Los Angeles, California
When my dad died suddenly, sixteen years ago, my friend Connie did a few things that I have never forgotten. She sent me a card. And a plant. And she sent a card to my mom. I know that she had met my mom, but she didn't know her very well. Then she came to my dad's memorial service. I never forgot it, because she was the only friend who did all that. Next closest may have hit two of the points, but only she reached out in those four ways.
It's Christmas Eve, and I am watching Meet Me in St. Louis. I'm alone, but not feeling forgotten. It's the holidays, for the love of heaven, and everyone is running in all directions. Except me. Still, even with all the running, Connie, not surprisingly, is among the circle of friends reaching out to me.
I want to see Into the Woods when it opens tomorrow, but I may have to wait. I have written before about Sondheim, and about the song from ITW that has always spoken to me. It is No One is Alone. The lyric: You move just a finger; Say the slightest word; Something's bound to linger; Be heard. Sondheim explained that it was about not feeling alone. You are not alone. But it was also about consequences; about the ripple effect that the things you do and say have on those around you.
Many things stand out for me this Christmas: that my dentist showed up unannounced at my house with a plate of baked goods and a wrapped Christmas present; that my therapist called me honey, which she has never done since the first time I walked into her office over twenty-five years ago (no, I haven't been in therapy that long. I've just returned to it...); that Carole has texted or called every single day; that Connie, Debra and Karen are each a close second; that Curt H sent me the best text ever, and Russell sent me the best email; that my best friend, Lydia, held me that first day while I cried; that Joel has been my rock; that Todd & Christopher are trying harder. That this is so hard on all of them.
The most empathic ask me what I need; what they can do. I don't need people telling me they are thinking of me, as it goes without saying, I hope. Plus, what do you do with that? Texting is problematic, in that it only takes a moment to text, so you expect people to take that time. On the other hand, it can feel perfunctory, and that can sometimes not feel good. I don't need suggestions, I am a fairly intelligent adult with a brain that is working on overdrive. The truth is, I need ears. I need shoulders. I need a little steady unwavering support. And that's way more than any one person should have to provide. It takes a village.
When Sandra had her second round of chemo, I dropped the ball. I was so on top of the first round. I sent her weekly care packages: fuzzy socks; scented lotions; books on tape; cds; cards and anything that I hoped might make her smile. By the second round I was deep into caring for my mom and adjusting to this major change in my life. Later I said to her: I'm afraid I didn't do as much for you this time. I was just trying to assuage my guilt. That's ok, she said. But it wasn't. You can't go back, and, while the life lesson was valuable, I regret that I didn't duplicate all I did during her first round. But really, at any time in our lives, we can only do what we can do. Life is crazy busy -- family, holidays, technology, stuff. It's hard to carve out any extras. I get it.
So, Christmas Eve with Judy Garland singing my favorite Christmas song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, with the lyric that continues to provide a slim, optimistic glimmer of hope:
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.
December 25, 2014
October 18, 2014
Another Saturday Night
Los Angeles, California
At home tonight, prepping dinner in my tiny postage stamp of a kitchen. The owners are young, and their decor is comprised of dark cabinets, dark floors, grey walls. An ubiquitous look that doesn't matter much to me as I try not to long for beat-up flooring and eclectic farmhouse furniture. Try. Not. To.
I am listening to A Prairie Home Companion as I have for many decades and it comforts me because of that. Garrison Keillor's voice has been a constant to me over the past thirty-plus years. One of the last things I do now each night is to listen to the podcast of his daily A Writer's Almanac. It gives a sense of closure to my day, and wistfully reminds me of my young dreams to be a poet.
Tonight, dinner is (as I look at the wreckage) leftovers from last night: pasta shells which I tossed with yogurt tempered with a spoonful of creme fraiche (truly the ultimate comfort condiment that will nurse me through it all) after tossing the pasta first with olive oil; pecorino romano, reggiano parmigiana, and truffle cheese (adding half of what I had grated); some magic pasta water; the mix of yogurt and cream, then the rest of the cheese. Lots of pepper. And with it all, I roasted fat, autumn red grapes with brussels sprouts. It was good. Besides the leftovers, I tossed a Caesar salad; the croutons crisply cooked in butter and olive oil; the greens, sadly-diminished, from a bag of organic romaine purchased at Trader Joe's several days ago, in a moment of I have no appetite, no idea, but maybe this would be good to have. I expect single humans everywhere will understand this.
It's so hard, this making my way and I feel sad and loose-ended. I remember what I left behind; needing to be the one to walk away from the house with the crystal glasses and the sunsets from my kitchen. I also remember the sad, empty misery of feeling left alone there in the midst of what should have been enough. I brought A Prairie Home Companion to the marriage. I bought the crystal glasses. I imagined and offered the let's do this, and the do you want to do that? I was an engine but was not the little engine who could. Otherwise, I would have made it work. I would have sucked it up and continued to pretend that there was someone else there with me. I would have made water from chocolate.
It takes a lot to leave your home. And it took me a long time. I didn't want to be the one who left. But the sad truth is that when a marriage is offering nothing to either party but blankness to one and pain and bad memories to the other, someone has to leave. And he was tenacious. Eventually, I found a place. I packed as I often packed for my months in Carmel, and tried not to look back. The old adage of possession being nine-tenths of the law is not a consideration in California matrimonial law. We own equally regardless of who retains residence. It is still my home. I picked the paint colors, and the tiles for the pool that he did not want to build. I chose where art was hung. In the master bedroom a crucifix I bought in Carmel, a replica of the one buried in Father Junipero Serra's hands, hangs on the wall above a tiny watercolor of the Carmel Mission Basilica. And on and on and on. I said to my friend at the time: it's just stuff. And truly, is not what is substantial in life. But I had dressed my home with love, and, if it is true that home is where the heart is, what was left of my heart remains silently there.
I have often thought that the support I offer my friends when needed is surely within the realm of do what I say. And truthfully, at this time in my life, I would not recommend to anyone that they do what I do. I am alone with my limp romaine. Not stretched to the limit, but not yet seeing any hope of light at the end of the tunnel. This is it, and what I need to live. I won't stay in this place. I know this. I know this. I know this...
Tomorrow night I will go out. I will dance with Joel, and I will probably feel better. It is Armando's band, and he is a musician and a gentleman. I will be glad to dance to his music, and to applaud heartily after each song. He is from Nicaragua, and his brother is also a musician. Armando has his own band, but also plays in his brother's, where they make music together. That must be something; to create and share that, while watching us moving to the waves of music they are sending out.
I have always loved the Sam Cooke song, Another Saturday Night. It's a great singalong tune, and I have it in my iTunes library and on many of the playlists I have created, and subsequently given as gifts. So on this, another Saturday night, I tell myself that there is music; there is A Prairie Home Companion; there is pasta; there will be dancing. With Joel. I am a refugee, but life is as it should be for me for now. Maybe a faint glow at the tapering darkness of the tunnel will appear shortly. Maybe I will find myself a home down the road somewhere. A place to hang my hat and my heart. You never know. I guess you just have to have faith.
At home tonight, prepping dinner in my tiny postage stamp of a kitchen. The owners are young, and their decor is comprised of dark cabinets, dark floors, grey walls. An ubiquitous look that doesn't matter much to me as I try not to long for beat-up flooring and eclectic farmhouse furniture. Try. Not. To.
I am listening to A Prairie Home Companion as I have for many decades and it comforts me because of that. Garrison Keillor's voice has been a constant to me over the past thirty-plus years. One of the last things I do now each night is to listen to the podcast of his daily A Writer's Almanac. It gives a sense of closure to my day, and wistfully reminds me of my young dreams to be a poet.
Tonight, dinner is (as I look at the wreckage) leftovers from last night: pasta shells which I tossed with yogurt tempered with a spoonful of creme fraiche (truly the ultimate comfort condiment that will nurse me through it all) after tossing the pasta first with olive oil; pecorino romano, reggiano parmigiana, and truffle cheese (adding half of what I had grated); some magic pasta water; the mix of yogurt and cream, then the rest of the cheese. Lots of pepper. And with it all, I roasted fat, autumn red grapes with brussels sprouts. It was good. Besides the leftovers, I tossed a Caesar salad; the croutons crisply cooked in butter and olive oil; the greens, sadly-diminished, from a bag of organic romaine purchased at Trader Joe's several days ago, in a moment of I have no appetite, no idea, but maybe this would be good to have. I expect single humans everywhere will understand this.
It's so hard, this making my way and I feel sad and loose-ended. I remember what I left behind; needing to be the one to walk away from the house with the crystal glasses and the sunsets from my kitchen. I also remember the sad, empty misery of feeling left alone there in the midst of what should have been enough. I brought A Prairie Home Companion to the marriage. I bought the crystal glasses. I imagined and offered the let's do this, and the do you want to do that? I was an engine but was not the little engine who could. Otherwise, I would have made it work. I would have sucked it up and continued to pretend that there was someone else there with me. I would have made water from chocolate.
It takes a lot to leave your home. And it took me a long time. I didn't want to be the one who left. But the sad truth is that when a marriage is offering nothing to either party but blankness to one and pain and bad memories to the other, someone has to leave. And he was tenacious. Eventually, I found a place. I packed as I often packed for my months in Carmel, and tried not to look back. The old adage of possession being nine-tenths of the law is not a consideration in California matrimonial law. We own equally regardless of who retains residence. It is still my home. I picked the paint colors, and the tiles for the pool that he did not want to build. I chose where art was hung. In the master bedroom a crucifix I bought in Carmel, a replica of the one buried in Father Junipero Serra's hands, hangs on the wall above a tiny watercolor of the Carmel Mission Basilica. And on and on and on. I said to my friend at the time: it's just stuff. And truly, is not what is substantial in life. But I had dressed my home with love, and, if it is true that home is where the heart is, what was left of my heart remains silently there.
