If you have yet to discover charronschatter.com, you are depriving yourself of a consistent reason to smile, marvel and delight. While I appreciate her acknowledgement in this post, I appreciate her generous talent even more…
Loads Of Questions, Fewer Answers
“When I was One I had just begun
When I was Two I was nearly new
When I was Three I was hardly me
When I was Four I was not much more
When I was Five I was just alive
But now I’m Six, I’m as clever as clever
So I think I’ll be Six now for ever and ever” — A.A. Milne
So, my cohort group is turning sixty next year. Sixty. It’s an impressive number. Jo will enter this decade first (though at the end of the day, first or last the goal is to get there and keep going), and it prompted a lot of conversation about what the heck it means.
In an effort to avoid the obvious, we didn’t come up with anything particularly cogent. And that got me thinking, which as you know, is typically dangerous.
As we grow up, we measure our accomplishments by how old we are. At six or seven, there’s first grade and entering real school. Turning ten, at double-digits – one proudly has succeeded at no longer being ‘little’ and has become by rite of age, way cooler than anyone who is younger. Celebrating the introduction to being a legitimate teen-ager at thirteen, it’s even sweeter at sixteen. When eighteen knocks at the door, it brings the perceived gift of becoming ‘legal’, getting out of the house and the anticipation that for all intents and purposes, society will consider you a grown-up in three short years. Of course by the time one is thirty, the realization that learning to be an adult is no longer an acceptable excuse. And so on and so on…
Our self-definition and stories are inextricably tied to our age. What we learned and when we learned it. I think we could have extended conversations about the decades we have lived – tying our stories and our years together in crazy, multi-colored bows.
Somewhere along the way though, we realize that life is measured not in years but in exquisite moments of attention. When the question that begs to be answered is less about our individual successes, accomplishments and somewhat self-absorbed chatter, and more about what we have brought to the table. Did we offer life a groaning board of our best selves or did we just sit there expecting to be fed? (Given that Thanksgiving is next week, it seemed like a good analogy). Though we got here while acknowledging chronological landmarks along the way, such landmarks no longer define the road. We are left now to figure out the topography, and the area is large.
And the dialogue changes focus – am I giving the best I’ve got? Am I more about others and less about me? And if I live another sixty years, will I create a path that others will choose to walk with me?
Thursday Re-View — “Thoughts for My Son”
Theresa captured it all – for sons, for daughters, for all of us – great advice.
Considering A Legacy
Soulgatherings.wordpress.com provides a daily quote that invariably touches me. Sometimes it is the words themselves, other times it is a thought that adheres to my brain and requires my attention for hours at a time. Either way, it’s all good. Yesterday’s poem by Carol Adrienne is fresh in my mind –
“Our purpose, I believe
is not a thing, place, title or even a talent.
Our purpose is to be.
Our purpose is how we live life,
not what role we live.
Our purpose is found in each moment
as we make choices to be who we really are.”
I had the privilege of circling in Fran’s orbit for twenty-two years. She was my brother-in-law’s mom – no true familial connection that I can trace, yet a connection that I felt deeply. She passed away last week, quietly, without pain, turning her slumber into what I hope is a new chapter in a story none of us fully understand. Her son is choosing to remember with happiness and grace, the amazing woman he loved so deeply. Denial? Perhaps. I’m not judging, for it would be hubris to suggest how one grieves. That said, I think he’s on to something. It resonates when thinking about what Fran would want.
What was remarkable about Fran was her insistence that she was not at all remarkable. She raised two children, worked side by side with her husband and loved unconditionally. Her life may not have been perfect, but it was perfect in her eyes. Her son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, niece – all human, all subject to the qualities that define our humanity (the good and the less-than-ideal) – could not be more marvelous, gifted, loving, generous. She would not brook any complaints, whines, dissatisfactions – her purpose was to live with love. Period. Fran didn’t try to change your point of view to hers; she changed your mind because you would look at her face and see a sense of peace that few reflect so consistently. And so you’d wonder what she had figured out that completely eluded you. And you’d want to spend more time with her – if only to bask in the reflected light that she saw in everyone. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to ever disappoint her and she would never tell you. Fran left it up to you to figure it out. How one human being treats another; how we show our love to those we ostensibly hold the closest. She taught you by showing you, there were no words or reprimands or chilly shoulders. She lived her love.
And though it’s been a while since Fran was at Thanksgiving, she will be remembered next Thursday with wine glasses raised and full hearts. For to have known Fran was to be given a chance to see someone live her life with the highest purpose; to be loved by Fran was to have your heart opened to the incredible power of simple goodness. Safe journey Fran and thank you for those many mornings all those years ago, when we watched the sunrise as your family slept, and wondered aloud at the fantastic serendipity that brought us to those two chairs by the sea.
