Meet Me on the Corner

I've been thinking of my father lately; one night I was remembering how he used to meet me on the corner when I walked home from my best friend’s house after dark. If I could define the word “safety” it would be that moment when I would spy my father under the street lamp waiting. I would call from Beth’s house just as I was leaving, at nine, ten or maybe 11 o’clock, depending upon my age, and say, “Leaving.”  Then I would scoot out her front door and confront the dark, empty street, either walking or on my bike, and by the time I got to the corner, there Dad would be, often smoking his pipe. Never, ever, did he let me down. 

            Nothing  sinister or dangerous ever happened, and probably never would have, because Schenectady, NY,  in those days was pretty safe, and my street and Beth’s were quiet. But Dad was no fool and being linked into the court system as the director of probation he knew that crimes did occur even in safe neighborhoods where we didn’t even lock our doors (at least, not during the day). 

             No matter what he was doing he dropped it to escort me safely home, and he never told me he couldn’t meet me, or denied me the fun of going to Beth’s house to hang out with my friend, or was too drunk to get to the corner (the man did not drink, except maybe a tiny glass of port or a cold beer on a hot day though I don’t even remember that), or too tired, or too anything, and he never sighed or sounded exasperated or annoyed, and he was always, always there to answer the phone. The message was that I was a VIP. And there is no better, no more important message for a little girl (or a teenaged girl, or maybe a girl of any age) to receive from her father.

This is not to say we didn’t have our issues, particularly during my teen years when I started wearing mini-skirts and white lipstick. My dad didn’t seem to know what to do with my budding sexuality, so he withdrew for a few years, looking a bit disgusted and disgruntled when I’d dress for a date. In due time he relaxed a bit; not only did I acquire a steady boyfriend, but the late sixties and early seventies were a time of baggy painter pants and construction boots. He couldn’t very well disapprove of that, though I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled with the braless part. Ironically, it was my proper and gentlemanly dad who accompanied me to buy my very first bra, standing uncomfortably in the ladies’ loungewear department of our local department store when I was in fourth grade, because my mother was bedridden with a slipped disc just when all the girls in my class were getting their first bras (clearly, few of us actually needed them).  He stood there like a trooper, while I marched up to the counter and bought what I desired; a little piece of stretchy cotton called a training bra. My parents never discussed sex with me, though my mother did hand me a pamphlet about menstruation when I was 12.

            Times were different. I never heard my parents utter a single swear word (my children learned a host of expletives from me early on in life!). I did once hear my father bellow “Son of a B!” as he raced through our house and out the back door in his pajamas (I think there may have been a stray dog or a raccoon in our backyard).  Beth and I had a good laugh over that for years. His code words for caution were simply, “Hey-hey!” Basically that either meant “Watch out!” or “Stop it right now!” The odd little word-combo had power: I never even considered ignoring it.

            It’s decades now since my father passed, and I still miss him. Happy Father’s Day to all fathers; I hope you know how truly important you are. 

 

Mysteries of Trees

 

I’m sure there’s an un-magical explanation for almost everything in the Universe, but sometimes I prefer to conjure up my own meaning. Take the case of five plum trees that mysteriously appeared in my backyard one day. No one planted them. They sprouted in a perfect line, four to five feet apart, along an unattractive green fence that my former neighbor erected 20 years ago when she acquired a tiny, yapping (though adorable) dog.

 

On this fairly neglected side of my small backyard, there is a pear tree (the newbies do not resemble it). There is also a flowering plum tree I planted; it picked up some sort of illness and hasn’t grown much in 15 years. If I were a botanist I might be able to reveal how the new trees sprang from the elder trees (if that’s the case), or how a bird dropped seeds in a perfect line, or provide some other logical scientific explanation. But for me, the case is more clearly explained by the fact that I never admired that little green fence (also, I harbored a certain annoyance because said neighbor had a habit of ripping down the honeysuckle that grew upon it).

 

That neighbor (of whom I grew quite fond) has since moved; the fence remains and my new neighbor spends the spring season generously planting flowers all over her yard. Maybe it’s the general attitude on this end of my block now that promotes the growing of things (at the other end of my dead-end street folks seem to prefer to chop down trees and plant cement). Or maybe it’s that the Universe heard my lament about the honeysuckle. Or maybe the powers that be took pity when it was observed that my plum tree was doing poorly, that our pear trees are getting old, or that I still mourn an apple tree that met an untimely demise.

