When Death Happens

In my dream he died suddenly. I got the call and dropped what I was doing. The dog ate my dinner as I made plane reservations. My ex-boyfriend's father gave advice on a memorial service (it's for those left behind, not him...) I flew home and met with the funeral director, a high school classmate, and he guided me through the obituary. I blame him for my forgetting to mention my uncles or grandfather (their stepfather). 

I knew he wanted cremation. I knew he did not want a memorial service. He wanted a party. He got all three. In my dream there is more to deal with. There are memories and conversations and physical reminders of a life far removed from those we live today. Lives, really, thrown in different directions and memories barely recognized by any of us. In my dream our mother is there and she reconciles and reassures and returns to her new life. We squabble briefly over items representative of our childhood, and compromise. 

It's too much. I take the car for a farewell drive. The spring flowers reject the notion of death, and death smirks. There is no good time for a father to die. There is no good way to call your friends, hear their joy that you're home, and delete their joy with the news of why. In my dream the service is surreal. I cry like I've never known I could. The minister didn't know him, doesn't know us. None of us speak. When we stand to receive the attendees I'm overwhelmed. All our friends are there. And a man who served in the Navy and saw the obit in the local paper. I knew your father, he said. I had to come. We return to what will soon no longer be our house for a party. It's similar to many other parties, he's just not there. But he would have enjoyed it. Stories and laughter. Surreal reality. 

In my dream I'm in my bed, in my room, in my neighborhood, and I can't sleep. I read. I talk to an old boyfriend. We briefly reconnect. He's very supportive. In my dream I let hope creep in. In my dream I realize I have to wake up. My life is elsewhere, I have a job, an apartment, pets. In my dream I fly 'home' and try to resume where my life had been paused. It's very difficult to wake up from a dream. 

Mile Marker 104

Mile Marker 104

It’s a part of life:

The co-worker’s mother,

A friend’s father,

An acquaintance’s wife,

And his brother,

The neighbor’s dog.

But at mile marker 104,

That still, furry body struck

A deep sadness in my heart.

No one to hug, no one to console,

Nowhere to direct my grief.

Between 104 and 106, hold on

To it, out of respect.

Then, forgotten. 

Good Friday 1986

I think more than any other day of the year, I remember our father on Good Friday. That was the day he died in 1986. I had spent the day at Galveston Beach with my friend Beth, and had just finished preparing my dinner when the phone rang. I was talking to my mom (in Florida) when another call clicked in...my sister, calling from Norfolk with the news. Meanwhile my dog had consumed my dinner, which I'd carelessly set down when all this started happening. The rest of the evening was spent talking to my ex-boyfriend, his father (a United Church of Christ minister), and airlines. I don't remember who took care of my dog and cat while I was in Virginia, I don't remember contacting work to let them know I wouldn't be in the next week. I don't remember the flight to Virginia or how I got to our home on Tallwood Street. I do remember calling friends, hearing them go from excitement that I was home to sadness when they learned why. I remember taking the '76 Pontiac Catalina for a farewell drive, noticing the beauty of a Norfolk spring as I drove through familiar yet oddly strange childhood settings. I remember the outpouring of love and support from so very many people, and the unstoppable tears after the very impersonal memorial service, as our family stood to receive what turned out to be a packed house. I remember the man who approached us and said he had known our father 20 years previous in the Navy, and saw the obituary and 'had to come'. I remember thinking how pleased Dad would have been about that, as he loved his service in the Navy and the friendships he made during that time. So, even though Good Friday is a moving date and rarely falls on the actual anniversary of Dad's death, it is on Good Friday each year that the memories of the day he died come back to me. He missed out on so much, and I will always be sad for that. But I have good memories of a man who had a zest for live, drank too much, trusted too easily, and never stopped loving our mother, despite their split and subsequent divorce. He was my biggest fan. He had his faults. But on Good Friday I remember the good things, and the things he missed, and the fact that I never really said goodbye. So on this Good Friday, 28 years later...goodbye, Dad. We love you and miss you and know you're still bursting with pride over all of us.

