The Real-Life Adventures of A Former Glamour Girl

Time catching up to me with a gift.

What exactly is coincidence? I have heard it described as a miracle in which God wishes to remain anonymous. For today I am leaning toward this theory. Yesterday, having spent two beautiful days and nights enjoying the neighborhoods of inner Venice, and having picked up just a few treasures to take home with us later, we boarded the Seabourn Quest for our trip through the Baltic. After being escorted to our veranda suite, unpacking and completing our safety drill, I left Tom to view the sail- away while I found the spa to get my hair washed and blown out by the lovely Tianna from the Ukraine. It was raining and got a little wet crossing the deck outside the sky bar before ducking through the heavy glass doors that led to the spa. At the top of a glass-enclosed double staircase, a couple paused to see if there was an alternate route to their destination that could avoid the downpour. I made a crack about being glad I got wet before I'd had my hair done, and I made eye contact with the man. There was something very familiar about his eyes and the cowlick at the front of his hair. His hair was nearly pure white to the rich brown I thoughtI remembered but I stepped a little closer, "John?",I ventured. "Kathy?", he replied. In front of me was a man who had very generously tutored me nearly forty years before when I was wielding a sample bag full of knitted fabric and he was a major children's wear manufacturer whom I was lucky enough to call on. John Poor was then president of the Los Angeles based company, The John Fulmer company. I was new to selling knits, which it came to know, was a complexly constructed and multi- applicable fabric. John was at that time, more interested in my ability to service his account, than in my knowledge of knits. That, he told my boss, I could learn. Good service was a talent. He was always my favorite customer, and I called on his account for many years. So here we were on a ship in Italy, having this reunion. All the memories of that time in my life, flooded in on a wave. My years of travel back and fourth to see clients in the hot LA summers, having colors approved and samples delivered. Trips to New York in the fall for sales meetings, and more trips down south to visit the mills. All the while a single mother with children at home and no monies for any extras, let alone luxury vacations. Such a contrast to my life today. Anyway, coincidence in this case was such a sweet gift. I sat getting my hair done, while remembering such an important part of my life and how the kindness of strangers throughou my life's journey, has shaped me and brought me along. I don't know if I'll see John and his lovely wife Barbara again on this trip, but no matter what, I am grateful for the miracle of this one small coincidence and how perfect the timing of my anonymous surprise-maker. My life is so glamorous! It's just not fair, lucky for me!!

Letting go and going.