 

In any case, I somehow missed the appearance of the five saplings for several years (I did mention my neglect of that area), and by the time they caught my eye last spring they were nearly three feet tall, and looked suspiciously promising. So I left them alone. Yesterday, when I looked outside I noticed that one had burst into pink bloom, and the others are readying their blossoms. Yes, they are still small…four feet tall perhaps at this point. But they will one day be taller and fuller, and hopefully will detract from the fence.

            

Magical things do pop up in life, like ideas for writing, plum (or cherry) trees, friendships, opportunities, shoes that fit perfectly and are on sale, ice cream cones, soul mates etc. and though we want and need to explain many things sometimes it’s better just to open our arms and accept. I’m grateful that I ignored that part of my yard for so long--my neglect allowed the trees to grow to the point where they could be noticed and valued for what they truly are. Had I been puttering about over there I most likely would have thought they were among the scores of stray oak or maple saplings that pop up every year (I can’t nurture them all, I don’t have the space for a forest). Had I pulled them up I would have missed the magic.

 

So thank you, Universe, elves, fairies, or industrious garden birds or savvy squirrels. Sometimes, tiny miracles sprout when we’re not even paying attention.

 

If Wishes Were Horses...

Though I know that prayer has real power I used to think that wishes were just for fun. That was before Covid-19. Back when this Covid nightmare started, I penned some thoughts about things I wanted to change in my life. Strangely enough, with the “lock down” many of my “wishes” came true. Now that we’re beginning to emerge from this nightmare, I wonder whether I’ll leap back into my “old” life. Maybe you're wondering, too.  Here’s what I wrote about one year ago:

Sometimes, I wonder if maybe my penchant for magical thinking has caused this whole Covid-19 mess, even though it’s crazy to imagine that my secret thoughts would have that much impact. So, how could I possibly pin this on myself? Well, for one thing, I’ve been thinking secretly for months that I am sick and tired of getting pedicures and haircuts. I know many women enjoy the pampering, but it always seemed a waste of time. Teaching yoga, however, one’s feet are constantly on display, so pedicures are kind of de rigueur. Likewise, as much as I love my hairdresser, who’s been trimming my tresses forever, I’ve privately also been thinking that I am just plain tired of going to the salon.  These thoughts have been going out from my brain into the cosmos: “I don’t want to go get a pedicure. I don’t want to get a haircut…” In yoga-speak, co-creating my reality, manifesting if you will. And now, of course, no pedicures or haircuts for months!

Also, my constant mantra has been: ‘I don’t want to drive.’ The two yoga classes I was teaching before the Pandemic required me to get on busy highways in rush hour. I’d pretty much conquered my fear of rush hour driving but in the back of my mind I kept wishing I didn’t have to deal with traffic. Now, I haven’t driven on a major highway in months. My best friend says she may be getting agoraphobic from not going anywhere, and I wonder if that will happen to me, too. I wonder how many people will come out of this afraid to drive or go to a grocery store. Still, it seems like the collective wishing may have brought this on. I mean, no one wished for a Pandemic, but if people all over the planet are secretly bitching the way I was, who knows?

I’ve also wished constantly for more time with my husband. That’s strange because we’ve been living in an empty nest ever since our youngest son went to college, and we should probably be sick of each other. But pre-Pandemic I was always rushing out the door to teach or go to a yoga class or shop or get to some kind of appointment, and he was running around too, since pre-Covid there were Broadway shows and operas for musicians (like my husband) to play. Quite often I just wished we could hang out more together and not have to worry about going anywhere. And now? It’s uncanny. We’re always together, and quite happily so. 

Of course, I also wished for a lot of things I didn’t get  (like $250,000, a trip to Italy, and a cute tiger kitten like the one I had when I was ten) so I guess it doesn’t make sense to self-blame. Nevertheless, I also…

Wished for a nearby falafel shop and one opened at the foot of my street.

Wished that the teacher would open our Zoom yoga class relaxing on our backs instead of with a challenging pose because I was tired, and it happened.

I even wished—long before Covid-19 --that we could do yoga teacher trainings online. And now that’s all there is!

I certainly didn’t wish for all this tragedy and illness. And I sure have been praying it would all go away.  

And it looks like…hopefully… that prayer that we’ve all been praying may one day come true.

Honestly, I know my wishes don’t create reality…but just recently I commented that I’d trade the falafel place for the end of this Pandemic any day.

You guessed it: The falafel place is closing. 

