Where she used to sit, what she used to see

Remembering my mom on the anniversary of her passing. She's been gone three years, and she's always with me.

On Joy and Sorrow   Kahlil Gibran

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.      And he answered:      Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.      And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.      And how else can it be?      The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.      Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?      And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.      When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.          Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”      But I say unto you, they are inseparable.      Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.      Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.      When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

How to Store Your Photos or The Incredible Lightness of Being Divorced

Our holiday dinner table one of the last years of marriage.
Things weren't nearly as perfect as they look here--but it's a very pretty photo.

I was thrown out of my life in 2007. He wanted the house, he said, so he could raise his new family there. So I left, blubbering something about how I was taking the photo albums. The picture below doesn't quite do the situation justice. I think I moved 41 albums to my new place. And when I moved again a couple of years later, I packed up those albums again.

When the second round of devatating fires here in Southern California coincided with the realization that I can no longer afford my current house due to a reduction in my alimony, I knew it was time to crack open the covers on the record of my seemingly perfect life. We don't take pictures of the terrible times, do we?-- the creeping doubt and desperation--and I suppose if we did, I'd have happily left those photo albums behind. Though I wasn't evacuated during the fires, I could see the flames from my windows. If I'd had to leave, would I have had time to pack up a hundred pounds of albums? Probably not.

the old albums (the salvageable ones) now empty

the new photo boxes with an album on top for size comparison

Marie Kondo says she prefers to store her photos in albums, but I'll bet she doesn't have 40 of them. Or 20. Or even 10. Why do we Americans have so much of everything? I think photo albums are cumbersome for sharing in a group. Everyone has to huddle around, crane their necks, and hope the photos don't slip out of the pages if you're passing the album from person to person. These books weigh a ton when filled with photos so you need two hands and have to put down your drink. It seems easier to me to just grab a stack of pictures and pass them.

These boxes hold over a thousand photos each and have index cards where you can write the year, the subject, the place, and even make special notes or comments. The company doesn't provide nearly enough cards, but I just made copies on card stock. I made two boxes for myself, incorporating my mom's old photos as well. And I made two boxes for each of my daughters, which I will hand deliver to them when I move to Minnesota in a few months. Meanwhile if a wall of flames races from the hills to the ocean, I can get these into the Prius in two trips.

Aren't you wondering what I did with the photos of The Someone and of us a couple? I put the nicest specimens in the daughters' boxes. And all the photos of his lovely family were put into a Christmas box and mailed to his office last month. His likeness does not make an appearance in my photo boxes, but he did take a lot of the pictures. I'm grateful for that. And I'm grateful for the experience of looking at the photos--of seeing those new babies, birthday parties, proms, graduations, family vacations, and friends with their heads thrown back in laughter. I think when we take pictures, or put them in a book or a box, we are recording love.

Feeding Birds

2012, Mom's birthday 

I began feeding the birds for my mother. Housebound by the frailties of age and the attitude that going out was too much trouble, she needed a connection to the outside world, I thought.

My earliest memory is of my mother and her mother wielding garden hoes in an attempt to fend off a snake attacking a nest of baby birds. I'd awakened from a nap and stretched myself taller than the windowsill to watch the drama unfold outside her bedroom. "Get him, Ethel!" my grandmother shrieked at her namesake. "You get him, Ethel," my mom yelled back, addressing her mother by her given name instead of calling her mom. The two Ethels wacked away, and as I recall, emerged victorious although the senior Ethel's askew babushka made her look something like a pirate. My mom probably lit herself a cigarette right there in the bushes while coo-ing over the baby birds before they went on to whatever task they'd meant to do in the first place.

my babushka-wearing, gun-toting grandma (the gun and the old car was staged by one of my uncles)

We lived on the backwater of the Mississippi then in a town known for its lax liquor laws and an easier attitude toward certain recreational pursuits that were frowned upon on in its sister city on the other side of the river. I was too young to know about any of that, but I knew about the birds. Cranes soared over the water and we raced out the back door to watch them, and if flocks of geese were winging and quacking overhead, we tilted our faces skyward until they were out of sight. Cardinals and red-headed wood peckers provided breathtaking displays of scarlet against the dark bark of a big tree where my father had nailed a wooden fruit crate. It was my mother and I who kept it stocked with seeds and nuts and bread crusts.

