Like clockwork, at 5:45 this morning, Sascha padded across my belly, peeping her little kitty peep, which sounds more like a cricket than a cat, nudged her fuzzy gray head insistently into the curl of my elbow, and demanded a massage. In the daytime, people time, she avoids me entirely—darting out of reach so I can't ambush her for a nail clipping, scanning my every movement with one green eye cocked as she drapes her lithe little kitty body across the catnapper in the living room window. Stay away, Kitty Mama, she orders.
Sascha wakes me up every morning. Right, I know: Why not close the bedroom door? It would make things easier, but I’d miss the connection and the sweet joy of knowing that, for those few moments, she trusts me. It’s a morning pleasure, a rhythm that pulses as a constant amid the inconstant rhythms of daily life.
In three days, my TV will stop working unless I install an RCN-mandated digital converter box. I like my TV the way it is. I like knowing all the channel numbers and being able to record Jeopardy! and watch the Red Sox simultaneously. On Tuesday, I will have to learn all new channels and figure out how to work a big, clunky remote with 59 (count 'em) buttons. And I won’t be able to watch a show while recording another unless I buy a DVR or pay $14.95 a month to rent one. I don't want a DVR. It’s not that I’m a technophobe. It's just that I want to watch TV the way I'm used to, with my own idiosyncratic viewing habits. Now I have no choice.
In the scheme of things, of course, it’s not important. I can roll with change, I can adjust to new and sometimes even welcome it. But sometimes, like now, I just want to stop the clock and say enough. Enough new. Enough change. Enough disruption and uncertainty.
When lightning struck my friend Susan’s apartment a few weeks ago, her world was disrupted in a random instant. No home. No furniture. Gone are the Broadway scores, textured throw pillows, and hundreds of CDs. No more Murano glass. No more stuffed animals. With the exception of Marshmallow, her very favorite teddy bear with a red satin ribbon around the neck, who, propped at the head of Susan’s bed, somehow survived, having witnessed the fire, the collapsed walls, the charred ceiling beams, the powerful spray of the fire hoses. Other things survived, even some clothes that are now arriving from the cleaners, washed of the smoky smell, souvenirs of a former life.
Susan has no constant. She’s in recovery and attempting new routines, all of which seem wrong and unfair and unwanted. Her time, as she says, is "emotional time," an awkward, surreal nightmare where nothing makes sense, and from which she can’t wake up. I did hear her soprano-laugh on the phone just now, though. It’s been a while.
Our friend Jody is near death, now out of the hospital and at a hospice, unaware of her surroundings. Visitors report she responds to singing, turning her head slightly. Maybe she’s singing along deep inside her time. Funeral preparations are underway as her husband and their families and the Zamir Chorale family wait, not knowing when we’ll gather to mourn and pray and sing for Jody the songs she requested when she was awake.
A bolt of lightning can strike and steal Susan’s home, and cancer can spread and steal the life of a woman my age, and nature, too, can render its ineluctable verdict on my aging parents, who are blessed with sound minds but ever-slowing bodies. Disruption. Inconstancy. Rhythms I can’t control.
And so I watch the Red Sox and Yankees and glory in the beauty that is Jonathan Papelbon’s delivery and boo at the beauty that is Mariano Rivera’s precision. I get breakfast and go to yoga and breathe and take a walk and admire the midsummer gardens in full, startling bloom. I pay $3.99 a gallon for gas (cheap!) and check YouTube for new Spring Awakening videos. I watch Sir Obama in Berlin and Mr. McCain at the Fudge Haus in Podunk, Ohio. I go again to the shore to gaze at the ocean’s steady pulse. And tonight, I’ll crawl into my own bed, with my own sheets and pillows, and gratefully sleep, waiting, hoping, to wake up to the pads of Sascha’s paws on my belly, precisely at 5:45.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Of Millinery and Moons
I wear different hats. I like it that way. Millinery aficionados would appreciate the collection: therapist, writer, editor, singer, friend, daughter, sister, and, my favorite of all, Kitty Mama. I will tell you about Kitty Mama, but not today. Today I’m looking back on a week of depths and contrasts, shifting tides and tears.