The curious thing is, I really don’t know how many of the things I wished away I do actually want back. This whole wretched (and yet in some ways miraculous) year has certainly made us all get our priorities straight. And I think most of us would agree that giving our loved ones an actual hug is a lot more important than straight bangs or pink toenails. In fact, a year of not doing a lot of things that really didn’t matter very much has brightly illuminated the things that matter quite a lot. 

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.

September

Have you ever heard a woman complain that the days of pregnancy passed too swiftly? I know I haven’t. For me, the days of pregnancy (three times) were interminable. But then the baby comes and time speeds up. And one amazing day, the baby gets married (this happened very recently in my family). Alas, the old cliché: where did the time go?

            It’s a conundrum I’ve been grappling with lately: How to slow time down? Apparently, there are a few methods, like meditating (a good one) or living a boring life (I can’t imagine how the latter would be possible, but I do know people who say they are bored and that time seems to drag). I wouldn’t recommend this approach, however, and can’t even figure out how it might work.

Just maybe, living in an extremely cold climate would help make time stand still; I know, for instance, that even though the days are shorter, they can seem agonizingly endless during a bout of bad winter weather. Still, this incentive would not be enough to get me to move to, ahem, Greenland.

 At this time of year on the East coast in particular, I’m always reminded of how fast time travels. At the end of summer, I can never believe how swiftly the warm season has passed. On Labor Day, it seems as if only yesterday it was Summer Solstice (unless, of course, one has kids who are antsy to get back to school and summer has gone on for far too long). I remember my mother listening to Willie Nelson’s soulful rendition of  “September.” The thought of her tears every time she heard that song brings me to tears even decades later.

As a kid, I spent endless afternoons on particular time-expanding pursuits, and I wonder if perhaps I should try some of them now. A favorite was to recline on the living room rug and gaze up at the ceiling, imagining that it was the floor. I was fascinated by the fact that the ceiling/floor could be so uncluttered, making the room seem exceptionally spacious. On the empty ceiling there were no coffee tables, chairs, or couches, no magazines, books, or clutter of any kind. I felt an infinite expansiveness just staring up at the empty, flat space. So maybe…fast forward to adulthood…I would feel time slowing a bit if I could just get rid of some clutter and lay flat on my back.

Another activity was naming my marbles. Yes, I know this sounds odd…but I whiled away many an hour in an altered state while taping monikers on my voluminous collection (I may have named some rocks, too, though I can’t swear to this). Clearly, the names didn’t last—they fell off after a few rolls. But that didn’t seem to matter. This mind-numbing activity made a day last like an eternity, and I thoroughly enjoyed it even though the names—Catsy, Sparkle, Greenie—were pretty lame.

I suppose if I splayed out on the floor all day now or sat with a pile of marbles, my grown kids and husband might call a family meeting. So, I’ll stick to meditation—which seems to help, as does being “present” and avoiding winding thought-paths into past or future. 

Still, I sense that time is speeding up and a “slow pill” sounds enticing. If only September—truly, my favorite month-- could go on…and on… forever. 

Summer Reading

I’m half way through this fantastic novel—perfect for summer beach reading! So many interesting characters, and such intrigue! Wait…what? This is not fiction??? Omg! 

I don’t care if you’re left handed or right handed, using your left brain or your right brain, or if you’re left or right winged politically. If you’re Republican no doubt you’ll conclude that this unbelievable tale is indeed that—unbelievable. And if you’re a Democrat no doubt you’ll think, ahah, now it all makes sense. But whatever your political label (and even if you don’t have one) The Mueller Report  is worth your attention. I see reading this tome as my civic duty—and surely this should be mandatory reading for everyone in the government—yes, all 400-plus pages. We require our school children to read over the summer—so why not our Congressional representatives and Senators? (Actually they'd better get reading right now.)

I know you have better things to do (and read). You could play hopscotch, do the laundry, or just close your eyes, relax, and wait for the movie. But in the family in which I grew up, news was taken seriously, and no one ever heard of it being “fake.” In fact, I’m quite certain that my fascination with the Mueller report links genetically back to my father’s obsession with the Congressional Record. I can still see him—in his retirement years—sitting in his favorite chair next to his lamp with a copy of the latest Congressional Record in his hands. I don’t know how he got these things (there was no internet back then)…but got them he did. After his passing, there were boxes and boxes of the Congressional Record left behind in a spare room upstairs.

