On Religion...

I was recently asked, "are you religious?" On the surface, this would seem to be a pretty straightforward, even binary, question. But this is not a surface question, and my answer is nuanced.

The question is two-pronged in my thinking: Do you believe in God? And do you believe in or adhere to an organized religious tradition. The latter question is a little easier: I don't believe in the dogma of any religion in so far as it stipulates that it is the only way to recognize or worship God. To be right in that respect definitionally means all others are wrong, and that just cannot be the case.

Nearly everyone is born into a religious tradition, no matter how loosely or closely held: I was brought up Catholic. I made most of my sacraments, attended mass, baptized my son, own a rosary, and my grandmother's crucifix. That crucifix has hung on the wall of every place I have ever rested my head. I love the ceremony of the Catholic mass (I can recite most of it from memory), the majesty of cathedrals, the music. Midnight mass is my absolute favorite. The fireworks that the Greeks set off at midnight of Easter Sunday to announce, “He is risen!” gives me goosebumps. There is a part of my spirit, soul, or psyche that is deeply touched: I am uplifted, filled with joy, and affected to the point of physical goosebumps. 

I don’t believe in a paternalistic, perturbable, jealous God who must be appeased in order to bestow blessings, or metes out punishment to those who fall short. I don’t believe God, if there is one (and I side with yes, there is) in his heaven, gives a flying fuck whether a Jew puts on his yarmulke, whether a Muslim has a drink, whether man lay down with man, or woman with woman. There are nearly 8 billion souls to look after. Some with their finger on the nuclear button. There are bigger fish to fry, so to speak than to punish the Catholic who had a BLT on any given Friday during Lent.

We have a rulebook in the Commandments as described in the old testament. I can’t say I believe they were written by the finger of God onto a stone tablet on Mt. Sinai and given to Moses to bring to the masses. But it IS a rulebook, and we are accountable. I can get behind every one of them except the first: I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt have no God before me (yep, typed from memory), or the one about false idols. I believe we are accountable to each other in the present more than we are striving for a favorable position in the afterlife.

I do believe humans make questionable moral decisions, most of which are venal and eminently forgivable. Most of those lapses are against our fellow man, not against God per se, so to ask for forgiveness of sin should be both a human humbling, and a spiritual acknowledgment of weakness, with effort put into strengthening. Those egregious acts such as murder, robbery, rape, assault, go well beyond the venal, and we have a penal system for that. I would imagine the hereafter was NOT on the mind of the perpetrator.

I do believe Jesus Christ walked this earth, that his mother’s name was Mary, his father was Joseph, and both men carpenters. I believe there was a group of people that believed he was the fulfillment of prophecy. I believe Jesus had a ministry, and traveled around trying to teach people how to be good to one another, and was somewhat displeased with the religious establishment at that time. I believe he was put to death in part for his religious “heresies” and political beliefs. He was a perceived threat to church AND state.

I do NOT believe that Jesus was Mary’s only child whether or not his conception was virgin notwithstanding. Even if it were, that would mean Yahweh both cuckolded Joseph AND emasculated him. I don’t buy it. I do NOT believe Jesus didn’t take a wife. I do believe Mary Magdeline was said wife.

I have no issue with the basic tenets of the Christian faith. My issue is with how generations upon generations of humans have perverted it to serve their needs of the moment. I have a HUGE problem with the fact that Christians systematically wiped out nearly every single indigenous religion it encountered. It is horrifying to me that anyone has the hubris to come into someone’s land and not only take it and all its resources, but rob inhabitants of their religious practices. I have called Christianity, as practiced in this way, a scourge. A virus. What else invades and conquers like that? Let’s not even mention the crusades. The acts committed in the name of God, in any of his incarnations, are appalling.

I believe that Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ are all names for the same deity. And they all stand for love, peace, joy, sacrifice, honor, kindness, and compassion.

I practiced yoga for a few years. Based largely on Sanskrit/Hindu teachings, the basic tenet is to recognize the divine within, and that there is balance in all things: Masculine and feminine; creation and destruction, and that each of these things resides within us. I believe that you and I are as much a child of God as Christ was. Just as imperfectly perfect. I believe once we understand that that divinity is within us, and not some external force, we can be more compassionate with ourselves, and therefore to others. It is so much more difficult to desecrate another when you recognize that God lives in them, too.

I believe heaven and hell are personal as well as societal constructs. I believe in reincarnation, a recycling of souls. We come back until we get it right. Then hopefully we can in some way assist less enlightened souls to reach that same height.

I do believe in God. I do believe I haven’t yet gotten it right yet so will be back around a few more times. I do believe in feeding my spirit: in breathing deep, in being present for each moment to the best of my ability without reaching for the next or holding on to the last. I believe I am here to be of service in some way, even if it’s simply to walk one person safely across the street. Or steer for a man who fell asleep behind the wheel. We are all walking extensions of God and his angels. And his demons.

Long Vs. Short Form

It's hard to believe I have been away from my blog for nearly a year. I was surprised to learn that before January of this year I hadn't written a post for two years. In fact, since 2008 my postings became increasingly sporadic.

I created a Facebook profile in 2007. Conversely, my postings there became very frequent: sometimes 4 or 5 status updates in a 24 hour period. I haunt my news feed looking through others' activities and updates. I post news articles, photos, you name it, and voraciously consume those posted by others. I confess, I have even tailored postings with likes and comments in mind.

This blog is as close to a journal that I have ever come. It allowed, and allows, me to flex my expository muscle, to reflect, and explore without regard to audience. I am able to delve deeply into whatever is on my mind, and in so doing purge, or at least expose some demons. I have a long list of blogs written by some seriously talented people. They were, and are, a source of inspiration. Their writings let me know that I am not alone in my search for answers and meaning. I see the same love of writing and clarity of thought I struggle to achieve. Some have gone fallow. Others continue on, as rich as ever. When I abandoned my writing, I also abandoned my reading.

