Loss and Celebration

Los Angeles, California

I believe that there are few things as important in friendship as celebrating birthdays. Lisa has a big birthday coming up shortly, so I jumped on early to present her with her gift and take her to lunch at King's Fish House. Joel and I celebrated his birthday there last summer, sharing oysters at the bar. Lisa and I shared poke and a caesar salad. My friend Todd also has a big birthday this month, coincidentally the day after Lisa's. A decade separates them, but who's counting?

Todd and I lost our friend, Curt, last week. The fact that he is gone hasn't quite settled in. I think I'm still not ready to accept the loss, nor to write about him. Maybe after the holidays. It doesn't feel real yet. He lived in Florida. I'm still thinking he is in Florida. So, I set my mind and heart on celebrating the birthdays of my friends. Not on his heartbreaking death. Not now. Not yet.

A few days after my birthday lunch with Lisa, I dressed up to attend her birthday party at Terra restaurant on the top floor of Eataly. If you aren't lucky enough to live near a city where there is an Eataly, you must travel to one. It is a wonder. And Terra is one of my favorite places to go here in Los Angeles. Eataly is located in Century City, a place that was created when 20th Century Fox got into financial problems in the 1960s and sold off a significant portion of their backlot to create what is known as Century City. I found a dress at the shopping center there, cutting school in eleventh grade to shop with a friend, and later wore it to one of the proms I attended. That was a long time before Eataly arrived after a significant remodel of the shopping center, one of the few remaining outdoor malls in Los Angeles.

Fourteen of us girlfriends celebrated Lisa's birthday enjoying burrata with grilled radicchio, butternut squash ravioli, woodfire-roasted chicken and a cream-filled birthday cake. It was a lovely, warm late-fall day and we sipped rosé as we looked out over the pretty hills of the westside. I am a city girl, through and through. Drop me into a top floor of a hotel or onto a rooftop like this with a view of the city and I am beyond content. It was a lovely celebration. And, with the loss of Curt still tenderly fresh, I thought and remarked that at the end of my life these are the times I will remember. These special events, birthdays, and holidays shared with my friends.

I am a believer in secondary gains. That out of something bad or something sad, something good can come. The loss of Curt has given me a new awareness and a shifted perspective on the people in my life and especially on those friends whom I have often called family. Todd and I have already shared too many losses but we have borne them together. And Lynnette, who I believe God provided for me at a time when I needed that kind of a friend. I know with certainty we will always be there for each other. And my friend, Connie, who has included Joel and me in her family's Thanksgiving for almost a decade. My friendship with her is for our lifetimes. With the recent loss, these are among the friends who are in my heart this season. I am lucky to know these and other friends like Lisa who fill spaces in my heart. And I am aware that not everyone has friends like these nor does everyone have the capacity to be a genuine friend. I know my fortune in the gifts I have found in these friendships. 

So, happy birthday to my frister, Lisa. And to my friend, Todd. They have been topping my most-nightly gratitude list all week, as has my late friend, Curt. We never know who we might lose at any time. So, my secondary gain is a renewed cognizance of true, intentional friendship, and of my mindfulness to make every effort to be that kind of friend. To spend time and to celebrate together. For they are not long, these days of wine and roses (and rosés).

The Gut Punch

Los  Angeles,  California

I am sitting in a parking lot near a bank, a CVS, and a See's Candies store, thinking about a friend who is dying, and trying to summon up the energy to go into CVS to buy lights for my small Christmas tree; having apparently thrown away perfectly fine lights in a recent flurry of cleaning unwanted items out of my guesthouse. And that sentence clocks in as the longest I have written. Possibly ever.

It is the end of November, summer just a heartbeat ago but now it is chilly by LA standards. I have my seat-warmer full on and am loathe to leave my car in light of this.

I want to write about my friend. But I can't. Not yet. Grief doesn't hit me like a pain in my heart anymore, the way it did in the past, back when I was losing people two at a time or three in a year. Now it arrives in my stomach, a gut-punch that settles in and feels like I must carry it around. A fullness of grief.

My friend is still alive and yet I carry the grief already. Are there those people who, at a time like this, can appreciate all that their friend has brought to their life? Who can replace some measure of the grief with the joy of having known their soon-to-be-departed friend? I am not that. I cannot feel that. I always feel miserable sadness that cuts me off at the knees and arrives with a persistent pissiness of why. Why? Why does life need to be like this? Selfishly, I feel singled out in this grief. I feel like that A Far Side comic bear with the target on its front. Bummer of a birthmark, Hal (the caption read).

I will write about him later. About his goodness and kindness. About his unmatchable ability to tell a self-deprecating story, often leaving me in helpless laughter. About his expensive university education that still left him unable to spell and the fun of teasing him about this. About all of the memories we shared over twenty-five years of friendship. And about how much he helped me during the worst time of my life.

But not now. Not when I am carrying this grief in advance of his passing and railing at the unfairness of it all. Life, love and death. Why does my full heart inevitably end up in this place with this dreaded weight? And please don't tell me that the loved one I am about to lose will be in a better place. Unless you mean that he is headed to Judgement City and will end up on the bus with Meryl Streep. It's not that I believe there is nothing. It's just that belief is not knowing. And in truth, we don't know, so let me leave it at that. What I do know is that the world will be a lesser place when Curt leaves it. Of that belief, of that fact, I am certain. So someone please tell me, where is the fairness in that? 

Talking, Thinking, Writing

Los Angeles, California

I keep a Blog Posts note page in my phone where I jot down ideas. I also have a Writing page where I often put quotations and excerpts from articles and books I have read. I have been known to pull over to the side of the road to enter something onto these pages. If I don't write them down, I can lose ideas that I fantasize might have been utilized to create my best pieces of writing. Say goodbye to a rare chance. And losing an idea that seemed brilliant at the time can throw you into thinking about Hadley losing the valise that contained Hemingway's writing. Ok, allow me a delusion of grandeur.

Today, when I went to the note page, I found this note: Talking, Thinking, Writing Jordan Peterson Canadian psychologist. See, part of the problem with this method is that, in reading the note, I want to say: Can you say more about this? Like, where did that come from? I sit with rapt attention during the homily at the church I attend. I listen to podcasts, including On Being which offers perspectives on faith and philosophy, and Marc Maron's podcast, WTF. I listen to Fresh Air on my local NPR station. I watch Bill Maher's Real Time. And, like magic, as I write this I remember. Jordan Peterson was a panel guest on Real Time.

Backstory aside, this concept of talking, thinking, and writing really, really speaks to me. I try to spend time talking about my thoughts (though it is difficult in this day to have an in-depth discourse with my friends) and listening to others' thoughts. I am exceedingly fortunate that Joel is always there to listen to me in our discussions, knowing that this requires stamina and patience on his part. And my best frister, Lynnette, offers me the same patience in our conversations and in some ways even more so because, unlike Joel, we don't agree on some issues. But from the start, we established a friendship that offered time as well as an ear and shoulder. So, with the way everyone rushes around these days, our conversations are golden. And after these, and conversations with other friends or even brief discourse with workers or strangers I encounter, I take time to wander around my own mental circle, pondering. And after that I write.

Peterson was speaking about how we approach issues in our lives. The comment may have been generated about political issues. I don't recall. But the point was that we need to do that trinity of process. We talk a lot. Much of that is inconsequential, but some of it, sometimes even just a stray comment here and there, can be profound. And to subsequently really think about these things in some depth, and to further flow those thoughts into written form, creates a necessary organic system. And perhaps a path to understanding when we are on different or even diverse sides of an issue.

I have dealt with anxiety since I was eleven years old. My joke is that before that, I was just nervous. I have spent a great deal of time in therapy, and I do understand the origin of that anxiety. Recently I read an article about PTSD and it addressed writing therapy. In writing therapy you write about your trauma experience over and over again. I write a lot. Not just here, but in a personal journal and in long emails to my pen pal. I have always written. It is my thing. But I have never specifically written about that first panic attack that set me on a lifelong path of confronting and dealing with anxiety. In fact, I don't recall that that first panic attack ever came up with any specificity in my many years of therapy. But, probably because of the tools I acquired through that long process, I have finally honed in on what generated that first episode. It is now as clear as glass to me. So, have I written about it? Uhhh, no. Not yet. But I will.