"I am holding." This is what was going through my mind yesterday, whileI was face down on Mr. Lu's massage chair, spending the hour between my hair and nail appointments. There must be so much old energy, feelings, pain, regret, sadness I am holding in my body for this to hurt so much. It seems incongruous to be able to meditate while in the throws of excruciating pain but that is what I found myself doing. I played the mantrum over and over in my head, thinking of Jesus on the cross and invoking his name, as well as that of Buddah and every other spiritual teacher I could summon while trying not to fight the erasing of the painful bunched up energy being stored in my body, and now squeezed and raked by the talented Mr. Lu. I decided then and there to let go and leave behind all the knots of pain and sorrow Mr. Lu had squished. After all, today I am on vacation! That's right. Tom and I are currently seated at gate 25 at the AirFrance terminal at LAX. We are en route to Venice, Italy where we will spend two nights before boarding a Seabourn Cruise ship and touring the Dalmation Coast for two full weeks! It has been awhile since Tom and I took a big vacation, seven years to be exact. I may not deserve it but he certainly does. He has worked hard to pay for our beautiful life and I have worked hard making it and myself look pretty. Just packing for this trip is a work of art. take for example, our luggage. Mine is new. Tom's was purchased in Florence, Italy on our honeymoon nearly sixteen years ago. His is better quality but mine is clean. My sister Christine, who is a world traveler by profession, and whom we are meeting In Venice tomorrow,had some helpful suggestions to help me with the packing. She suggested I visit our local travel store and purchase some mesh packing cubes to keep things organized in our suitcases and save space. Off I went to buy said cubes to the tune of $400.00, which is twice as much as I spent on my new luggage. I spent two days having everything dry cleaned and another couple of days pulling together my wardrobe. I basically brought out everything I own for consideration. Next I employed the help of my dear friend Linda who flew for over forty years as a first class, international, flight attendant. Linda knows how to go around the world while only carrying one, little bag. I do not. After perusing the neatly folded piles of clothes I wanted to take, Linda got out her clipboard and began to make some notes. "First of all, if you're only planning to wear it once, you're not taking it! How many changes of clothes do you need?". Well, I am planning to change my clothes at least twice a day. Next she took a look at my shoes. I had chosen eleven pair of perfectly necessary footwear. "Not!". There were black, brown, and silver flats. I had already decided against the pink and blue flats. three pair of high heeled Toms espadrilles, one red, one blue and one black. Non-negotiable, espadrilles are my walking shoes. there were also a pair of cream espadrilles and three pair of high heeled platforms in black patent, pink patent and orange suede. Oh, and some three inch sandals in gold and silver. Linda had other ideas. After some careful placement and a little rearranging, I managed to get it all in. This morning before leaving for the airport, I took a few things out. I really didn't need three pair of flats or the extra two pair of pants bringing the total I actually packed for myself to twelve. Tom was amazed at how quickly I could fold and pack his few things. Of course I packed more than I need. Tom did not. A crew of twelve just boarded our airplane and we will board in about an hour. I have almost no expectations for this trip other than to relax and be led. I plan to eat what I want but not too much. I'll let you know how that goes. For today, I have let go. I have left the house and the dogs in the capable hands of our friend. I trust that everyone I love and hold dear will be fine. My iPad has the first season of Downtown Abbey ready for viewing. I have a book to read, a cashmere shawl and a good neck pillow. Life is good. I'll keep you posted. My life is so glamorous. It's just not fair, lucky for me!!

Invisible? Not.

On Saturday I had my Tarot Cards read by a blue-eyed fairy.  (Seriously, I’m pretty sure she was not of this world, even though she lives in my town and is in my greater circle of friends and acquaintances.)  I sat down in Sparky, which is a little airstream trailer, and faced this fairy a foot and a half away from me as she peered into my eyes and asked the question; “What brings you?”  I don’t know.  Duh!  I just thought it would be fun.

“Well you must have a question.” She pushed with her giant fairy eyes.  “Okay,” I ventured, “maybe about my writing.  I feel like I’m holding back.  “    She asked me to draw one card with my left hand and set it in the middle of the table.

“This is a spiritual card,” she said.  “You are embarking on a transformation.  Draw another card.”  (Now she had already told three of my friends that they were going on a trip, so I was expecting a trip to be in my future. Big deal.  I’m leaving on a trip next week.  She never mentioned it.)  “There are many people trying to distract you.  Maybe your family and friends.  They are tugging at you.”  Uh, huh.  “Draw another card.  Sometime this summer you are going to have to make a choice.  It will be crystal clear.  You must choose yourself.”

I have a friend who can picture me exactly.  From three thousand miles away, she can see me in my kitchen in high heels and a dress, preparing a feast for a small crowd of those I love.  She knows I will have been up since dawn, having arranged the flowers, changed the pillows on the sofa to Spring pastels, brought out the pink plates and prepared the three entrees and three side dishes intended to feed twenty five, (but will actually feed seventy five.) 

Knowing that my friend knows me so intimately washes over me like warm salt water, and heals wounds I have yet to name.  They are the wounds of being invisible.  This is real intimacy, being seen and truly known.  My friend knows my heart and how in my heart I want nothing more than to lavish love and create memories and magic for my family and friends. She also knows my head that is talking to me all through the afternoon, pointing out that “I am too old for this, and asking the air “when do I pass the baton?”  She knows that today, the day “after” I feel like I have been run over by a semi truck and dragged and that I have a sugar hangover and have re-started my diet.  Again.  You cannot buy this quality of friendship.  It has to be born.

I met my friend Kym over thirteen years ago and our souls recognized each other, if not immediately, then soon after.  Something about my remembering her name and her speaking my truth. We could each see the other.  The heart knows. 

