In Search Of My Metaphor

2007-01-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

He Really Gets Me

They were married for 69 years. Zizi Mary and Uncle Ed. He died last week at the age of 95. A man who had faced death a few times before but always bounced back, ready to curiously see what life at each stage had to offer even though the piling up of years took a toll on his physical body with diminishing hearing, sight and no longer being able to walk. Their mutual love was the secret behind his zeal. I realize, “ He Really Got Her” and “She Really Got Him”.

When my sister Martina turned 40 in 2006, her husband Tim gave her a surprise birthday party. She told me that the party had all the things she loved, a simple gathering of friends and family and pumpkin pie as the birthday cake. She said in a tear-coated voice of awe, “He really gets me.” This was proved again when later that year she was laid off from her job. Knowing Martina would be freaking out about the finances of going from two incomes to one, Tim presented her with a spreadsheet of how they could handle it with one paycheck, giving my sister the opportunity to explore other areas of interest and spend extra time with their two daughters.

On a long car ride to South Jersey, I got a chance to spend alone time with my other sister, Margaret. There were no nieces and nephews, calls from work or extra curricular activities competing for our time. I asked her if she and Dave were happy together, were they still were compatible after 15 plus years of marriage? Without a pause, her simple answer of, “Oh yes.” said it all. They too “Really Get Each Other”.

My brother Mark is in a “Get Me” moment right now. His partner Lara is in Australia for a year on an internship. There were other internships she could have taken to stay in the States, but this one called to her. My brother gets that this is her passion.

At 18, I had been going out with my first husband John for less then 3 months when I had an accident on the highway driving his new sports car. As I nearly got prone on the macadam in a frenzy of apologies and fear, John in less then the space of a heartbeat, suggested that when the cops came, he would say he was driving. Though he tolerated anger from his parents, raised insurance rates and a lawsuit from the other driver, he never told anyone that I was responsible. It was only one example in a 13-year relationship of mutual “Get Me” moments.

Since my second husband Jack’s passing, I’ve been observing the “He Really Gets Me”, factor in couples around me. I think back to Jack and his willingness to support me in my joy of entertaining. He never complained when I wanted to have a house full of people. He was more content to watch sports on TV but was always there to move tables, go to the store to pick the ingredients I had ran out of or don an apron and become a waiter. He really got that creating community made my heart sing.

My definition of a “Get Me” moment is when someone instinctually knows what will soothe, comfort or bring joy to his or her partner in a situation. “Get Me” moments happen in connections other than love relationships. Friends and family members that take the time to listen to the fears and delights of those around them can create “Get Mes” all the time.

As I sat in the church during the funeral of Uncle Ed, I looked around to those who without thought reached over and offered the touch of a hand or tissue for tears. Seeing all the “Get Me” moments rippling through the church confirmed what Zizi Mary and Uncle Ed’s 69 years together were about.

I’ve had two great guys in my life, who “Really Got Me”. What a blessing! I’m hungry for that connect again. I’m ready for another relationship. I look with a tickle of anticipation to the future when someone questions me and without pause I can say again, “Yes, he really gets me and I get him too.”

2006-11-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

Hug Me Forever

The November 13, 2006 issue of TIME magazine featured innovative inventions for the year. Next to a picture of a young woman dressed in long sleeved poly cotton T-shirt of red, white and tan stripes the caption read:

AMAZING EMBRACE
“Remember when PDA stood for something other than personal digital assistant?
It can again with the Hugshirt, a high-tech garment that stimulates the experience of being embraced by a loved one. When a friend sends you a virtual hug, your cell phone notifies the shirt wirelessly, via Bluetooth. The shirt then re-creates that person’s distinctive cuddle, replicating his or her warmth, pressure, duration and even heartbeat.
www.cutecircuit.com”

My mind whirled as my heart clutched in my chest. What if the technology was such that once you received a hug from a loved one through the Hugshirt, the memory of that hug, that person’s distinctive cuddle, warmth, pressure and heartbeat, as the caption described, could be stored forever?

I took a hug memory tour through all the cuddles I long for from my life and are no longer available to me in physical form.

My mother’s soft mushy snuggle when putting me to bed at night as a child. The faint scent of Jean Naté and baby powder lingering in the air with ruby red lipstick and random loose graying hairs that came away on my cheek or collar.

Dad’s clasp of rough skinned hands and Aqua Velvet aftershave, coupled with gruff pats on the head.

The hug of my older sister Mary Grace that as a young child was more of a push and grab and as we aged, letting go of our sibling rivalry became a squeeze of respect from the kind of friendship that comes with having shared life together since the very start.

And then there’s my loves, John and Jack. How so many nights just one more enfoldment in their arms would soothe a yearning that is part of my everyday breathing.

John’s clinch was encompassing, the musk of his hair, the tickle of his beard on my cheek. How long that hug would last. I never tired of feeling him close, always reaching out to grab him from behind, knowing on some subconscious level I needed to store up embraces for the rest of my life.

Jack’s was short and tight. A bite on the earlobe, with a gurgle of a laugh and then those words, “Lay kuppla, Shana,” as he patted his shoulder for me to rest my head upon, breathing in the aroma of the chocolate bar he had earlier or to lick the drip of ice cream on his shirt that he missed with the napkin.

If the Hugshirt were available for storing hugs, I’d have a closet full. I’d pick a different hug for everyday and every mood. And I’d start storing up hugs from people in my life now.

My friend Meg’s bear hug that comes from her small frame is all encompassing. In her snug embrace, time stops for a moment and you know that her attention isn’t on the next thing happening but fully on exchanging care and respect to you in that moment.

Catalina, another of my friends I don’t get to see as often. Her squeeze is light hearted. Her smile beams as she transfers a quick fix of joy from her over flowing heart to mine.

My east coast nieces and nephew with their quick clutches that only reach to my waist. The excited anticipation of seeing their aunt after a long period a part, is a quirky mix of “I don’t know you well but I’m happy you are here and I’m not sure what to expect.”

I’d give a Hugshirt to all those in my life. I’d record a hug to each of them with an intention of deep respect and love for all they have given me. And I’d hope that in their moments of sadness and joy when a hug is the perfect illustration of what’s needed to take away a tear or celebrate a victory that my Hugshirt would be one of the first they would reach for.

2006-11-06T09:24:00.000-08:00

Mi Sorellina

My younger sister ML just tunred 40! As part of her surprise party given by her amazing husband, Tim, guests were asked to bring memories and pictures of my sister. So here is mine:

The twisted gum wrapper rolled over and over between thumb and index finger, tucked in the linty corner of a raincoat pocket. How odd that a disintegrating silver lined piece of paper long past its purpose could symbolize the transition of a young 20 something girl into a woman with an intention to support and comfort.

Big sister’s in the rulebook of life take on the care of younger siblings. They change diapers, chauffeur to friend’s houses and offer new experiences.

I relished my role and thought that is how it would always be. I, the big sister, would slip an extra couple of bucks in her palm to buy that coveted pair of jeans, offer advice on the tender issues of life or throw tea parties to celebrate a birthday.

On a day in a long ago month of March in the corridor of New York hospital with the nervous inevitability of the unfolding events, my little sister, mi sorellina became my caregiver. As my husband John lying dying, Martina fingered that gum wrapper. She told me it was quite awhile before she could bring herself to throw it away.

I knew in the core of me that John would not allow himself to leave until he knew I was taken care of. When Martina and my mother came to visit him for the last time in the hospital, an unspoken request was made from a brother in law to a little sister.

True to her commitment, mi sorellina became my housemate, travel companion, and book club buddy. She ate chips and refried beans with me in my tiny kitchen in Roselle Park; her continued support in my grief shown through the soul in her eyes and grasp of her hand across the table.

And when I decided to move to the other side of the country, she never discouragede and was the first of my family to visit Jack and I in San Diego

There is an embroidery sampler that my sisters and I often joke about. It reads

SISTERS ARE FOREVER FRIENDS AND I AM SO GLAD

YOU ARE MINE.

In a bit of our mother tongue, from one Italian girl to another (the best I can!),

Sorellas sei amico ora e per sempre e sono felice un mio amico.

Big sister cherishes little sister, Little sister cares for big sister. Chronology of birth, rulebook of life no matter, I have a friend in you.

Buon compleanno, sorellina. Ti amo.
Happy Birthday, little sister. I love you!

2006-10-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

Sound Track of My Life

The past few weeks have been a delight of musical immersion. Three theatrical presentations in San Diego have focused on the compositions of well-known artists. I have shimmied to the scat singing of Ella Fitzgerald in a show entitled Ella! at the San Diego Rep, swayed to the melodies of George Gershwin in a production of Gershwin Alone at the Old Globe Theater, and hummed along to the vocals of Billy Joel tunes in the Broadway touring show of Movin’ Out.

The music was diverse and yet in each show there were one to two compositions that transported me back to moment, a time period or pivotal experience in my life.

I started to think about the music in the sound track of my life.
What would I choose to download to my i Pod play list from the thousands of songs, jingles and instrumentals that I have heard over my 47 years?

My hand could not keep up with the revue of titles that spilled out from my pen. Hearing the Muzak playing in a store, rearranging CD’s, flipping through the pages of my high school yearbook or reminiscing with my sister Margaret, tunes, chords and orchestrations swirled and mixed inside of me.

Enveloped in a magical memory movement, I decided to record my imaginary sound track in chronological order.

My childhood home was full of music. Old 78’s and later LP’s of classical instrumentals such as Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” or the imposing big percussion “Peer Gynt” by Edvard Grieg spun on the turntable. From our old fashioned in the cabinet record player, the notes hovered in the living room as my sisters and I danced around or used it as background music to dust on a Saturday afternoon.

Opera and classical orchestrations were intermingled with show tunes, the primary recordings that made up my parent’s meager collection. My Fair Lady’s: “I Could Have Danced All Night”, “O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A… Oklahoma Ok,” “ If Ever I Would Leave You” from Camelot or the tropical offerings of South Pacific: “I’m As Corny As Kansas In August, “ and “Some Enchanted Evening…” allowed us to sing soprano on the high notes of the lovely innocent heroines and belt the tenor tones as we acted the part of the gentleman lover.

