Vivid Living

I love stepping away from our present lives, even for one night.

Yesterday, Steve and I took the kids to scenic Fort Collins, CO, home to Colorado State University (CSU), Horsetooth Reservoir, a vibrant downtown full of brew pubs, art and more.  It’s been called “One of the Most Underrated Cities in the West.” Steve graduated from CSU and hasn’t spent much time there since. Naturally, so much is new.

And yet, we managed to step back in time, too.  A fellow student from Goucher invited us to an old-fashioned country barn dance. Five years ago, she and her family rescued the 1926 barn from south Fort Collins, saving it from the bulldozers of urban development. They moved the barn to Waverly where it sits proudly among horses, steers, turkeys, chickens, and what appears to be miles of open fields.

Coming from New York City, I really haven’t seen farm life up close in this way.  Dressed in western attire (with some of the women wearing long dresses right out of Little House on the Prairie), we learned the cowboy two-step, how to square dance and cha-cha western style. Kids and adults danced together, bowing and taking turns doing the do-si-do.

Later, we went on a hayride and looked at Venus through a telescope.  To the squeals of my children, and others there, we also played a game of egg tossing. You toss the raw egg to your partner; if he or she catches the egg, you both back up one step, continuing in this way until someone drops the egg and you hear “splat.”  We didn’t even have to pick up the raw eggs. “The foxes will eat them,” said my friend, Tracey.

The night was pure old-fashioned fun.  My twins didn’t whine once about watching television or playing SIMS on my phone. They had the run of the farm and loved it. And for Steve and me, it was so nice to retreat to a simpler time, even for the night.

There is something sturdy and timeless about farm life. History lives in the old walls of the barn, but also in the new roof and the East wall, which had to be rebuilt after a crushing tornado in May 2008 ripped it apart. The Windsor tornado damaged hundreds of businesses and homes, blew cars and cattle across fields, and killed a man.

Evidence of the twister is still visible in the trees and piles of scrap metal and wood, but still, the barn, called Fairwinds Farm, stands.

My friend, Tracey, writes, “It takes an oddly stubborn love to build a farm on this glorious spot, so that’s what we did.”

We’re so glad for it.

EGG TOSSING

THE HAYRIDE

Last week I witnessed a rite of passage I’m unlikely to forget.  My twins and I attended a Shabbat service at a neighborhood congregation we’re exploring. Turns out that the community was acknowledging a special member of its own that evening – a 13-year-old boy named Ben who was being Bar Mitvahed.

The thing is that Ben is special, particularly special.  He is mentally retarded, blind and wheelchair-bound.  He cannot read or speak or hold a pencil in his twisted hands. Now…I’ve been to lots of Bar and Bat Mitzvahs in my 44 years, but I’ve never seen anything quite so extraordinary and full of grace as this one.

Ben was surrounded by his parents and two older sisters, both of whom had been Bat Mitzvahed in the traditional way – meaning they studied Hebrew, worked closely with the Rabbi to understand and read from the Torah, made speeches, and danced in celebration.

Perhaps more religious folks would question the legitimacy of Ben’s Bar Mitzvah given all that he could not do.  And yet, this Rabbi spoke about Ben’s soul, pure and simple. In spite of all his challenges, Ben, he said, was just as worthy as any other Jewish child for he, too, has unique gifts.  Typical Bar and Bat Mitzvah students work hard, but Ben, the Rabbi continued, has to work hard just to stay alive. And then Ben’s father read a blessing the family had written for him, thanking Ben for all that he had taught them.

There wasn’t a dry eye on the lawn (yes, the service was outdoors). In between my own tears, I watched my 9-year-old twins, wholly transfixed on Ben and his family.  What a lesson in humanity.

I never met Ben or his family that night.  But I’ve been thinking about them all week.  You see, the start of school always triggers a bit of upset and anxiety for my kids: we’re working through sleepless nights and insecurities about friendships, not being able to run as fast as the other kids, not being as coordinated on the playing field, and other real and perceived dramas.