I can feel my children, who are now on the downhill side of forty, growing up to the point that they no longer need me in much of any way.  This is how it’s supposed to be.  They needed me well into their thirties and now they do not.  Good job Mom!  As I pat myself on the back, now what do I do?

 I have not talked to my friend Kym and yet I know what she will say.  She will say to choose myself.  She will imagine me into a life I cannot imagine, of walks on the beach and leisurely lunches looking out at the mountains, followed by a nap.  She will see the finches at my window and the cushy chairs and lounges that call to be occupied on my terrace overlooking the oaks and the creek below.  She will see me with the perfect cup of coffee and my notebook.  Maybe I will be taking a break from painting and having a snack of fruit and a cracker with brie.  My phone will be silent. 

This past week I held not one but two live birds who had become trapped inside my living room.  The first was a humming bird who feverishly beat her wings and pressed against the glass to no avail.  When she lit, I scooped her up with my hand and set her free outside.  Her wings felt like butterfly wings.  Later a finch came in and repeated the failed exit at the window.  She fought against my help at first but then surrendered.  I set her free to fly away as well.  Maybe because I saw them I could free them.  Maybe because my friend sees me I will be free to fly on as well and leave behind a little pile of poop and some pretty feathers to prove that I was truly here.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

Goodbye to one "too gentle."

Last week, I wrote about the candlelight vigil that was held for a girl named Samantha.  Though I had never met her, I felt drawn to pray for her, believing that she could well have been my own daughter or granddaughter.

Sam attempted suicide while away attending college as an athlete scholar.  Sunday night while driving home from the birthday party of another young friend, we were notified that Samantha had died.  The last several days have felt heavy as I, and so many of our small community struggles to make sense of this senseless act of despair. 

Suicide is nasty.  It leaves us with nothing but questions, regret and guilt.  Where was God when this child was hurting?  Where were we?  What could we have done?  How did we miss the signs?  How can we heal?  How in the world can we forgive ourselves?  How can we ever forgive Sam?

Over twenty years ago a young friend of mine committed suicide.  His name was Tom and he was a classmate of my oldest daughter.  I was in many ways a surrogate mother to Tom, someone he trusted and in whom he confided.  He called me on the morning of his death and wanted to come see me.  Of course I said, “yes,” even though the thought of seeing him scared me.  I knew he was depressed and I was not sure of how, or if I could say anything to help him.  A few minutes before he was due to arrive at my home, his father called and said Tom had changed his mind, that he just could not leave the safety of his own room.  The truth is, I was relieved.  I could feel the heaviness of his despair from across town. I asked his Dad to give him my love and tell him I was always here for him.  I never saw him again.  Should I have gone to him?

When I heard of Tom’s death a few weeks later I was angry.  I never got the chance to tell him goodbye.  I thought of him every day for ten years after his death and I think I came to understand why he felt he could no longer go on.  He was twenty-three, just a few years older than Sam.

At the time of Tom’s death I was in my thirties and working down town in the Los Angeles Fashion Mart.  The streets around the Mart were intimidating, even to me.  Everyone around me looked like they “had it together.”  One day Tom came downtown to have lunch with me and he asked me how I did it.  He told me the whole fashion district frightened him and I assured him that at first it had frightened me too.  I remembered having gone to an interview at the Mart ten years prior to my working there and how out of place I felt and how “un-cool”.   Being un-cool had emanated I was sure, from what I was wearing.  I had dressed too conservatively for the hip, slick and cool world of fashion.  That’s what I thought.  In the years that followed, I saw that the "cool" people were just people.  Like me.

When Tom came to see me at work, I shared my experience with him.  I told him I was scared but I just did it anyway and acted “as-if” I was confident.  I think a big part of life is acting as if.  Faking it, till you make it, or at least learn it.  I know that is how I have lived my life.  Take the action and the feelings will follow.  No one is born knowing how to "do" life.

In the seventies there was a book that was given to me, written by American poet, James Cavanaugh.  The book was called There Are Some Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves. Were Tom and Samantha too gentle?  Am I?  Sometimes I think so, but then I am good at faking it.