Indoors we kept a green parakeet named Jerry. "Jerry is a dirty bird" was his only attempt at conversation. Or maybe his line was, "Jerry is a pretty bird," and it was my mother who tried to pressure a confession from him while she cleaned up his messes after a free-flying afternoon. I wonder now about our kitchen hygiene since it was there he was allowed out of his cage, an old bedsheet tacked up in the doorway to the living room to keep him from pooping on the upholstered furniture. But nobody died--except Jerry of course, eventually.

Jerry didn't make it to the next house which was on the more sedate side of the river--a good thing, probably, since we became cat fanciers and often had a half-dozen kittens and cats prowling around. My brother and I found a baby owl on a sidewalk there. My mother couldn't locate the nest it might have fallen from, so she put it in a box padded with an old towel on our back porch. I'm sure she took some measure or another to nurse it back to health, but in the morning, it was dead.

Years later when they were both widows my mother and her twin sister had an apartment with a patio and fed all kinds of birds--including a large vulture that was attracted to a suet cake meant for a pileated woodpecker. I'd had some experience feeding birds by then, but I specialized in finches that I fed from a feeder suction-cupped to my breakfast nook window where my young daughters could enjoy them. Decades later, when my mom moved in with me in a different house, I bought a similar feeder and stuck it to our kitchen window. We remarked on the birds nearly every day. Some red house finches, some orange. We welcomed the sparrows too--the white crowned sparrow, the diva of an underrated species with its flashy striped head, and the house sparrow so dapper in its dark cravat.

One of my daughters lived with us part-time then while going to grad school. She might have been the one to notice the blind finch being fed by a bird with two good eyes. Over the next few days there were more and more blind finches. "Poor things," my mother said. "How do they fly?" Fearing that I'd unwittingly committed this horror of an avian Equus, I examined the feeder and the potted tree next to it for sharp edges only to find nothing. It was the internet that educated me about bird conjunctivitis and proper feeder hygiene. Jerry the parakeet could poop in the kitchen sink with no apparent ill effects on us humans, but I had to wash the bird feeder with soap and a drop of bleach in hot water every week.

My mother and I both took to the new regimen. She could clean anything with the same fervor she employed to dispatch a marauding snake, and over time no new blind finches appeared. Occasionally we spotted a different bird--a towhee, or a warbler, and once we glimpsed a bird such a bright yellow, it might have been an escaped pet canary. The first ring-necked dove appeared some weeks or months after my boyfriend Dan died. It was one of those moments when you think your deceased beloved has re-appeared or at least delivered to you a sign that you should not despair. The bird watched us with its big dark eyes. Friends were here for dinner, as I recall. "Look who wants to come inside," someone said.

Sometime later the dove began bringing a mate, and I'd take a handful of food and lay it atop the wall between my house and the neighbor's since these birds seemed too big for the feeder. If I was upstairs and missed their arrival my mother would call, "Your doves are here!" as if dinner guests had just rung the doorbell. The doves would probably still be enjoying my handouts even though my mom is no longer here to announce them, but a squirrel began terrorizing the bird feeder just after the 2017 presidential inauguration. It was a tumble-down of decline then, as we well know. First one squirrel, then another, and the squirrels could not be dissuaded so I removed the feeder before I went away to a month-long writer's residency. When I returned my flowers were infested with some kind of a worm despite the best efforts of the friend caring for them. Since we all know that the early bird gets the worm, I put the bird feeder up again. The doves, the sparrows, and the finches  came back--but so did a hoard of pigeons, making Jerry's efforts to defile the kitchen look like child's play. While it's true the pigeon poop was outside, on some surfaces it took a putty knife and boiling water to remove it, and the pigeons' constant coital-sounding cooing had me wondering if the neighbors should maybe soundproof their house until I realized this birds and bees thing was really just birds.

Like the squirrels, the pigeons wouldn't be dissuaded either, so with strips of that rubbery stuff that you can use as shelf lining or rug padding and some packing tape, I constructed a barrier around the my bird feeder that allowed only the smaller birds inside. When it came time to wash the feeder, I had to un-tape all the strips, wash them as well, and start over. A few weeks of that led to a splurge on a feeder with a cage around it. The new feeder, though I called it bird jail at first, is working well. The pigeons are feeding at my neighbor's unsecured feeder on the other side of the house and pooping over there. But I feel terrible  about the doves. They can't get into the new feeder either. They still arrive every couple of days, fluttering around the bird jail, confused. I look into their deep black eyes staring into my house full of worldly comforts and think of Dan and my mom and how we all were here just a little more than four years ago. Four years is a long time.

