....By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

A few weeks ago my granddaughter had been over for a visit. We were in my bedroom and she was seated atop my bed, sketching and writing on a tablet. I had been putting some things into my dresser drawers and we were talking. Out of the blue she rips a piece of paper from her tablet and hands it to me. She said, “Nonni, I wrote your name!”



She had indeed. She had written what was her phonetic interpretation of my name. She’s only ever called me “Nonni” and I can’t say she would have heard my name spoken very often elsewhere. Of course she would know what it is but in the context of our conversations and those within the family, I’m usually known either as “Mom” or “Nonni”. Looking at this piece of paper with my misspelled name written in the hand of a precious seven year old, I thought about how I am perceived by my children. I thought about how I want to be perceived by my granddaughter.


As parents, we spend a lot of time thinking about the example we set for our children. Actions speak more loudly than words so we are careful about what our actions say to them, or rather we should be. In my role as parent I have always tried to strike a balance between setting the bar for expectations and allowing room for human nature to be what it is. I wanted to be an example of what to aspire but not set an unattainable goal.


What I wanted them to see was a strong, quietly confident and independant woman. Trustworthy, accomplished and decisive. Content in myself as a person. Committed to the family, having complete faith in them as individuals and possessing unwavering and limitless love for them.


That is not to say I want them to see perfection. I’m far from perfect and they know it. I just never want my children to see my weaknesses, Weakness that is not to be confused with my vulnerability or the soft places that lie within me. While such things are not as prominently displayed as my strengths, they are nevertheless equally important for them to be able to see. And they do.


What I don’t want for them to see is failure, my failures. Shortcomings I have not conquered. Shortcomings that remain within my life’s struggle. As they grow older they will inevitably figure them out for themselves but hopefully having also drawn whatever conclusion they may based upon the entire picture and not my singular place in it. I want the roots I have given them to be strong and true and suitable to support them as they grow into the adults they have and will become.


So it is with a measure of amusement that I ponder how it is my granddaughter will perceive me (as well as how any other of the children of my children to come will). It is completely within my control as to what I let her see and how much of me she will know. Grandparents are in a unique position and one that is to be arrived at with great care. We want to advise and not interfere. we want to support and not supplant. We want to love unconditionally but with the full understanding that we will always be a close third at best in the order of things. As it should be.


I think what I want is for her to simply see what my children see, the strength and the commitment. A standard for her to understand is worthy of upholding. But I also want her to see something else, something that is part role model and part safe haven. A link in the chain that is our family and a tie that binds her to unconditional love with a good dose of expectation. A tie that binds her to my heart as she goes forward in finding her way. Always knowing that when she faces what she may struggle to conquer, she need only look back from where she came to find her way. Look back to me.


And however she may spell my name is not important as long as she knows that when she calls it, I will be here. Always.


Indeed.

Seanny’s Mother Really Is Awesome

She is.


I have known Seanny’s mom since she was slightly older than our sons are now. She was working part-time in my office while going to school. Our mothers are friends and I probably know more about her than she realizes. We lost touch over the years but had re-connected when we found our sons were playing freshman football together and had become good friends.

She’s about ten years younger than I am and has had two unsuccessful marriages. Both of her children, high schoolers, are from her first marriage. She is a single mom by definition and had mostly raised her kids herself. She was working a second job for a while and just recently has been able to give it up.

Her enthusiasm for life is incredible. She’s an endearing circus act and you can’t help but love her. My youngest gets invited to an annual Mets game each year and he always returns with stories of their adventures that day complete with photos. She called me one day to see if I could do anything to improve her son’s chances of getting a job in the security department where I work. High school kids aren’t generally hired for these positions but she thought she’d give it a shot. Turns out I could do something and I made a call. She’s still trying to do something for me in return.

I count her on my list of women who I view as the best moms I know. She’s on that list for the things about her that have nothing to do with motherhood. You see…she’s a woman who is not defined by motherhood. She’s actively involved with her children’s interests but their interests are not her only ones. There’s so much more to her. She’s immersed in a life of her own separate from her role as mother and that is what makes her interesting. She brings that identity to her children’s lives and enriches them as a result. She doesn’t exist for them but her separate existence is what has helped them grow into the great teenagers that they are. She leads by example. She shows them how to live a full life by living one of her own. She shows them that having been dealt a tough hand doesn’t limit. She’s shown them that she’s faced some tough things but they never have to worry about her because she can handle what comes her way. She’s shown them an example of a strong woman for a daughter to become and strong woman for a son to choose as a partner.

She’s shown them that she’s their mother but that’s not all she is. She’s shown them that they are the most important part of her life but she’s also shown them the life she has separate from theirs. She’s shown them that they too will grow into strong and independent individuals who will go on to have great lives for themselves no matter what they face. She’s shown them that she is an awesome woman who has had children, pretty amazing ones at that.

She’s one of the best moms I know.


Indeed.

Seanny and the Awesome Mother

My youngest came in from school not long ago and said, “Seanny’s mom is awesome!!!!!!!!!”


Now my youngest is a happy kid. He’s enthusiastic but is not usually this effervescent especially in regard to somebody’s mom. I wanted to know why it was he was so completely taken with her awesomeness. So I asked him why he thought so. Apparently Seanny’s mom sprung Seanny from school during lunchtime by dropping in and taking him out of school for the day and off to buy a new baseball game for his PS3…. just because. Now the kicker for me is that my son looked me straight in the eye and said, “something you would NEVER do“. Twist the knife why don’t you sonny boy. Twist the knife.

I know Seanny’s mom and yes she is awesome. She’s awesome for a thousand other reasons besides the video game expedition. The level of enthusiasm in my son’s voice is what caused that twisting twinge that I felt inside. I don’t need anyone to tell me what kind of a mother I am, but I would have liked to hear my own son say …”not as awesome as you”. I guess my youngest has not yet reached that point in his maturity where he looks at me and sees the entire picture. It’s not that he’s unappreciative or spoiled. It’s just that he still sees what I won’t do or don’t do rather than all I have done. His vision is still a tad obscured in this regard.

My two older children see that entire picture and have spoken quite frankly where my maternal skills are concerned. Any affirmation I would have ever needed has come from them both in word and deed. If I ever have my doubts I only have to look to them to see evidence of the many things I’ve done right. While I have made more than my share of maternal mistakes, there is an awful lot that I got right. The awesome is right there for me to see.

As far as Seanny’ and his awesome mom are concerned, I’m fairly certain Seanny has said the same of me. A few months ago I made a call and he got the part time job he had been certain was beyond his reach but very much needed. Then there was the little matter of a boy and his mother on senior night and another mother who made sure that the boy’s absent father’s actions did not embarrass his mother that night. My son knows nothing of either event and that’s how it will remain. That’s fine because Seanny doesn’t need to tell my son that his mother is awesome. He’ll figure it out for himself someday.

Indeed.

You Poor Thing

You poor thing.




