself for exactly this situation. This loss. And perhaps the tears that wracked her body then, were tears she was unknowingly crying for now.

But I always thought that I’d see you again……

Nearly 30 years later, I still can’t hear that song without thinking of Lisa. And now, whenever I hear it, I will forever also think of Wendy.

Impartial Observations of Life

One of my dad’s favorite Buddhist sayings when we were growing up (for which we gave him no end of shit) was “Be…an impartial observer…of life.” While I would never have admitted it at the time, those words and the idea of them gave me a fair amount of comfort over the years. As I have become a parent, they have been an essential tool in keeping what little sanity I have left. Back up and look at the situation from outside of whatever “self” you think you are.

So, on the eve of sending our beloved boy into the big, wide world without us, I’m going to give it a try. I’m backing up. Way up. Or maybe I’m looking closer. Hard to tell. Either way, I am attempting to be an impartial observer. Of life.

How do you detach yourself from something you feel is your entire self? Well, for starters, I will look at the part of Ross that is an elemental organism, comprised of skin and bones, of organs and blood and tissue. Of matter. Of particles and cells and molecules and atoms. Mysteriously held together by the cosmic instructions that decide such matters.

I can also impartially observe the physics (what I understand of them, anyways) of Bernoulli’s Principle, the laws that were mastered and revolutionized our capacity to transport these particles at wildly-unheard of speeds to other parts of the globe. Here, my mind might wander to consider the cause and effect that these discoveries may create in the long run- our clunky, clumsy human interferences with natural systems that move too slow slow slow for our impatient minds- ever wanting to see the fruition of every effort, to make it easier, faster, more efficient, more convenient. Like the candy bar that was sent through Wonkavision, wondering what particles we are decimating in the process, and if those were really necessary in the first place. (The chocolate still tastes the same!!)

I can impartially observe the intense magnetic attachment my heart and soul feel for these collections of DNA that traveled through my own, a part of me in the same sense that I am a part of everything else. I can muse at nature’s mandate that I consider these cells my divine responsibility to safely deliver back to the world from which they already belonged, of which they were born to begin with.

The closer and closer I look at the pointillist portrait of a million tiny bursts of color-the rainbow of boy that is created from their energy- I find it hard to distinguish where he ends and the life around him begins. The same scene mirrored from a vantage point in outer space, observing our seemingly monumental existence as the microscopic specks we really are.

When I am an impartial observer, I can comprehend that it is just my perception that makes me feel like I am sending my very life farther away than I can reach, farther away than my illusion of control can keep safe. Techinically, I am merely giving a magnetized collection of matter a ride to the airport.

And I find comfort in the notion that, while it may feel like my own cells are going to fall apart at any moment, the laws of nature (barring any unforeseen opposing forces) can be counted on to hold them together. 

Surprise

You know those smiles you feel pulling from the tips of your toes all the way to your ears? The kind that ripple in and out through the following days- regardless of what ensuing chaos has taken their place- mellowing frustrations and resurfacing thoughts of the circumstance that brought them? I have one of those smiles right now. I just had one of the most priceless experiences (and, yes, I’m gonna be patting myself on the back for a long time for thinking this one up!!)

Our life is so jam packed with life-enriching activities, intended to help the boys grow up to be learned, well-rounded adults one day, that we sometimes can’t even fit in the time to celebrate when they have arrived. Ross’s 13^th birthday was quickly approaching, and unlike the past 12 years, I did not have a clue what we would do to commemorate it. No ticker- tape parade, no theme destination, and for the first time in his existence, no big, wacky cake from mom. We talked about a few ideas, and of course, his trip to Europe is more present than any kid needs to mark the passage from childhood to early adulthood. But something was missing. The older the boys get, the fewer opportunities we will have to be a part of their festivities. Soon, they will be looking forward to spending their time with friends and love interests, and their own families, and we will hope they are inviting us. And that is as it should be. But that time is not yet here, and I intend to wring every last hurrah out of the time we have left.

As I looked at our calendar and realized (somewhat tongue and cheek) that the only time we might have for a party would be at the crack of dawn or at midnight, it soon dawned on me that it really wasn’t too far off from the truth. Then, a thought occurred to me. Remember those kidnap breakfasts people used to do back in high school and college?? Where you barged into your friends’ rooms, dragged them out of bed in their pajamas with their messy hair and their unwashed faces and shoved them into your packed car to go to Denny’s?? Well, THAT’S what we would do for our too big to be little, but too little to be big Ross and a carload or two of his friends. (Well, 9 friends to be exact, as that is exactly how many seatbelts John and I have between the two of us! High school kidnapping bandits might ignore seatbelts, but as long as we are still capable of orchestrating their safety, some rules will be followed!!)So, I quickly notified parents, who agreed not to tell their boys, gathered bandanas and sunglasses as disguises, and devised a plan of attack!

