An Abundance of Caution

For some strange reason, my pals get a kick out of suggesting titles for my blogs. A few weeks ago, a dear friend offered this one, and I mulled it over for a while. Today, I figured out why it’s the perfect title for my Christmas Eve post.

This year, out of “an abundance of caution” I’m spending Christmas Eve with those in my Pandemic 2020 “bubble”-- my husband, our eldest son, and his wife. Missing are my middle son and his wife, my youngest son, my brother, my sister-in law, my nephew, and on Xmas Day the aforementioned as well as additional aunts, uncles and a niece. For the first time in 20 years—since my mother’s passing—I’m not making all the traditional holiday foods and hosting the extended family. I'm skipping the fruit salad with whipped cream (a hold-over from days of yore), and there will be no sparkling cider or mixed nuts in shells because I plum forgot to order them online. How sad.

            

And yet we are--knock on wood--still healthy ten months into this mess. And universe willing, we will be here to celebrate next year…because of an abundance of caution that tells us that no matter what we do, or who we spend the holidays with, we want to follow the yogic pledge of ahimsa: non-harming.

            

But what about…throwing caution to the wind? What about the abandonment of fear, trusting in the Divine, what about just saying, “Eat, drink and be merry….for tomorrow...” Well, you probably know the rest of that quote.

            

I like to throw caution to the wind sometimes. Kick off my shoes and jump into the deep water. Drive just a tad too fast. Stay up too late. Get on an airplane even though I’m scared to fly. Just say, “Who cares?“ or “Whatever!” Or, well...wtf.

            

I’ve always been one to err on the side of caution, though, and these times seem perfect for that approach. I feel sorry for folks who are used to throwing caution to the wind, folks who live with wild, untamed abandon, because this is a tough time to be doing that. Not so much because they might get hurt, but because they might cause someone they love to lose their very life.

            

These are the oddest of times, and the most bizarre and sacred of Christmas seasons, even though many of us are not where we want to be, and not with all--or possibly any--of the people we want to be with. This holiday season, more than perhaps any other, I’m steeped in gratitude. And I’m acutely aware of the blessings I’ve enjoyed most of my life. I’m deeply aware of how much my family means to me and this Christmas, more than any other, I understand that caring for others is the most important act we can do on earth.

            

And so, out of an abundance of caution, this will be a lonely but quiet, reflective, and responsible Christmas. My heart aches because it’s different, because I can’t be with or hug all my kids (though I'm lucky indeed to have one I can see in person) and because it feels like time is lost, never to be retrieved. But I know time is also gained, in the sense that what really matters to us is now crystal clear, and hopefully after this year of painful lessons we will never "waste" time ever again. 

            

They say there’s a season for everything, and though it’s not in the Bible or in a song by the Byrds (that I know of) I believe there’s a season for an abundance of caution, as well as a time to throw caution to the wind. For sure, this year has proven that there is, as the scripture says, “...a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing.” Nevertheless-- without hugs or kisses--I wish you all a beautiful holiday, and a healthy, triumphant New Year.

 

 

 

The Year the Ordinary Became Wonderful

The title of this blog was suggested to me by my very best friend. She had no idea what I might write about, but she thought this title sounded like something that might inspire me. It did--and so does she. 

    My friend F and I met many years ago in college in upstate New York. She was my “suite” mate my freshman year, and she was just one year ahead of me. I was in awe of F: She had a pet white rat named Eugene, whom she was babysitting from the psych lab, she had beautiful black hair down to her waist, and a singing voice so deep and lustrous I couldn’t believe it. But most of all, of all her many attributes, was her sense of humor. F could make me laugh like no one else. She was and is the funniest friend I’ve ever had.

     Our friendship has lasted through the deaths of four parents, through the births of four sons (she has one, I have three), through career ups and downs, good moods and bad moods, weight losses and gains, mothering conundrums, and everything else one might expect. In the past we have had many, many meetings, shared vacations together, attended our sons’ weddings (her boy’s on Zoom just this Spring), shared illnesses including breast cancer for both of us, and so much more. There’s little that F doesn’t know about me, and I suspect little that I don’t know about her. We have guarded and treasured our secrets for decades.

 

    During the Covid-19 Pandemic, F and I have talked weekly on the phone, attended a weekly online chair yoga class together, and kept in touch with emails and text messages. We haven’t been able to meet in person, though, because of Covid worries and our concern for one another’s health and wellbeing. Nearly two hours apart, F has been in her “bubble” and I’ve been in mine, each of us burrowing into our own lives, but keeping our lines of communication open. A few times over the past few months F has mentioned to me that she’s getting worried about not getting out of the house enough. So, when I went on a trip upstate to check in on an elderly relative, I suggested that F and I meet in a parking lot just off the Thru-Way on my drive home. She agreed!

