Seasons Change

It is very disconcerting when the temperature gauge is out of sync with the current month of the year. It's October, after all. I was raised in New England where the turning of the calendar page to this month spells the cue to pack up the cotton, light-weight clothes, bathing suits and cover-ups, sandals and sun gear and make room for wool and flannel, the smell of good leather boots, crisp apples and cinnamon sticks.

I should know that to live in California means to be always ready for things to change and above all, that nothing is what it is supposed to be. So I should not be surprised that last week it rained and the temperature dropped (gasp!) to the 60-degree mark and this week it is almost 90-degrees again. I do not begrudge the sunshine, trust me. I think I am longing for cycles I can count on, traditions that do not fail me, and a solid mark I can spot to anchor my equilibrium.

Seasons change. I have known that all my life. The change of an entire season keeps us rotating through the days conscious there will be an ending of this semester and a new one will begin, like it or not. Right now, I find myself weary of the fluctuations that happen within these seasons. I'd like to just get on with accepting the "next" without having to have these pop-up moments that don't belong here right now to interrupt the flow.

Six years ago (almost), Mike and I were driving home from an engagement party on a chilly and slightly damp November evening. In a split second, seasons changed for us in a much larger sense. Tires squealed, there was impact, shattered glass and a new trajectory in my world. What to wear now included a whole line of post-surgical, therapeutic comfort wear. There are new prescriptions to be filled and a whole line of pharmaceuticals in my medicine cabinet. This is the new season of "right now" around here... every year about this time I have a total recall of that abrupt, unexpected change in my life. It has created a micro-climate of consciousness of the likelihood of more of these necessary adjustments to come, like it or not. I get it, but no, I do not like it.

I believe something happened in my own atmosphere after that wicked November night. I have acquired an internal atmospheric pressure sensor that picks up on any microscopic indications of impending variance in life. It's a feeling that happens when something is slightly askew -- an unsettling quiet lull, paling skill, a run of silent phones and absent children under your roof.... I am constantly in a state of vigil, anticipating the next shift in the forecast. It is the way the thermostat works around here now -- I feel it more than ever this time of year for some reason.

Right now as some leaves are falling (yes, leaves do fall somewhat even here in California), I have the air conditioner running full blast and I am holding off packing away the sandals a little longer. I'm going to be a sport about it all, but meanwhile, I will not leave home without also packing a sweater and an umbrella, too. I'm not sure what "normal" seasons look like anymore, but I am trying to adapt somehow.

I Have Never Cartwheeled

I've never done a cartwheel. I am not sure if that should be gravely disappointing, typically, but today the realization just hit me. I was walking past a park where two pre-teen girls were doing cartwheels, trying and failing, trying and succeeding, trying regardless of who was watching, who would judge them, or whether they were good at it or not. Their complete lack of self-consciousness was stunning to me. And it created a gnawing feeling in my gut (again), running concurrently with the recitation of The List -- the list of things I never tried but wish I had (maybe).

I wish I had jumped off the big rock in Hawaii. My kids followed my husband up that black rock to dangerous heights and shook off their nerves and fear of belly-flopping or bad, wet hair and jumped. I remember the look on Emily's freckled 12-year-old face when she emerged up from the salty ocean having accomplished this. I am so proud of her. She won't be sitting here like me, wondering why I never tried it, why I carry so much fear around with me all the time.

I wish I followed through with my singing and guitar lessons. While I don't think I would ever be cast as the lead diva in Swan Lake, I also wish I had not let the fear of being caught in a leotard prevent me from continuing my work at the barre and those pirouettes I dreamed of at age 4.

Right now, I wish I already knew how to Zumba. My hero-friend, Carmen has Zumba'd off 30-lbs and had fun every step of the way, including a stint with a broken foot. (Way to go, Carmen!)

Somewhere along the way, I think I established that if there was danger involved, I should withdraw. I must have also adopted the notion that not instantly becoming proficient at a skill must be lethal, so the prospect of staring at the imperfect learning curve, complete with falls, embarrassment, shame, sour notes and bruises to the thighs were just not for me.

What I want to know is how to hush those warning voices from my head... the ones that say, "ooooh, be careful" and "people have gotten hurt doing that, you know" ... and worse, "could you imagine being caught on film doing this?" How do I get to the place where I don't care about all that and the drive to freely cartwheel across an emerald green patch of lawn supersedes everything?

I have become Queen of the Excellently Cautious, a dubious distinction. I carry in my purse more items of first-aid than I carry cash, I realize. Ever vigilant, I stand by, watching the cartwheelers in my life with an eye toward their eventual need for an ace bandage, anti-inflammatory medication and a little snack, God-forbid their sugar plummets too quickly from all that twirling. I realize that I am the one people come to in a crowded room if they need a Tylenol, they know I will be standing by fully equipped to fix and rescue. I will surely not be the one jumping off the rock, I will be watching the stuff instead.