On Party Day, before the sun rose, John, Sky and I yanked the covers off of Grant and told him he was part of a big surprise.  He half-opened his groggy eyes, looked around and mumbled, “I AM??? Is it a new dog??” John said, “Nope, that’s the old dog.”

We threw on our kidnapping disguises and ran to wake up Ross. He was a good sport from the moment his eyes opened, and put on shoes with his pajama pants, having no idea what or where was next. When we arrived at the first friend’s house in the pitch dark, Ross was hesitant to leave the car and said he was scared. I assumed he meant scared to wake up his friend. He said, “No, I don’t want anybody to think I’m a gang member, since I’m wearing this red bandanna on my face.” My darling little gang member, in his pajama bottoms and messy hair, with the blinking “It’s my birthday” button. So literal, so responsible, even woken out of a dead sleep and on an adventure, led by his own two parents.

As the tentative first few kidnaps got under way and the kids started picking up the momentum and adrenaline of being in on the surprise, the novelty kicked in. The back seat of my car became increasingly full and animated. The excitement hit these boys, and they dropped their guards- laughing and joking and being themselves, assuming their roles in the group, utterly adorable in their lanky, loopy, awkwardness and Peter Brady cracking voices. Some “Mother Henning” the other boys in the group to hurry up or get their seatbelts on, others tempering their bigger , louder ideas because it was early, or because they were young enough to not be full blown in their precociousness.

I was a fly on the wall, the car driving itself in their eyes, as they noticed only each other. A rare opportunity to observe the group dynamic- to hear and see and soak them in, without them really noticing I was there. To absorb their state of being like the colors of a sunset, precious and fleeting, connecting day to night, and changing before my very eyes.

We got to the restaurant- empty, except for a few early risers- and were ushered into the adjoining room. The boys all sat at one long table, with balloons and mayhem, and we adults shuffled off to sit by ourselves in the dimly lit back of the room so they could have their semi-independent fun. We instructed them to order whatever they wanted. Cokes for breakfast? Sure! The full order of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream? Of course!! They had survived a kidnapping, they earned it!

We collapsed into our chairs, exhaustion quickly replacing the adrenaline, keenly aware of the differences in our age and energy level from the frenetic hum that buzzed around the big table. Perhaps it was how dimly lit our side of the room was, but our separation acted as a sort of license for them to forget we existed, and we observed as if watching a fascinating experiment behind one- way glass.  In shock, I wondered…. who WERE these people we just awoke from dead sleeps and loaded into our cars?! I thought I knew them, but they all appeared like caricatures of their former and future selves. Completely familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.  After all the secret planning and hiding and orchestrating, I realized- the surprise was actually on us!

They resembled an illuminated portrait of The Last Supper- fitting, in a strange way, as they transformed into adults and left their childhood selves behind. And I just couldn’t get over the history in each one of them. Like they each contained a reel tape of themselves that wound all the way back from the round, bouncy little kindergarteners where their introductions began, and paused at these gruff, scruffy, goofy man- children, all jokes and awkward limbs, cracking voices belying the babies within. You could almost fast-forward their tapes if you looked carefully- watched their underlying mannerisms, watched the way they interacted with each other, what they ordered, how they spoke to the waitress- who they might be when they finally shed the skin of their younger selves and hardened up from the experience and responsibility of adulthood.

As soon as it had begun, it was over. Returning the boys to their rightful owners was a more subdued affair- their bellies full, the sleepiness kicking back in. Each boy trailed off with polite good-byes, a twinkle in their smiles acknowledging the recognition of their shared experience. 

After dropping off the last kid, Ross mused about how it took longer to pick everyone up and take them home than to have breakfast-but how that was kind of the fun part.Then, my big/ little thirteen year old boy leaned his sleepy head against the seat. And in the same voice I have heard since he was able to speak, with the same ageless smile, he said, “Mommy……. I’m happy.” And at that moment, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth that could have made me happier.

Letting Him Go

In less than 24 hours, my first- born child will be turning 13. As in, the beginning of the teens. The teens that end in twenties. Which means college. And adulthood. And independence.  And I have to admit, I’m kind of freaking out about it. The Jewish culture actually celebrates 13 as the age when a boy becomes a man. I don’t know what boys were like 3,000 years ago, and Ross is one of the few 7^th graders who actually could benefit from a razor, but aside from that, thankfully there’s nothing too frighteningly adult about Ross (except his little old soul, which has been going on 60 since he was about 2 years old.)