We also subscribed to two newspapers—one for the morning, and one for the evening, from which my parents often read excerpts aloud (sadly, they mostly shared gruesome stories about kids skating on unfrozen ponds or driving drunk…the paper was used not only as a source for current events, but as a learning tool). Back then, newsmen (and the few newswomen) were respected and revered.

My father was a Republican and a Nixon man, but I am quite certain he would be “fit to be tied” over what’s going on now. (The word “sex” was never uttered in our home—let alone the word “porn” or “porn star.”) Even so, I know for sure if Dad were here today he’d be reading The Mueller Report—from start to finish. 

This popular argument that Americans can’t and won’t read, I believe, is not only disheartening but untrue. Exhibit One: Fifty Shades of Grey. It wasn’t so long ago that Americans were virtually unable to put that book down. 

So, reach for the latest Elin Hildebrand summer beach read if you must. But first, give Mr. Mueller a try (he is gray, after all, and the story he tells is shady). It’s only ten bucks (or free, if you download it somewhere and there’s even a large-print edition) and will keep you engaged (angered, saddened, amused, disgusted, horrified, frustrated, etc.) for hours. Fix yourself an iced tea (or perhaps a stiff scotch), and open to page one.  Ah…the joys of summer reading!

My Beautiful Gift to Me

This Christmas, I gave myself a gift. It didn’t come in a box. It didn’t come in a gift bag. It wasn’t even wrapped. It came in my thoughts, or rather, in the absence of thoughts. My gift to myself was the promise that I would not be thwarted: I would enjoy the happiness of the present moment. 

This meant that I did not allow myself to turn on the news, to be lured by headlines on my computer, or to give voice to my political opinions. This had nothing to do with “keeping the peace” at the dinner table, as all of my guests were on the same page politically this year, anyway. Rather, it had to do with not succumbing to the tantalizing magnetism of toxic thoughts in my own mind.

The lack of drama was refreshing! I focused on cranberry sauce and stocking stuffers instead of the Mueller report or who will run for President in 2019. An eerie peacefulness settled around me as I relinquished my newly acquired cable news stations and ignored The Huffington Post. I had calm conversations with my now grown children that involved eye contact and had nothing to do with he who shall not be named. 

In the course of enjoying my gift over several days I felt less stress than I have in months (perhaps, actually, in two years), even though December is a high-stress month. Instead of listening to the radio while I drove to various stores to shop, I turned up my favorite mantra CD and felt as though I was floating through traffic on a fluffy cloud. No loud voices ranted about walls. No snarky rebuttals. No threats or proclamations of blame. It was damned lovely.

Of course, as the holidays wane I know I’ll return to my natural state of news junkie. But maybe not with quite the same level of devotion. Giving up the news felt a bit like quitting smoking (which I did many years ago). It brought a sense of breathing freely, a lightness, a realization that I create my day—my life is not owned by anyone else. 

Ah, peace of mind. Such a lovely present. And it didn’t cost a dime. Come to think of it, my birthday is coming up and now I know precisely what I will give myself. 

Give Me...Shelter

As a child, one of my favorite activities was stealing out to the dogwood trees in my backyard. I spent hours there sweeping the dirt floors of my imaginary “house” and straightening my various “possessions:” rocks, twigs, feathers, etc. The trees flowered above my head in the spring; they quietly dropped their leaves in the fall, and in the icy winters, the trees gracefully bent over a crusty surface upon which to slide and slip. The best time of all was summer, when both mornings and afternoons seemed endless and the trees provided a cool, shady hideout, blue jays cawing and swooping across the blue sky above. 

Why do I think of those trees now? In the world we are in, I sometimes feel that I need a place to hide. In fact, just today I looked outside and noticed how much one tree (in my current backyard) had grown, with a perfect space underneath for creating a pine-tent. Now, at my seasoned age it might be weird to take up residence under a tree, sweeping away the pinecones, spending hours absent from my laptop, iPhone, books, and Smart TV. And yet, it looks so enticing. The idea of living under a tree, pretending its boughs are my roof and walls, seems like an excellent concept. Never mind that I’m a bit too tall now for this sort of space, and that I have an aversion to mosquitoes (which didn’t seem to bother me much when I was a kid—back then spiders, ants, beetles and other such creatures, with the exception perhaps of wasps, were endlessly fascinating).

But if I did take up residence under that tree, and started sweeping the dirt floor for hours, my neighbors would no doubt call the police, and my husband might become rather worried (especially since I don’t sweep much in my own kitchen). No doubt they would think there was something “wrong” with me, and wouldn’t immediately “get” that I was under the tree not because I had lost my sanity, but because I had found it. 

