Now follow this if you can. My daughter-in-law's sister's husband's sister lives in Petersburg, Alaska. On a recent trip there Carla met me on the rustic dock with her seventeen-year-old son Ben, who used a laptop to show me photographs he's taken depicting the life of a commercial fishing family. We only had an hour or so to visit, but we made the most of it while sitting beneath a graying sky, breathing in the brisk salt air.
When Carla learned I am a hypnotherapist, she was as excited about that as I was about Ben's impressive pictures of Alaska. She had been reading about clinical hypnosis and wishing she could use it to deal with some multilayered issues. "E-mail me," I said as we hugged goodbye. "Tell me what's going on, I'll get back to you if I have questions, then I'll record a session for you and send it on a CD." She did and I did, assuring her she had already paid for my services with the mouthwatering home-smoked salmon she gave us, wrapped for travel.
That was three months ago. Other than hearing from her how much she appreciated my help, we lost touch until she e-mailed a few days ago saying she had mailed a package to me. "A random piece of creativity," she called the gift she was sending. I was like a kid waiting for Christmas, and especially excited because part of the problem addressed on her personalized CD was her sense of sorrow over the fading away of her creative nature. Along with the recorded session I tailored from the information she sent, I had included subliminal suggestions specifically to help revive her creativity.
In the box I found Styrofoam beans protecting another box, in which there was an interestingly shaped shiny clear glass bottle... partially filled with the course black sand found on the shores of Petersburg. In the sand there were tiny treasures Carla had collected while beach combing -- several seashells, a tiny piece of coral, part of a young crab's leg shell, the red cap off a little tube 0f some sort, a little girl's pink hair clip, a tiny toy, a goldish ring, a piece of colored glass, and so on. Most importantly, there was a green marble. Marbles are rare finds, Carla's note told me, and she had come across this one on September 8th, the day my newest granddaughter was born. It's olive-green color made her think of the baby -- named Olivia. Carla had baked the sand to dry and sterilize it, and thought how much enjoyment I would have discovering the marble for myself each time I turned the bottle (sealed with a button and dangling bead) this way and that to expose the significant little greeen treasure that rolls around hidden in the dark sand.
Wow.
The result of Carla's "random creativity" now sits on the windowsill of my kitchen (coincidentally decorated in an Alaskan theme). Sunlight shines in through the subtly decorated bottle daily, reminding me to take a moment to play. And I do, smiling each time I find there what I'm looking for, fantasizing about how much fun it will be to share the experience with my little Olivia when she is old enough.
In the package from Carla was also a page she had composed entitled, "Tides." The first paragraph reads, "Many people know some basic types of tides; there are spring tides and neap tides and lunar tides. They know of high tides and low tides, flood tides and ebb tides, and some even have met a riptide or two. At certain times in the summer come the krill tides, when millions of tiny krill wash up on the beach. They don't make the news the way a whale would that washes up. I've never actually seen a whale tide, but I am among the lucky few who have seen the button and decorative cap tides, the hair clip and comb tides, the little plastic toy tides, and sometimes the very rare marble tide."
Wow again.
What else can I say, other than what a pleasure it was to meet this special lady, how privileged I feel to have played a small part in her life, how impressed I am by her random creativity, how grateful I am for her thoughtfulness and sensitivity, and how touched I am by the unique and very meaningful gift she has sent.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
"I Do" And Other Platitudes
After 35 years my husband and I are getting married again. We’re not renewing our vows, we are getting married again. I haven’t researched it but I’m pretty certain it isn't considered bigamy if you are in two marriages at the same time -- but to the same person.
We have been making our plans for several months now and keeping them secret, which has been such fun! We cuddle by candlelight with a glass of wine, and decide things like the pastor (lined up) and the place (decided). We're still kicking around the date and time, but that of course will require more candelight and cabernet.
Our first and most important decision has been that this time we will definitely not have children.