Strip Tease

Peaking from behind the shroud,

The world functions around me…

Without me.

Peaking from behind the shroud,

Glimmers of things I cared about,

Things that made me smile.

Peaking from behind the shroud,

An exotic dancer,

Teasing back towards ‘normal’.

Peaking from behind the shroud,

Wondering how long it will take

For the shroud to lift, or fall away.

Peaking from behind the shroud,

Straining to see beyond the darkness,

To see a morning of simple tasks.

Peaking from behind the shroud,

The dance comes slowly to a close…

The shroud drifts to the floor.

Stuck in the Middle

Middle age
Middle class
Middle of the road...
Mid-life crisis?
Mid-range, mid-term
Middle income
Middle muddle...
Monkey in the middle
Monkey mind
Stuck in the middle.

Grandpa "Bob" Palmer July 8, 1920 -- October 4, 2013

A.M. was born on July 8, 1920 and passed away on Friday, October 4, 2013.

A.M. was a resident of Laguna Woods, California.

How is it even possible that a person's life can be condensed down to two sentences? I think more than the sadness over my grandfather's passing and the fact that I was in California this past summer and tried to see him but was unable to, I am deeply saddened that, in the end, those are the only two sentences that I have found acknowledging his passing.

Grandpa Palmer (Bob...not sure how Bob came from the initials A.M., but that is how he was addressed...Bob Palmer) was stepfather to my dad and his brothers. I know little about how he came to be married to my grandmother. What I do know is that he was devoted to her and, by association, to her family. He had a soothing manner, slow and methodical in all he did; he had a deep, calming voice, and he told stories. He loved words...spoken or written...and when my grandmother became ill, he kept a detailed journal of every minute, and he would send it to all of us scattered across the country, so we would know what was happening. It is my deep regret that I did not keep his writings...the journal during grandma's illness, his Christmas letters...because as it turns out, there is little left from his life with grandma or his association with the Izykowski family to remember him by. After some probing, my uncle (the last living of the three sons of my grandmother) was able to obtain one box of items that Grandpa Palmer had managed to keep. This is striking to me, as my grandfather kept *everything*...it took him years and years to leave the home he and grandma had shared, and I remember thinking how unhealthy it was for him to hold onto everything in that house. And then after both my Uncle Bobby and my father passed, I remember writing to Grandpa, asking if there might be anything from all that he had kept over the years pertaining to my father that I might have. But he never responded to that request. By this time he had buried a second love in his life, Alice, who had died due to complications from Alzheimer's, and he was living with his most recent significant other. She had a different view on the Izykowski family, and never warmed up to any of our attempts to keep in touch with Grandpa. I can only imagine that it was during this time that so many things Grandpa had held onto slipped away...now sitting on a shelf in a Goodwill store, or some other thrift shop, or worse, in a landfill.

Grandpa was an extremely intelligent man who worked 40 plus years for Union 76; he planned his retirement in detail, as he did everything (I remember little notebooks he kept and wrote in constantly, always handy in his breast pocket, when they would come to visit us in New York or Virginia from California.) He had a warm smile, a compassionate heart, and a patience like I've never known in an individual. He suffered for years with cataracts, enduring surgeries and finally losing sight in one eye, and yet continued to appreciate the blessings in life. He was always incorporating quotes in his letters to family, and never failed to acknowledge snippets of news we had sent to him in our letters. He was supportive and generous with wisdom he had gained over the years, while never coming off as judgmental or critical.

The one memory that always sticks in my head of grandpa, is driving around Orange County, CA, after dinner in one of those classic L.A. area restaurants...palm trees and a fountain with colored lights and the neon cocktail sign outside. Grandpa would drive slowly, his soothing voice droning on about this place or that, his knowledge of the history of the area was amazing, and I remember being in the back seat and feeling drowsy and content and safe...grandpa's voice and the slow, low click-click-click of the station wagon's blinker lulling me to sleep as we wound our way home.

Rest in peace, Grandpa. I hope you know how much we loved, respected, and appreciated you.