 

    Last week, we stood six feet apart, no masks, outside, and basked in each other’s laughter. We shared funny stories, disappointments, problems, and triumphs. She showed me how long her now-gray hair has gotten—still thick and beautiful just as it was when she was nineteen years old. Our hearts were full of love as we stood under the sun on a breezy day, gratefully enjoying the real, live, vision of one another. 

 

    It was in those moments that F came up with the title of this blog: The Year the Ordinary Became Wonderful. In truth, there has never been an “ordinary” moment that I’ve ever spent with F (even grocery shopping with F is an adventure; after all, she taught me how to make onion and mayonnaise sandwiches when the fridge was empty in college and we had the munchies at 3 a.m.). Our moments—and if you have a best friend you know what I mean—are always special.

    In the year 2020, however, nothing is taken for granted. Whether hugging our kids who live in distant cities, having tea with a neighbor, getting a haircut, or shopping in a store… we’ve all become aware of how unique, vital and blessed our no longer “ordinary moments” and human connections truly are. I look forward to the day when F and I can hug in person; in the meantime, I’ll treasure whatever wondrously "ordinary" gifts the Universe sends our way. 

 

 

Long, Lost Friend

When my husband and I first bought a small house on a tiny property in New Jersey 30-plus years ago I had two main objectives: To get my hands in the soil and plant tomatoes, and to raise a family. I did both. But over the years I lost touch with the soil.  

          When our three boys were little I spent hours in the backyard before cell phones and video games. The backyard was our refuge along with local parks; we had our own sand box and swing set and a glorious apple tree that succumbed to disease one year and a mulberry tree that fell over in a hurricane. The apple tree was the perfect place to search for a six-year-old who’d gone missing. I could always find him there or on the top of the two-car garage in the rear of the yard which we use to store junk since there is no pavement leading to it (now grown, this particular son likes indoor rock climbing).

            Our yard is less than a quarter of an acre, but from the onset it was filled with treasures, not the least of which was an expansive blackberry patch. When we first moved in from New York City, I had no idea what that pile of bramble was, and considered digging it up. Come May however, it burst into bloom, and every July since the delight of fresh blackberry pie outweighs the aggravation of summer baking.

            Our yard has been home to praying mantises (sadly, I don’t see them any more), cicadas, small snakes, slugs –particularly the year I planted zucchini—cardinals, bluejays, woodpeckers and many other birds. Woodchucks come and go, as does the occasional rabbit. My first year here I called my father wondering if there was a badger in the yard—he laughed at that idea. We’ve also had the occasional skunk and opossum. Deer have come to visit but only twice in 30 years.

            Every year I planted tomatoes (until recently) and one summer I planted lettuce, eggplant, cucumbers, broccoli and a pumpkin or two. We spent hours in the sandbox until the boys grew too big for it and I had a modest deck built instead. We have lilies of the valley, lilacs, violets and wild roses (one would think I live on an estate!). We have four pear trees—each producing a slightly different kind of pear. (One variety is so tiny the squirrels feast on the fruit before fully ripened, mischievously throwing the chewed remnants onto the deck below.) When the kids were little they filled toy wagons with the larger pears to distribute to the neighbors (with the warning to watch out for worms as they were never sprayed).

            For years this yard was my haven, our place to play and swim in a plastic pool, to shoot water guns, blow bubbles, and run through the sprinkler, to dig and get our hands in the earth. And then one day the kids got too big and cool to play outside and their mom—aka me—retreated to my computer…where I’m sad to say, I remained for many, many years, only venturing into the yard from time to time to sit on the deck and sip a coffee, or to pick a few flowering sprigs. My husband mowed the lawn and trimmed the hedges (a bit grudgingly, I might add, since I'd agreed the yard would be my realm and responsibility).

            This year during the pandemic it all changed. I was called by some primal force to return to my yard. I’ve spent hours during this time getting to know this old friend again…lamenting the loss of some of my former companions (the phlox have completely disappeared, and I  detected only one white violet this spring), but miraculously discovering things I didn’t realize were there, like five small wild plum trees in a row that might have been mistaken for weeds had I been paying attention, but instead are now already three or four feet tall. 

            Because I was in my yard this spring, I noticed that the ivy was taking over the blackberries so I cut it back and now will have a bumper crop of berries. I cleared one neglected area behind the deck and ordered packets of wildflower seeds which are now sprouting due to attentive watering. 