It isn’t that we don’t love the children we already have, because we love them very much and are very proud of them… how they have chosen to live their lives, and all that they are accomplishing. The reason for our decision is that when we had children, we made our lives all about them. We did our best to raise them to become upstanding adults, and then… they left us… to become upstanding adults.
Of course it’s never that simple. Not like they were all here one day and all gone the next, leaving me with an empty nest in which to rattle around. When my first son moved out I recall throwing myself into my husband’s arms, sobbing and saying “I wasn’t done with him yet!” When my second son moved into his own apartment, it was a short distance from our home and I thought he'd always stay close (wrong), but we still had our daughter, who was only four at the time.
That was, I believe, where we ran into trouble. She was the center of our universe. If it is possible to love a child too much, we did. When she left at 18 to join the Air Force and begin a life of her own, I said, “You are not supposed to have a life of your own now! I never said now! I always told you some dayl! Some day you will have a life of your own, I've said. I never used the word now!” My laments fell on deaf ears. She was out the door before I could finish my pathetic plea for more of her. Since then we’ve been the safety net she has fallen into occasionally, which is as it should be; however, what do safety nets do when they aren’t being put to use? They just hang around… feeling useless and unimportant. Until the next time.
So it has taken us years to adjust, and I believe we are finally okay with the current scheme of things. We have young grandchildren we dote on and adore, and an older set who drift in and out (mostly out) of our lives, busily living their own. Frank has his clients and his meetings, I have my quiet, cozy home on a good day and too many irons in the fire on other days (weeks, months). We have a dog, a cat, and a horse… all warm and fuzzy-ish. But most importantly, we have each other.
And now a wedding to plan!
Looking to the future this time is far different from the first time, when our concerns were primarily for our children and teaching them as best we could to tread with caution upon their chosen paths. We’re closer now to the end of our own path, and our long term concerns center on how we will walk it alone when one of us is left without the other, as life usually decrees. Getting married again will help us turn our attention from the others we love, and to focus more on ourelves as newlyweds are entitled to do.
A recent line from the TV series Brothers & Sisters comes to mind. Nora said recently to her two grown daughters (asking her to settle a squabble between them), “No! I don’t have to fix it for you! That’s not my job anymore!” Our relationships with our grown children sometimes catch us with shakier steps and thinner skin, but now I realize I don’t have to fix it with them, as I've tried so hard to do during past squabbles. It’s not my job anymore!
My job is to be in love with Frank, plan our wedding, and this time I won't even have to worry about music, a cake, or who catches the boquet. The first time we got married we knew we wanted to grow old together. This time, we know we are doing exactly that. Where did the last 35 years go? I just don't know...
But sometimes platitudes say it all, like: What’s done is done, it is what it is, and what will be will be.
We have been making our plans for several months now and keeping them secret, which has been such fun! We cuddle by candlelight with a glass of wine, and decide things like the pastor (lined up) and the place (decided). We're still kicking around the date and time, but that of course will require more candelight and cabernet.
Our first and most important decision has been that this time we will definitely not have children.
It isn’t that we don’t love the children we already have, because we love them very much and are very proud of them… how they have chosen to live their lives, and all that they are accomplishing. The reason for our decision is that when we had children, we made our lives all about them. We did our best to raise them to become upstanding adults, and then… they left us… to become upstanding adults.
Of course it’s never that simple. Not like they were all here one day and all gone the next, leaving me with an empty nest in which to rattle around. When my first son moved out I recall throwing myself into my husband’s arms, sobbing and saying “I wasn’t done with him yet!” When my second son moved into his own apartment, it was a short distance from our home and I thought he'd always stay close (wrong), but we still had our daughter, who was only four at the time.