That’s what someone recently replied after I had shared a small piece of something that I have been dealing with personally. You poor thing.



Naturally I was taken aback. It was somewhat of a struggle for me to remain quiet and not give life to the thoughts that immediately began to roil about in my head. I am probably the least of the poor things you would ever come across in this life. An understatement if there ever was.



My mother had very definite ideas about what things impressionable young ladies should see and hear. Her agenda in raising me was directed toward shaping me into a serious person. She did not glorify screen actresses. She downplayed beauty as an asset citing common sense as a more desirable attribute. She didn’t exactly tell me how to think but she made it perfectly clear as to how I shouldn’t.



I suppose as a result, growing up, I didn’t like the weak women I saw depicted in film or on TV. I was attracted to heroines. I liked the women who figuratively “kick ass”. Once I saw Wrangler Jane on the TV series, F Troop I immediately fell in love. A woman who could shoot a rifle, ride a horse and look good? My kind of woman! I also wanted to be Lt. Uhura on the TV series Star Trek. It didn’t matter that Captain James T. Kirk went around kissing every other female on the show… Uhura was on the bridge and helped run the Enterprise! She didn’t need to kiss the captain to get there either.



It’s not that I was a tomboy but I never much cared for super feminine women who needed rescuing…. by a man. I became annoyed observing women on TV and film who always seemed to fall down helplessly, generally while getting chased by an attacker, appearing as if suddenly they forgot how to stay upright. Wide-eyed and blinking, chest heaving and ready to meet peril, waiting for a man to come along and save the day. They got on my nerves. Of course there are the ones who had to drape themselves over a man while they dissolved into tears, helpless and needy, fearfully expecting salvation. Pathetic. The worst of the lot, to me, were those hapless fools seemingly looking for a rescue, basically tripping over any man in the vicinity who might provide one. Horrid stereotypes, I know, but they were common in the late 1960s. Sadly, some still remain.



It’s not that I don’t like men or like to be assisted or helped out by a man when help is needed. I rather enjoy men. I adore chivalry and appreciate masculine gestures of respect and the kindnesses a man can extend to a woman. I just need them to be sincere gestures born from humanity and not superiority. There needs to be a certain symmetry in the gesture without the slightest suggestion of an expectation other than my thanks.



Nothing more, nothing less.

Indeed

One Hundred Ways

One Hundred Ways is a song written by Benjamin Wright, Anthony Tryrone Coleman and Kathleen Wakefield and recorded by Quincy Jones. Most people are familiar with the recording by James Ingram but I prefer the arrangement by Mr Jones. It's a song about the lengths a man should go to show the woman he loves what she means to him.



One hundred ways is also the subject of a thread I came across in an online group this week. The thread was a repost of a list of One Hundred Ways to Make Your Marriage Rock that can be found on the website, We Are THAT Family.


http://wearethatfamily.com/2012/02/100-ways-to-make-your-marriage-rock


The thread got me thinking. It got me thinking about marriage and about how to sustain one over the long haul. It got me thinking about the many ways I have tried to sustain mine. Many, many ways. More than one hundred, certainly.


Because I am a self admitted, wise ass know-it-all, I set out to poke holes in the logic supporting the list. I meant no disrespect to the person who posted the thread. I thought many of the suggestions were worthy of a try. Some were downright lovely ( # 24 Renew your vows privately with whispers and memories). That's not to say I wasn't doubtful of the validity of such a list. So many of the items on it made me shake my head. It's not so much that I am a pessimist, I'm far from it, but rather I am a realist and I saw lots of room to debunk what I thought wasn't exactly solid advice. My reason boils down to one simple fact. It takes two.


It takes two to tango, it takes two to strike a bargain, it takes two to play catch, it takes two to make a quarrel. It takes two to make a marriage work.


It takes two to make a marriage work ... but just one to make it fail. It doesn't matter how many date nights you plan, how many love notes you hide in his pocket and how many little tricks you pull out of your sleeve to try and infuse love and romance back into a relationship. There is just one trick really. One simple trick that works. One that is tried and true and stands the test of time. The trick is finding that person who is just as willing, just as committed and just as emotionally invested in keeping the marriage strong and alive and fulfilling as the other is in order to make it work. It takes two.


While no marriage is fool-proof, while human nature is what it is, there are likely to be lean patches and troubled waters in most marriages. Life is hard, raising a family is challenging, and sometimes things are just plain overwhelming. Mistakes are made, lines are blurred and strain rules. Couples check out and close off as they try and cope. Often it is the more committed of the two, the stronger of the two who keeps the marriage alive and intact and holds it all together. It is also the more loving of the two who can set aside personal wants and needs in order to try and redirect the relationship. That person can read all of the lists in the world, they can do one hundred things, try one hundred ways .... they can try one thousand ways ... to make things better... but in the end it will always take two to make it work.


It takes two.
Indeed

Go To The Head Of Zumba Class

Last month I started attending Zumba class. This is a new experience for me and one I wish I would have gone for sooner. I love everything about it...the music, the movement and the feeling I get when the two combine. There are times that I get caught up in the music and the rhythm of the steps and I feel so good and am without a care in the world during class. It makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel strong.

Then there are times it makes me feel like I'm in high school again.

I can't say that I noticed it right away, but I have come to the realization that some of the behavior of certain women in our class mirrors some of the behavior I encountered in high school. There is the obligatory clique, the class clown, the clothes horse, and of course the queen bee. There are the kids who hide in the back row of class hoping not to be noticed and so is there the teacher's pet front and center. There is also that annoying specimen of female that I tend to dislike. The girl who liked to play the girlie card in gym class when a softball, volleyball, soccer ball or basketball came her way.


You know this girl. She's not unattractive. She shows up with hair done and in full make up for occasions that call for casual naturalness. She pretends to be uncoordinated but never really tries to find out what she's capable of athletically. She'd rather stand and giggle as a ball zooms past rather than exert herself and try to hit it. She thinks she's cute. The rest of us do not.


I encountered a pair of such specimens in Zumba class last week. With a class nearly filled to capacity this duo sauntered in late and hastily squeezed in a spot where there really wasn't room. It's not that newcomers aren't welcome, but this pair was clueless and incapable of taking cues from the other ladies. They giggled their way through each segment with one actually dropping down to the floor in a fit of giggles when the two of them collided. Neither of them exerted themselves to any extent, likely so as not to mess the long, flowing, curled hair they left untied, mostly hanging in their faces, as they attempted to follow the movements but not really making any real effort. In between songs they primped and restyled their hair. They complained at the tempo of class while sharing a bottle of Snapple and even reapplied lip balm after drinking.

During class I stayed focused on the instructor but would from time to time glance at them with amusement. I found myself thinking back to my high school gym teacher and what she would have made of this pair. My high school gym teacher was an exceptionally interesting woman, far ahead of her time. We called her "Coach". She rode a Harley to school, she wore sweats, she dropped curse words. She was attractive and well dressed outside of class. She coached the basketball and track teams and was very successful in her career. Her approach was tough but she cared deeply about her girls and preparing us for the future, believing that physical education was just as important a component of a girls' education as any other discipline taught at school. She took the position of role model seriously and never missed an opportunity to make sure we knew that her door was open to us always.