            Because I’ve been home and not running about I noticed trees that needed pruning and called an arborist. The removal of dead branches gave way for new growth on the aging pear trees. The tiny sapling (a pine) I planted 30 years ago now towers high into the sky, and the ornamental plum tree I planted after the apple tree was felled has revived after a bout with some fungus. 

            This year, I’ve sat on my deck in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the early evening, listening to birds and watching the buds turn to leaves on the trees. My shoes have been caked with mud, my hands have been blistered from raking, and my back has ached each night as I’ve crawled into bed.

 I’ve reunited with this yard as if it is a long, lost friend I haven’t seen in decades. Indeed, that’s exactly the case. And just like a dear old friend, my yard has welcomed me back into its arms, as if I’d never even left. I hope--as long as I'm on this earth--we will never be parted again.

Peeps, Beans, and Other Surprises

I meant to write this blog on Easter, but in the season of Covid-19 (I wish this was the name of a cocktail combining cognac and vodka instead of what it is) time got away from me. Or should I say there seems to be both a plethora of time and no time at all, apparently the result of following an altered routine that includes too many nights of interrupted sleep as well as too many naps.

            My prose wanders, as the point of this blog was to write about jelly beans. This was the first in many years that I had none in the house on Easter Sunday. My father made a huge deal of having a jelly bean hunt every Easter and this was a tradition I carried on with my kids. He would sprinkle jelly beans up and down the stairs to my bedroom, and all around the house on window sills and chairs (needless to say some were indeed rather dusty). This never mattered to me, nor did it to my three sons who used to race around the house, elbowing and kicking each other to find all the bunny’s hiding places. My dad was famous in the family for this ritual.

            In the Jewish tradition, I’m told, there is also some searching for the hidden prize –a piece of matzo known as the afikomen. 

            Anyway. In the time of Covid-19 I did not think ahead to order or purchase any jelly beans and I found myself not only without my grown sons visiting (they still like a chocolate rabbit and a few beans strewn about), but also with nothing sweet to celebrate with except a package of Peeps (which I detest) that my husband had picked up at Aldi’s the day before the sheltering commenced. I usually dye Easter eggs as well, so in the early morning I scuffled into my basement searching for the plastic bag that contains my Easter decorations. Often, there are a few tablets of dye left over from the year before, but alas, the bag was nowhere to be found. I resorted to taking a gel pen to some brown eggs. The result was not impressive.

            But all was not lost! The point of the jelly bean hunt was not just to fill one’s basket with candy, but also to relish the feeling of surprise and delight when a bean was found in an unexpected place (in a shoe, for instance, or tucked into an empty coffee cup). Instead… Easter morning revealed that unbeknownst to me on a dusty shelf in the rear of my cellar there were three—yes,  three—cans of Lysol. What a gift! This is a product that I would never willingly purchase under normal circumstances, and I have no idea where these cans came from. My hunch, however, is that one of my sons had them at college (have you ever stepped into a young man's dorm room?) and stashed them there on a visit home.

            Lysol! Poison in most circumstances in my opinion, but gold in a Covid crisis. Having no disinfectants in my home—and with the stores depleted of the stuff--this was truly a find.

            Later in the day, my husband and I ventured into our backyard to pull weeds and rake some leaves. We spent several hours in the sun, enjoying the fresh air. Minutes after I came inside to make tea my husband followed, holding another treasure. Under a pine tree on the side of our house he had discovered a small green stone the shape of an egg. Again, my suspicion is that one of our kids had buried it there in bygone years and it had just made it to the surface. So, on Easter Sunday we did find an egg--though not a jelly bean (and certainly not edible). Nevertheless, we experienced the comforting delight of finding something pleasant or useful in an unexpected place.

            Naturally, I segued in my mind from the Lysol cans and egg-shaped stone to other unexpected gifts that this horrid Covid experience has offered. I won’t recount them here, because I'm rather tired of Pollyanna-ish lists when so many are suffering. But I have heard of joy from many unexpected quarters…I have also heard from a number of folks who are  treasuring their time at home with family, and that they are re-thinking many things, and planning for a brighter, more authentic future.

            You never really know where you might find a jelly bean.

            

Something's Fishy

A few weeks ago, before the world turned upside down, I noticed that I was running around a lot. My comings and goings had become so intense that one day, looking around my living room at all my coats, scarves and sweaters thrown on chairs, boots and shoes by the doorway, and piles of papers on the table, I actually began talking to my goldfish in despair. (Truthfully, my son’s goldfish, but we’ve been Arnold’s adoptive parents for many years now.) From his tank, I felt almost as if our goldfish was wagging his fin at me…giving me a sign of sorts…warning in his fishy way, that I needed—nay, that I would soon be forced—to slow down.