One favorite show tune that traveled from the record player to our bedtime ritual was “Seventy-six Trombones” from the Music Man. With pot lids clanging, my Father would march us up the steps to bed and continue the sweet dream serenade with a combination of war songs such as “Oh, The Coffee That They Give Us.” followed by old fashioned ditties such as “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer True’ and always ended with “Palm Trees Are Gently Swaying, My Heart Is Saying How Much I Love You.” But the one song that holds the memory of my Father in its reprise is “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Each daughter in turn on her wedding day danced the Daddy-Daughter dance to that old standard.

All my sibs followed the lead of my older sister Mary Grace and became thespians in our high school days. The show tune collection continued to grow as the record container space became crowded with “Company, Lots of Company”, “Send In The Clowns, There Ought To Be Clowns” from A Little Night Music and “One Singular Sensation, Every Step That She Takes,” as we would high kick and imagine ourselves dancers in that revolutionary style musical of the late 70’s, A Chorus Line. “Corner of The Sky” sung by John Rubinstein on the cast album of Pippin, became an anthem I would return to over the years whenever, I felt misunderstood or lost my way.

Since there was a range of ages in our house through my growing years, children’s songs were counterpoint to the longing for love that flowed from the Broadway musical lyrics. A beat-up little record player was in constant motion spinning 45’s with kiddie classics like, Shirley Temple’s “On The Good Ship Lollipop” and Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Greenjeans singing, “Hey there captain do you see, there’s a horse in stripped pajamas. “No, that’s not what it is at all, that’s an animal people call a zebra. “I see, but it still looks like a horse in stripped pajamas to me.” Later, Mary Poppins joined in with her “Spoon Full of Sugar”.

When the last of the Nowak clan, my brother Mark, was born, Disney songs became the tunes to tap to, “Cinderella, Cinderella, night and day, it’s Cinderella” and “Look For The Bare Necessities,” Baloo’s Jungle Book bass rumbling in our chests as we wiggled and stuck out our butts in big bear fashion.

Summers were car trip time for yearly family visits. We went from Claymont, Delaware to Buffalo, New York and then over to Kalamazoo, Michigan. To keep the sibling bickering to a minimum, my mother would sing. The most memorable car songs were, “Bingo”, “Little Peter Rabbit Had A Fly Upon His Ear”, “Rose, Rose” and the round, “Walking, Walking”, which had a verse in German. I felt so international!

1966, age 8, I begged my mother to let me buy a 45 of “ I Want To Hold Your Hand” and the B-side, “Do You Want To Know A Secret”. That began my love affair with the Beatles, a songbook of melodies that weaved in and out of events of my life. Of course my favorite Beatles song is “Michelle.” I’d curl up on the couch hugging the album cover, wistfully imagining Paul singing “Michelle, ma belle” only for me.

I started my high school years fearful and lonely. I graduated from an intimate group of 13 in a Catholic elementary school to a freshman public high school class of over 400. I don’t recall where I heard my first Jim Croce song, but I was instantly touched by his deep, mournful voice. I bought every album he had. His handlebar mustache and thick cigar poking out of the corner of his big smiled face, was my first serious crush on a musician. “Time In A Bottle”, “Photographs and Memories”, and It Doesn’t Have To Be That Way,” those lyrics of lost love spoke to the melancholy heart of a 14 year older. In retrospect, I imagine I was drawn to the sadness of his life, the fact he died young leaving a wife and child behind. Was that a secret connection with my future life of losing two husbands, one at the young age of 31? One of my first thoughts when moving to San Diego was that I now lived in the same town as Jim Croce’s widow, Ingrid. Ingrid Croce had established herself as a well-known restaurateur, with her San Diego downtown eatery, Croce’s.

James Taylor’s Gorilla album with “How Sweet It Is” and “You Make It Easy”, his time with Carly Simon, duet singing “Mockingbird” or his honest, unencumbered rendition of Carole King’s “You Got A Friend,” filled the score of an adolescent daydreaming afternoon. Carly, Elton John, Linda Ronstadt: “When Will I Be Loved” and “That’ll Be The Day’, played along side John Denver’s “Sunshine On My Shoulders” and “Rocky Mountain High.”

College opened me to Simon and Garfunkel, “Hello Darkness My Old Friend” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, John Melloncamp’s “Hurt So Good”, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA.” Being a Jersey girl, Bruce and his E Street Band, belting out the pathos of the working class, made me proud. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Our House” was the vision I wanted for my future home.

When I met my husband John in my freshman year of college, he opened me up to the riffs of a jazz guitar and the improv of a saxophone jam session. Miles Davis, Houston Person, Thelonious Monk, Coleman Hawkins, and Branford Marsalis LP’s now lined the shelves of our living room bookcases. He taught me how to properly remove a record from its inner lining to avoid too much contact between the vinyl and the oil from my fingers. When John died I had a Jazz band play at his memorial, we ended with a New Orleans style “When The Saints Go Marching In.”

The song for the first dance at our wedding was Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.” Coles “From This Moment On”, Irving Berlin’s “Let’s Face The Music and Dance” and “ Always,” were the song’s we waltzed and dipped to around our first apartment in our best Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire style.

Carole King’s album Tapestry provided accompaniment to grief crying sessions after John died. “A Natural Woman”, “Where You Lead”, “I Feel The Earth Move” brought the tears rolling, over love I thought I’d never find again. “Way Over Yonder” offered a sweet spiritual style song, my dear friend Brendan sang touchingly at John’s memorial.

But I did find love again in the unlikely twinkle of a much older Jack’s eyes. Our song, Frank Sinatra’s rendition of Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” matched perfectly to the tug and pull of our May-December love. Our dancing sessions were less waltz and more free form bogie with songs like, “ Chain of Fools”, “In the Midnight Hour” and “Treat Her Right”, from the soundtrack album The Commitments. The gutsy belting of female singers such as Bonnie Raitt, Bette Midler or Aretha’s “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”, brought us evenings of off key singing and body twisting shimmies.

The ache of Jack’s passing reconnected me with the comforting words of “Amazing Grace” and the mournful rich tones of an oboe, which with the piano, saxophone and violin are my favorite instruments. The a cappella lament called “Osinilshatin” from the movie The Business of Fancydancing, allowed me to bring my grief for all those I’ve lost out in a howl and chant of pain and remembering.

Jane Siberry’s “Calling All Angel’s” has been a wink from the beyond.

As I read back over this list, I realize how many styles of music I’ve yet to record on the soundtrack of my life that have influenced who I am today. The allegro of a gypsy guitar, the dolce of a Hindu chant of meditation, the delicato of new age instrumentals I listen to when giving a massage, and the crescendo of an Italian tenor. But now I’m eager to actually listen to all these songs again, instead of writing about them.

I imagine an afternoon with the furniture pushed back to the living room walls, the CD player turned up loud, the front door open to let the sunlight and breeze fill my make shift song and dance hall. And I, with each note, prancing, spinning, crying, laughing and singing in lung expanding loudness as I relive my wild ride of an existence to the soundtrack of my life.

2006-10-19T23:34:00.000-07:00

Prosperity Bowl

I love pottery. I love the solid weight of the earthy material in my palm as I hold a beautifully hand crafted, glazed creation. I enjoy looking for the slight imperfection, the mark, the out of proportion shape that makes it unique whether the design has been rendered a hundred times. I cherish that a pottery piece holds the imprint of its maker, the oils from their hands mixed with the mud of the earth and that their spirit and intention lives on in each piece they produce.

After attempting to learn to throw a pot myself, I have gained an even deeper respect for the patience, tenderness and gentleness of touch that is needed to coax a work to life.

I’ve collected pottery for many years, visiting local craft shows, farmer’s markets and artist’s studios. I have plates, mugs, teapots, vases but my favorite piece of late, to collect is bowls. There is something about the continuing circle of life shape of a bowl, its expansive openness waiting to be filled and the sides that reach up to cradle its contents.

My most recent purchase is a simple 5" round dish of medium weight with an internal depth of about 3". The finish is a satiny glaze of dark blue seeping into light purple, with undertones of pink and delicate soft green flecks. I take pleasure in running my fingers from the center to the outside ridge of the bowl, feeling the subtle change in the clay as the bowl expands in size.

I’ve dubbed this hollow dish my Prosperity Bowl. This simple vessel represents my present day quest to focus on the flourishing aspects of my ever-changing life and my gratitude for the increasing abundance.

The likeness of a Tibetan monk in his flowing harvest moon orange robes shuffling through the ancient streets carrying his begging bowl, trusting that it will be filled by the generosity of his fellow man, enough to satisfy his hunger, has imprinted itself in my mind’s scrapbook of images.

I, like the monk, bare bowl in hand, intend each day with conscious direction. My mind is eager with curiosity. With what will Today fill my bowl? My soul whispers in my ear to be patient in the allowing. My time schedule is not necessarily the best schedule for the realization of my desires. My spirit dances the melody of trust inside me, with each willow-like sway it’s rhythm hums in me not to be obsessed with the result I think should fill my bowl.

And in those moments when I turn from the curiosity, let doubt and impatience almost raise my hand to smash my bowl to the ground, in that pounding, pumping push of blood rushing in my temples, my heart calls to me. “Love, love yourself, know you are worthy of prosperity. Know you are the essence of prosperity itself. By the very fact that you are here, searching, growing, thriving, prosperity lives in you.”

My bowl, like that of the monk, is brimming with more than enough to satisfy my hunger. Sated by what Today placed in my dish, with the gentleness of the potter’s touch, I wash and dry my prosperity bowl, eager with imagination about with what Tomorrow will fill it.