I have felt despair and loneliness.  There have been times in my life when it all felt too hard, too hopeless and too scary.  Having children in my late teens and early twenties made my being alive more than my own business.  I am quite certain my kids kept me here when I might have opted for an easy way out.

Suicide is such a big “f--k-you” to those who are left to grieve.  There is really no recovering from it for anyone close to the deceased.  It leaves a scar that will never heal.  It is a reminder of our flaws as parents, siblings, friends, teachers and fans.  Hopefully, we can grow in our understanding of how important it is to not place conditions on our love.  We can open ourselves to letting our love flow from one to the other without barriers, without “shoulds”, without end and even in the face of great disappointment. 

So now it is goodbye to Sam.  May you find peace and know for sure that you were valued and loved by a family larger than you could have imagined.

My life is not fair.  Lucky for me!

 

Praying for Ours.

Last night I attended a candlelight vigil at the Mission, where prayers were sent up and tears shed for a young woman I have never met.  She is a volleyball player and a twin, away at college with her sister, suffering the pains of growing up which are made more acute when mirrored by her twin.  I was never more aware of what I am coming to see as Truth, that we are not separate, but entirely one.  One heart, one love, one suffering.  There is no them.  It is all we. 

My daughter called to tell me about this tragic attempted suicide in the afternoon.  The girls, these twins, are well known in our small community as excellent volleyball players, excellent students and from an amazing family.  They belong to all of us, and none of us.  They are a year younger than my twin granddaughters, who are also volleyball players away on scholarships to their own different colleges.

My granddaughters chose to separate for college, and suffered the extreme pains of leaving their identical halves, the one she “checked in with” on every subject from what to wear to what she wanted for dinner.  My twins were inseparable until the miles between their new states physically separated them.   I can only imagine the pain the sister of the critically ill twin is now feeling.  I am sure it is indescribable.

Setting aside the fact that suicide is a mystery that can never be solved by those left behind.  Suffering, I believe, is meant to be shared.  At the foot of the steps at the mission last night, more than a hundred teenagers, children and adults of all ages, prayed out loud and sang together, “Lean on me.” 

The fact of our shared vulnerability, our strength and our connectedness as a community, gave me chills.  As far as I could tell, there were no reporters from the local paper, no television cameras, no points to be gained, just faith, hope, love and sorrow.  I don’t know if our prayers for a miracle will be granted, but I am sure they were heard.  I could feel The power greater than all of us.

Lately there has been too much tragedy in the news.  I am painfully aware of the loss of a young boy in Florida, shot and killed by a supposed “neighbor.”  What is neighborly about suspecting the worst of each other?  What is neighborly about pushing and shoving and bullying and killing because of our suspicions?  Do we not suspect only what we are?  My heart breaks for the parents, family and friends of this good kid.  And yet, if we are all one, am I not also the killer?  Am I not also judgmental, racist, and capable of perpetrating horrors based on my own fears? I fear that I am.  I pray than I am not.

In Afghanistan, a soldier apparently got drunk, had some sort of blackout and went on a rampage killing innocent women and children.  We are all at times riddled with fear, but we are also at our core, made of love, compassion and a sense of oneness.  There, but for the Grace of God, go I.

This morning I was talking to my youngest daughter Shelley.  She said we should all be given a candlelight vigil in our honor for those we know and love, on the mission steps regularly and for no reason.  We should spread our love and acceptance for each other, cheering each other on, without having suffered a loss or gained an accolade.  It should not matter if we have gone to college or won an award or made the news for anything.  We should let each other know, regularly and clearly, that we see the other's value in just being and not in being good or big or best at anything.  We should cheer each other on and cheer each other up because we are happy to be sharing this journey of life together.  Who cares if we finish college or win the prize or what color we are or where our family is from or what language we speak or who we vote for or how we age or whether we’re drunk or sober?  Our purpose should only be in fully being alive.  Nothing more, nothing less.

I don’t know if the girl I am praying for is still alive this morning or if she will ever recover.  I feel the loss of her hope and I feel the hope and love and devastation of her family.  It is heartbreaking for them and it is heartbreaking for me, for us, for you.  We cannot afford to let each other be in ignorance another day, of our own value.  Please say a prayer for Samantha.   She is your daughter too.

