Vivid Living

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!!!)

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!

Friends,

As we move into a new decade, I’ll let you ruminate over this favorite passage of mine from Emily Dickinson.

We never know how high we are

Till we are called to rise.

And then, if we are true to plan

Our statures touch the skies.

May you soar into 2010 with wings of grace –  gliding effortlessly whenever you can, rising up as needed, and always, always living fully and well.

Thanks for reading Vivid Living.

All week I’ve been a grump. Blame it on a full plate and empty fuel tank.  You know how it goes…squeezing work and then writing time on my off days, hauling my kids all over town yet still catching slack for not buying the Halloween costumes in time for their school parties (hey I’ve still got six days!), catching still more slack for not wanting to spend  $39.99 on the puffy suma wrestler get-up my son yearns for, squinting my eyes at the two loads of laundry waiting to be folded as I climb the stairs each night (by now there’s three more loads crying to be washed so why bother with the first two?), watching the leaves make a dense collage on our lawn. And so it goes.

Perhaps, I’m also grumpy from my trip back East.  For the first time since my husband, Brett, passed away, I visited the hospitals and hospice where he fought and ended his long battle with cancer. I did this for writerly reasons, as research for my memoir. More on this visit at a later post, but yes, the trip left some residual clotting.  How could it not?

And then.  In the midst of feeling scattered and overwhelmed, I received an e-mail this morning from a stranger who read my recent column about leaps of faith and the courage to change in the new Colorado View Magazine.  She wrote: “The past six years, I have felt stuck in Colorado…afraid to make a move because of money, support system, job, etc., etc.  If I move will I be able to find a job at my age?  Can I sell my house? My heart is on the East Coast, warm sunny beaches.  I’ve been researching the coast of South Carolina and Florida, and want so much to just say, “Do it…you can do it.”  After reading your story, I realized that I CAN….thank you for giving me that courage to at least begin my journey home.”

My words may have helped this reader cast her life forward, but she, too, taught me a lesson about service and gratitude.    This is why I share my experience so freely: to give hope to others that in spite of the shits of life – big or small – hope and possibility exist.   Always.

In the footprint of helping others, I also freed myself.  My mood has lifted.  I’m still staring at the laundry and the leaves but there’s always tomorrow.