October Presence

What a gift I was given yesterday. Rebecca and her friend missed the train home, so I found myself heading south on Route 17 at 6 p.m. on a Friday. Not your idea of a gift? Well, I'd barely gotten on the road, when I spotted a beautiful prism in the sky, over Shannon Airport. Soon, the entire sky was painted with hues of pink gray and blue. As I drove on, I suddenly noticed the moon peek up over the horizon. As she climbed higher, she seemed to be contemplating the gorgeous display the sun was making off to the west, and the golds and greens of the fields going fallow at her feet. As I passed through a section of tree covered road, an owl gently swooped in front of me from treeline to treeline, presumably starting the evening hunt. I came out of the trees and resumed my tracking of the moon, framing one photo after another in my mind but not stopping to take any of them. My favorite was the moon on the far right, the fields golden below, the pinks and grays off to the left, and a flock of geese moving across the panorama. Suddenly, out of nowhere, two bald eagles appeared just above me, tracking along the road. They almost seemed computer generated...their heads moving slowly left to right, their wings beating slow and steady, as if to say, "The way is clear, safe travels." Finally the sun set, but the moon continued her show. As I came through Tappahannock, I could see the light display on the Rappahannock, broken bits of light on the gentle swells of water. Periodically, to her left or to her right, I would spy a triangular shape in the sky, almost portal-like, with a glow from within and one side appearing to be a night rainbow, another prism lighting the way. I half expected something to come shooting out of those portals, they were so mythical looking. I finally arrived at CNU, feeling as though I had just been treated to a very special show, and in complete awe of what I'd seen.

So, even though my night didn't end up being anything close to what I planned, I am so very grateful for the gifts nature gave me on a cool and beautiful October night.

Enough

Did I do enough? That is the question that keeps bouncing around in my brain.

As parents, we spend a good portion of our lives 'preparing' our kids to go out and be citizens of this world. Ideally, we have given them all the tools they need to make sound choices and bring a level of maturity and responsibility to the endeavors that follow graduating high school.

And yet here I sit, worried that I haven't done enough. Was I present enough, was I involved enough, have I given Rebecca enough opportunity to grow and mature and develop? I feel a sudden sense of panic that I could have done better. This is where I have to trust that I have indeed done enough. And trust my daughter to go out and do what she needs to do to finish the job we started together.

And just as I have made mistakes over the past 18 years, she will make mistakes. And I have to trust that she will recognize the lesson and move forward. And hopefully she won't second guess or beat herself up, like her mother does.

This is the part where I have to know that, wherever I am, wherever she is, wherever we may be in this journey, we are enough. Even on the days when we feel our worst, we are enough. Every day we can strive to be our best selves, whatever 'best' is that day, and that is enough.

Godspeed, Rebecca. Letting go is going to be harder than I thought, but you have my trust that whatever comes your way, you have enough of what it takes to meet it head on. Even if that 'enough' is just reaching out to someone and asking for help, that will be enough. Go out and be your best self, and that will be MORE than enough.

Blowing in the Wind

Today I experienced a beautiful music service at the UU in Fredericksburg. And while I could go on about the music and the musicians, that's not why I'm writing this. I'm writing this because of a window. A circular window above the stage area where the musicians were playing. My eye was continually drawn to that window or, more specifically, the trees outside that window. I took a little journey into the past.

For as long as can I remember, I have found staring out a window at trees a meditative experience. I remember doing it in the den in our last family home in Norfolk, Virginia. It was an addition, on the back of the house, and overlooked a sloped backyard that ended in a small creek. Directly opposite was an almost identical creek and another neighborhood with similar sloping backyards behind those homes. I would sit on the couch for the longest time, just watching the lives of people I didn't know, and stare at the movement of the trees.



And for some reason, it brought a sense of timelessness to me. No matter what was going on in my life, those trees stood through the seasons, dancing slowly or bending dramatically with the changes in weather. I would feel a sense of melancholy, knowing that I wouldn't always have the chance to sit in that spot and age along with those trees.