Monday through Wednesday, I wore my therapist hat. I imagine it’s a large, floppy, all-season chapeau, subdued but inviting, with just enough coverage to protect me from toxic overexposure. Most of my clients are in recovery from drug and alcohol addiction. They talk about their struggles with alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, benzodiazepines, hallucinogens, Oxycontin, heroin (and the rest of the wild, wacky world of opiates)—and that’s just the substances. The plot thickens.
This week, for instance, clients—men, women, young and old—discussed PTSD, suicide attempts, cutting (themselves), eating disorders, school failure, domestic violence, parental abuse, parental neglect, relapse (of course), acute anxiety, OCD, mortgage foreclosure, arrest, and incarceration. And don’t forget the greatest scourge ever to befall suburban adolescents: boredom (which doesn’t have an official diagnostic code, but, if it were reimbursable, I’d be wealthy by now).
When I’m wearing my therapist hat, I am focused and empathic. I listen hard, with curiosity and compassion. I understand how tough it is to change—behaviors, thoughts, lifelong strategies that keep us stagnant and afraid. And I get how tough it is to feel invisible—doesn’t anyone see the real me? Or to worry about screwing up—what will they think? The challenge and beauty of being a therapist is just being there. Witnessing. But also acknowledging the big picture: the universal search for meaning, purpose, love, and "happiness," whatever that is. Even my group of testosterone-laden scofflaw teenage boys talks about loneliness and longing and the pain of inertia.
Yup, changing habits is hard. Healing from trauma is painful—the only way out is through. Control is overrated. There’s no right answer. One step at a time. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Keep it in the moment. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Breathe. Laugh. Schedule play. Keep up the good work. See you next week. Being a therapist is exhausting and filling, draining and enlivening.
On Thursday, I donned a new hat. Well, not quite new, but one that’s been stuffed way back in the closet for about five years: proofreader. Clearly, the role cries out for one of those newspaperman visors from a ’40s film, don’t you think? That’ll do. I worried upon taking a big freelance gig proofing a cookbook for America’s Test Kitchen that I’d forget how to mark pages, that my mind would wander, or, worse, that I simply wouldn’t care. A proofreader has to care. Not in a therapeutic, empathic, existentially meaningful way. I’m talking hyphens and commas, line spacing and indents. The goal: perfection.
Here is a world of black or white, right or wrong. And a cookbook? The ultimate in picayunity. The difference between ¼ teaspoon and ½ teaspoon can make or break a recipe and put the company’s reputation in danger, not to mention my career. They care about the water temperature for cooking beans or whether the oven rack position is lower-middle or simply middle. Everything matters. Everything has a formula and a rule. My job is not to edit, not to analyze, just correct errors and point out egregious inconsistencies. I printed out the publisher’s 30-page style sheet, an alphabetical guide to spelling and usage standards. Like "medium-sized" vs. "medium-size" or "celery rib" vs. "celery stalk."
After so many years, how would I adjust to this i-dotting, t-crossing, microscopically focused universe? A few pages in, while tracking a paragraph on Hearty Tuscan Bean Stew, I noticed I was smiling—one of those inside-transforming-into-outside smiles that even Buddhist monks strive for. Bliss and satisfaction. I was wondering, Why is "sauté" accented but "puree" is not? I need to know. I want to know. Check the guidelines. Yes! That’s what they want. What about a compound modifying adjective, which should take an en dash (double the width of a hyphen), such as "paper towel–lined plate"? Yes! It’s there! I love these people! They worried for me. Not only do I not need to feel, but I don’t even need to ponder too much. My proofreader hat now hugging tightly to my dusty proofreader brain, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of finding clear answers, chasing perfection—the ultimate in anti-feeling. What a relief.