My life is not fair.  Lucky for me!

 

What was that he said?

“Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.  Though they come through you, they come not from you, for they dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, even in your dreams.”  Kahill Gibran 

Well, there it is.  And yet I keep trying to visit, unpack and set out my things, my ideals, my visions, and my best intentions, around the rooms that are THEIR lives.  Hello!!  Not wanted, not needed, none of my beeswax!!!!   (Like I’ve done such a swell job with my own life!)  Some of us are slow to learn.

This quote from THE PROFET is one of my favorites.  I read this book over and over in the sixties while wearing all black, until I had memorized several quotes on children, love, and marriage.  I guess I instinctually knew what the three repeating themes would be of this, my life.  I knew somehow that this information would be important later.  IF I used it!

My granddaughters were home from college last week for spring break.  The twins are twenty- one years old. They are considered adults by legal criteria.  There is a younger granddaughter who is a senior in high school and was still deciding where she will attend college. (I, for one, did not finish college, so all of my opinions on the matter are based on what I wish I had done, rather than any first-hand experience.  In fact, when I was the age of any of these girls, I was married and had a string of children popping out, one, two, and three, in mighty short order.  I attended the school of “Do it All Back Wards.”)

I have now become to my children and grand children, what my Mother became to me at around the same age:  an annoyance to be tolerated, a chore on the To-Do lists of their lives, and a big-mouth with no filter.  “Do we have to invite Mimi?”  (I am grandma Kitty, so the names have been changed.  But the sentiment is identical.) 

I drive my daughters crazy by virtue of my existence and my older grandkids think I am an embarrassment in boots, or just a little left of center. Yesterday my daughter in Alabama let me know that I am posting way too many photos on-line and that I should be volunteering more or walking the dogs and I must have way too much time on my hands. What goes around, comes around, people!  Be careful.  Very careful as to how you treat your parents.  It will not be long before you are on the receiving end of those rolled eyes and exasperated sighs.  They will all be in honor of YOU! 

I am now reminded of my place.  It is in the back row.  I have had my turn on the A-team and my time as a part of the “in”-crowd.  I am now the taco maker and the back- of –the- bus- cheer -leader.  The End.  However, I often forget and blurt out my “good ideas” for free.  (Not such a good idea!)

Maybe having your parents become annoying, irritating, “people you have to tolerate,” is nature’s way of preparing us for the big “good-bye.”  Maybe if they loved hanging out with us and wanted our advice and counsel on every important issue in life, it would make it too hard at the end when they no longer have us around.  Actually, that makes sense. 

I remember that when my daughters reached the ages where they were claiming their independence from childhood, we fought a lot.  I would not have been ready to have them leave the nest if they had always been sweet, agreeable companions who kept their rooms immaculate.  Maybe it is the same for the time when parents are preparing to leave.  (Which I am not, anytime soon. Just saying!) 

But still, my daughters are in their mid to late forties.  They have successfully reared nearly a dozen children who are themselves, successful contributing souls.  They each have had only one, long-term, successful marriage as compared to my list of starts and stops and start again.  Maybe they have a handle on how to manage their own lives.  Without my counsel or advice.  Perhaps I should be taking advice and counsel from them!

I guess at this point in the job of parenting, I am done.  I can sit back and observe when I am with them, admiring the great women they have become.  I can peek into the window of the “house of tomorrow” but I don’t need to bother packing a bag.  I will not be visiting.  Not even for a day.  With luck, I can read the travel log.  The abridged version of course, but that’s okay.  They’ve got it.  I can relax and retire, take some more pictures of my dogs and the sunrise.  “Life’s longing for itself “ is being fulfilled quite beautifully without any current help from me.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

One.

Yesterday I held a dying bird.  At least I thought she was dying.  I nearly stepped on the little thing as I walked to my car on the way to the gym.  I thought it was a leaf and lifted my foot to kick it out of the way.  When I focused my eyes, I saw that she was a baby humming bird, iridescent green with her wings spread out as if to take flight.  I touched her and she lifted her tail feathers, but she didn’t move.  Tom was out walking the dogs and was due back soon, so I picked her up and placed her out of harm’s way to prevent Tom or the dogs from stepping on her.