Brevity is the hallmark of Facebook, Twitter, and similar platforms. Social networking sites are excellent vehicles for disseminating information quickly to a wide audience, whether it's family updates or world events: witness the Arab Spring and Hurricane Sandy coverage. Information traveled far and wide in words and pictures. In such situations, this is a good thing. It brings much-needed awareness to the plight of the day. However, as a means of significant personal expression, there is nothing that can be fully explored in 140 characters.

I have read my recent Facebook posts. My grammar and usage have gotten sloppy, and it is not possible to edit posts. I can edit my comments on other people's posts, but not my actual posts. My blog posts are constructed differently: I write, read, edit, revise, edit, revise, then post. It is not an instantaneous process. It is deliberative. And, if, months later, I find an error, I can correct it.

The introduction of these short-form platforms has influenced not only how we, or at least I, write, but how we consume information. More snippets, headlines, and soundbites. Less in-depth analysis. Less critical thinking. While we decry ADD in kids, we cater to it in adults. We bounce from thought to thought, story to story, without actually assimilating the information, discerning its veracity, and assessing what it actually means to us as individuals, or citizens, for that matter.

Let's be clear: I don't want to abandon my social network. I do want to take a more balanced approach to my online options, both in terms of input and output. Actually, I want to take a more balanced approach to my LIFE, but that is another post...

r.

On Needing a Good Cry

I need a good cry. And it seems that the universe is conspiring to ensure it happens.

Seriously. Here is my case:

• I have had a keen sense lately that I have lost my way, or at least my sense of equilibrium
• My husband of 21 years was drunk when I arrived home from work last night at 7pm
• A Facebook friend posted THIS story from CNN on her wall
• My 15 year-old named me his model of faith for the essay portion of his religion midterm exam
• I came across this Huffington Post article on child rearing and nostalgia in my email
• I accidentally found out that the father of a new friend of mine most likely went to high school with my mother (you know, the presumably living parent I have not seen or spoken to for over 10 years now. I mean how cool would it be to call her up and say, hey, guess WHAT?!?!?!)
• Let's not even mention the 20 pounds I've gained, or the last song that played on my iPod.

I'm not menstrual, or even premenstrual. I am just plain sad. And tired. And lost. And forty-fucking-five, wondering what the hell to do about it that won't involve more pain, injury, collateral damage, or isolation.

I've read through previous posts. I am not prone necessarily to self pity, and certainly not martyrdom. But I am prone to these bouts of restlessness, and they generally fade. Maybe I just need to wait it out. But I don't think so. Something feels broken. It is the slow walk home from the train. The realization that going to the gym at night and getting home at 9 or later might not be so bad after all. I always looked forward to going home. Less and less now is that the case, unless the house is either empty or my son is the only one there.

Oh, and I learned a new word: Kairos. Author Glennon Melton defines kairos as God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. In Greek mythology, Kairos, the youngest child of Zeus, was the god of opportunity. In rhetoric it is the opportune time and/or place, the right or appropriate time to say or do the right or appropriate thing. I think I like God's time best. As opposed to Chronos, ordinary time. Even in these muddled times, I have moments of Kairos. They will have to do for now.

r.

Under The Influence

I know the second I walk in the door that he is in his cups. It is evident in his posture, the barely perceptible slackness in his face, the slight change in speech patterns. I ask him how far in he is, he says not even close. I know better. He becomes so much more impassioned in his viewpoints, shouting over any that oppose his. Though he isn't, he seems angry, and can easily become so if the rebuttal is too persistent.

Watchmen is on HBO, a story about which he has very strong feelings. Among other topics, it touches upon the Vietnam War, a subject he is now expounding upon vociferously to his son, along with other references the child is too young to fully grasp. I remind the boy that he has homework and studying to do before winding down for the night, as much to get him to do his work as to remove him from his father's cross hairs. He isn't in any danger, but I don't like him experiencing his father this way. I try to keep my efforts from being obvious. The boy finishes his work, and heads for the shower.

With me, he is overly solicitous, maudlin in his expression of affection. This makes me uncomfortable so I retreat, but not too far. To do so would fill him with a sense of rejection which would make him either morose or defensive, depending on the day. Citing office work to finish up, I head to the bedroom but leave the door open. It is important to appear accessible. He comes in the room to impart the news of the day, then goes back to his movie. I wait for him to fall asleep in front of the TV, then quietly push the door closed.

I am no teetotaler. After I finished my dinner I poured myself a glass of wine, and enjoyed it fully. One small glass from a bottle I opened 3 days ago, and still have not finished. There was no alteration of my personality or demeanor. Nothing to cause confusion or worry or discomfiture. That is not to say I haven't had nights of binge drinking that very much did cause these things—I have. And the child has seen some of it, much to my chagrin.

There is something about being the only sober person in a room that makes the whole spectacle so damned sad. Every nuance of drunkenness stands out in stark relief. It makes me want to protect my child from it, and run from it at the same time. It makes me consider more carefully my behavior under the influence, or perhaps ensure I stay just a bit less under the influence.


r.

I Might Still Have Something to Say...

I thought that perhaps I was out of words. Or maybe the words were no longer making sense. Or maybe there were just too many other distractions. Or maybe I just got too close to something too big to face. But lately, I find that I might just have something to say. That there are now words and thoughts to commit to pixels. Stories to tell. There are still too many distractions, but I am learning to manage them better. When last I visited this place, I was writing from a ego driven place--writing for the comments that would be left for me, and feasting my ego upon them. Since I have been away a full year, my "audience" is gone. I can write from a place that is more pure.

I have bits of me scattered all over the blog-scape and now Face Book. It is a funny thought, really. At one time, those bits would have been actual pieces of paper--letters and cards sent and received or journals kept. Now they are pixels. If someone pulled the plug, any evidence of my thoughts and stories would be lost forever. Having just really committed to that thought, I am unsure how I feel about it. Maybe I will print out the stories posted here, and put them in a binder of sorts. The posts I have written about my son are stories he has heard, and I am sure he knows how much I love him, but in years ahead, when I am no longer here, it might be meaningful for him to read them. Or to read the full measure of who his mother was at one point her her life. I don't think that is ego...I would have loved to have read my mother's words at any point in her life. It would have been illuminating to say the least--a part of her that was never accessible otherwise.