It occurred to me in that prescient moment that Arnold the fish must wonder what the hell I’ve been so busy doing. He must have been thinking: “Why is the door constantly, slamming open and shut? Why does this couple disappear for days at a time (causing me to miss a few of my regular meals), and why do they move so swiftly in and out of the house, constantly in a rush? Why is she always searching for her keys or losing her sneakers under the table?”

I thought to myself in that moment, that Arnold --who habitually swims leisurely during the day and retires to the bottom left hand corner of the tank every night at around 9 p.m. to sleep until 7 a.m.-- must think I’m nuts. “Yes, Arnold,” I said aloud, “we are running around a lot. Your life actually makes a lot more sense than ours sometimes.”

Well! Little did I know that just two weeks later Arnold and I would be so simpatico. Now, the door opens only twice during the day; when my husband goes out to take his run, and when I step out to take my walk. The clutter is gradually disappearing from the living room. There are a lot of hours when Arnold and I are together: he’s nearby when I roll out my yoga mat, when I read my books, even when I turn on the news. We’re spending many, many quality hours together, Arnold, my husband, and I. 

Arnold has been swimming in his tank for close to ten years. Universe willing, we won’t be confined for that long! But my fish is a beautiful reminder that life doesn’t have to move at such a fast pace. In fact, as we adjust to all the myriad changes this unwanted virus has brought to our days, I rather envy Arnold; for him, life goes on as per usual--quite swimmingly, as he might say.

The White Rose

It’s said that you can’t change anyone, but people do change. Decades ago, for instance, I was a young lady working in Manhattan. On my way home from my office in midtown, often after 7 p.m., I might stop at the local liquor store and pick up a bottle of wine, then stand in my strappy high heels waiting for the light to change on 171st  Street, and light up a cigarette. 

            My husband was a classical street musician. With his quintet, he played for cash strewn into an open instrument case in front of a store on Fifth Avenue. We were often “ships passing in the night,” and in those long-ago days, my main concern was my career at a magazine.

 I wasn’t a nasty woman (I was especially kind to my aging parents, whom I adored).  But I wasn’t exactly easy to live with. My mate (a very private dude), was highly critical of my behavior; he was judgmental, and didn’t smoke, drink, or dance (aside from an occasional  waltz). Our marriage was rocky; it crashed up on the rocks now and then but miraculously survived.

            Flash forward a few decades: I’m a yoga teacher, my husband is a successful musician, and we’re the parents of three grown sons. Rarely do we argue, though we sometimes disagree. Because of my New Age-y pastime, I routinely do things that the husband of yore would have scorned. Just the other night, for instance, I was awaiting a visit from some angels (having signed up for an angel visit via an angel chain letter too complex to explain here) and I was setting up my altar in preparation. I’d had a busy day, and didn’t have time to obtain the requisite white flower to welcome the beings. I bemoaned this fact aloud.

            “I’ll get the flower for you,” my husband volunteered. “What kind would you like?”
            “Any white flower will do,” I said gratefully. He sprinted off to the local florist and returned with a lovely white rose.

            At precisely 10:30 p.m. that night I was supposed to let the angels in the front door. (Yes, that sounds nuts, but can you actually prove that angels can fly through metal?) 

“Are you coming up to bed?” my husband asked.

            “Um…I have to do something first.”

            “Oh, that’s right.” He smiled conspiratorially and headed up the stairs without further comment.

            Throughout the years, my husband and I have both changed. We learned how to parent, though we were clueless when our first child was born. We learned to fight, and we learned to forgive. We fought off cancer and grieved the death of parents; we watched two kids get married. We learned to laugh with instead of at one another (well, mostly!) and to accept each other’s likes/dislikes with tolerance instead of nasty derision (he: Mel Brooks/pop music; me: angels/anchovies…among other things). In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined the easygoing man he has become, and in his wildest hallucinations he would never have conjured up a mantra-chanting Kundalini yoga teacher.

The critical young musician I married would have said angels were a crock. That snarky girl on the corner would have heartily agreed. Clearly, we’ve both evolved, but what matters most is not whether my mate believes in angels (doubtful) but whether he honors my belief. His respectful offer of the white rose tells me he does. 

Often, we insist that the traits that most annoy us about our beloved will never change, but life itself is change, so why be so sure? Happy Valentine’s Day to all, and may your love grow deeper, wiser, and more surprising each day.