That was, I believe, where we ran into trouble. She was the center of our universe. If it is possible to love a child too much, we did. When she left at 18 to join the Air Force and begin a life of her own, I said, “You are not supposed to have a life of your own now! I never said now! I always told you some dayl! Some day you will have a life of your own, I've said. I never used the word now!” My laments fell on deaf ears. She was out the door before I could finish my pathetic plea for more of her. Since then we’ve been the safety net she has fallen into occasionally, which is as it should be; however, what do safety nets do when they aren’t being put to use? They just hang around… feeling useless and unimportant. Until the next time.
So it has taken us years to adjust, and I believe we are finally okay with the current scheme of things. We have young grandchildren we dote on and adore, and an older set who drift in and out (mostly out) of our lives, busily living their own. Frank has his clients and his meetings, I have my quiet, cozy home on a good day and too many irons in the fire on other days (weeks, months). We have a dog, a cat, and a horse… all warm and fuzzy-ish. But most importantly, we have each other.
And now a wedding to plan!
Looking to the future this time is far different from the first time, when our concerns were primarily for our children and teaching them as best we could to tread with caution upon their chosen paths. We’re closer now to the end of our own path, and our long term concerns center on how we will walk it alone when one of us is left without the other, as life usually decrees. Getting married again will help us turn our attention from the others we love, and to focus more on ourelves as newlyweds are entitled to do.
A recent line from the TV series Brothers & Sisters comes to mind. Nora said recently to her two grown daughters (asking her to settle a squabble between them), “No! I don’t have to fix it for you! That’s not my job anymore!” Our relationships with our grown children sometimes catch us with shakier steps and thinner skin, but now I realize I don’t have to fix it with them, as I've tried so hard to do during past squabbles. It’s not my job anymore!
My job is to be in love with Frank, plan our wedding, and this time I won't even have to worry about music, a cake, or who catches the boquet. The first time we got married we knew we wanted to grow old together. This time, we know we are doing exactly that. Where did the last 35 years go? I just don't know...
But sometimes platitudes say it all, like: What’s done is done, it is what it is, and what will be will be.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Talking Body Parts
If your legs could talk, have you ever wondered what they would say to you if, as a semi-fit woman pushing 70, you (1) sprained a knee and tore a ligament in Alaska, spent a month using a knee brace and a cane, another month having physical therapy three times a week, THEN (2) hopped on a plane to Honolulu to climb to the top of Diamondhead, do several walking tours of the downtown area, a lengthy excursion through the Army Museum, and an exploration of the many decks of the battleship Missouri using multiple ladders to go up and down?
Well, I can tell you what my legs are saying to me, two days home from Hawaii: “What the… were you thinking?” Answer: I was thinking, “I can do this.” So I did. Was it sensible? No. Was it challenging? Yes. Was it easy? No. Was it worth it? Yes.
When my son recently took his family to Waikiki Beach to celebrate his 50th birthday, he invited my husband and me to join them. I no longer “do“ sun, although I was an avid (okay, obsessive) sunbather in my youth, and previous trips we’ve made to the islands have included only a brief stop on Oahu to hop a flight to either Kauai or Molokai (both quieter). So with a week to, uh, relax.., we were more interested in the history of Honolulu than its sun and sea.
This made it an emotional week for us, as my deceased father was career military and Frank is a Viet Nam vet. On the grueling Diamondhead climb my mind was on the many soldiers who had passed there long ago to build and then man the bunkers (that were never used in wartime). The museum surprised me by displaying artifacts that ranged from ancient wars among the islands themselves, to wars being currently fought. The Missouri was impressive on many levels (pun intended), but most particularly as the place where the WWII peace treaty was eventually signed.
We stayed in a luxurious ninth floor beachfront condo ON Waikiki, which was a wonderful place to rest and recuperate between adventures. There were times when I literally could not stand without support, let alone take a step. As I look back on that week, I am honestly amazed at my ability to keep on keeping on -- and no, I did not resort to pain medication (unless a few mai tais count). I literally listened to my legs. We had an unspoken agreement. They would give me their all, if I would give them my attention and push them to but not beyond their physical limitations.