Ross is also one of the few 7^th graders who is about to realize his life-long dream (hopefully he will pick a new one, because it would be sad to peak at just over a decade). In one week, my 13 year old boy will be getting on a plane and going to Paris, Lucerne, and Munich with a group from his middle school. And I have to let him go. I want to let him go….. I have to let him go. Ross is the youngest Francophile I have ever met. We took him to Epcot in Florida when he was five, and ever since he watched the CircleVision movie about France, it has been all-Paris, all the time. He couldn’t wait to learn French. He has eaten escargot, moules, and has even cooked Coq a Vin, all because they had a snooty whiff of France about them. He has a freaking oversized portrait of the Eiffel tower over his bed, for crying out loud. So, without question, of course I have to let him go. (OK, that’s a lie. I asked many, many questions.)

If you think about it, this isn’t even close to the first time I have had to let go, and is nowhere near the last. Sleeping through the night. Staying with Grandma. Going to school. Going to sleep-away camp. These stair steps are designed to help little birdies learn to fly on their own, and away from the nest one day, to start their own nests.

So, if this is the natural progression, I have to pause and wonder… What the HELL is wrong with NATURE??!? What kind of a sadistic system is it that makes you think it’s YOUR idea to have a child, then says, “Thanks, we’ve got it from here” and starts creating a person out of your cells while you sit there stunned, the unwitting vehicle for some bait -and switch- plan that has been around since the beginning of time? Then, this person arrives (and by the way, if the whole point is to get them to arrive, WHY does it have to be so painful?? I have questions!) and chemically, physically, mentally, emotionally forever re-arranges your personal universe so that it can never, ever (EVER) NOT have him as the center of it again!

You are dying for a break from the kids, but when you finally get one, you realize you can’t ever really take a break because you will never (EVER) entirely be able to stop thinking about them. You are dying for them to get just a little bit older, a little more independent, and then as soon as they do, you are heartbroken because your baby is growing up and doesn’t need you. You are dying for them to be old enough to stay home alone just for a little while so you can go to the grocery store in peace (because we aim high and dare to dream big, eh??) And then they’re finally old enough to stay home, so you worry about whether or not they’re ok when they’re out of your sight. And they get on big, yellow busses without seatbelts, that drive away towards scary mountain roads as they laugh and sing and celebrate their new found freedom. And you wave and know that the pain in your heart and the pit of your stomach are holding their place until they return.

I know there is more to come. Hell, we have the whole mountain to climb. These are just the foothills. They’ll be out in the big world without a chaperone, without us, and we’ll have to hold our breaths and trust they will be fine. They will learn to drive and then every single crazy driver we’ve ever come across had better beware, because our babies are in their midst. Breakable, irreplaceable. And we have to trust they will come home, safe and sound. They will grow and learn and thrive and anxiously await their place in the big world, at college, in their own apartments. With their own friends and schedules and rules and plans. And we will have to trust that the people we raised and taught and poured our time and our hearts and souls into are showing the world their own way.  To hope that life brings them people to hold in their hearts the way we hold them in ours, with all the joy and pain and learning that goes with it.

And one day, they might sit up, as I am now, thinking about the people they love more than they knew was possible, and realizing that this love is what their parents must have felt for them. As I now understand.

I have to let him go. I want to let him go. As much as he belongs to every fiber of my being, and I can’t breathe with the thought of something happening to him, I have to remember. It’s all an illusion. He was never really mine to begin with. 

Something More Romantic Than Real Life

When I was a teenager, amongst the Duran Duran posters and pictures of teenage heartthrobs that plastered my walls was a comic strip, cut out of the newspaper. It had a blasé line drawing of a medieval prince, sulking in his velvet garments and cape, wilted feather in his hat. The caption read, “Somehow, I expected something more romantic than REAL LIFE.” Oh, the angst! I felt so validated, that somebody, somewhere, understood my plight. At least one comic artist commiserated with the notion that the fairy tale we had all been promised at the theaters was not to be! My crystalline fantasy shattered at the tender young age of sixteen. In the twenty (ahem, ish) years since then, I have come to realize that real life is dictated by the real YOU. (Or, in other words, we are the ones who get in the way of all our own fun!)  

My heart has been broken so many times over things I just knew I was supposed to experience, if only my reality were different- I was SURE I was born too soon, and had just missed the era of the Beatles and Woodstock. I wanted to travel the world with only a backpack. Every time I hear the growling engine of a Harley Davidson next to me, I still have a deep- seated fantasy that I will jump out of the car and climb on the back of some grizzly bearded biker’s hog, and we will ride all the way to Sturgis in perfect, lazy sunshine. (I even have an iTunes soundtrack ready in case it ever happens.)