2006-10-18T15:34:00.000-07:00

Bathtub Closet

The private massage appointment is confirmed. My client will be here at 5pm. It is 3:30pm now. I stand in the door to my office, with arms akimbo, legs slightly apart, a fierce look of determination on my face. My eye sweeps across pile after pile of papers, books and art supplies that cover all surfaces in the office.

I wish I could click my heels three times or twitch my nose like Bewitched and have everything put in its place. Ah, but there lies the true challenge. Everything shares the same space with everything else! I haven’t enough room to accommodate all my projects, teaching supplies and massage equipment.

My 1950’s size closets; the whole two of them in my cottage, have been carefully arranged but can hold no more. As I pick up each pile of papers and lay them one on top of the other, layering them, vertical and then horizontal in a rising tower to the ceiling, I grumble about how after the massage, I will spend another hour rearranging all my piles once again along every surface of my office before I can actually get back to planning my classes, writing my book or paying my bills.

Where is Mary Poppins with her “get down to business” English attitude? I imagine her singing me a chipper tune as she snaps her fingers and the walls of the room spin to reveal a parallel space, all tidied in that fantasy movie kind of way. And then with just another snap of her fingers, the room returns to my neat pile after pile décor.

But daydreaming about fictional characters saving me from my task at hand, is not stopping the second hand on the clock from ticking away the time. When I moved into my cottage after living in a much larger home, I knew storage would be an issue. I purged and recycled like a true simple living guru. And yet my challenge persists. I am a creature of many interests that each requires a certain amount of paperwork, supplies and equipment.

I guess it wouldn’t be as big an issue if I were fine with leaving stacks of papers on my desk. But I prefer as uncluttered a look as possible to my office, when I’m giving a massage. People come to de-stress, let go of the disorder in their bodies and lives. I want my “room used for many purposes” to reflect, a relaxed, open, and, serene feeling. I also want to keep the rest of my life as private as possible. Having your bank statements, personal journals and overscheduled calendars lying around offers easy reading material as a client sits in the office chair, next to the desk and puts on their shoes after a massage.

That is why I have come to love my bathtub closet. What an under used space the bathtub is! Since I live alone, and shower on average once a day, this roomy space, actually bigger than my closets, goes unused. I have devised a quick and easy way to line the tub with an old shower curtain, before placing my piles, hanging my clothes or loading in the cat carrier. With a sweep of the shower curtain along its pole, my stacks are neatly hidden, my office now transformed into an unadorned, soothing healing space.

The massage is over and as I reassemble my office to its original, navigate through the piles to get to the desk functionality, I muse once more about Mary Poppins. I love the way she has the massage sheets dancing their way down the alley to the communal washing machine.

2006-10-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

Back Flash

The nip in the air at the ebb of day swirls memories in me with each subtle rustle of the leaves on the Jacarandas, Sycamores and Moreton Bay Fig trees, which crowd street edgings and peek between buildings on my walk downtown.

Jack is thick in me tonight. I pass innumerable haunts of our time together, coffee shops where we tried to find the perfect muffin for him and scone for me, the building where he used to teach his acting classes, benches for a moment to rest on our wanderings around San Diego.

I’ve strolled this way a few times by myself since he died, and often the light sweetness of those moments spent, add a bounce to my step. But this twilight time has brought on a condensed soup of dark emotions clogging my heart. I gasp for breath, the tears ragged in my throat. And I realize I am experiencing a Back Flash.

I am transported to a moment in my past with Jack, three months before he died. We have just returned from a trip to a wellness clinic in Mexico where we spent 4 days exploring alternative methods to deal with his health challenges. The trip was a strange mix of strict diet, high tech tests and downing supplements and wheat grass, all in a paradise setting overlooking the Pacific ocean with winding walk ways and palm trees swaying.

His anger-crusted fear about being ill had gotten the best of me. I had tried to hum through his need to tongue lash the doctors. Enter the dining room a few minutes later, so as not to hear his on-going complaint with the kitchen staff about how he needed more protein then they were willing to serve. His approach to dealing with things had always been at odds with mine. He had a Bronx brashness and I, timid “good Catholic girl” rigidity. That oppositeness of him was a major attraction for me. I know throughout our relationship, I relied on that
“ New York attitude” in many circumstances where I was too shy of confrontation to be effective. And yet as it seems to be the case for me, sometimes I wanted him to tone it down a bit.

We came home scared about what the doctors said, happy to eat whatever we craved and encapsulated in our separate scenarios of what the future would bring. I pulled in and away. I was polite and helpful on the outside, but inwardly seething with each breath he exhaled. And in that moment of withdrawal, I knew that a day would come when I would regret this decision. I had been through the death of one husband already. I had spent many hours crying with regret about attitudes I had held, posturing I had performed, and victim hood that seemed so important at the time. And yet in that moment with Jack, I just couldn’t offer more. I became mute. Jack and I found our footing again but I held in my heart that I had wasted precious moments.

Here I am walking toward downtown San Diego on a night of such God-touched beauty and I am feeling wrenched. I am living the moment I knew would come back then when I chose to be mute. My Back Flash is complete. My longing for Jack is overwhelming and I can only repeat over and over in a quiet muttering to myself as I walk, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I wasted a second of my limited time with you.”

It is then that I look down a side street to the east and in the dusk gathering sky, see the full moon. She is round and luminance and so low to the ground, as if she is a silver play ball. I stop and say my usual greeting each time I see the moon, “Hello Moon. How are you tonight?”

As if my greeting is part of a child’s playground ball bouncing singsong, I hear her respond to me, “I’m fine, but how are you?”

And this moment, I realize that one reason back then that I became mute was to brace myself for another loss. And this moment, I realize I did the very best I could at the time with who I was then. And in this moment, I know that the bringing up of these memories no matter how painful keep him alive in me and are a way to deal with the out of control aspect of life.

And with my arms wide open as if I’m waiting for the big, full, bouncy ball moon to hop into my grasp, I singsong back, “Sweet Moon, I’m fine too and I am forgiven.”

2006-10-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

The Eating Itch

A subtle snacking yen passes through my brain bundled together with worry-layered assumptions, contemplations to ponder and wild disconnected notions. I give the yen a moment’s too long consideration. It takes this as personal endorsement, detaches from the rest, and travels down to settle in my upper abdominal area.

Cozying into a space a bit below but under my sternum, the snacking yen now mutates from a simple passing thought into a prickling sensation. With each pulsing jab, the snacking yen sends its droning chant of “nibble, nosh, munch, chew,” back up to my brain to swallow any other thoughts. The irritation in my body now has my full attention. The snacking yen has transformed into the Eating Itch.

The Eating Itch often doesn’t care whether the urge to scratch is answered with the scrape of a salty pretzel going down my throat or the grazing bite of a high sugar sweet aching in my stomach. The Eating Itch just wants the hankering to be soothed.

If I could only reach down my throat, find that one bitsy spot and give it a good rubbing, my hips and thighs would be much slimmer, my mind much clearer without the chanting in my head and my mood much brighter from less judgment about every morsel I put in my mouth. But since scratching an itch inside isn’t as simple as attending to a mosquito bite on my arm, I’m looking for alternative answers.

I understand enough about myself to know that most times my Eating Itch has nothing to do with hunger but is a result of nervous energy about something I’m passionate about, scared to face or that I’m unhappy with a choice I’ve made.

Making that distinction is key for me. If my nervous energy comes from fear about the future or about my past then taking that power and increasing my activity by taking a walk or dancing around the living room to turned up Aretha Franklin, will reassure my urge that it has a purpose, without adding extra calories to my diet.

But sometimes when I’m high on a developing new passion or celebrating the happiness of just being me and the Eating Itch is tickling away to the joy beat of my pounding heart, the salty sweet mix of dark chocolate covered pretzels is the perfect scratch.

2006-10-02T06:28:00.000-07:00

The Giddies

The sip of water I swallowed is now dripping out of my nose. I can barely catch my breath. My face is a kindergartener’s Christmas ornament red. Snorting water and barely breathing is a sure sign that I am in the middle of a GREAT giddie!

The experience is body total. My toes tingle from gripping inside my shoes, my rib cage aches a bit from trying to breath and giggle at the same time, my mouth is a bit dry from gaping open for so long and from the loss of fluids by the bit of spit that projects out with each guffaw of a laugh, and my head has a slight buzz from the sheer release of it all.

The subtle mix of silliness, relaxed attitude and joyful intention for fun, are needed to have a great giddie. I can have a satisfying chuckle on my own, reading a humorous passage in a book or watching comedy on TV or in the movies, but to have the true experience of a great giddie you need to have at least two people. It’s that community of silliness feeding off of one another that creates a great giddie.

A true giddie is never demeaning or at the expense of another person. The main subject of a giddie is usually based on a shared memory or experience, observation in life or the joint invention of a scenario for a future event or practical item needed.

Some people are more attune to giddiness than others. My sibs and I are well schooled in the way of a giddie high. My mother and her sisters were old school models for how to create a great giddie. They sat around my grandmother’s table, remnants of a home cooked Italian dinner lingered. Splashes of tomato sauce dotted the white starched linen tablecloth. Bits of grated cheese jumbled with breadcrumbs caught in tiny piles near salt and peppershakers or the butter dish. Each sister had a cup of coffee in front of her, the tiny good silverware spoon resting on the best china saucer.

The conversation was loud, a pigeon mix of English and Italian, each sister tripping over the words of the others, with peals of laughter punctuated by broad hand gestures. The sisters each, held in one fist a crumpled tissue needed to dab at the corner of their eyes to stop the tears from rolling down their cheeks.

My sisters and brother could easily get my mother into a giddie. My father was a befuddled, sporadic contributor on the sidelines. It was fascinating to observe the newest boyfriend or girlfriend that came into one of my sibs or my life. Sometimes a look of panic would wash across their faces as the family slipped and slid through a great giddie. Others found their sea legs faster and handily rolled right along with us.

When going back east for visits, one item of top priority on my list is to have a great giddie with my family. Even when the situation is of the grieving nature, as if to cement our common bond of experience and love for one another, we find a way to squeeze in a giddie. It’s something I’ve come to count on from my family.

