Vivid Living

My mother-in-law, Brenda, and I were having breakfast in Fairfield, CT last week.  The twins spent the night at my sister-in-law’s apartment so Brenda – or Brendela as I fondly call her – and I had a rare opportunity to talk.

She’s a special lady, my mother-in-law.  Meeting her you’d never know she survived the loss of her son and husband within two years; she is as kind and strong as they come.

We began to talk about empathy.  The subject came up because I was sharing about a remarkable book I recently read called Jantsen’s Gift .  The book tells the real-life story of Pam Cope, a hairdresser from Missouri who lost her teenage son from an undetected heart ailment. Spurred by her grief, Pam has gone on to rescue hundreds of children from slavery, prostitution and other evils in Ghana, Cambodia and Vietnam. Any mother (or any person!) who has ever experienced loss will be moved by Pam’s courage. The story took my breath away.

Back to my mother-in-law, who, naturally, was quite impressed by Pam Cope and wanted to read the book. “You know, Brendela, told me while sipping her coffee, “I love when I love.”  She had a warm smile on her face, and her words pierced me.

“Yes,” I thought. “She’s absolutely right.”  I, too, love when I love.  It makes my whole heart full.  When I’m in this mindset, I look past the piles of clothes that need folding and pay attention to the way the grass looks so lush and how the leaves of the aspen trees swaying outside my bedroom window tickles my skin like a warm feather.

Quickly, I found myself expanding upon my mother-in-law’s kitchen table wisdom.

I love when I live and I live when I love.

Thanks, Brendela, for this inspiration. You’re a good egg.

Love is Full: Brenda and the twins

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.”

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?

Like everyone, I have been deeply moved by the catastrophic earthquake in Haiti.  The images are searing, especially of the children, torn from their parents, many in physical pain, hungry, homeless, without their toys and possessions of comfort, too traumatized now to even think about a future.

The tragedy has hit me hard.

Back in 1994, I traveled to Haiti while working at UNICEF U.S.A. as Director of Public Relations. I spent ample time visiting the slums of Port-au-Prince and even met with Former Haitian President Jean-Bertrand Aristide at the National Palace, now lying in rubble. The squalid conditions were horrific to me then, now it’s unimaginable.

Part of me wants to adopt a Haitian baby, to which my daughter, Rebecca, says, “Mom, I think we have enough kids in our house now.”  She’s right, of course, and, in spite of my incredible longing to help, we are not equipped to parent more children. Part of me wants to go volunteer in Haiti for two months, to which my conscience asks, “but how can you leave your family?” The answer is I can’t.  I simply can’t.

What is it then that I can offer in the wake of this giant tragedy? What is it that anyone can offer?

Money? Time? Hands? Faith? There are no easy answers.

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.

I’m writing a memoir, a very humbling experience. Actually, my hubby and I are co-writing the book in alternating voices.  Stay tuned. 

As I plunge into this project, I’m struck by just how intricate and layered the craft of writing is, particularly in memoir, which is all about revelation.  I’m reading Sue William Silverman’s Fearless Confessions: A Writer’s Guide to Memoir.  Sue is a gifted author and teacher who prods writers to “keep peeling away those layers, like an onion, until you do discover the deeper layers of self and experience.” 

For me, roses offer the same analogy. Complex and layered, they reveal themselves more with each petal shed.

All of this has me thinking about the many layers in my life. In no particular order, I’m a woman, wife, mother, daughter, friend, writer, professional and student.  Each of these prescribed roles spawns new petals – the flowers of family, friends, community, and the commitments that bind us.  This blog is yet another layer.  

I’m all of these rich petals.

And yet, onions and roses…they make me think about what’s beneath the layers.

My new job is shaking things up a bit in our household. Working from home has been a godsend to me these past several years for the obvious reason:  flexibility and control over my schedule.   As a single mom until recently, it meant the world to my children (and me) that I was there to pick them up from school and volunteer in their classrooms mid-day.  My twins have wanted to sit alongside me while doing homework and to be able to hear and watch and help me cook dinner.  And I’ve loved these rituals, too.  The safety of their world fell apart after their dad died in 2004 but my steady presence bolstered their security, confidence and sense of belonging.

I still want to do all that I used to, but I can’t since now I have to be elsewhere.  Because I remarried a year ago  and have a willing partner, Steve picks the kids up from school on my work days.  Last week my son, Casey, accidentally tripped over the garbage can and dropped part of his lunch inside (don’t ask) and the teacher called Steve not me.  This is a first.  It’s also a first to have a partner stock up on groceries and make dinner twice weekly. I should clarify that Steve’s current job is getting a job, so that’s why he’s around to make dinner and for school emergencies like spilt lunches.

All this, of course, is good news, particularly the part about my having a steady, long-term assignment.  And yet, it’s been surprisingly hard for me to give up the old ways.  When I see Steve in the kitchen, there’s a part of me that feels he’s “invading my turf.”  No, he’s not pining to replace the marvelous Ina Garten and her Barefoot Contessa empire, and no, I don’t feel displaced. It’s just that letting go of these roles that framed my identity for eight years is taking some getting used to. 

But I’m learning.  I’m learning that I can still be a steady presence for my twins without needing to be physically present all the time.  I’m learning that I really like working offsite even if my daughter, Rebecca, self-combusts because I can’t attend her school picnic.  She’s a survivor and it’s actually essential for her to see her mother meeting other responsibilities. I’m learning to trust that my twins are in a fantastic place: they’re happy and well-adjusted and for the first time in their young lives they actually have a dad to “show off” at school.  Speaking of my new hubby, I’m learning that it’s really okay if he buys tomatoes that aren’t quite ripe.  I’m learning that marriage is a partnership in every way. 