Christmas, 2012

I want to say something political here. About the elapsing of time until the next presidential election. And something about jail. Who belongs inside and who should be let out, but maybe it's best not to stretch the metaphor. I'll just quote my dad when he began to worry during my teenage years. "Birds of a feather flock together," he told me.

bird jail

Monday Morning Beach Report

Everyday the news is sad and terrible.
Look at the ocean, I tell myself, not at the headlines on your phone.
We love who we love. We breathe the air we have to breathe.
So drink it in, and hope the toxins and the sorrow will alter just a cell or two.
Look at the curlew going about his business.
Look at the new plume on the horizon and nod.

This is About the Confederate Flag

It's day something or other of the Southern California fires. Six, I think.

Atlanta is not burning, but I wrote this about the Confederate flag. If you are a friend or a family member, I hope you will not post anything in the future in support of the Confederate flag.

Thanks for reading. It's longer than my usual blog post. Get a beer. Or a cup of coffee. Put your feet up. Open your heart.

Looking toward Ventura

I loved him, my Robert E. Lee, for his horse—though I can’t remember if I knew the horse’s name the day I brought my replica of the Confederate general home. Complete with saber, pistol, and a Confederate flag secured to the back of the saddle, both horse and rider were cherished. All of the various accessories were separate pieces, and sometimes at night, I would unsaddle the horse, remove the general’s gray hat and lay them both on the ground (which, in reality, was a shelf in my bedroom) to sleep. In the morning I’d set them up again, saddle the horse, place Robert E. Lee astride him, and prepare for another day of battle, saber raised, flag flying. In my head, this involved galloping, and Traveller, whose name I learned at some point, was a galloper beyond compare.

             I knew about galloping. And I knew the names of some of the other horses in my collection because I learned them from television. Buttermilk and Trigger were excellent gallopers too. I was five years old in 1957, the year that I received my final horse and rider, and my head was a receptacle for whatever I saw on TV. Galloping with abandon toward the screen astride my palomino Wonder Horse, it’s a wonder I didn’t give myself whiplash bouncing on that spring-loaded steed. Roy Rodgers, Dale Evans, the Lone Ranger, and Tonto were my heroes, and it was thrilling to keep pace with them.

            I have 13 of the Hartland horse and rider sets manufactured in the 50s. I memorized to which general, TV cowboy, U.S. president, or Indian warrior each pistol, feather, spear, rifle, bow, knife, saber, flag, or hat belonged. I did not know the history of the Confederate flag or that my General Custer had engineered genocide. On TV cowboys and Indians fought each other. Soldiers defended the nation. Women and children needed protecting. By the time I finished grade school in 1969, I must have known something about the Civil War. Walter Cronkite was already covering the Civil Rights Movement on the evening news. When I started high school, I must have learned something about the struggles of Native Americans, but all that comes to mind is the anti-littering crying Indian TV commercial. At least I knew enough not to throw my Coke bottle and Hostess Cupcake wrapper out the car window. By that time Robert E. Lee, General Custer, and their anachronistic companions had been in my possession for more than a decade, and my head was still soft as a Twinkie when it came to social consciousness.

            There were approximately 40 horse and rider sets manufactured (some were different poses of the same character) by the Hartland Company in the early and mid-1950s. My 13 were acquired one horse and rider at a time. My father bought them for me. Some auditory memory track tells me that Sundays he took me to church to give my mother time to rest at home with my little brother. I have no memory of actually attending church with my dad--a Presbyterian who’d tried and failed to convert to Catholicism when he married my mother. Maybe he told my mother he was taking me to church in the same manner than he told her he’d convert while failing to mention that he was divorced and therefore not eligible to become a Catholic. What I remember is holding my father’s hand in a cramped store that smelled like cigarettes, cigars, and candy. My dad would buy a newspaper for himself while I had the agonizing delight of choosing a new horse and rider for my collection.