When I come back to the west coast, I often go through a mini giddie withdrawal. I become desperate to get a giddie going. A giddie can’t be forced even though I have tried it a few times. Often when forcing a giddie, the people I’m with scrunch up their noses and wrinkle their foreheads as if a blaring warning message is sounding in their head, “Michele is being weird and inappropriate. Bale now!”

For many years I didn’t show my giddie creating ability with everyone. I projected a much more restrictive side. Laughter yes, limited joy but rarely to the point of outright silliness. Maybe that’s why my west coast giddies were few and far between.

Today, as I enjoy a giddie with a circle of friends, I savor the unbounded joy in it all. I titter away the thought of how I must look with water snorting out of my nose. I observe through my mirth, the one or two friends that seem less eager to giddie it up with me, but I don’t feel as if my giddiness is out of place. I allow the openness of my being to move me. And I am in deep gratitude because a great giddie is a precious gift.

2006-09-30T06:02:00.000-07:00

Journey’s End

In a state of overwhelm, with hands shaking I transferred the ashes from the urn to a plastic Tupperware container. It was late on a March evening, the night before my flight to New Jersey, the first time I was returning to the east coast since Jack had passed in July. I was determined to bring some of his ashes to his Bronx and New York City home. But where was the best place to transport the ashes, my carry on or the suitcase?

I imagined the screener at the San Diego airport, stopping the carry on conveyor belt and calling his co-workers over for a look. Then I’d see the hand motion me to come over to one of the little search areas for further inspection.

I considered again my suitcase. I’d attach the cremation papers to the green Tupperware container; at least if the luggage inspector opened my suitcase I wouldn’t be present. Is there a law about transporting human remains in the form of cremation ashes? I stood over my suitcase trying to find the best way to lodge the ashes in. What if the container opened during the flight? I’d have Jack sprinkled all over my clothes.

I fumbled, I cried and I called out to Jack. “What do you think? Do I bring some of you home this trip or not?” In a moment of quiet between my sobs and nose blowing, I heard in my head, “Leave me here. You have enough to deal with.”
Too tired to empty the plastic container of ashes back into Jack’s cloisonne urn, I apologized to him and shoved the container to the back of my armoire.

I did have a lot to deal with for that trip. My mother had just passed away. I was going home for her funeral and the cleaning out of my childhood home.

Fast forward to end of September. Once again I was preparing to return to New Jersey for another family visit. The main purpose this time was to inter my parent’s ashes in a new columbarium built at a local cemetery. I once again considered bringing Jack back with me. I dug the plastic Tupperware container out of the back of the armoire. It seemed the perfect time to take him back east. Wasn’t the whole reason for this trip about ashes? If the focus was on the ashes of my mother and father, why not make it three? But no matter where I searched I couldn’t find the cremation papers. Me who is so organized!

When I told my sister Martina about my dilemma, she said, “Maybe Jack wants to stay in California.” Once again I put Jack back in the armoire.

I thought a lot about ashes, resting places and the journey’s end on my trip to New Jersey.

When my husband John died 16 years ago, I fought to have him cremated. His parents wanted a traditional body burial. John died at 34. In our all-consuming youth, we never fully discussed our final wishes. But one thing I knew was that John loved the Vikings. He had commented once that he wanted a Viking funeral. Since with who I was at the time, I couldn’t quite pull off the body in the boat set out to sea burning, cremation seemed the closest I could get.

I did however acquiesce to his parents. The ashes were buried in the family plot. It was for me a comfort to have someplace to go. Cemeteries often are very peaceful places. St Gertrude’s in Colonia, New Jersey is an old, stretch for miles kind of cemetery with large trees and a variety of headstones, single mausoleums and formal buildings with separate niches. I’d go once a week for many months after his death and just sit with my back against the headstone, my hand outstretched on the grass. I’d close my eyes and imagine through the rich brown earth, his hand touching mine.

Almost every trip I’ve made back east in my 12 years here in San Diego, I stop at St. Gertrude’s. I know I can feel John’s presence anywhere, but visiting the cemetery brings my present day life full circle. I see my Now, in relation to that traumatic event. I miss John still and yet the crazy thing about life is that without him, I met Jack. John’s journey’s end was to be rest with the remains of his grandparents, nestled in the life giving earth.

When my father died 2 years ago, my mother had him cremated but couldn’t decide what to do with the ashes. He sat for those two years, up until her death on their French provincial chest of drawers. Pictures of him sat around the plastic box of ashes in its red velvet drawstring bag. Until the columbarium was built my mother’s ashes joined my father’s, this time on the French provincial dresser. They now had matching red drawstring bags, my father’s darker than hers, different years, my sibs and I commented. Pictures of them on their wedding day, their glasses, a religious icon of Christ and a pamphlet found among my Mom’s papers entitled “Losing Your Mother’, as if she was offering support from the beyond, now completed the shrine.

Last week, on a clear, wispy cloud, happy ending autumn day, my sisters, brother and I gathered at the cemetery. We chose to inter my parent’s ashes on this Monday in September because it was their wedding anniversary. The new columbarium completed, my parents were the first to make it their eternal home. Soon they would have many neighbors but for a while, they would be the only one’s in the community. Tim, the cemetery man opened the niche, before stepping away to give us time alone. The final decision had to be made as to whether we wanted the ash containers back to back, or one on top of the other. It seemed more dignified and truer to who they were in life, to have my father stand behind my mother.

My sister Margaret played her flute to accompany my brother Mark as he sang a song he had composed with words from an essay I had written. Martina, read from their love letters. We stuffed the niche with flowers and slips of paper with private messages. And before Tim, closed the niche, we toasted them with Polish vodka and sprinkled the vodka like holy water on their ash containers. We cried, laughed and walked away comforted that my parent’s journey’s end was close to where they had lived in life and near where my sibs make their present day homes.

In Kentucky, contained inside a beautifully ornate carved box, the ashes of my sister Mary Grace who died four years ago at 46, rest. MG and my brother in law, Chuck’s wedding bands adorn the top, encircled together supporting one another as in life and now in death. Her journey’s end was in her family’s home, a spot for her young sons to stop and pause while navigating life without their mother.

Back in San Diego, I pull the plastic container from the armoire, and sit for a moment with Jack in my lap. I’m still unclear about what to do with his ashes. But instead of trying to multi-task a trip back east, I will simply return his ashes to the green and black oriental style urn. And I know in a moment of calm when I’m not trying to do “the right thing” he’ll whisper once again in my ear where he would like his journey’s end to be.

“Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” The Ash Wednesday ritual words from the Roman Catholic service of my childhood sound in my ears.

Final resting places are for the comfort of the living. Once we are released from our bodies, I’m guessing we have no attachment as to where those remains rest. But as a closing gesture to all we leave behind, a suggestion as to where our journey’s end will be is a lasting offering of love.

2006-09-28T17:34:00.000-07:00

My Geographic

While strolling together through the park in the Brooklyn, New York neighborhood of my brother Mark, my sister Martina asked him, “What is your quintessential Brooklyn moment?”

It was the second day of our overnight “Sibs” get away. My sisters, Margaret and Martina, my brother Mark and I had just finished a taste sating Sunday brunch at Belleville in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. With the breeze picking up speed and the threat of rain upon us, we walked toward the Brooklyn Bridge to promenade the expanse to the Manhattan side.

While Mark pondered the question, Martina shared that for her, the community aspect of her tree lined, family feeling suburban neighborhood of Randolph, New Jersey held the essential element of home.

Montague, New Jersey with its sweeping farm fields dotted with red roofed barns, pockets of forest that are home to deer and black bears, and the ‘reach out and touch’ impression of nature close by, soothes my sister Margaret each time she pulls into her driveway after her 1 ½ daily commute to work.

Mark after a bit, contributed that Brooklyn for him offered the excitement of accessibility. Culture, fabulous food, green space in the middle of great aritechture, allowed for an urban mix of stimulation and security.

The question fell to me. 12 years ago I chose to make my home 3000 miles away. What was my quintessential San Diego moment?

After Jack died, many friends assumed I’d move back east. Back to traveling tree lined maze like roads where the sky is crowded with the ever changing seasonal colors of the leafy topped oaks, chestnuts and maples. I understood why they thought this, all my family lives on the east coast. The foundation of who I am is of an east coast essence. And yes, the intrinsic truth of home does hold family ties, as one ingredient of the mix.

And yet, with an hour left before driving to the airport to return west, after my week long family visit, I anticipate the powder blue expanse of sky as the doors swoosh open at the San Diego airport. I am already comforted by the remembered softness of the air and the way the outside temperature seems to balance me from the outside in.

My roots are in the east, my family in my heart but my geographic is the west.

2006-09-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

Sustainers and Destructors

I am on the red-eye tonight to New Jersey. I’m going back to visit family and to participate in the ceremony of interring my parent’s ashes in the new columbarium niche we bought.

I’m in the height of my sustainers vs. destructors clash. As I write this my left leg is shaking at sprinters speed, and the background rumble in my head is the repeating phrase of “go find some chocolate, chips, cookies….”

This for me is a clear indication that my destructors are on the offensive. There are many reasons why my Sustainers vs. Destructors skirmish is raging before going home. The list of oxymoron examples to describe returning to family and choices from the past, reads like a English Composition lecture; quiet scream, bitter sweet, controlled enthusiasm, absolutely unsure, fictional truth, love hate, open minded, passive aggressive, all alone, love hurts, sweet sorrow.

Going home is not the only event to trigger my S vs. D internal squabble. Just about any opportunity that involves anxiety, being unsure of myself and second-guessing my choices will bring out my flower child sustainers and G.I. Joe destructors to clash.

One of the first exercises in personal growth that I did, many years ago, was to identify “ Daily Habits That Sustain Me”. The word ‘habit’ for me was always preceded by the word ‘bad’. So to shift my thinking to things I do on a regular basis that support and enliven me was huge.

