This video stayed with me. The changing aspect of love’s reality. What we’re sure we define as love when our notebooks are covered with hearts and initials inside them, notes are passed and love songs are written expressly for you. Believing that it lasts forever, when one really has no concept of what that means. Love in later years, with fewer illusions and more complications, yet felt with a deeper understanding of the rapidity with which time passes. Learning to stay in love and learning to let go should one need to. Remembering to keep the door open to the possibility that it will return in a different form, with a different song and open arms. Let love in – however you define it.
Category: life lessons
Sex And The Single Bird
I lay no claim to being an ornithologist – but I’m telling you, spring is most definitely in the air in the bird kingdom. You should see and hear what’s going on in the trees around our house. It’s a veritable conclave for coming together (so to speak).
Apparently cardinals are monogamous, but the guys still go through a very touching courtship routine each season. They ask their prospective baby-mamas out for a date. I gather this tryst is always about food – no ice-skating or movies involved. But if the meal is good and the guy is cute, he can seal the deal if he sings well. Personally, I have heard some very impressive trilling lately. And my hunch is that he’s got to bring something more than a McDonald’s Happy Meal if he’s hoping for a long-term relationship. It’s good to be discerning I think – regardless of your species. And I think it’s good for the kids to see their parents being nice to each other.
Now, the male robins show up a few weeks ahead of the girls, to scope out neighborhoods, do a little house-hunting, and sing threateningly to establish property rights (I guess this is analogous to going to a closing on one’s house). Far be it for me to let them know that what they perceive as threatening sounds pretty damn glorious to me. When the ladies arrive, things move into a mode similar to “The Dating Game” (yes, this dates me significantly). The female has her choice, gets to ask a lot of questions (do you believe that parenting responsibilities should be shared; would you describe yourself as a romantic; if you were a human, what kind of human would you be, etc) and once she chooses her mate they head off for a brief honeymoon at some undisclosed location up the street.
We have a lot of different birds around here – I’m just mentioning these two types because they’re the least intimidating. And because this topic could get a little tedious. Let’s just say that turkey vultures courting other turkey vultures is nightmare-worthy and so frightening to Bogey that he barked at the sky for twenty minutes after witnessing their efforts at seduction. There’s just nothing romantic to be said about turkey vultures. Unless of course you’re a turkey vulture.
So as the buds begin to wink suggestively, promising more beauty yet to come, there’s even more salacious activity going on within their branches. Listen up, it’s the music of love.
Ciao Winter!
Yes, it’s a ridiculous minus-something with windchill. Yes, the driveway is a skating rink and it has been pretty amusing to watch Bogey try to run from one side to the other without looking like a cartoon character. Oh and the cold is the kind of cold that settles in your skeleton, intent on staying indefinitely. I think I forgot to mention that we were the recipients of another 7-8″ of snow yesterday. Let’s not even talk about the stomach flu that Andy felt compelled to share with me. And yet…
This is what I saw this morning…
We all know I’m no photographer – I have absolutely no eye or aesthetic. But you know what I saw? I saw the subtle hint of spring, despite shivering so hard, my iPad kept jiggling. I noticed that the buds are beginning to swell slightly, the birds are starting to flirt with each other in that musically suggestive way that they may consider subtle (but we all know what’s going on). I saw a sun that delights in its insistence that it will defy the reality. How can you not gaze at that brightness and not feel its intention? Images of hope and promise and warmth. Somehow this morning it all seems far less complicated, far less encumbered with doubts and ‘what ifs’. It really is simple – life moves forward. Indomitably. With or without us. Might as well let it go and go with the plan. My hunch is that it’s going to be awesome.
For Jo – In Her Renaissance
Today is my friend Joanne’s birthday. It’s a big one to us – sixty is a pretty impressive number, and worthy of celebration. Since I can’t be with her today, at the very least it is deserving of a post.