There is so much trauma in our lives and in our world. I recently met three of my girlfriends for breakfast and our conversation turned to the conflict in Israel. I was the only non-Jewish person out of the four of us. And after listening to them, I came away with an understanding that their experience in being raised by Jewish parents who lived at the time of the Holocaust was very different from my own upbringing. It was instilled in them that hate could and would be in front of them, just because they were Jewish. That the Holocaust could happen again. When she was young, one of my friends had told her parents that she didn't believe it. That times had changed. But now as we see an upsurge in anti-semitic behavior in our own country, all of these friends were feeling wary and concerned. I came away from that conversation thinking a great deal about it. I don't think I had ever really gotten that. I grew up with Jewish girlfriends who lamented, sometimes sourly, the profusion of Christmas all around them. I have a friend who, when she was a child, had someone burn a cross on their family's front lawn. I knew these things, but I never truly got the fact that they had grown up differently, with the installed cognizance of the tragic history of anti-semitism. All I could do to try to understand this was to compare it to my upbringing as a girl. Throughout my life, I had often tried to explain this to men (who also probably never got it), that I was taught by drill that, as a girl, I always had to be vigilantly aware that the potential danger of assault came along with being female. That, through no fault of my own, there was a heightened risk of becoming a victim, due only to my gender. I assume these girlfriends got that warning as well.

While reflecting on all of this, I recalled seeing the film Julia which in part dealt with the Nazis and the start of the war in Europe. In the film, the Nazis broke into a university in Vienna. Part of their assault was to swing students like two people can do when throwing you into the pool. Only they threw them over the balcony to their death. I was so disturbed by that scene that I wanted to run out of the theater. And the blatant inhumanity it showed stayed with me to this day many decades later. As a result, I never saw Schindler's List. I wanted to. But I just could not.

I was not raised with that intensity of mindfulness about the Holocaust. Yes, I knew Nazis were horrible. I knew that my father had served in the Pacific and that at that time in the US, the Japanese were equally feared. But neither fear was really instilled in me. And, frankly, I know more about The Civil War, because of Ken Burns and because we always got there in my American history classes. Especially in high school, we lagged behind and just didn't get to World War II or later.

And so, afterwards I thought about what I had learned at that breakfast. And I talked about it with Joel. I wrote about it in brief form to my friend, Larry. And I am writing about it here. How important is it to take time to think and to distill those thoughts garnered from spoken word? And to cement those words into written form? It is a way to approach all that swirls around us in our lives today. Life has been complicated by so many factors over the past two decades. The harmful side-effects of the internet and the now-known toxicity of "social" media, with a significant percentage of our country devolving into a base-supported madness. And on the other side, extreme and significantly harmful wokeness. But some of our problems have been around much longer. And after my breakfast with three friends garnering better learning of their experiences, I felt that benefit of talking and thinking. And subsequently, a reinforcement of the vital importance of writing.

The Frister Package

Los Angeles, California

Upon returning home from Carmel, I found myself (as I often do after vacations) in an amped-up state of motivation. Yes, I missed being there. And, I missed the easy, unscheduled time with Joel. But I felt no post-vacation letdown. My focus was forward. This is, historically, the best part of every year for me. My birthday opens up to the period between Halloween and Christmas, with much activity and, hopefully, merriment. So coming home from Carmel in the afterglow of the Halloween parade (see previous post), and so much sustained time with Joel, put me into that familiar space. And then...

The calls started coming in. Well, to be more accurate, the pre-call texts arrived. What is it about our communication these days that requires these layers? ...a text first and sometimes an appointment to talk voice-to-voice. Forget about face-to-face, although to be accurate that would have been wholly inconvenient as only one of the four calls came from friends who are local (and I really hate FaceTime).

So, I listened to four friends who were all in some state of extremis: Family or marital issues. Financial, personal health, and/or health of a family member issues. All real, legitimate OMG/WTF stuff. I heard the pain and emotion as I listened. And I tried to give some helpful input. Truth be told, I grew up not getting attention for my own needs, but rather for what I could provide for my mother's. So, I think I am better schooled at being needed than being needy. And maybe that's not uncommon. I can see so clearly when the issue is in the lives of my friends. It's only in addressing my own issues  that my thinking gets murky. So, I spent the time and offered what I could, to what degree of help I cannot know.

In full and reminding disclosure, I am an emotional sponge. When people are hurting, I hurt. It takes abuse of the privilege for me to get to a place where I have taken in too much and have to step back. And that rarely happens. With my closest friends, I will be there beyond reason, often abandoning what I need to be doing in  order to listen and try to help. So I was fully there during all four of these calls.

We are living in turbulent times. The news is horrible, there are wars in the world, continuing gun violence in our country, rage on the road in our communities, upheaval in our relationships. Sometimes all that I can offer my friends and myself is the advice to breathe, both physically and in the sense of taking a breath/break. I suspect we are all not taking enough breaks from the onslaught. And, to me, what seems to suffer the most is our lost art of communication. One of the things I loved most about being in Carmel was how many strangers we met. It happened in stores, and in bars, and at the parade. It wasn't just random, idle comments, but real discourse. It felt like good will, and it felt so retro. We used to do this. We used to connect.

I did connect in conversation with my hurting friends last week, after getting through the gateways of texting and time. But once the crises passed, it was back to texting, or worse, silence. I do get it. We're all rushing around. Not breathing. Not taking breaks. Or taking the breaks at night in the rush to watch one of many ongoing television series on our screens. I'm generally not watching these series, but I am still guilty of getting with the program. I text my friends that I am thinking of them. I text an offer to maybe connect for a chat... next week? I want to change this, but I also don't want to be intrusive. And, I do worry that we are too far past it. That our communication pickle can never be turned back into a cucumber.

I clearly remember that when we first adopted email, I was ecstatic. I felt we had reinstated the lost art of written communication. I wrote long emails, channeling the type of missives of Jane Austen's day, and eagerly awaiting responses. But, for the most part, that has gone out with the bathwater, as texting is now the primary form of communication. For me, texting is an expediency when confirming plans or running late. But it mostly reminds me of the brevity of passing notes between classes in school. And, speaking of expedience, tagging? The graffiti of communication? I demur.

In response to my friends' gratitude for my lending my ear and virtual shoulder, I texted back to them: You're welcome. It's all part of the frister package. It's just that in life today, it seems to me that the frister package is shrinking as our communication with each other has been predominantly reduced to keystrokes. And being on the other end of it increasingly feels very disconnected and isolating. There is a lot of talk about the epidemic of loneliness. Loneliness is a rampant reality, as is the viral toxicity of texting when it is used as a substitute for genuine connection. It is a pickle, indeed.

Tidings of Candy Corn and Joy

 Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

And then it was Halloween. Carmel incorporated as a city on this date over a hundred years ago. And way back, almost thirty years ago, was the only time I attended the annual parade celebrating the city and Halloween. I had driven to Carmel on my own, motivated by the stories of a new friend's travels. She had traveled alone for two years with only a backpack, working in exotic places before moving on to the next. I could not in any measure of imagination do anything like that. But I could travel to Carmel on my own. When visiting Carmel, we had been renting a tiny house from a friend for several years. I was comfortable in both the house and the town, to where we had first traveled in 1982. So I spent two nights alone in the familiar little house before being joined by Tom. And that year, on Halloween, we had attended the parade.

This year, Joel and I wandered around town before settling in to watch the parade. Anyone in costume is welcome to join the parade and there were a lot of costumes. Also a lot of old cars, mostly convertibles with the passengers in frankly silly costumes, tossing candy bars out to those of us who lined Ocean Avenue. While waiting for the parade to begin, we found a perch on a small stone wall on the median of the street. The couple perched beside us were from Austin, Texas and we were enjoying our conversation with them when someone approached who identified himself as being a city worker, and politely informed us that we would need to move from sitting on the World War I monument as it was historical. No one argued. We all cheerfully complied and moved up the median. The husband from Austin found a large boulder to sit on. The rest of us stood or sat on the ground of the median. The Austin husband commented that he hoped his rock wasn't historical. Historical aside, the parade is ragtag hilarious. We laughed, applauded, and cheered to its end, then said goodbye to our fellow squatters and headed to Aw Shucks for oysters.

In all my years in Carmel, I had never eaten in this Ocean Avenue restaurant, though I have walked past it hundreds of times on my way to or from The Sock Shop where I buy socks for myself and my friends. Oysters are a birthday tradition for Joel and I, started way back when we first got together, almost ten years ago. And we had gone to Connie and Ted's in Hollywood for oysters on my birthday two years ago. It was our first restaurant meal since the pandemic had begun, and we had dutifully showed our vax cards before being admitted to that restaurant.