Yes we had a rental car, but we chose to walk one day from the condo over a mile (each way) to Barnes & Noble, leisurely taking in island sights along the way. The manager, Naomi, welcomed us in true Aloha style (a warm smile and kind words), It was worth our time and effort, just to speak with the islanders and tourists there who were interested in our book Charming Children -- How the Relaxation Game Helps Good Parents Raise Great Kids. ( www.CharmingChildrenTheBook.com )
Reflecting the advice we give others in our book, I’ve recorded a CD for my granddaughters Annabella (6) and Evelyn (4), that they listen to nightly since I can’t be with them in person. To cover issues such as biting their nails and taking way too long to eat, the Fabulous Fix It Fairy now visits them at bedtime. They tell me their favorite part is when she waves her magic wand so their ten fingers can all talk to each other and to them. Among other things the fingers say they don’t like being put into the girls’ mouths, but they do like putting healthy food in so the girls can bite, chew chew chew, and swallow it down. They also like to put toys away. And to pet my horse Brandi, when Annabella and Evelyn visit her.
So now my legs and I are talking to each other, happy in our relationship. I have promised not to take them on another… relaxing… vacation for a while, and they’ve promised to support me in my goal to get my right foot into the stirrup painlessly for my first real ride since my injury in Alaska. Which brings to mind something I’ve said nearly 40 years now to my Yoga students, that might be helpful advice for some of you.
“Instead of being upset with your body because it won’t do what it used to do, or all that you want it to do, be grateful to it for what it can do, and for what it does do for you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, often without your awareness, let alone your appreciation. Take time to be appreciative, because when it feels appreciated, it wants to do an even better job for you.”
We all know that feeling.
Well, I can tell you what my legs are saying to me, two days home from Hawaii: “What the… were you thinking?” Answer: I was thinking, “I can do this.” So I did. Was it sensible? No. Was it challenging? Yes. Was it easy? No. Was it worth it? Yes.
When my son recently took his family to Waikiki Beach to celebrate his 50th birthday, he invited my husband and me to join them. I no longer “do“ sun, although I was an avid (okay, obsessive) sunbather in my youth, and previous trips we’ve made to the islands have included only a brief stop on Oahu to hop a flight to either Kauai or Molokai (both quieter). So with a week to, uh, relax.., we were more interested in the history of Honolulu than its sun and sea.
This made it an emotional week for us, as my deceased father was career military and Frank is a Viet Nam vet. On the grueling Diamondhead climb my mind was on the many soldiers who had passed there long ago to build and then man the bunkers (that were never used in wartime). The museum surprised me by displaying artifacts that ranged from ancient wars among the islands themselves, to wars being currently fought. The Missouri was impressive on many levels (pun intended), but most particularly as the place where the WWII peace treaty was eventually signed.
We stayed in a luxurious ninth floor beachfront condo ON Waikiki, which was a wonderful place to rest and recuperate between adventures. There were times when I literally could not stand without support, let alone take a step. As I look back on that week, I am honestly amazed at my ability to keep on keeping on -- and no, I did not resort to pain medication (unless a few mai tais count). I literally listened to my legs. We had an unspoken agreement. They would give me their all, if I would give them my attention and push them to but not beyond their physical limitations.
Yes we had a rental car, but we chose to walk one day from the condo over a mile (each way) to Barnes & Noble, leisurely taking in island sights along the way. The manager, Naomi, welcomed us in true Aloha style (a warm smile and kind words), It was worth our time and effort, just to speak with the islanders and tourists there who were interested in our book Charming Children -- How the Relaxation Game Helps Good Parents Raise Great Kids. ( www.CharmingChildrenTheBook.com )
Reflecting the advice we give others in our book, I’ve recorded a CD for my granddaughters Annabella (6) and Evelyn (4), that they listen to nightly since I can’t be with them in person. To cover issues such as biting their nails and taking way too long to eat, the Fabulous Fix It Fairy now visits them at bedtime. They tell me their favorite part is when she waves her magic wand so their ten fingers can all talk to each other and to them. Among other things the fingers say they don’t like being put into the girls’ mouths, but they do like putting healthy food in so the girls can bite, chew chew chew, and swallow it down. They also like to put toys away. And to pet my horse Brandi, when Annabella and Evelyn visit her.