A few years ago, my daughter-in-law set up my Facebook page though I had little expectation that I would ‘meet’ people in such a forum. Within two hours of being connected, I received a message from Jo. She had been looking for me for oh, about forty years. And I felt a surge of gratitude and disbelief that is difficult to explain. Honestly, I don’t consider myself one of the memorable ones. But anyway, there was no denying that we were best friends in junior high school, two of the bar mitzvah brides in the neighborhood (a phrase of my mother’s referring to the number of bar mitzvahs we were invited to attend), and typically on the phone when we weren’t in each other’s apartment. But life happened in between then and now. We went to different high schools, colleges. The last time I saw her was when she came to hear me sing at a place called “Catch A Rising Star” in New York.
“While they talked they remembered the years of their youth, and each thought of the other as he had been in another time” (John Edward Williams)
So we have traveled different roads, in different cities, in different vehicles. And yet our travels paralleled each other. Our majors were similar, our commitments were similar. Our twenties were blessed with the arrival of our kids but kicked our asses in every other way. I probably built more walls around me than Jo; she remains far more open and trusting. I am here for her today as I was for her when I was thirteen. We have both lost our parents and understand the seismic shift this causes in one’s bearings; one’s place in the world. She thinks I’m a better person than I am. I think of her as a magic kite – she soars and dips in colors so vibrant your eyes have to adjust to its brightness. You see nothing else in the sky.
Jo was going to become a bat mitzvah today, but sometimes life shouts “Plot Change!” and you have to adjust accordingly. She was going to speak about her journey, what she has integrated into her soul along the way. She had asked me to say something too – and I would have said the following – “This is a day that celebrates the nexus of all that has come before you and all that still awaits. I am a better, happier person for your friendship. The children you have taught and the parents you have guided have been led by an uncompromising, dedicated, singularly outstanding educator. The formidable and unyielding love for Ben and Jenna is so powerful, it is its own energy force. Your heart holds more than most can ever hope to experience in a lifetime – and you still have a long way to go. This world which you have touched with your passion and your elation, with your sorrow and your tears, with your right and righteous “Made In America” indignation and gentle yearnings for a view of the Gulf Of Mexico – is a better place because of the way you have chosen to grace it. I would have thanked you for the gift of being able to speak these words. Yet that said, I’m just as happy to write them to you here. With love and laughter and wishes for all that you wish for yourself and more – Happy Birthday Jo.
It’s All About The Plot
“Become major…Live like a hero. That’s what the classics teach us. Be a main character. Otherwise what is life for?” — J.M. Coetzee
I’ve been thinking a lot about transitions lately. My friends who are encountering detours and re-routes that they hadn’t anticipated. Bumps that feel like moguls on one of the Olympic ski runs. The kinds of change that can leave your posture skewed and your jaw clenched to the point of pain. Jo told me that she thought transitions were easier when we were younger. Perhaps. Perhaps we just weren’t aware of what part of our story we were in the middle of – innocence is a wonderful thing. But when you get a bit older, when the time comes that you realize that this is in fact the story line in which you are the focal character, perspective changes a bit. We spend so much of our life planning our next chapters – even when they don’t turn out the way we thought they would.
As a child, I remember feeling that I just couldn’t wait for life to start – I couldn’t wait to be able to ride with the experienced riders; couldn’t wait to be double digits. As a newly-minted teen, I couldn’t wait until I could wear Yardley’s cake eyeliner. Then I couldn’t wait until I was legal. Anticipation in my twenties – to be a mom, be seen as an adult (and be forgiven for transgressions that were a result of not knowing what I was doing as an adult), have my own home. The thirties brought confirmation that though I no longer had the excuse of being a novice grown-up, I had fertile years to dig into this life I was creating without boundaries or barriers. Perhaps in my forties it began to wear a little thin, but not so much so that my mind was reluctant to keep moving ahead, anticipating next steps with energy and spirit.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that looking forward no longer held the same thrill. And despite the gratitude (which accompanies most things for me), there lingers questions about legacy and lasting impressions, an awareness that looking forward diminishes the present and quite frankly, too much future-thinking just makes me anxious. I can write a chapter, but I’m not prepared for the story to end.