I have often thought that the support I offer my friends when needed is surely within the realm of do what I say. And truthfully, at this time in my life, I would not recommend to anyone that they do what I do. I am alone with my limp romaine. Not stretched to the limit, but not yet seeing any hope of light at the end of the tunnel. This is it, and what I need to live. I won't stay in this place. I know this. I know this. I know this...
Tomorrow night I will go out. I will dance with Joel, and I will probably feel better. It is Armando's band, and he is a musician and a gentleman. I will be glad to dance to his music, and to applaud heartily after each song. He is from Nicaragua, and his brother is also a musician. Armando has his own band, but also plays in his brother's, where they make music together. That must be something; to create and share that, while watching us moving to the waves of music they are sending out.
I have always loved the Sam Cooke song, Another Saturday Night. It's a great singalong tune, and I have it in my iTunes library and on many of the playlists I have created, and subsequently given as gifts. So on this, another Saturday night, I tell myself that there is music; there is A Prairie Home Companion; there is pasta; there will be dancing. With Joel. I am a refugee, but life is as it should be for me for now. Maybe a faint glow at the tapering darkness of the tunnel will appear shortly. Maybe I will find myself a home down the road somewhere. A place to hang my hat and my heart. You never know. I guess you just have to have faith.
October 15, 2014
The Darkest Hour
Los Angeles, California
When something bad occurs in your life, say, the loss of a close friend or parent, or the unraveling of a relationship, or (though inexplicably unfair) all of the above, it is inevitable that you end up in uncharted waters. And uncharted waters is an accurate term. I am reminded of a line from the film Out of Africa, when a character quotes an antiquated map warning: This way there be dragons...
When my friend, Don, had a severe stroke back about fifteen years ago, passing away five years later, his wife, Joan, found the experience educational when it came to their family and friends. Some of the people you expect to be there for you disappear, she confided, but continued by saying that people whom you don't expect can come through in extraordinary ways.
After reading Joan Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking, I went back to the archives of Charlie Rose to watch an interview with her. I had seen it before reading the book, and found her to be a deadly dull interview subject, just one step above Henry Kissinger when it came to sleep by television. But a piece of her story came together in that interview. In the book, she wrote about a friend who brought her congee from Chinatown every day, in the months after her husband had suddenly died. In the interview, Charlie Rose tipped her hand by asking about Calvin Trillin bringing her soup each day. Anyone who is up on their Trillin knows that he lost his wife while they were waiting for a heart transplant on 9/11. Yes, that 9/11. No matter what you are going through, you are always mindful that someone else has had it harder. Often spectacularly harder.
Lydia went through a bitter divorce, and the subsequent loss of both her parents. She was a good daughter, and is a good mother and wife. And she has been a rock for me. Thankfully, because she is more or less all I've got. I stepped back from almost all of my friends to grieve for my losses privately and to give them some space to adjust to the news of my new life. Maybe this was a mistake. Now, I am beginning to tentatively reach out. Some of my friends are alarmed by my 2:00 am emails. A bit like webcards from the edge, I guess. I am more alarmed by what they tell me they are hearing about me, most of which is untrue, unfair, and enough to keep me awake at 2:00 am and beyond.
Though, through most of my life, sleep has come hard to me, when, in college, I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's account of his chronic insomnia in The Crack Up, I was horrified. How does someone get to that place? I thought. Now I know. You get there by being alone and feeling as if there is nothing left in your life that will buoy you up and help you find meaning again. I don't have children. I won't have grandchildren. I have lost all my family. In years past, I have frequently commented that my friends are my family. And I trusted they would sustain me, no matter what else happened in my life.
I was in a marriage that died a long time ago when my husband acted out in a way that would be a dealbreaker to most couples. At least that is what I now hear. I respond by saying what I learned back then: that you never know what you will do in a situation until you land there. I thought I could provide resuscitation--not just for him, but for the marriage. I thought I knew what to ask for so that the relationship could heal, could go on and could even be better. I thought I was strong enough and enough of an adult to facilitate this. But it didn't work. It only prolonged the loss and emptiness.
So, I danced. And, yes, I still dance. But my life is not salsa party 24/7. I have no friends in the salsa community, though I have many acquaintances and I enjoy the respite of being in their company when I do go out to dance. Salsa provides me with a space in time when I forget about all of the loss in my life. I have lost my friend, Sandra. I have lost my mother. I have lost my last surviving family member. And I have lost my marriage. And all in a small space of time. You expect friends to get that. And maybe some of them do. Anyway, anyone who, like a character from Isherwood's Berlin days, can live like life is a cabaret, old chum, at a time like that in their lives, is someone I would run away from, fast and far.
Last week I had a long conversation with a few friends. We went to places that I would never have gone to with anyone but Lydia and my therapist. But go, we did. I don't know how I feel about all of this. What I know is that I would never have disclosed anything about my private life to any of these friends. And I am not someone who can set out on a sales campaign of selling my desperation while wining and dining everyone in reach. I have spent months sorting through every detail of what got me to this place. I have ruminated. I have analyzed. And I have mourned alone. With the few friends with whom I tried to talk, I ended up in damage control mode, trying to clarify the distorted story they had heard or to tell my side, which felt a lot like presenting a case. I never wanted to do that, and it felt monumentally wrong. So now I talk when I need to talk to someone. And only about what I feel needs to be said. What I don't tell them is that I am in a great deal of pain. And, as F. Scott Fitzgerald conveyed in the aforementioned book, pain can keep you up until 2:00 am or later. So that is when I send out the edgy webcards. The darkest hour is said to be just before the dawn, and I see that hour at times. But, the truth is, that when you feel so alone with it all, it can sometimes stay dark all the way through the day.
When something bad occurs in your life, say, the loss of a close friend or parent, or the unraveling of a relationship, or (though inexplicably unfair) all of the above, it is inevitable that you end up in uncharted waters. And uncharted waters is an accurate term. I am reminded of a line from the film Out of Africa, when a character quotes an antiquated map warning: This way there be dragons...
When my friend, Don, had a severe stroke back about fifteen years ago, passing away five years later, his wife, Joan, found the experience educational when it came to their family and friends. Some of the people you expect to be there for you disappear, she confided, but continued by saying that people whom you don't expect can come through in extraordinary ways.
After reading Joan Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking, I went back to the archives of Charlie Rose to watch an interview with her. I had seen it before reading the book, and found her to be a deadly dull interview subject, just one step above Henry Kissinger when it came to sleep by television. But a piece of her story came together in that interview. In the book, she wrote about a friend who brought her congee from Chinatown every day, in the months after her husband had suddenly died. In the interview, Charlie Rose tipped her hand by asking about Calvin Trillin bringing her soup each day. Anyone who is up on their Trillin knows that he lost his wife while they were waiting for a heart transplant on 9/11. Yes, that 9/11. No matter what you are going through, you are always mindful that someone else has had it harder. Often spectacularly harder.
Lydia went through a bitter divorce, and the subsequent loss of both her parents. She was a good daughter, and is a good mother and wife. And she has been a rock for me. Thankfully, because she is more or less all I've got. I stepped back from almost all of my friends to grieve for my losses privately and to give them some space to adjust to the news of my new life. Maybe this was a mistake. Now, I am beginning to tentatively reach out. Some of my friends are alarmed by my 2:00 am emails. A bit like webcards from the edge, I guess. I am more alarmed by what they tell me they are hearing about me, most of which is untrue, unfair, and enough to keep me awake at 2:00 am and beyond.
Though, through most of my life, sleep has come hard to me, when, in college, I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's account of his chronic insomnia in The Crack Up, I was horrified. How does someone get to that place? I thought. Now I know. You get there by being alone and feeling as if there is nothing left in your life that will buoy you up and help you find meaning again. I don't have children. I won't have grandchildren. I have lost all my family. In years past, I have frequently commented that my friends are my family. And I trusted they would sustain me, no matter what else happened in my life.
I was in a marriage that died a long time ago when my husband acted out in a way that would be a dealbreaker to most couples. At least that is what I now hear. I respond by saying what I learned back then: that you never know what you will do in a situation until you land there. I thought I could provide resuscitation--not just for him, but for the marriage. I thought I knew what to ask for so that the relationship could heal, could go on and could even be better. I thought I was strong enough and enough of an adult to facilitate this. But it didn't work. It only prolonged the loss and emptiness.
So, I danced. And, yes, I still dance. But my life is not salsa party 24/7. I have no friends in the salsa community, though I have many acquaintances and I enjoy the respite of being in their company when I do go out to dance. Salsa provides me with a space in time when I forget about all of the loss in my life. I have lost my friend, Sandra. I have lost my mother. I have lost my last surviving family member. And I have lost my marriage. And all in a small space of time. You expect friends to get that. And maybe some of them do. Anyway, anyone who, like a character from Isherwood's Berlin days, can live like life is a cabaret, old chum, at a time like that in their lives, is someone I would run away from, fast and far.