            It wasn’t until I left for college that the collection was packed away. Knowing how much I valued them, my mother wrapped each horse and rider and hid them away in the attic in a sealed box out of reach of my little brothers. My sophomore year of college my father died suddenly of a heart attack one February night after supper. His death was so unexpected that I never thought of asking for one of his vintage silk ties or one of the pens he carried in his shirt pocket. The neon sign from his business would have been a treasure, but I had nothing of his (until my mother gave me a pair of cufflinks year later) except the box of Valentine’s Day candy that he’d already mailed to my dorm by the time I was en route to his funeral. And my horses and their riders, still tucked away in my mother’s attic.

            I was in my 30s, a mother myself, by the time my mom sent the box from her house in Iowa to my house in Los Angeles. When I displayed the horses and riders in my family room, I wasn’t thinking of the Confederate flag or racism or genocide. I was thinking of my father and how I’d tell my kids that the grandfather they’d never know bought each and every one of those horses and riders for me. The collection lived a quiet life in that house, tucked away in dark room with garishly unfashionable carpeting and used only as a playroom and occasional guest quarters for visiting relatives.

            The collection has moved with me four more times over the years. It’s garnered many compliments from my children’s friends and nostalgic children of the 1950s. No one has ever exclaimed, “Cool! A Confederate flag!” Or "How terrible! A Confederate flag!" Mostly the generals, presidents, cowboys, and Indians have kept a low profile, sandwiched between books and travel souvenirs on an upper shelf in a study or family room until, post-divorce, I moved into a house where I could put anything anywhere I wanted. In this house that I moved into with my mother, I put the horses and their riders in my kitchen on a high perch above the kitchen cabinets overlooking the kitchen island that is the heart of every gathering.

            This year, post Charlottesville, I hosted a writers’ salon and there were writers of color attending. Some of us do not really know one another personally, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone or come under suspicion as an idiot or a racist. I took the horses down. It was easy. Robert E. Lee and Traveller were not purchased by my father to inculcate me with racist values. They were purchased to indulge my love of horses and to indulge my father’s love for me. My Robert E. Lee has no chance of attracting a gathering of white supremacists with Tiki torches, but by removing him and his companions, I was honoring my respect for my fellow human beings.

            The Confederate flag was, and is, the banner of the seven states that seceded from the United States of American in order to preserve for themselves the institution of slavery. The Confederate flag, often argued as being about Southern pride or history or patriotism, is first and foremost the emblem for the states that chose not to abolish slavery. We pour a lot of fiction into the heads of children, and as adults we are exposed to fiction too—on Facebook, on TV, and on talk radio. Sometimes it’s difficult to track down the beginnings of ignorance, but we can always find its end. As for knowledge, there’s no end to it. Or to paraphrase the actor Iron Eyes Cody (not a Native American, but an Italian American who pretended to be an Indian) in the famous crying Indian commercial: People start prejudice; People can stop it.  

             

Looking toward the past

There was a party here.

I invited my yoga friends over for a birthday brunch.
They brought presents. That along with the birthday wishes that deluged my Facebook page and my email made for a fun couple of days.
I'm on Medicare. And I'm still having fun.
I'm lucky. Blessed. Fortunate. Letting the good times roll.
Thank you, everyone.

Eyes of Fire

It's that time of year when the windows in the condo building across the way reflect the rising sun. At first glance the place looks like it's engulfed in flames, the windows like giant eyes of fire.

In Oaxaca it's two hours later, and the sun stays up til six in the evening there. The skies are nearly cloudless all through the daylight hours, and the chill in the morning air is crisp, not damp. I love being home, but my body feels soggy and tired.

I dreamed of my mother last night. She was younger--maybe the age I am now or even in her 50s. We were all gathering somewhere for a family get-together. At my brother's house, maybe, or my son's. There were plans to sightsee and go to a concert. Picking up the tickets was confusing and my car had somehow downloaded the software to be a self-driving car. It was disconcerting, sitting in the back seat while the car inched its way through city traffic without a driver. I climbed into the front seat anyway--no easy feat to make it from the back seat of a Prius into the driver's seat, but I did it, twisting my body this way and that, and then realized it really wasn't necessary.

Wherever it was that we were, the house was full of us, arriving and deciding who would sleep where, and then changing our minds. My mom decided to drive herself back to her apartment a day early. She grabbed my older daughter in a hug and told her she lived too far away. I don't know when I'll see you again, she said.

I woke too early this morning, waiting for the first sliver of daylight before I flung off the covers. I walked toward the building that was glowing, and on the grass found a playing card. Two of clubs. What is the significance of the two of clubs? I googled. It's the card of conversation. The two of clubs person is gregarious and entertaining. It's the card of communication.