Here’s where reality kicks me in the ass. I’m scared of motorcycles. Petrified, really, of any risky activity that requires both feet off the ground and balance to keep you safe and in one piece. I have to take Dramamine to go on the rides at Disneyland, for crying out loud. As a general rule, I am quite appreciative of both indoor plumbing and indoor sleeping. And I am equally unappreciative of mud, dirt, bugs- let’s just say that Motel 6 is my idea of camping. And half a margarita plus 800mg of Advil is about as hardcore as my drug experience will allow, thus, I have no doubt MY trip down the rabbit hole would not be a pleasant one. So, while the romantic notion of 100,000 of your closest, most open, loving friends transcending the planes of reality- partying, playing music, doing drugs- sounds like something I shouldn’t have had to live without, let’s be real. I would never live like that. Not even for a long weekend in Upstate New York.

More truth (reality) be told, I am a terrible traveler. I don’t want to be, but I am. The anxiety of being unprepared, unfamiliar, helpless, out of my element, out of (hmm, control??) sends me into a list- making frenzy before any excursion. True confession, the first night John and I were in Paris, I was so paralyzed by not knowing where we were or how to speak the language, we ended up just eating at the McDonalds across the street from our hotel and going back to the room, and I cried myself to sleep for the shame of it! (In retrospect, this might have been a much more novel experience if we had seen Pulp Fiction and could have laughed about ordering our Royals with Cheese!)  So yeah. Backpacking across unfamiliar terrain where I can’t speak the language, with uncertain opportunities for transportation and all the indoor services I have come to appreciate I can’t (or don’t want to) live without, sounds like a much better mind trip than a road trip for me.

Realizing that my mind is a much better traveler than my body has led me on a quest to live vicariously through other people’s accounts of their experiences. You don’t wake up in jail with a terrible hangover for reading about somebody else doing drugs, and no passport, shots, or reservations are required to read about foreign lands. A much more prudent and cost- effective form of travel, indeed. (Keep telling yourself that, Lauren.)   

For about two years now, I have been sludging through a few pages at a time of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. It’s oddly all I can handle. You’d think a book about a man free from the trappings of responsible society, who gets to follow his id on magical journeys across the country-living off the land, charming his lodging, transportation, food, booze off of the kindness of strangers- would be the auto-biography of my ideal life. (I certainly thought it would be.)Well, some hedonistic bohemian I’VE turned out to be! I find myself reading every page judging him, imparting his carefree ways with the burdensome weight of the cast of characters that toil to support the lifestyle to which he has become accustom. Is it enough that he is a voice for an era of self-expression? That his contribution to life is his words he has shared with us, words that we are still reading 70 years later? Hell no! My inner judge bangs the gavel and cries, “GUILTY!” Guilty of capitalizing on the loneliness and gasoline of farmers, toiling their way across the country. Guilty of befriending boring old sots whose parents made a fortune so that their lazy kids could keep their leeching friends in booze and shelter. Guilty of thinking about joining the group to find day labor, then deciding sleeping- in sounded better. Guilty of flirting with the girls and getting them to clean your apartment so you could have another party. Apparently, I'm capable of shoe-horning quite a bit of REAL LIFE into this romantic tale. (And, apparently, I have a lot of guilt!!)  What I thought would be the pinnacle of sublimation for this lifestyle I fancy myself yearning for, is more like a funhouse mirror. Reflecting back the parts of me I was sure looked different, in distorted, frightening ways.

What it boils down to, is that all these lofty notions share a common idea. All of the fun, all of the glory, all of the conquest, with none of the elbow grease or grit or discomfort or RESPONSIBILITY that accompanies the road to them.  And what my conscience has discovered is that your id can’t go on vacation and leave your superego at home. Or at least mine can’t, not even in writing. And in my own mind, I am a free-loving, Sherpa –following, wall-street conquering giant, who can bring home the bacon from pigs captured on the top of Mount Everest, and fry it up in a pan, gourmet-style in front of audiences across America. In reality, I am a housewife, who ponders these things in the middle of the night and then goes back to bed, content that the relative reality I will wake up to in the morning is mine. Perhaps not as glamorous, definitely not as daring and adventurous as the version in my mind, but exactly how it’s supposed to be. Figuring it out in baby steps (literally and figuratively) rather than giant leaps and bounds.

The older I get, the more I realize, I expect something a little more realistic than romance. And really, when it comes down to it, I’m OK with that. 

X-Files Submission #1

su·per·nat·u·ral  /ˌso͞opərˈnaCH(ə)rəl/

Adjective: (of a manifestation or event) Attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature.

Noun: Manifestations or events considered to be of supernatural origin.