My friend hat has been getting a lot of use lately, too. It’s a big red hat, for sure, with a sturdy cap and soft, feminine edges. Strong yet soft enough to wear with my friend Susan, who lost almost everything when her apartment was struck by lightning two weeks ago. Susan lost her home, her sanctuary, and her bearings in the world. She’s suffering and I feel helpless. I can’t turn back the clock, nor restore her beautiful apartment, filled with color and jazz and memories. But I can listen and lend a shoulder and buy her groceries and remind her that life can be random and cruel, and that healing is possible but it will take time.
Susan and I and two other Zamir Chorale singers visited our friend Jody on Thursday evening. Jody’s dying of ovarian cancer. That’s the reality. While we were there, Jody became very ill and her husband, Mark, called 911. How do you talk to a dying friend? We stroked her hair and her back and rubbed her shoulders and told her to hang in there. One of the EMTs who arrived within minutes asked for her arm to take her blood pressure. "You’re gorgeous," Jody said, looking up at him, weakly lifting her hand. He was. We all laughed. What else could we do? We waved goodbye as the ambulance pulled away and Mark followed in his car. As of today, she’s stable. She’s hanging in there. She’s a survivor. But it might not be for long.
On the drive back, we stopped for dinner—life goes on—sang songs in the car, and watched, quietly and in awe, as an enormous, full orange moon rose above the violet horizon against the deep-green hills of the western suburbs.
I don’t know what hat to wear today. It’s sultry-hot and there’s no air to breathe. After I work on the cookbook a little, maybe I’ll take a break. Maybe I’ll head to the beach, wearing my huge, hilarious sombrero, with its itchy rope chinstrap, to protect me from the harsh sun of summer.
Monday through Wednesday, I wore my therapist hat. I imagine it’s a large, floppy, all-season chapeau, subdued but inviting, with just enough coverage to protect me from toxic overexposure. Most of my clients are in recovery from drug and alcohol addiction. They talk about their struggles with alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, benzodiazepines, hallucinogens, Oxycontin, heroin (and the rest of the wild, wacky world of opiates)—and that’s just the substances. The plot thickens.
This week, for instance, clients—men, women, young and old—discussed PTSD, suicide attempts, cutting (themselves), eating disorders, school failure, domestic violence, parental abuse, parental neglect, relapse (of course), acute anxiety, OCD, mortgage foreclosure, arrest, and incarceration. And don’t forget the greatest scourge ever to befall suburban adolescents: boredom (which doesn’t have an official diagnostic code, but, if it were reimbursable, I’d be wealthy by now).
When I’m wearing my therapist hat, I am focused and empathic. I listen hard, with curiosity and compassion. I understand how tough it is to change—behaviors, thoughts, lifelong strategies that keep us stagnant and afraid. And I get how tough it is to feel invisible—doesn’t anyone see the real me? Or to worry about screwing up—what will they think? The challenge and beauty of being a therapist is just being there. Witnessing. But also acknowledging the big picture: the universal search for meaning, purpose, love, and "happiness," whatever that is. Even my group of testosterone-laden scofflaw teenage boys talks about loneliness and longing and the pain of inertia.
Yup, changing habits is hard. Healing from trauma is painful—the only way out is through. Control is overrated. There’s no right answer. One step at a time. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Keep it in the moment. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Breathe. Laugh. Schedule play. Keep up the good work. See you next week. Being a therapist is exhausting and filling, draining and enlivening.
On Thursday, I donned a new hat. Well, not quite new, but one that’s been stuffed way back in the closet for about five years: proofreader. Clearly, the role cries out for one of those newspaperman visors from a ’40s film, don’t you think? That’ll do. I worried upon taking a big freelance gig proofing a cookbook for America’s Test Kitchen that I’d forget how to mark pages, that my mind would wander, or, worse, that I simply wouldn’t care. A proofreader has to care. Not in a therapeutic, empathic, existentially meaningful way. I’m talking hyphens and commas, line spacing and indents. The goal: perfection.