Many years later, a childhood friend's father died. After the service, we all went back to her family home, as her parents had never left the neighborhood. As we were sitting in the living room, telling and listening to stories about her father, our families, our growing up, our children, I found myself staring out the front window at the trees. My heart lurched, realizing these trees were the same ones I'd walked past, rode my bike (and later drove) past, stared at when hanging out with my friend in that very room. A huge wave of melancholy again swept over me, and yet also a feeling of immense gratitude.

As we move through our lives, there will be moments like this. Moments that impress upon us the timelessness and yet mortality of living on this earth. And as I sat in that room at UU this morning, listening to the lyrics of CSNY, Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, Richard Thompson, I stared at those trees and felt a deep calm. I returned to that couch in that house on Tallwood Street, and felt the deep sense of my place in the world that I had as a young teen all those years ago. All the stress and pressures of living dissipated as I watched the trees bend and dance to music they couldn't hear, yet somehow understood better than I could ever hope to. I felt again that deep sense of melancholy mixed with gratitude. And I smiled. What a gift to have that little journey back in time, and to reconnect with that young lady I was, on the brink of a life I couldn't imagine.

Spring Snow

Winter pauses spring,
Maple and forsythia
At the ready, waiting.
Cardinals, juncos and finches
Flit and feast,
Instinct trumps weather.

Like Dark Chocolate

Like Dark Chocolate

We come into this world,
Crying and demanding,
Instinctively knowing what we want…
Sustenance, comfort, warmth, and rest.
We move through life in the same way,
Striving for the goodness life has to offer,
Accepting the bitter as a
Natural byproduct of the sweet,
Like dark chocolate.

Deep Inside

The feeling inside,
the one that I've always had.
Is it possible this is and
always has been depression?

Or is it possible, the feeling inside...
is just me...feeling.
How do we know who we really are?
Am I this feeling?

Hard to describe, this feeling;
melancholy...sadness...loneliness...
yearning...but over what?
And does this feeling define me?

How much of ourselves do we accept
as simply innateness?
How much of what we feel, deep inside,
since childhood, simply just is us?

So much brings me joy...nature,
love of family and friends, and yet there,
deep inside, is that feeling...
I think I should get to know me better.

The Hedgehog

“They didn't recognize me," I repeat. He stops in turn, my hand still on his arm. "It is because they have never seen you," he says. "I would recognize you anywhere.” ―

Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

This is what love for humanity is for me. Because there really are no true enemies or 'others'. We are all on this journey together, and it is in seeing each other, really seeing, that we allow compassion, empathy, and love to flow from us to them. I'm grateful for those in my life who 'see' me. And I endeavor to work harder at 'seeing' others.

(I highly recommend Barery's book, and the movie that followed, The Hedgehog, for more wonderful gems like the one above.)

My search for images of a hedgehog led me here, and this line jumped out at me: "Hedgehogs teach the value of friendship with those who are different from you." All of my life I have had friends of all types, and a variety of different persuasions of religion, politics, or backgrounds, points of view, and vastly different experiences. I'm the person that maintains friendships for decades, honoring the connection to my past as well as the lessons learned over the years, and open to what we might be able to learn from each other to this day (the decades long friendship with my childhood friend, Rani, is a good case in point.) I credit this in part to moving around a lot in a Navy family, both as a child and as an adult.

I have almost always been able to find value in each person I meet, even if I don't necessarily agree with them about one thing or another (or a lot of things...) I realize that this is what makes it difficult for me when someone cuts me out of their life. Where I accept differences and disagreements as a natural part of being in relationships with others, some people feel more comfortable cutting out those people who rub them the wrong way or present a different perspective or point of view. Not everyone wants to bridge the gap, but rather prefer to burn the bridge. I have always found this difficult to accept. I prefer to have a conversation and clear the air, because I value people in my life. I realize that we, all of us, when confronted with a difficult relationship, are often responding to an aspect of ourselves we see in others. We choose to acknowledge that aspect of ourselves and, in doing so, accept it in both us and them; or, we deny relationship with that other, and in doing so, dishonor that part of ourselves.

Funny how a prickly little animal and a book led to this train of thought. Thanks, hedgehog.