If The Mountain Won’t Come To The Sirs…
…one brings the Sirs to the mountains. We came up here last night to check on a heating system which I left in a questionable state on Wednesday and a pending installation of shades and blinds. Up here, you leave a house key at the lodge and people come and go whether or not you’re around. A little strange for me, but a little instructive too. No one trashed the house, took anything, scratched any walls. They do their thing and they leave. I like being a part of a community that trusts that much.
True, I felt a bit like the theme from “Deliverance” should have played when I stopped at a guns and ammo shack last night to pick up some milk. No, there’s no Seven-Eleven. Two guys dressed in camo behind the counter, one needing dental work, the other needing a haircut. “Can we get somethin’ for ya, ma’am?” They were really very sweet, despite my discomfort with standing in the midst of a veritable arsenal of hunting stuff and snuff with one quart of milk behind multiple six packs of beer.
Anyway, other than Bogey throwing up in my lap, Teddy shaking and panting for the first hour of the trip (even though he had on his Thunder-Shirt) and Archie desperately trying to figure out the benefits of lying down, no, standing up..no, lying down…um, standing up, it was a decent trip. Now these guys are not exactly urban dogs – our house sits on a bit of land, they have chased their share of deer (well, Bogey hasn’t – he barks and then runs behind my legs), smelled the unmistakable markings of a fox, rolled in enough strange animal excrement to make dog shampoo a staple under the sink. But now we’re in the mountains – bears, deer that are far larger than the ones back home, bobcats – probably tigers and rhinos too. “Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” meets “Robin Hood”.
They jumped out of the car and into the leaves – noses down, tails up and ears on high alert. I was just imploring them to stay where I could see them and do their business. They were tentative for a nanosecond, but their curiosity prevailed – where the hell were they? These smells, the sounds – they needed to go in and out of the house at least ten times before settling down to a thorough exploration of the house. Bogey – Bogey, the juvenile delinquent of puppies if ever there was one, proceeded to look for something to get into or chew that would guarantee a chase around the house (he chose one of my shoes). Happily, he soon discovered himself in a mirror, which captured his attention far longer than any other activity of the evening. If he wasn’t so ridiculously cute, I would be looking into canine reform schools.
The sun is rising in a pink and blue sky, the Sirs are currently sleeping after a couple of vigorous explorations of the great outdoors and the coffee is burning my tongue. So far, so good. Bogey hasn’t found any desiccated frogs to bring into the house, Archie hasn’t run off in an intrepid search of the neighborhood and Teddy with his characteristic maturity is just stickin’ close to me. If the day continues to unfold this way, I think it’ll be a far better introduction to the mountains than either Andy or I anticipated. Of course, it’s still early.
Stuck In The Mud
That feeling of spinning your wheels, your body rocking with the car thinking it’s going to help in your efforts to dislodge it. Wishing someone would come along to give you a push, yet recognizing that you haven’t seen another car for miles.
The karma truck is stuck in the mud. I think it’s ok though – either I’m on the verge of getting back on the road or I’m making peace with the fact that sometimes you just have to put the damn thing in park.
Why so stuck? Who knows really. A friend of mine was describing this blog to his wife and said I write about ‘all this touchy-feely stuff’. I explained how my initial motivation was to print out a year’s worth of posts and give them to my sons. Ok – it’s been a year and a half – now what? My intent is not to hand them a tome. I will never curate with the best of them, nor will I write with the best of them. My sister told me that writers have discipline – I’m sure she’s right – she’s a truly outstanding writer. I don’t think of myself as a writer – I feel like I’m more of a gusher, spewing forth foam and fluff and occasionally a stream of water that catches the light. So you can see why I’m a little mired. What is this blog to be now? I’m trying to figure that out. Filter out all the nonsense and distill my thoughts down to the most basic. What do I want this to be?
“I do not know much about God and prayer, but I have come to believe, over the last twenty-five years, that there’s something to be said about keeping prayer simple. Help. Thanks. Wow.” — Anne Lamott. The woman is onto something. [If you have never treated yourself to a book by Anne Lamott, please give yourself that gift]. Getting to the fundamentals. Every morning when I’m out with the Sirs, there is a silent exchange between me and the stars. First I whisper my gratitude, for to neglect to recognize what I have been given is folly and hubris and stupid. The list is long. Then I quietly marvel – how can you not marvel at a sky wallpapered with stars? Or the words “I love you”? Puppy licks (even from an especially mischievous one). The intensity of the yellows and the oranges that inform the landscape on the mountain? And finally, I say “Please”. And I cry. Every time I consider the request, I cry. I feel a little like Holly Hunter‘s character in “Broadcast News“. My therapeutic cry.