She wanted us to understand the need to be physically fit but more importantly she wanted us to test ourselves and find our strengths both physically and mentally. This was the early 70s and she wanted to see us to learn to redefine femininity through athletics and to dispel the notion of "dyke" as a label applied to girls interested in sports. She showed us how to develop good self esteem by challenging us to push ourselves beyond what we thought we could be capable. She didn't want to hear excuses, she didn't want us to quit on ourselves before we had tried our best. She had no patience for giggly girls who would not participate in class.

I was intent that my own daughter not become one of those giggly girls. I signed her up for ballet class and basketball camp. She took piano lessons and was on a swim team. She's always been physically fit. She's not exceptionally athletic but she has never not made time for physical activity. She's feminine and stylish. She's delicate but she's also strong. She runs, works out and is in the same Zumba class as I am. In fact she's the one who asked me to join her, gently reminding me of my own lack of interest in physical activity as of late. I've been neglecting and she's been lecturing. She's been pushing me to get back to the gym and not accepting the myriad of excuses I can produce for my absence. She understands the need to be physically fit but more importantly she knows the importance of testing ourselves to find our strengths both physically and mentally.

Coach would be so proud.

Indeed

It's All About Me

Last week my daughter had shown me a blog written by a girl she knew in high school. She was poking a little bit of fun at it because she felt the girl had never really changed since high school. She remarked that all this girl was interested in back then, and apparently now, was how she looked and the clothes she wore. The blog was chock full of snapshots of this girl in various combinations of attire and had some details about the clothing itself. Some of her posts simply discussed a pair of sweet shoes she scored or how she pulled off a look at an event she attended. It was a steady stream of fashion in excess and she reveled in it.


I'll admit that on the surface it was fluff and I have always felt a slight irritation over women overly concerned with their appearance and attire. My thinking being that efforts toward more substantial concerns got a person further in life. My daughter has adopted this logic as well. She said, "Mom ... who writes a blog about themselves that way!".

I thought to myself, I do.

My own blog has served as a place for me to examine myself and what is happening in my life. Like this girl, I prattle on and on endlessly mostly about myself and the things about myself of which I am most proud. I write about my children and other good things in my life that I think are pretty special. I suppose a person may get the impression that I'm self possessed and self centered reading such things. I suppose that I am.

There is a method to the madness. We all need positive reinforcement. We all need affirmations and validations. I choose to use my blog as a place to keep a record of the wonderful things in my life, to write about things that I have that make me feel equally wonderful. Perhaps that's the purpose of my daughter's classmates blog. Maybe it's her place to express her pride in herself. Maybe it's the only place where she can see and feel that pride.

It's easy to forget the good things about ourselves and our lives when life is not particularly kind. We get mired down in self doubt and loss and often struggle to see anything good about current situations. We get wrapped up in negativity and those things we wish we didn't have to face. Some days, no matter which direction we look, something has collapsed on us.

We have to have a way to battle back the darkness we have fallen into...at least that's how I feel. When I look at my past blog posts I come face to face with the incredible joys in my life. I'm able to count my blessings because I can see them in my words. I have a record of my successes that isn't overshadowed by perceptions of failure. For every loss I feel I can still see the evidence of incredible abundance that I've been blessed with simply by reading my own words. It's proof, living proof, of what should be my reasons to feel a sense of accomplishment every single day.

My life is filled with things I wish I didn't have to deal with. I'm surrounded by countless reminders of things I wish never were. I have pain in my life ... and loss. I ache for things I'll never have. I hurt just like anybody else. Maybe more. So for having acknowledged these truths, having accepted that none of it, not one single part of it will keep me from also acknowledging that I am indeed living a life worth living. This acknowledgement keeps me reaching toward what I want and what I need for myself. It keeps me moving forward and doesn't stop me from traveling life's path even when riddled with bumps and falls. I have too much, I have far too much to ever let a little pain and heartache get in the way of living what is, by my account, a pretty good life.

For some people it's looking at how they present themselves to the world that makes them feel accomplished, for some it's sharing how a person triumphs over life's challenges and for others it's looking back at day to day life and the ways their children have grown into their own that does it for them. Whatever it is they can look to on a tough day for comfort doesn't matter. All that matters is that they are wise enough and committed enough to create something for themselves that serves as a comfort as well as an everlasting inventory of what they have.

If I ever need a reminder of how much I have...I know just where to look.

Indeed.

Days Of Torches Passed

During my son's football season this year, I had begun a sort of game day ritual for him. Each Friday I would create a mini poster that I would email to him during the day as a way to psyche him up for that evenings' game. These posters were a mix of humor and love and my special way to support him.



The posters started off as fairly simple projects and then progressed to more sophisticated offerings complete with photos of him in his younger days and catchy plays on words. He loved them.


A few weeks ago saw the end of my son's high school football career. On the day before Thanksgiving, he played in his last high school football game on a team comprised of regional all stars. The very same all star team his father played on 33 years ago. In keeping with my ritual I had one last poster to send for game day and I wanted it to be a special one.


I had unearthed a photo of my son and his father taken at a practice right around the time he first started to play youth football. My son couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old at the time. The two of them are facing each other and my son appears to be taking his helmet off and his dad's hands are positioned in a way that tells me he was ready to help him if necessary. My son is barely reaching my husband's shoulder in height and his arms and legs look so small to me. He was just a boy.


That boy, just a few months shy of eighteen, played his last high school game on the same all star team and on the same field as his dad. Father and son. What a lovely way to conclude what was an exciting and emotional high school football career. The caption on that final poster was "The Torch Has Been Passed"


It has. That torch, and as I realize, many others have been passed in our recent past. This morning I took my son's daughter, my granddaughter, to her soccer match. Watching her warm up, I was thinking about how sad I am that my son's football days are over. I thought about how much I've enjoyed being involved in both my son's athletic pursuits and how much I will miss it. Without realizing it, when a ball got past her at goal, I found myself shouting, "Shake it off G!". I saw right in front of me another of "my own" to cheer on and support. I have the family's next budding athlete to encourage. Torches passed.


Thanksgiving Day, as my husband and oldest son stood in the kitchen carving the turkey while everyone else was getting seated at the table, my daughter whispered into my ear, "that used to be Dad and Pomp". Pomp being my late father and yes just a few years ago it was the two of them, my husband and father, who carved and brought that turkey to the table. Now it is my son and my husband. Torches passed.