The retail stores and restaurants in Carmel were giving out candy to anyone in costume. We were seated at the oyster bar in Aw Shucks when two little girls in princess and fairy costumes came in carrying their Jack O'Lantern totes which were being utilized for treats. They climbed up on stools to show one of the shuckers how much candy they had. The little girls were adorable, and excited. That's their dad, Joel said to me. And I thought, only in Carmel. But I'm certain this doesn't only happen in Carmel. I'm sure things like this happen in all of the places where there is a sense of community. A sense of wanting merriment in the community. A sense of slowing down to enjoy frivolity in a greater world seemingly devoid of such pace and trivialities.

We enjoyed our oysters, while watching a World Series game. It was the last day of October. Wasn't it just summer a few minutes back? As we walked out of the restaurant, meandering down Ocean Avenue on a fairly warm, autumn night, I felt joyful and content. My late friend, Pam, often spoke of how she and her sister would play the glad game (taken from Pollyanna) whenever life got too heavy. The world is surely heavy out there, right now. Sometimes it feels like more than ever. But on this night, in this town, holding Joel's hand as we walked, I lost my connection with our imperfect world, and felt grateful for this truly happy Halloween.

Pray for Peace

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

Returning to Carmel for the first time since March 2020 has been truly wonderful. Joel and I have been staying in the house I have rented before, which is located out by what is known in Carmel as 'the point.' It is a short walk to the beach and a bit longer one into town but very doable. It is a wonderful house, certainly larger than we need, but with the necessary well-appointed kitchen (read: Wolf range), both indoor and outdoor fireplaces, and an additional seating area around a fire pit. It follows my creed: Never stay in a house that isn't equal to or better than the one you live in!

Time's been spent indulging in a great deal of recreation and relaxation. We've been watching baseball playoff games at various pubs and restaurant bars, walking around town, enjoying the bagpiper who plays down the sun at The Inn at Spanish Bay. Weather has been a bit chilly, but we did pack appropriate attire.

Our rental car is a hybrid Hyundai Santa Fe, which Joel is enjoying driving. I have never driven an SUV in my life, a record I am not inclined to break, so Joel is our designated driver. He likes driving this car so much that he has been checking them out on sales sites online. The most fun part of this car is that it has Florida license plates. Did someone drive it from Florida to Central Coast, California? From the first day, whenever something odd or funny would happen to us, we would say to each other in explanation: We're from Florida. When we needed help with the streaming system at the house and a young latino came to the house to help us (part of the family who manages this property), I told him: By the way, we're NOT from Florida. When we parked next to a car with Nevada plates, I asked Joel: Do you think they are really from Nevada?

Joel dropped me off at the Mission Basilica to attend Mass last Sunday. When I used to spend months in Carmel, I would attend Mass every Sunday. The first time was with Sandra. That was back in the day of Father John, who was splendid. The current pastor is an older priest. He is Irish and retains a bit of his brogue. His homily was about peace, and illustrated by his own experience coming of age in Northern Ireland at the time of the troubles. Peace is possible, he said. As we look at the world today, at the Middle East and Ukraine; at what recently happened in our country again, this time in Maine, it's hard to believe that. But praying for peace is a good thing.

We've been away from the news which makes me realize how grinding on one the news can be. I grew up with a father who felt it was important to read the news every day. When I took Political Science in my first year of college, the professor admonished us from his assumption that none of us were aware of what was happening in the world. But now we have a 24-hour news cycle which is designed like everything else in media, social and otherwise, to suck us in and keep us sucking. A break points out what happens when you step away from the incessant stream. At home, I check the news and the weather online every morning along with my emails, then I check again before bedtime. And (guilty pleasure), I do like to watch Anderson Cooper on CNN while I'm cooking. But being away in this beautiful place, I stopped it all. I even stopped Wordle, breaking my streak of 400+ days. And it all felt good.

It will be difficult to leave here, but we still have events to come, including a birthday, watching the World Series, and attending the annual Halloween parade. And surely another visit to hear the bagpiper play down the sun, closing another day in this magical place. So along with my prayer for peace I am also endeavoring to acknowledging my gratitude. I am grateful for being safe. For being happy. And, most certainly, for once again being here in my beloved Carmel.

Stamps for Art

 Los Angeles, California

My friend, Art, phoned to tell me that his brother had passed away. Just two days before, my friend and pilates partner had emailed about the loss of her brother. It was a bad week for brothers. I sent a note, enclosed in a card, to both. I never had a brother. I have often wished I would have, as it would have changed a family dynamic that leaned heavily and dangerously into a sister/mother triad. Throwing a brother into the mix would have shaken things up, and likely in a good way. For me, the younger sister of an older sibling, undiagnosed but evidently on the spectrum, a healthy male sibling might have upset a toxic family applecart in a revolutionary manner. Or maybe not.

But, perhaps for that reason, I have a reverence for brothers. As a teen, my girlfriends and I thought that older brothers would bring home their friends. We fantasized about where that could lead. Of course these imaginary brothers were never nerds. They were the coolest of the cool. The brothers we deserved.

We never thought ahead to what it would feel like to lose a brother. In both these recent cases, my friends lost older brothers. I felt sympathy for their loss, as well as a faint reminder of my envy for their experience of having a brother. They were lucky to have brothers. They were unlucky to have lost them.

So I prepared cards and notes. My mother and aunt had instructed me that condolence should be conveyed with a note, not a card. But, times change. I don't know if people are sending condolence texts, but I wouldn't be surprised. I, however, sent cards with notes enclosed. I carefully addressed the envelopes adding return address labels. And stamps. One was easy. It was a pretty stamp with the word Peace. Choosing Art's stamp was more difficult. Art is a successful graphic artist. When we began our business, he did our corporate identity: business cards; stationery; advertisements. And Art and I collaborated on projects like the brochure for the product Tom had created, as well as Christmas cards and party invitations. I wrote the words; Art did the art. So, I carefully perused all the Forever stamps I had collected over time, trying to choose one that would be appropriate for him in art and meaning. But Art's brother had died in a violent manner. Obviously the John Lennon stamps weren't appropriate. I kept looking. Selena? No. Isadora Duncan? OMG. Sylvia Plath? Why did I have so many stamps honoring people who had died in pretty horrific ways? I had some Peanuts stamps, but they were clearly not appropriate. I finally decided on an O. Henry stamp. I have no idea how O. Henry died and I am not about to google. The color of the stamp matched the ink of the address. Done.

Losing a brother is inordinately sad. Losing anyone we care about is so freaking hard. But a part of me, knowing Art, thought that he would find my search for the right stamp rather darkly funny. The older we get, the more we are able to find some humor in the darkest of our days. In fact, it is what often keeps us afloat when all else has failed. So, as I attached the O. Henry stamp, I thought to myself: O.(M.G.) Henry. Because loss is ahead of us all. I'm prepared. I have a lot of cards. And a lot of words to convey my sympathy. So, who would have thought the stamps would be the conundrum?

What Is IN There?

Los Angeles, California

News arrives that there is a new Covid vaccine available. I think most of us greet this news with a mix of gratitude and resignation. I am too often reminded that Covid is still around. Recently, my BFF Lynnette had to cancel her visit when her husband came down with Covid after a family birthday party. This week, due to a current surge in cases, I wore a mask at the market for the first time since I recovered from Covid early this year (and a long recovery it was, so I am loathe to get it again).

I recently spoke with another friend about the vaccine. She will get it but is feeling vaccination burnout. A lot of questions still circulate. What will happen to people who have, in some cases cavalierly, contracted Covid multiple times? There is speculation that the virus could, down the road, lead to other diseases and syndromes. On the other side of this, what are all these vaccines potentially doing to our bodies? We are assured that the non-live viruses are harmless. Still, six vaccines in a matter of a few years, not to mention flu, shingles, pneumonia, etc. But, regardless of all, I will still get the jab. Clearly, there are those who are resistant to anything related to Covid mitigation, but only because government got involved in it with mandates and school closures. That response is akin to throwing out the baby with the bathwater. When a virus is continuing to kill with a count now upwards of a million souls, this is no time to be libertarian (nor to be stupid). As my friend remarked, and I agree, it may be like a bad cold to some, but people are still dying from it. And those who have carelessly contracted multiple cases really are participating in the shapeshifting of the virus. So, how can I, in all good consciousness, justify not doing everything I can to protect myself so that I can protect others? That is, as they say, the bottom line.