Am I sad? No. By the time I get to ‘please’, I’m overwhelmed.
And so we come full circle…I am more than shmaltz and less than Dostoevsky. I am sitting in ‘park’ despite an urge to rock this baby out of the muck. I’m old enough to know that we all have moments like these and young enough to feel impatient and itchy. It feels good to write this to you. It’s been too long.
Why Is Patience So Important?
“If you want to know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” — Hal Borland
It seems that in the fall, I spend a great deal of time feeling tremendous respect for trees. More than the richness of their colors and the dignity with which they prepare for their fallow season, I feel humbled by their grace. The manner in which they bend when the wind demands their attention; the stately pride with which they accept that time will effect its plan.
A good friend of mine has been on a fantastic roll lately. Meeting new people, finding that her voice has more range and depth than she imagined (reminds me of Katy Perry‘s song “Roar”). Her life – her new life has reflected her enthusiasm, zest and openness to the thrill of possibility. I’ve shared in this delight of course, just as I am here today when the rhythm slows, the endorphins need replenishment and the bubbles are now on simmer. Nothing is wrong, yet what happened to the effervescence? The days of delight?
Jo wonders about her ‘next whatever’, feeling that its elusiveness is akin to a burr under a horse’s saddle. Itchy and unsettled, we spend many an email considering the what ifs, could bes, and shoulds – and we end up back at the reality that life is going to unfold whether we are patient or not.
Patience. The art of being still. Of understanding that there are fallow periods, which require only that we gain strength and sustenance and an understanding of who we are becoming. There’s something a little unsettling about it I think. It took me two years to undo the pleasurable and neurotic remnants of working in biglaw. To finally realize that the primary takeaway – the only takeaway – is that I made a difference, perhaps to a few people over the span of decades. I choose to hold onto some cherished memories. I didn’t leave the firm with grace in my heart – a story for another day perhaps. I struggled to understand that my next whatever would be as serendipitous as the one I had just experienced. I still do (struggle that is) – just not as much.
I write a lot about duality; it’s so much a part of our human construct. Yet in the fall I look to the trees. They are indomitable and unfazed, welcoming both bird and squirrel, a child’s foot nestled between its trunk and branch. Silently knowing that regardless of preference or wish, hope or daydream, the most important element it brings to the fall is its presence. Its being. Time I think to take a moment under the trees, sway under the harvest moon and just watch life and love unfold.
And so it has taken me all of sixty years to understand
This poem hit me viscerally…from the title through the last line. We learn so much, so late. Though arguably if we never learn, that would be the worst outcome of all.
Neither music,
fame, nor wealth,
not even poetry itself,
could provide consolation
for life’s brevity,
or the fact that King Lear
is a mere eighty pages long and comes to an end
and for the thought that one might suffer greatly
on account of a rebellious child…
And so
it has taken me
all of sixty years
to understand
that water is the finest drink,
and bread the most delicious food,
and that art is worthless
unless it plants
a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.
After we die,
and the weary heart
has lowered its final eyelid
on all that we’ve done,
and on all that we longed for,
on all that we’ve dreamt of,
all we’ve desired
or felt,
hate will be
the first thing
to putrefy
within us.
–Taha Muhammad Ali, Excerpt from the poem “Twigs“ in “So What, New and Selected Poems”
About…
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A Shameless Plug
I think one would be living under a rock not to know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I know of far too many people who have found their lives upended with such a diagnosis. People in my family; people I love and have loved with all I’ve got. Friends who are inextricably connected to me through shared history, experience or circumstance. And to deny the insidious, silent way that one’s body can morph from one moment to the next is just folly. It happens all the time.
As it did to my friend Jill Foer Hirsch. Jill is a breast cancer survivor, writer and humorist (I would put the emphasis on humorist, for there is little that Jill can’t find the humor in). She recently published a book When Good Boobs Turn Bad – A Mammoir. When Jill received her diagnosis, there was certainly fear, shock, disbelief. There were tears. And then Jill returned to form – “I have good news and bad news; the bad news is that I have breast cancer. The good news is I’m seeing a hot plastic surgeon who keeps telling me to take my shirt off.”
And so she shares her journey with total candor and gentle humor. It’s how she managed to endure surgeries and chemo, the vulnerability of returning to work and the tenuous re-immersion into her life. I’m not going to speak about Jill’s courage – that’s not her thing (though she is one remarkably strong and accomplished woman). She doesn’t see herself that way. She would prefer to make an acceptance speech, receive an award for her light touch and flair for the comedic. And in my eyes, she deserves all that and more.