So, here I tentatively stick my toe back into the writing/journaling pool. This time, I think it is an extension of my yoga practice...just off the mat. We'll see. If I come face to face with a really big truth, I hope this time I have the courage to face it, rather than retreat.

r.

Core Strength

I recently experienced a new yoga instructor. I considered not attending the Friday noon thirty class any longer, as I really enjoyed the former teacher's style. He could be tough, and he had a wicked sense of humor. But I had two sessions left on my class card. So I attended her class. Her style was vastly different than what I expected. She was a little tough. A little gentle. Encouraging. And delivered one hell of a workout.

She emphasizes core strength. Several days after class I got to thinking about her emphasis on core strength. While I work out almost daily, and do core work, I don't concentrate on my belly and back. Arms, shoulders, chest and legs are easier to work, more obvious targets and visible results.

It occurred to me that just as there is bodily core strength, there is also personal core strength. That part of your person-hood that forms your core, your sense of identity and boundaries. And all the other forms of strength—the external, easy obvious signs of strength. A bad-ass attitude. A knack of taking on too much. The warped notion that I can fix things or people. That is not real strength. That is is not a strong core. That is strong legs, strong arms, shoulders and back. But one swift punch to the gut, and I would fold in. Too soft.

This needs thought. This needs work. Maybe I can work the body and spirit together.

r.

Seriously Lacking Motivation

I've done my best to live the right way
I get up every morning and go to work each day
But your eyes go blind and your blood runs cold
Sometimes I feel so weak I just want to explode
Explode and tear this town apart
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart
Find somebody itching for something to start

--Bruce Springsteen, The Promised Land

This pretty much sums it up, more or less. But I don't think I want to pick a fight. I'd probably just sit there and cry. It's been a rough few weeks. And let's just say I need to pay better attention to my actions, and how they are intended vs how they are perceived. As my grandmother pointed out to me decades ago, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

This is one part of my current malaise. The other is that there has been news out there in blog land that shook me to my core when I read it (late of course). There is something about love not being enough to see someone through that breaks my heart. Every time. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe in happily ever after in the fairy tale sense. But maybe I have always wanted love to be a salve. The right love to help heal the hurts. But it seems that again and again that is not the case. Maybe that is just ego. I don't know. I understand better now that one has to heal the hurts of their life under their own power. And the love that provides the strength for that is truly special and rare.

I sometimes wonder what, exactly, I am holding on to. And what would happen if I let go. Or if I have already let go on some level that I haven't quite yet admitted to my conscious self, even though I just typed these words. Guilt. Fear. Self incrimination. Blame. Shame. No way at all to live. Or is it all in my head? Wouldn't be the first time I over analyzed, when I should really just go to bed. But somehow this feel just a little different.

sigh.
r.

The Day I Stood Close to the Sun

A week ago today, I enjoyed a delightfully small, vigorous yoga class. At the end of savasana, I leapt up and looked out the window to see whether my friend Sue had arrived at the Starbucks across the street. There she was. Striped skirt, lemon yellow tee. I hurried to get changed, and ran downstairs, zipped across 5th Avenue to meet a woman, who until then, I had only known through her writing. Well, that and the fact that we have several other blogging buddies in common. Is it not said that we are known by the company we keep?

The funny thing is that I knew Sue was coming at a least a month before she arrived. I knew we'd meet at around 7:30 in the Chelsea/Flatiron district of Manhattan. Did I scout out a suitable spot to sit for a drink or nosh? Nope. So, as much as I think I like to have a plan, I guess I truly am a seat of the pants kind of gal.

We walked around around Madison Square Park, named for President James Madison, and the origin of Madison Avenue. I asked Sue if she had any preferences. She didn't, other then a stiff drink. Done and done! We wound up at a place called A Voce. It had a wonderful looking outdoor seating area (while I didn't plan an actual venue, I DID envision an outdoorish pub). We knew it would be expensive just by the look of it, but didn't want to wander much further. And really, in that area, it wouldn't matter...it's ALL expensive.

Upon being seated, we were presented with menus, cocktail menus and a wine list. It was absolutely huge. Sue suggested we guess what the most expensive bottle would cost. I, trying to appear as urbane as the city I was showing off, guessed around $800. Sue laughed, saying she was thinking $250 to 300. Sue has a fantastic picture of how wrong we were on her blog. You can also visit here to be regaled by their Wine Spectator rated cellars. Truly how the other half lives!

Sue ordered a Cosmo, I ordered one of their own gin creations that tasted like pink grapefruit. Very refreshing. We shared a fresh ricotta and warm bread appetizer, and set about getting to know each other better. We talked about blogging buddies we follow, and how great it would be to meet them all. Big life changes. Culture shock. Traveling, kids, marriage in general. It was a fantastic experience. We settled up, and walked across town to the 8th Avenue line. I misjudged it by a few blocks, sorry, Sue, I know you walked your feet off and didn't need that extra 3 blocks...but it allowed the conversation to continue. Sue was the smart one...she brought a camera to document the event. Here we are on the C train headed uptown. We would part at Times Square to return each to our own waiting husbands and sleeping kids.

It really is amazing to meet someone you've only read. What we write in our spaces is full of who we are as people: Our joys, our inspirations, the things with which we struggle, or maybe just news. In my virtual travels, I am reminded again and again of how similar we all are. Not nearly as disparate beings as we sometimes make ourselves out to be. It is a different sense of connectedness in this milieu than we experience with our circle of friends and family, but just as vital in some ways. This was my first experience with matching the actual to the virtual, and I sincerely hope it will not by my last.

r.

Warrior I?

An angry, armed mob made two attempts to forcibly enter my home to find something or someone they thought, and indeed I was, hiding. Both times I was able to push them out. I am not sure who the would be invaders were, or what exactly I was protecting.

Upon vanquishing them the second time, I shouted, "This is my sovereign home!"

Those words seemed to either have some significance, or otherwise gave away my guilt because they caught the attention of the departing pirates, "Your WHAT?!?!"