It's not strictly scientific research, but I have noticed something else that the pandemic hath wrought. When I get together with many of my friends, there is this conversational equivalence of looking through the wrong side of binoculars. This narrow view represents what everyone is talking about: Series TV! A conversation begins in innocuous fashion, perhaps over a get-together lunch, then the conversation lurches to: Are you watching _____..? Most of the time, I am not. It's not that I have shunned it across the board. I watched several good series during the pandemic, Queen's Gambit comes to mind. And I am enjoying Only Murders in the Building. I continue to watch Masterpieces when it's not Mysteries. And I have been known to watch a beloved series over again (The Durrells in Corfu -- always The Durrells in Corfu).

Series take up hours of our time. Time we could be reading good books or articles about the state of our union, meditating or pondering the meaning of life, or having a conversation with another about those and a myriad of other topics. So, why are we wasting so much time sitting silently in front of screens watching series on TV? And, I think I may have the answer. I think they put something in the vaccines that is making us do this. But... if this is true, how come I'm not doing it? Do I already have a more healthy immunity to time-wasting? And, lest this sound too uppity and judgmental, I assure you that I can waste time with the best of them. What do you think I am doing here? But this whole series TV thing reminds me of a Nora Ephron quote (paraphrasing) about pesto being the quiche of the eighties, or restaurants being the theater of the nineties (she used this twice once, in her book Heartburn and again in her screenplay of When Harry Met Sally). Is series TV the facebook of the twenties? Facebook being the last thing I can remember being relentlessly told I should be doing (and I didn't). And, as an aside, despite similar pressure, I have kept my home reality-TV free.

If there are additives in the vaccines that are affecting our behavior, what do I wish they were? Easy: Consideration, kindness, politeness, reticence, humor. I recently checked in with a friend who was dealing with a personal issue and got a long diatribe about state politics. Maybe we are all too quick to do this hop from information to complaint. And series TV does present distraction, and in most cases non-political distraction which we certainly all need. Still, we are hearing about disconnection and depression linked to our current habits. Maybe when we had seven channels plus PBS to choose from each evening, we were more inclined to pick up the telephone and connect voice-to-voice with a friend.

So with all of this in mind, I have decided to give up Hulu, Prime and Britbox (and I only have Prime to access Britbox). I've never had AppleTV and I gave up Netflix a long time ago. Will my life be a lot different? Better? I would ponder this interesting question, but I've no time at the moment as Turner Classic Movies is starting a favorite classic of mine. And no, the TCM drug didn't come from the Covid vaccine. I have been addicted to the channel for a long, long time. Maybe it was in one of the earlier flu vaccines? I don't know. Makes you think though, doesn't it? 

Heading for the Surface

Los Angeles, California

And then we had a hurricane. Seriously. A hurricane in Los Angeles. Ok, it wasn't really a hurricane but the first tropical storm warning issued in over a century. Hurricane. Tropical Storm. Tomato, tomato.

I last wrote about hummingbirds and rain, suicides and signs. I suppose all this odd weather was really about global warning. Still, it felt like something else was going on, but perhaps only to me. It is easy to see things and interpret them as signs. Not everything that happens in life is programmed like our morning alarms. And, some things happen once in a blue moon; which is, incidentally, a lunar occurrence that will present itself next week.

Back just before we locked down at the beginning of the pandemic, I was involved in a flight incident where we were diverted, from landing in Monterey, to Fresno. I wrote about it in the posts entitled That Was the Year that Was, Part 1 and 2. In the hours that we four women were together in the Ford Explorer with Dina at the wheel, we talked about a lot of experiences and traumas. And I told them about Tom's suicide. One of the women, my flight seat mate Courtney, remarked that what can lead to suicide had once been described to her as being underwater and not knowing in which direction the surface lies. I thought it was as apt a description as I have ever heard. Is that what separates us from the desperate ones -- our ability to navigate to the surface even when we're not assured that we can make it? And even more so, with the near-certainty that breaking the surface can still require treading water to survive when land is not in sight?

I once heard Robert Redford say about his film Ordinary People: I'm interested in that thing that happens where there's a breaking point for some people and not for others. You go through such hardship, things that are almost impossibly difficult, and there's no sign that it's going to get any better, and that's the point when people quit. But some don't. If you have done your cinema homework you will remember what the film's primary survivor had to come to terms with. In the boating disaster that took his brother's life, he had held on.

So, I wrote to Tom's niece about the loss of her husband. I wrote that the news was heartbreaking, especially as his loss had happened in such an incomprehensible manner. And, importantly (to me) wrote that the situation and story surrounding his death matters less than the insurmountable journey of surviving this profound and complicated tragedy. I was fortunate, I continued, to connect with other survivors who, along with my friends, helped and supported me through my own unexplainable loss. Why did I feel the need to reach out to this member of my husband's family, a family who were, frankly, pretty wretched to me after his death? Why do we do the things we do? In this case, because no matter how I was treated, I recognize and empathize that she is now in the club. You don't recover who you used to be after you survive the suicide of someone close to you. You just . . . don't. Life goes on, and you go on with it. But who you were before, before that block wall appeared in front of you when you were traveling at high speed; that 'before' you gets left behind. And my heart goes out to her and her sons because it will be a very slow dawning that they will remain a part of that wreckage forever.

No one in that family ever called, nor sent me a note or a card, after Tom died. No, that's not true. Tom's mother stayed in touch with me and sent me notes of thanks for the birthday and Christmas gifts I sent. Her last note asked me to stay in touch. I care about you, she wrote. As for the rest of them, his siblings, Tom had given up on all of them a long time before. And I understood. I have never, ever, in my life met a family of siblings who felt less for each other nor who treated each other with so little respect or caring. I thought maybe it was a syndrome of a large family with the siblings too close in age to each other. I'll never know. My mother-in-law was a kind, honest, good, salt-of-the-earth soul. But she raised five completely fucked-up kids. Go figure.

Los Angeles survived its tropical storm. We have survived earthquakes, floods, fires and, as the joke goes, awards shows. We will endure. But some of us still live in destruction, through no fault of our own. It doesn't mean we can't be happy. Joyous, even. But even in the midst of our joy there is always what John Irving called the undertoad. Yes, we are the water-treaders. The dancers, even. And our hearts and minds tell us that life is for the living and it goes on. We can survive the natural disasters of earth, wind and fire. But nothing prepared us survivors for that block wall that sped towards us. Nor for the knowledge that will dawn that you have left a part of yourself behind at the moment of impact, and it will not ever be retrieved.

The Day of the Dead

Los Angeles, California

Robbie Robertson died today. He was eighty. The metaphorical clouds have been circling for days, not unexpectedly. Everything has been pointing to this date. Tom would have turned seventy today. Had I forgotten, or ridiculously tried not to remember, that blankness would not have succeeded. Signs, everywhere I turned, kept pointing to this day.

A few days back I listened to an interview with the actress/hyphenate Joanna Gleason who spoke about her parents' deaths and about the signs that accompanied  the experience. I believe in signs, she said. I do too. Just after my father suddenly passed away, a hummingbird came to visit, hovering outside the large windows where Dad had stood just forty-eight hours before his death pointing out the abundant buds on my rosebushes which encircled a bird bath. Was it that same bird that kept coming back, day after day, batting its wings just outside the glass?

Almost two decades later, after Tom died, we purified the house with burning sage, stopping for a prayer in the last room. The prayer was to ask for release both for him and for our grief. As our prayer ended, a door slammed somewhere in the house. But my friend Carole, who was the other participant in this ritual, and I were the only people in the house.

August ninth is a powerful date. In 1969, the Manson family murders, which included Sharon Tate, occurred on the night of August 8-9. Nixon resigned on August 9th, 1974, on Tom's 21st birthday. The powerful earthquake that hit the San Fernando Valley in 1971 occurred on the midpoint of the year from that date, on February 9th. But those dates are in the past.

Yesterday I met my friends, Lisa and Susan, for breakfast. Lisa announced that someone she knew, a woman who was a good friend of a friend, had committed suicide the day before. I mentioned today's date and its many connections. That was my dad's birthday, Susan said. I left the restaurant and was driving out to the market when a text came in, letting me know that one of Tom's family members, the husband of his niece, had taken his life. The second suicide in that family. W.T.F? He left a wife and two teenaged children. My heart goes out to them, I wrote back. They just ran full-speed into a brick wall.