Synonyms: preternatural - unearthly - weird – miraculous

Those who have spent any amount of time with us are aware that this word sums up all- too- many experiences in my family. I just smile and appreciate that scientific understanding apparently hasn’t caught up with the laws of our particular nature. I don’t begin to understand how or why myself, but neither of those reasons seem to make any difference. It just “is.” I could go on and on (and on) with stories, but will just tell you one for now, as it popped into my mind today:

Back in college, I knew a guy named Jason (who was actually John’s fraternity brother, and one of the reasons I met John in the first place-but that’s not part of this story. At least I think it’s not.) Jason and I had a lot in common, sharing creative interests in theater and art. We also happened to work at the same park, in an after-school camp. One day, we were sitting around the office, joking about physically unique “oddities”, or something like that. I don’t really remember why, maybe there had been people with strange talents on Johnny Carson the night before.

I always had very even, tan skin, with not a freckle in sight (so, of course I wistfully wished for freckles my whole life) except for one spot on my left forearm. On this arm was a perfect square of four dark freckles, and three freckles vertically rising up from the corner and bending, that looked exactly like the Little Dipper. You could take a pen and connect the dots and see it, which of course I have done. (Side note: as I have happily sunned myself like a lizard on a rock over the years, eventually, um, “freckles”-go ahead, call them age spots. See what happens!-  have begun to fill in the open space around my Little Dipper. I like to think that it is the “mother ship” gradually re-claiming me, haha!)

So, that afternoon in the office, I was just about to share my strange anomaly of branding when the phone rang, completely interrupting our fun and requiring actual work to be done for the better part of five minutes. I stood there bookmarking our place in the conversation so we could return when he was done, and as soon as he hung up the phone, I started to speak. He stopped me and said, “Wait, I just want to show you one thing first. I have the Little Dipper on my left arm.” I paused for a second, embarrassed and sure he was making fun of me. “I already told you, didn’t I?” He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. “Come on, Jason, you’re making fun of me!! I already told you.” Sure enough, he extended his left arm, and showed me a very similar pattern of freckles that, indeed, made up the Little Dipper. After I picked up my jaw off the desk, I showed him my Little Dipper on my left arm, and told him that was exactly what I was waiting to show him. (I'm sure we hummed the Twilight Zone music at that point.)

Coincidence? How the hell could it be?!? If there’s one thing I do know, it’s how very little we actually know. Beyond scientific understanding? Perhaps. Beyond the “laws” of nature? No way. Why, it’s so natural, you might even say it’s SUPERnatural.

Plagued

I have a question. What do you call the subtle feeling that what you thought you just thought up, has been thought up before? As my English teacher friends can surely attest to (um, wait, that’s not right… ended in a preposition.) To which my English teacher (ahem, NAZI!!) friends (friends who-whom?- are English teachers???) can attest (Crap, is it ok to START with a preposition??) Sigh.  I’m just going to complete the thought, and then you can edit, ok? (Why do you think there will always be jobs for English teachers?! You’re welcome!)

Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, plagiarism (jeez, that’s a hard word to spell! I had to look it up! Good thing I didn’t have to leave this comfy chair to do so, at 3:30 in the morning.) Yawn. Plagiarism. Yes. That’s where I was.  SO…. English teacher friends agree, it’s one of the first things we are warned about when we are taught to write. Umm, you don’t really think YOU are the first person to have that brilliant idea, right?? Surely, you realize that someone came up with it before you did! Oh, and they researched it better, wrote it first, and YOU have to find them and give them credit in whatever it was you were just about to say, K? (Talk about stunted communication!!)

But seriously, with the information swirling and hurling faster and faster at us ‘til it all blurs together (like that silly “you are in a forest” game we used to play as kids), HOW are we sure we aren’t thinking of this because we just saw it somewhere? Even as I ask these questions, I am already wondering who has already asked them, written about them, published them first, claimed them, peed on them, whatever!

Remember how cute it was when they used to march us into the little school library, lining us up in front of that very important looking set of drawers? How they spent weeks teaching us to think of a subject and look it up in ABC order, thumbing through typed index cards (like typed -on –a- typewriter  typed!) that were held together by one giant metal rod, then we carefully used those nubby pencils to write down the number that would guide us to the aisle where we might or might not find the five books we wrote down? And, if someone had checked them out, we could see who, by the index card that showed their pencil signature and was kept in a box on the counter. I wonder what jobs those people got, when technology swooped in and laughed in the face of their time-honored record keeping system??

Anyways, my long-winded, grammatically incorrect point is that we now have so many rapid -fire exposures to information every day, how could we NOT plagiarize?? There are so many ideas thrust in our faces, and so many avenues to thrust our own ideas (or ARE they?! THAT is the question!!) in other people’s faces- Look! I am employing one of those avenues as we speak! The BLOG. The new and ubiquitous outlet for people’s thoughts, notions, absurdities, stream of consciousness, everywhere! “Extra, Extra, Read All About MY latest form of Crazy! You saw it here first, folks! Get it NOW! Fresh off the presses at any insomniac time of night, from every urban high-rise, suburban cul de sac, rural spread across the nation!” We’re all connected now, for better or worse, and our thoughts, which we learn are not likely our own, might never have belonged to only us in the first place.