Subsequently, I have identified a list of actions that don’t sustain me. And over the years I came to think of my lists as my sustainers and destructors.

My platoon of sustainers holds in its’ ranks, long walks along the water, reading the Sunday New York Times, fresh flowers in my home, petting my cat, Mel, reading a good book, gardening, curling up with Mel in my lap to watch a Netflix, listening to music, and meditating.

My squad of destructors has in its’ service, eating when not hungry, biting my nails, torturing myself with thoughts of things I wish I had done or not done, sleeping when not tired, channel surfing when nothing on TV appeals to me to watch and making up excuses to not exercise.

I try through my days to be aware when my negative emotions have decided to leak inky dye on the whites of my positive feelings, like a washing machine full of darks and lights.

As today moves toward evening and my anxiety mixed joyful anticipation of being with my family envelopes me, I decide it’s time for a truce between my sustainers and destructors. G.I. Joe destructor brings a huge chuck of chocolate to the peace table and my flower child sustainer brings a knife. With a sweet smile she cut me a tiny piece and bags the rest to put in the freezer.

As I savor the silkiness of the chocolate on my tongue, I realize that sometimes, in times of nervous expectation, it’s all in the compromise.

2006-09-19T21:47:00.000-07:00

I Am Memory Colored

I look in the mirror and there in the foundation of my complexion is the blush of curiosity for adventures taken and yet to come.

Sadness and grief from loved ones lost has shaded the circles under my eyes.

The joy in living the present imbues the crinkles appearing more and more along my brow.

My shoulders and arms are freckled with friendships that brighten me.

The ruddiness of my hand skin is from years of holding, caring and supporting.

Fear and anxiety have tinted my hips with stretch marks from extra weight.

In my hazel eyes, I see deep into my essence, each turning point is a hue, each commemoration is a pigment, each ritual to support and sustain me is a dye that washes my soul.

I am Memory Colored.

2006-09-16T15:26:00.000-07:00

My Other Life is Down the Street

The unfolding of the day put my daily walk in the evening. The breeze is very steady. Along my way, it plays a domino effect of high note musical tinklings from one wind chime set to another with a rustle of palm fronds as the percussion. The sun setting in the west is hidden behind plump clouds as if embarrassed by the undressing of the day.

The course I chose to walk tonight takes me down the Reynard street hill. I’m always amazed when I walk down the hill how different things can look. Before I moved to the top, off of Sutter, I had lived at the bottom. It will be a year this Wednesday since I moved from bottom to top.

My route tonight, will be just shy of the side street I lived on with Jack. We lived on that tiny cul-de-sac for 12 years. I have not been back since I closed the house for the last time, with Mel in her cat carrier, mewing and growling in confusion. I go by the street probably 2-3 times a week in my excursions around town, but I never glance to the left when passing the road sign.

Jack and I often walked up Reynard in our jaunts. When we first moved to San Diego, we’d only make it half way up before our chests clutched tightly as if fearful it was the last breath. Soon with persistence we moved up the hill with ease and walked far beyond.

I’m going to visit family in a week. One decision I ponder each time I fly back east is, “Should I take a quick peek at ‘ my life before’, ‘my other life’?” My husband John died, 16 years ago. The house I shared with John is one exit up Route 78 from the airport. It will only add a half hour to my drive further north, to where my family lives, or I guess I’d say where my ‘1st life’ took place.

It was with Jack in the predawn of a day in late September in 1993 that I locked the door for the final time, to the house on Pine Street in Roselle Park, New Jersey where I had lived with John for ten years. I lifted my boxer Dempsey into the front cab of the Ryder truck Jack and I had rented to drive our belongings from one coast to the other. I blew a kiss out the truck cab window, a fearful confusion of ‘This is my home’, mixed with ‘Go West Young Woman.’

I have peeked at Pine Street a few times. The peeking took place during the middle years of ‘my other life’. It happened when I had found peace with my loss of John in my life with Jack. My taunting pain of “What could have been,” had lighted to “I’m curious what they’ve done with the house.” I enjoyed riding slow down Pine Street to look at the tiny brick faced Cape Cod from the side before stopping in front. The first time, the sidewalk and steps leading up had changed from concrete and grey slate to flagstone and terra cotta. Another trip, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn. The mini two-bedroom now was one of the largest houses on the street with slanting roofs and a skylight popping a hole in the middle of the expanded upstairs.

I missed the landscaping John and I had done by hand in the front yard, but enjoyed much more the improvements to the driveway and garage. My thoughts took me back to our late night conversations on the back porch. Me, sketching on paper, walls to be knocked down, while John grabbed another pencil to outline gadgets to be installed. Money was no limit in how our cozy quarters could become the mansion of our dreams.

Earlier this year when it came time to sell my parent’s home, I squatted on the living room floor and dug through boxes, unearthed photos and heard long ago conversations in an undertone, being released from the walls with each painting or decorative object taken down.

This will be my first trip back to the town of my ‘1st life’. I wonder if I can be in curiosity just yet, to see how my childhood home has changed.

My circle walk down Reynard, up the hill behind the 7-Eleven and winding through the streets of Mission Hills, has brought me in the twilight of the cooling evening, back to the black metal door of my little cottage. As I turn the key, questions pop around me like the stars readying to fill the coming night sky. “When will I be ready to go down the street to glimpse my ‘other life’?” Will I feel the same way when in the nearing future; I turn the key for the last time on my cottage door? How many more doors will I experience last times?

I hear Mel meowing her welcome. Tonight, I am content with being in the questions, and I’m fine in my ‘Now life’.

2006-09-14T14:39:00.000-07:00

Sleeping on the Diagonal

The right side was my half of the bed. I found when waking in the deep of night, it was as if an imaginary barrier existed. I never crossed it. Only maybe an extended limb or hand that if Jack were still alive would have been wound around him, craving the connection and the comfort in the security of knowing that in the silent order of our relationship, he would be on the left side.

Once I suggested to him that we switch, change things up, get out of a habitual pattern. But neither of us lasted. The left side was too unconforming to my body’s contour. The right to him was a strange plain, where the clock seemed to tick louder and the breeze from the window too faint.

I’m reading Elizabeth Berg’s The Year of Pleasures. It is about a woman recently widowed. This passage touched me:
“I remembered an eighty-nine-year-old woman who’d lost her husband many years ago telling me in her shaky voice. You still sleep on your half of the bed. I learned that it was true.”

Even though I have moved from the house that Jack and I shared, I realized that in my solo bedroom, I still slept on my half of the bed. The other half was filled with extra pillows, I sometimes hugged tight like a lover, a plumped up comforter for my cat, Mel and it became the repository for magazines, books or the affirmation I was reading before drifting off.

I tried the middle. It seemed an empowering idea. Since I am alone right now, and the bed is mine, I decided to take ownership. The middle symbolized that for me.
But the digital numbers on the clock kept changing and soon it was silly to be battling with myself. I willingly scooched over to my half and fell deep into sleep.

Then one night during the hot airless summer, I found sleeping on the diagonal, pleasant. The breeze seemed to reach my sweat-filmed skin more than when I was on my half.

Sleeping on the diagonal is now my position of choice. In those moments before dreams fill my head and heart, I concluded that sleeping on the diagonal is mingling the past and future. I am experiencing the support of both sides of the bed. It is a position of the Now, it is saying I am fine here alone but still with the hope that I will once again be blessed with someone to share the silent order of a relationship where I am on the right and he is on the left.

2006-09-13T17:57:00.000-07:00

‘Princess and the Pea’ kind of day

When I woke up this morning, my eyeballs felt as if they had dropped inside my skull and rolled around all night. My hips ached from the presumed hill I had been climbing in my sleep with a persistent burning sensation on the bottoms of my feet because I must have left my sneakers home.

I knew the moment I forced my legs over the side of the bed that today was going to be a ‘Princess and the Pea kind of day’.

The Hans Christian Andersen story tells of a 'real' princess who was tested by the Queen before she could marry her son. The story states:

“ The Queen went into the bedroom, took all the bed clothes off and laid a pea on the bedstead: then she took twenty mattresses and piled them on top of the pea, and then twenty feather beds on top of the mattresses. This was where the princess was to sleep that night.
In the morning they asked her how she slept.

'Oh terribly bad!' said the princess. 'I have hardly closed my eyes the whole night!
Heaven knows what was in the bed. I seemed to be lying upon some hard thing,
and my whole body is black and blue this morning. It is terrible!' “

For me a ‘Princess and the Pea’ kind of day is one where no matter what I do, every little pea sized thing irritates me. I often feel this way before I come down with a full-blown cold or as in today’s case, the first day of my menstrual cycle. I know in my ‘real’ princess sort of way that my body is saying, “relax, kick back, and allow me to do a little repair here and there. Be a princess for a day.”
Of course life doesn’t always allow for a completely unplanned day of balance and renewal.

On days like this, I try to prioritize my activities to ones not requiring too much brainpower, limit my social interaction so my inner dragon doesn’t scorch too many family and friends and not spend too much time in front of the mirror, because I know I’ll hate everything I put on.

Getting out in the fresh air, drinking lots of water and going to bed early help. But on a full-blown ‘Princess and the Pea’ kind of day, I often go with the homeopathic philosophy. In Homeopathy one strives to treat ‘like with like’. If every little pea sized thing irritates me, I’m going for complete immersion. Tonight I’m cooking me up a big old pot of peas and I’m going to enjoy every last one of them!

2006-09-12T09:04:00.000-07:00

Butterflies and Feathers

My friend Kalika and I walked through Soulscape gift and bookshop in Encinitas, CA, admiring and commenting on all the unique little groupings of items. The shop was permeated with the smell of scented candles and sticks of incense. The tinkle of wind chimes, played like background music. The sun on this warm September afternoon crept across the mosaic tiled entranceway, catching the crystal prisms and stained glass window decorations to trail a rainbow splash across the opposite wall.