And then the following day, the ninth of August, began not unexpectedly with so many thoughts of Tom. Later that morning, the answer to Wordle was: Lover. Something I had always thought I would be to him, and he to me. I am very much in love with Joel. I love his soul. I love that he provides safety, trust, intimacy and dancing; things that were utterly missing in my union to Tom. Still. I thought my marriage would last forever.

So, Robbie Robertson has died on August 9th. He was 80. We came of age with The Band. And Tom had once commented, after viewing Scorcese's The Last Waltz, that Robertson was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen. That he was. I saw the NYTimes notification today while I was away from the house, coming home in a light rain. It had been cloudy all day and rained a bit this morning. Rain in the summer in Southern California is rare. But I am reminded that the day my mother passed away on a date in mid-July, it was also cloudy and drizzly. Clearly, all of the clouds, all of the signs, were gathering. And I am still wondering about that hummingbird...

The Sign of The Wind

Los Angeles, California

The Wind

I listen to the wind,

to the wind of my soul.

Where I'll end up, well,

I think only God really knows.

I've sat upon the setting sun,

But never, never, never, never,

I never wanted water once.

No never, never, never.

I listen to my words,

But they fall far below.

I let my music take me

Where my heart wants to go.

I've swam upon the devil's lake,

But never, never, never, never,

I'll never make the same mistake.

No, never, never, never.

Cat Stevens

Here is what I think I know about the Brit musician, Cat Stevens. He arrived on the scene when I was in my teens, around the same time as Elton John. The music on his album, Tea for the Tillerman was gentle, poetic, and profound. He sang Peace Train which was something we were clamoring for during the years of the horrific war in Vietnam. He experienced a near-drowning when swimming in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Malibu, here in Los Angeles County. And, after searching through philosophical and faith-based reasons for being, that near-death experience led him to faith in Islam. And here I confess that I am not knowledgeable about the Islamic faith. I am, unfortunately, more knowledgeable about Islamic terrorists. I know more about the Christian faith (and also about Christian Nationalist terrorists).

For a time, he changed his name to Yusuf Islam, and stopped performing his Cat Stevens songbook after a misinterpretation led him to think the Koran prohibited it.  He went about the world with his music, suffering a lot of discrimination and persecution for it. After 9/11 media jocks smashed his records which was silly, and at one point, after 9/11, he was refused entry to the US as he, with his gentle poetic music, was considered to be a threat, which is embarrassing. But he also made some controversial comments regarding the Salman Rushdie fatwa, which he has since walked back. He modified his name to Yusuf/Cat Stevens, and after two decades he returned to making secular music once again and in 2014 he accepted induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. But I digress ... So, what does this post have to do with Cat Stevens?

At some point in our young lives, we might have been told not to talk about politics, religion, nor sex. But I imagine that if you drew a pie chart of adult human interest, those topics would take up a significant portion of the whole. And, all three topics certainly take up a lot of the discussions I have with Joel and with my girlfriends. My last post was political. Now, in for a penny; in for a pound as the Brits say, I turn again to the subject of faith. My faith. The faith that I prayed for after early experiences in a variety of church dominations failed to ignite any sense of faith. And then faith came and I felt my prayers were answered. As a result, prayer became important to me.

I think of that faith as a gift in several ways. I think Sandra, namesake of this blog, had something to do with it. Maybe she too prayed that I would find faith. Or maybe attending Mass with her opened a door to an experience for which I had longed for many years. My connection to my faith is deep and so complicated that I can't adequately address it here. But I know what it is because I feel it. And, as I wrote in a recent post, quoting William Temple, who was the Archbishop of Canterbury during World War II: When I pray, coincidences happen. When I don't, they don't.

I attended Mass this month for the first time this year. Mostly I stayed away because of Covid; first the numbers then my own. Then we entered into the Easter period of the liturgical calendar, so I waited that out. I brought a lot of concerns with me to Mass that Sunday. Some of it was regarding my community of friendships, both new and old, connected and disconnected. But more important was my prayer for reassurance of my own faith path. Was I on the right track? Should I make a commitment to Catholicism in spite of all of the problems I had with its politics and dogma? Were my feelings about the importance of ecumenicalism valid? My prayers and questions crystalized into one big ask of God: Let me know that my faith as I perceive it is real and right. Give me a sign. It was a profound experience for me, kneeling in the beautiful church where I attend Mass, asking God for something this big and just for myself.

Mass ended at noon and I walked a block to where my car was parked. It had been cloudy when I walked into church, but now the sun was shining; the morning opening to a pretty afternoon. But, that's not a sign. And then, I got into my car and as I started it up, a song came on. I usually listen to NPR, but I had put music on as I drove to Mass, not wanting to hear chatter. I have around 1500 songs in my iTunes library and it was set on random play. And the first song that came up was The Wind by Cat Stevens.

I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul, Where I end up, well, I think God only knows. I hadn’t needed to find faith, but it was provided. I hadn’t needed to feel a connection to Mass, but it was provided. I could follow a prescribed path of religion, but the rightness of my own path was provided. I immediately felt reassurance, comfort and JOY. It is a beautiful song but one of only three Cat Stevens' songs in that large playlist. Later I remembered that once, when I had just begun attending Mass at the Carmel Mission Basilica, we had sung the hymn set to the tune of Cat Stevens' song Morning Has Broken. One more connection.

My best ex-friend (I used to call her my ex-best friend but we have reconnected) called me that afternoon and I told her about the epiphany I had experienced. She is a therapist and the subtext of many of our conversations is grounded in psychology. But she agreed that this was a sign. And maybe it was or wasn't. It doesn't matter, because faith isn't found in what we are told to believe but rather in the connection we feel to our belief in a higher power. I don't usually lean into faith more than the other support conduits I have in my life. I strive for balance. But there was a joyful imbalance in this experience that day, and in the days since. While I would never choose bad religion over good psychology, this experience underscored the power of prayer and the personal reaffirmation of faith. And listening to the wind of my soul will continue to be a gift going forward.

Post Script: After I wrote this post I saw and enjoyed the film Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Can you guess what song covered the credit roll? Yes, The Wind by Cat Stevens.

Lock Him Up

Los Angeles, California

At some time, awhile back, I decided to veer away from writing about politics. It seemed a prudent thing to do with the subject being so discouraging. But, it's been quite a challenge as the current tribalism warrants some commentary and the ex-President warrants some loud WTFs. So, I haven't been completely clear of it, in spite of making an effort, and ...this is just too good!

I'm not a fan of pugnaciousness. I am not someone who would ever see a schoolyard bully as any kind of a hero. I believe character counts. I never could have voted for someone like him. And from the moment I watched the Billy Bush video I could not and cannot conceive of how any woman could vote for that man. And, as in most things, silence or rationalization has been collusion.

The fact is that he is being charged for fraud connected to his behavior of cheating on his wife with a porn star and falsifying the records after paying her off.

From submitting our earliest written reports in elementary school, we are taught that you should never construct a one-sentence paragraph. I just broke that rule to underscore just one of the many indications of who that man is. Just based on this alone, what woman (and what man if they have any sense of decency) can believe that this is a man who should be allowed in any area of civilized society, much less as a 'leader'?

Do I base this all on that one act of infidelity? Or on the 34 felony counts of fraud? Well, in general, I am someone who has a great deal of compassion for when human flaws lead to misbehavior. Once. But this man is a scumbag who thinks anything he does is justified and then works it to herd the stupid and untethered into his base. Just between us, I don't usually refer to them as "the base." Rather, I think of them as lice.

And let me clarify. Yes, I am a liberal. But I am a moderate liberal. And though rarely, I have voted for republicans in both federal and state elections. These days, I think the fringes of both parties are dangerous and ridiculous. I think character is greatly important in politicians. I think Hillary should have left Bill over Monica. I admire Barack Obama. I think W looks pretty good now that we have the comparison of the last administration. I idolize Jamie Raskin and respect Mitt Romney. I am a supporter of having social programs. I think Medicare and Social Security benefits are essential to our aging population. And I am very grateful that I don't have to bring my own highway when I need to travel nor to fill my own potholes on said highway. If that's socialism, I'm in.