They are the intellectual property of the collective consciousness which cycles through us all. And when you think about it, maybe we are thinking about this insanely intense firing squad of technology all wrong. Maybe technology has only just begun to mirror the interactiveness and efficiency our own cells and energy have possessed all along. Maybe I am not writing anything that didn’t already exist in your thoughts as well (or in someone else’s writing) for the very reason that our ideas were connected from the beginning. (Hey, Techie friends, you had better hurry up! You’re way behind! You’re welcome!)

Go ahead. Look it up. Surely, someone has thought of this before I did. In fact, the notions of our connectedness are amusingly ancient. I’m quite certain I am not the first one to think them up. As for me, I’m going back to bed. I’m just gonna credit the universe for this one. That should cover it.

Finding My Happy Place

Ah, Disneyland. The Happiest Place on Earth. Why is it that the older I am, the more dubious I get about your motto? There is something about a day at Disneyland that’s like a litmus test of my aging process.

I have hazy, happy memories of childhood trips- excitedly flying through the air with Peter Pan, singing “It’s a Small World”, eventually braving a bounce through Mr. Toad’s Wild Adventure. Getting a Mickey Mouse balloon and a princess souvenir to fall asleep clutching in the way-back of the station wagon.

Of course, I remember with great fondness the endless summer- type joy that accompanied our teenage years at the Magic Kingdom- considering it a success if you got there when it opened and managed to get on every ride (twice!) Seeing if there were any cute boys in line was almost as fun as going on the ride itself, especially if anyone asked you and your friends to sit with them! The junk food, the parades, the souvenirs, the fireworks! At one point, the 80’s dance club (who remembers that?!) with its high-tech tv screens showing close-ups of all the Aquanet- soaked hairdos and miniskirts. The regret and sorrow when, alas, the announcements came on telling us in oh-so-polite Disney fashion that it was time to kindly point our sugared selves towards the exit.

Then there was the milestone trip when you went to Disneyland with your significant other, smitten to have someone to sit next to on every ride. Sharing a slice of childhood you both experienced separately, but could now smoosh together like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Holding hands, stealing kisses on the Journey to the Center of the Earth (we all know there was NO other good reason to go on that ride!)

After the boys were born, there was a renaissance of enthusiasm as we thrilled in watching the wonder of the sights and sounds through their little eyes.  The characters, the parades, the silly songs, even the terror they felt for imagined villains was charmingly sweet, as they perceived the pretend to be real. 

We had the good fortune of meeting up with our dear friends this weekend, who were taking their five year old son to Disneyland for the first time. That was the best thing about the day! However, we ended up sharing the experience with about three million other “guests,” as Disney likes to call us. And for me, that resulted in a downward spiral of the kind of mental and physical angst I most certainly do NOT associate with the happiest anything!

We hit the pavement running around 8am and got into the half- hour long line to park. Somehow, even a few years ago, I don’t recall startling at the sticker shock of just how much cashola they cheerfully ring up for a family of four to enter the turnstyles. This only furthered my puzzlement about how very many people were crammed in line next to us for the same privilege. And, somehow, the obligation to try and get our money’s worth out of the outing hung over my head throughout the day like a lead Mickey balloon.

But, we made it through the gates of California Adventure pretty early and off we ran in an attempt to get on the new Cars ride everyone is so crazy about. When I saw the line wrapping around the buildings almost to the front gates, I knew it would be a long wait to get on. What I didn’t know was THAT was only the line to get a fast pass!! Holy hell!! Do you mean to tell me that I have to wait in an hour- long line to get a ticket that tells me when I can get back in line to actually get ON the ride?!?? This has got to be a joke, or at least a sadistic experiment! I looked around for the hidden cameras, recording the ridiculousness of our actions and found none. (In hindsight, of course there are hidden cameras all over Disneyland, they are watching all the time. I suspect after observing our desperately strange antics day in and day out, they probably aren’t laughing.)

Anyways, intent on making the most of our expensively crowded day, we pressed on and considered it a silver lining that the line for California Screaming was only 45 minutes long. The day continued in this fashion as we jogged from long line to long line- having fun, staving off hunger by getting whatever the emptiest kiosk was peddling, and enjoying the pervasive mayhem. And for a while, time stood still. This would have been magic indeed, except for one thing. I had been checking my watch (technically, my phone) since 10am. I didn’t want to feel that way about it, believe me. What wouldn’t I have given for the day to never end when I was 15?!??