Last week I had a long conversation with a few friends. We went to places that I would never have gone to with anyone but Lydia and my therapist. But go, we did. I don't know how I feel about all of this. What I know is that I would never have disclosed anything about my private life to any of these friends. And I am not someone who can set out on a sales campaign of selling my desperation while wining and dining everyone in reach. I have spent months sorting through every detail of what got me to this place. I have ruminated. I have analyzed. And I have mourned alone. With the few friends with whom I tried to talk, I ended up in damage control mode, trying to clarify the distorted story they had heard or to tell my side, which felt a lot like presenting a case. I never wanted to do that, and it felt monumentally wrong. So now I talk when I need to talk to someone. And only about what I feel needs to be said. What I don't tell them is that I am in a great deal of pain. And, as F. Scott Fitzgerald conveyed in the aforementioned book, pain can keep you up until 2:00 am or later. So that is when I send out the edgy webcards. The darkest hour is said to be just before the dawn, and I see that hour at times. But, the truth is, that when you feel so alone with it all, it can sometimes stay dark all the way through the day.
September 10, 2014
BFF
Los Angeles, California
My frister, Lydia (on these pages aka LOL), took me to a Dodger game on Monday night. Dodgers went into the game about three games ahead of San Francisco. We were playing the San Diego Padres; Clayton Kershaw pitching.
Lydia and I usually go to a game or two each season, and it is late in the season for us to finally get to our first game together. I had to kinda suggest, which is probably not appropriate since they are her tickets. But it is an annual ritual that I didn't want to miss. She owns a third of a full season package; two seats, loge level just under the reserve deck overhang. Perfect.
The season is winding down, and some of the concessions were closed. We went in search of nachos for Lyd and draft Stella Artois beer for me, which took us first to club level then to reserve. Then we settled down to watch the game. It was my third game this season, second Kershaw outing, the first one with Lydia, and my first win. And it was a stellar game where the Dodgers got nine runs, and, perhaps (as I haven't looked this up) an unprecedented three-error play where the ball got thrown away not once, not twice, but thrice. The fans were in stunned silence when this happened. I murmured, unbelievable. Lydia said: That was nasty.
But a win is a win. Kershaw stayed in through the eighth, and we hung in through the ninth. Lydia is now a lady of leisure, having retired from LA Unified about a week ago. She is busy plotting out what this next part of her life will be about, and this will be interesting to see. Also, it is never too soon to start thinking about life after baseball which will commence in about six weeks.
Meanwhile the Dodgers do their usual dance. In first place for much of the season, they are hanging on by 2.5 games tonight as they prepare for a three-day series with their nemesis (nemeses?), the Giants.
And, a word about Time Warner cable...they have diabolically set the bar too high for any of the other providers to contract and offer the new Dodger network to their subscribers. So, Dodgers games are only available to Time Warner subscribers, which is a small percentage of SoCal households. At the beginning of the season, it was reported that Vin Scully could not watch the away games at home when he was not traveling with the team. I watch the games through MLBTV streaming them to my TV through Google Chromecast. It works some of the time. Other times it is akin to using orange juice cans and string to replicate the telephone.
So, no surprise, being at the stadium is still the best way to watch the game. Not to mention the win. And Kershaw, who is the best pitcher on the planet. And the nachos. And the Stella beer. And sitting next to my BFF who knows both how to keep score and the answers to all of my baseball questions. All in all, it was a beautiful night at the ballpark. Go Dodgers...And thank you for reading my blog.
My frister, Lydia (on these pages aka LOL), took me to a Dodger game on Monday night. Dodgers went into the game about three games ahead of San Francisco. We were playing the San Diego Padres; Clayton Kershaw pitching.
Lydia and I usually go to a game or two each season, and it is late in the season for us to finally get to our first game together. I had to kinda suggest, which is probably not appropriate since they are her tickets. But it is an annual ritual that I didn't want to miss. She owns a third of a full season package; two seats, loge level just under the reserve deck overhang. Perfect.
The season is winding down, and some of the concessions were closed. We went in search of nachos for Lyd and draft Stella Artois beer for me, which took us first to club level then to reserve. Then we settled down to watch the game. It was my third game this season, second Kershaw outing, the first one with Lydia, and my first win. And it was a stellar game where the Dodgers got nine runs, and, perhaps (as I haven't looked this up) an unprecedented three-error play where the ball got thrown away not once, not twice, but thrice. The fans were in stunned silence when this happened. I murmured, unbelievable. Lydia said: That was nasty.
But a win is a win. Kershaw stayed in through the eighth, and we hung in through the ninth. Lydia is now a lady of leisure, having retired from LA Unified about a week ago. She is busy plotting out what this next part of her life will be about, and this will be interesting to see. Also, it is never too soon to start thinking about life after baseball which will commence in about six weeks.
Meanwhile the Dodgers do their usual dance. In first place for much of the season, they are hanging on by 2.5 games tonight as they prepare for a three-day series with their nemesis (nemeses?), the Giants.
And, a word about Time Warner cable...they have diabolically set the bar too high for any of the other providers to contract and offer the new Dodger network to their subscribers. So, Dodgers games are only available to Time Warner subscribers, which is a small percentage of SoCal households. At the beginning of the season, it was reported that Vin Scully could not watch the away games at home when he was not traveling with the team. I watch the games through MLBTV streaming them to my TV through Google Chromecast. It works some of the time. Other times it is akin to using orange juice cans and string to replicate the telephone.
So, no surprise, being at the stadium is still the best way to watch the game. Not to mention the win. And Kershaw, who is the best pitcher on the planet. And the nachos. And the Stella beer. And sitting next to my BFF who knows both how to keep score and the answers to all of my baseball questions. All in all, it was a beautiful night at the ballpark. Go Dodgers...And thank you for reading my blog.
September 5, 2014
Sigh by Sigh by Sondheim
Los Angeles, California
Have I written about Company? I can't remember, so please indulge me while I write about it here and now. It was the theater piece that changed my life when its national touring company arrived at the Ahmanson theater in Los Angeles in the early 1970s.
At that time, as I was a young adult in college, my mom asked me if I wanted to continue to attend the Civic Light Opera Season with them at the Music Center. As a family, we had always had season tickets for this season going back to the old Philharmonic theater which was just off Pershing Square. I can still remember parking underneith the park and walking to that theater, even though I was very young at that time. After that, we had gone to see musicals at the Music Center; eating dinner on our way there, sometimes at the now-defunct Edward’s Steak House, which was on Alvarado.
I have always loved musicals. I cut my teeth on them. Even as a small child, and straight through until now, I have loved the smell of the theater; the sounds of the orchestra tuning up; the rustle of the audience settling in with their buzz of conversation. Back then, as now, I could be brought to tears by the sound of a familiar overture, and felt comfortable with the familiar structure of a Rogers & Hammerstein book (there is frequently a secondary storyline of a young couple whose love doesn't work out. Le sigh...). I was well-versed in this world. Then Company blew me away.
It was the first musical I experienced that felt very modern. I know Oklahoma holds that distinction, and I get that. But this was about modern relationships. It was about marriage, it was cynical, and I was in awe. I took my cousin and a girlfriend with me to see it again. It had a similar impact on me as did the Stanley Donen film Two for the Road. I was growing up and seeing adult relationships and marriage in a more realistic light. This was cementing my revelation that marriages weren't always happy. They weren't always about everlasting love. That sometimes people marry for other reasons or just not to be alone. My dad didn't like Company. He couldn't walk away from the theater whistling the songs. But I came away with so many thoughts turning over in my head. It was gourmet food for thought. And I loved the Sondheim score.
I had seen the film West Side Story when I was very young; had loved the film of Gypsy when I was a child, and still have affection for the rather odd but fun, very Richard Lester-like film rendition of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. But this was my first pure Sondheim musical and it started up my solid passion for his work. Recently I saw the documentary Six by Sondheim. They didn't pick the six I would have, but I found it riveting. Sondheim has an astounding capacity for articulating thought at lightening speed, without pausing or stammering. That was interesting. But his ability to conceptualize complex stories and scores is what grabs me. Do I find it exciting to see musicals which have helicopters landing on the stage or huge chandeliers crashing to the stage? I do. But those scores don't hold up for me. I listen to them a lot after I've seen the shows, but within a year or two they no longer interest me. Sondheim lives on for me. Always.
I've been listening a lot to my two favorite songs by Sondheim. They are Move On from my favorite Sondheim musical (though I've never seen it staged), Sunday in the Park with George. I loved hearing that Bernadette Peters said the messages in Sondheim's music speak to her even as she is singing the words night after night. That Move On eventually told her that that was what she needed to do...to move on and leave the show. My other favorite is No One is Alone from Into the Woods. I know several people who saw Into the Woods, loved the first half but intensely hated the second. I cried through the second half, I was that moved by (spoiler alert) the aftermath of death and destruction which brought the survivers together. The concept that families can be formed in this way. The reinforcement of what we already hope and/or know... that it can take a village... that there is no such thing as happily ever after... that the best we can hope for sometimes is that things will be ok. When my life is in despair, I listen to these two songs over and over, and have for about two decades. For me, Move On is about feeling the fear but doing it anyway. No One is Alone is about comfort and hope. I could have titled this post: Fear, Comfort, & Hope, but who would have wanted to read that? Still, the truth is that many of us live in that zone. And, if you are in that zone, you might try backing up your mood with a soundtrack from Sondheim. For me, those two songs work without fail. If you find yourself similarly distressed, you might give them a try. Or, if you're just in a funk, try Comedy Tonight from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Feeling like a has-been? I'm Still Here from Follies. Relationship angst? Being Alive from the aforementioned Company. Sondheim can help you through. My only caveat is this: I would stay away from Sweeney Todd if I were you, it being more or less geared to homicidal impulses. Seriously. You must trust me about this. And I thank you for reading my blog.
Have I written about Company? I can't remember, so please indulge me while I write about it here and now. It was the theater piece that changed my life when its national touring company arrived at the Ahmanson theater in Los Angeles in the early 1970s.