Christmas Eve dinner will be at my house this year. All my life my parents held the dinner, replete with pieces of my mother's eastern European heritage. All of the generations in our family were present at the table, all four of them. My children always looked forward to this special night with wonderful anticipation. We exchanged gifts, sang and simply celebrated the best day of the year for us. Since my father passed my mother hasn't wanted to host that dinner. Sadly, it fell by the wayside the year he died but this year will be different. This year we will gather, all four generations, and celebrate together. We'll take part of our past and we'll turn it into something to look forward to in our future. Torches passed.

Things come and go in life, they're here and then they're gone, we're involved and then we're not, and sooner or later it's someone elses turn to do what we had once done and to be what we had once been. That doesn't mean what we have done and who we are has ended. That doesn't mean our time is over. That doesn't mean we're done. I think it simply means that it's time to allow someone else to step in and step up, time to allow someone else to add to what is now. Time to let someone else turn whatever it is into what will be.

Time to pass the torch.
Indeed

Of Mice and Women

One evening, a few weeks ago, my doorbell rang. At the door was my next door neighbor, Jackie. She had come over to see if my husband was at home. Jackie appeared unsettled and agitated. I asked what was wrong and if she needed help. It seems she had heard a noise in the house and was concerned. She thought there might be a mouse down in the lower level where the family room is located. A mouse or another “critter” was how she put it. She was hoping my husband was home to go over and take a look.



My husband wasn’t home. He’s never home, but I was. I asked her if she wanted me to come over to take a look and she seemed surprised at my offer. She said, “you’re not afraid?”.


I can become irritated with women who look to men to perform functions they are perfectly capable of performing for themselves. Looking to see if you have a mouse in the house is one of them. Opening jars, killing bugs, lifting things, climbing ladders, replacing the gas tank on a BBQ grill, changing the water jug to the water cooler … all things women are perfectly capable of doing yet they seem to always want a man to do it for them. No woman has ever lost a uterus from having to exert herself by twisting open a stubborn lid on a pickle jar or by changing the water jug on the water cooler dispenser. No women was ever killed by a mouse in her basement. Seriously.


Jackie is an accomplished woman. Single, middle aged, professional, she bought the house next door to ours a few years ago. I liked her immediately. She’s friendly, sensible, not intrusive or nosy. She doesn’t gossip. She’s helpful, polite and always has time to say hello or offer a kind word. She’s a perfect neighbor. In August, while she was away on a vacation, her house was burglarized and vandalized. Her laptop, credit cards and other personal items were found strewn about neighborhood. In fact my husband found her laptop discarded in one of our hedges. It was upsetting and both my husband and I sat with her while she spoke to the police the day she discovered the break in.


She reacted with such aplomb after the burglary that I was amazed. She seemed hardly fazed, dealt with police and insurance folks with ease and packed up and went to a hotel until the police were done with their investigation and the cleaning crews cleared the damage. She subscribed to a security service to monitor her home and that was that. Every conversation we’d had following the burglary showed a woman perfectly comfortable living alone.


So when Jackie appeared to be too freaked out to go see if she had a mouse in her family room I paused before passing judgement. I wondered if the burglary, or rather some residing fear resulting from it, may still be floating in her mind. She assured me this was not the case and that it was just a mouse that had her nervous. Still I thought she was being silly, grabbed a broom and a flashlight. and off I went next door to investigate.


We didn’t find a mouse, a critter, or so much as a dust bunny in that family room. I looked in the laundry room, the mud room and her garage all the while with Jackie huddled behind me peeping over my shoulder. Pronouncing the place clear, we went upstairs and sat. While she was in the kitchen pouring us each a glass of wine (it’s hard work searching for mice!) I thought about how fearful she had been. I thought about how paralyzed she seemed. How incapacitated and how far removed from her normal self she’d been. I thought about how she’s lived alone for all of these years, many of them next door to me, and how I never knew her to be afraid of anything.


I also thought about my own fears. I thought about how I like to say that very little scares me. In truth there are very few things that scare me but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel fear. I’ve been in situations, like Jackie, where I’ve felt paralyzed and afraid to face something by myself. I’ve become removed from my normal self. I’ve been nearly incapacitated. The only difference has been is that I never went out to find a man to help me get past the fear.


The difference is I make myself face the fear.

Indeed.

The Hand That Gives, Gathers....

The Hand That Gives, Gathers. I have a small piece of art containing that phrase hanging in my kitchen. It’s a reminder I have found to be helpful when I’m feeling I’ve been taken advantage of or feeling as if I’ve been “used” by someone. It also reminds me of what it really means to give … and what needs giving.




My hand does indeed give. It always has. From an early age my parents impressed upon me the christian notion of “loving thy neighbor” to the extent that I needed to do more than love them, I was to also help them if I could. I was to give of myself, give my time or share what I had if that’s what was needed. I’ve done my best to impart the same value to my own children and from all appearances I would say I’ve been successful. I believe I’ve provided them with an example of a hand that gives rather than just words in a frame hanging on a wall.



Interestingly, the less I have the more I seem to want to give. About five years ago my husband was very reckless and foolish with our money. His actions created a domino effect of declining cash resources to the point where we lost things that cannot realistically be recovered in our lifetime. We have found ourselves to be financial newlyweds in a sense and are figuratively starting over. A daunting attempt to say the least and his efforts to recover have created absences from home and family. His over compensation has divided us and there is a distance there that no amount of money will ever fill. There are needs that cannot be met with cash. Quite frankly I’d rather do without than be without his presence in our home. I rather he give than gather.



Whether I’m giving from my pocket, or my heart, I feel good doing so. I need to do this. Quite honestly both my pocket and my heart have taken a beating over the last few years but I remain undeterred in my giving. Losing what we did has not made me desire to accumulate more or to have more. What it has done is make me want to share more. I don’t need rental properties, frequent vacations, gifts and other such excess to feel secure. Having a financial cushion did not help me sleep better at night. Material things will never be important to me because I’ve never attached any real significance to mine. I’m the same person with … as I am without.



I don’t miss things when they are gone from me. I never did. I miss people, I miss affection, I miss knowing a person is true to the relationship we share. What matters to me, what has always mattered to me, comes from a place that cannot be had for having money. A point my precious husband cannot get into his thick skull. The only thing I’ll ever want in life is … the people I want in mine.



It will never be the loss of money, the loss of material things, that will hurt me. It will only ever be the loss of what my heart has given … or what another heart has given me … that would ever do me real harm. And it will be the hand that gives, my hand that gives, that will heal. For it is in giving, it is in my giving when often so little is there to give, that I will always gather. And what will be gathered will make me truly rich beyond my wildest dreams.



Indeed



Sex Toys, Pastina, What's the Difference?

Last week my son was feeling a little under the weather. He was nursing a cold and was sluggish. The damp, rainy weather wasn't helping. He was also in a funk about some personal stuff and was just having one of those days. I thought I'd make him a pot of chicken soup which magically always seems to cure what ails him. His favorite kind of chicken soup is something we simply refer to at home as "Pastina" for the teeny tiny star shaped pasta that goes in the soup. He loves it.