How to Party When You're Dead

My niece got married yesterday, and I loved how the wedding decor included those who are no longer on this earth. While I don't really believe that they were watching from above, literally, the way that we were all watching when the bride and groom danced their first dance, they were there through us. People say I look a lot like my mom these days, and my brother's resemblance to our father is almost uncanny.

parents of the bride watching the first dance

So there we all were. All of us. Present in our earthly bodies. Present in the stories told, present when we catch a glimpse of one another out of the corner of our eye, and think, whoa, for a second, I thought....

At one point in the evening my youngest grandniece came up to me out of the blue, and said, "I remember Great-Grandma Ethel." And I said, "Well, let's go look at her picture." And so we did.

One Decade of Divorce

Monument Valley, 2007

On July 30, 2007 at 7:37 p.m., I sent out this email to my closest friends:

Dear Friends,

I hope you'll forgive the mass email approach here and bear with me.  I
learned yesterday that xxxxx is in love with someone else and plans to
remarry and start a new family.
I wish I could tell you all in person one-to-one over a good stiff drink,
but I'm afraid I'm not up to that at the moment.
What I need mostly is advice, and for those of you who are local a couple
of contacts.
1) therapist for me-not too far west
2) a divorce attorney
I know news like this can shake things up a bit for everyone, especially
old friends.
Thanks for listening.

Wish all of us luck.
I don't think I'll be able to talk on the phone in case you were thinking
of calling.


But just to be clear, my decade of divorce is not counted from the date of the decree of divorce. That happened a year later. And the division of joint assets was not in place until July 11, 2011. So there will be more anniversaries to "celebrate," but to me it's the end of the marriage that is most significant. The end of that 30-year relationship was, for me, a loss of identity and the loss of a family that I loved. This decade since the end of the marriage, I've constructed a new me--a person related to the person I was then, but also quite a bit different. I don't miss the old me. But, if I'm honest, I still miss the family. That us. That unit. I don't idealize it. It was awful some of the time, (as most families are?) but there's something lost that's irreplaceable. It's gone. Permanently.

"Really, do you want that?" I once said to a friend who was playing around with the idea of an affair. "You may never have Thanksgiving dinner with your family again." That and a million other things large and small will happen.


What I regret most is the small hurts that accumulated over the years of my marriage and not really having the skill and the strength to mend them.

I do not want to be a gatherer of small hurts.

I do not want to be a deliverer of small hurts. 

The beginning of this last decade was almost insurmountably difficult. I remember every kind thing, dear family and friends. Cups of tea, glasses of wine, home-cooked meals, your hospitality, your love, your words, your open ears, your waiting arms. I slept in so many comfy beds under so many roofs. You walked with me, drove with me for thousands of miles, held my hand on airplanes, sat with me in hotel lobbies and in parked cars, and sang to me. You told me things would be okay, and somehow, somehow you made me laugh. I have lived my life this past decade because of your help. My life has been a litany of love.

Thank you.

Saturday Beach Report

 Inventory:

Dark sky, blue sky
parade of sailboats

Terns crying overhead
a flock of whimbrels at water's edge
a lone sea lion swimming close to shore

Beachgoers of all varieties
swimmers, fisherman, castle builders, loungers in beach chairs staring out to the horizon,
a man on horseback looking like a vacation ad in a magazine

And a message found on the sand.

June 6, 2017

It just seems impossible that Dan Paik has been gone for 3 years.

Spring

Poppies at Arroyo Verde Park in Ventura

My adult children and my grandchildren spent much of last week at my house. We climbed a hill to see these poppies. We went whale watching and saw at least 30 gray whales and several hundred dolphins. It is a glorious thing to survey the ocean around you and see dolphins in every direction. We kayaked; we walked on the beach and hunted sea glass, shells, and interesting rocks. We visited the Santa Barbara Natural History Museum and Planetarium. We ate out at a restaurant on the sand, had high tea on my patio on the newly refurbished teak furniture, and ate delicious food at my table. I can't think of a better lead-up to the first day of spring--all the love, conversation, and the sheer bounty of this life.

I know that spring can feel like a false promise, a let-down, a so-this-is-all-there-is, but not for me this year. Of course, perfection always eludes, but at this stage of the game I'm calling even that perfect enough.

Three of the tag-team kayakers. The other two were picked up by their mom and taken home for hot showers.