I stood proud, victorious in my doorway. I threw down a red sheet or cloak that fluttered down the two or more story height at which I was standing. A moment later, another sheet, or was it a robe? came fluttering down from above me.

Then I awoke...bewildered.

I am Christopher's Mom

Twelve years ago this moment (it is now 11:20am EDT) I was in my 11th (out of a total of 14) hour of labor with my beloved son. He was taking his time coming into the world, and let me tell you, nothing much has changed in that regard! We didn't know until around noon or so that he was actually breach, and there was no way in hell he was going to be born in the conventional way. Upon seeing my little intrauterine Buddha on the sonogram screen, my OB's words were, "Prep the OR."

To which I responded, "I can't have surgery, it's my birthday!"

Which had to do with absolutely nothing at all. The OR was prepped, the child was delivered. He was silent upon coming into the world. Since I was behind a surgical paper tent, I could not see the child, and was absolutely terrified by his silence. Essentially, I made my OB make my son cry, so that I could be assured that he was breathing. But the second the stimuli was removed, he resumed his quiet. My husband was sitting at my right shoulder, which was literally tied down. Someone handed him my newborn son. He was beautiful. His dark blue eyes were open wide as he beheld his father. His hair was matted with goo, and though blonde, appeared quite dark. His skin was peaches and cream fair. But mostly what I remember is his big, open eyes looking at his father in complete silence.

I was so very full of my new mother self, walking him through the neighborhood. He was not even a week old. My belly stitched by not yet healed. I actually walked into my parish church to present my child to the almighty saying the words, "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased." Of course I prayed for his protection, as well. Now, on my yoga mat, the intention for my practice is almost always Christopher's peace and well being.

From infancy until around the time he was eighteen months old, Christopher didn't really cry much. He was a placid, happy baby. He rarely had to cry when hungry, his schedule was my sixth sense. He was, however, a picky eater. And he didn't sleep through the night until I forced the issue when he was 14 months old. By that time, I was going on 2+ years without even once sleeping through the night. It was taking a serious toll on my personality!

At around 18th months of age, we started a two year battle with ear infections. My poor baby! The fevers. The pain. The fucking medicine!! That child was miserable for such a long time. How we got through it, I'll never know. But they stopped as suddenly as they started, with no damage to his hearing, thank God. He's been really healthy ever since.

Today, he is a smart, wickedly funny kid who struggles with math. He is a little dorky and awkward, a trait from both his parents. He is empathetic. Somewhat excitable. I am so proud of the young man he is becoming. And I miss the infant that he was, when I could make everything all better with a hug, a snuggle, one more round of Goodnight Moon.

I am so grateful I share this day with him. It is almost like a secret language of twins. My son. My joy. The one and only force in this world that truly made me put someone else first, without thought or reserve. It is ironic, really, that he came into the world on my birthday. I always put so much stock in 'my' day. Don't get me wrong, I still really like my birthday. But now, I view it more as a passing of the torch. To step back, and watch him shine is truly my greatest gift both to give and receive.

I love you, my son. I am so very proud to be your mother.

r.

Winding Down

The end of another school year and baseball season are near. The school year has been much more successful this year than last, but still, it will be nice for all of us to have a break from the homework wars. This summer we can just enjoy camp, some review, a couple of book reports and the beach. Thank the Maker, we've earned it.

Sadly, the baseball season is also winding down. Christopher plays his next to last game tonight, unless, of course, the threatened thunderstorms materialize. We had a make-up game last Sunday that was called in the third inning due to thunderstorms. With the heatwave we are experiencing, it will be a welcome relief, but it will wreak havoc with baseball season. His last game is scheduled for Friday the 13th, and the All Star game is Sunday, Father's day. His team is 5-3 and 1, if Sunday's game is not counted--good enough for third place. If the league considers the rain-shortened game official, then they are 5-4 and 1 with 2 games to go. A playoff berth is on the line here, and I hope they make it. His team last year missed the post season by one run.

Christopher had his first hit that wasn't a foul ball this year. It was an infield hit, and while he advanced the runner, he was thrown out at first. He received the game ball two weeks ago for the most walks on the team. His batting average is a goose egg, but his on-base percentage is phenomenal! Last year you couldn't pay him to swing at the ball. This year, he'll swing, but not at bad pitches. His fielding and throwing has also improved. He really wants to pitch at some point, so I think I'll work with him to do that. Maybe get him some lessons somewhere.

One our our biggest complaints last year and this was with the umpiring. Most games, our umpire is this old school, blind as a bat curmudgeon. If a kid says the word, "damn" he is thrown out--given how the ump calls balls and strikes, I don't see how you can fault a kid for a stray "damn!" If a player takes a leaf off the base while the pitcher is in his wind up, he is thrown out. But the man can't call balls and strikes to save his life. He also flubs calls on kids running the bases. Eagle eye Frank is his name. I think he has favorite kids, teams and coaches. I have learned to keep my mouth shut, but I do admit to harboring truly foul thoughts towards him. So, imagine my guilt when I learned on Saturday that the man is in the hospital with blood clots in his legs. This after he just buried his brother. Sheesh. Yep. I'm a heel. He's still blind, but I'm a heel!!

r.

The Best I Could?

I was at my girlfriend's house, sitting around the kitchen table with a mutual friend a couple of years ago. We were enjoying some wine and cheese, and time out of our lives. I don't remember what we were talking about, or how the subject came up, but one of them said something along the lines of, "Well, she did the best she could." I have always considered that line to be a lame excuse at best, and a cop out at worst, so I proceeded to make my opinion known, in no uncertain terms. I did a pretty good job of putting a pall on the entire evening. My diatribe was perceived as an attack, and was viewed as inappropriate...out of proportion with the topic at hand, and all about me.

I thought I had reconciled myself to a kinder approach to "The Best I Could," but now I am not so sure. It seems to me one can say they did their best, but still have the effort fall far short of satisfactory. It also seems to me, on the few occasions I have allowed those words to come out of my mouth, if I really thought about it, I could have done better. I could have taken more time. Been more patient. Used a kinder tone of voice. Chosen better words. Put forth more effort. Paid more attention.