Here is a world of black or white, right or wrong. And a cookbook? The ultimate in picayunity. The difference between ¼ teaspoon and ½ teaspoon can make or break a recipe and put the company’s reputation in danger, not to mention my career. They care about the water temperature for cooking beans or whether the oven rack position is lower-middle or simply middle. Everything matters. Everything has a formula and a rule. My job is not to edit, not to analyze, just correct errors and point out egregious inconsistencies. I printed out the publisher’s 30-page style sheet, an alphabetical guide to spelling and usage standards. Like "medium-sized" vs. "medium-size" or "celery rib" vs. "celery stalk."
After so many years, how would I adjust to this i-dotting, t-crossing, microscopically focused universe? A few pages in, while tracking a paragraph on Hearty Tuscan Bean Stew, I noticed I was smiling—one of those inside-transforming-into-outside smiles that even Buddhist monks strive for. Bliss and satisfaction. I was wondering, Why is "sauté" accented but "puree" is not? I need to know. I want to know. Check the guidelines. Yes! That’s what they want. What about a compound modifying adjective, which should take an en dash (double the width of a hyphen), such as "paper towel–lined plate"? Yes! It’s there! I love these people! They worried for me. Not only do I not need to feel, but I don’t even need to ponder too much. My proofreader hat now hugging tightly to my dusty proofreader brain, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of finding clear answers, chasing perfection—the ultimate in anti-feeling. What a relief.
My friend hat has been getting a lot of use lately, too. It’s a big red hat, for sure, with a sturdy cap and soft, feminine edges. Strong yet soft enough to wear with my friend Susan, who lost almost everything when her apartment was struck by lightning two weeks ago. Susan lost her home, her sanctuary, and her bearings in the world. She’s suffering and I feel helpless. I can’t turn back the clock, nor restore her beautiful apartment, filled with color and jazz and memories. But I can listen and lend a shoulder and buy her groceries and remind her that life can be random and cruel, and that healing is possible but it will take time.
Susan and I and two other Zamir Chorale singers visited our friend Jody on Thursday evening. Jody’s dying of ovarian cancer. That’s the reality. While we were there, Jody became very ill and her husband, Mark, called 911. How do you talk to a dying friend? We stroked her hair and her back and rubbed her shoulders and told her to hang in there. One of the EMTs who arrived within minutes asked for her arm to take her blood pressure. "You’re gorgeous," Jody said, looking up at him, weakly lifting her hand. He was. We all laughed. What else could we do? We waved goodbye as the ambulance pulled away and Mark followed in his car. As of today, she’s stable. She’s hanging in there. She’s a survivor. But it might not be for long.
On the drive back, we stopped for dinner—life goes on—sang songs in the car, and watched, quietly and in awe, as an enormous, full orange moon rose above the violet horizon against the deep-green hills of the western suburbs.
I don’t know what hat to wear today. It’s sultry-hot and there’s no air to breathe. After I work on the cookbook a little, maybe I’ll take a break. Maybe I’ll head to the beach, wearing my huge, hilarious sombrero, with its itchy rope chinstrap, to protect me from the harsh sun of summer.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Giving Voice
I hate the word "blog." It’s one of those ugly words—unpleasant, nasal, harsh, almost smelly. Like "snot" or "phlegm," "smegma," or "nostril." Given that I have no positive connotation for "blog," how can I gleefully embark on this new venture? And the site, "blogspot." A compound ugly word, compounding my distaste. I guess I’ll get used to it.
It’s about giving voice. As a longtime diarist, I’m used to expressing myself on the page, whether tangible or virtual. I understand the desire to share views and news and I hope by adding mine to the cybercommunity, I can stimulate, validate, provoke, or simply entertain.
I’m one of those writers with an involuntary, often-intrusive, journalistic filter for life. Experiencing and observing simultaneously—watching and recording. Like yesterday, in the long hallway leading from my gym to the parking lot, I overheard two women chatting and was instantly immersed:
Thick with Boston accent, Woman #1, a plus-size, forty-ish bleach-blonde wearing a baggy T-shirt over leggings, says, "I got married for the second time."
Woman #2, a small, dark-haired woman of similar age, fit and effusive, hugs her tightly: "Congratulations! That’s wonderful!"