Even this bear looks happy.

Photos of sand castles in progress, in ruins, or perfect always make me happy

Happy Spring!

One Year Later

It was a year ago today that my mother left this world. I feel her presence inside of me--what she might say or do, how much she enjoyed her life on Earth, how much she loved it when family or friends came to visit us.

Family will be arriving tomorrow for a spring break visit; after that old friends will come from afar for  a visit in April, and after that, another friend. Life keeps delivering its pleasures and I am grateful for every joy, large or small.

I want to thank all of you who left your messages of condolence on my blog, or on Facebook, or by mail or phone a year ago. It meant a lot. We are all on this winding road together, and yet it can be easy to forget that. Thank you for reminding me.

How to Sing Auld Lang Syne With the Dead

My dearly departed number enough to make a chorus. In 2016, the year we've come to revile for its loss of so many beloved celebrities and the loss of hope for a woman president, I also lost my mother. It's a common thing to lose one's parents at this stage of life, but nothing is more unexpected than the expected death of a loved one. We tell can tell everyone about the many trips to death's door and the seemingly incessant knocking there, but once the door swings wide, there's nothing to do but gasp with disbelief. 

What surprises me these many months later is how close I feel to her at times. How I can clearly hear what she might say in a given situation. How the hairdo or the shape of a daughter's lipsticked smile makes me feel as though my mother is just inches from my grasp.

And what surprises me these many months later is how far away she feels. Her clothes are gone, her room repainted, the wheel chair at the dining room table donated. Some days I cannot find her in any room of the house we shared.

It's the same with the man who loved me, my friend Dale, my ex-mother-in-law. I can open my eyes in the deep middle of the night dark of my bedroom and see Dan's bass leaning in a corner, and I can almost hear the strings humming. They are playing George Michael songs on the radio a lot these days, and I'm transported in front of the TV with Dale talking about rock-a-billy. I pick up the pen to write my mother-in-law's name  on the order form for the same box of Christmas oranges  I've sent her for decades. The body has momentary lapses.  

I never look heavenward when searching for the dead. I don't believe in heaven or hell. For me, there is no old man with a beard, standing at a gate. I find neither solace nor fear in those images, though if  I hold fast to those convictions, I must also mourn the loss of  the myth of reunion. How do we all meet again in paradise if there is no paradise? Lately I've come to believe that these stories are translations of a cosmic reality so profound that we mere mortals cannot grasp it. Somehow though, I believe our spirits will merge; we'll be one with love and each other in some indescribable universal song.

New Year's has long been my favorite holiday. I want to start over. I need to start over. But should auld acquaintance be forgot? Do we go forward without the dead? We do and we don't. If it's true that we are stardust (and it is), and if it's true that our carbon atoms were once "part of volcanoes, giant redwoods, Apatosauruses, diamonds, plastic bottles, snakes, snails, lichens, nematodes, photosynthetic algae, the very first cells," as a recent science article in the Washington Post tells us, it's easy to imagine how we are and could become part of each other. "It’s certain that your carbon saw the interior of a star, survived a supernova, sailed through the solar system and splashed down on Earth long before arriving at you," Sarah Kaplan writes. And now for the best part of the article. "Now breathe out. Riding an invisible cloud of carbon dioxide, a carbon atom just left your body, headed for its next great adventure." 

I was holding Dan in my arms when he took his final breath. I was stroking my mom's hair and her hands at her bedside when she breathed out and the next in-breath never came. But I breathed in. I breathed in.

It's fairly certain that if I've ever breathed in the carbon atom of a singer or a musician, it's rendered no effect on me in terms of musical talent. I can't carry a tune. But on New Year's Eve, I'll sing Auld Lang Syne inside my head--or maybe out loud if I've had a third glass of wine.  I'll sing it, arms wrapped around myself, wrapped around cosmic love, while looking up at the stars.  2017 will be a brand new start.

Happy New Year. 

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Happy Solstice, Everyone.

 Light keeps us from bumbling around lost. It lets us see what's really there. Light can tell us when to stop or go. It can warn us or warm us. Light shines through the eyes of those we love and shines out of our eyes into their hearts.

Channel Islands Harbor Parade of Lights

Last night's sunset with the Christmas lights that  finally went up on my patio.

Light warring with darkness at the beach this morning

Light coming in through the window of my mother's old room, illuminating her favorite Christmas decorations.
Note the set of identical twins.

