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.

(From “In My View”, for Colorado View Magazine)

“Mom that tuna fish you gave me for lunch yesterday smelled like a pig’s butt,” my eight-year-old son, Casey, told me, his small hands on his hips and tootsie-roll brown eyes large with delight. It was 7:40 am and I was picking my way around a mushy cucumber and Colby jack cheese in our overstocked refrigerator, looking for lunch inspiration for him and his twin sister, Rebecca.

“Thanks A LOT,” I replied, pretending to be insulted.  “How about you make your own lunch today Mister.”

“Oh Mom,” he rushed toward me throwing his skinny arms around my waist. “Just kidding.”

I squeezed him back, lingering there, letting the refrigerator doors remain open, a halo of fluorescence engulfing us.

“Mmmm, you smell like heaven,” Casey said, milking this delicious moment for everything it was worth.

Which was priceless.

And fleeting.

I am aware that with each inch grown and milestone met my children are growing up.  We’re all huggers but there will come a time when they will pull back. It’s already happening in small bursts. “Mom, don’t do that,” Casey whispers urgently when I try to kiss him goodbye at the door to his class. He practically knocks me down trying to escape this public humiliation.

Yep.

My daughter, too, a real Mama’s girl, wrestles with her growing sense of self. She’s adapting to a new school, new friends, and a new blended family, and she depends upon me, her “constant,” to anchor her. From her earliest days at two-and-a-half pounds – the size of small roasting chicken – Rebecca’s love was fierce.  “That girl’s got a set of lungs on her,” remarked one of the neonatal nurses. “She’s a survivor, don’t you worry.” So, so true. My loving and fiery daughter, who inhales life (have you seen her laugh?), uses those lungs a lot, for me, because I am still her world even as she takes steps toward independence, which I encourage her to do.

“I’m never leaving you,” she tells me after I suggest she spend a week at the JCC Ranch Camp this summer.

I confess, even bribery failed.

“Mom, I’m not even going away to college,” Casey chimes in, “I’m going to Johnson and Wales so I can live at home.”

Hmmmm.  If all goes well, college is a decade away; I decided to forgo the bribes and “expand your options” lecture.

Are you sensing a pattern here? The tic-toc pendulum of motherhood.

One moment we are castigated, the next we come close to godliness. One moment our children devour us, wanting to re-enter the womb, the next hour they slam the door in our faces.

On better days, when the morning routine is calm and the three of us sit together at my grandparents’ white breakfast table, the Eastern sun warming our shoulders, eggs, toast and orange juice in front of us, the warm smell of my coffee, I think, “Yes, you are a fine mother.  All is well. I’m happy; my children are happy.”

Minutes later someone will have an outburst, maybe me. My daughter forgot to complete her reading log, my son forgot to study for his spelling test, I forgot about the school auction meeting, I forgot to buy toothpaste and soap to donate to the children of Bolivia for the class project.

We all mean well, we just get bogged down by life.

Maybe if I read some of those parenting books I’d feel more on top of my game.  Love and Logic makes perfect sense when I read it in print, but in real life I tend to scratch and sniff, mothering by instinct, which I suppose is what most of us do pretty much most of the time.

I wonder when a mother wholly embraces motherhood. When does blind, scared intuition become trust, trust become knowledge, knowledge become confidence, and confidence beget certainty and love of mothering?

Just when I thought I was starting to nail it (sort of), I became a stepmother to two teenagers.  They’re good boys, and with three years of togetherness under our belts (but less than two living together as a family), we aren’t quite so foreign to one another. Dylan, a muscular 17, walks around in boxer shorts and invades my private stash of chocolate chip cookies in the freezer.  Ryan, 18, calls to ask if his college friend, Emily, a vegetarian, can come for dinner.  Yes, yes!

In spite of our burgeoning closeness, I still tread lightly with my stepsons since probing questions about friends, drinking, grades, summer jobs and the mess of soda cans and dirty socks in the basement (“the underworld”) can quickly provoke their ire.  They’re typical teenagers who show their disgruntledness with eye rolling to the tune of “God, you JUST don’t get it.”  Most of this innocent rant is gifted to their father, my husband of 22 months, Steve, but I’m next in line, just as he is when my twins holler and cry “you are the WORST mother.”

Let’s take a poll: have you been there before?

It’s complicated, motherhood.  I’m still trying to make sense of it all – my responsibilities and rights, opinions and expectations, boundaries and freedom. Whether your children are young, pre-adolescent, or (gulp!) teenagers, whether they are yours biologically or not, motherhood, I believe, is a little like appointing yourself to the U.S. Supreme Court.  You represent the highest form of the law while trying to maintain civil order.  Then one day your service ends, and while you are not held in quite the same esteem, your vote still counts for something.

This is the common thread that binds us mothers together.

Naturally, every family has its history.  For me, the path to motherhood was foreshadowed by loss because, as readers know, life and death collided after the birth of my twins.  They were born; their father died. Today, they have no real memories of him, only pictures and dreams.

Its no wonder with all this background drama I’ve been slow to embrace motherhood.

In spite of my many missteps – the way I rush the kids, yell or nag them about leaving the skateboard in front of the refrigerator – I’m coming to realize that the whole of motherhood is indeed made up of many small parts. The essence of what it means to be a mother, I think, lies less in those milestone moments and more in the tender, infinitesimal times in-between.  Like the other day, when Dylan nudged extra close, not quite asking for a hug but willing to receive one.  Words aren’t necessary; feelings are.