Ben’s story helps me to look past these struggles. Because it’s true: every child, every person has his or her gifts.

I’ll leave you with a message from Ben via Bob Marley.  The musician played it the night of Ben’s Bar Mitzvah and together we sang:

Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be all right

Rise up this morning’; smiled with the risin’ sun.

Three little birds pitch by my doorstep

Singin’ sweet songs of melodies pure and true; saying,

This is my message to you-oo-oo.

Thank you, Ben.

This is a month of paradox. Our four children are winding down the summer and gearing up for school. Me, too, for as readers know, I’ve just begun a two-year MFA program in creative non-fiction writing at Goucher College. All week we’ve been purging old clothes, shoes, toys, books, papers and other mindless knick knacks, while making room for the requisite back-to-school sneakers, supplies and the like.

This “letting go” and “taking in” feels especially poignant to me right now since graduate school has me thinking a lot about balance.  Much as I would love to apply the intensity, discipline and solitude of my two-week Goucher residency to life at home, I can’t.  This focused time away to attend lectures, workshops, read, write and engage in community with other writers was a sacred and particular experience. To think that I can clone that platform anywhere else is plain foolish. I wear too many hats, as most of us do.

And yet, it is possible, I hope, to distill some of my experience by embracing balance. Routines will be set once school begins but weekends and vacation are more unstructured by definition, and therefore, thornier for working moms with fluid schedules. Time stops but moves along, too.

It’s a privilege to be a mom, responsibilities and all. It’s a privilege to be someone’s life partner and to help care for our home and family. It’s a privilege to be a daughter and friend and colleague. And it’s a privilege to be finding my voice as a writer.  Together, the parts add up to the whole.

“The best and safest thing is to keep a balance in your life, acknowledge the great powers around us and in us. If you can do that, and live that way, you are really a wise man.” 
 Euripides (And woman!!!)

So I’m finally reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

I’ve been meaning to read the book for a few years but have resisted largely because of its grim plot.  Typically, I have no interest in books built around violence and destruction.

And yet this book is different. For those of you who haven’t read it (and I hope you do), I won’t give away the apocalyptic story line.  For me, I’m moved on a few levels. The writing is sparse and powerful.  “There were times when he sat watching the boy sleep that he would begin to sob uncontrollably but it wasn’t about death. He wasn’t sure what it was about but he thought it was about beauty or about goodness.”

Beyond the pitch perfect writing, the story is so raw and primal that it has deeply unnerved me. I’m dreaming in vivid colors – black rage, red fear, purple anxiety. Last night I dreamt that I got arrested for stepping off the curb with the wrong foot. The previous night I had lost my way and was running, en route to my children, who were lost and waiting for me. My first husband was in the dream and also my stepson.  I can’t quite make it all out but I woke to my own cry of “No.” Steve jumped.

For someone who usually can’t remember any aspect of her dreams, I find all of this fascinating.

I suppose I really shouldn’t read dark subjects before bed. Yet what lingers for me is that light and hope persist in the darkest of times.  That is what moves me deepest.

Because I know, and I understand.

My last post generated some bold e-mails, enough to warrant a second glance at the concept of marrying your life.

It occurs to me that too often we squash our dreams.  The dreams that keep us up at night, gnawing at our subconscious because they are so revealing.   I’ve had a recurring dream of writing a book under a cherry blossom tree in Italy.   In the dream, I was alone, relaxed, mindful of the blush of pink flowers above me, the sweet fragrance in the air, and the pleasing view of the green and terra Italian countryside.  I wrote longhand. Imagine.

Two things have come of this dream:  my husband and I have decided to travel to Italy in June; and, I’ve decided to get my MFA in creative nonfiction writing at Goucher College.

How much simpler to follow the path of least resistance than to buck convention.   There are plenty of reasons why we probably shouldn’t go to Italy this summer, chief among them money.  And yet, what are we waiting for? Steve is celebrating a zero birthday. For a new couple with four kids between us, we’ve earned this romantic getaway.