Maybe not. Maybe I will be the one who is absent-mindedly singing out loud while listening to the Black-Eyed Peas on my treadmill at the gym. Who cares? Someone might laugh at me, but just maybe, someone else might wish they were brave enough to try that, too ... and sing along. I am not going to die wondering, that is for sure.

The Kindred Spirits

Right now, on the other side of the country, in a little country house in North Carolina, my sweet redheaded sista-friend, Annie, is fighting like a champ. She has just completed aggressive rounds of chemotherapy and brain-surgery-while-awake to shrink/remove/obliterate the growing tumor in her head. The tumor is not backing down, but then, neither is Annie.

Is there some kind of firing squad line-up that has summoned all the good people to stand against the wall so that this dreaded blight can aim-fire-shoot deadly cancer rays at them? I am horrified at how many times I am hearing and seeing these precious and innocent people under attack. Most of the ones I know in my inner circle have not even touched a cigarette or taken illicit drugs. Most have lived quiet and wholesome lives, care taking others, and it just doesn't seem fair. As far as I know, right now, Osama Bin Laden is alive and doing well, and I seriously doubt he has cancer. So... it just isn't fair. I know I sound like a toddler right now, but it just isn't fair.

I grieve the prospect of a world without Annie's voice or incredible laugh. She has got to be one of the most interesting, full of life, imaginative and quirky-intelligent people I have ever known. She is the only friend in my circle who has bubbled over with glee about the revelations she uncovered while reading a book on quantum physics, of all things. I have no idea what she was talking about, but the passion for learning that has impressed me "evah so" as she would often slip and say when she let her inner Southern Belle loose.

A few weeks ago, I called her and caught her when she was waiting in the clinic for her first round of chemo/radiation. Her voice was full of light and optimism and from the chatter and constant interruptions to our conversation, I knew she had charismatically enchanted a room full of fearful patients and their families. She was cheering them on as they were being wheeled back to the room of monster-robot-cancer-killers. The tumor had caused her to be unable to "ambulate" (she loves that word) without the use of a walker. When her physical therapist wasn't looking, she told me, she did her very best "shuffle-ball-change" dance move, just to defy the rules. That's soooo Annie.

Annie is my walking tutor to all things good and Southern. She knows how to put a good scald on some fried chicken, how to serve "sweet tea" and she was there, my down-the-hall neighbor, to bail me out of my first cheesecake-gone-wrong disaster. She has drawers upon drawers of hand crafted linens, and dusty bookshelves that hold an eclectic variety of reading matter -- all of which I know for sure she has consumed. She knew of coffee houses in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia long before they became vogue niches for the yuppies to occupy. She sat still and listened in the midst of a room full of diverse conversations, able to extract brilliant sound bites from them all, which could be repeated at a moment's recall. I am convinced that somewhere deep in her closet is a hoop skirt and an invite to a cotillion. She would be ready and nothing, if not appropriate...

Annie was on the edge of 39 when she married her soul mate. She asked me to help her to hand pick her lingerie for the honeymoon. It was one of my first visits to Victoria Secret and she opened up the curtain, without a hint of self-consciousness whatsoever, to ask me if she should be seen in this: a fabulous thong-teddy. I don't think I had ever met anyone who I knew personally would be able to pull off that look, and here was Annie, not scared of being 40, not nervous or self-deprecating -- just ecstatic that she was getting to have this moment in her life after all the searching. I literally fell over laughing with her. All these years later, I still remind her to behave herself because I have seen her in a thong and might just have pictures to prove it.

Annie, Julie H. and I all met down in San Diego a few years ago, lunched at the Hotel Del Coronado. We called ourselves "The Pinky Sisters", making a commitment to not give up on expressing ourselves freely through our writing. "The Pinky Sisters" lunch was so inspirational, I began to write again, beginning this blog shortly afterwards. I did not see it coming... that I would write about this fight of Annie's. She will be upset if she thinks she made any of us feel sad or sorry for her. She just wants us all to fight beside her, cheer her on, help her cheer everyone else on, too ... so I will. I just won't let her see my tears while I do ...

28 Winters

Somewhere in the world today, the winter winds are still blowing, snow is falling and the roads are slick and icy. Somewhere in the world there are fireplaces lit and the wood burning smoky clouds through the chimneys is sending sweet aromas into the chilly air. Somewhere there are quiet places where people are sitting, hidden from the elements, wrapped up in woolen blankets and toasty socks. They are enjoying the quiet ... and somewhere in corners of the winter world, there is new love blooming and seasoned love turning the ground over for another round of anticipated blooming.