At that time, as I was a young adult in college, my mom asked me if I wanted to continue to attend the Civic Light Opera Season with them at the Music Center. As a family, we had always had season tickets for this season going back to the old Philharmonic theater which was just off Pershing Square. I can still remember parking underneith the park and walking to that theater, even though I was very young at that time. After that, we had gone to see musicals at the Music Center; eating dinner on our way there, sometimes at the now-defunct Edward’s Steak House, which was on Alvarado.
I have always loved musicals. I cut my teeth on them. Even as a small child, and straight through until now, I have loved the smell of the theater; the sounds of the orchestra tuning up; the rustle of the audience settling in with their buzz of conversation. Back then, as now, I could be brought to tears by the sound of a familiar overture, and felt comfortable with the familiar structure of a Rogers & Hammerstein book (there is frequently a secondary storyline of a young couple whose love doesn't work out. Le sigh...). I was well-versed in this world. Then Company blew me away.
It was the first musical I experienced that felt very modern. I know Oklahoma holds that distinction, and I get that. But this was about modern relationships. It was about marriage, it was cynical, and I was in awe. I took my cousin and a girlfriend with me to see it again. It had a similar impact on me as did the Stanley Donen film Two for the Road. I was growing up and seeing adult relationships and marriage in a more realistic light. This was cementing my revelation that marriages weren't always happy. They weren't always about everlasting love. That sometimes people marry for other reasons or just not to be alone. My dad didn't like Company. He couldn't walk away from the theater whistling the songs. But I came away with so many thoughts turning over in my head. It was gourmet food for thought. And I loved the Sondheim score.
I had seen the film West Side Story when I was very young; had loved the film of Gypsy when I was a child, and still have affection for the rather odd but fun, very Richard Lester-like film rendition of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. But this was my first pure Sondheim musical and it started up my solid passion for his work. Recently I saw the documentary Six by Sondheim. They didn't pick the six I would have, but I found it riveting. Sondheim has an astounding capacity for articulating thought at lightening speed, without pausing or stammering. That was interesting. But his ability to conceptualize complex stories and scores is what grabs me. Do I find it exciting to see musicals which have helicopters landing on the stage or huge chandeliers crashing to the stage? I do. But those scores don't hold up for me. I listen to them a lot after I've seen the shows, but within a year or two they no longer interest me. Sondheim lives on for me. Always.
I've been listening a lot to my two favorite songs by Sondheim. They are Move On from my favorite Sondheim musical (though I've never seen it staged), Sunday in the Park with George. I loved hearing that Bernadette Peters said the messages in Sondheim's music speak to her even as she is singing the words night after night. That Move On eventually told her that that was what she needed to do...to move on and leave the show. My other favorite is No One is Alone from Into the Woods. I know several people who saw Into the Woods, loved the first half but intensely hated the second. I cried through the second half, I was that moved by (spoiler alert) the aftermath of death and destruction which brought the survivers together. The concept that families can be formed in this way. The reinforcement of what we already hope and/or know... that it can take a village... that there is no such thing as happily ever after... that the best we can hope for sometimes is that things will be ok. When my life is in despair, I listen to these two songs over and over, and have for about two decades. For me, Move On is about feeling the fear but doing it anyway. No One is Alone is about comfort and hope. I could have titled this post: Fear, Comfort, & Hope, but who would have wanted to read that? Still, the truth is that many of us live in that zone. And, if you are in that zone, you might try backing up your mood with a soundtrack from Sondheim. For me, those two songs work without fail. If you find yourself similarly distressed, you might give them a try. Or, if you're just in a funk, try Comedy Tonight from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Feeling like a has-been? I'm Still Here from Follies. Relationship angst? Being Alive from the aforementioned Company. Sondheim can help you through. My only caveat is this: I would stay away from Sweeney Todd if I were you, it being more or less geared to homicidal impulses. Seriously. You must trust me about this. And I thank you for reading my blog.
August 25, 2014
Defensive Indifference
Los Angeles, California
Defensive Indifference is a play seen in the latter innings of a baseball game in which the defensive team, either ahead or behind by a large amount, allows a player to advance a base without any attempt to put the runner out. When you follow baseball, and I have followed the Los Angeles Dodgers more or less religiously over the past few years, and you see this play, you think Wow. They just don't care if that guy runs. This can happen in relationships, as well. And maybe especially in long term relationships.
When I was in college as an English major, I took a class in my junior year that was entitled Contemporary Novels. The reading material was grim: Jerzy Kosinski; Alain Robbe-Grillet; Kurt Vonnegut; Ken Kesey; Joyce Carol Oates. I gravitated to majoring in literature with a desire to read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald. And, although this sounds tres pretentious, I fell in love with Shakespeare's comedies. There were entire chunks of literature, particularly British literature, that I ran from, kicking and screaming. But I won't list (as those Dickens afficianados out there will be horrified).
The novels class was at 2:00 in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I was taking all my classes on those days. That meant four eighty-minute classes back to back, starting with Children's Literature at 8:00 and heading straight through until 3:15. In the middle was The Romantic Age, and Greek & Roman Epics in Translation, which inexplicably excluded any roman epics.
The worst thing about the novels class was that we had to critique one of the novels standing up in front of the class. And then be critiqued by the professor and our fellow students. Scary. Up until this point, I would check out of any class that required this. But my senior year was coming, and I knew I was going to have to deliver oral theses like this in senior seminars. So, even though I was the timid student who took Inductive Logic, for the love of heaven, to avoid taking Public Speaking, I stayed in this class.
The best thing about this class was the professor, Wallace Graves. Wally resided in the neighborhood where I had lived while attending junior high and high school, and I had often walked past his house. He had written a novel, entitled Trixie, that I had read before I took his class. He quickly became one of my favorite professors. A no bullish*t kind of guy who ran the class like a seminar. He gave us various writing exercises, and we dissected the novels one-by-one, most of which were disturbing. The novel I chose to critique was The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski. My theme was Kosinski's handling of the use of violence in the novel. But, para siempre, I digress...
In one of the discussions in class something came up about the definition of love, and as students in our young 20s, we came up with all kinds of nonsense. After listening to us, and after one of us asked him what his definition was, Wally said that love was the willingness to keep open the doors of communication. I carried this definition with me through the ending of my relationship with David, who was my longtime boyfriend and then fiance, at that time. And into my marriage with Billy. And I still believe it.
But what does that have to do with defensive indifference, you may very well ask. I believe that when a relationship drifts, or when a partner strays, even if just emotionally; indifference is the killer. Yes, relationships are about communication, but they are also about attention. You can't just talk. You have to listen. When you are not paying attention you can end up with defensive indifference. There goes your partner taking off down the baseline. What you don't notice appears to the other to be what you don't care about.
I didn't notice that Billy was suffering from depression. In response to my questioning him about his behavior, he would tell me that he was in a rut, and I tried hard to understand. Over a decade, I suggested changes that I thought would help, including counseling. But every suggestion was met with resistance. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to make any changes. He wanted to stay in the rut. It didn't make sense to me, even though I had watched his father spend every day of the last ten years of his life...in his late fifties and early sixties...in front of the TV. I was perplexed by his complaining when we spent a day together running errands, and his constant annoyance with traffic and other drivers. I didn't get his unwillingness to do much of anything socially besides dining out or going to a happy hour. While I had long ago identified it as a big problem, I still wasn't really attentive to the possibility that Billy was using alcohol in a way that wasn't just social. And, while I was spinning my wheels trying to help him out of his "rut" he was consistently defensively indifferent to me. That this coincided with the many deaths and endings in my life most likely compounded my own unhappiness with our life together.
Sometimes things happen in a relationship and recovery is not possible. When you glue back together a favorite cup which has broken, you can use it for a pen holder on your desk. You see the cracks, but you remember all the tea and cocoa it held for you before you got careless with it. Marriages are not crockery. Each broken edge remains sharp. Each uneven seam holds a painful memory. Its ability to no longer contain what you want to put into it makes you feel depleted and empty.
When my friend, Carol, ended her longtime marriage, she told me that she had done everything to save it except standing on her head, naked. A relationship should not require that intimate posture. But it does require intimacy. It requires a mutual sharing of feelings, thoughts, and fears (sorry to say this, guys!), as well as the ability to see and hear what is going on. That is intimacy. That is attention. Without it, all you got is defensive indifference. And that can be a game-changer.
Defensive Indifference is a play seen in the latter innings of a baseball game in which the defensive team, either ahead or behind by a large amount, allows a player to advance a base without any attempt to put the runner out. When you follow baseball, and I have followed the Los Angeles Dodgers more or less religiously over the past few years, and you see this play, you think Wow. They just don't care if that guy runs. This can happen in relationships, as well. And maybe especially in long term relationships.
When I was in college as an English major, I took a class in my junior year that was entitled Contemporary Novels. The reading material was grim: Jerzy Kosinski; Alain Robbe-Grillet; Kurt Vonnegut; Ken Kesey; Joyce Carol Oates. I gravitated to majoring in literature with a desire to read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald. And, although this sounds tres pretentious, I fell in love with Shakespeare's comedies. There were entire chunks of literature, particularly British literature, that I ran from, kicking and screaming. But I won't list (as those Dickens afficianados out there will be horrified).
The novels class was at 2:00 in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I was taking all my classes on those days. That meant four eighty-minute classes back to back, starting with Children's Literature at 8:00 and heading straight through until 3:15. In the middle was The Romantic Age, and Greek & Roman Epics in Translation, which inexplicably excluded any roman epics.