I was honored to review her book. I am more honored to know her, to be able to laugh with her and celebrate life at the local diner where we both indulge in grilled cheese sandwiches and fries (before you tell me how unhealthy it is – I know that. But it’s diner fare, and we don’t get together all that often). She and her husband recently celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary surrounded by friends and family. I won’t even tell you how irreverent their new vows were to each other (suffice it to say that Jill felt that since their first wedding ceremony was in Hebrew and neither of them understood what they were committing to, it was time to define the parameters on their own terms).
Breast cancer isn’t funny. Jill was diligent in ensuring that her medical care was excellent, followed her protocols seriously, and would occasionally wear animal hats to her appointments. We all do what we have to do to get through. Jill relied on humor. Finding moments that could engage her funny bone. To lose her ability to laugh would have been a concession that she was not prepared to make. Her outlook is inspiring – and may be a balm for anyone who is navigating the challenging path of fighting such a formidable foe. I am one of her biggest fans – and have been since we met years ago. The greatest takeaway from her book is the grace that is evident when taking circumstances seriously, but ourselves lightly. I am proud of her for sharing her story; I am proud to be her friend. And though this is a shameless plug for her book, it is representative of a perspective that I respect and applaud. She is healthy and she is well – and we laugh. Oh, how we laugh. Congratulations my dear friend – I am hopeful this book will be a welcome respite for anyone who may be on this challenging path.
The City Mouse And The Country Mouse
This isn’t about the book – though I loved it as a kid. It’s about the duality within me – for I am both in one very confused body. I grew up in a city; I worked in a city. I live in the ‘burbs; we just bought a home in the mountains. I’m writing you from this new house, looking out at the trees as their leaves fall like rain. The vista is saturated in yellows and reds. There is no one around, yet I couldn’t be less lonely.
Our house is sited in such a way that it feels like an aerie. Perhaps that is why it is comforting to be here. Protected as in a nest. I’m getting to know this space, for we closed and moved in over the weekend. We don’t know each other yet – its noises are unfamiliar, the whoosh of the heat turning on, the doorbell, the ticking of a clock. The first night we crawled into bed with aching backs and weary legs, only to feel an adrenalin surge as the rain and wind magnified every creak and moan. I spent some of the post-midnight hours walking through the rooms, introducing myself and listening to their stories. Finally I fell asleep on the couch wrapped in a blanket and a better sense of my bearings. When we got home on Sunday, I fell into the arms of the familiar. I’m slow to commit, but once I get there, I’m steadfast.
I came back yesterday to continue nesting (which included the third visit from the cable people with whom I’m now on a first name basis). I went for a walk convinced I would find clues of the wildlife who are the rightful owners of this land. Of course, I have no idea what bear scat looks like, nor exactly what I would do if I met a bobcat along the road. I only know what I’ve seen on “Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom“. And I always thought that Marlon Perkins had the better job – observing from afar as Bill would be sent in to tranquillize the grizzly. The city mouse with a country spirit. Or a country mouse with an urban aesthetic.
So I am beginning a new relationship in these calming and magnificent surroundings. I am feeling protective as a mother with a new baby, holding each moment carefully, realizing that this house and I are engaged in a transfusion of our spirits, our ‘mark’ if you will. I love the splendor, the sense of being closer to the sky. And soon this too will feel like home.
The English Plural
I hope you enjoy this as much as I do!!
The English Plural by George Carlin
We’ll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.
If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?
If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,
And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beeth?
Then one may be that, and three would be those,
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural…
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When Your Life Looks Back
This poem left me speechless and thoughtful. This – our lives.
When your life looks back—
as it will, at itself, at you—what will it say?
Inch of colored ribbon cut from the spool.
Flame curl, blue-consuming the log it flares from.
Bay leaf. Oak leaf. Cricket. One among many.
Your life will carry you as it did always,
with ten fingers and both palms,
with horizontal ribs and upright spine,
with its filling and emptying heart,
that wanted only your own heart, emptying, filled, in return.
You gave it. What else could you do?
Immersed in air or in water.
Immersed in hunger or anger.
Curious even when bored.
Longing even when running away.
“What will happen next?”—
the question hinged in your knees, your ankles,
in the in-breaths even of weeping.
Strongest of magnets, the future impartial drew you in.
Whatever direction you turned toward was face to face.
No back of the world existed,
no unseen corner, no…
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Waiting for the Karma Truck 