I’m aware that there are more socially acceptable ways to escape from reality (and from the world’s cruelties). One can drink alcohol, smoke weed, do yoga, ski, dance, chant, read Middlemarch again, go to a movie, hike, embroider, or call a friend, for instance. Some of these, in fact, I have tried with some success (no, I won’t tell you which ones!). But when I think back on my life, the dogwood trees always come to mind. Under their branches I lost all track of time, I lost all worries, all fears, all thoughts of the future. I felt protected, secure, and happy. I felt nothing could, or would, ever, ever go wrong.

There are very few places anymore, in these times, where we can recreate the carefree security of the past, or even the illusion of it. Today, our children can’t even feel safe at school. We aren’t safe in our churches, mosques, gurdwaras, or synagogues, in a mall, at an airport, in a movie theatre, in a grocery store, at a concert, in our offices, or anywhere, really. We aren’t safe if we are gay, if we are black, if we are a politician, if we are a news reporter, if we are Jewish, Muslim, too poor, too rich, too old, or too young. We aren’t safe in our cars (especially if they are fancy), or in our strollers. We are not safe in numbers, and we are certainly not safe if we are female and alone. We might think we’re safe if we own a gun, but we can’t shoot away cancer, a tsunami, or the stench of hate.

And…I’m probably not safe if I sit for hours under that pine tree, either. But it’s a place where I can pretend that I am. And so, I am going to grab my broom and head out there. Yes, it might seem odd. But—unless there’s a lightning storm—under a tree seems as good a place as any to imagine that the world is the peaceful, loving, compassionate, safe place that I deeply want it to be. Under that tree I can think back to a time when—even in a city-- we rarely locked our doors. Just imagine. It was possible once. Why can’t it be now?

Bad News, Good News

We’ve all heard the common saying, “No news is good news.” These days, there is no such thing as “no news.” Whether the news is good, bad, fake, or boring, it’s everywhere. There is no place to hide.

Each morning when I begin my workday, I first check my laptop. I’m immediately accosted by all kinds of news, much of it horrifying. The terrifying items jump out as I scroll swiftly down my newsfeed, searching for something that won’t cause my stomach to clench and my heart to drop, but often finding only death, violence, and of course, politics.

I was actually raised on bad news, so I’m familiar with scary journalism (and it didn’t keep me from wanting to be newspaper reporter, either, which was my very first “real” job). When I was a child, I clearly remember my parents reading snippets from the newspaper aloud. We subscribed to a morning and an evening paper, so there were plenty of articles to discuss. My parents, who tended to lean toward negativity, would often remark, “Little John Smith, this says here, drowned in the pond yesterday.” Or, “Betty Myers passed away last Sunday. She was poisoned when she ate some bad turkey.”

Yes, they loved to recount such tales; in fact, I believe they were intended to scare me so that I wouldn’t be tempted to skate on thin ice or eat food that wasn’t properly cooked. But in spite of the generous dose of bad news I received each day as a kid, it was nothing… nothing compared to what I consume now as an adult. And though I miss my parents dearly, in some ways I am thankful that –news junkies that they were—they’re not alive to suffer the astonishing glut of bad news stories we experience now.

Of course, there are ways around this, and I employ some of them. One is to take a media break, and simply refuse to listen to or read the stories. Another is to pick and choose carefully. Or simply to harden one’s heart (which actually is not simple at all).

But I prefer to know what’s going on in the world, and much like my parents, I’m curious and concerned about current events. Due to technology, however, we no longer are exposed just to little John Smith from down the road, but to all the horrors and mishaps that occur everywhere, all over the world, constantly, at every second.

Sometimes, I wish my morning newsfeed would announce, “40 billion flowers bloomed today!” or “Six million children were just born without birth defects!” Or “A zillion people just fell in love!” I guess that’s silly, and some might even argue that life would be dull without some bad news now and then. I'd be willing to try it, though. Wouldn't you? 

For Love of Reading

A little bird told me it’s National Library Week. This got me thinking about how much I adore books and reading. Recently, I came across the name of an author I’d never read (yes, there are many, but I was surprised that I had no memory of ever hearing this author’s name). The name is Mazo De La Roche, a Canadian author who lived from 1869 to 1961. I was mystified, so I found her first book at the library, The Building of Jalna, from a series of 16.