So now my legs and I are talking to each other, happy in our relationship. I have promised not to take them on another… relaxing… vacation for a while, and they’ve promised to support me in my goal to get my right foot into the stirrup painlessly for my first real ride since my injury in Alaska. Which brings to mind something I’ve said nearly 40 years now to my Yoga students, that might be helpful advice for some of you.
“Instead of being upset with your body because it won’t do what it used to do, or all that you want it to do, be grateful to it for what it can do, and for what it does do for you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, often without your awareness, let alone your appreciation. Take time to be appreciative, because when it feels appreciated, it wants to do an even better job for you.”
We all know that feeling.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
How Long Does True Love Last?
True love lasts a lifetime, and even beyond death -- if some metaphysicians have it right. Not to mention Patrick Swayze's character in the movie Ghost. I personally believe that when love runs deep enough, you leave some of yours behind for others and take some of theirs with you. This is the way I love my family, and most likely the way you love yours.
It's also the way I have loved John Denver, as everyone who knows me, knows. Not just his songs, not just his stage presence, not just his philosophy, not just his public image. I've done my homework well enough to know that he was more than all that. And yes, he was a man of many moods, some of which may have been a bit ugly. If ugly moods affect the love you feel for someone, it isn't love. That's what I say. True love is not for candy asses, as Clint Eastwood would so eloquently put it.
Last night I went to yet another New Christy Minstrels performance. There's no tiring of it, this experience gets better each time. I feel fortunate and blessed to call Jennifer Lind a friend, and through her I met Randy Sparks last summer, the man who helped John Denver make it to the top. It was a pivotal point in my life. Last night I met John's Uncle Dave, who sings with the group. To others it may have seemed I was shaking his hand at that moment, but I wasn't shaking it. I was holding it. I held it as long and as best I could without being silly about it. I hope.
Traditional Yoga teaches that pranic energy (life-force) is absorbed, emitted, and exchanged through the pores of our skin, and primarily through the palms of our hands. I was taking in as much of Dave Deutschendorf's pranic energy as I could, and hoping to leave some of mine with him. No, not just because he is John's uncle, but because he seems a gentle person, modest, a sweet man I'll bet, without being wimpy about it. I looked him in the eye and said to him, "You are the reason I'm here." I then felt compelled to add, "And you have a beautiful voice." A true statement and a simple compliment well deserved.
But wait, there's more. This man was a teacher and student counselor for 38 years. What's not to love? A good teacher doesn't just teach, a good teacher can save lives. Good teachers saved mine
Uncle Dave's voice is nothing like John's. It is his own. Deep and resonant. Warming in its touch. His physical resemblance to John may be subtle to some, but was obvious to me. To have looked into that face that hints of John, to have heard him sing in a voice that John must have grown up hearing, to have held the hand that John must have held countless times... what a thrill for me.
As for the New Christy Minstrels, they're not entertaining an audience. They are touching lives. Every person in that packed house left personally transformed to varying degree. The NCM had us laughing, they had us misting up, they had us chiming in on many olden, golden, familiar favorites. Now, on a personal note, I suppose I can say not only that I met John's Uncle Dave. I sang with him. LOL.
Yes, I got his autograph, but not for myself. I'll give it to my son-in-law who also loves to play the guitar and sing (mostly in the privacy of his own home), and who shares my appreciation of John Denver. What I'm keeping for myself is the memory of what I saw, what I heard, and what I felt last night at the Gallo Theater in Modesto. Another magical evening in the life of one who loves deeply.