I hope, I pray, for a trifecta of indictments. One in New York. Another in DC. The coup de grace in Georgia. I just need you to find 11,780 votes. I hope he is convicted in the civil rape case. Do I think these investigations/indictments are political? Of course they are. He's a politician. He's also a criminal. Prevent this guy from ever running for another political office. Let him go back to hosting beauty pageants. That is, after we lock him up.

A fellow liberal friend texted to say that the indictment was a sobering moment in our country. He felt it is important to indicate that no one is above the law, yet this moment in history felt tragic on a Shakespearean level. I disagree. Much, much more sobering is that someone with complete and utter lack of character and ethics could ever have been looked upon as a valid leader of our country. Even if never convicted of anything, this process of grand jury indictment, and his shame and humiliation, is how we show our intolerance for everything he represents and we take a big, giant step towards making America better again.

Marble Eggs

Los Angeles, California

Spring was my mother's favorite time of year. She was born in that season which supports my theory of why autumn is my favorite season of the year. But I also think she loved that spring represented a time of renewal, of leaving the cave, of longer days of more light. I am fully my parents' child having received an imprint of anxiety from my dad and depression from my mother. Though, truth be told, they both suffered from both at times, each emotional condition being the other side of the same coin. I do think that Mom's depression led her to be grateful for sunshine and longer days. There was a bit of seasonal disaffection there. Something I can relate to this year as here in sunny So Cal we have been hit by cold, rain, and general gloom for what seems like many months.

But now we are at the start of Spring. Boys in Blue are back playing baseball for us, and along with the pagan, vernal aspects of the season we have all of the religious holidays: Ramadan, Passover, and Easter. Easter used to be a favorite holiday because it was the one I hosted with my family and it was a true celebration of Spring. My mom and dad would drop by the day before, bringing armloads of fresh flowers including lilacs and tulips. They would arrive the following day with Mom's freshly baked bread. Sometimes this was vanoca, the Czechoslovakian bread we had at all holidays. But at other times, she wanted to be creative and a few breads like babka arrived. Whatever she baked, it was always a yeasty bread with some kind of fruit and nuts and was always delicious.

My great fun was setting the table, after determining whether it was warm enough to eat outside. Sometimes we pushed the envelope, eating outside on a cloudy or breezy day, then retreating to the house with a fire warmly burning in the fireplace. Sometimes I did an all-white table with layered white tablecloths and my Spode Jewel china, then I splashed color with the flowers and a crystal cracker barrel filled with pastel Easter eggs (relax, they were actually marble). My white napkins were a variety of mismatched ones I had collected. If we were outside, I often set the table with my sterling, crystal, and linen napkins but used Easter-themed paper plates. I loved the whimsy of this.

But those days are behind me. While I have thought about hosting an Easter celebration, and indeed we did share Easter at my home last year with Connie and Curt, it just seems daunting to resume. So my celebration of Spring will be more subtle. Yes, I will dye Easter eggs. I eat an egg white every morning so I always have hard cooked eggs on hand. I also have some Easter decor around in the form of dish towels, ceramic rabbits, and those marble eggs. There are always rabbits here at my house, both decorative and, in this neighborhood, live. And I will enjoy the sunshine and the warming temperatures that will arrive mid-week. And, of course, I will be mindful of what the season used to mean to me when I had a family.

What I won't do is attend Mass. It's not my favorite time in the liturgical calendar. Once, in that first Easter during the pandemic, I attended, virtually, the Stations of the Cross service, and came away disturbed and deflated. I was reminded of the dark ages of religiosity which was utilized to keep the faithful in line. I fully believe that God wants us to experience joy, especially at this time of year when we are coming out of winter. Once Easter passes I'll return to Mass, though I am recently intrigued by reading about the Unitarian Universalist faith. What keeps me attending Mass is... the celebration of the Mass. I have been tangentially attached to other faiths. My mother's family had roots in Christian Science. Scary. And my parents were Presbyterians. I often sat with them through their Sunday services while compiling to-do lists in my head. No connection to the service, whatsoever. Roman Catholic Mass provides me with a connection to God, as well as the incentive to be better. To me, better doesn't mean to not swear nor complain about my parents. I don't need antiquated guardrails. I just need the lesson and reminder to endeavor to treat people better. Even if I can't love my neighbor, at the very least I can try to treat my fellow humans with understanding and compassion. A difficult enough task (you must trust me about this) but surely what would make the world a better place. I don't make any distinction for people in my religious 'club.' A great many of my friends are Jewish and I will always enjoy Cat Stevens' music. I also know some good, strong and true non-believers who exemplify the character and ethics I admire. I am grateful to have them in my life. Meanwhile, I continue to offer up prayers for those around me, more or less in priority order of need. I can fall asleep before I get to the bottom of my prayer list, so it's good to put the most needy at the top, though I have been known, on occasion, to cut in line near the top with my own suffering needs.

But for today, with an open heart, I offer spring greetings out to the ethos. Wishing everyone, regardless of faith origin, a wondrous season and hopeful peace for the rest of the year to come. Enjoy the flowers, the rabbits, and the chocolate eggs. Enjoy this wonderful, warm season of springtime rebirth.

And We're Back

Los Angeles, California

It rolls around every year and I get a rush of excitement. It is the start of MLB baseball season, a blessedly l-o-n-g season that keeps baseball fans like me from wondering what is on TV most nights of the week for over six months. Baseball is one of the things that add balance and ballast to my life.

Is balance/ballast important? Well, where are we now? Post-Covid? For the time being anyway, I am in that place where I can go anywhere and everywhere without a mask. I am fully vaccinated and carrying immunity from my recent bout. But the pandemic and my own experience with Covid gave me a lot of food for thought, especially on top of current events which has given many of us the sense that life as we have known it is circling the drain. So we turn to the tools we need for hope, stability, and distraction. And one of my tools is meditation.

I started meditating during the lockdown, encouraged by Cathy, my friend and Chinese medicine guru. It was weeks before I noticed a barely perceptible shift in consciousness. When you start a program of fitness, you feel some effects immediately, even if that is only in the form of sore muscles. But meditation is so subtle that I am certain that is why people give up on it. The process of meditation is not about keeping your mind in a neutral space. But the bringing back of your mind from the thoughts that have entered that space. While not feeding those thoughts, you are still marking them as you leave them to return to the breath. And that is the practice. Like workouts, dance nights, and, for me, attending Mass, there will be times when you think you have nailed it. As can happen in workouts, it has been easy; or stellar like those special salsa nights when everything comes together with the music and the movement; or especially impactful as when the pastor's homily has provided an epiphany. Or, if you're really lucky, all three. But, as with all of the things listed above, it isn't about nailing it. It's about practicing it.

If I threw myself only into the practice of meditation, I would miss the balance. My belief is that you need to approach life through some assortment of conduits. I was fortunate to have gone through the process of therapy with a skilled therapist. What I internalized through that time provided me with a mental manual which helps me understand my fellow humans and their actions, as well as my own. In addition to that, I find a journaling practice is valuable. Prayer is invaluable. I find the quote by William Temple: When I pray, coincidences happen, and when I don't, they don't inspirational. Temple was the Archbishop of Canterbury during WWII, but of course the practice of prayer crosses all faiths and I am a strong believer in ecumenicalism. But, for me, when I attend Mass, the homily's digestion of a scripture passage to present contemporary significance, can provide a lightbulb-over-my-head experience. And I find the practice of repetition and recitation in Mass very meditative. It supports my connection to God as well as a softening of my attitudes towards humanity. It doesn't always work as after all, scripture is a collection of texts representing the varying values and viewpoints of different communities over centuries. But that makes it all the more valuable when it does. When I see the small, independent films I love, or read a novel which is on-point, I am given further insight into human life and its universal issues. Spending time with my friends and hearing their stories enriches that understanding. These are tools in my toolbox. In my life all of these things are of more or less equal importance, and when I begin to tip too much towards one of them, (Danger, Will Robinson!) I right myself back into the center, lest I see the world too much through one scrim only. Or, I attempt to right myself. Balance is also a practice.

So what does this all have to do with baseball? Well, when you watch sports you often hear the phrase And we're back, after commercial breaks. For me, that phrase resonates in all of the ways I try to keep myself straight. My mind strays then returns during meditation. And we're back. I return to working out after my bout of Covid. And we're back. I attend Mass after the long hit-and-miss during the pandemic. And we're back. Back to journaling, back to salsa dancing, back to the importance of balance in my life. That's the practice. Always.