We ooded and ahhed, touched and sniffed our way around. We stopped at a display of mugs, reading the inspirational words encircling their outsides. Kalika gave a short intake of breath as she raised one cobalt blue mug with white printing that simulated handwriting. She recited in hushed tones the quote on the mug. “Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly. Anonymous.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, running her fingers across the raised print, “I have to get this mug.” I personally thought the quote was sweet but nothing that stirred me to bring out my wallet. I moved over to the refrigerator magnets.

After she paid for the mug and I paid for a box of Nag Champa incense, we left the store.

“I’ve told you the story about my mother and the butterflies, right?” Kalika asked, as we got into the car. I shook my head. As if to highlight the importance of this tale, three white butterflies circle danced along the sidewalk as we drove out of the parking lot.

“During the last few months of my Mom’s life, when I went to spend time with her, I always took her for a walk in her wheelchair.” Kalika shared. “ Mom was blind, so along the way I would describe all the lovely flowers and plants. One day three white butterflies fluttered by. After I related to my Mom, how playful they were, she announced ‘I want to be a butterfly’. We both laughed,” Kalika recalled, “and I told her, I thought that would be wonderful.

One day after Mom passed, I was missing her very much. I was sitting in my car with the windows open, looking at the ocean and crying. All of a sudden, a little white butterfly flew in the passenger’s side window danced along the dashboard, flew past my nose and out the driver’s side window.” Kalika turned to me for emphasis, “how often do you see a butterfly come in a car window?” Since Mom passed, whenever I see butterflies, especially three white or yellow ones together, I know it’s her.”

Kalika’s purchase of the mug now made sense to me. And her belief that each time she sees butterflies, her mom is sending love down from above, warmed my heart.

After my husband, Jack passed; a psychic told me that Jack would send me feathers, to let me know he was near. I had scoffed in disbelief. “Feathers!” I thought. Feathers made no sense at all. During his lifetime, Jack had not been a birdwatcher, wore a boa or owned a parrot. I couldn’t see what the connection was. But the psychic stated that spirit on the level of a loved one that has passed over, is limited in their ways to communicate. Using objects such as feathers, embodying the essence of a living creature or having a favorite song play when we least expect it, is within their control.

“Okay”, I thought, “Feathers it is.” I left the psychic’s with a bit of the ‘prove it to me’ mentality. Actually, I dropped it from my thoughts. The session took place within a month of Jack’s death and I was too overwhelmed with grief and how I was going to find joy in life without my best friend at my side.

One day, soon after, frustrated and feeling alone, while walking through the catacomb like hallways of the employee area of the Hotel Del, where I worked, I silently called up above, something along the lines of “Jack, why aren’t you here when I need you.”

I wound my way along the windowless corridor. Half way through in a section that never sees the light of day, a medium sized gray hued feather lay on the ground. A surge of longing suffused with comfort warmed my body. I chuckled to myself.

It wasn’t a feather from a hotel pillow or from a piece of clothing sold in one of the retail shops. It was a perfectly formed bird feather possibly from the wing of a seagull. How did it get in the underground walkway? I whispered my thanks. My mood lighted. I felt confident that the choice I had been pondering was the best one for me.

Since then, whenever I’m faced with a decision, I find feathers wherever I go. If it is along an outside walkway, as if to prove that it isn’t just a random bird dropping a no longer needed tail feather, there will be lots of the them. Sometimes the feathers have been placed like a line of Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs.

“Find your way to your heart,” the breadcrumb line of feathers, whispers to me. I know it’s Jack’s way of saying “Yes, You’re doing fine. Go home, go inside your heart that is where the best choice lives and so do I.”

Butterflies and feathers, symbols of connection, metaphors for relationships that last well beyond the end of life on earth.

2006-09-10T23:27:00.000-07:00

Ratty Roomy “Why Me” Sweatshirt

In those self-obsessed made for TV moments, my mood wears the ratty roomy “Why Me” sweatshirt. The color is faded mauve. A throwback hue from some misinformed fashion fad of decades ago. The mauve screams of “I should of….”

The sweatshirt is triple X huge so no matter whether my weight goes up or down, I have no problem fitting into it. I’m constantly pushing up the sleeves and catching the extra material on doorknobs. The fiber is permeated with a level of frustration and hopelessness and echoes, “If he/she would only…”

The fabric blend is 90% polyester, so it has no breathablilty. And it has the faint rancid odor of “If only this would happen then I could...”.

I’ve washed it in highly scented detergents. I spritzed it with organic hydrosols and I’ve used my best hand sewing skills to take up the sleeves and pull in the body. Once, I even used a home dye kit to change it from faded mauve to a deep forest green. I have spent lots of time and money on trying to change the outward appearance of my ratty, roomy “Why Me” sweatshirt. But the camouflaging hasn’t worked. The smell returns, the stitches fall out and the dye comes off in my hands.

Recently, one day, when my mood was shaken by the reaction of a friend to something I had done, I felt the shiver of victim ripple through my body. My first habitual movement was to go find my ratty, roomy “Why Me” sweatshirt. But I stopped. Thought about it for a moment and realized I hadn’t worn my sweatshirt in quite awhile. I had to think about where it might have gone.

Had I thrown it away and didn’t remember? Was it buried at the bottom of the laundry basket? I instinctively went to the hook on the back of my bedroom door, where it has hung for years. It was there limply hanging in the same position as always.

But instead my hand went to the hook next to it. And I took down my “ I’m At Choice” beret. The sequence panel across the front sparkled with lightness and celebration of "Let others be who they are. It has no bearing on who you are" .

The crushed purple velvet felt soft and comforting to the touch and whispered to me, "Trust yourself". The moment I placed it on my head, the victim chill left my body. I smiled in the mirror. The royal color of the beret brought out the deep hazel of my eyes. I winked at my reflection and realized, I look really great in this hat.

2006-09-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

Rocket of Desire

I stand on the grassy knoll over looking the ocean at the La Jolla cove.
It is just before sunset. The sea has a glassy quality, almost like looking into a rippling mirror. The lawn slicks the bottoms of my bare feet and sends a shiver up my legs. I hold the rocket in my hands as I arch my neck to stare up and out at the subtle changes in the evening light show of the sky. The air is tingly on my skin, a mixture of dampness and salt. It smells of earth and sea blended together to make the perfect early fall evening perfume.

This is where I go in my mind to launch my rockets of desire.

In the book, The Amazing Power of Deliberate Intent by Esther & Jerry Hicks, it says:
“As you explore the variety and contrast of your own life experience, natural preferences relating to the way you would like things to be are vibrationally emitted from you in the form of vibrational signals (similar to electronic signals). You are literally beaming these signals forward into your future experience.
Whenever a preference or desire is born within you as a result of something that you are living, that vibrational signal shoots forth like a rocket of desire and begins amassing power and clarity in your vibratinal future.”

In space travel one of the major obstacles is to harness enough energy to get from the ground into space. That’s where rockets come into the picture. I find this true for me in the manifesting of my desires and dreams. My mind fills with the possibilities of what I can create in my life. But then fear, disbelief and an habitual way of thinking come in and pop the cork, letting all my desires leak out onto the floor.

When a desire for my life starts to form as an idea, I imagine taking that bubbly excitement of possibility and gently capturing it as fuel for my rocket. I think of the movies of my childhood, Mary Poppins and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

In Mary Poppins, the children go with Mary to visit Uncle Albert. He loves to laugh and his laughing is so joyful and uninhibited that he levitates off the floor. There is a similar scene in Willy Wonka. Charlie and Grandpa leave the group behind and drink some of the fizzy soda. The more they drink and laugh the higher they rise.

The common theme for me is the playful aspect of curiosity. The “What If?” in any dream. The laughter in looking at the positive potential instead of focusing on what I don’t like about the now of things.

Each time I center thought and feeling on a dream, each time I offer action toward my desires and each time I stay connected to the essence of the dream not the actual outcome, I am gathering fuel for my rocket.

I name my rocket before lift-off. I take a glittery pen, usually green, since green is my favorite color. I write in BIG BOLD letters across its’ gleaming side, the name of my desire,
TO BE A PUBLISHED AUTHOR, TO BE ABUNDANT IN MONEY, TO HAVE RADIANT HEALTH.

The sun has set at the cove. The night sky is crowded with stars. I hold my rocket above my head and with a total body laugh; I launch my rocket of desire. I watch it accelerate as it shoots straight up, increasing thrust, amassing more energy with each tearing away of disbelief, and each letting go of habitual thinking.

Just before it disappears up into the upper atmosphere beyond where I can see with my physical eyes, it sends back a firework show of sizzling, popping sparkles that illuminate the sky. And then the remnants are gone. I stand for a moment. The energy of desire and the sweet caress of dreams hugs me. I arch my neck once more and scan the sky. And then I see it, way, way off. My rocket has exploded and it is now a twinkling star winking back at me as if to say, “I’m here and I am now part of your future.”

2006-09-06T08:28:00.000-07:00

September Stomach Concerto

My morning walk yesterday, was at the time when the local activity was the first day of school. I don’t have children myself, so I was not personally involved with this annual autumn ritual.

The Mission Hills neighborhood, in San Diego, where I live, contains both a parochial and public elementary school. The area is small enough that the majority of the students walk to school. I’ve taken my morning exercise at this time other days during the school year, but the first day of school has a certain energy all its own.

I watched one Mom take a picture of her boy and girl on the front step of their house, the boy held up a small sign that said their names, new grade and the year, 2006. I’m guessing there is a photo album standing among the video game containers in the family room credenza, which has a similar picture for each starting school day of their childhood. It is only pulled out when a new photo is ready to be inserted. The pictures are giggled over and exclamations such as, “You’ve grown so much!” fill the air.

One Dad met his wife and son at the halfway point to school, presenting the nine possibly ten year old with a Grande sized hot drink from Starbucks. I wonder if this is the new first day of school ritual?

Moms and Dads, baby sisters in strollers walk in a pack with the first day of school student in the middle, their own personal entourage, Rock Star for a day.