It's also the way I have loved John Denver, as everyone who knows me, knows. Not just his songs, not just his stage presence, not just his philosophy, not just his public image. I've done my homework well enough to know that he was more than all that. And yes, he was a man of many moods, some of which may have been a bit ugly. If ugly moods affect the love you feel for someone, it isn't love. That's what I say. True love is not for candy asses, as Clint Eastwood would so eloquently put it.
Last night I went to yet another New Christy Minstrels performance. There's no tiring of it, this experience gets better each time. I feel fortunate and blessed to call Jennifer Lind a friend, and through her I met Randy Sparks last summer, the man who helped John Denver make it to the top. It was a pivotal point in my life. Last night I met John's Uncle Dave, who sings with the group. To others it may have seemed I was shaking his hand at that moment, but I wasn't shaking it. I was holding it. I held it as long and as best I could without being silly about it. I hope.
Traditional Yoga teaches that pranic energy (life-force) is absorbed, emitted, and exchanged through the pores of our skin, and primarily through the palms of our hands. I was taking in as much of Dave Deutschendorf's pranic energy as I could, and hoping to leave some of mine with him. No, not just because he is John's uncle, but because he seems a gentle person, modest, a sweet man I'll bet, without being wimpy about it. I looked him in the eye and said to him, "You are the reason I'm here." I then felt compelled to add, "And you have a beautiful voice." A true statement and a simple compliment well deserved.
But wait, there's more. This man was a teacher and student counselor for 38 years. What's not to love? A good teacher doesn't just teach, a good teacher can save lives. Good teachers saved mine
Uncle Dave's voice is nothing like John's. It is his own. Deep and resonant. Warming in its touch. His physical resemblance to John may be subtle to some, but was obvious to me. To have looked into that face that hints of John, to have heard him sing in a voice that John must have grown up hearing, to have held the hand that John must have held countless times... what a thrill for me.
As for the New Christy Minstrels, they're not entertaining an audience. They are touching lives. Every person in that packed house left personally transformed to varying degree. The NCM had us laughing, they had us misting up, they had us chiming in on many olden, golden, familiar favorites. Now, on a personal note, I suppose I can say not only that I met John's Uncle Dave. I sang with him. LOL.
Yes, I got his autograph, but not for myself. I'll give it to my son-in-law who also loves to play the guitar and sing (mostly in the privacy of his own home), and who shares my appreciation of John Denver. What I'm keeping for myself is the memory of what I saw, what I heard, and what I felt last night at the Gallo Theater in Modesto. Another magical evening in the life of one who loves deeply.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
A Little Look at My Life as a Landlady
When our daughter was in her teens, she brought home kids the way many caring souls bring home stray kittens. The kids were her friends in high school who were either homeless, moving around to stay at one person's house awhile and then another's and another's, or in homes that provided less than desirable environments. It started with Louis, whom she met at running camp, brought home on my 50th birthday, and said, "Isn't he cute? Can we keep him?" We did.
His mother was in prison (drugs) and his father was dead (drugs and alcohol). He was being kicked out of his ninth foster home. He had serious issues going on as a result of abuse and abandonment. It was a rough row to hoe because he was anything but a pleasant person, and introduced an element of toxicity into our lives. Our conflict was in exposing our daughter at such close range to someone so volatile, but she was as invested in "saving" him as we were, and although we paid a price, in the long run, to his credit, Louis became stable in his adulthood, a good husband, loving father, and productive member of the community. His mother has found God, is trying sincerely to bring Louis into the fold, and their relationship is actually functional, at long last.
But "back when," Louis brought home Bruce, his best friend. Bruce didn't need us the way Louis did, but Louis needed Bruce, and Bruce brought home Lisa, a friend from Salinas. Our daughter then brought home her best friend, another Jennifer whom we called "Little Jenn" because she was skinny as a rail. All the kids called us Mom and Dad. There were lots of hugs and lots of problems that we tackled during family meetings, which we all hated but damn, they worked.