So it was for me 28 winters ago, when Michael joined my family on a weekend getaway to a mountain cabin in Western Maryland. We were old friends on the verge of our new life together, committed and in love, and I was on a daily vigil for a marriage proposal. I was that sure. Michael was anything if not predictable, or so I thought. He must have known this assessment I had of him and decided to defy it by proposing to me at a time he knew I would least expect it. This he did with great success, for I surely did not expect him to pop the question while I was sound asleep at 6:00 a.m., all clad in flannel with my very best morning breath to provide him the answer. It's a blur, but I think that I said "yes" to his question and found a ring on my left hand which confirmed it.

Outside, gorgeous clumps of snowflakes fell that day. We had snowball fights and embarked upon our commitment together on a winter's day, surrounded by family chaos and disarray, puddles and mud. We looked ahead to our life together with equal parts naive confidence and numbing fear. We put on our boots and bundled up against the cold and trudged away together.

I'm thinking of my son and daughter in law -- now they are in their second winter together, also trudging. While winters out here in Southern California are not that cold, there are still times when the fireplaces roar, sometimes they are fire pits outside at the beach or on a patio, and always there are moments found to huddle from the rains or Santa Ana winds with someone you love. Their road together is so new ... as if it is a pathway of fresh snow with only little bunny rabbit tracks to pock the lane.

I loved that new winter time in my life. Against the white landscape, everything is clear and crisp. Since the new beginnings there have been new babies, bundled up in snowsuits, brought into our warm home, one winter after another. There have been new friends and old alike gathered around the table, warming up hearts with soulful chatter around bowls of soup, winter after winter. We have had some sloppy wet and bitter ice storms, too -- some slips and falls, painful losses against dark gray stormy skies. Under the ground, whether it has been wet with rain, scorched by wildfires and mudslides or blanketed by snow, life has been busy regenerating blooms and blossom and inevitably, there is a concert of color that follows the end of winter year by year. The view is always spectacular when the snow melts away... eventually.

If anyone knows about winter seasons and how to survive them all, I think it is my friend, Bettie. She knows about sheltered love in a marriage that was interrupted abruptly by the storm of cancer. Bettie's home has always been my metaphor for cycles of difficult and marvelous rolling and rolling like a wheel. When her Charlie passed away, she filled in the pool in her back yard and made it into a phenomenal garden retreat... filling the potholes with plants and life. She chose to close up empty and gaping holes with life, as she has done with her own these past cold winters she has been spending alone. And every spring her flowers remember their promise to bloom. I take such courage from all of that life under the snow.

All these images come together today as I think of my children as they celebrate their first year of marriage. I feel blessed to have had these past 28 winters, not merely for surviving the cold outside, but for having the shelter inside where we huddle together with such incredible warmth.

Varnishkes and Kasha

I've never tried to make a brisket. I keep imagining a context in which I might attempt it -- but the mere thought collides with defeat when I face the reality that no matter how many ways I would try to prepare it -- never, ever, would it be like the pan that used to come out of my mother's oven. I can even see her hands, her thin and delicate, veiny skin, grasping the handles of some baking pan which we had told her to discard decades earlier. Perhaps the secret to her delectible presentation was in that beat up and scratched pan -- no one else could possibly own one like that. No one could duplicate this thing she created with those hands of hers. There is magic in that.

I couldn't make the brisket, but tonight I made the varnishkes and kasha, the side dish that inevitably accompanied the meal. I sauteed the onion and garlic, toasted the egg-coated kasha grains till they were nutty brown, stirred and mixed and tossed and seasoned. The aroma that filled my kitchen wrapped around me and cast a spell. Even the sound of the sizzle in the pan was like music to me.

It's not like you can order up this dish anywhere. If you could, I think it would be missing the fact that the draw of it is the preparation with your own hands, with the sounds of home and family, puppies playing and telephones ringing -- all that stirred together and blended into the flavors I dished onto the plate. It conjured up for me an average evening from my long-ago. Nothing special, not for company coming to dinner, not a celebration -- just an after school or long day at work welcome home.

I sat down with my steaming plate, savoring each bite this simple Sunday night. I wished I had a side of brisket, but the memory of it is just as full of flavor as I close my eyes tonight...

Hoarding

Recently, the curtains have been pulled back and have revealed an illness called "hoarding" which is, apparently, growing in alarming numbers. I have been watching several documentaries about this disease, which seems to affect people who can often pose as functional, normal, even brilliant individuals. They just can't seem to find a way to throw out the junk they've accumulated in their homes.