And perhaps that is why these transitions get so damn tricky. Our emotional muscles aren’t as supple; we have seen enough to hesitate – able now to determine the degree of difficulty associated with our next move.
There is a certain grace in such awareness though. To be able to be engaged with life and observe it simultaneously. Moving thoughtfully enough that you don’t miss a cardinal on a snow filled branch or the sound the wind makes right before it blows through your hair. Arriving at a point where you know what matters more often than not, and staying that course. Transitions may not get easier as we get older, the choices may change in scope and size, but we are each, still the author. And I for one, think my story is damn good.
Living In The Bubble
I’ve decided to live in my awesome bubble today, so if you feel like fomenting trouble, please move along. I’m occupied with silliness.
It’s been a long time since I woke up feeling the need to be silly. It started when I took the pups out and saw that the only thing the moon was revealing was a smile. Which made me smile too. Bogey began to chuff at … nothing. His bravery is impressive when there’s nothing to challenge it. My hero. It wasn’t one of those banner sleep nights, so you can toss this up to that slightly frantic goofiness caused by too much caffeine over too short a period of time. No matter – I’m in the bubble. At least until I crawl back into bed.
“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life” — Omar Khayyam
Smart guy, that Omar. He got me thinking. For reasons one could ascribe to astrology, biorhythms, synchronized moments in time, etc – some of my friends are struggling at the moment. Feeling overwhelmed, too lonely, disappointed, histories that they want to get over yet keep repeating, selective memory retrieval that prohibits touching grace.
Join me in here for a minute. Seriously. I am thinking that it’s never too late to create the relationships you always wanted; the ones that hint at why you’re dissatisfied with the ones that you currently have. What is the unrealized fantasy that pulls on your shirt sleeve as you struggle to move forward? What does it look like? Create it. Live it. Remember the kid that lives inside us all is waiting for you to rectify history. Fix it. Be the parent that you didn’t have. Speak to yourself as if you were speaking to your most loved friend. Get silly, get loving, get over these hurdles that others may have put there, but you have allowed to remain. Risk being happy. No one will hold you accountable for that state of mind every moment of every day. The onus isn’t as great as the weight of being an indifferent bystander in your own life.
My intent is not to make any of this sound easy or trite. My intent is to dilute the ‘buts’ and ‘can’t work’ to a manageable trickle instead of a waterfall. To engage the muscles that stretch most when moving in joy. To help you find your ‘tickle’ spot and wake it up. And if all of this is just too much for a Sunday morning – I hope at least that you smile, that you savor one moment in your morning. Catch yourself grinning.
I Want To Be A Cowgirl
“I want to be a cowboy, but only long enough to barge into a saloon and bellow ‘Where’s the yellow belly that stole my happy trail?'” — Jared Kintz
I used to occasionally catch a western with my dad (typically while he was changing channels and got hooked by something John Wayne or Lee Marvin or Clint Eastwood was doing). My love of horses made it impossible to watch any of the scenes which intimated that they were uncomfortable or angry in anyway. But galloping through an open field? I’d watch and put myself in that saddle. Slamming one’s body into the swinging door of a bar and with one look rendering a crowded room silent? Oh yeah. There’s a new sheriff in town and her name is Mimi (ok, I have to change that).
I also wanted to be the next Barbra Streisand, but that’s a story for another day.
And come up with the formula for world peace – I’m still working on that one.
“Where’s the yellow belly who stole my happy trail?” How awesome it would be if one could point a gloved finger at that varmint.
You know where I’m going with this – who would you point your finger at? Ain’t no one there, darn it, unless one is looking in the mirror.
We steal our happiness all the time. That interlude between moments that is so easily sabotaged by our confusion or displeasure, asserting that we are the victims of circumstance, a person, a poor choice. The thought that I am that yellow belly is anathema to me. And yet. Once again the duality of our humanity makes itself known. We are both fearless and petrified; hell-bent and heaven seeking. Bartender, just leave me the bottle.