This applies to personal interactions as well as assigned tasks. Then the question becomes was it the best that could have been done at that time in space with what was available? Is one's seemingly best effort assailable only in retrospect? Do we, when in the middle of something, stop and ask ourselves is this the best I can do, then make any necessary adjustments? I know that I very often do not have the presence of mind to stop mid stream for such introspection, and adjust accordingly. So, no, I didn't do the best I could do.

Such a claim is made as a defensive posture, an attempt to deflect the slings and arrows of criticism, or to deny responsibility. What response can be made to such a statement that isn't a direct attack on the claimant's integrity? Conversely, what hope does anyone have of ascertaining necessary answers to major questions when such a defense is mounted?

We may set the intention every day to do the best we can do. But, I believe in our rush to get though tasks large and small, we gloss over the details. We forget to slow down and pay the proper attention, or be present enough to evaluate our efforts as we are putting them forward. We then bristle at being called out on our shortcomings and play the 'best I could' card.

So. I didn't do the best I could have done. I didn't listen well enough. I put forth far less effort than I was capable of. I was rushed. I reacted before I thought or felt. I was closed off and unavailable for any number of reasons, both real and perceived. I am aware of it. I will not offer excuses. I will not take refuge in something that leaves me feeling dishonest and you feeling unsatisfied. I am learning, however, how do do better. To come closer to my best. To better align my best with the ideal best that can be done in life. It is pride that makes us proffer the shield of 'I did the best I could.' It takes humility and courage to come to terms with the fact that your best just wasn't good enough.

r.

On How to Be a Girl

By the time I turned 40 I had a 10-year-old son, I had lost nearly 100 pounds and was at the beginning of what would be a 6-year decline of my marriage. I was in the best physical shape of my life, and in the midst of intense personal restlessness. I needed a change. So I cut my shoulder-plus length hair. I cut it very, very short rationalizing that it's practical and minimizes the gray. Reaction to this drastic change was mostly positive with some women saying they wish they had the nerve to cut their hair that short. Of course, there are always critics: I have been told the look is too masculine or opens my sexuality to question, or is just plain unattractive. But by far, the most interesting encounter I had was with a little girl in a laundromat. 

To set the scene, for the last decade and a half, my neighborhood has been in the throes of a demographic shift—ethnic enclaves are being displaced by young professionals from all over the country who are unable to afford to live in the city proper. But there are still many Greek, Italian, Latino, Indian, Asian, and Albanian families, all of which have deep-rooted gender identity rules for both appearance and role that are passed, if diluted, from one generation to the next.

I breezed into my local laundromat to put in one last load of wash. A little girl was sitting on a window sill next to a pair of small load machines while her mother folded a clothes fresh out of the dryer. The child was of Hispanic descent and probably around 5 years old, with big brown eyes and slightly longer than shoulder length hair with bangs. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a pink shirt. As soon as she saw me, she asked me if I was a girl in that unselfconscious way that only a child get away with violating the most egregious bounds of etiquette. You just can't get mad at it—even if it WAS the third time in that week I had to defend my appearance. So I curbed my tongue and checked my tone. I assured her that I was indeed a girl, removing my jacket to make myself more visible. The conversation continued...

"Well, why do you have short hair?"

"I cut it short so that it isn't in the way when I exercise."

"But boys have short hair."

"Yes, they do. But girls can have short hair too." 

Once I started, I couldn't stop: "There is no one right way to be a girl. Girls can have long hair or short hair. Girls can have muscles or not have muscles. Girls can become moms or not become moms. They can go to work or they can stay home. There are many, many ways to be a girl. You get to choose what kind of girl you want to be. No one can tell you how to be a girl."

Then I asked her, "Do boys sometimes have long hair?"

"Yes."

"Does that make them girls?"

"No."

"No, it doesn't. It makes them boys with long hair. Just like I am a girl with short hair. More than one way to be a girl, and you get to choose how."

I was speaking very softly while I worked next to this girl. I didn't want to scare her, and I didn't want her called away until I was finished.

"You can do anything a boy can do if you want to. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't. I have short hair. I am a mom. I am strong. I am the kind of girl I want to be. I chose. Always remember you can choose."

Her mother was either finished folding or had an inkling that we were talking and came to investigate. I assured her that we were fine. The child was not bothering me. Isn't it funny that as parents, we assume that our children are annoying another adult with whom they are interacting? I finished loading the machine, put in soap and quarters, and went back upstairs.

r.

One Hundred Posts Later...

I just so happened to look over at the sidebar of my blog and noticed that this will be my one hundredth post. It has taken me nearly 2 full years to reach this milestone. It seems I progress in fits and starts. Since I have been feeling somewhat reflective since I awoke, I will indulge myself here.

My second post was a short missive pondering the significance of turning forty. A few weeks ago I wrote about waiting. There is a pattern here, but I think there is also some actual progress as well. I don't spend as much time waiting as I once did, but there is still some work to be done.

There is a transformation going on, I can feel it. But there are times when I feel as if I have taken two steps forward and one step back. On my darker days, I am convinced that I have taken one baby step forward and two giant steps back. I have attained a greater sense of calm. But I continue to hide from painful things rather than confront and vanquish them. It really is quite ridiculous that a fear of loss and pain compel me to hide resulting in the very loss and pain that I fear. More ridiculous still is the ability to articulate the problem, and not actually solve it in a meaningful way.

Within the past year or two, I have found myself peeling layers of stuff away, both in physical and metaphysical terms. On the physical side, I used to wear fairly dramatic eyeliner, have hair to my waist, more than a few extra pounds and three rings stacked on the third finger of my left hand. Today, a little mascara, less hair than most men, a lean physique and one thin gold band is all that is left. I hoard fewer possessions than I once did as well...no mean task when one lives with a pack rat!!

Mentally, the same sort of paring down is happening as well, but it feels somewhat superficial. Like picking away the outer edges of a week old scab...those pieces are ready to come off, and take very little effort to remove. But when you work your way toward the center of the wound, the scab is not so willing to come away...sometimes it hurts, sometimes it bleeds. So you stop picking, maybe for a day or more, until that part has healed a little more, and the painless picking can resume.