Fashion Matters

So, recently I posted the following photo on Facebook. Supposedly it is meant to illustrate the differences in values of the two women, based on the cost of their outfits.

Understandably, a friend's response was, "WTF difference does it make what they were wearing?" And the answer, of course, should be that it shouldn't matter. And I've been thinking about it ever since. What is the obsession with first ladies' (or potential first ladies) styles, and what difference (if any) does it make?

My brief search on First Lady Fashion (FLF from here on out...) reveals a long history of following what they were wearing. Indeed, society columns 'then and now' made a point of describing in detail the clothing of the ladies of the time at various high society events. Yes,the ladies. Men's fashion really doesn't change that much, although these days men on the red carpet at the Academy Awards do get asked, "Who are you wearing tonight?" Still, it remains true that it's what the ladies are wearing that we really pay attention to.

FLF has a place in history...specifically, the National Museum of American History. But why does it matter? From the NMAH site: "Clothing, especially on mannequins, can give a sense of a person’s physical presence. It helps make even the most distant historical figure feel closer. Clothing and accessories illustrate the personal style of a first lady or the official style of a presidential administration. And they can represent the events to which they were worn—from inaugural balls, state dinners, and public appearances to everyday life in the White House." And political conventions.

Right. And you and I both know that a lot of thought goes into the outfits in FLF, for the very reason that the individual wearing the outfit is representing so much. Which brings me back to the above photo and whether or not it really matters what they were wearing. I say yes. And even though I had a difficult time articulating why it matters at the time the photo was circulating, I knew then and I know now, it matters. Because I know that each individual had a strong say in what they wore, who designed it, what colors would be involved, and what statement they wanted to make. In each case, the image presented is a combined result of personal taste and desired reaction.

Whether we like it or not, fashion matters. Fashion represents cultural and fiscal values. "Fashion is born by small facts, trends, or even politics, never by trying to make little pleats and furbelows, by trinkets, by clothes easy to copy, or by the shortening or lengthening of a skirt." (Elsa Schiaparelli) And in politics, like it or not, FLF matters.

To listen to the story that re-sparked my interest in this topic, click here.

A Weight

I continue to shake my head at the discordance between me and the ex. Everything I've done since we split has been in the interest of Rebecca's safety and happiness. Yet I continue to be blamed for his lack of involvement in her life, and apparently I've done a bad job of raising her. Despite this, I encourage her to understand that he does love her, he just has a difficult time expressing it in a way that shows he supports her. Unfortunately, she overhears him and his wife discussing me, which upsets Rebecca. She is so frustrated that she has twice now contemplated out loud the idea of cutting ties with him. I do not, of course, encourage this. I want my daughter to have a healthy relationship with her father. I could over-analyze this for days. But the bottom line is I'm watching Rebecca grow further and further apart from her dad, knowing the full while that he blames me (based on my initiating the split), and knowing that all she really wants from him is his support and approval...the very things that he wanted from his own parents growing up and as an adult, and yet never felt he had. I'm at a loss. There's a heaviness in my heart.

Annoyed, or Guilty?

I'll be the first to admit I am hyper-sensitive to noise, especially in an audience situation. It's a curse. However, I'm realizing this isn't just a personal character flaw.

My daughter and I attended La Cage Au Folles at the Kennedy Center last night (wonderful show!) While perusing the program (after waiting as long as possible to take my seat to avoid loud conversations and seat kickings), I came upon the following guidelines for audience etiquette. It was prefaced by a paragraph claiming that American audiences have a particularly bad rep as audience members. I can only cite my own experiences stateside and can't compare to audiences around the world, but would have to agree that the audiences I've been a part of have a lot to learn about respecting the rights of their fellow patrons. Of the following, I believe 50% were 'violated' during the performance last night:

A Gentle Reminder: Audience DOs and DON'Ts

It is always a good time to be reminded of what it takes to be a good audience member. Reprinted below, by permission of Stagebill, Inc. NY, is a list of audience "Golden Rules" which has appeared time and again in various concert/opera programmes. Observance of these rules guarantees a more enjoyable time at the opera or the concert hall.