My stomach telepathically picks up on all the big and little stomachs around me doing, the first day of school flips and squeezes. I call it my September stomach concerto. Of course my September stomach concerto does not only get my attention in September but any time I am starting something new. It is the internalized concept of anticipation, overlaid with fear.

Everyone I’ve ever met has his or her own personal rhythm of the September stomach concerto. Mine, starts with a hunger pain gnawing deep in the pit. The second movement is usually a series of intestinal spasms that rise into heart flutters. The final movement, depending on my perceived importance of the event, may be a wave of nausea or the head temple drums build to a pounding crescendo.

In the past, as my September stomach concerto played, I sat in judgment. I critiqued myself for being blah, blah, years of age and still feeling this way every time I started or experienced something new.

Recently, I had my nose pierced. I had wanted to do this for a long time. I love the look of tiny diamond stub, winking when I turn my head. But it was against the dress policy at the Hotel Del Coronado, where I worked. When I left my job, and for other reasons I’ll share in another blog, the time to be pierced was upon me.

I amazed myself, at how nervous I was! A full pit orchestra performed my September stomach concerto. The technician piercing my nose brought the levels down. He suggested breathing techniques to calm me. But his matter of fact question of “Sure you’re nervous. Have you ever pierced your nose before?” was the one that helped me shift.

Whether the answer had been yes or no, as it was in my case, every time is a first time; each event is a new experience. And beginnings start with fear wrapped anticipation.

So now when my concerto is in full swing, I whisper to myself, “ Okay, what lesson am I going to learn? What adventure is about to unfold? My curiosity joyfully shoos the internal critic away. My September stomach concerto is my signal that I am alive and willing to keep experiencing new things.

2006-09-05T05:28:00.000-07:00

Chewing On A Frustration…

Over the Labor Day weekend I have chewed on a frustration that I can’t seem to identify all the ingredients of. But until I do I won’t be able to swallow.

I know the main ingredient has a history that dates back to childhood. Like a sturdy root vegetable it is something around, “ I’m not good enough.” We all have a root vegetable of our own with this same basic starchy consistency. Due to our individual life experiences, it might appear as a turnip, a rutabaga, or a parsnip.

Mine, I envision as a carmine colored beet. When I slice it, the reddish-purple dye stains my hands like a permanent tattoo. As if to say, “I’ll always be a part of you. I can’t be removed.”

I cooked my latest beet based frustration during a meeting I attended on Saturday night. Actually, I realize now that I prepared the frustration on Thursday but it was a simmer for a while recipe and Saturday the final ingredients went in. Since then, I have been chewing and chewing.

The meeting is a group that I have started of people, who want to focus on the Law of Attraction, which is the basic precept of manifesting your desires and dreams. We use the Abraham-Hicks material, specifically, the book “Ask and It Is Given” by Esther and Jerry Hicks. We call ourselves, The 68 Second Club. The name comes from one of the Abraham-Hicks processes in the book.

It states, “ a thought reaches a combustion point at 17 seconds of pure undiluted focus. It draws another thought to it and it is exponentially more powerful. At the end of another 17 seconds, 34 seconds total, the next thought combusts and by the Law of Attraction evolves to a higher level of energy. Again, another 17 seconds to 51 seconds continues the process and finally, if you can continue a pure thought for 68 seconds on any given subject, it will be on its way to manifestation.”

The main activity of the meeting is to do a 68 Second, (actually we do 2 minutes each), group manifestation on an individual member’s desire/dream that they would like to create in their life.

Joy erupts as we contribute our ideas of growing their desire. Lots of laughter is involved, even a hint of silliness but always, the intention of support of that person’s dream.

I went to the meeting that night carrying my big pot of beet frustration stew. It was the first time I was seeing most of the members of the group, since launching this blog on Wednesday. Except for one member, no one thus far had commented on reading my blog.

At the beginning of the evening, one person said, “I read your blog. Have you posted anymore?” But that was it. No one else mentioned my blog. I asked one dear friend if she had read it and she simply stated, “I didn’t have time.”

I added the seasoning of anger to my pot of Frustration. The ruddy red color of my stew darkened with the addition. The pot sat heavily and hotly on my lap during the meeting.

When it came time for me to have the group “68 Second” on my dream, I was mute. I had wanted the focus to be, this blog as a way to grow my writing career. But how could people in the group help co-create my dream, when no one even knew anything about my blog? I stirred in some herb of sadness.

Over the course of Sunday, I mixed in a dash of the spice of discouragement with a bit of the condiment, loneliness. The pot simmered and boiled, all day long. I tasted it from time to time, each spoonful with an undertone of bitterness and requiring massive chewing until my jaw ached.

Monday, when I went for my walk, I was able to leave the pot at home. There had been a glimmer of relief the night before when I had been reading a favorite passage, I review each day, in “ Ask and It Is Given”. This time the words, “No one is criticizing or looking for unwanted things,” removed the smell of stew from my nostrils.

How could I manifest anything, when my thoughts of sadness, anger, discouragement and loneliness were causing me to look for unwanted things? I was only seeing my sense of not receiving encouragement and validation that I am worth worthy.

It was in that moment I identified the additional ingredients, with my root vegetable, “I’m Not Good Enough”, in my stew of frustration. It is the leaves of “Affirmation”, the nuts of “Acknowledgment” and the tempeh of “Support”.

These are genuine needs I have, that will be little pearl onions along with my big carmine beet of “I’m Not Good Enough.” I can ask others for affirmation, acknowledgement, and support but most importantly, I can start to meet those needs by not looking for unwanted things. I can see if I am affirming, acknowledging and supporting myself inside, before going to the outside.

And when a frustration comes up, that I need to chew on a bit, after I meet my own needs, I might still wish my friends would affirm, acknowledge and support but I don’t need to chew on it like cow cud. I’ll be able to swallow it faster. And maybe, next time, I will make a great little beet salad, that is light and tongue tingling and oh so yummy.

2006-09-01T07:52:00.000-07:00

I'm writing personal essays about my "Cottage Year". More about that another time. Here's one to last a long weekend. Happy Labor Day!

My Mel

The sour smell met me at the door to my bedroom. I scrunched up my nose peering apprehensively over to my bed. There in the middle of my comforter cover was a mound of puked up cat food. By the strength of the smell I figured it had been there for a few hours, which meant that the uneven circle of stomach bile had had plenty of time to seep deep into my sheets, down to the mattress pad.

This was not the first time I had been greeted with a chunky light brown pile of vomit when returning home. Chellie sat tucked under the micro throw that covered the ottoman of my living room chair. Exasperation colored my “Oh Chellie not again!”

I knew that the event of puking was long gone from her mind, in addition to the fact that she was only responding to the needs of her body not understanding that in human terms such activities would be easier to deal with on the tile of the kitchen or bathroom floor.

For me the frustration of seeing another vomiting episode was one part, “ I just put clean sheets on the bed yesterday!” And three parts, “ I’m not ready to face my 16 year old Chellie starting her final decline.”

She started out as Chelsea,” the psycho cat” when she and her littermate Venus came to live with my husband, Jack, and I six years ago. A friend was moving to India for 6 to 8 months and wanted animal loving people to provide a temporary home for her two feline sisters.

Having just faced the death of my boxer, Dempsey the month before, I was not ready to open my heart to another fur-coated ball of love. But Natasha was desperate, not wanting to abandon her kitties. I was cajoled into agreeing. My main thought being “It’s only 6 months, no time to get attached.”

I had grown up with cats. My childhood home seemed to have the permanent fixture of a Mother cat and mewing kittens in a brown box in the corner of the kitchen broom closet. Family movies show my sisters and I wheeling around baby doll dressed pusses in play strollers. We did have our share of toms. They roamed the neighborhood, brought back gifts of half eaten mice and birds proudly placed on the back porch mat. And we had a few crazy cats, the ones that didn’t get why they had to have humans around at all. They marked us all with their personalized signature of gashes and scratches mostly on our hands and arms but every once in awhile too close to an eye or ear.

When Chelsea and Venus came to stay, Venus was 96% true to her name. She was the storybook cat, all love, licks and purrs. The other 4% was rarely shown to humans but was reserved for her sister Chelsea. Venus knew how to trigger Chelsea’s uneven temperament. Thus they never were the kitty cat calendar sibs that curled up in a tangle of tails and paws. They always kept their distance from one another but an eye out for each other too.

To friends visiting, Venus was the delight, the one that came and rubbed her soft grey and white coat across your shin and looked up at you with sparkling clear baby blues. Chelsea needed to be coaxed to come out and when she did, she showed her dismay with a series of guttural growls and purposeful hisses.

The story often goes when you close off a room of your heart to try and contain the pain of loss, circumstances demand that you stand at the entrance and either crack the door a bit or slam it tight and lose the key. The “Kitty Sisters” as I came to call them in my missives to Natasha in India, pawed the door to my closed heart room open and snuggled up fur ball tight in the hole left by Dempsey’s passing. And in true fable fashion, Natasha found her love in India and ended up staying for a year. She returned to the States with her new husband, but by then the Kitty Sisters had become an intricate part of Jack’s and my life.

As the girls settled into our lives my nicknaming habit went into full swing. Everyone close to me is fated to have some silly derivative of his or her name label them for the length of our relationship. Jack, who was already a moniker for Jacob, became Jack a Boo. Venus was christened Vennie Bean and Chelsea morphed into Chellie.

We drifted into a comfy life of four on the bed at night. Vennie Bean keeping Jack a Boo’s baldhead warm atop his pillow. Chellie perched by my feet, emitting her now famous throaty growl each time I turned over and upset her position.