When I returned from the gym, I checked, and she was still there.  I stroked her on the back and she let out a tiny cry, and then another.  I picked her up and took her to the edge of the fountain for a drink.  She opened her beak and took a sip.  It was cold outside, very cold.  I took her into the house to find a soft cloth to wrap her in and then I sat for a while in the sun, stroking and talking to her.  Her eyes never opened.  She was so tiny and vulnerable, but warm with life.  I can still feel the weight of her little body in my palm.

I placed her in a planter, out of the way of the dogs and somewhat in the sun and left her.  When I checked again several hours later, she was gone.  I found her still, dead body on the ground, with her wings spread, as if she had tried to fly.  She may have hit the window.

I have never felt more connected to a being than I did that little bird. I am the bird.  I am her mother and she is I.   I’ve rescued birds before from cats and dogs and falls.  Maybe they should not be rescued.  None of them lived for long.

Once there was a little finch that I nursed and fed baby food from an eyedropper for weeks.  She lived and grew and learned to fly.  She would fly up into the tree and then fly to my hand when I tapped the eyedropper on the side of the cup.  She wasn’t afraid of me.  She wasn’t afraid at all and one day one of the cats got to her.

Lately I have been feeling the oneness of all things.  Tom said it best when he compared God to the bees and the beehive.  We think we are separate, but we’re not.  The bees are a part of the hive.  The rain is a part of the ocean as are my tears.  I am the bird.  I am her mother and she is mine.

My life is so glamorous, miraculous!  It is just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

Paring-down the maintenance of "me."

I wonder exactly what characteristics denote glamour.  If it is high heels, I’m okay. If it’s smoky, lined eyes and a decent haircut I can pass. If it is long fingernails I’m in trouble. 

I have cut my fingernails down to the quick.  After forty or more years of spending hours every couple of weeks to get them wrapped in silk and painted prettily, I’ve surrendered this badge of glamour.  I no longer care.  Well, I care, but not enough to give up the time to sit there.  I would rather do other things.  Most any other things.  For instance, now I get my hair blown out twice a week.  It seems like a lot more bang for my buck.

Beginning in my twenties when I worked in advertising, sales and fashion, having elegant long nails seemed important.  My hands, I argued to my creditors, were before the public.  They needed to represent the company I was working for, and myself.  Food? Electricity? Not so important.   So every two weeks, off I trotted, to sit across from Betty, or Margit, or Tom, or Anna, and then Tien and most recently, Ha.  They buffed and filed and glued little strips of silk to my nails to strengthen them, before applying three or four coats of high gloss enamel and sending me on my way.  Pedicures were a part of the treatment too.  I have yet to surrender pedicures.

Before Tien and Ha took over my nails, there was conversation involved, which made the time go faster. Often it felt like therapy, where my manicurist and I took turns being the doctor and the patient. I got and gave, years of advice on boyfriends, children, and well, mostly boyfriends.  At this particular point in my life, I have had and have offered, more than my share of therapy.  Now I sit there, week after week, year after year, silent and staring at the same framed photograph on the salon wall of a girl with an extreme haircut, nibbling at good nails, time after time after time.  I am bored to tears!  There has to be more to life!

Now my hands look foreign to me.  Like an artist, a guitar -playing, Birkenstock- wearing, au natural-hippie I do not recognize.  I kind of like it though.  It’s as if I am meeting my real hands for the first time since I was twelve.  My hands look raw and sexy, like a smoker who smokes unfiltered Camels and doesn’t wear sunscreen, only I do.  Wear sunscreen that is.  I’ve never smoked.  Yuck!

This brings me to my hair.  I have always had decent hair, though I fought with the fact that it was fine and curly when I wished it to be course and straight.  I have had it colored every three weeks, regularly for the past twenty years, so I am not entirely sure what my natural color is underneath all of that #5 and #6.  I suspect it is white, but not entirely.  It is white in some sort of odd pattern that looks good on a skunk but not on me.  I wonder which is the real me, the skunk or the blown-out brunette? I think I don’t really want to know. 