ETIQUETTE UPDATE

Here's a refresher course. Please read on, and remember, part of one's pact as an audience member is to take seriously the pleasure of others, a responsibility fulfilled by quietly attentive (or silently inattentive) and self contained behavior. After all, you can be as demonstrative as you want during bows and curtain calls.

GOLDEN RULES

1. Go easy with atomizer; many people are highly allergic to perfume and cologne. (This one was particularly evident last night, and the mixture of scents was at times overpowering!)

2. If you bring a child, make sure etiquette is part of the experience. Children love learning new things. (Not a problem at this show, but often...yes.)

3. Unwrap all candies and cough drops before the curtain goes up or the concert begins. (Oy!! Post intermission, the two women next to me each had a candy bar, and ate them slowly, crinkling the wrappers, licking their fingers. oh.my.god.)

4. Make sure beepers, cellphones and watch alarms are OFF. And don't jangle the bangles. (Didn't hear any ringing or buzzing, but the woman two seats down was looking at her phone at the beginning of the second act, in between bites of her Snickers bar.)

5. The overture is part of the performance. Please cease talking at this point. (Yeah, notsomuch, apparently...)

6. Note to lovebirds: When you lean your heads together, you block the view of the person behind you. Leaning forward also blocks the view. (Same lady with the Snickers bar, kept leaning forward to look through her opera glasses.)

7. THOU SHALT NOT TALK, or hum, or sing along, or beat time with a body part. (At a show like La Cage, some things are a little okay...just don't kick the seat in front of you or block anyone's view!)

8. Force yourself to wait for a pause or intermission before rifling through a purse,backpack, or shopping bag. (Two different ladies behind me got into their purses several times, one needing cough drops -- yes, I always end up sitting in front of a cougher -- and one almost dropped the entire very large bag on my head.)

9. Yes, the parking lot gets busy and public transportation is tricky, but leaving while the show is in progress is discourteous. (Confession: We bolted as soon as we could, but not before the cast appreciation applause ended and the house lights came up.)

10. The old standby: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. (Apparently they would have me behave as if I were at a ballgame, not a musical at the Kennedy Center.)


All this to say that whenever possible, I am buying box seats from now on. Although, at a performance of Anne last December, a woman one box over was enthusiastically enjoying a bag of chips during the second act of this one-woman show. And I glared, several times. She finally put them away.

Sigh.

© 1997 Stagebill , Inc.

God Bless the Moon...

As I noticed the moon greeting us this morning, and the sun just beginning to make its appearance, I commented to Rebecca that this has been one of the prettiest Januarys I can ever remember experiencing in terms of celestial views. The sunrises, sunsets, and recent fullness of the moon have had me looking more often towards the light. And that full moon this morning reminded me of the mockingbird who, in it's zeal for life and living it to the fullest, spreads its joy into the darkest hours and on through to the light of day. We can learn so much about living life through nature.

Thoughtfall

Steps brisk and breaths quick,
The snow whispers soothingly,
Thoughts swirl like flakes.

The Bloggers

This is nothing more than a sharing of what I think is very important writing. This is the importance of words. Of sharing words in blogs. Of breaking silences and unburdening our hearts and minds. This is why I write. And why I read what is written.

Many suffer alone, but we don't have to. Depression and anxiety still carry a stigma. I know that I often feel pressure to be up, out there, happy, and notice that most people just want to hear that I'm fine and feeling better. It isn't always a simple "snap out of it" fix, and it's important that others know that. Anyhow, I'm grateful for blogs like this, and this. Very, very grateful.

Turds

Forgive them, and release them with love, she said.
I imagine setting them adrift at sea, like a rudderless
boat, or...
turds.

Everyone deserves love, all of us. Be happy
for those who find it. Wish them well, wish them joy,
wish them...
turds.

All people have good in them. We can't know their
whole story. They too have their troubles, their woes.
Forgive them...
turds.

My mind goes places I don't want it to.
It brings up memories, faces, words.
So when my mind betrays me, I imagine
nice, round, warm...
turds, drifting away on an endless sea.