The day I sat in the chair at the Vet, the same chair, I had sat in six years before, when I cradled Dempsey while he took his last breath and this time it was to witness the passing of Venus, a month after Jack died; I monitored through a daze of grief, the once again collapsing room of my heart. It seemed surreal that Venus decided to follow Jack to the other side in such close course. “What about me?” I screamed feeling trapped inside my shrinking heart room. “Don’t I need a bit of comfort too?” I wondered if I’d get the kind of furball love I craved to keep me sane, from the psycho cat, Chellie. In the moments when I wasn’t overly obsessed with my own sadness, I questioned whether I could be a support to Chellie. Would she be aware that the one constant in her life since birth, her sister Venus, was no longer around?

After Jack’s death I felt the need to move from the home we shared into a smaller space. Each room of our house echoed with a vibe of memory. The scrape of the spatula on the frying pan as he flipped his yummy toad in a hole egg, made especially for me to start my day with a warming breakfast of protein and love. Sunday afternoons, punctuated with the roaring encouragement of “Go left, go left!” or “Oh my God, you coulda had that one!” while watching the football game. And the whispers that called to me from the bedroom walls of before falling asleep, nightly conversations.

Chellie and I moved into a small cottage in the same part of town. It offered me new walls to decorate, something I truly love to do, and a territory that was defined solely by the person I was becoming, but in an area of San Diego that I had grown to love and had established favorite haunts.

Over the next few months through my confusion of, “Now where did I decide to put the ice bucket?” or the often thought, “Did I sell that rug or decide to keep it?” I monitored Chellie’s behavior. I noticed that bit-by-bit aspects of her personality that I only saw glimpses of with Venus around began to emerge.

We have developed our routine of mutual support. My heart room hinges, rusted from grief tears, squeak each time I come home and she appears from wherever she had been napping to give a meowing hello. Working at my laptop she sits centurion-like in the small gap between the edge of the desk and the rim of the computer covering my arms with her warm kitty butt, flicking her silver flecked tail as if in response to a beat of music from an IPOD playing in her head. Demanding attention while I write is a copycat move from Venus; only Chellie still holds her outward defense, giving me less harsh, but still a growl when I try to work the keyboard from under her butt. When the ache in my arms becomes too much, I lift her off the desk to perch her someplace else close by. But within a few minutes she is back in position again.

I observed her favorite snuggle spots and tried to make them cozier. I put a blanket-covered pillow in front of the heating unit in the hall. Once after doing laundry I placed an extra comforter folded at the base of my bed before putting it away. Chellie called it her own. I left it there.

Now when she hears me pull out the chair at my kitchen table to sit down to a meal, she is immediately at my feet offering an insistent meow of “Lift me up, let me join you in eating. You don’t have to eat alone.” She waits patiently in my lap while I eat, sniffing the plate occasionally, every once in awhile enticed by a smell. The paw then comes out, gently padding my arm or face as if to say, “I’d like some, please.”

She snuggles so deep into my chest when I sit down to an evening of book reading or TV. Her little heart positioned directly over mine. Her hue changing blue eyes looking up at me. The purr of surrender bears witness to the psycho cat, allowing her scaredy cat fear to shed like a winter coat in spring.

With each development in our ever- evolving relationship, I’m touched to my soul by how in her kitty cat way she has chosen to not paw but battle ram her little calico swirled Siamese body against the door to my heart room. Her name mutates once again. Chellie has now become Chell-Chell.

Then the vomiting starts. Her once thick coat of black, silver- white and tan thins to bone peeking skinniness. I buy every kind of cat food in the store, wet, dry and gravy softened. I go on line for tips to tempt her to eat, and to calm the raging belly noises. We visit the vet and run tests. I push pills down her throat, syringe antibiotics into her mouth as she squirms in my lap. I shove the memories of going through the same routine with Venus before she passed and in human fashion with Jack before he died, from playing a continual looped horror movie in my head. The heart room shutters as if an earthquake is about to erupt.

She is showing signs of her 16 years of age. Her eyesight, I have always questioned, thinking that part of her psycho nature was because she didn’t see well, is now diminishing further. The usual kidney slowing and irritable digestion are listed as possible causes. But for now, the Vet leans toward her having eaten something on her once in awhile trips out the front door. Another round of antibiotics is prescribed and I buy special cat food directly from the Vet. In her recovery, she burrows deep under the sheets and blankets on the bed as if hibernating away the discomfort.

One evening she is cuddled up on my lap under the throw I have covering my legs, while I watch a Netflix. Her body is a little circle of emanating heat. I want to toss off the blanket because I’m too hot but don’t wish to disturb her. I so cherish when she is close and I can help her heal without coming after her with a syringe full of drugs.

Suddenly she pops out, jumps off my lap, sits in porcelain cat stillness in the middle of the living room and looks up toward the ceiling. She emits a series of meows, mews, and tongue clicks as if in response to questions being asked. Her head moves left to right as if reading off a page floating in the air above. I whisper to her, “Chel, who are you talking to? Is Jack here?” I have a deep belief and comfort in knowing and having experienced those who have crossed over, still being present. Chel-Chel through her life always talked to walls and chatted up possible unseen beings that seemed to come and spend an afternoon with her. But this is different. I have not seen her so animated since her illness began. Her concentration on watching the ceiling is so fixed. And then as if the lesson is over, she jumps back onto my lap and settles in once again.

Her progress back to health seems to step up a notch. Did she receive a command from on high, saying, “It’s not your time yet. Michele still needs you.” Was this an answer to my silent rant of “What about me?” in the Vet’s office when Jack and Venus passed a year ago? Whatever happened that night, Chel-Chel is still with me. And with this realization, the entrance way to my heart room floods with the light of gratitude. I know our time together is lessoning. But for now, she chose to stay, and with tears rimming my eyes, I pick her up in a gentle embrace and whisper, “Thank you, thank-you, Mel.” Chel- Chel is now my Mel.

2006-08-31T06:42:00.000-07:00

I Must Have Been Hiding Under A Blanket

There are five children in my family of birth, four girls, Mary Grace, Michele (Me), Margaret and Martina and then my brother, Mark. Notice our names all start with the letter M. Our last name begins with an N. So my parents would sign all the holiday cards Laura, Tony and the 5 M&N’s. Cute huh? We also have the family shorthand of calling each other by our initials. Mary Grace became MG. I’m MT because my middle name is Teresa. Margaret Caroline is MC. ML is my sister Martina Laura and by brother Mark Anthony is MA.

I love that Mark’s initials are MAN. When he came to visit me in San Diego once, I took a picture of him outside the Museum of Man. But that’s another story.

MG, MT (Me) and MC were spaced three years apart. Then my mother took a break from birthing babies and ML didn’t appear until five years later, with MA to follow. This little gap in the line-up always offered a bit tension in the sharing of family memories. The fact that we moved from Delaware to New Jersey when ML was a baby and my mother was pregnant with MA, offered an additional split in the childhood stories.

One time when ML was about five maybe six years old, MG, MC and me, were telling tales of our Delaware days. In frustration of not being able to join in, ML announced, “Well I must have been hiding under a blanket.”

That phrase became a family classic to pull out whenever someone was feeling left out in the conversation. I, personally, of late have extended its use to when I feel I wasn’t fully present to what is going on, or when my shortcomings embarrass me.

This leads me into my chosen life focus of late, writing. I am a terrible speller, the rules of punctuation often evade me, and I mispronounce words on a regular basis. Just the other night when my friend Jennifer, helped me set-up this blog, we were reading how to post pictures. One way is through using a program named, Picasa. I don’t even want to say how badly I butchered that simple word.

In times such as this the dialogue in my head opens with “And YOU want to be a writer!” But I’ve gotten to the point of acceptance to where my cheeks will flush to blush red not full on crimson, I accept correction in pronouncing words, I ask others to read my writing for punctuation (some stuff still slips by), thank the computer geniuses of bygone days for Spell Check and I am willing to increase the muscles in my arms by lifting my huge dictionary.

But when the full grip of fear comes on me and I can’t seems to stop the critic in my head, I pull up from the bottoms of my feet a good guffawing laugh and announce, “when they taught that in school, I must have been hiding under a blanket.”

2006-08-30T18:06:00.000-07:00

Metaphor n. [MET uh for] a figure of speech comprised of a word or phrase that transfers its meaning to another, use as a means of illustration. Analogy, likening, image, simile, trope, symbol.

Roget’s Super Thesaurus

By the Sea
I have taken a plunge after nine years of employment and left my position as a massage therapist on staff at the Hotel Del Coronado to skinny dip in the sea of Words. In the past I have stuck in a toe, played chicken with the incoming tide on the beach and walked in up to my knees, but now I am declaring myself a swimmer ready to immerse in the lap of the letters, wave of the words and surf of the sentences. I chose the image of the sea to describe my leaving because I am also a teacher whose subject matter is the therapeutic value of water. And because the “Grand Old Lady” herself, the Hotel Del Coronado, sits on an island between the San Diego Bay and the Pacific Ocean. The website http://www.ecoronado.com describes Coronado as: “A small, tree-lined beach haven. Coronado is about a mile from downtown San Diego and is linked to the city by the Coronado-San Diego Bridge. Crown City, as it is called (Coronado means "crowned one" in Spanish), regards itself as a friendly, small town of wide leafy streets lined with Victorian homes and Californian bungalows.”

Each day on my drive to and from work I crossed the Bay Bridge. On the way toward Coronado, I watched the sparkle of the sun upon the water, boats bobbing in the marina and the Hotel Del off in the distance, with her majestic red circular roofs sitting like a magic castle on the edge of the sea. Returning, my view was of downtown San Diego, its grid like streets, mass of skyscrapers, squat warehouses, the Convention Center with its sail-inspired roof and Petco Ball Park. The Laguna Mountains appeared as the background to this landscape picture. On a fog lifted afternoon, range after range stood like pointed green and brown tempera painted peaks on a kindergartener’s easeled picture.

But now I choose instead of crossing over the water, to dive in. I am in search of my metaphor, the one to describe the passages in my life. Today it is the Sea. The wide expanse of the churning, life filled waters that hold stories, secrets and a history of our planet. After many years of steady employment on the safety of the beach, I shed my clothes to dog-paddle in the chill of the waters of words. Will I sink or swim?