As is usually the norm for me, I was busy and trying to do a few things at once while making the soup. I over cooked the Pastina and it was gloppy and pasty. Mad at myself, I spooned it into the soup nevertheless when I should have pitched it and started over. When my son came out of his room and spooned up a bowl, he adopted a tone only the truly injured can conjure when faced with more injury on top of what they've already been forced to endure. 'Mom!" he wailed, "How do you screw up Pastina!”


He was crushed. He was a mere spoonful away from comfort and it all disappeared. After a few wise ass remarks about my putting mashed potatoes in chicken soup, I made a box of Mrs. Grass soup and sent him off fairly satisfied considering. Still, I felt badly for having ruined the Pastina. He needed it. Pastina is comfort food. It's comfort. It's a warm embrace that occurs from the inside. It warms and soothes and relieves some of what ails a person. It's something we need once in a while when we're down. It's a cure. One he needed.


So is sex.


I was watching a reality television show and in an attempt at humor, one of the female participants made a joke about one of the other participants needing a sex toy because she was in a funk. After a couple of snickers and knowing looks, the comment was approved by the rest of the ladies present in the scene. They nodded in agreement while giggling. I sat there muttering under my breath... she doesn't need a sex toy...she needs comfort.


How difficult it is to need comfort and not find any. How unbearable to reach out for some and find that you come up empty handed. We all need comfort. Even the strongest of us need some TLC from time to time. Life can be hard and unforgiving. So can the people in our lives be hard and unforgiving as well. Once in a while we need to reach out and get some comfort. Sometimes the comfort takes the form of a person. Sometimes it's a bowl of Pastina. Sometimes it's a sex toy. Does it really matter how we get it when we need it? All that should matter is we get the comfort we need.


One way or another.


Indeed.

Swan Feathers

All of my life I have had the benefit of encouragement and support from the many female role models I've been fortunate to have in my life. My mother, her friends, grandmothers, aunts, friend's mothers, teachers, club counselors and one amazing college professor in particular, impressed upon me the incontrovertible fact that I had within me the ability to be who and whatever I wanted and that they were there to help me to figure out what exactly that was. These wonderful women dispensed sage advice and wisdom on relationships, friendships, education, work ethic and on the struggles women face, each from the differing and diverse perspectives of their life experience. Their invaluable wisdom remains with me to this day.



I felt fortunate to have come of age at the height of the Feminist movement. I bore witness to an exquisite part of American history as one after another of previously male dominated arenas became inhabited by women. It didn't happen overnight, the process often travelled long and incredibly winding roads, but it did eventually lead us to the place where women not only could touch even the most conservatively built ceilings, but could reach up and shatter them, opening the passage for those women who followed behind.


Feminists that followed never stopped shattering those ceilings. While Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs in three straight sets on national TV in 1973, it wasn't until 1980 that the first class of cadets at West Point included women. It wasn't until 1983 that Sally Ride was given a mission as the first woman in space and 1984 when Geraldine Ferraro became the first female candidate for the vice presidency of the United States. The all women's Catholic college I had attended had finally integrated men my sophomore year, punctuating the end to a time when one could make an argument for the segregation of such institutions by gender, but the Citadel did not admit women into it's hallowed halls until 1996.


Growing up during the '60s, my mother made it her business to cultivate my love of reading and later wisely diverted my teenage attention away from my bedroom mirror and toward more substantive and reflective worthy thoughts about myself and others. Her hand pushed me past celebrity driven magazines and reigned in my youthful fascination with the entertainment industry by reinforcing the notion that having a meaningful life for myself was far better than spending my time reading about someone else's. I took the same tack with my own daughter, and similarly shared these thoughts with her friends, my nieces and the daughters of my friends. I wanted to honor the women from my past by emulating their generosity and guidance.


My daughter's generation knows little of what life was like for a woman before the "women's liberation movement". Her contemporaries have no idea what it meant to be a female athlete before dawn of Title IX. They would never be told that a college education might be a waste of money because they would be stay at home mothers. They would never thus be asked, during a job interview, if they planned to have children.They would never work a job that paid one salary for a man and a different, lower salary for a woman. They would never come under scrutiny for choosing to be childless. Nor would they be judged unfavorably for having done so.


So it is with much dismay that I have observed some disturbing activity at iVillage recently. iVillage is a subsidiary of media giant, NBC, and a so-called women's website. I joined the site in 2006 because I become involved in the wonderfully diverse communities of message boards they had there. I found these communities reminiscent of the time spent with other women in my life growing up, women who have given me good advice and guidance, and I saw an incredible mentoring opportunity and a way to pass the proverbial torch on to a new generation. So much so did I immerse myself in this wondrous place of women's voices, that I have been a community leader there for nearly three years now.


Much to my displeasure and purely as a business decision to increase revenue and divert traffic to maximize the effect of ad placement on the iVillage website, namely certain message boards, iVillage has deliberately taken all of the content relating to the category of Love and Sex and placed it solely and exclusively underneath the category of Pregnancy and Parenting. A trick, a draw and a trap designed to get women to see the ads purchased by companies selling baby products and parenting wares. While a heading and a tab for Love and Sex still exists on the site, there are no links to any of the content to be found. The tab is a shill, a ruse and nothing but virtual lip service to those, myself included, who raised the alarm when we first saw the proverbial writing on the wall. All content related to Love and Sex, a topic so important to all women of all ages and stages of their lives, is now solely contained within the Pregnancy and Parenting area. On a so-called women's website no less!


The Women's Movement came about as a way to break women out of preconceived roles as wife and mother. We fought hard to be recognized as women first and foremost and not be defined by our ability to reproduce and iVillage appears intent on trying to single handedly unravel this vital part of women's history by categorizing all things "woman" under Pregnancy and Parenting. This lumping of the Love & Sex content under the category of Pregnancy and Parenting may seem like a good business decision and a way to "guide traffic" to a place perceived to generate the most revenue, but is a slap in the face to any woman who stood up and fought to be seen as something separate from these roles society foisted upon us for generations. It's like we're back to viewing women as brood mares again at the whim of a marketing strategist. A misguided marketing strategist.


I am a 52 year old healthy, vibrant, intelligent woman who is married, the mother of three children and grandmother to one lovely precious six year old young lady.The fact that I can reproduce (or rather did at one time) is not my sole function and therein does not lie my value nor the key to unlock spending my net wealth. To categorize and funnel all content relating to Love and Sex, and drop it beneath Pregnancy and Parenting on a women's website, by a major corporation, is nothing short of insulting and chauvinistic. Their message is a confusing one and a foolish one.


When I joined iVillage in 2006 the site billed itself as "the first and most established media company dedicated exclusively to connecting women at every stage of their lives". That's what caught my eye and drew me in but now this vibrant and thriving community of women is sadly dying a slow death for lack of diversity in its future membership. Unless a woman has an interest in Pregnancy and Parenting, she will never discover there is a world of content associated with Love and Sex on the website because it's hidden in a place most woman would never look. Women are all but blocked from adding their voices to the communities there unless they have an interest in Pregnancy and Parenting.


iVillage has undercut a valuable and vibrant resource on their website, removed the presence of so many wise and diverse women, women in a position to give invaluable advice and offer leadership by their presence, by their intelligence and by their life experience. What an incredible loss.