In considering the women that I find glamorous, I realize that it is not so much about their hair or their fingernails.  I have a couple of glamorous girlfriends who neither wrap their nails in silk or wear high heals for that matter.  They do, however, have a definite style and grace.  They know exactly how to put people at ease, be gracious and inviting without being intimidating or off-putting in any way and generally make others feel good.  Maybe I can fall in line with those girls.

I think glamour, at least at this stage in my life, is about knowing who I am, and being okay with that.  I read something last night written by one of the fellow writers in my class.  She said that she is like “dry dirt, becoming fertile, or simply becoming comfortable with being dry dirt.”  That is how I feel!  I am becoming comfortable with short fingernails and a whole bunch of other things.  I would still like to think of myself as glamorous, or at least formerly glamorous.  I hope the length of my fingernails is not the determining factor.  Right now, at this moment, my thumb is splitting open and I’m thinking of calling Ha.  Darn!!!  I wanted to see what it was like to be natural!  Maybe there are those of us who were meant to be made-up, painted- up and embellished.  Or at least at the tips of our fingers.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

 

To my Valentine.

Today is the day designated for the celebration of love.  My husband hates this day, not that he hates love, but he is a true romantic.  He loathes being told by Hallmark when to express his love and how.

I understand.  It’s the kind of day where if you send something to your love, you feel like you’re a sucker who has been duped and if you don’t, well then you’re just a jerk.  There is no way to come out on Valentines’ day without getting screwed one way or another.  That is, if you are a man.

For women, V-Day is optional.  (Although for me, it’s a chance to shop.)  It is also a chance to spoil my love with a romantic evening, a special meal, and if he has been very, very good ……. Well, he gets new lingerie.

My idea of love has changed a bit since I first felt my stomach full of butterflies over Chuck Perkins when I was fifteen years old.  At that time it was all about his tan, his abs and his dimples, oh and the fact that he was an amazing kisser. He was also in possession of his own candy apple red Pontiac with a radio and leather seats. 

He was in college and I, a mere junior in high school.  I met him at the beach over summer vacation when he and his best friend Mike Nicolai flirted with my best friend Linda Eader and me, from our respective towels in the sand at Corona del mar.  That summer I had my first real kiss, received my first corsage and my first love letter.  That winter, I experienced my first broken heart.  Love, it turned out, is a double-edged sword.

Over the past fifty years I have known love in all shapes and sizes, the greatest of love being the love for my children and grand children.  I could never have imagined the depth of the love I have known for a child.  It makes no sense at all.  They are like puppies, biting, peeing, chewing and barfing, making one mess after another and costing a fortune, but when they walk into a room, or reach out their arms to me, I am all theirs.  No questions asked, still.

There has also been girlfriend-love.  (Not to be confused with girl on girl- sex, although I’m sure for some it’s wonderful.) For me, it’s my girlfriends, the sisters who walk with me through the days, who have held me up and pulled me through the knotholes and out of the pits of my life. They alone have made it possible to be a wife, mother and grandmother that passes muster in my own mind and heart.

As for the love of a man?  The standards that first attracted me to love are not the ones that have kept me loving.  It is the little moments of knowing I am seen and valued that keep me here with my husband of fifteen years.  My husband knows me.  He knows my strengths and he knows my weaknesses.  He knows my faults.  He knows the good in me.  One of the things I’ve loved about Tom is that even in the heat of an argument in the early years of our marriage, he would recite what he loved about me.  Who does that?  My husband does that.

We took the first ten years of our marriage to work out the balance of power.  He has the final word about anything that really matters and I have the final word on everything else. 

My husband gives me everything I need and he gives me pretty much everything I want.  I try to be as good to him but the truth is, I am not.  When at the end of a day or at the end of our lives together, I can say to myself that I have been as kind, as generous, as self-forgetting as he has been to me, well, I will consider myself a success.  In the meantime, I’ll just keep practicing.

This morning I surprised my husband with a little box of chocolates and a head- massager.  The head -massager threw him, but I told him it’s hard to pick a gift for the man who has everything and doesn’t want his wife to spend money.  This afternoon, a beautiful bouquet of roses and lilies were delivered for me with a love-note from him. 