The worst thing about the novels class was that we had to critique one of the novels standing up in front of the class. And then be critiqued by the professor and our fellow students. Scary. Up until this point, I would check out of any class that required this. But my senior year was coming, and I knew I was going to have to deliver oral theses like this in senior seminars. So, even though I was the timid student who took Inductive Logic, for the love of heaven, to avoid taking Public Speaking, I stayed in this class.
The best thing about this class was the professor, Wallace Graves. Wally resided in the neighborhood where I had lived while attending junior high and high school, and I had often walked past his house. He had written a novel, entitled Trixie, that I had read before I took his class. He quickly became one of my favorite professors. A no bullish*t kind of guy who ran the class like a seminar. He gave us various writing exercises, and we dissected the novels one-by-one, most of which were disturbing. The novel I chose to critique was The Painted Bird, by Jerzy Kosinski. My theme was Kosinski's handling of the use of violence in the novel. But, para siempre, I digress...
In one of the discussions in class something came up about the definition of love, and as students in our young 20s, we came up with all kinds of nonsense. After listening to us, and after one of us asked him what his definition was, Wally said that love was the willingness to keep open the doors of communication. I carried this definition with me through the ending of my relationship with David, who was my longtime boyfriend and then fiance, at that time. And into my marriage with Billy. And I still believe it.
But what does that have to do with defensive indifference, you may very well ask. I believe that when a relationship drifts, or when a partner strays, even if just emotionally; indifference is the killer. Yes, relationships are about communication, but they are also about attention. You can't just talk. You have to listen. When you are not paying attention you can end up with defensive indifference. There goes your partner taking off down the baseline. What you don't notice appears to the other to be what you don't care about.
I didn't notice that Billy was suffering from depression. In response to my questioning him about his behavior, he would tell me that he was in a rut, and I tried hard to understand. Over a decade, I suggested changes that I thought would help, including counseling. But every suggestion was met with resistance. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to make any changes. He wanted to stay in the rut. It didn't make sense to me, even though I had watched his father spend every day of the last ten years of his life...in his late fifties and early sixties...in front of the TV. I was perplexed by his complaining when we spent a day together running errands, and his constant annoyance with traffic and other drivers. I didn't get his unwillingness to do much of anything socially besides dining out or going to a happy hour. While I had long ago identified it as a big problem, I still wasn't really attentive to the possibility that Billy was using alcohol in a way that wasn't just social. And, while I was spinning my wheels trying to help him out of his "rut" he was consistently defensively indifferent to me. That this coincided with the many deaths and endings in my life most likely compounded my own unhappiness with our life together.
Sometimes things happen in a relationship and recovery is not possible. When you glue back together a favorite cup which has broken, you can use it for a pen holder on your desk. You see the cracks, but you remember all the tea and cocoa it held for you before you got careless with it. Marriages are not crockery. Each broken edge remains sharp. Each uneven seam holds a painful memory. Its ability to no longer contain what you want to put into it makes you feel depleted and empty.
When my friend, Carol, ended her longtime marriage, she told me that she had done everything to save it except standing on her head, naked. A relationship should not require that intimate posture. But it does require intimacy. It requires a mutual sharing of feelings, thoughts, and fears (sorry to say this, guys!), as well as the ability to see and hear what is going on. That is intimacy. That is attention. Without it, all you got is defensive indifference. And that can be a game-changer.
July 18, 2014
A Horse With Wings
Los Angeles, California
I want to cry
I want to feel the world around me whirling by
I want to cry for those that live
And those that die
You sing a lullaby...
I want to cry.
I want to pray
That all my wishes could come true after today
And should I put a word for you in?
Should I say
An extra Kyrie?
I want to pray.
I want to lie
I want to think that things are better than they are
I want to think we've gotten further...
And, that far is just an inch away.
I want to lie.
A horse with wings
I want to think of things like that and other things
I want two brothers, one who laughs
And one who sings.
I hope the future brings
A horse with wings.
I want to know
The things they told me way back when were really so
I want to make a little mark
Before I go
Not barely just get by
I want to fly...
After: Ricky Ian Gordon, R&H Music
I want to cry
I want to feel the world around me whirling by
I want to cry for those that live
And those that die
You sing a lullaby...
I want to cry.
I want to pray
That all my wishes could come true after today
And should I put a word for you in?
Should I say
An extra Kyrie?
I want to pray.
I want to lie
I want to think that things are better than they are
I want to think we've gotten further...
And, that far is just an inch away.
I want to lie.
A horse with wings
I want to think of things like that and other things
I want two brothers, one who laughs
And one who sings.
I hope the future brings
A horse with wings.
I want to know
The things they told me way back when were really so
I want to make a little mark
Before I go
Not barely just get by
I want to fly...
After: Ricky Ian Gordon, R&H Music
July 5, 2014
Doug & Bodhi
Los Angeles, California
I've always envied people who have lifetime friends. Not that I don't have a couple, and more who have gone through most of my adult life with me. My closest friends have known me since the early '80s. That's a good run. And there is Debbie Davis, who was my buddy at girl scout camp, and my partner in crime in our troop meetings. I mastered the quietly shot comment; she the massive fit-of-giggles response. We were often asked to step outside (our meetings were at a park, so that punishment meant playing on the swings, which, as you can imagine, was impactful). I have a lot of friends, and a good circle of fristers (don't know what a frister is? Search for it above...).
Billy's closest friend is Keith. They grew up on the same street from the time they were both babies, and the story is that once they could crawl up/down the street they became friends. They still are. But there was a period of time when my husband's best friend was Doug.
We met Doug and Holly through another couple, and the four of them were tight friends. But the other couple had recently had a child, and was distracted by all that goes along with that. We got to know Doug and Holly better on a trip to Catalina, and they reached out to us as friends. Soon we were doing everything with them. They were great fun, and more. They were our social style gurus. We learned a lot from them. At the time we were entertaining friends a lot -- wine & beer & pans of paella or pots of cioppino, or eggplant parmigiana. We were exploring Greek cuisine, and cooking a lot of Mexican food, and a little bit of Chinese. We fed our guests at our industrial spool table, or at our blue picnic table on our backyard patio. It was all casual college and not at all chic.
Doug and Holly entertained on a totally different plane altogether. They were cooking out of Wolfgang Puck and the cooking bible of the day, The Silver Palate. For fancy dinners, Holly set a table with her china, crystal, and silver. They stocked their house with the beer & spirits that were their guests' favorites. And Doug tended bar and served cocktails.
Doug and Holly were traveling like adults, too. They dropped by to visit us after a weekend spent at San Ysidro Ranch. They traveled to New York to see theater and eat at Lutece. They were living the good life, and that looked pretty good to us. We started attending the Santa Barbara Vintners' Festival together each April, and meeting often for dinner and overnights at their home.
When Billy's dad died at 66, after a long decline, Doug sent Billy a letter that began with: This is the first time I have tried to send a hug through the mail. And Holly called to offer something that I have remembered and utilized ever since. She said that they were making the chicken salad from the Silver Palate and that they could drop it off for us, bring it and stay with us, or they could stay home and would see us at the funeral a few days later. Billy wanted them with us, and I was glad. At that point in time Billy and Doug were like brothers, or better, frothers.
But our friendship didn't stay close. There were changes on both sides, some conflict between Holly and me which I foolishly exacerbated. They started a family and rebonded with the couple who also had children, so we went our own ways. But we stayed in touch, and saw them occasionally. And Billy and I lamented that they were no longer the force and friends in our lives that we had so enjoyed.
The last time we saw them was at the start of the recession and we were all heartily panicked. We met at Father's Office in Culver City. After that, Holly and I kept the connection with birthday and holiday cards and the occasional email, and Billy received the newsletter from Doug's business. It was through that newsletter that we learned that Doug was ill. Evidently he had suffered a fall, contracted a virus during an outpatient pain-relief procedure, and that necessitated a months-long hospital stay during which he had several surgeries. He came out of the hospital with compromised mobility, and subsequently developed more infections, and an immune disorder. Somewhere along the line he was diagnosed with diabetes.
Doug passed away on May 6th. Yesterday, the 4th of July, he would have been 59. Doug told us that when he was a child, and he was an only child, he always thought the celebrations and fireworks of the holiday were because it was his birthday. I am sure that everyone who knew Doug will remember him on that day. I am very good with dates. About half of the days of the year have some meaning or memory for me. Many of them are birthdays of friends or relatives long gone. And, when I woke yesterday, I woke with the memory of Doug, and I thought about him all day.
And then, today... My dear frister, Diana, emailed to let me know that her daughter, Jenny, had delivered a son, Brendan and Diana's first grandchild. He is Bodhi Samuel. And he was born on the 4th of July.
Billy and I will continue to mourn Doug. He was in so many ways larger than life. An intelligent, funny, wonderful man with a voice that I can still hear. But I think Doug would appreciate this new life sharing his birthday. And for me, it eased the pain of Doug's loss by a small amount. I feel joy for this new family. And I feel the universe is somehow balanced by the loss and gain on the holiday that we, in this country, all celebrate. Welcome to the world, Bodhi. We will miss you forever, Doug. Thank you for reading my blog.
June 15, 2014
Flag Day
Healdsburg, California
The concept of two people in love who choose not to marry is probably fine and dandy for most people. I'm totally ok with it. What has not been fine nor dandy is the concept of two people in love who, by law, were prohibited from marrying. So I am exceedingly glad and grateful that last year California joined with the states that have made same-gender marriages lawful. Hooray!