Tomorrow the days grow longer.

The Ways We Miss the Dead

I had a dream last night too muddled to recount. In it was a young man--the friend of one of my daughters. He was shot and killed at a party when they were in high school. In my dream he was playing the guitar and I was trying to explain to a friend that he was dead and had come back only for this one special evening. No matter how I tried, I could not make her understand.

Friday night I went to the mall to buy a purse and to have three dead watches checked out to see if batteries might revive them. One of the watches was my mother's. I had a snappy red leather band put on it along with the new battery, wondering if some day I might wear this watch, its pulse beating on my wrist now instead of my mother's and somehow this might make me feel her presence in my life in a physical way. While I waited for the work to be done on the watches, I walked through the mall and found myself in Sears, walking in the very same aisle I once walked regularly with my mother to get to Miracle Ear.

The other day I told a friend how my father often spoke in tired and true old sayings and how he didn't even have to deliver the whole saying because he'd said them so often that we kids knew what came next.  Up too late? "The early bird," he'd say. A friend got in trouble for running with the wild kids? "Birds of a feather," he'd say.

On Thursday night, my regular night out to hear music at a local bar with friends, the musicians played a song we'd never heard them play, Sweet and Shiny Eyes. Bonnie Rait recorded it and I think Willie Nelson put out a version too.

Your sweet and shiny eyes are like the stars above Laredo
Like meat and potatoes to me
In my sweet dreams we are in a bar, and it's my birthday
Drinking salted Margaritas with Fernando

Young and wild, we drove five hundred miles of Texas highway
To the Mexican border as the day was coming on
We crossed the Rio Grande river and we swore we'd have things our way
When we happened to walk into Nuevo Leon

Your sweet and shiny eyes are like the stars above Laredo
Like meat and potatoes to me
In my sweet dreams we are in a bar, and it's my birthday
And we're having our picture taken with Fernando

In my sweet dreams we are in a bar, and it's my birthday
And we're having our picture taken with Fernando

The version I know best was sung to me live. The way I remember it, it was usually after dinner at my place. Dan would pull his guitar out of its case and carry it back to the table. We'd push our chairs far enough from each other so he'd have room to play.

In my sweet dreams I'm in a bar, there are people playing the guitar, and the dead are back for a visit, their eyes sweet and shiny. We know, just by being in their presence how lucky we are, and they know that they were lucky, in a way, to leave this life first because we were here to hold them, to mourn them, to keep them alive in our dreams, to tell their stories--and they can never do that for us.

Here's an essay about that by Donald Hall from the New Yorker.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

If the dead can still get mail, if their things can fall out of the closet onto your toes, if they can visit you in dreams, if you can hear their voices inside your head, you can wish them happy birthday. Happy Birthday, Mom. 

Last year's birthday breakfast cupcake.

Last year's birthday party for my mom and my dear friend Carol

Birthday, 2012 just a few weeks after my mom moved in with me.

I'm not quite sure, but this may have been the last birthday she celebrated with her beloved twin sister Millie.

We very rarely know which birthday will be the last. So let's love the cake, and the guests, and the singing. Let's love the love that comes to us on our own birthdays and those of the people we love, be it in the form of gifts or people traveling from afar to share the day. Taste the sweetness. Feel the warmth from the candles. Soak up the glow. Reflect it back.

In a short while, I'm off to celebrate my friend Carol's birthday. She will be there via Skype while a half dozen of us party in person. We will eat and make merry, and celebrate the living and the dead.

Crying on Planes

Alaska. I can't quite remember if I cried on this flight. Maybe not. I was with a good friend.

The first time I cried on a plane was also my very first flight. My grandmother had  a heart attack and lay dying in a hospital in Dubuque, Iowa. I had been on a road trip with an aunt and uncle and when we got the news, the aunt I was traveling with, the aunt we were visiting in Baltimore, and I flew back to Iowa while my two uncles drove the camper through the night and met us there. I was 14 and saved, for maybe a a decade, the individual salt and pepper shakers and the stir stick I'd gotten with the Shirley Temple I'd gulped while swallowing my grief. Whenever I ran across these things in a drawer full of keepsakes they made me sad all over again.