"Thank you!" the first responds. Pause. "Yeah. It’s been two years." Pause. "He’s very quiet."
Three beats.
"Well, umm, that can be OK," #2 offers. "Ya know what they say, opposites attract!"
Laughter. "Yeah, I know," replies #1. "It sure is different!"
"My Gary and I are coming up on our 22nd anniversary next week. It’s hard to believe," says #2.
"22 years. Wow."
Exiting to the parking lot, now out of earshot, I thought: Here’s a story. I wonder what the women’s relationship is? Why had they fallen out of touch? Did the newly married woman have an ugly first marriage? How ugly was it? Who is this quiet man? Did I hear her pain and regret or . . . ?
You see what I mean? When my writer radar is on, everything enters, no filter. It’s intrusive. It’s also fun. The conversation drew me like a magnet out of my inner thoughts toward someone else’s drama, immediately spinning a tale of intrigue at the snippets of shared lives, out of context, with no backstory, and no follow-up. Snippets shape themselves into sentences and unwittingly into paragraphs. I’m writing all the time.
My blog (ugh, hate it, hate it, hate it) will be a place for reflections on such random occurrences, as the spirit moves. I’ll also be posting excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion, along with updates on La Grande Agent Search . . . a drama unto itself.
And I’ll post essays, some old, some newly minted, as I give voice to the journalist within and all the other parts of myself that crave expression. Noting details, shaping experiences, playing always, always with words and sentences and paragraphs and their infinite potential for connection and meaning (and revulsion!) and joy.
NB: "Debfeb" is an online nickname related, big surprise, to my birth month.
It’s about giving voice. As a longtime diarist, I’m used to expressing myself on the page, whether tangible or virtual. I understand the desire to share views and news and I hope by adding mine to the cybercommunity, I can stimulate, validate, provoke, or simply entertain.
I’m one of those writers with an involuntary, often-intrusive, journalistic filter for life. Experiencing and observing simultaneously—watching and recording. Like yesterday, in the long hallway leading from my gym to the parking lot, I overheard two women chatting and was instantly immersed:
Thick with Boston accent, Woman #1, a plus-size, forty-ish bleach-blonde wearing a baggy T-shirt over leggings, says, "I got married for the second time."
Woman #2, a small, dark-haired woman of similar age, fit and effusive, hugs her tightly: "Congratulations! That’s wonderful!"
"Thank you!" the first responds. Pause. "Yeah. It’s been two years." Pause. "He’s very quiet."
Three beats.
"Well, umm, that can be OK," #2 offers. "Ya know what they say, opposites attract!"
Laughter. "Yeah, I know," replies #1. "It sure is different!"
"My Gary and I are coming up on our 22nd anniversary next week. It’s hard to believe," says #2.
"22 years. Wow."
Exiting to the parking lot, now out of earshot, I thought: Here’s a story. I wonder what the women’s relationship is? Why had they fallen out of touch? Did the newly married woman have an ugly first marriage? How ugly was it? Who is this quiet man? Did I hear her pain and regret or . . . ?
You see what I mean? When my writer radar is on, everything enters, no filter. It’s intrusive. It’s also fun. The conversation drew me like a magnet out of my inner thoughts toward someone else’s drama, immediately spinning a tale of intrigue at the snippets of shared lives, out of context, with no backstory, and no follow-up. Snippets shape themselves into sentences and unwittingly into paragraphs. I’m writing all the time.
My blog (ugh, hate it, hate it, hate it) will be a place for reflections on such random occurrences, as the spirit moves. I’ll also be posting excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion, along with updates on La Grande Agent Search . . . a drama unto itself.
And I’ll post essays, some old, some newly minted, as I give voice to the journalist within and all the other parts of myself that crave expression. Noting details, shaping experiences, playing always, always with words and sentences and paragraphs and their infinite potential for connection and meaning (and revulsion!) and joy.
NB: "Debfeb" is an online nickname related, big surprise, to my birth month.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