It made me pretty scared, if truth be told, to watch the trauma these people go through in the process of letting go. I realize that maybe I have leanings in that direction myself, as there are pockets in my home of accumulated "stuff" that sits unattended, day in and day out. I seem to possess either an ambivalence about it or even a foreboding fear of approaching these piles. Do I simply "not care" or it is that somewhere in the stacks there are things I will uncover which are too painful to find? Am I too paralyzed in my fear of it that I just can't even sort it out? Oh oh. I think I just looked in the mirror.

Three places in my home are my potential danger zones: The Garage, The Office and The Closet. I might be onto something here which could nip this in the bud. There's got to be a reason I let these places accumulate the hodge-podge of chaos they have become. There are times I will grab a trash bag and tackle one small space, throwing things out left and right... and then it stops for another run of weeks ...

The Garage is the worst of all the collections. There, I have boxes of old collectables of my own, from my old, unfortunate teapot and "country" rooster phase, sporting goods from sports which we will never engage in again (really? will I ski or roller blade again???), and the worst, the things from my parent's home which we just could not decide what to do with at the time they each passed away. And here they sit. The hardest throwaway for me? Pictures they have framed of our family and odd mismatched items that evoke such strong memories but hold not current useful purpose any longer in my life ... I'm also thinking the IRS probably doesn't need my dad's 1988 tax returns either, but I guess at the time, I thought there was danger in throwing it out? Worse even, the mere thought of discarding any item with my mother's handwriting, for fear I would lose the memory of her beautiful looping letters, now that they have stopped production.

I already know what the problem is in The Office and The Closet. Denial. Plain and simple. I'm not going to be size 4 in this lifetime and the reminders of that have got to go. If I ever do stumble on a trimmer physique, which is the plan, mind you, I will have earned my trip to find new things to fit myself and this old stuff should not be my incentive. For that matter, I hope to also not be a 2X again, so really, all I need is a couple of teenagers to help me load those bags into my trunk and get it off to Goodwill. It's time.

My ultimate goal this year is to streamline and simplify. Peering into the windows of the lives of people with this hoarding sickness has made me assess that any large scale changes I want to make are still sitting atop the daily, physical reminder that I can't start fresh unless I purge the old and superfluous items which are getting in the way. It is not impossible and there is help available when I am ready to ask for it.

Trash bags in hand, I am heading for the garage... determined to clear the pathways in my home and in my head.

Lessons from Susan B.

By now, most of the known universe has witnessed the amazing performance on the Britain's Got Talent competition of Susan Boyle.

Beneath her frumpy, weathered exterior was this geyser of talent which erupted to the shock of everyone who viewed it for the first time. Shocking more, was that in a world of appearance-obsessed people, the unbelievable achievement of seeing millions exercise the ability to look beneath the surface and validate another still exists.

For me, it has been an inspiration resulting in my new epiphony for the year... "you don't die from being less than perfect." I've spent years living in a body which I neither admire or frankly, even recognize sometimes. I have performed daily rituals of dressing to camoflague this with the slight of hand of magical undergarments -- hoping the world might just not notice today that, yes, I have put on weight. And in the mirror are hundreds of products I religiously apply to shade and treat the places that time has marked on my face. With every one of these applications, I have endorsed the daily affirmation that I have now arrived at the place of total irrelevance because, gasp, I am not now, nor have I ever been -- perfect.

When I was in 6th grade, I began my passion for writing ... scrawling in pencil in a brown composition notebook my poems and thoughts which freely flowed back in those days. I wrote without worry about who would read, edit or even critique my words. It felt good just to let the words out of their cubicle and onto those blue lined sheets of paper.

I can't remember exactly when it happened that I was infected with the Self-Conscious Virus, but it seems that it locked up my will to write and sing and dance without wondering who was watching and ... what they thought. And so it was that decades came and went and here I am just now accepting that it might be okay to be less than perfect.

Susan Boyle has a lyric she sings in a song on her new album which says,

"And though I may not know the answers,

I can finally say I am free,
And if the questions led me here,

then I am who I was born to be."

Unwrapping the gift it is to hear Susan's voice sing has stirred in me an inspiration to leave my lifelong fear of rejection at the "side of the road". Today, I will write and sing -- and even dance. I will be content to do it for me and not for the audience full of rejection buzzers in their hands. I know I still will never be perfect at any of it, but I have stopped worrying about that now. I love the freedom I found to do it anyways.

“Are there not... Two points in the adventure of the diver: One—when a beggar, he prepares to plunge? Two—when a prince, he rises with his pearl? I plunge!” —Robert Browning