A Moment, For Myself
This was one of the worst weeks of my entire life.
Don’t get me wrong. There were some significant high points that I will not forget. Like a teambuilding evening at BCN Kitchen in Barcelona with my team of 12 men and me cooking tapas together with wine, laughter and, for the briefest of moments, trust and friendship. I will hang onto that with both hands for a long time. Or the look on my friend Michael’s face when he ate fungi at a Catalan restaurant in Sant Cugat that elicited a laugh from the very middle of me that was so loud and so sudden that it brought a conversation of more than a dozen people to a halt followed by a quiet question from my boss, “are you okay?”
But, the truth is, I’m not okay.
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She Called to Me
Trees are something more to me.
The weeping willow that held court for my dolls at age three. The white birch in mom’s front yard too lazy to hold its bark and too apathetic to betray my summer secrets. The cork tree at Colgate University with its low-stretching, cradle-shaped branches that rocked me while I wept for four difficult years. The affable oak at old Roy’s farm where the cows still gossip and I leave my troubles.
Trees have always been something more to me. But this one is special.
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Leaning In
For a lifetime people have asked me how I do “it”. I wasn’t really sure what “it” is. But, I think they mean keep going and not be overcome by fear or frustration. Sometimes even doing the “impossible”.
It’s pretty simple. I lean in.
I used to refer to this as doing the counterintuitive but recently found the term ‘leaning in’ in the book Fearless at Work by Michael Carroll. I like it better. Short, sweet, no bullshit. Like me.
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Festival
One of my Israeli colleagues struggles with the English language. He is forever finding creative substitutions for English words and has a sense of humor when I correct him.
One day recently I mentioned to him that my project was “a mess” so he quickly inquired if, in fact, I meant it was “a festival.” I laughed out loud until I realized that, in this case, he meant exactly what he said. He prefers to think of difficulty as a festival. Ever since then and with this simple substitution I suddenly feel “lighter” about challenges in my life.
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"Quick Escape"
I am ashamed to admit that I began to take for granted my virtual freedom. To some extent, I have forgotten to appreciate fully the joy of browsing the internet without interrogation or fear of retribution, without attempts to create guilt or fear, without angry outbursts in the next room or menacing stares. I had simply forgotten.
Today, as I searched for a place to share my poetry it all came rushing back. It immediately struck me that each organization that provides support for Domestic Violence and Sexual Abuse victims and survivors prominently displays a button entitled “Quick Escape” ~usually in neon red or bright orange ~ so the victim who is looking for help in the quiet moments that s/he can steal is able to click it and instantaneously switch to an alternate home page and clear the cache. But even at that, they warn that the “Quick Escape” isn’t failsafe and that those who are still living with their abusers may be at risk by even visiting the very page they need to get help.
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I Don't Want It
I couldn’t talk the day I was born. But, if I could, I would have said “I don’t want it.”
Truth be told, even though my mother was in charge, she didn’t want me to have it either. The only reason she gave it to me at all was to derail my father who was on a mission to name me after a gemstone. His top picks were Pearl and Opal which were a close second and third only to Ruby. Can you imagine this? In the 1970s? Good God! If I had the name Ruby on top of the plaid dresses that my mother made me wear along with my flat chest, my Dorothy Hamill hair cut and ugly shoes; Kevin McNamara would have beaten the pulp out of me for good. Curtains. And buried me in the sewage pipes back in Beech Woods.
But, mother was brilliant. While Dad went out to get a burger after I was born, my mother filled out the paperwork and expertly decided to name me after both of my grandmothers – Christine for my Dad’s mother; and Agnes for my mom’s mother. Now what exactly was he going to say to THAT?! “No! I object! How dare you name our daughter after my mother!!” Well played, Mom. Well played.
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14 Months
Tonight I decided to stay home and nurture myself. I made homemade marinara sauce and the house smells lovely; like basil. I tried a new red wine that is just dry enough with a hint of berry. And I drew myself a warm lavender bath with candles. I nursed my cold with some decongestant ~ the third cold of this winter which tells me my resistance is down. And now, I’m in my PJs with my hands on the keyboard and the fireplace glowing. This cushy white bathrobe that Padraic chose to comfort me during some difficult times last year is coming in handy now. And I am crying. Finally.
During this unspeakable year I have hardly been able to cry at all. For those of you who know me well it will come as no surprise that, in a very practical way, I actually scheduled ‘crying time’ into my day because I knew it was essential to my own healing. But then? Nothing.
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A Little Bit of Lasher
I love the smell of talcum powder, especially when nestled in a baby’s soft neck just after a bath. One thing that I wish I had more of are boots….lots of boots…a room FULL of boots. Especially the Western kind that yield with kindness like a lover who knows what he’s doing. I enjoy speckled light cast through leaves on a walk through the woods in the summer, and the sound of a nearby creek or river.
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2,040 Days to Simmer
In 2011, I lost one of the best friends I have ever had. She made me laugh until I hurt. I lost her because I told her that her life was within her own control and pointed out that she was making choices ~ simple choices ~ that were contributing to her circumstance…just as we all do. I learned the hard way myself long ago that the only way to direct my future was to take responsibility for my present and the part I played in getting there. We are not powerless if we take responsibility. She hated this (and apparently me) and stopped speaking to me entirely. I miss her. If I had it to do all over again knowing this would be the outcome…I would tell her the very same thing. I love her that much.
This notion of choices came up in a very personal way for me this week as my plane was approaching Rochester for landing after 10 days in Spain and 4 more in NYC. We approached over Lake Ontario which does not look nearly as polluted from up above but slowly into view came the factory smoke stacks, and the lookalike row houses. I could hear audible boring reaching into the sky waiting to choke the life out of me. Home? This is my home?
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