Little Jenn had her own issues from childhood, which she was addressing in therapy, and although she came to live with us she often visited her little brothers to keep an eye on them. She brought them home one time with tears in her eyes, saying they hadn't eaten and their mother (with substance abuse issues) was not to be found. I made beef stroganoff in my pressure cooker and fed the two boys at my table.
Halfway through the meal their mother showed up, went to the table and proceeded to pick pieces of meat off her sons' plates which she hastily ate. Something like that, you don't forget. To her credit, that was a long time ago and I believe she has cleaned up her act. Has she become a name on my favorite persons list? Uhhh.... no. But more recently when I lost weight and had literally a closet full of clothes that hung on me, guess who I gave them to. Little Jenn, to pass along to her mother, who was divorced, homeless, and not working.
In recent years my daughter lived in Sparks, Nevada, and Little Jenn would occasionally come to visit me. We established a "Mother/Daughter Day" that consisted of watching a movie together, with chips and dip, heartfelt talks, some laughter and some tears. I suppose I was filling in as a mother figure and she was filling in as a daughter figure, but over time events occurred that resulted in miscommunication and a falling out. Although I offered to talk things out and mend that fence, she was not interested and I let it (and her) go.
Back track now to when we were still at the height of our friendship. My mother's house became vacant and Little Jenn's brother and his wife rented it, against my better judgement. I told them I didn't think they could afford it (even though I dropped the rent $50 for them and did not ask for the last month's rent in advance, or a security deposit). I told them the place was old, needed work, and the huge yard required a LOT of maintenance. They LOVED yard work, they told me, and couldn't wait to get started. They also agreed to clean and paint indoors, which they did. There was a huge pile of trash in the back yard which they agreed to dispose of. They took two loads to the dump, and not only left the rest but contributed to it over a period of two years, during which time they did nothing but complain about the house being old and the yard being too big to take care of. Payment of rent was sporadic. Two, three weeks late, half now, half later, etc. In our dealings with them they became so rude and disrespectful that even my husband (with unlimited patience and great people skills) gave up, and we asked our son to take over management so we could remove ourselves from the situation.
The meat eating mother had worked many years in property management and so was well versed in how to live in a house without paying rent, milking the system that looks out for renters, not owners. Knowing this in advance, while Little Jenn and I were still what I thought was close, I expressed my concern that her brother would, in the end, not treat us honorably. She looked me in the eye, her hands on my shoulders, and said, "Mom, I PROMISE you I will not let that happen."
When the time came that it did happen, word came back to me through our daughter that her best friend had long since washed her hands of her brother and his wife, therefore she felt no responsibility to intercede when they lived in the rental without paying their garbage bill for a year (which cost us several hundred dollars), and without paying rent for two months, which cost us a couple of thousand dollars. Interesting thing about promises. They only last until you decide to break them. But, lesson learned.
Now the house is empty, we're working like crazy to do improvements we couldn't do when the tenants were, uhhh... such crappy tenants... because (1) we avoided them as best we could and (2) they didn't communicate with us once they planned to bilk us so we had no way of knowing the sprinklers didn't work, some tile was missing in the kitchen, and the roof needed replacing, not patching. They've moved out, we're dealing with all the junk they've left behind, and on one unexpected encounter with him, when the tenant made a fist and would have hit me if Frank hadn't gotten between us, and threatened, "Wait till you see what I do next," we called the sheriff. A roofer was there at the time to witness this, and there's a report on file. So we'll see where this goes from here.