The older I get, the more I realize that this is the town I rode into. The trail is far more littered with wildflowers than dead bodies (figuratively speaking – I am a cowboy without a gun). I have undermined my sense of self-worth far more than anybody else, the amount I have gambled reflects my own fear and ambivalence, my delights have been incredible, my pain has been fierce. And they’ve all been mine.
Every cowtown I’ve ever lived in has offered food, shelter, employment, sunshine. So I’ve had the ridiculous luxury of feeling lousy over things that are dreams for many in this world. So why would I self-sabotage my happy trail? Because sometimes it’s the easier choice. Sometimes, it’s far easier to think “yeah, but…”. The problem of course is that there is no happy ending with that script. One rides off into a barren field, head down – defeated by one’s self. And that just isn’t the way any movie should end.
So I get up on my horse, settle my butt into a well-worn saddle and look at the horizon with a delicious sense of the possible. I nicker to my horse and we ride..while I sing “People”. Must be the reason why I never made it in show business.
It’s Been Awhile
I haven’t posted for a couple of weeks – not sure why, other than lethargy, winter, stomach bug – a familiar drill for many I’m sure. During this time I received notification from our friends at WP that this blog has been around for two years. So Happy Anniversary to all of us on the karma truck. Thank you for joining me on this ride, providing direction and encouragement when I wasn’t sure the GPS was working, and for sharing so much of yourselves with me. I think that has been the most humbling, awesome, breathtaking part of this ride. There are no better passengers out there.
On the one hand, not much has happened while I’ve been parked; so much has happened while I’ve been parked. It all depends on your perspective I guess. This life – perhaps it’s all about measurement (which is a bit unfortunate since I am truly terrible with numbers). But it seems that when measured in days, it can seem so unremarkable, yet when measured in moments it is so rich and full and ridiculous and heartbreaking.
Sir Bogart is now a full-fledged member of the round table. No longer the precious-though-not-too-smart junior ‘Sir’ of a short three months ago.
I realize that we should have named him ‘No-Bogey’ or ‘NoBo’, for it does seem like the most oft-used moniker. Goofy. Stubborn. Selectively hard-of-hearing. Crazy affectionate. Yummy. Yesterday he discovered the basket of wool in the family room and proceeded to unravel a few skeins as he jogged around the house. I could have been mad, but it reminded me of how our house looked one Halloween after being t-p’ed by my son’s friends. Don’t get me wrong – I did assume the stance of the stern disciplinarian, albeit a bit insincerely.
NoBo also likes coffee – which really does evoke my ire. Again, my bad – I walked out of the kitchen for a moment, only to return to see him on the table, enthusiastically downing my morning’s first mug. And yes, he was wired for hours – think Road Runner taunting Will E. Coyote. Sirs Archie and Theodore steered clear of the whirling dervish that day. Lesson learned – mine, not his. Whither I goest, goest my mug. Even the decaf.
We all lived through being hugged too hard by the polar vortex. I love living where the four seasons announce themselves with little subtlety, but we all could have passed on this kinda cold. An exaggeration of what winter does to me – I hibernate, read a lot, delight in the aromas that emanate from the slow cooker, worry too much, resolve too little. Winter – the classic reaction formation – come here, go away. I love the moments and find the days meld. “One has to build shelters. One had to make pockets and live inside them” — Lorrie Moore. This is what winter provides – permission to live inside one’s self while still being engaged with the larger world. I guess this is me peeking outside of my pocket, wanting to see you and say ‘hi’.
A Gentle Goodbye To 2013
We had all the kids at home yesterday, and the house was resonant with laughter and teasing, generous gift-giving and a love I can only reference as palpable. My heart beats more deeply, echoing in my chest, snippets of serious conversation that stay in the forefront of my thoughts as I process and hold them as gently as feathers. “You really are my only mom” (a figurative comment that was so full of history and stories and trust and love that I will never ever forget its intent); “Remember when Grammy would give us shit for playing ball in the playroom and I asked her why it was called a playroom then?” “I used to think it was so ridiculous that you would treat me like a child when I was over; of course now I realize it was because I was a child”. Lessons in wine tasting, a book titled “The Story Of A Lifetime” which offers prompts and questions to facilitate the telling of one’s tale in a way that may be at least salient if not interesting. Laughter that included some good snorts, bad fart jokes and hugs good-bye for which I am never fully prepared.