As for the MFA, I’m ready.  After many years of juggling various responsibilities, I  yearn for focus and structured time to write.  In the quiet of the evening and the time-robbing bustle of the day, the vision has come to me slowly but convincingly.  At first I couldn’t embrace it.  Could I really make this sort of commitment to myself?  I worried about giving up consulting work; I worried about who would help with the kids during the annual two-week residency; I worried about balancing the demands of the program with those in my life; I worried about making a mistake.

But the greater part of me, the part that is married to my life, began to pay close attention to the voice inside saying “yes.”  This is the same voice that led me to recast my life nearly four years ago by moving to CO, and it’s clear for all to see what a positive move that has been.

If not now, when?

What dreams are tugging at you?

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s new memoir, Committed.  As you probably know, she authored Eat, Pray, Love.

In Committed, I particularly like how Gilbert wrestles with the idea of love:  What if love never finds you?  What if you never find love?  Can you marry your own life?

It’s this last question that really leaps out at me.

Gilbert explores this scenario through the eyes of her 40-year-old friend, Christine, a single woman who decides to forgo loneliness for life.  She sets a small wooden boat adorned with rose petals and rice on fire. Then, she let it go – “releasing along with it her most tenacious fantasies of marriage as an act of personal salvation…She had finally married her own life, and not a moment too soon.”

I love this image of Christine transcending her perceived tyranny, and moreover, the notion of her “marrying her life.” To me, this concept means many things: stepping out; facing fears; plunging forward; accepting what is; celebrating the everyday; and having faith.

I have many single, fabulous women friends, some of whom marry their lives without ever realizing so.  They plan trips, take classes, make dinner plans, and run marathons. Yes, they bemoan not having a life partner, but this sense of loss doesn’t prevent them from living.

I lost my first life partner, and now I have another.  And yet I, too, am married to life. It’s the commitment I cherish most. My experience has taught me that when I nurture all that I am and all that I aspire to be, I am the best woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend and colleague that I can be.  This is a vow I’ll be glad to make daily.

It’s rather serendipitous that my husband, Steve, bought me a card today with this perfect quote from Thoreau: “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.”

Yes!

Here’s how a typical morning goes:

Where are my keys?

Where is my cell phone?

What day do the library books need to be returned again?

Why can’t I remember…?

The other day my friend Cindy called to ask me the name of the baker who created the one-of-a-kind cake for my wedding not even two years ago. The one shaped like our house with custom rooms for the four children between us.

“Oh shoot, what was his name again?” I said aloud. “B something. Barbar? Barbat? ”

“You have C.R.S.!” Cindy told me. “I’ve got it, too,” she said.

C.R.S. stands for Can’t Remember Sh*T!

Call Julie, I said with resignation, ”She’s got C.R.S. too but she’ll probably remember.” Which she did.

Hmmm. This C.R.S. is a slippery slope.  I’m not exactly a  ninny and I’ve had some incredible career experiences along the way.

Still, gone are the days when I could spit out phone numbers for neighbors or the birthdays of third cousins.  As far as I can remember, my “brain drain” began in my 20’s, once I began to shed all the knowledge acquired from my $100K education at Northwestern University, which today would be more than double that amount. One particularly fond moment – which I still remember because I recently wrote about it – happened when I forgot to drop the garbage in the bin while living in Hoboken, NJ more than 20+ years ago.  I was so lost in my thoughts that I boarded the bus into Manhattan with that bag of foul garbage.

This brings up a salient point about life and memory. It occurs to me that I’m still in the “meaty” years. By which I mean, life is thick with the demands of children, teenagers, marriage, SAT’s, college, careers, writing, grocery shopping, laundry, bills, sports and so much else.  Often times I feel like a multi-tasking madwoman who juggles it all even as the balls drop around me.  It won’t always be this way. The older boys are steps from independence and the twins will grow up. Someday, this sizzle will simmer down and then, perhaps, the sharpness of my memory will return.

I hope I’m right. For now, I’m stocking up on blueberries.

Now why the heck did I put the hot dogs in the cupboard with the dinner plates?

Can any of you relate?

