Thank you for all the amazing birthday wishes!!!

Reflection of Minneapolis's stone arch bridge in the Mississippi River

A birthday is a new beginning of sorts. I'm 67 now, not 66. Let's start over.

Forty seemed so old when I was 19 and having surgery on my spine. Forty seemed like a tremendous goal.

We have the chance to begin again every day. Every moment, really. Every time we think a thought or open our mouths, we can go from here to there and have a fresh start. Life is stuffed with changes and transitions and bridges to somewhere new.

When I was in my 20s or even in my 30s I imagined my elder years would be staid and even. It's been anything but that. Here's my list of transitions of the last dozen years (in no particular order.) Things are always changing for all of us.

Maybe now the question is, what changes do I want to make in the coming year?

Children at home to empty nest

Married to divorced

Brunette to blond

Blond to silver

City dweller to suburb dweller

Suburb dweller to city dweller

Crazy and depressed everyday to crazy and depressed now and then.

On medication to off

Meat eater to vegetarian

Vegetarian to meat eater

Anxious person to somewhat less anxious person.

Dog and cat owner to houseplant fancier

Freeway driver to ardent pedestrian

Caregiver of the dying to bereaved

Homeowner to condo dweller

Ground-floor inhabitant to fifth floor inhabitant

Distracted to devourer of books.

Insomniac to dream journaler (some nights, anyway)

Mothered to motherless

Californian to Minnesotan

Beach walker to riverbank walker

Wheat eater to gluten intolerant

Hardwood floor fanatic to I love my bedroom carpeting

Grandmother of children to grandmother of high schoolers.

Owner of too many books to owner of fewer (but still too many) books

Big drinker to little drinker.

66-year old to 67-year-old

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Ethel!

the memorial box I made for my mother at an art workshop in Oaxaca in 2017
and the birthday cake that was a craft project at one of my daughter's birthday parties....ages ago

The doors to the memorial box are usually closed as it sits on its shelf in my living room, but in recognition of my mom's birthday week, I opened them a couple of days ago.

Yesterday began with the faint scent of cigarette smoke in the air. This is not a smoke-free building, but I've never smelled cigarettes before... still, there it was, wafting in from somewhere. My mom is such a talented and persistent ghost. Then a phone call came in that resulted in a small financial windfall--much appreciated, given all the moving expenses that will take months to recover from.

Later in the evening there were tickets to a play that I'd made plans for last week not quite realizing that the performance was on my mother's birthday. The action of the play opens just as all the characters have died in a tragic accident so....welcome to the afterlife and the struggles and the dramas that ensue there.

One of my daughters had reminded me in the morning that she celebrates her grandmother's birthday by buying a lottery ticket and having a martini. Schedules did not allow us to get together for drinks, so I had my martini before the theatre.

In my theatre seat, checking my email one last time before I turning off my phone, I received a thumbs up from the literary magazine that was considering  an essay of mine...that is in large part about death, the afterlife, and my mother.

Some days are surprisingly seamless. Thanks, Mom. 

Birthday Cake and Bears

from Pinterest

Last night's dream:

The cake was the most important thing. I had to get the cake for my 16-year-old daughter's birthday. Some other mom had ordered it for us, insisting there had to be a fancy cake and a party when, really, our lives were unraveling. This other mom had planned everything--picked a date and a time and sent out invitations. My daughters and I were between houses, halfway moved, not sure where to sleep and what belongings were where. A party seemed impossible. 

The cake was from a special bakery in an L.A. neighborhood I'd never been to. Some inner city suburb, or it's own separate town within the city. It had an interesting name I've been trying all morning to remember. Hidalgo. Trivalgo. Something pleasant and slightly exotic. I looked it up on the map on my phone. Oh. There. It wasn't far. We drove over a huge bridge, a friend and I, to get there. There was a taxi stand and an information kiosk at the bridge. I didn't quite remember the name of the bakery, even though the other mother had told me twice. Dark something. Or something Black. I looked up bakeries on my iPhone. Dark Orpheus was the name of one of the bakeries, so I asked the information guy where it was. Walk through the canyon, the guy said. It's so beautiful. So we left my car parked near the bridge and set out. 

The canyon was deep and lined with fallen leaves. The walls of the canyon were pocked with small caves. There was bear scat on the trail.  By now, my younger daughter (not the birthday girl) had joined my friend and me, and so I had to worry, not just for my friend and me, but for my daughter too. I knew a bear would find us. At the very end of the the canyon, we had to scale a rock wall to get out. The hand and foot holds were easy, but we had to climb past a deep cave. The bear came roaring out of the cave just as I was near the top of the rocks. My friend covered himself in leaves and the bear tore past him. Run, I yelled. Shouldn't I play dead? he asked. Run, I yelled again, and he got to his feet, the leaves sticking to him so that he looked like a person made of leaves. My daughter was far behind. I turned and could see her blond ponytail bobbing as she took a steeper part of the canyon wall at a run, charging to the top like a super-hero. The bear didn't chase us.