What new waters are you dipping your toes into?

My sister-in-law, Marcy, celebrated her fourth wedding anniversary two days ago. Congratulations Marcy and Jaime!   The event, like any milestone, got me thinking about the passage of  time.

Four years ago: September 3, 2005.  Chief justice of the United States, William Rehnquist, died after a long battle with thyroid cancer and the nation was still reeling from the catastrophic destruction and loss of lives wrought by Hurricane Katrina http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Katrina.  More personally, I was living in New York City with my four-year-old twins and had been widowed 19 months.  Yep,  I was still in my 30’s (okay, late 30’s).   I remember the day well.  Marcy picked out a long, black “va-va-voom” dress for me to wear.  She wanted me to look and feel good, and I have to admit, I got a lot of  continued mileage out of that babe-alicious dress in the years to come.   The wedding was held at Whitby Castle, a gorgeous outdoor mansion in Westchester County, New York.   Those of us in the bridal party decorated Jaime’s hunter green triumph – a car he built himself as a teenager – with bagels and empty cans of tomato sauce.  

Just Married!

The wedding for me was bittersweet.  Joyous, yes, because finally Marcy and Jaime walked down the aisle. And how wonderful it felt to celebrate a happy occasion after the anguish of the past six years.  Which leads me to the sad part: Brett, Marcy’s only sibling, died before seeing she and Jaime tie the knot.  No doubt, he was right there in spirit, smiling. 

I remember being pretty off-kilter that day.  My identity as a WIDOW felt branded like a black mark across my forehead and I wasn’t yet able to give myself permission to remove it.   No one else could read my insides, but to me, the mask was as visible as my stunning dress.  The loss still felt raw. And yet, enough time had passed for me to have the urge to feel alive again, to feel young and vital and attractive and hopeful.  I wanted to want a future.   Yes, I wanted to dance and flirt with the cute firefighters who were inappropriately young.   Thank goodness for The Black Eyed Peas – My Humps and its funky beat got my juices flowing again. 

Much has changed over these last four years.   Marcy and Jaime have a beautiful son, Brayden, who turns three this month. My twins and I are now living in Denver.  My children are eight years old and real people, no longer babies! I remarried.  I have two teenage stepsons. And far too many family members and family friends have died.  We can never replace lost loved ones; their absence looms large, always.  

I’m reminded of a favorite quote in my office from the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood:  ”I will always love you, Vivi,” he said.  ”There is nothing you could ever do that would make me stop loving you.”  The words shot through Vivi’s bones and blood and muscle, and her body relaxed, so that when her feet touched the ground they met the earth differently, as though they had found roots that reached deep down and anchored to something tender and undamaged.

We’ve got to honor the passage of time and all that it holds. Whether that means being truthful, stoic, heroic, flippin’ mad, sad, ecstatic or tentative, embracing the markers in our lives allow us to live more completely.  Cheers!

My friend, Sarah, recently lost her 95-year-old grandmother, a mite of a woman in terms of size but giant in spirit and determination.

Grandma Kimi, a Japanese American, survived the Great Depression, internment at the Manzanar camp during World War II, and later, her husband’s suicide. Kimi was an enormous presence  – a life force – for Sarah and her family, and Sarah is naturally reeling from her death.  I, too, lost a beloved grandmother, Casey, five years ago at age 96, and I think a lot about the eventual death of my remaining grandma, Mrytle, who’s 93 and in the final, ugly stages of Alzheimer’s, or so I hope. 

Living into your 90’s is an incredible feat.  Good genes? Luck?  My guess is probably a bit of both.  My first husband, Brett, died of a brain tumor at the age of 39 so trust me when I say, “living a ripe old age is a fine, fine thing.”  While Brett’s death was a tragedy and remains very different, the loss of older loved ones still leaves deep pangs of grief.  We don’t miss those we love any less because they die later in life. In fact, I’d argue that in a sense, we miss them more because we can’t help but see our lives and histories reflected in theirs.

Time is the great healer, for sure.  So, too, is the power and sweetness of memory.   I think about my grandmothers all the time – but always alive and vital.  I can still taste Grandma Casey’s crispy chicken wings and picture her masterfully slicing, dicing, and fanning vegetables.  Had she lived, she might have been dubbed “Iron Sous Chef” by the Food network.  And Grandma Myrtle … it’s awful to see this classy lady reduced to diapers and utterly removed from reality.  So I try not to.  Myrtie can no longer form words and understand language, but I still picture her staying up half the night reading.  She’d plow through six books a week in earlier days.  She doesn’t hum anymore either; yet I hear her clear as a bell singing dah dah dah, dah dah dah, dah dah dah.  I wish I held onto her gold lame slippers, but I wore them threadbare.

What I’ve discovered is that sharing stories and traditions, even recipes, allows lost loved ones to endure.

I’ve just opened my Grandma Casey’s recipe box, lovingly written in her own exquisite hand.  Here’s her recipe for strudel:

2 cups flour

½ pound oleo or shortening or butter

1 egg yolk

¾ cup sour cream

Mix well and knead into three balls.  Refrigerate overnight.  Roll dough into three thin sheets – spread coconut, raspberry jelly, chopped nuts, raisins, and cinnamon.  Roll into long strudel.  Spread milk on top.  Bake 375 degrees about 45 minutes or until done.  Cut into pieces and serve.

Enjoy.  That’s my ode to grandmothers loved.  Grandma Casey would approve.