Yes, we are both a couple of suckers and even though he doesn’t like Hallmark telling him when and how to say he loves me and even though I know he loves me without receiving flowers, we each had a little smile of knowing when we received our little gifts.  We know for sure that Hallmark has nothing on our love.

My life is so glamorous!  It’s just not fair, lucky for me!!

 

Greed all dressed up in a new outfit.

“The greedy one gathered all the cherries,

While the simple one

Tasted all the cherries

In one.”

Anonymous

 

Does it count as an epiphany if I read something and recognize it as truth? 

I had an Ah, Ha-moment this morning when I read this little phrase and the page that followed in my meditation book.  I realized that I have been greedy in wanting to “have” it all.  All the stuff, all of the pretty clothes and things, all the lunches with all the friends, all the travel, ALL and MORE.  I have been greedy.  Trying to have it all, to be available to all, to experience it all.  It’s not possible.  I am only one person, a human being with only 24 hours to live in each day.  My experience here in this life is to “taste” not to gather or collect or hold life in my possession.

I have been very blessed. I have tasted so much!  I have known the thrill of new love, the tenderness of long -time-love; I have had friendship and felt the pain of loss. I have given birth to three daughters and been present for the births of my grand children. I have worn designer clothes, gone to fancy restaurants, all over the world and ridden in limousines. I have traveled on three continents, I have enjoyed wild, passionate sex, I have roller bladed on the strand in my bikini, skied on Mt Hood, had High Tea at fancy five star hotels and eaten more than my share of cookies, cakes, and ice cream.  I have eaten a lunch of a baked potato with nothing on it because that’s all I had to eat and I have gone without lunch and had a tiny taste of feeling hungry, (although not for too long a time.) I have worked and had a couple of careers and I have been unemployed when I wanted to work. I have had money and I’ve had no money. (Having money is better.) I’ve had good credit and I have had bad credit.  I’ve had many nice lunches with girlfriends and massages and pedicures and facials. I have been to jail and prison, (although only to visit, thank you God!) and I have served on a jury to fulfill my civic duty. I’ve tasted enough to be satisfied.

The last time I posted on my blog I was talking about how my life was too big for me.  How I couldn’t fit all of the things I wanted to do into my days. The book I read this morning talked about suffering from wanting to be in two places at once, from the pain of feeling like we might be missing out on something, of feeling left-out, and how that is a form of greed.

The book also said that when we are caught in this way of thinking, there is no amount of travel, no amount of love, not enough of anything to satisfy.  I saw that this has been true for me at times and I released a huge sigh of recognition and relief with a  “thank-you” when I saw that I could let that all go.  Tasting is enough.

I still cannot fit it all in, or do all I want to do.  I feel this especially around being with the people I love.  I would like to have them all come through my life, one by one, minute by minute and sit with me on the sofa, while we sip something warm and stare out the window.  I wish we could stretch time. 

I have continued to think I want to write something meaningful and lasting when maybe all I am meant to do is write to know myself and be able to have moments in which I feel connected to something greater than myself.   My greedy ego would like to make my writing grander! 

I hurt myself a few days ago doing dead lifts at the gym.  Apparently I failed to hold in my stomach to support my lower back.  Today I canceled lunch with a dear friend to stay home and lie on an ice pack.  I cannot accept every invitation I receive or sit with everyone I might be able to help.  I can however, share the wealth of love and friendship, experience, strength and hope with a few.  I can keep tasting and leave some of the goodies of life for others to taste and enjoy.

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be passing the baton of my Thursday night dinner meeting to one of the other girls.  It has been a gift of joy to have this in my home for the past two years.  I’m sad to let it go, but I’m happy someone new will have the experience.  Maybe it will come to me again, maybe it won’t.  No matter what, I’ve tasted the experience.  I’ve had more than one cherry, but there are still plenty to go around.  I don’t have to make myself sick by being greedy and gluttonous.  I have tasted life, and I love, love, love it!!! 

My life is so glamorous!  It's just not fair, lucky for me!!