Last Sunday I took my granddaughter out to visit an apple orchard and dairy farm. While we walked along a creek bed we saw some swans on the water. We stopped and sat on some rocks, talking as we watched the swans. She stood suddenly and reached toward the water's edge and grasped a swan feather that was floating there. Handing it to me she said, "Nonni, make a wish!".  Apparently one makes a wish on a swan feather and upon it's return to the water the wish will come true ... or so says this wondrous young lady. My wish was simple. I wished for her health and safety, for her happiness and her opportunities, that she always has the capacity to love and be loved in return and that she finds her purpose in life and her own fulfillment.


I'm thinking now that perhaps I should have also wished that places like iVillage would not set women back generations in the name of marketing strategies and site traffic and that my granddaughter never be perceived solely for her reproductive value for any reason whatsoever. Our girls deserve better than that.


Indeed.

The Captain of My Soul

My youngest son is a really great kid, he loves to be social, he's incredibly funny and has lots of friends. He's fairly popular at school and is the starting center on his high school's football team this year. He's on top of the world, happy and fully immersed in his life.

Football has been part of his life for the last eight years. All he wanted was to be a good athlete and play on the high school team. On the line. Each year he got bigger and stronger and seemed headed in the right direction . Each team he played on he found himself starting both ways and was always highly praised by his coaches. That is until last year when he lost his starting position. His coaches thought him to be undersized and told him he didn't grow as they expected. He wasn't aggressive enough and relegated him to the bench to see a few minutes at the end of the game if they had a big lead going and he was lucky.


It was hard on him, his self esteem took a hit. It was hard watching his friends play out on the field while he stood and watched all year. It was hard hanging out with them after the games when they all talked about how they played while he had just watched from the sideline.

He didn't start varsity but he wasn't to be deterred, he chose to drop down and play on the JV team. While he took a hit to his self esteem, he still wanted to play. Instead of Friday nights under the lights with a big crowd, he played on Mondays in front of mostly parents and with a different set of friends, younger ones. He missed the Monday pizza and film sessions provided by the booster club because he wanted to play more than he wanted to watch the varsity films and eat pizza with them on Mondays.

He worked hard all during the off season, dedicated to hard work and committed to giving his best. He lifted hard, he ran, he worked. His effort earned him a starting position at center at team camp this summer as well as some time on defense now. I started to hear good things from his coaches. I started to hear even better things from some parents. I discovered a few things I didn't know about him as well.

Apparently one of the freshman players, a younger brother of one of varsity players, a boy still chubby and not yet in his athletic stride, gets razzed about his weight by the older kids. His mom stopped me to tell me that when school started my son invited him to sit with him at lunch ... at the senior table. She said he's the only one who doesn't tease or poke fun at this boy's size and that he talks to him about school and what he's interested in.

I noticed his spare pair of cleats were missing. I asked about them, I wanted to know where they were. He said they were in his locker. He got them for team camp but his Dad then bought him a second pair for games as a treat because he had a good couple of weeks at his side business. Turns out the spare cleats aren't in his locker. He gave them to a teammate who needed a pair and couldn't afford them.

And yesterday afternoon, watching the recording of their season opener which was televised, I saw something I didn't see during Friday night's game. After several penalties on the offense the film shows my son, pulling aside a boy who was struggling with jitters, talking to him, walking back to the line with his hand on the boys back, appearing to reassure him before then taking his own position to get ready for the snap.


I'm so proud of him. My son isn't the best player on the team. He won't be getting any letters from recruiters to play next season because nature didn't bless him with the size he needs to play at the next level. Football ends for him this year and he knows it. He plays at a position that most don't pay any attention to at all. There's no glory in it. His name won't be mentioned in game highlights. But he's managed to distinguish himself nonetheless. When the team came together at the last practice before the season to vote for it's captains my youngest received the most votes out of any player on the team. He has indeed distinguished himself.

A few years ago my youngest and I saw the film, Invictus, directed by Clint Eastwood and starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. It's a story of struggle and unity and William Ernest Henry's poem, Invictus, figures prominently in the film. Watching the film gave my son and I a chance to talk about a great many things, including the meaning behind Henry's work as it related to the film. We also talked about how one can endure so much and remain undefeated, remain committed to themselves and what they hope to accomplish as an individual. I recall emailing him the poem to read. I thought he might see the meaning in it for him. I thought he might find the words to be inspiring if he faced a difficult situation down the road.


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

I found that email tacked up inside his closet when I was looking for those spare cleats.
The captain of my soul.
Indeed.

It Hurts Like a Mother

We've all felt the sting of love that ends. Felt the pain that is associated with the sometimes disillusionment delivered by Love's delicate hands. Felt the pain of love lost abruptly and love lost without warning. We get disappointed, deceived and deflated from the realization that what we thought was ... really wasn't. The realization that what we once had ... is now gone.

I'm not talking about the love that springs from a crush. I'm not talking about surface love. I'm not talking about infatuation and neither the love for Love's sake kind of love. I'm talking about the steady, know it deep in your bones kind of love. Mature love. Grown up love. Real love. The kind that settles in and quietly takes root, intertwining thought and feeling on a deep and abiding level. Intertwining friend and lover into one person, one being and one soul. Love that wraps around us in entirety but doesn't choke or limit. Love that envelopes with steadiness and comfort. Love that is rooted in friendship, fed with mutual respect and grows into the most incredible experience imaginable.

Love that, when it ends, hurts like a mother..

One day we wake up. Everything seems as it should be. All is right with the world and with us. Everything proceeds as planned and suddenly ... POOF.... something happens and it's gone and we don't know what happened. Nor do we know how to begin to understand because there's no one to ask, no one to provide us with an answer. The proverbial rug gets yanked out from underneath our firmly rooted feet. We feel blind sided. We feel foolish. We feel used. We feel cheated. And we are. And we have been.

Foolish, blind-sided, used or cheated whatever the feeling that doesn't mean we have to be defeated. There is a line from the novel, Jazz by Toni Morrison. It's one that I've always loved and thought of as representative of how I feel about falling in love. The line is: "'Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.'

Falling in love doesn't have to mean literally falling. It doesn't have to mean we lost our footing, lost our balance or lost our control. I like to think that I rose in love. Rose up and rose in it. Grew up and grew in it. And to whatever end, however the end, I can rise and stand firmly rooted and knowing that it hurts like a mother but I didn't fall.

Nor will I

Indeed.

Lost in Mitigation

A Baptism announcement ran in our Sunday newspaper last week, the child was the daughter of the student teacher my daughter supervised in her classroom this past Spring. This student teacher had gone back to school for a second degree and he and my daughter had a very good classroom experience, they are close in age, worked very well together and had a lot in common. Our families are acquainted.