Although the books were written long ago (and for some, the style might seem a bit dated), I was hooked. In fact, I was so hooked that once I started the series, I was obsessed with finding the next book. Some were not available at the library, so I turned to online booksellers, where I found I could order all the books in digital format for Kindle. Unfortunately, I don’t own a Kindle...so I proceeded to order the books hard copy, one by one as I read them, some used, some reprints. When there was a lapse between their arrival, I awaited the next book anxiously…thrilled when the next installment appeared in my mailbox!

My favorite author of all time is Jane Austen, but my beloved Jane published only six novels (all of which I’ve read numerous times). Mazo De La Roche reminds me a bit of Austen (though no one will ever replace Mr. Darcy), with a dashing male lead named Renny, and plenty of love, romance, and family lore. The books take readers from Adeline Court ("of Ireland") and her husband Captain Philip Whiteoak ("of the British army")  arriving in Canada from India through the generations. I’m now on the 13^thbook (alas only three more to go), with the plot focused on Adeline’s grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Not every reader would love these books as I do (but plenty have, as Mazo was quite popular in her day and the books have sold millions of copies). If you’re a fan of mysteries, action plots, or explicit sex you probably won’t see what I’m so excited about. But the books speak directly to my heart: they’re about family connection, about falling in love, and about a sense of place. Her characters are unforgettable. Here’s just one line from book number 13, Return To Jalna, about a grown man named Finch (who was introduced as a baby), walking the road from the train station to the family home after a long absence abroad: “Yet he was scarcely alone, for with him walked, ran, trudged, or loitered, the many selves of his childhood and boyhood who had traversed this road.” I was touched by this feeling I know so well of my childhood self always being with me. 

Discovering these books has been like finding the pot of literary gold at the end of the rainbow. They’ve reminded me of how much heart and soul can be found within the pages of a book. They’ve reminded me of why I read.

My only regret is that my mother is no longer here to share these books with, as I know she would have loved them (prior to her death, she was hooked on the Mitford series). My mother and I had precisely the same taste in books, and though I’ve tried to “sell” Mazo to a few friends, no one has taken the bait. Reading is so personal! Nevertheless, I had to share my newfound love on my blog. And if there are books in Heaven (and if there is a Heaven!) I just know my mother is reading the Jalna series. In fact for me, reading is a perfect example of Heaven on earth.

Lost & Found

Sometime last year, I lost my desire to write this blog anymore. But this morning, I woke up and found it again. It occurred to me that life is just one big lost and found; we lose something, we find something, we carry on either way.

Last year I lost some things that I really wanted to keep. A friend I met on our very first day of Kindergarten, who has been like a sister to me ever since, moved away. For decades our paths have traveled side by side; we lived around the corner from one another in upstate New York as children, then we lived up the block from one another in Manhattan, and eventually we both moved to New Jersey and lived in parallel towns. Her move was a good one for her—to a place up north that she has always loved. But it left me with an emptiness.

A few months later, the husband of another dear friend died, a man I have known for many years. Although this man, with his far-right-wing politics, often drove me nuts, his absence on the planet feels wrong. It feels like, and is, a loss.

Last week, my youngest son moved out to an apartment. This was the icing on the proverbial cake of loss, because I have so enjoyed having him home after his years at college. But it’s time for him to move on, and I understand that. Empty nest syndrome, however, is a real and difficult passage. I went through it once when he left for school, and now I must go through it again. At least, this time, he has left me his pet fish (at least, temporarily!). 

I’m aware that everyone has loss in their lives and that some losses are huge and can never, ever be filled. I “lost” both my parents decades ago, and there is no way of ever retrieving them, except in memory. And I do try to look on the bright side; for instance, the loss of my son in my daily life also means I have more space, more solitude, and more freedom. And though I have lost some things this year, I’ve found others. I’ve found a new place to teach yoga, I’ve found a new courage to travel, and I’ve found a way to get on Route 4 (a road in NJ I’ve avoided for years) and drive without freaking out.

Long ago, another friend taught me the prayer of St. Anthony: “Good Saint Anthony, come around, something’s lost and must be found.” This works quite well for car keys and earrings, but not so much for friends and family who have moved on or moved out. But I realize that when we lose some things, we often find other things of great value, and if we wallow in the losses we close ourselves off to new experiences. Regardless of what we lose and what we find, however, there is something that must never go missing: Acceptance. Without it, we can neither let go of what must leave, nor embrace the unknown gifts that will come next.