Last weekend I traveled back in time.  I went roller discoing with my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.

The last time I did this was 1980 when Donna Summer belted out Last Dance. I was an athletic, 14-year-old freshman who used too much pink blush to disguise her adolescent insecurities. A group of friends had gone to an indoor rink in Orange, CT and somehow I found myself cozying up to a very cute, not-so-innocent sophomore named Jimmy. I was boy crazy but had never dated.  “Do you want to go out?” Jimmy asked me while taking my hand. “Sure,” I said, beginning to exit the rink and walk toward the door.  “No,” he smiled, a flash of surprise flickering across his silky blue eyes.  “DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT?” I was standing right beside him and couldn’t understand why he was speaking so loud.  “YES, I DO!” I answered, matching his volume as I tried to lead him once again toward the door.

I had no clue the guy was asking me to be his girlfriend until we were back in school the following Monday and suddenly he sought me out.  This was before the age of cell phones, texting and e-mail. Duh!

I can’t tell you what music played the other evening but I can tell you three things:

1) Your center of gravity is wholly different at 43 than 14.  Let’s just say that every time my daughter and her 8-year-old friends yanked my arm for support I felt an immediate snap in my back.

2)I’m not as light on my feet as I think I am.  I wanted to defy gravity, allowing the innocence of the past to carry me. But my legs felt like tree trunks.

3 Being the oldest person on the rink by at least two decades gave me a shot of youthful energy but it also made me feel, well…old and out of place.

I was so relieved to send the Girl Scouts home to be tucked into their cozy beds, and happier still to sip my chamomile tea and drift off to sleep aside my husband. It’s good to be 43, smarter and weighted by life experience. I think I’ll leave the roller discoing for the younger set: I like where I am.

I’m nursing a bad cold or flu, I can’t yet tell which it is.  What I do know is that my head feels like an embattled warrior, my voice is reminiscent of a stuffed tuba, my eyes sting, and my muscles ache and tingle at the same time.  You get the picture.

It’s not often that I give in to being sick. But today I did for two reasons: whatever bug is brewing has walloped me, and I’m also keenly aware that pushing myself will only make things worse.  Which isn’t so easy for me since I come from the land of the doers. And when you’re a doer hard-pressed to get it all done each day, retreating from time in this way can feel jarring, like having your heart race wildly.

Sure I had a full to-do deck today, but that will just have to wait. It was better to cover up in bed and drift off to sleep for two hours and then sip hot tea and putter in my slippers and sweats.

Being sick has its blessings because it forces us to slow down.  Which is something everyone needs to do, especially as we age. In a way, I’m not surprised I got sick this week because I’ve been pushing myself so hard with other writing commitments that words and scenes are playing out in my head at all hours of the night. Lack of sleep is a killer, and it will run you down.

Being sick, too, is also a precious reminder to be grateful for our health and for all that we can enjoy in life.  Many do not have this privilege.

I can’t say I’m exactly happy about being sick, but I’m glad to savor rest time and gain perspective.

Here’s to your health!

Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to tell one’s story. By which I mean, what moments shape you?

If you’re lucky, maybe small, seemingly insignificant matters are most striking: your brother’s daydreaming; how you couldn’t sit still as a child; your son’s strange aversion to gummy textures and sauces. For many others, it’s the life-defining moments that mold character and strength, fusing past, present and future.

On February 24, I’ll be addressing a group of writers from the Colorado Author’s League about creating personal essays. The opportunity came about courtesy of my writing teacher at the Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop.  “You have a story to tell,” he told me. “I recommended you because of the way you are driven to tell that story in your blog, your articles, your magazine column and memoir.” I hadn’t really thought about my story serving as a platform, but that’s precisely what is has become, and I no longer buck it.

It’s true that I feel both happy and driven to share my story.  Writing about loss and love and renewal feels like the giveback of my own personal tragedy (you can read about it under the About Vivid Living tab or on my website). It’s what motivates me to write: my voice is a way to lend meaning and courage to others who must also learn to summon the faith and blind hope to rise again.

In what ways do you tell your story?