And so, Todd & Christopher married. They picked a fabulous venue; invited interesting and fun friends; planned enjoyable activities. In addition, the weather was perfect. But, for me, the centerpiece was to witness this marriage of two people who mean so much to me. They are family.
It's been ages since I have attended the wedding of friends. Everyone's kids seem to be getting married now. Or, worse, they're already married and making my friends into grandparents. My frister, Diana, is about to take up that mantle, and she was at Woodstock, for heaven's sake. It's come to that. But I digress.
We spent the weekend at the Hotel Healdsburg and walked around town each morning. We ran into other wedding guests in the lobby or elevator or out on the sidewalk in town. It was good to see Christopher's parents, Jerry and Marge, who we had spent a Christmas with us all in Carmel in 2012. And I loved spending time with the girls: Todd's sister, Carole; Lauren, who was with Christopher at Colgate University, and Sarah who attended University of Michigan where she and Christopher were in a graduate program. The girls.
The day before the wedding, we had lunch at Oakville Grocery, then drove to a winery for a reserved wine tasting. It was a lovely vineyard spot, and we got to know some of the other guests while we were there, including another Todd (he called himself Todd One after I called him Todd Two), who I later discovered is quite the dancer! Then Todd, Christopher, Carole, Cheryll, Finn & Dash (C & T's godsons and ringbearers), and I went to the wedding site for a run through. This was where I met Brian, who was doing the other reading. When I did my practice reading, Katie, the very lovely wedding coordinator exclaimed, Oh dear. You are going to have to do it louder than that. Ok, I responded, but did you have to preface that tip with 'oh dear'? Then she told Brian the same thing (without the oh dear), so he did it a second time. That sounded exactly the same as the first time! I chided. He made a face at me. She's right, Katie said. Another face. I like him.
That night, I went by Carole's room to pick her up for the 'rehearsal' dinner, and I got to hang out in her room and chat while she finished getting ready. It felt good to be there, and to spend time with her. We were both part of the wedding. Carole, who had gotten her license on line, would officiate the ceremony, and I with my reading, which was a poem by Pablo Neruda.
The ceremony was perfect in every way. Well, almost... My nervousness about the reading was just slightly edged off by the Aperol spritzes they were serving. I partook just one, just before. We were gathered in the ruins of an old winery, on a beautiful property somewhere in Santa Rosa. I had worried that my voice would quaver, but when I got up to read, the spritz had evidently sent the quavering down to my knees, and my legs shook perceptably during my brief time in the spotlight. Note to self: next time have two spritzes, as that should take it all the way down and out of my body through my feet! Oh well. Brian, the other reader, did excellently and we high-fived and hugged when it was over. I love this stuff..!
After the ceremony we walked up the hill past vineyards to a large, long table set on a plateau (so Todd). We had dinner there watching the sun dip, with the glow of early evening fading to night. After an amazing dinner (so Christopher), we hied ourselves back to the ruins for some dancing, then finally back to our respective hotels. We managed to close the bar at Hotel Healdsburg, where I spent the time talking to Curt, our long-past employee who was at Pepperdine University with Todd. That was the connection, back some twenty-five years or so. Twenty years ago, to the weekend, we had been at Curt's wedding in Orlando, Florida with Todd. Lots of changes in those twenty years. Christopher had yet to come into Todd's, and, subsequently, our lives. And we were just friends then. Now we are family.
There was brunch the next morning at The Shed in Healdsburg which was a very cool spot. Christopher had told me that The Shed was very Bronte Healy. I replied: Do you mean that it is forgetful and disorganized? That's not good in a restaurant. But, he had meant it in some way as a compliment. Once we arrived there I decided that he thinks I am airy and white. More like an airhead, I'm afraid...
Later that day, Carole rode with us to Oakland Airport, and we flew home that day. Back to life as we know it in Los Angeles. Back to care of my mom. Back to the crises, problems, and complications that, I suppose, we all have in our lives in varying degrees. We boarded late and didn't sit together, but I managed to cadge a window seat. I looked out the window of the plane for most of the flight. I wanted to just keep flying. Just stay up there. Just go. Thelma and Louise. Funny how you can get those dark thoughts, even at a time when you have spent such a stellar weekend, and been fortunate enough to be part of such a very memorable event. But that's life. Sometimes in the middle of all of the sh*t, there really is a pony. And despite everything else, and everything that was awaiting me back in my real life, I felt heartily thankful to have been part of the ponyride. It was the best. Thank you for reading my blog. Aperol Spritzes raised: Here's to TB & CK! I LOVE YOU BOTH.
It's been ages since I have attended the wedding of friends. Everyone's kids seem to be getting married now. Or, worse, they're already married and making my friends into grandparents. My frister, Diana, is about to take up that mantle, and she was at Woodstock, for heaven's sake. It's come to that. But I digress.
We spent the weekend at the Hotel Healdsburg and walked around town each morning. We ran into other wedding guests in the lobby or elevator or out on the sidewalk in town. It was good to see Christopher's parents, Jerry and Marge, who we had spent a Christmas with us all in Carmel in 2012. And I loved spending time with the girls: Todd's sister, Carole; Lauren, who was with Christopher at Colgate University, and Sarah who attended University of Michigan where she and Christopher were in a graduate program. The girls.
The day before the wedding, we had lunch at Oakville Grocery, then drove to a winery for a reserved wine tasting. It was a lovely vineyard spot, and we got to know some of the other guests while we were there, including another Todd (he called himself Todd One after I called him Todd Two), who I later discovered is quite the dancer! Then Todd, Christopher, Carole, Cheryll, Finn & Dash (C & T's godsons and ringbearers), and I went to the wedding site for a run through. This was where I met Brian, who was doing the other reading. When I did my practice reading, Katie, the very lovely wedding coordinator exclaimed, Oh dear. You are going to have to do it louder than that. Ok, I responded, but did you have to preface that tip with 'oh dear'? Then she told Brian the same thing (without the oh dear), so he did it a second time. That sounded exactly the same as the first time! I chided. He made a face at me. She's right, Katie said. Another face. I like him.
That night, I went by Carole's room to pick her up for the 'rehearsal' dinner, and I got to hang out in her room and chat while she finished getting ready. It felt good to be there, and to spend time with her. We were both part of the wedding. Carole, who had gotten her license on line, would officiate the ceremony, and I with my reading, which was a poem by Pablo Neruda.
The ceremony was perfect in every way. Well, almost... My nervousness about the reading was just slightly edged off by the Aperol spritzes they were serving. I partook just one, just before. We were gathered in the ruins of an old winery, on a beautiful property somewhere in Santa Rosa. I had worried that my voice would quaver, but when I got up to read, the spritz had evidently sent the quavering down to my knees, and my legs shook perceptably during my brief time in the spotlight. Note to self: next time have two spritzes, as that should take it all the way down and out of my body through my feet! Oh well. Brian, the other reader, did excellently and we high-fived and hugged when it was over. I love this stuff..!
After the ceremony we walked up the hill past vineyards to a large, long table set on a plateau (so Todd). We had dinner there watching the sun dip, with the glow of early evening fading to night. After an amazing dinner (so Christopher), we hied ourselves back to the ruins for some dancing, then finally back to our respective hotels. We managed to close the bar at Hotel Healdsburg, where I spent the time talking to Curt, our long-past employee who was at Pepperdine University with Todd. That was the connection, back some twenty-five years or so. Twenty years ago, to the weekend, we had been at Curt's wedding in Orlando, Florida with Todd. Lots of changes in those twenty years. Christopher had yet to come into Todd's, and, subsequently, our lives. And we were just friends then. Now we are family.
There was brunch the next morning at The Shed in Healdsburg which was a very cool spot. Christopher had told me that The Shed was very Bronte Healy. I replied: Do you mean that it is forgetful and disorganized? That's not good in a restaurant. But, he had meant it in some way as a compliment. Once we arrived there I decided that he thinks I am airy and white. More like an airhead, I'm afraid...
Later that day, Carole rode with us to Oakland Airport, and we flew home that day. Back to life as we know it in Los Angeles. Back to care of my mom. Back to the crises, problems, and complications that, I suppose, we all have in our lives in varying degrees. We boarded late and didn't sit together, but I managed to cadge a window seat. I looked out the window of the plane for most of the flight. I wanted to just keep flying. Just stay up there. Just go. Thelma and Louise. Funny how you can get those dark thoughts, even at a time when you have spent such a stellar weekend, and been fortunate enough to be part of such a very memorable event. But that's life. Sometimes in the middle of all of the sh*t, there really is a pony. And despite everything else, and everything that was awaiting me back in my real life, I felt heartily thankful to have been part of the ponyride. It was the best. Thank you for reading my blog. Aperol Spritzes raised: Here's to TB & CK! I LOVE YOU BOTH.
May 25, 2014
March, April & May
Los Angeles, California
There is no way to get around it. I stopped writing. I stopped writing in my journal. I stopped writing posts for this blog. I was trying to carry shopping lists in my head. Pen, nor pencil, was not applied to paper. Keystrokes were only for the purpose of virtual shopping on Gilt, J Crew, and some surfing around websites.
It was time to stop writing here. Earlier posts had some humor; had some lightness of tone...at least I hope so. I tried. But lately, what with my blog namesake, my very special frister, passing away, everything got sad and heavy. So, am I now prepared to commence writing with joy and verve? Hardly. Life is still presenting its challenges. Especially on the Mom front, as she recently had a fall and broke her femur, which, I am told, is the most painful break you can suffer. It is the largest bone in our bodies and the one that produces red blood cells. I had to make the decision about surgery. Without it, she would have spent the rest of her life in bed. So I signed the consent form, then sat alone in the hospital waiting room while an orthopedic surgeon installed a rod in her leg.