When I was a child, I picked scabs with reckless abandon, giving no thought at all to the scars I was creating as I reopened wounds again and again. But those were only my knees, not my soul. As life goes on, I have learned that I need to approach some wounds with a little more care. Perhaps some salve. Some I am afraid to touch yet. I know it will hurt, and fear the pain more than the canker itself. I am trying to move away from a fear based life, as again and again I discover that my fear of the thing is almost always bigger than the thing itself.

There are some really big things on my plate right now:

• My son is rapidly approaching adolescence. I want to walk through it with him in such a way that we come out the other side as two adults who would choose to spend time together, rather than that awkward obligatory mother/child relationship.

• I have some friendships that need some work. I am harboring some hurt and grudges to some extent. It needs to be addressed. I have to decide how I want to address it. Should fences be mended to best extent possible, recognizing that somethings you just never come all the way back from, or should I just let them go. Either way, the loss is significant.

• I need to be a better cousin, niece, sister and aunt. Call. Write. Understand that no one can read my mind to know that I am actually thinking of, caring about and loving them.

• I need to figure out how to better exist in my marriage: how to be more present, more caring, more patient. We used to walk side by side, but Brian always knew I was adjusting my pace to match his, or reminded me to do just that. Somewhere along the line, that stopped, and when we looked up, I was a quarter mile up the road. Brian feels left behind. I feel held back. This dynamic is creating feelings of resentment and jealousy. Not healthy at all.

In someways I feel like an athlete playing through an injury. Every day, I show up to the game, and some days, I make a pretty good play. While it is clear that I am not performing at a hundred percent, being sidelined is not an option. Would that it were. I'd go someplace really quiet, but not necessarily solitary. But maybe that is an illusion...that healing time has to happen outside the daily demands of life. Maybe it is through the daily demands of life, practice as it were, that we heal, grow and strengthen. But when your natural tendency is to burrow in rather than stretch out, it can be difficult to just get out of your own way!

____________

In other news:

--> Christopher's baseball team is undefeated (3 and 0) so far. His Cardinals actually mercied the Astros 13-2 (in his league, games are declared over when one team is beating the other by more than 10 runs).

--> Brian's birthday was last Tuesday. We had the party on Saturday night. A good time was had by all. We thought we'd have the weekend kid free, but alas, Christopher's Boy Scout troop canceled their camping trip.

--> Christopher brought home an absolutely stellar progress report last week. His math grade is still a little weak, but I think we can bring it up before the end of the year.

--> Brian's 42 and a half year old sister, mother to our 18 year old nephew, just gave birth to a brand new baby girl, Alexis Juliana. She is the only girl born to this generation, so nope, she's not gonna be spoiled...nahh.

r.

Let the Games Begin!

The ICYP baseball season has begun! Opening day ceremonies were Saturday morning, and included a parade through the neighborhood that started and ended at the playing field. Last year we had a marching band leading the throng, and keeping some semblance of time. This year, due to some changes in the league administration, we did not. We had these instead:


Back on the field, we were led in the Pledge of Allegiance and Stars Spangled Banner by the commissioner. Local politicians speechified. Sponsors gave their commercial messages and encouragement. First pitches were thrown out. The smell of hot dogs filled the air.

It was a gorgeous day to play baseball! Not a cloud in the sky, temperatures in the mid 70s. Perfect. There were a total of 3 games going at noontime on Saturday. Most other teams begin either midweek or next Saturday. Chris was one of the lucky ones. His team, the Cardinals, played the Mets to a 11-2 victory.

In his season debut, Christopher struck out twice and drew a walk. He also was a pinch runner, coming home on a huge base hit. No one made any really awful plays on the field, and there were a couple of real gems. The rust will be completely off in the next couple of weeks. There are around 14 kids on the roster, so outfield positions, especially, are rotated throughout the game. Chris played right for the first 2 innings.

Christopher joined the team a little late this year, participating in his first practice Friday afternoon. The rest of the team had practiced about 3 times before. One of Christopher's old school buddies, Teddy, is on the team this year, and his dad, a friend of ours, is one of the coaches. He will take Christopher under his wing, and get him up to speed in a hurry. He is a middle school teacher, and loves working with this age group. We played against Ted a couple of times last year. He plays on the CYO baseball and basketball leagues as well. Needless to say, he is pretty good! His dad signed him up for pitching lessons this year.

Christopher's next game is next Saturday. I need to make a note to remember sunscreen. I remembered water, and bubble gum for the dugout Saturday, but not sunscreen. Since were were out doors from around 9:15am until around 3ish, we we all pretty red by Saturday evening, but a decent shade of tan by Sunday morning. I have a farmer tan, dammit. Now my shoulders will never catch up! Sigh.

Yep, once again, Mom's an eeejit.

r.

A New Job, Schedule Changes, Yoga and Baseball

Brian started his new job Monday. He is an assistant cook for a senior citizens group run by the Hellenic Association. Originally, he was to start on April 7th. Sometime in late March, that was changed to April 21st. Last Wednesday he received a call in which the HR person said, "See you Monday." Now, I, being ever so quick on the uptake, didn't process that to mean Monday the 14th. I thought they meant Monday the 21st. Well, guess again. Ideally, I like to have a little time to process the ramifications of a change. What time do we all need to get up? What time will I need to leave the house? What time will I get to work? When will I get my yoga classes in? I had about 4 hours to figure this out on Sunday night when it hit me that Yes, Rebecca, Monday starts the new schedule.

Normally, I left the house at either 6am for yoga or 7am for work, and Brian took Christopher to school. Now, the whole house is up by 6am. Brian's work hours are 7am to 2pm. Chris school bell rings at 8:05. There is a before school program that begins at 7:30. Brian leaves the house at 6:50 to walk across the street and down the block to his new gig. Chris and I leave the house at 7:10 so that I can walk him to school while grabbing a cup of piping hot coffee from Starbucks. We then proceed another block and a half, where I get my kiss good-bye on an otherwise deserted block, and Chris goes the other half a block while I watch until the door of the school closes behind him. I then get on the train to work. I really think this walk will be a good thing for us over the long haul. We talk and laugh and occasionally complain. It may only be fifteen to twenty minutes, but as they say, quality, not quantity, and it definitely seems like quality time for us.