Haunted by Waters

Los Angeles, California

For years, actually for decades, I never thought of myself as a writer. Being a writer was unlike being a runner or a knitter or a reader. I didn't think it was something you could simply declare that you were because you engaged in the activity. I thought you couldn't say you were a writer if it was a pastime. It had to be a profession. But when I started dancing salsa and began to meet people in that community, it was easier to say that I was a writer than to say I was a small business owner of outdoor leisure products. It was simple. And it felt good  to present myself in that way, for the first time.

I still am not a writer by profession. I have only submitted two pieces of writing for publication in my lifetime and both were published. Still, I cannot say that I am a professional writer. But I do now think of myself as a writer because I write.

I also study writing in the form of reading. I have noted before that you can learn more from bad writing (not to put too fine a point on it, but Fifty Shades of Crap) than from good. Really good writing can send you into a spiral of despair. I can never write like that so what is the point? But then you don't write to be the best. You write because you have something to say. Something to record. Something to explore.

I was recently watching Robert Redford's film of Norman Maclean's short memoir, A River Runs Through It. I saw the movie when it first was released and read the book afterwards. It's a stunning prose description of life and loss told through the voice of an über-literate fly-fisherman. Writing like that is transcendent.

When I first encountered Wallace Stegner's writing, it was in the novelized memoir Crossing to Safety. Books like these can inspire you to write and to write better. They have the ability to put you into a different time and place, transporting you to the world the writer is representing. And this magic is accomplished by each choice of word, each construct of sentence, built on top of each other to the whole.

Last, but not least, is E.L. Doctorow. A writer friend once stated that Doctorow was the only writer who made her envious. His later work is his lesser, which seems to occur with a lot of literary lions. But his Ragtime is stellar. The best writing may make you envious because it speaks to you in the way you wish to speak. The connection we have to good art is visceral. And for me, good art is at its greatest in fine literature. 

I could never, in any stretch of my imagination or a drug-induced hallucination, hope to write in a way that compares to these literary geniuses. But, as I was watching the last scene, and hearing the last line, of A River Runs Through It, I was struck again by the impact of it. I am haunted by waters. We are all haunted by the people and by the events in our lives. I walked away with that line and thought about it throughout my day. I am haunted by waters.

I realize I have told this story here before, but Sandra once told me about a man who arrived at The Bora Bora Bar (where I first met Sandra) at the old Kona Village Resort holding a funeral urn. He set it on the barstool alongside him and ordered two martinis. His wife's ashes were to be dispersed in the bay the following morning. I thought it was a really lovely gesture, to bring her back to a place they had shared together, putting that poignant closure on what I assumed to be happy memories.

Sandra is buried up in the foothills of the Sierras, but everyone else closest to me has gone out to sea. Whenever I am at near the Pacific Ocean, I think of them. That ocean is important to me on so many levels, after growing up in Los Angeles and spending so much time in Hawaii with people I loved. I am someone who turns to water whenever I am despairing. At a particularly hard time in my life, I could hardly get out of water. I took baths and long showers. I sat in the spa and swam laps in my pool. I escaped to Kona where I found some solace and began to spend more time in Carmel. And as I reflect on the memory of that time, as well as the memory of those I have lost, I realize that I too am haunted by waters. But I am luckily also buoyed by writing and, at this time, by Maclean's writing of that evocative and incredibly perfect line: I am haunted by waters.

And Then...

Los Angeles, California

Joel and I did return to salsa. The Covid count in LA County had dropped to low, and we were dancing once again, after so many starts and stops throughout our pandemic time. We danced on Valentine's Day, then celebrated the following night, sharing a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Brut Rose. I woke up the next day with familiar sinus allergy symptoms, a bit early for seasonal allergies but, with all the rain we have had in California, the whole allergy ecosystem has gone sideways. We attended a play that evening, stopping for a drink at a kiosk before entering the theater. Champagne? They didn't have it. Scotch? No. I don't suppose you have tequila. The bartender shook his head. I guess I'll have a bourbon. I don't drink bourbon, and this reminded me of why. Joel and I sat next to each other, holding hands, not wearing masks.

The following morning my sinus issues were worse and a lightbulb went off over my head. I used a home test to test for Covid. Negative. I took my temperature. Normal. I took Sudafed and did my usual round of home upkeep that day. But I wasn't feeling great. The test I took the following morning indicated I was positive for Covid. And that was Day Zero. By evening I had developed the worst broken-glass sore throat I have ever experienced in my life. Way worse than the mononucleosis-generated one that I had the first week of school in my senior year of high school, which had previously held the record. I could barely even get water down.

The sore throat lasted for almost three days. Accompanying it was an onslaught of congestion, mostly in my chest. I had already canceled a birthday lunch with Holly and a dinner invitation at Todd and Christopher's. I canceled Ana coming to clean for me. I slept at least ten hours each night and mostly ate soup from cans or homemade soup from my freezer. I was so grateful that the agony of the sore throat had passed, that I didn't really mind the mind-numbing fatigue and continuing congestion. About a week later, I felt I turned a corner and felt elated at feeling some better and, I thought, certainly on the road to recovery. And I stayed at that point on the road to recovery for another two and a-half-weeks. I canceled plans to meet Lynnette in Phoenix, for the triumphant resumption of our MLB Spring Training Games trips. I didn't even feel up to packing for that trip, much less navigating the flight to even get there. A friend who had had Covid around the holidays texted that her recovery had not been linear, and she was so right: One day better, the next even worse than the day before that. I more or less zigzagged in a straight line. And today, going on five weeks, I feel I am at about 90%.

Did I get Covid at our dance club? I don't know. I could have gotten it at our neighborhood market, although I always wore a mask there as well as when I went to Costco or any retail space. But another salsera was also felled during the same time as I. I had talked to her when we were at the salsa club, and talking requires close talking because of the excessive volume of the music. She presented with nausea, chills, and body aches but, besides our fatigue, none of our symptoms lined up. But a month later she is still dragging, as am I. Again, did I get Covid that night? I don't know. But Joel, who was with me that night and for the next two, never got it. He did do Covid duty, bringing me food and OTC meds, after testing negative three times over the next ten days. In addition to Joel's help, friends kindly offered to drop things off. But, when you can barely stand long enough to heat soup, you just don't want to see anyone when you are in that state.

I opted not to take Paxlovid. I knew and also had heard of people who had rebounded after taking it. I am fit. I am healthy. I told myself I would muddle through it and would be fine. What's a week out of fifty-two, I asked myself. I can catch up on paperwork. But I couldn't. I needed to work on my taxes, but there was no way I could focus on that work. I got up every single day. I made my bed. I got dressed. I took a blissfully scalding shower. And then I lied down on the sofa or on the bed all day. I depleted my DVR library and wondered what had possessed me to record some of these movies. Oh! I watched Everything, Everywhere, All at Once and became the only person I know who liked it. A lot. I watched it again, this time so Joel could see it, last week before it won its Oscar. I could explain what I liked about it here, but what's the point? I am sure that everyone who hated it isn't interested in what I liked about it. Moving on...

This could be the paragraph where I write about the partisan take on the Covid pandemic. But what would be the point of that? Everyone who thinks it is no worse than a cold isn't interested in my experience with it. Nor in science, evidently. But I do want to comment on all of the armchair criticism of the shifting advisories we got from the medical community at the beginning of the pandemic and throughout these Covid years. My dad was an engineer and a believer in science and technology. It didn't take my four years in college to understand that all science is developing, not static. It is on a spectrum, not a point. The medical community worked hard to understand this virus which, as a reminder, was novel. Overreach, under reach, whatever, they gave us the best knowledge they had at the time. And following protocols kept me Covid-free for three years.

The possibility of returning to dancing hovers on the horizon as I begin to feel better. But I know it will take a long time for me to get back to my pre-Covid self. I will resume pilates and working out, perhaps starting with walking. I lost six pounds during the ordeal. The thought of lifting weights again sends me to the challenge of lifting cereal boxes out of my cupboard. But life is returning to quasi-normal. I had lunch with a friend yesterday. I spent the evening with Joel. And I returned to WWSD to write this cautionary tale. Cautionary, in that if I had it to do over again, I would have taken the Paxlovid. Two rounds of mild Covid could not be as bad as the four weeks I lost to this virus. But, as everyone I know has pointed out to me, there are different strains and each hits everyone differently. And as I move out of this really dreadful experience, it is time to be grateful for my returning health, the approach of Spring, and my one-day reprieve from the alcohol-abstinence of Lent (though, to be honest, I had no taste for it through the entire ordeal, so it was a bit of a cheat choosing it as my give-up). It is St. Patrick's Day and tonight Red Breast Single Pot Still Irish Whiskey will, hopefully, remove the taste of that pre-Covid bourbon, and set me straight on my road to life as I previously knew it. Or, at any rate, to paraphrase Sam from Casablanca: It oughta take the sting out of being occupied. My drinking toast for decades has been Here's to us. But tonight, as I lift a glass of whiskey from Ireland, I drink to the heritage and the luck of the Irish, and most fervently: To our health!!