The announcement was like any other found in social sections of newspapers all over the country. A sweet photo of an angelic looking baby and the names of parents, godparents, siblings and grandparents were listed. A family party was mentioned as well. What struck me when reading about the party was that I knew that it was probably the last time they were able to be together as a family.



Last week this sweet baby's grandfather, her mother's father, was sentenced to serve 28 years in a federal penitentiary for having been convicted as part of a corruption scandal that made the national news. It's a fairy high profile crime. The sentencing was featured on CNN and HLN TV. Books will be written about the crime and I'm sure some misguided fool will try and make a buck and turn out a poorly made TV movie "based on actual events".



I know the price the family of this man has paid for his crime. He was guilty as charged, period. His actions betrayed the public he was elected to serve and his crime inflicted unmeasurable suffering on the weakest and least represented faction of our communities. Kids. He deserved his sentence...every single day of it. His family does not.



This man's home, income and pension are gone. The boat, the vacation condo and whatever savings is gone as well. His wife of over 35 years has moved in with her daughter and has picked up a part time job at a strip mall photo studio in a neighboring town. The children, all grown, are now left to piece together a life in the wake of the scandal. Their name is mud here. They are treated with derision by association. They've done nothing wrong and never were connected to the case in any way....but they will also have to serve out the 28 years, each one of them.



The man's wife was at one time an enviable figure. Pretty, socially connected and gifted with a lovely personality. She raised great kids, all successful professionals in their own rite, happily traveling life's journey with their own spouses and children. By all accounts she had everything a person would want. Life was good. At a time when a woman can sit back and enjoy the fruits of her hard work, enjoy the family she worked hard to build just about everything came crashing down.



My heart goes out to her. I can't and won't join the chorus of those passing judgement. I've seen her around town and her transformation is incredible. TV footage of her reveals a face that cannot hide the suffering she bears as people shouted terrible words as she walked past a crowd entering the courthouse. I bristle when I hear a person mock her change in fortune. Her husband may have done something terrible but having married him does not make her terrible.



I wonder if those that judge her could ever understand the pain of betrayal she must feel at the hands of her husband? Regardless of the public face of the crime....her relationship with him is personal. This is a personal story, her story and her life with her husband has ended. He betrayed her terribly, his actions, sprung from selfish greed, have hurt her and destroyed everything they had built together. The handsome young man she fell in love with and married is gone. The man she paced floors with, worried with and struggled to raise a family with is gone. The man who occupied the other side of her bed, the man who knew her in the most beautifully intimate way a man can know a woman is gone. It's all gone.



How do you move on from here? From a life spent with a man you've loved, cared for, struggled with, committed to? How do you say goodbye to a life lived together, a life you thought would continue until there were no more days left? How do you get past the realization that the man you trusted threw it all away with a nod and a handshake, and made a deal that ended the very life you worked so hard to create?



It's possible to serve a life sentence without ever stepping a foot inside of a jail. I hope for her sake someone releases her for time served. I can't think of anyone more deserving.

Indeed.

Face Down and Naked

Last Friday night I partook of a recently acquired annual ritual of swimming butt ass naked in my pool. The stars need not be aligned for this particular event to unfold. I need only privacy and a warm summer evening.




A few years ago I took my first naked dip. That first one was unexpectedly interrupted by my daughter who had returned from a concert earlier than expected. Not to be deterred, I informed her of my intentions and after she picked her jaw up off he pool deck she sat in a chair while I swam.



Last Friday I found I had the house to myself and no interruptions loomed. We’d been caught in an unusually intensive heatwave and the night perfect for a swim. The pool temperature was akin to mild bathwater all week. The night was gorgeous, clear and calm and very warm. I’d undressed in my room, slid on a terry bathrobe and padded my way through the house and out the back door. Leaving off the outside lighting, I scanned my neighbors back decks to be sure no one was sitting outside. All was quiet and dark and I walked the short distance to the pool.



I loosened the sash of my robe and walked to the ladder. In one deft movement I dropped the robe, descended the steps and slipped into the water quickly and quietly. The water was far too warm for any sort of initial shock of temperature to register. Once immersed, enveloped in near darkness I immediately felt that wonderfully relaxed and free feeling I get when I do this.



Warm water sliding over my bare skin felt wonderful. I felt strong and powerful. I felt youthful and lithely supple. Stretching out my arms to begin to swim I felt long and lean. Slow strokes followed and I slid through that water feeling incredibly graceful and fluid. I felt sensual and alive. I felt fierce. I felt the way I have always felt when I was at my best.



Eventually I reached for a small tube, slipped it over my head and began to float, bobbing the the wake of waves I’d made from swimming. I lay my head over my arms, pitched forward and face down, the tube keeping my face out of the water. Prone and relaxed in that dark pool I settled in and started to think. So many things were on my mind these last weeks and I turned them over and over, one after the other, while I lay there floating.



I thought about my daughter, who was on vacation with her husband, celebrating her first wedding anniversary. I thought about my oldest son, hoping his house hunting will unearth a jewel he can afford. I thought about my youngest, headed toward his senior year of high school, wondering if I will figure out how to be the support he needs.



I thought about a friend who is dealing with a husband failing in health, who needs so much herself and never asks. I thought about a friend whose own health supplants itself front and center, never giving her rest, hoping she gets a reprieve from the latest occurrence. I thought about a coworker, having come out of an experience with cancer, who is sadly falling victim to her own emotional bondage.



I thought about a dear and special friend who’s absence feels like a slap in the face to me. I thought about my own absent husband and how our situation no longer seems to bother me as it once did. I thought about the corners I’ve turned lately and realized that having turned them actually makes me feel better. In fact, floating on that tube, in the dark, face down and naked, all of the thinking I’d been doing had me feeling pretty good. I felt anything but exposed. I felt fierce.



I felt exactly the way I have always felt when I was at my best.

Indeed.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

My youngest sings in the shower. He sings the most unusual songs for a kid his age...his latest favorite is a tune written and composed by Jonathon Larson from the Broadway musical Rent, Seasons of Love. He sings in a sort of rich but high pitched falsetto and with great enthusiasm. The entire exercise is quite comical as he's an athletically built football jock who has a very endearing personality. You just can't help but love this kid.


One day this week he was still singing walking up the hall, towel around his waist, and I stopped and listened ...


Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year....



In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights,
in cups of coffee, In inches, in miles
in laughter in strife,


I have been thinking about that song all week. My birthday was this weekend and the step toward measuring a year in my life was an easy one to take. All last year I was full of angst over the many things that were wrong in my life and at the same time trying to enjoy the incredible joys that were taking place. I was all over the place emotionally and trying so hard to nail it all down and not let anyone see me sweat . Everything was out of balance and I couldn't stand it. Nothing seemed to be under my control and I felt helpless and insignificant. I lost so much, had so many things taken from me that I was filled with so much anger and bewilderment some days and deep and abiding joy the next. I've never felt more unlike myself. I have never been more thrown off and ungrounded in my entire life.