This is only the third day of this new schedule, but all seems to be going fairly well. I was expecting some entropy last night, as I had to switch to evening yoga, and didn't get home until around 8:15. That is normal for Monday and Friday nights, but not Tuesdays and Thursdays. But again, all was well. Brian made me a supper of chicken breast and salad that was really good. I cleaned up the dishes, Chris got in the shower. Lights out at Chez Rebecca at 10:30. Huh. THAT never happens!!

Now, a word or two about evening yoga. HOLY SHIT. Same instructor. Same studio. That's where the similarities begin and end. Morning classes are an hour and fifteen. Since I want the same instructor, I now attend the 6pm class, which is an hour and a half. The extra fifteen minutes MATTER. Just when you're ready for closing series and savasana, another whole new series of poses is struck. When the lights do go down for savasana, and the sun is on the descent, it is entirely possible to just drift off to sleep! In the morning class there were a couple of students who I thought were amazing. There were two women in the 6pm class that moved in ways I didn't think humanly possible. What is really surprising is that I didn't feel my usual sense of inferiority creep in to steal my confidence. That is huge for me. My confidence was bolstered by the fact that I accomplished two different versions of arm stand, without my shoulders sinking to the point that my head hit the ground. And I accomplished the crow pose, and nearly held the flying crow pose. So the chick with her knee behind her shoulder didn't bother me one bit :) We did joke that our husbands would enjoy a web cam of the event (my heel was behind my head at the time). And I'm two months shy of my 42nd birthday, people!! HA!! Take THAT, birthday!

Last night we got a call from the ICYP coach. We were late in registering Chris for baseball this year, and were worried that he might not be able to play. Brian told me not to worry, as he knows the commissioner, and sure enough, Chris has a spot. He begins practice on Friday, and probably has a game on Saturday. The coach wanted to talk to Brian about Christopher's strengths and weaknesses, what position he played last year and with which team/coach. Guess we are going to have to move his Saturday therapist appointment, but we don't yet know when we can schedule it. We need the rest of his practice and game schedule to make that decision. Sheesh, we don't even know which team he's on this year! Guess that will be revealed on Friday. From the sounds of it though, this team, or at least the coach, might be more competitive than that which he had last year.

I am repeatedly reminded that the only thing constant in this world is change. Thank goodness these changes are positive thus far.

r.

Springtime Splendor

Saturday was our first 70 degree day since October of last year. Christopher was up at West Point with the Boy Scouts for some orienteering training.


Brian and I decided to go to The Central Park Conservatory Gardens to see what was in bloom. If you ever find yourself in Manhattan in Spring or Summertime, it is a place you should not miss. The main gate is on Fifth Avenue at around 103rd Street. Before our rather impromptu wedding at City Hall, we planned to wed here. In fact, we saw a bridal party having their pictures taken.


The forcythia was in a shadier spot, so while it should bloom first, it lagged a little behind.



The magnolias were in full glory, filling the air with their heady fragrance.



This white tree was also in full bloom. I don't know what it is. Its fragrance is much more subtle.







All manner of bulb and small flowers were up. We plan to go back next weekend with Chris. By then the azaleas should be in bloom, as well as some of the other flowering trees.

We traveled downtown to the east village for Indian foods, and a walk along St. Marks Place. We walked up to Union Square to walk off a delicious dinner to find the farmer's market closing up shop. Chris came home around the same time we did. We had a wonderful evening exchanging stories of our adventures.

r.

Anticipation

Remembering. Waiting. Anticipating. None of these allow a person to be fully present for the moment in which they are living. But like any habit or behavior pattern, it is damned hard to break.

I've never been one to spend much time tromping down memory lane. I didn't have one of those childhoods that one wants to run back to. I spent that time just waiting. Waiting for it to be over. Waiting to be an adult. Waiting to be the one in control. That changed somewhat when I had my son. Over the last eleven and a half years, when I see either an expectant mother or an infant, and I remember the feeling of expecting my son, and then pride and joy borne of bringing forth this miraculous new life. I remember every expression on his tiny face, every change in breath, every stage and accomplishment. I mentally send new mothers the message not to wish time away. Trace Adkins just released a single that expresses it well:

You're gonna' miss this
You're gonna' want this back
You're gonna' wish these days
Hadn't gone by so fast
These are some good times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna' miss this

It is a good reminder to live in the moment. To drink it all in, and be fully present. (And yes, I do like sappy songs.)

I admit I am not good at it. I am a waiter. An anticipater. My brain figures that if I wait long enough, what I want will happen. Or things will change. I hardly ever give up the wait, as I am convinced that if I walk away, I will have missed it. Or given up. And Lord knows I can't give up. When I first met my husband, he would go to the comic book store or where ever, and I would wait for him. And wait. And wait, long past what would be considered reasonable (or good manners, for that matter). I thought that if I didn't wait, he would walk away from me. I also thought that the moment I abandoned the wait would be the moment he showed up. So what're 5 more minutes? 10? Maybe I also thought that he would see some virtue in me for waiting, no matter how long. Yes, I was guilty of a little bit of martyrdom, saving the reproach for some time later. What I didn't see at the time was how it devalued me. I didn’t see the part of me that I was giving up.

That is not to imply waiting it is an entirely passive thing. Seems to me there are at least two kinds of waiting. There is the waiting that is just biding one's time. I did that through my adolescence. I knew there would be a day when my sentence would be served. Nothing to be done for it but wait it out. In this form of waiting, you know the endpoint. Then there is the kind of waiting that is borne of hoping something will happen. Waiting/hoping for parental approval. Waiting/hoping that certain someone will notice you. Or miss you enough to reach out. Or remember that you are waiting for him to finish up in the comic book store. With this, you don't have any knowledge or control of the endpoint. This is an active kind of waiting. One can spend a lifetime in this wait. I very nearly have.