There was something somber about the bakery. The wait staff wore black t-shirts and black pants and black bow ties. I couldn't remember the name of the mother who ordered the cake, so I asked if they had a birthday cake with my daughter's name on it. They did. It was tall with a hard shell of dark chocolate icing. It was elegantly decorated, her name written in a swirling script.  But we didn't want to carry the cake all the way back to the car, so I went to get the car, but there was some kind of problem, and now it was getting late. The bakery might be closed when we got back, so I took a taxi and had the taxi driver call them and plead, all the while I was getting texts from my friend to hurry. They wouldn't give the cake to anyone but me. 

I made it. But no one had money for the taxi back, so we walked, marveling at the city. There were many ornate tall buildings and terrazzo sidewalks. We cut through the lobby of a classic cinema, balancing the cake in its box while we admired the gold mortar between the dark granite blocks of the smooth and sparkling walls. We have to come back here, we said.

But now had to get to the party. But where was the party? New house? Old house? Would my daughter's father come? He'd said he would, but we knew maybe he wouldn't. Should some of us go to one house and the rest to the other house in case some guests showed up at the wrong place?

Somehow the party happened. People seemed to have a nice time. The house looked good. There were patters of food shining in the candlelight. My ex-husband was there. He and I spoke. Some mystery was revealed, but this morning I have no idea what it was. And I never got a piece of that cake.

******

I'm always grateful for an elaborate dream. And even though I'm often scared when I dream of bears, this bear incident resolved itself rather easily, even though I know that in real life a person can't outrun a bear. 

I Googled the name of the bakery. You never know. There's a restaurant called Orpheus New Orleans Cuisine. It's in New Zealand. 

Interesting that there is still some processing of the divorce and mothering of teen-agers. But even that felt like a welcome respite from the current political reality.

What have you been dreaming about?

Thank You for all the Birthday Wishes

Tonight's sunset

Some say that the soul leaves the body at the moment of death. That it rises up to heaven. Or that it descends to receive its eternal punishment. Others say that the soul wanders around for a while or that the spirit of the dead person can return for an earthly visit, or that death is simply the end. Having held a person in my arms at the moment of his death, I still cannot say for certain.

It was my birthday today, and how can one help but ponder death on the anniversary of one's birth? Birth and death are life's bookends. So, yes, Happy Birthday to me and someday my soul will go somewhere even if that somewhere turns out to be nowhere. Meanwhile, I'm full of joy and gratitude for this life. For love, friends, family, food, drink, music, theatre, art, my good health, beauty in all of its incarnations--clouds, birds, rocks, a finely crafted sentence, a pretty scarf, and for birthday wishes.

Yesterday I read about Einstein in the New York times. THIS INFO GRAPHIC blew my 63-year-old mind. And there was this quote: "In 1907, Albert Einstein had his “happiest thought” — people in free fall do not feel their own weight. This simple idea laid the foundation for his general theory of relativity, which Einstein presented 100 years ago this month." 

If I woke up in a box, completely weightless, I wouldn't know if I were falling or floating. Maybe that's how the soul feels.

And before the sunset's color drained from the sky, the full moon appeared from behind the clouds.

Report from Pillville: Cake and a Plot Twist

My mother turned 91 yesterday. My friend Carol turned 70. Last night we had a party celebrating their 161 years of life. My son and his family drove all day to join us. Carol invited friends. My friend Sasha's parents joined us. My friend Pete skyped in for the singing of Happy Birthday. Carol's nephew joined us after dinner and snared the last piece of completely delectable birthday cake. If Sasha had made two cakes we probably would have devoured both of them.

Sounds fabulous. It was.

What happened before the party was not fabulous at all. After my son and his family arrived and we gathered around the dining room table to talk with my mom about Iowa. How nice it will be to go home. To get her wish. How so many people there love her and will be happy to spend time with her. Then someone flipped a switch. I don't remember how it started. But my mom started to yell at us. She's not going to a nursing home, she said. (After a month of being totally in on the plans.) She's going to move in with my brother, and if they don't take her she's going to take back their bedroom furniture that used to be hers. She doesn't need a caregiver because she can make her own bed. Okay, I said. Okay. Guests are arriving soon, I said. Let's not spoil the party. 

My mom has never yelled at me. Never. Really. I've heard her yell like crazy about stuff that makes her mad and she used to yell like a maniac at my brothers when they were wild little boys. 

It could be the steroids that she's on. Which she kinda needs right now. It probably is the steroids. 

The party was perfect. Thank you for the party, she told me before she went to bed.