Have I ever mentioned that I am not a good sleeper? That's an understatement. When a periodontist wanted to use a general anesthetic (there is a TH in there, people, the H is NOT silent) for a surgical procedure that I needed, I told him: Good luck with that. I can't sleep in bed, so if you can put me to sleep here, I will greatly appreciate it. He did, by the way. So, here was the miracle of Betty's surgery: I fell asleep in a chair in the waiting room on the surgical floor. I had been in ER with her from 1:30 to 5:00 that morning, so, that may explain it. The surgeon woke me up to tell me that she had come through fine. Before surgery, when she was already prepped, the anesthesiologist (H) introduced himself, and told me that he had administered anesthesia last fall when my mom had her retinal surgery. Same hospital...
The weird thing is that she was hospitalized a year earlier to the day. I spent that entire day in the ER with her at a different hospital where she was later admitted. I had nothing to eat but a protein bar that entire day. Two of my salsa friends, Joel and Carol, were texting me and offering to bring me a burrito (Joel) or scotch (Carol) or tequila (Joel again). I didn't take them up on it, though I did think about it.
It's been a rough year. A rough five years, really. So how do you pull up humor and lightness when you have all of this on your mind 24/7? Well, here in my blog world, I evidently don't. I just try to write and let who I am, and where I am, come through. It's probably death to the whole concept with which I began my blog. But, as I wrote long ago, a blog takes on a life of its own. What I am learning at this point in my life is that life takes on a life of its own. The struggles I have in caring for my mom are not unique to me. As I often say: We're either going through this, we've gone through it, or we will go through it... And I am also hearing in my head: This is it. Life is not a dress rehearsal. I'm not quite ready for the bucket list, but I do know, I fervently understand, that I need joy, I need laughter, and I want contentment in my life. While I need to continue to focus on my mom at this point in my life, I am striving for balance. So how can I say that there is no humor to be found here? Because that goal of establishing balance in my life at this time, is frankly hilarious... Thank you for reading my blog. Aren't you tired of my apologizing for it? I'm not going to...at least not today...
There is no way to get around it. I stopped writing. I stopped writing in my journal. I stopped writing posts for this blog. I was trying to carry shopping lists in my head. Pen, nor pencil, was not applied to paper. Keystrokes were only for the purpose of virtual shopping on Gilt, J Crew, and some surfing around websites.
It was time to stop writing here. Earlier posts had some humor; had some lightness of tone...at least I hope so. I tried. But lately, what with my blog namesake, my very special frister, passing away, everything got sad and heavy. So, am I now prepared to commence writing with joy and verve? Hardly. Life is still presenting its challenges. Especially on the Mom front, as she recently had a fall and broke her femur, which, I am told, is the most painful break you can suffer. It is the largest bone in our bodies and the one that produces red blood cells. I had to make the decision about surgery. Without it, she would have spent the rest of her life in bed. So I signed the consent form, then sat alone in the hospital waiting room while an orthopedic surgeon installed a rod in her leg.
Have I ever mentioned that I am not a good sleeper? That's an understatement. When a periodontist wanted to use a general anesthetic (there is a TH in there, people, the H is NOT silent) for a surgical procedure that I needed, I told him: Good luck with that. I can't sleep in bed, so if you can put me to sleep here, I will greatly appreciate it. He did, by the way. So, here was the miracle of Betty's surgery: I fell asleep in a chair in the waiting room on the surgical floor. I had been in ER with her from 1:30 to 5:00 that morning, so, that may explain it. The surgeon woke me up to tell me that she had come through fine. Before surgery, when she was already prepped, the anesthesiologist (H) introduced himself, and told me that he had administered anesthesia last fall when my mom had her retinal surgery. Same hospital...
The weird thing is that she was hospitalized a year earlier to the day. I spent that entire day in the ER with her at a different hospital where she was later admitted. I had nothing to eat but a protein bar that entire day. Two of my salsa friends, Joel and Carol, were texting me and offering to bring me a burrito (Joel) or scotch (Carol) or tequila (Joel again). I didn't take them up on it, though I did think about it.
It's been a rough year. A rough five years, really. So how do you pull up humor and lightness when you have all of this on your mind 24/7? Well, here in my blog world, I evidently don't. I just try to write and let who I am, and where I am, come through. It's probably death to the whole concept with which I began my blog. But, as I wrote long ago, a blog takes on a life of its own. What I am learning at this point in my life is that life takes on a life of its own. The struggles I have in caring for my mom are not unique to me. As I often say: We're either going through this, we've gone through it, or we will go through it... And I am also hearing in my head: This is it. Life is not a dress rehearsal. I'm not quite ready for the bucket list, but I do know, I fervently understand, that I need joy, I need laughter, and I want contentment in my life. While I need to continue to focus on my mom at this point in my life, I am striving for balance. So how can I say that there is no humor to be found here? Because that goal of establishing balance in my life at this time, is frankly hilarious... Thank you for reading my blog. Aren't you tired of my apologizing for it? I'm not going to...at least not today...
February 25, 2014
The Memorial
Los Angeles, California
On Valentine's Day, Billy and I flew to Sacramento. We attended Sandra's memorial service the following day. I dreaded the finality of the service, but before I could even think about that, we had to get to the airport. Valentine's Day fell on a Friday this year, and it was the kick-off of the three-day, President's Day getaway weekend. They were also closing the 405 freeway again, which is Billy's route home. Lyd called me from the road that afternoon and told me that the freeways were a mess. But it wasn't so bad, and we got to the airport in time to grab a cocktail before our flight.
By the time we picked up the rental car at Sacramento airport, and headed out Highway 50 towards Fair Oaks, it was around 10:30, and we'd had pretzels and honey-roasted peanuts for dinner. At about 10:45, we drove past a Taco Bell in Rancho Cordova. It was closed. Everything seemed to be closed, but we finally found a McDonalds, nestled in a corner of a Costco parking lot. We were the only car in drive-through, and they politely asked us if we would mind waiting for our fries. I never regret waiting for fries as it's almost guaranteed that they will be hot and fresh.
I was right about the fries, and I ate the best Big Mac I have ever had in my life. Not that I eat them very often. It had probably been about a decade since I had eaten one. There was a worker blowing debris from the Costco parking lot. I watched him in thought as I hungrily finished my late dinner.
The following morning, we dressed, ate breakfast at the hotel and drove off to Sandra and John's church for the memorial. We got lost, but still got to the church a bit early. As we were walking towards the entrance I saw a couple walking up from the opposite direction. It was Jim and Sue who had been on the Panama yacht charter trip with us. We had met them at Houston airport (I think it's named after a Bush), before we flew together with John and Sandra to Panama City. Billy and I enjoyed Jim and Sue a lot, but had only seen them once since that trip. We had a later planned trip with them and John & Sandra, but Sue had a serious illness (an unidentifiable virus which required that she be placed in an induced-coma state for over a week), and the trip was canceled as a result.
It was serendipidous to run into them. We sat with them through the service and at the reception following. She was able to fill me in on her visits with Sandra towards the end of her life. Visits I was not able to do, and something I lamented to her daughter, Cathy, when we held onto each other at the reception. Cathy told me that her mom wouldn't have wanted me to see her at that point. And also told me that Sandra's passing had been peaceful. Then she invited us to come to the house that evening.
Sandra's service was so beautiful and so heartwarming. I had dreaded it. But, afterwards, I felt so grateful for it. The church holds about 800 people and it was almost full. After we were seated, Sue and I got up and went to greet John. When he hugged me, he said, You lost your friend. She was more than that. People whom I had never seen before told me that they recognized me from the pictures in Sandra & John's house. I know that there was a double photo framed picture on her family wall showing each of us in our birthday tiaras. We knew a lot of people there. Most of both John & Sandra's extended family and quite a few friends whom we had met through the years at Glenbrook, Kona, Ojai, and down at Rancho Valencia. Everything about the service and reception, right down to the Hawaiian food, was so Sandra. It reminded me, and I commented to Sue, about the line in The Big Chill when, at the reception following the memorial service, someone says they throw a really big party for you on the one day that they know you can't come... Everything was perfect. The only thing missing was Sandra.
And that continues to be true. I don't feel her loss as acutely as I expected. But I remember this from when my dad died. At many times during the day, it would feel as if he were still with my mom, up at their home on the hill. I didn't see him every day, so the delusion wasn't difficult. Probably wasn't even a delusion. Just the way that we cope when someone disappears. It takes time for the full realization to set in.
When we visited them in October and the two of us looked at the photos from Kona Village, Sandra looked at me earnestly and said that we were really lucky to have had those times there. I can still hear her unique voice in my head saying that. But the truth is that I was really lucky to have met her there at Kona Village; to have had her in my life for a decade and a half; lucky just to have known her. A lot of vodka martinis were shared during that time, and our proposed toasts were what I always declare when I toast with anyone and everyone: Here's to us.
Here's to you, Sandra, girlfriend & frister extraordinaire. I will miss you forever...
Thank you for reading my blog.
Sandra's service was so beautiful and so heartwarming. I had dreaded it. But, afterwards, I felt so grateful for it. The church holds about 800 people and it was almost full. After we were seated, Sue and I got up and went to greet John. When he hugged me, he said, You lost your friend. She was more than that. People whom I had never seen before told me that they recognized me from the pictures in Sandra & John's house. I know that there was a double photo framed picture on her family wall showing each of us in our birthday tiaras. We knew a lot of people there. Most of both John & Sandra's extended family and quite a few friends whom we had met through the years at Glenbrook, Kona, Ojai, and down at Rancho Valencia. Everything about the service and reception, right down to the Hawaiian food, was so Sandra. It reminded me, and I commented to Sue, about the line in The Big Chill when, at the reception following the memorial service, someone says they throw a really big party for you on the one day that they know you can't come... Everything was perfect. The only thing missing was Sandra.
