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’m still at Goucher College, nearing the end of my residency, which begins the two-year MFA program in creative non-fiction.

No, this post isn’t about the surprisingly good dorm food or my own desire to head to the kitchen and whip up salmon almondine.

It’s about humility.

I’ve been feeling it since my arrival here partly because of the newness of the experience, and partly because of all the talent surrounding me. My fellow students include Pulitzer nominees, newspaper editors, Supreme Court correspondents, college English professors, and already published authors.

Admittedly, the company of my peers feels a bit daunting.  And yet, like the game of tennis, your skills only improve when playing better opponents. I don’t play tennis anymore, but I’ve tried to keep this example in mind when talking to my new contemporaries.  Serve. Volley. Deuce.

In a lecture this morning by Tom French, one of my Very Accomplished teachers and author of the just released Zoo Story: Life in the Garden of Captives, we learned that life at its truest moments occur in the kitchen – not at the dining room table where the party is taking place and the guests exhibit their best behavior. The comments were made in the context of reporting a story, drawing specifically upon techniques used by Nelle Harper Lee and her close friend, Truman Capote, while gathering research for Capote’s In Cold Blood. In order to capture the vivid details about Kansas, Lee ingratiated herself among the community, insisting people call her by her first name and asking, “Can I help you in the kitchen?” She wanted to observe all the background conversations, colors, tastes and textures to round out her understanding – those telling humble details – for the story.

It’s true in writing. It’s true in life. Humility is how you win the game.

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.

I had a mind-body experience last week.

While Keda from Denver’s Spa Universaire hung from parallel bars, deftly pressing her bare feet into my naked flesh, I couldn’t help but think about my voice.  In the midst of this killer Ashiatsu massage (killer as in deep release not pain), I was thinking about intention and the color yellow and the cleansing smell of orange, lemon and lavender.

You see, I had picked the word “Intention” from among the seven Chakra cards Keda presented (Chakras relate to our energy centers). It made perfect sense that this was the card and these were the oils I selected.

Because without intention, there could be no Vivid Living.  Writing with purpose and passion has helped me own my voice and give voice to others. Intention is what has carried me this first year while blogging, and increasingly, it’s at the center of everything I do. I try to begin the day thinking about intention – in terms of my family, my work, my friendships, and my desires.

You know what? It’s the best form of meditation I’ve discovered. That and a great body massage…

How do you bring intention into your life?

It’s been awhile. I know.

My friend, Cindy, is spot-on when she says May should be called MAYHEM.  I had one of my busiest work months ever, and for those of us with children, this month is always a whirlwind. Seems like every diorama project, field trip, spring fundraiser, and picnic takes place. Not to mention all the birthdays – in our own family alone, May and June must have been optimal the time to be born.

The good thing is that all of this is cause for celebration, something that’s been on my mind lately.  Because I’ve doing a lot of it.

And this spurt of good times and party going has taught me something: that the more you invite celebrations into your life, the more you want them.  They’re contagious, I think, in a good way.

While interviewing an executive the other week for a speech, she reminded me about an old maxim: “Attitudes are contagious; don’t let ‘em catch yours.”  Naturally, she said this in a different context, yet I can’t help but see the relevance here.  So much does depend upon our attitudes.  And experience tells me that the more open we are to extolling the singular blessings in our lives, the more we are able to connect the dots.  Suddenly, we see that one happy moment bleeds into the next, that the grass is greener, the sky appears wider, and the watermelon is more succulent.

My children also teach me that the simplest of moments ought to be cause for celebration – a winning presentation, success navigating friendship dynamics, an excellent story.  Yes.  We don’t need a ready-made event to celebrate.  I’ve come to believe that we can turn any finite moment into a mosaic of happiness.

Speaking of feasting on good times…I may be writing you next from Italy.  Steve and I are off to celebrate his 50th birthday.

Arrivederci, for now…

I’ve learned something these past two decades.  Give..It comes back tenfold.

Let me tell you a story to illustrate what I mean.

Back in the mid-90’s I got involved with Dress for Success while living in New York City.   At the time, I had about nine years of business suits and career accessories I wanted to donate (I had just ventured out on my own as a communications and public relations consultant and wanted to freshen my look).  While my initial interest was only to pair down my closet, I soon became enamored by the organization’s mission of helping low-income, vulnerable women transition from welfare to work. I realized that my skills could help this nascent group get off the ground.  So I volunteered my professional services.  I agreed to serve on the Board of Directors and to orchestrate a kick-off event at Manhattan’s Motown Cafe.  The goal was to generate national visibility and create a global platform.  As is common with events, this one took on a life of its own, dominating my time and energy to hustle paying clients.  More than a couple of intelligent people questioned my focus. “Why are you doing this for free?” they asked. But I honored my commitment, focusing on making the event a home-run.  It never occurred to me that this “good deed”  would give me so much more than I had actually given. How? I was approached by — and landed – a few big corporate clients; I gained a new rolodex of editorial contacts; and I found real clarity and purpose in the vital role that service would play in my life.  All of which was gravy to Dress for Success; soon after, they exploded with growth…

I’ve always remembered this important lesson about giving.  Looking back, the maxim “Give..it comes back tenfold” has held up consistently across so many areas of my life.  When I volunteer time or money to a worthy organization, I am rewarded by a deep feeling of satisfaction.  When I act as a good friend, I feel connected to others.  When I  lend counsel or inspiration to someone in need, I am reminded of my potential.  When I put myself out in the world, I learn that life is full of rewards.

Most of us don’t give to get.  We aren’t motivated to serve because we want a thank-you letter or a plaque.   And this is where the adventures begin – because you never know what gifts will come your way when you give of yourself — openly and with a whole heart.  Stronger faith, new perspective, new relationships, jobs, articles, books, trips?  The world awaits.

Read more about how you can live a life of service.  My friend, Malaak Compton Rock, has just published If it Takes A Village, Build One: How I Found Meaning Through a Life of Service and 100+ Ways You Can Too.  Malaak is founder of The Angel Rock Project and has inspired legions of everyday folks – me included – to commit and commit again to service as a guiding vision.  For each copy of the book purchased until July 6th, 2010, Malaak will donate $1 to The Global Fund, which supports the very worthy RED campaign. I urge you to read her book, but mostly, I urge you to think about how giving (in small and large ways) transforms your life.  It’s contagious, I think…

“The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose.”  - Hada Bejar

(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?

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?