In some ways, this waiting thing I do distracts me from what is happening in the now nearly to the point of not really being able to remember what happened in that moment. There is no recall because I wasn't paying enough attention. You can tell me I did or said something, and I have no memory of it at all because, at that time, I was waiting, or maybe hoping for something else. There are things for which I have waited that did happen. Those are the things I remember most vividly. When I was accepted into the college of my choice, graduated high school, left home, had my son.

There are things for which I have learned not to wait, and frankly, it took a lot to get there. I used to want my husband to do things with me, and wait for him to do so. If he didn’t want to, he didn’t. Period. I remember warning him that there would come a day when I wouldn’t wait for him, or ask him along. I remember seeing that as a form of disengagement that I found frightening. Now, I do things on my own, that I wouldn’t have 15 or 20 years ago. I go to the gym or track or to see friends. Things I wanted to do with Brian years ago, but in which he had no interest, and no desire to feign it no matter how many times I went to the comic book store and waited. I still see this is a form of disengagement that scares me. I see a part of me looking for an active partner; someone with whom to share interest and excitement and ideas.

There is a certain amount of chick and egg syndrome inherent in this. Does the waiting fuel the dissatisfaction, or does the dissatisfaction fuel the waiting. That is the rub. Once I identify the origin of the cycle, maybe I can break it. But I imagine some fairly uncomfortable truths would have to rise to the surface, faced and vanquished one way or the other. What’s ironic is that I never make people wait for me, in terms of time, anyway. I’m never late. It, I have come to learn, is both because I a: respect the other person’s time, and b: somehow never feel I am worthy of the wait. But, I have made everyone close to me wait for me to let down my defenses. While I don't spend much time remembering my past, I am bound by it. They wait. And I am sure it is just as cold where they wait as where I have waited. Ah, the impasse. Maybe we are just waiting each other out. Maybe that is the uncomfortable, unspoken truth.

r.

Long Talks, Good Books and Dim Sum

These are just a few of my favorite things!

Friday afternoon, I snuck out of the office a few minutes early to get to the gym. I wanted to get a full work out in before starting the evening. Then I realized that it really didn't matter--Christopher would be at Youth night at school until 9pm, and my body was determined to undermine my good intentions. Oh well, can't win them all. Still got out of work early, and that is good enough for me.

On my way home I called an old friend, with whom I hadn't connected all week. It is highly unusual for us not to talk or email at least once a week, so I wanted to make sure all was well. I had last seen him the prior Saturday at a friends bon voyage party. For the first time in years, I became that person engrossed in conversation walking down the street, then paying for a bottle of wine, etc. I don't think I have ever done that before, but I wanted some one on one time, uninterrupted by family demands. I wound up having a 3+ hour conversation. Food for the soul, I tell you!

Saturdays we take Christopher to his therapist, and afterwards, tromp around Barnes & Noble for a while. I love Saturday afternoons in the book store. Last week, I picked up my Yoga magazines. This week, a copy of Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri. I saw that it had really good reviews, so thought I'd give it a read. Christopher caught up on his graphic novel reads, and Brian held a tutorial for older kids on comic book history and lore. We grabbed some lunch, and enjoyed a nice afternoon.

Saturday night I had the unexpected pleasure of seeing someone other than the person I set out to see. We were invited to a birthday celebration for a girlfriend of ours. We decided that I'd go, and Brian would stay home with Chris. At the appointed hour, I headed to Bleecker Bar, took a look around, and not seeing the guest of honor, went back outside to call her and wait a few minutes. Much to my surprise, I see another of our friends, went back inside, had a drink as his buddies began to arrive. These people are all anywhere from 5 to 12 years younger than I. We were talking about Facebook, and what the point of the whole thing is, admitting that, yes, we both have an account with them, but still. I told him I felt sure that I was beyond the upper demographic they were trying to reach. He said, no way, I'm older than you. I laughed, and asked his age. He said he just turned 37, and was truly surprised when I told him I was about to turn 42. When I finished my drink and said my goodbyes, he said, I still think you look 35. I was tickled!!

Sunday all three of us had a dim sum brunch in Flushing in celebration of another buddy's 42nd birthday. I haven't had dim sum in ages, and forgot just how much fun it is. It was an endless parade of small yummy Chinese goodies. Dumplings of every description. Noodles. Greens I'd not heard of. And a table full of old dear friends, and a couple of new ones. I am looking forward to seeing those photos. This one was from the review on Yelp.com. Christopher and Connor sat together and kept each other entertained without requiring too much adult intervention. Chris then went over to his friend's house, allowing us to run errands, shop and do laundry. All in all it was a very nice weekend.

The forcythia is blooming with a vengeance. Some of the fruit bearing trees are bursting as well. Spring really is my favorite time of year. Watching the earth slowly rouse itself from its long slumber renews my soul. It seems every day there is something new to see or smell. Like a bride on her receiving line, nature presents us with these gifts. It is for this reason that I do not begrudge the winter. Without it, I would be the poorer. Spring reminds me of hope, of potential, of life. So all through this muddy, changeable season, you will find me smiling.

r.

My Boy is Growing Up

I knew the day would come. It was inevitable, the boy's nearly 12, after all. Monday, I walked Christopher to school because my husband had to drive Nikko to the airport. We enjoyed a pretty easy morning, and the started out the door early enough that we would not be pressed for time.

Once we got to the corner of his school, Christopher said to me, "Mom, I'm going to go on up ahead."

"Well, ok, here, give me a kiss goodbye," I said, and he did. On the lips. In public. I smiled broadly inside.

"Do you want me to come to the school yard, or just leave you here?" I asked, thinking hmmm.

"Just leave me here, mom, your train is closer here than the school yard!" He started off at a quicker pace.

"OK." So, I waited until I saw him make the turn into the school yard, and went on my way to Starbucks and the train station.

Beginning on the 21st, I will take him to school every morning to the before school program. I guess I'll be leaving him at the corner, watching to see him go in the door. Fine. As long as I get my kiss.

r.