When did I stop viewing the masses as comrade adventurers- excited to be sharing in their excitement- and start seeing the humanity, drifting and darting like atomic lemmings? So much energy it drained to be alert and pay attention to charging stroller wheels, couples stopping dead in their tracks to pull out a map, hacking children yanking free of the hands that held them (oh, the hacking. And the puking –a story for another day. I felt like we were in an overcrowded leper colony on carnival day.)

At the eleventh hour (not a euphemism, we had actually been there eleven hours) I kind of lost it. Hungry, exhausted, and frustrated at myself for feeling so frustrated, I decided that the best thing I could do for my family was to let them go on and enjoy what was left of their dwindling day. So I plunked myself down in a chair and gnawed on the worst breadstick I have ever had the misfortune to eat (how do you mess up a breadstick, really??) and tried to distract myself with thoughts other than Disneyland so I could survive the last and final leg of this never-ending day. (I do know how terribly wrong that sounds, I really do.)

Of course, my mind wandered right to all the circumstances people have survived that were legitimately terrible (and that they hadn’t actually PAID for the privilege of doing) such as surviving without water, food, air conditioning, medications, shelter after a natural disaster. Or being prodded onto cattle cars full of their fellow man, shuttled with no bathrooms, no oxygen to concentration camps. Or, being born into the kind of abject poverty where living is a fluke, a triumph in spite of your conditions and circumstances.

This led, strangely enough, back to the notion of happiness. The thought of the remarkable fortitude of humans throughout the span of time to seek out such a state, regardless of how legitimately they could lament their shortcomings. The thought of pioneers, who bravely forged ahead against resistance, against uncertainty and inconvenience, against famine and disease and paved the way for all who followed. Who manifested their senses into innovation and expression, into art and song and dance, to make the magic in which we seek solace, the magic that we turn to, in hopes of escaping the mundane, the sorrowful realities, the lacking we might otherwise succumb to. (Yes, I AM aware that I was a party of one on the spinning teacup of bizarre- Hey! Finally I found a place with no lines!)

As all stories eventually end, so did my strangely self-imposed funk of a day. My sweet hubby and kids came back to collect their decrepit mother from her stoop and we made it without incident back to the safe haven of my car, which drove us home to our pretty charmed reality. Maybe that’s the difference. The older I get, the more I comprehend that I’m fortunate enough to live in the real fairy tale. As I mature, my notion of what happy looks like has taken on a different significance. Surprisingly quieter, and with ever- so- slightly less bling. Contrary to the ad campaign that was quite effective on me for the better part of my life, perhaps Disneyland isn’t the Happiest Place on Earth anymore. But it certainly ain’t the worst.

Don't Fence Me In

First rule of blog, never, ever speak of blog. (Shhhhhh!!!! It might hear you!)

No, I have to speak of it. I started a blog. For writing. (deep breaths.) For a reason I hope to work through, my first instinct every time I commit to officially starting something that has no other purpose but to display my own thoughts, interests, talents- is to run. Then I go blank.

This is the artist’s, baker’s, writer’s (whatever) block I have vowed to look squarely in the jaw and beat to a bloody pulp. Wait, that sounds violent, and I am trying to achieve a peaceful co-existence with it. No hostile takeovers. No flight, but no fight either. Let me see…. The block I have vowed to stand up to, stare it in the beady eyes, and step around. (Use your words, Lauren.)

Unless it was for another person, I can’t think of a single project that I have intended to begin, just “because”, that I haven’t talked myself out of. It isn’t an active decision not to do it. More of the feeling you get when you put the wrong end of two magnets together and they leap back, and finally shove past each other. Like I somehow repel myself from the thing I want to achieve. Here is the nitty-gritty list of enthusiastic thoughts my brain lobs at the ideas:

What are you going to DO with it?? What is someone else going to do with it?? Why does this particular (fill in the blank) need to be made? Aren't you being selfish, just focusing on yourself? Who the hell do you think you are to have something worthy of expressing? (Sound familiar??)

I have made quilts (for babies) that can serve a dual purpose of keeping them warm. So I am not inflicting my aesthetic on people just as something they have to display.

I have painted chairs, benches, coffee tables, you name it, for people, or for my own house. Aesthetic enhancement, perhaps, but their primary function was being sat on, or having things sat on them.