As I humbly scratch and sniff my way along this uneven precipice of motherhood, I think I’ve stumbled upon a little wisdom:  Challenges come with the territory. There is but one today.  Make it count.

A few weeks ago while visiting relatives in California a friend having a zero birthday and a midlife crisis called.  In reality — by which I mean the “big picture“ snapshot — everything in her world was alright; it’s just that she couldn’t see, well, er…the  ”big picture.”

My cousin, Josetta, who knows the friend and overheard my conversation, had one word to say: “Next?”  I looked at her, trying to read her mind.  “Next?” she repeated, this time with the added drama of cocking her head sideways.

But of course!

Next? means MOVE ON!  As in…make that phone call, clear that debt, shrug off confrontation, reset your thinking, pursue your passions, risk, and focus on all that is possible and positive.

I love this clean, direct wisdom because its relevance can be tested across small disappointments like a traffic ticket and larger ones, like job turmoil or, yes, even mourning.  How you proceed is up to you, as is the timing (let’s face it –  five days for one person might mean five months for another) but at some point, I think, intuition leads you to the next place.

There aren’t many certainties in this world. But choosing when to ask and execute Next? is within our reach — always. In spite of the thorns in life, if we’re not moving forward, I wonder, just where are we going?

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!

Six years ago today, my first husband, Brett, died in my arms at Calvary Hospice in Bronx, New York.  As many of you know, and others have read, he had a brain tumor that finally felled him nearly seven years after he was diagnosed in 1998.

Because this experience has profoundly shaped my life and my writing, it would be remiss of me not to write about loss and renewal, today, of all days.

Our twins, Casey and Rebecca, are now at the magical age of eight. They are clever, feeling, beautiful, loving and compassionate children. While they have no real memories of their dad, I make it a point to tell them that they carry his nose, his kindness, and his bottomless love for all things sweet.

In anticipation of today’s anniversary, I asked Casey and Rebecca what they would like Dad to know about them.  “I LOVE cheese steaks and I’m a kick-butt skier,” Casey said. “I LOVE cinnamon rolls and I sleep with the blanket Mommy made of your clothes almost every night,” said Rebecca. Which she does.

As for me, my perspective has shifted, which happens, I believe, over time.  Lately I’ve been thinking about him more often because I’ve been working on a memoir and have needed to dig deep into those hard years.  Even when he’s not top of mind, Brett is always with me.  The same is true for my new husband, Steve, who carries his late wife, Pam, with him, too. In our blended family, the past is still very present.

Mostly, I’m grateful today.  Grateful that Brett and I married, grateful that we had children who bear his name and hold the best parts of him, grateful that in spite of his death we have had the courage to move forward in life, grateful that indeed I found happiness again and a wonderful man who loves me and our children, grateful for health and time and the gift of memory.

Recently I stumbled upon this quote from Vincent Van Gogh and it seems apt: “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.”

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.

Life can careen off-course.

We’ve all had such moments, and thankfully, I’m safe and recovered to tell you about mine this past week.

The blue-black sky contrasted vividly with the soft snow still falling.   In my car at 5:45 a.m., Denver looked magical, like a fairy world with white crystals.  I was headed to a Board of Directors meeting at 7a.m. but had left plenty of time to make the half-hour trip to Englewood, CO.  Looking at the whiteness around me, warm mug of Einstein’s hazelnut coffee in hand, Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor playing on my radio, I remember feeling a profound sense of grace and calm.  It was a near perfect moment.  That is, until a car to my left  on Interstate 25 tried to pass and slid into my car.   I heard the collision and then felt my car spinning.  At once, I remember gripping the wheel and screaming, not stopping until the car came to a rest. What the heck happened?

And then I began to shake because I was all right.  There were no other cars to the back or right of mine.  No glass had shattered.  I hadn’t hit my head.  “You’re okay,” I told myself, “you’re okay.”

In an instant…the course of my life, and god forbid, my family’s, might have changed.  Whether I feel such things more intensely because of the lingering loss of my first husband, I’ll never know.  But what I am sure of is that close brushes like these are teachable moments to stop and consider head-on what matters most. When life jolts us in this manner, we must pause and reflect.  I did plenty of that while nursing my stiff neck and shoulders, taking the rest of the day and night to simply breathe and sleep.  It’s what I needed to steer myself back to the beating pulse of my world.

I have found power in the mysteries of thought, exaltation in the changing of the Muses … I have been versed in the reasonings of men but Fate is stronger than anything I have known.

– Euripides

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.

We’re having a bee problem: yellowjackets are swarming our house.  They’ve infiltrated the kitchen and hallway, and built a small army in my daughter’s room.  Rebecca refuses to sleep there. I can’t blame her.  Just the other day we pulled back the bedding and discovered the queen bee staking new territory amidst her floral blue sheets.

Seems like wild things are everywhere.  A Denver friend tells me, “we’ve got squirrels in our home.  Isn’t it just the way things happen that their house is on the market?

My friend, Sarah, too, says a pesky mouse is fluttering about their New York City apartment.  A mouse that apparently likes physics as it moves into the open when her husband reads Disturbing the Universe.

Bedbugs, too.  Infestations and exterminations and the pests of life.

Do we coexist with these creatures? What kind of nuisances are we willing to accept?

Perhaps we shrug them off, make a beeline for the movies, and reel in the real Where the Wild Things Are.