And so it is as one year ends and another waits in the wings. I guess I’m not fully prepared. Certainly for some of the people I love, it has been a challenging year with losses that re-shape the heart. For most though, it has been relatively gentle. Our lives are intact, marriages seem happy though not without their requisite effort, young adults are realizing that the operative word has changed from ‘young’ to ‘adult’. We’re still close and I am forgiven my maternal neuroses that at least can be shared among three. I consciously tried to be kinder, cared less about judging and more about accepting, placed the notion of acquisitiveness somewhere down on the list where it belongs. I learned this year, perhaps more than the one before, how deeply I can be touched by the candor and stories of people I have come to know in this little universe. I have been gobsmacked when I received comments insisting that I have inspired, or tickled, or pleased, or echoed a thought that had been unspoken in someone else’s thoughts. I’ve been brought to tears and moments of spontaneous delight by David and Bill, Russ and Andrea, Bonnie and Liz, LouAnn and TIna and Ivon, Kizzy, Rhonda. Of course there are more and I do not intentionally omit anyone – you are in this circle with me and I believe you know it. People who comment with thoughtfulness and generosity and love. My friendships have been enhanced and allowed to flourish (for Lori wouldn’t have it any other way).
We found a house to hide in and stand outside of in that mystic fog of the morning when the world demands stillness. Memories have begun to be made, new places to claim as one’s own. And we got Bogey – our juvenile delinquent puppy, who should be wearing a leather jacket with a skull and crossbones instead of his snappy little tartan plaid. Except of course when he’s just so laughably adorable that he is forgiven everything.
I will turn 60 this coming year, a number of some sobriety. I know that at this point I’d be aged-out of employment in many cases (if I was looking), considered truly senior in the eyes of people with younger eyes and minds. And yet, I’m so far from done, I don’t swallow too hard at the number. There is abundant time to try and do better, be kinder, live in moments that should not be ignored, celebrate that which others often miss. Read more, give more, dance in the driveway and maybe even get up and sing. Who knows? There is so much yet to be. Thank you for sharing this part of the trip with me. And Happy Happy New Year.
Happy Eve Morning
“A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together” — Garrison Keillor
At the risk of sublime irreverence, there were a few years when the boys were little, that we had a Christmas tree each year. They may not even remember for all I know, but I loved the whole process (up to taking the tree down and cleaning up the pine needles). And may I say, they were magnificent. Plaid bows, white lights, the boys’ names spelled in blocks underneath the tree. I would sit on the couch at night and just feel bathed in the gentle glow – I would forget that I had no idea how to pay the electric bill, didn’t worry about how I would kite a check at the supermarket and didn’t mind making a pot of coffee out of grounds that had already been soaked once. Sounds so stupid as I write this, but my sons were so little and I didn’t want them to feel that they would miss a thing (given that their bio-dad and I are of different religions we celebrated both holidays. Ok, I celebrated both holidays.).
I hope their memories are happy ones. I always return to the visual of them wrestling with these big purple/blue stuffed monsters and giggling. He-Man and Shera. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Pajamas with feet. Care Bears and “The Muppet Movie“. We had no money, but we weren’t poor.
This time of year is one which we all experience together. Most of us show the better part of ourselves (with the exception of those bizarre people who end up fighting in parking lots) and I like that. I feel the exhausted anticipation in the air, the rush for people to be together. The Salvation Army bell ringers outside the supermarket (who receives money from me every time I exit – I can’t help it – by the end of the season we’re on a first name basis). I don’t get tired of the holiday music, parents invoking the all-seeing, all-knowing Santa as an effective means of getting little ones to hold their tantrums until they get home. I cry each time I hear “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas“. Such a sap.