And that continues to be true. I don't feel her loss as acutely as I expected. But I remember this from when my dad died. At many times during the day, it would feel as if he were still with my mom, up at their home on the hill. I didn't see him every day, so the delusion wasn't difficult. Probably wasn't even a delusion. Just the way that we cope when someone disappears. It takes time for the full realization to set in.
When we visited them in October and the two of us looked at the photos from Kona Village, Sandra looked at me earnestly and said that we were really lucky to have had those times there. I can still hear her unique voice in my head saying that. But the truth is that I was really lucky to have met her there at Kona Village; to have had her in my life for a decade and a half; lucky just to have known her. A lot of vodka martinis were shared during that time, and our proposed toasts were what I always declare when I toast with anyone and everyone: Here's to us.
Here's to you, Sandra, girlfriend & frister extraordinaire. I will miss you forever...
Thank you for reading my blog.
February 13, 2014
Sandra Geary Cook
Sandra Geary COOK
Obituary
COOK, Sandra Geary
Sandra passed away peacefully with family and friends at her side on January 30, 2014. Born in Sacramento on May 23, 1936, Sandra Lee Geary, a fourth generation Sacramento native, was the first child of John 'Jack' and Madelyn Geary. Preceded in death by her parents and her brother John, Sandra is survived by her loving and devoted husband of 55 years, John E. Cook, Jr.; her children, Cathy (Tom) Asmann, Laurie Cook, and John (Tracey) Cook; her grandchildren, Carter, Jennifer, and Hunter Asmann, Grace Garlough and Kiana, Emily, and Spencer Cook; her siblings Sally (Bill) Enos, Kathy (Larry) O'Connor, Patty (Hank) Crowle, Bill Geary, Mary (Dennis) Ellingson, and Mike (Victoria) Geary; her sister-in-law, Sally Cook Adams; many nieces and nephews; and countless friends. Sandra attended Immaculate Conception Parish School and Saint Francis High School in Sacramento. After attending Stanford University, she received her degree in nursing from Saint Joseph's College in San Francisco and later earned a Master of Science - Nurse Practitioner degree from the University of California at Davis. Sandra was an achiever who took control, managed efficiently, and accomplished what she set out to do. A former president of the Junior League of Sacramento and a member of the boards of Jesuit High School, the Mercy Foundation, and Crocker Art Gallery, Sandra worked tirelessly to make a positive difference in the world. She was a beautiful, loving, elegant, and gregarious woman, a generous philanthropist, and an eternal optimist with an enduring faith in God. Sandra traveled throughout the world, but her favorite places - outside of her home near Sacramento - were her lakeside residence in Glenbrook, NV, on Lake Tahoe's eastern shore, and Kona Village Resort on the island of Hawaii, where she was known and loved by all. Most often, Sandra found her peace at home, enjoying her amazing garden, reading, meeting with her book clubs, and watching movies with her husband, the love of her life. The world will be a lesser place without Sandra and we will miss her always. Interment will be private, but all who loved Sandra will be welcomed at a memorial Mass to honor her memory and celebrate her life on February 15, 2014, 11:00 a.m., at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church, 307 Montrose Drive, Folsom, CA 95630. In lieu of flowers, the family suggests a donation to a charity of the donor's choice .
January 10, 2014
Perdido en el Espacio
Los Angeles, California
And so, we returned home in on the first day of the year. Enthusiasm about returning home: some. New year's resolutions: none. On the other hand, the start of the year always feels a bit like a clean slate to me, or better yet (because who uses a slate anymore, anyway?) a clean page of an 9x12 lined paper tablet (I know, I know, the rest of you have moved on to a blank screen on your iPad. Shut up...). I had a lot that I needed to do, and I suppose my one new year's wish was that I could focus and get going.
Sandra's illness has progressed to hospice. It has become difficult to get past her gatekeeper, John. Often when we call, he tells us that it is not a good time. When we ask how she is doing, he says terrible. I question when it will be a good time, and when she will not be feeling terrible, but I try not to get too deep into those thoughts. Their daughter, Cathy, is there. I miss talking to Sandra, and even with the understanding that she might be beyond that, I keep hoping for a day when we can get through to her. But my hope for those days is waning. And I am mindful that sometimes people who are terminally ill hang on for an event, and often that is getting through the holidays. So, we wait to hear.
Meanwhile, I am grateful that it is 2014. While I'm not that superstitious, the 13 of the previous year bothers me a bit, since my father died on the 13th day of the month. I also don't put hats on the bed, but I'm not sure why. Is that Irish (which I'm not)? Or Russian (which I'm not)? I picked it up somewhere, but am clueless as to the origin. I can probably walk under ladders, if necessary, but I don't like to drive behind a truck with ladders on it. I keep hearing news reports of a ladder in a lane on the freeway. I don't want to be behind that truck.
So with the new year ahead of me, I am reflecting on the blank slate, the clean page, the space ahead of me. I sometimes text my salsa friends in what little Spanish (ok, it's spanglish, really) I know. After lamenting that I didn't have an eñe to enable me to access a spanish keyboard, one of my friends directed me to the options in my iPhone which would enable me to access a spanish keyboard. Voila (ok, I know that's french), I now had my eñe! I have studied this spanish keyboard, and one of the things I keep staring at is the space key: Espacio.
I would like to have more space in my life; space in time; space in my home; space in my thoughts. Everything gets so jumbled together, that I often feel I can only deal with one thing at a time with space between. Probably a sign of aging, or of my own deficit of attention. I didn't used to be like this, but when I start thinking about everything my brain starts to spin out, and I lose my focus. I get lost. Not lost in space, but lost in the lack of it. There are probably a hundred things I could do for this, including yoga and meditation. But if you know me, you will laugh out loud at that suggestion. I tried yoga and in each of the asanas my brain was screaming: How long do I have to stay in this position? It feels awful! So, yoga is not the answer to the space question. Meditation? I suppose I could meditate on that option...
Still there is space in the months ahead, and I will try to utilize them well. What with thinking so much about Sandra, I am no longer able to concentrate my efforts on my three things which I delineated on the home page of my blog. Not doing much cooking. Catching up retroactively on my blog-writing. Still dancing. Always dancing. It helps a lot. So, maybe one and-a-half out of three is not so bad. At least not so bad when you are lost in espacio. Thank you for reading my blog.
And so, we returned home in on the first day of the year. Enthusiasm about returning home: some. New year's resolutions: none. On the other hand, the start of the year always feels a bit like a clean slate to me, or better yet (because who uses a slate anymore, anyway?) a clean page of an 9x12 lined paper tablet (I know, I know, the rest of you have moved on to a blank screen on your iPad. Shut up...). I had a lot that I needed to do, and I suppose my one new year's wish was that I could focus and get going.
Sandra's illness has progressed to hospice. It has become difficult to get past her gatekeeper, John. Often when we call, he tells us that it is not a good time. When we ask how she is doing, he says terrible. I question when it will be a good time, and when she will not be feeling terrible, but I try not to get too deep into those thoughts. Their daughter, Cathy, is there. I miss talking to Sandra, and even with the understanding that she might be beyond that, I keep hoping for a day when we can get through to her. But my hope for those days is waning. And I am mindful that sometimes people who are terminally ill hang on for an event, and often that is getting through the holidays. So, we wait to hear.
Meanwhile, I am grateful that it is 2014. While I'm not that superstitious, the 13 of the previous year bothers me a bit, since my father died on the 13th day of the month. I also don't put hats on the bed, but I'm not sure why. Is that Irish (which I'm not)? Or Russian (which I'm not)? I picked it up somewhere, but am clueless as to the origin. I can probably walk under ladders, if necessary, but I don't like to drive behind a truck with ladders on it. I keep hearing news reports of a ladder in a lane on the freeway. I don't want to be behind that truck.
So with the new year ahead of me, I am reflecting on the blank slate, the clean page, the space ahead of me. I sometimes text my salsa friends in what little Spanish (ok, it's spanglish, really) I know. After lamenting that I didn't have an eñe to enable me to access a spanish keyboard, one of my friends directed me to the options in my iPhone which would enable me to access a spanish keyboard. Voila (ok, I know that's french), I now had my eñe! I have studied this spanish keyboard, and one of the things I keep staring at is the space key: Espacio.
I would like to have more space in my life; space in time; space in my home; space in my thoughts. Everything gets so jumbled together, that I often feel I can only deal with one thing at a time with space between. Probably a sign of aging, or of my own deficit of attention. I didn't used to be like this, but when I start thinking about everything my brain starts to spin out, and I lose my focus. I get lost. Not lost in space, but lost in the lack of it. There are probably a hundred things I could do for this, including yoga and meditation. But if you know me, you will laugh out loud at that suggestion. I tried yoga and in each of the asanas my brain was screaming: How long do I have to stay in this position? It feels awful! So, yoga is not the answer to the space question. Meditation? I suppose I could meditate on that option...
Still there is space in the months ahead, and I will try to utilize them well. What with thinking so much about Sandra, I am no longer able to concentrate my efforts on my three things which I delineated on the home page of my blog. Not doing much cooking. Catching up retroactively on my blog-writing. Still dancing. Always dancing. It helps a lot. So, maybe one and-a-half out of three is not so bad. At least not so bad when you are lost in espacio. Thank you for reading my blog.
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.