And not everyone in the inner circle is supportive of my retirement from caregiving. As with many big family decisions, there's dissent. I've been juggling that. I'll look like a liar now. Like I am  pushing my mom out the door. Because now I am.

Life is softening me up. That's what I think. A punch here. A kick there. I get that. I'm learning. It's the blows to the heart that hurt the most.

And the wishes roll in...

Dan snapped this with his iPad when I was only 61 and a half.

I'm older now.

The first b-day greeting came from Bali last night, then France, England, then east coast joined in, moving on to the midwest straight to the Pacific Coast where I got sung to after yoga this morning. It's a world-wide rolling virtual party. A wave. Thanks for being part of it. Sending love right back at you. 

I'm doing one of my favorite things today. Blogging. Yeah--and over HERE too.

Thank you for the birthday wishes on Facebook, by text, by phone, by email, by blog comment, in person, by telepathy, etc.

The day began with flowers. I was in the kitchen, first sip of my latté barely swallowed when M came in the door. The result was this.

And  breakfast was made--(not by me) eggs with chorizo and avocado and onions and toasted tortilla strips.

Then came the farmer's market where this happened.

And there was cake baking (not by me!!!) that started like this.

And there was a feast prepared (not by me!!!) Grilled shrimp, grilled asparagus, rice so embellished I'm not sure how to describe it.
And the serving of the most succulent gluten free carrot cake ever in the history of the world.

And afterwards, a duet sung by the daughters for which everyone was require to surrender their devices. ( M sang the Tom Wopat tenor while C sang the Bernadette Peters soprano from "Annie Get Your Gun.")

And utter loveliness ( I did have a bit of something to do with that.)

There was a quite literal ache (in a good way) in my heart all day.

Thank you.

What a Difference a Decade Makes

my color-coded life a decade ago

I remembered it was my birthday the moment I opened my eyes this morning. At the foot of my bed is a trunk that once belonged to a great or great-great aunt, and I knew that inside I would find a stack of my old day-planners. I wanted to know what my life was life 10 years ago when I was turning 51--well, I have some idea what my life was like--but I wanted to see the minutiae of it on paper. My life was color-coded!!! I have no fucking idea what the colors meant--urgent!!do this or die, fun vs. not fun, fuck you I'm only doing this if I feel like it. I really can't make sense of it now.

But from reading through the notations a bit, I see that I was taking M back and forth to an array of doctors for a mysterious and scary ailment that eventually got around to resolving itself. That she had a broken a finger playing basketball again so there were doctors for that too. C was driving her own self here and there, but I was shuttling M to a billion things in addition to the doctors. There were law firm events, and lots of nights out to Clippers games and the theatre and a certain amount of stress as to whether the Someone could actually take the time to go to these things. I was going out with friends and doing theatre myself, and my, my, my life was a whirl.

My calendar today as I turn 61, has nothing that needs writing. The daughters (one with a husband!--now that's a momentous change from a decade ago, no?) are both here and we will go to the farmer's market. There is a birthday dinner being planned (hooray for the daughter who married a man who loves to cook AND bake,) and I really should go to the supermarket because my mother is almost out of gin and vermouth. Mom really ought to have a martini on my birthday, don't you think?

I saw the sun rise on this day that I turn 61, and gave thanks for being here to see it. And as the water turned pink I read this:

 “Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past.” In that sense, forgiveness is really not about someone’s harmful behavior; it’s about our own relationship with our past.

Okay. Happy Birthday to me. Good-bye 2003, etc. I'm closing your cover. Back in the trunk you go.

Countdown to Baltimore

In a few days my mom and I will be traveling to Maryland for her 89th birthday. The pill boxes are filled. The oxygen concentrator is scheduled to be delivered to my brother's house. We will take with us 4 empty suitcases so she can bring back the things that could not be packed into the car when M and I drove her out here last summer. On that trip her oxygen machine rode in the back seat with her.

Alas, M will not travel with us this time. She will stay home and take care of the house and the ancient cat.

I wonder if someday my children and I will live near one another so that a birthday celebration can be attended by all, requiring only a short jaunt by car.

Meanwhile I must return to my calculations so that I may determine how many of those little bottle of gin to bring on the plane. Let's see...divide the number of miles by the total of the ages of the people who will be drinking the gin....

photo credit for the wonderful picture of my mom: The man who loves me and his iPad--taken just last night.

Thanks EVERYONE--for the cards, emails, phone calls, singing voice mails, Facebook birthday wishes, flowers, gifts, dessert, champagne, phone messages, hugs, kisses, and all around sweetness!

Yup. That's exactly how I feel. Really.

Pretty, huh?

Notice a theme?

That's wine being poured into cranberries....

That's the cranberry stuff being spooned into homemade meringues made by my son-in-law.

At which point, I believe, the man who loves me clicked on a merengue instructional video on his iPad and began to dance with my mother.

The birthday dessert. Tart and sweet.