The next time I flew was when my grandfather died. He had a heart attack--and died according to my mother's account--before he hit the floor. By this time I was a freshman in college and hurriedly made the 350-mile trip home, not sure how to negotiate the travel arrangements, thereby arriving at the airport completely rattled.  I remember crying openly on this flight, any effort to swallow the tears impossible.

My father died the next year, and I flew home suddenly once again. There had been a few flights to visit a boyfriend in between, but those trips were emotional minefields too since we'd given up our son for adoption just weeks before we started college. Airplane trips and crying were one and the same to me back then.

Things changed when I flew to France my junior year of college for a semester abroad. Flying was for fun and adventure, but I think I remember laughing so hard that I cried. In the ensuing years of marriage and children, there were more flights that fell into the category of mostly fun, but the motherhood years were when the flying anxiety began in ernest. More crying on airplanes.

With my aunt and my mom aging on the east coast, there were even more reasons to cry on planes. The break-up of my marriage was the watershed (pun intended.) I not only cried copiously on every flight I took anywhere--but I cried while telling my seat mate why I was crying. I have cried--or felt like crying-- for one reason or another on almost every flight I've ever taken.

My flying anxiety is somewhat less these days--but today I found myself crying on a plane once again. Traveling to the Twin Cities to meet my friend Carol who has been on a road trip since May 1 in her 45 ft. RV, I wanted to bring her a gift and found the perfect book: My Life On the Road by Gloria Steinem. I thought I might page through it a bit on the flight. The dedication and the epigraph brought tears to my eyes, and I settled in to read the book, crying over something in nearly every chapter. A history of feminism, told through the lens of Steinem's travels, reading it now when we are on the cusp of electing our first woman president during this era of burgeoning hate and prejudice, is an emotional experience. I'm half-way through the book and wonder what it will be like finishing it on the ground.

Crying on planes, it turns out, is a thing.

You can read about it:  ATLANTIC  BUSTLE
And you can listen to THIS AMERICAN LIFE episode.

People cry on planes.

Without Love, Where Would We Be Now?

Party lights in the bar at Cold Spring Tavern in the mountains above Santa Barbara

I wish I were a regular person. Like all those drivers speeding north on the 101 last night, seemingly without a care in the world, while I'm telling myself, you've got this just follow the taillights you can see the road you're just doing that thing where you feel like you're driving off into space but you're not. Really. And it was fine. Nothing scary happened. No close calls. No drama. I don't even know where the driving anxiety comes from and I'm not going to let it run my life. But it's there.

And the flying anxiety.

And the fear of heights. And confined spaces like middle airplane seats.

Driving in the mountains is a trifecta of anxieties. But sometimes I go there anyway--like today. And then if I stay overnight at high elevations, I sometimes have murder nightmares.

I think I had my first hypnagogic hallucination years ago in the mountains by Lake Tahoe when I was acting and traveling with a show that played school assembly programs. Every decade or so I have another one. It's that place between waking and sleeping when you're lying there in that crevice between worlds and you're not sure if what/who you're seeing is real life or a dream. Except you think it's real and find out later that it wasn't.

I had my first anxiety attack the day my mom and I went to talk to the social worker at the adoption agency about giving up my son for adoption. I couldn't stop shaking and panting and I was rendered cat got your tongue speechless. The next might have been a couple years later when I woke up from my second back surgery sobbing and shaking and terrified for no real reason.

The adrenaline level in my body is like the tides. In and out. High or not so high. And then oops, we're flooded. It doesn't bother me so much any more. Really, it's a million times better. Yoga. T'ai Chi Chih. A better diet. Enough sleep. It's okay, but I still envy the seemingly carefree.

The dancing man at Cold Spring Tavern today looked carefree. He was the only one, at first, on the dance floor, waiting to pounce into his routine as soon as the music started. His t-shirt said Fireproof and there was some biblical quote too. Hair and beard reminicient of Charles Manson, he had a fervent gleam in his eyes and danced as if it meant salvation. Maybe it did. Maybe he was up there saving all of us, letting anyone who was watching channel their anxieties through him. Later in the afternoon, he danced outside on the gravel patio. In the sunlight, I could see he had no front teeth and that the skin on his arms looked as though it hadn't seen the indoors in years. Still a half-dozen pretty women danced with him un-ironically. And who knows, maybe they were all regulars--the dancing man and the women and the bikers and the families.

Without love, where would we be now? were the song lyrics that followed me to the car while behind me, the man kept dancing. That song stayed in my head all the way down the mountain.