I realize now that in my own self absorption I neglected to see the compete picture, I failed to see what it was that made what I went through bearable. I failed to see what carried me along and kept me in check some days. I failed to see what I have and have had all along, deep in lockstep with me, as I traveled the road that is my life. I failed to see those incredibly special parts of my life who, both near and far, walked the road by my side.


So on this birthday, how do I measure a year, measure my year? In people. In friendship, in kindness, in care, in encouragement. In tenderness, in whispers, in touches and in love. I can measure my year in this life in the things given to me, in the things done for me and in the things I carry with me now. The gifts I was given by sweet and dear friends, picked me up and carried me on days that I stumbled. They calmed me, made be feel stronger and amazingly sometimes even made me laugh at myself for having to admit I was faltering at all.


I just may start singing in the shower myself'....


Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year....

Its time now to sing out though the story never ends
lets celebrate remember a year in the life of friends...

Indeed

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZ-4ikcohCs

Beautiful Minds

A Beautiful Mind is an Academy Award winning film loosely based on the life of Professor John Nash, mathematical genius and Nobel Laureate in Economics in 1994.



ABM is an extraordinary love story, one that I have had an affection for since I saw it for the first time and every other time after that. It's difficult sometimes to conjure romantic images of a brainy mathematical wonk and a lovely and similarly brilliant woman but John and Alicia Nash’s love story is by far, to me, one of the most beautiful I've ever encountered.


John Nash is a mathematical genius who suffers from schizophrenia and whose story I’ll not trivialize in the little space I have available to tell it. Rent the film, read his biography, he’s an incredible human being.


Schizophrenia causes John Nash to see and hear people who aren't there. He sometimes can’t distinguish between real people and those imaginary ones his mind has created. His self described delusions put his family in danger and at a point, where he was incapable of any differentiation between his real and imagined worlds, his wife had to make a decision whether or not to permanently commit John to an institution .

At their most desperate moment, when they stood at the edge of their own personal abyss, Alicia and John face each other and he asks her...How do I know what's real?

Alicia whispers with amazingly loving conviction, You want to know what's real? This is..... as she places her hand on John's heart. Then she takes his hand and gently places it on her face. Looking deeply into his eyes, so very softly she says....This is real. This, is real.”

Such a profound moment. Alicia, in the madness that surrounds her and envelopes John, manages to disconnect him from all of the noise his world has become. Stopping time for a moment, she is able to show him the only part of his world that is real. Despite the danger and frustration and burden of living with John’s schizophrenia, Alicia chooses to believe in their love rather than logic. She fully understands the impossibility at that time of overcoming a mental illness such as John's...but she looks past conventional wisdom and medical opinion and believes that together they can find their own solution similarly extraordinary as those mathematical equations that John’s beautiful mind had discovered. While John and Alicia Nash lived an unconventional and complicated life, their love remained longlasting.

I've always thought of that moment in film to define the truest and simplest example of love. Real love. I like to think about having such a belief in love over logic. I like to think about what it is to have such conviction and belief in something that for most doesn't exist. I like to think about conventional wisdom and extraordinary equations. I like to think about slipping into a place of quiet peace amidst life's chaos and asking, How do I know what's real?

I also like to think about not really needing to hear a reply because I already know.

I already know.
Indeed.

A View From The Clouds

"Get your head out of the clouds!"

Sister Mary Leocadia had occasion to bark that command to me repeatedly when I was her student in the 7th grade. I was a dreamer in her estimation and her mission, it seemed, was to bring me back down to where she thought I belonged.

Sister Leocadia was a no-nonsense, hard-nose, brass tacks kind of woman. I suppose my perceived dreaminess was a source of irritation to her. My propensity to see the possibility in all things grated on her nerves such that she availed herself of any opportunity to knock me back to reality... or rather hers.

The funny thing is that I am very much a realist and always have been. I always will be. It's my nature combined with an upbringing rooted in practicality. My parents didn't so much spin Fairy Tales for me growing up. They always presented the truth to me but in the gentlest of terms and with comfort. I was taught to face situations, accept news head on and squarely and to accept these situations with grace. I learned to see things as they were but I could also imagine what they could be. I learned to not just see endpoints but to see room. Room for possibility. This gift has turned out to be one of my greatest strengths at this stage of my life.

That grace to accept situations is a godsend. For even in news we don't want, in situations we would rather have be different, have them be more of what we'd hoped for, that grace lifts me. It lifts me all the way up into where Sister Leocadia saw as the clouds. But you see my feet are always planted firmly in reality, with my head and my heart residing above it all... seeing the possibilities. The possibilities I believe to be there.

Guess what Sister Leocadia...you may think my head is still in the clouds ... but you know what... I think the view is pretty great from up here.

Indeed.

Bright Baby Blues

"I'm sitting down by the highway...Down by that highway side...Everybody's going somewhere...Riding just as fast as they can ride"

Those are the opening lines to one of my favorite songs by Jackson Browne, Your Bright Baby Blues, from the album, The Pretender released in 1976. Last night I went to see Jackson Browne perform with one of my oldest and dearest friends.

The performance was outdoors. The night was beautiful, warm and clear, and our seats were good ones. We'd had some wine and were feeling mellow and talkative. Our conversation was deeply personal as it usually is when we get together. We've been together as friends a long, long time.

Midway through the show I hear the first chords of the intro to this song that I like so much. I know it well. I turn to her and tell her it's my favorite. She knows this already and she knows why as I've told her before. Her hand goes to my arm and squeezes. She knows.

The song is part of my past and it connects me in a very nostalgic way to someone I used to know. Someone I used to love. Memory fades detail, time fades emotion but it's the prevailing reminiscence that still touches me pleasantly. I can close my eyes and hear him sing it to me:

...Baby if you can see me...Out across this wilderness...There's just one thing...I was hoping you might guess...Baby you can free me...All in the power of your sweet tenderness...

I don't make it a habit of looking back at the past, in fact I really never do. I certainly do not look back to that particular time and person. The past is behind me where it belongs, where it shall remain. My present is what I'm interested in, what I hold dear and those with me in it are who I care about. Still...that song makes my mind wander and drift. It drifted last night.

I can see it in your eyes....you've got those bright baby blues...You don't see what you've got to gain...But you don't like to lose...

My mind may have drifted but it didn't drift to what I had then, it drifted to what I have now. It didn't drift to what I was then, but to what I am now. It didn't drift to where I was then, but to where I am now. Right now.

My friend knew I wasn't thinking about the past. Her hand on my arm told me she's not looking back either. The song doesn't tell a story of my past, but of my future. It tells the story of what's ahead for me...or rather what I want for myself.

Like the songs says....I can't help feeling I'm just a day away...From where I want to be.

Where I want to be.

Indeed