Tomorrow Andy and I will join our brethren and grab some Chinese food and see an early movie. I will be particularly sensitive to the silence in the morning, for it is a different sound than that of a typical morning. And I will listen respectfully. To those who celebrate Christmas, my wish is the same as every year – may you receive all that you wish for and may you wish for all that you have. And to those who just allow themselves to be enveloped in a blanket of goodwill – snuggle in and enjoy it, extend it and I’ll see you at the movies.
Home Again
“The mountains are calling and I must go” — John Muir
I could have stayed at our mountain home for far longer than we did. Air that was breathlessly cold; sky and ground the same color white, blurring the boundary that keeps one anchored to the ground; good friends (who fortunately arrived after the new heat pump was installed) – and Sir Bogey.
The Sirs have been to the house before, but this time Bogey got to be the ‘special’ fur-kid who made the trip. He loves being part of the pack, but he really delighted in being the center of attention. Four adults catering to his every whim, four laps to test, four sets of ears listening to his lengthy diatribes and demands. He’s quite the puppy, with far more opinions and expectations than any puppy I have ever had. Needless to say, he’s training us very well.
At night, he would see his reflection in every window and was desperate to have the interloper evicted from the premises. Same thing with the floor length mirror. He huffed and lunged, banging his head repeatedly. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but arguably one of the cutest. When he is with the other Sirs he is far bolder than when he’s on his own. Every morning he would venture outside, greeting the frozen air with a lot of bluster and bark – from behind my legs. He was more intrepid when the sun rose, jumping through the snow with abandon, skidding around the driveway as if his paws were made of fiberglass. Bogey maximizing his moments – playing with abandon, sleeping heavily, eating with enthusiasm and delighting in tummy rubs. He’s impulsive and demands the most from the world around him, for last he looked, it’s totally his world. As I said, he’s training us well. And having his perspective while we snuggled into the days made any sense of the serious impossible. We even played a new game, sort of like ‘Marco Polo‘ but calling “Bogey” or “is the puppy with you?” instead.
Icing delayed our departure, and I was ambivalent when the salt truck arrived. Home is wherever love is, so arguably it travels. But it’s the peace of the mountains, the demand that you scale back your worries and amp up the volume on appreciating the smallest of delights. Feeling snowflakes on your face, playing with abandon, talking with friends, sleeping heavily and treading lightly on the earth. Bogey is teaching us well. The mountains are the perfect backdrop for lessons such as these.
Before The Sun Rises
Up on the mountain, the wind is announcing the day before the sun even has a chance to make its presence known. Sitting here with the fire dancing, lap blanket tucked under my feet, I’d be remiss if I didn’t pause for one moment and just snuggle into the moment. This is not the beginning of an extraordinary day – which is what makes it so remarkable. At some point, I’ll make it into town, run some errands, shiver my way back home and read. Drink some tea. Knit a bit. Listen to music. Listen to the wind. Pick up a message here and there about the deliciousness of being in the moment. Marvel at how flexible the trees are as the bend to the will of nature without snapping in two.
We won’t be getting up here too often this winter and I will miss the opportunity to just hop in the car and be here. Though the house still has that new house smell, it already has the feeling of being lived-in, of knowing its role as an escape and a womb, protecting and holding me safe. And though I have always thought of myself as one who would be happiest by the water, I’ve already learned that the mountains echo a welcome that is equally compelling. Maybe it’s just the peace that comes from being placed in the middle of all that is so much bigger than me, A way to remember that we are a part of something so much bigger, a stage whisper demanding that we pay attention. Our days, these accumulations of seconds strung together and passing with such speed they are easily disregarded. I don’t want to miss a thing, primarily because I fear I miss so much.
So before the morning breaks, I watch and listen and breathe in – the feeling of warmth, the smell of hot coffee, the music of the wind. The next moments will come, for they are more determined than anything else I’ve ever known. And I can’t stop them. But I can – and I will – dissolve into right now.
Waiting for the Karma Truck 