While I truly appreciated and enjoyed (for the most part) the decade of making cakes, in my brain they were artistically a cop-out. I already knew who needed them and I had no time to think myself out of them. They had to be started at the bitter end and completed within hours of being appreciated, then cut apart. People used to say, “Ohhh, I can’t imagine cutting into it!” but I LOVED that part. Sadistically. In fact, hand me the knife. Because seriously, the novelty IS that it is made out of cake. It was made to be destroyed, and if it wasn’t, would you really want that lumpy, cartoonish knock-off princess sitting in your living room indefinitely, collecting dust? Let’s be real. If I had made it out of clay and you unwrapped it on your birthday, the look on your face would be entirely different. (OMG, WHERE am I going to put this? I better set an alarm to remind me to take it out when she’s coming over!!) Yikes!   

Here it is. If it has no use, other than sitting there and being the thing you look at, I feel naked. Exposed. Judged. Foolish. Trapped on canvas. Fenced in. Seen.That is the bare bones truth of the matter.

(Ross just came into the room and disturbed my “crazy train” of thought. There’s another factor. Unless I find my own Overlook Hotel to work in, I am going to have to learn how to keep going when derailed. After all, Jack was a dull boy, and quite murderous at that, and if the people weren’t interrupting him, the ghosts were…. I’m changing the subject, aren’t I?)

OK, back to the topic at hand. And speaking of kids, here’s a little trick having children has taught me. As you lecture them, listen once in a while. You often hear exactly what you need to learn tossed back at you. Here goes: Sometimes, you have to PRACTICE doing something you are not good at, to get better! You’re not automatically “the best” at it before you even begin. It takes work. It takes self-analysis. It takes dedication. And courage. And it sure as hell takes starting the damn thing to know whether or not it works. That is how you chip away at a goal and improve and make adjustments, and eventually achieve the outcome you want. Or, you move on. Try something different. But know that you gave it a fair shot before deciding.

I have a stack of blank canvases, paper, ink, and paint with my name on them. They will become something. It may be an exercise in doing without thinking for a while, but it will be done. No more avoidance. No more excuses. No more blank space.

Funny, forcing myself to think about this blog has created a second entry. For my BLOG. (There I said it twice!) The one I started. The one I’m squaring off and staring down, and am not running away from. The one in which I am exposing the good, the bad, the ugly of my naked truths. Please, be kind. I’m just learning to look.

Starting Point

Thank goodness for the backspace button on my keyboard. Without it, there’s no telling what you might be reading right now instead. Let me begin by saying (or rather, by writing) that I feel like an impostor. I’m not a writer. Writers have something specific to say and tell stories with definitive points of view, with beginnings and ends. What’s my story, and who the hell am I to think it’s worthy of telling?? On the other hand, if you asked me if I am a stay-at-home mom, I would have to say that I am. And if you asked me if I drive a mini-van, I would have to say that I do. But I don’t FEEL like a mini-van driving stay-at-home mom, either. (Does anyone??)

The more honest answer to the existential question is- I don’t know who the hell I am. Which version do you want? The one that other people see? The person I imagine myself to be in my mind? The person I would like to be? The person I am when… (insert a million contingencies here.) All of these versions of our “selves” are based on the premise that the tangible world around us exists as we perceive it. That we are driving on solid streets, counting down the hours in linear fashion until the next intersection of humanity, of activity occurs. Well, what the hell else are you going to base your understanding of life on?! -you might ask (already not so certain you want to be in the passenger seat with the crazy lady.) I don’t know. 

Sure, I could set my watch by the daily school bell ringing at 2:28, but then, which version of time are we talking about? I have had too many experiences of things happening in great arcing loops, some of them coming full circle quickly, some making their return years, decades, later, and yet others spiraling over and over again, passing by the same place and picking up momentum (and perhaps more passengers)to think that life stays in line.These are the musings that occur when you have 19 minutes between dropping off one kid and picking up the next, and there’s nothing good on the radio. String along enough of these snippets, and you can do a little damage in the lost- in- bizarre thought department. (And perhaps a little damage to the bumper, as I consider the hard edge of the curb next to me really more of a guideline.)

I am generally not a specific facts and figures kind of person, but if I was, I could tell you exactly the percentage of time I spend every day at one point or another along an approximate 5 mile loop of road. I would venture to say, it’s a very high percentage. And with that in mind, you’d think I’d have a better sense of what time it was and where I was going. But, alas, I don’t. It takes every alarm in my possession (and the employment of the snooze button) to keep my brain tethered to this functional routine. 

Likewise, I don’t really know where I’m going with this whole writing thing. Could be far, could be nowhere. But it would appear that I’m (somewhat reluctantly, admittedly curiously) getting into the ol’ van and turning the key, so I suppose I’ll find out. And if you’re brave enough to ride shotgun, you might want to fasten your seatbelt. Can’t promise you it won’t be a bumpy road, or that we won’t find ourselves hopelessly lost. I can promise you that even on the most mundane, well –traveled loops, some truly unusual events and epiphanies will cross our path. This, I do know.