Vivid Living

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.

Sunday’s Denver Post ran a cover story about female genital mutilation. The article featured a 43-year-old woman from the Ivory Coast who was cut at 11 and a 26-year-old from Guinea duped and then defiled at eight. I’m very culturally tolerant, yet this type of depravity leaves me, a writer, beyond words. What struck me most about the piece was the survivors’ courage to escape their past and renew themselves through a radical reconstructive surgery performed by one very extraordinary doctor.

Courage has many faces, and I’ve been thinking about them ever since reading this story.  Courage is my new friend, Liz Holzemer, who was diagnosed with a meningioma brain tumor in 2000, underwent extensive treatment, wrote a book about her experience, Curveball: When Life Throws You a Brain Tumor, and founded a non-profit called Meningioma Mamas to raise awareness and funds for this common cancer affecting women. Courage is my closest high school friend, a pediatrician, who is battling a very serious brain tumor.  Years and states separate us, but I’m lifting her up in my prayers along with her two children and husband.  Courage is my friend in Denver, a wife and mother of three young children, who contracted Hepatitis C from a drug-addicted nurse.

Beyond illness and grief, courage is the face of a young girl who says “that’s not nice” when her peers tease her because she can’t run as fast on the playing field. She has a mild disability but doesn’t want to appear different than others. Courage is the boy who comforts a crying classmate; he sits with her alone under a tall tree.

Courage is my friend in New Jersey who is raising a baby girl from South Africa literally placed in her arms.  ”Take her,” the child’s grandmother said, “you can give her a better life.”

Courage, I believe, is having the pluck to face your fears, the grace to make unpopular decisions and the bravery to live your dreams.

I’m not sure how these seeds of valor are sown.  But we all have them, this I know for sure.

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?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about perseverance.  I love that vowel-packed word and all that it implies.

Perseverance has been on my mind for a few reasons.  About a week ago my 8-year-old-son announced that he had tired of Tae Kwon Do. “It’s too hard, Mom.  Wednesdays are the worst day of my life.  I want to quit.”

I’m no sadist, but Paul, the Tae Kwon Do teacher, has only recently begun to push Casey harder…and it’s good for him.  Because my son has both confidence and motor issues, the tendency is to be extra lenient and accommodating.  This serves a purpose, but so, too, does instilling the idea that hard work can yield great rewards.  By which I really mean: “work your combinations Casey and the triumph is all yours.”

My son loves heroes like Martin Luther King and Ghandi.  “What would have happened if they gave up their fight when under pressure?” we asked over dinner that night.  Think about how they persevered, we told him, when so many people were against them.  His big brown eyes widened.

And then we brought the conversation closer to home.  Paul has cerebral palsy. He’s had 13 surgeries, his body is contorted and he needs crutches to walk.  And yet each Wednesday he shows up at our house ready to share his passion and expertise.  He’s a double black belt in the martial arts: he earned his first black belt in Sun Doul Soul and the second in American Karate.  Paul may have a profound disability, but he’s an absolute lion in my book.

Up until now, Casey was more fixated on Paul’s bird tattoos than his inner strength.

“We know Paul is driving you harder,” my husband and I assured him.  “But can you imagine how difficult it must be for him just getting out of bed every day?  His muscles are stiff, he can’t run or jump the way you do, and he’ll never walk on his own. “

“Alright, I’ll do Tae Kwon Do,” Casey sheepishly decided.

And so he is.  My boy still kvetches (that’s Yiddish for whines) but one nod to Paul is all it takes to convey a little perspective.

Perseverance has also been on my mind because of Hanukkah.  Today is day six.  My children are now old enough to understand the significance of the holiday beyond the eight days of gift giving, which, much to their dismay we don’t adhere to religiously.  We do, however, light the candles and make it a point to talk about how the Jewish people of ancient times persevered amidst great hardship in order to reach freedom.

These are teachable moments, for my son, yes, but for all of us.

Think about it.  We persevere every day and in so many ways — exercising because it’s good for us even though we’re tired; raising confident, self-directed children; proving our mettle at work; waking up to write at 5am because that’s when the house is most peaceful.

Take stock of how you persevere in your life.  For all that you do and all that you desire, let it guide your path.