A Trip to the Movies

Los Angeles, California

I spend most Wednesdays with my friend, Barb. It is the day when Ana comes to clean my house and before the pandemic was the day when I would treat myself, solo, to a movie. It is one of my favorite things to do by myself. But I also enjoy sharing a movie with friends. During the past twelve months or so, Barb and I have seen some real dogs. Were there just not a lot of good films out there or were we choosing badly? Probably the best of what we saw was Marcel the Shell with Shoes On. One of the crappiest was Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris. We both knew people who liked it, but neither of us did. I am cautious in choosing the films I see. Watching bad films/TV, for me translates as a tearing up of time. Trust me, I can tear up time in even more useless ways, but sitting with eyes glued to a screen while not enjoying what is up there, makes me feel more cheated than, say, sitting in front of this screen writing this useless stuff.

So, I try to choose films I think I will like, and over my adult lifetime, I've been pretty good at this. I also filter out violence, war, and for the most part, westerns. I am beginning to filter out anything too woke. I found the recent remake of Little Women silly in its obviousness of updating. A little bit of the world-according-to-millennials goes a long way for me.

Recently Barb and I went to see a new Tom Hanks movie, A Man Called Otto, based on a Swedish film which was based on a novel by Fredrik Backman. I had not read the novel but I had read another by the author: Us Against You, which I thought was excellent. And who doesn't like Tom Hanks? So off we went to see this film, without my knowing much at all about it. It began (spoiler alert!) with a few various, failed and slightly humorous suicide attempts reminiscent of Inside Daisy Clover, Groundhog Day, or even It's a Wonderful Life. And then the character took out a rifle. Suddenly I was overcome with a crashing wave of anxiety. My first thought was: Run. Just get out of here; away from this. But after so many years of dealing with anxiety, my next thoughts helped myself to calm down. To breathe. Reassurance that, once again, it would be ok. And so, my anxiety subsided by about half. Knowing how this scene might be upsetting to me, Barb turned to me. Are you ok? And I responded how? I nodded? Maybe I said I think so. Frankly, I don't remember. Memories are generally not made during the throes of anxiety. The character's last attempt passed unsuccessfully after the gun went off and blew a hole in a wall? The ceiling? (I don't know. I don't remember. See above.) This too resonated. My heart was still speeding. It's just a movie. It's just a movie. Just a movie.

A friend of mine is going through a difficult time precipitated by a serious health issue affecting her husband. I know that this is difficult and scary. But as I recently wrote to her, I can't quite feel her pain. I can know it, but some part of me is shut down to the physical feelings accompanying empathy. After Sandra died, then my mom, then my husband, and all in the same year, I remember thinking and commenting that I was afraid death in my life would become just a checking-off of the next one. How much can you feel before you shut down?

I fully remember the anxiety of taking care of my mother over the last five years of her life. She was struggling with a lot of health issues including vascular dementia. I, with a great deal of help from Tom and none whatsoever from my only sister, managed for her. We managed her medical and daily care, her rental property, finances, and taxes. We found a care home for her when it came to that time and a better one afterwards. And simultaneously managed our small business through a profound recession. All the while, Tom was depressed and all of the ways he had damaged our marriage somehow came back up in bas relief. It was an extravaganza of trouble and strife. And I do remember all of it. I remember the call that came intimating that something terrible had happened. But many of the feelings attached to all of it are closeted. They're there behind that door. And that door doesn't open. Except for a crack when I see a scene like that one in that movie.

I guess I am fortunate to not feel this all of the time. I am a feeling person for both good and bad. But the intensity that rode in on all I experienced is blessedly now out of range. In my worst moments, I don't care what happens to me. And maybe that was more what I related to in this film. But there was a turn and a hopeful, better ending. Everyone goes through hard times. And no one gets out of here alive. My salve is that it is better to live, to enjoy the time that is given to us, and to not sweat the small stuff. But contrary to the common saying, it is not all small stuff. Some of it is really, really big. And that's when we have to breathe. And to put one foot in front of the other. And to remember what my mom, and maybe yours as well, quoted at us: This too shall pass. Someday.

Ghandi Revisited

Los Angeles, California

I don't do new year's resolutions. But I do use the ending and subsequent start of a new year to do an evaluation and reset. And that can take many shapes and forms. This year I am reflecting on acceptance. Recently an old friend (one whom I have referred to as my ex-best friend) and I have reconnected. It is tentative and tenuous and we have agreed to take this reformation in baby steps. But as time goes by, I find myself more forgiving of the breaches and lapses that used to plague me in my relationships. But this easing is within reason.

I was fortunate to grow up with a father who believed in boundaries and discipline but was completely devoid of racism and mostly of judgmentalism. I inherited my own judgmentalism from what was modeled by my mother. My father used to say that he couldn't understand why, after spending a day with family or a family of friends, my mother and grandmother would trash them on the drive all the way home. I would add that they trashed-talked them for sport. I have sincere issues with breaches of etiquette and the golden rule. I believe that you have to make an effort in your relationships, and I strongly believe in reciprocity. My mother often said about my sister that the river only runs one way with her. This was true and maybe it is why I have such a problem with people like that. If the river is only running from me to them, I will let it flow for longer than I probably should, and then the dam goes up overnight.

But I am older and wiser and have seen things happen in my own life, and in the lives of people close to me, which has given me a greater sense of perspective. I have kept people in my life who have done terrible things. And I regret that. And I see friends keeping people in their lives who have done terrible things. I don't want to be the one who throws stones, but I also don't feel I am living in a glass house. If someone were to wrongly accuse me of something heinous, I would run far and fast away from them. If someone deliberately or carelessly hurts their friend or family-member, I will question that person's lack of kindness and character, and back up from them while the behavior continues. It's a murky grey area as to whether I keep them in my life once I see that is who they are. I've been there and done that. See sentence pertaining to regret earlier in this paragraph.

My father believed in rules and order. He believed in expert opinions. He didn't question the validity of stop signs, marriage vows, scientific recommendations, faith. His world was well-ordered because he was educated and deferred to educated facts. He valued his own opinion, but was clearly cognizant that facts were facts and conspiracy theories were bullshit.

I, on the other hand, grew up in the late sixties and my generation was told to question everything: the morality of a war in southeast Asia; codes regarding dress and/or men's hair length; organized religion and Washington's Watergate-era politics. I now see a world where people rail against science, the arts, and traffic signs. I feel we are living in an increasingly downward spiral of chaos where everyone feels entitled to do exactly what they feel like doing regardless of anyone else.

Recently a friend remarked to me that she was grateful to be on the downward side of life because, as she put it, the world is horrible and it's not going to get any better. I do feel that on occasion, but I try to buck that up with a sense that the world could be better. Last year I mentioned to a friend that I was trying to live by being the change you want to see in the world. She replied that my statement sounded like some liberal gibberish. WTF? It's a quote from Ghandi and clearly an enlightened goal to set for oneself. But trying to make the world better may seem, to some, like liberal bullshit. And that's pretty sad.

So, here in the beginning of the year, and before I set a goal for the period of Lent, I am pondering my existential plan for the year. Not a resolution. Not an I-give-up collapse. But, something, somewhere on the positive side of the spectrum between joy and despair. And maybe that is the space where acceptance resides. I do want to be that change that I want to see, especially within the relationships I value. I have a belief that you can make a huge difference by taking the higher road. I have resolved to be aware of sarcasm, snarkiness, and especially the hit-and-run political comments that I hear around me. They have no place in a better world. And I am reminded of what I thought after 9/11: I can't substantially change the world, nor my country, state nor city. But I can change how I behave in my circle of family and friends. Going forward I will make that effort as well as continuing to welcome the people who also make that effort into my life. It is time for that change.