Bottom line, in a weird way I'm enjoying the process of spiffing up the old place, but my heart hurts when I allow myself to explore the old fashioned, outdated attributes of honesty, integrity, and loyalty. Let alone appreciation. And just when I was recently spiralling downward emotionally, Louis stopped by with a big smile, a warm hug, and a reminder to me that in all bad there is good. Who would have thought that the one kid of all our kids, who gave us the most problems, would end up giving us the most reassurance that it was, indeed worth it. When Louis says on occasion, "I love you," he means it, and I feel it. It feels good.
His mother was in prison (drugs) and his father was dead (drugs and alcohol). He was being kicked out of his ninth foster home. He had serious issues going on as a result of abuse and abandonment. It was a rough row to hoe because he was anything but a pleasant person, and introduced an element of toxicity into our lives. Our conflict was in exposing our daughter at such close range to someone so volatile, but she was as invested in "saving" him as we were, and although we paid a price, in the long run, to his credit, Louis became stable in his adulthood, a good husband, loving father, and productive member of the community. His mother has found God, is trying sincerely to bring Louis into the fold, and their relationship is actually functional, at long last.
But "back when," Louis brought home Bruce, his best friend. Bruce didn't need us the way Louis did, but Louis needed Bruce, and Bruce brought home Lisa, a friend from Salinas. Our daughter then brought home her best friend, another Jennifer whom we called "Little Jenn" because she was skinny as a rail. All the kids called us Mom and Dad. There were lots of hugs and lots of problems that we tackled during family meetings, which we all hated but damn, they worked.
Little Jenn had her own issues from childhood, which she was addressing in therapy, and although she came to live with us she often visited her little brothers to keep an eye on them. She brought them home one time with tears in her eyes, saying they hadn't eaten and their mother (with substance abuse issues) was not to be found. I made beef stroganoff in my pressure cooker and fed the two boys at my table.
Halfway through the meal their mother showed up, went to the table and proceeded to pick pieces of meat off her sons' plates which she hastily ate. Something like that, you don't forget. To her credit, that was a long time ago and I believe she has cleaned up her act. Has she become a name on my favorite persons list? Uhhh.... no. But more recently when I lost weight and had literally a closet full of clothes that hung on me, guess who I gave them to. Little Jenn, to pass along to her mother, who was divorced, homeless, and not working.
In recent years my daughter lived in Sparks, Nevada, and Little Jenn would occasionally come to visit me. We established a "Mother/Daughter Day" that consisted of watching a movie together, with chips and dip, heartfelt talks, some laughter and some tears. I suppose I was filling in as a mother figure and she was filling in as a daughter figure, but over time events occurred that resulted in miscommunication and a falling out. Although I offered to talk things out and mend that fence, she was not interested and I let it (and her) go.
Back track now to when we were still at the height of our friendship. My mother's house became vacant and Little Jenn's brother and his wife rented it, against my better judgement. I told them I didn't think they could afford it (even though I dropped the rent $50 for them and did not ask for the last month's rent in advance, or a security deposit). I told them the place was old, needed work, and the huge yard required a LOT of maintenance. They LOVED yard work, they told me, and couldn't wait to get started. They also agreed to clean and paint indoors, which they did. There was a huge pile of trash in the back yard which they agreed to dispose of. They took two loads to the dump, and not only left the rest but contributed to it over a period of two years, during which time they did nothing but complain about the house being old and the yard being too big to take care of. Payment of rent was sporadic. Two, three weeks late, half now, half later, etc. In our dealings with them they became so rude and disrespectful that even my husband (with unlimited patience and great people skills) gave up, and we asked our son to take over management so we could remove ourselves from the situation.
The meat eating mother had worked many years in property management and so was well versed in how to live in a house without paying rent, milking the system that looks out for renters, not owners. Knowing this in advance, while Little Jenn and I were still what I thought was close, I expressed my concern that her brother would, in the end, not treat us honorably. She looked me in the eye, her hands on my shoulders, and said, "Mom, I PROMISE you I will not let that happen."
When the time came that it did happen, word came back to me through our daughter that her best friend had long since washed her hands of her brother and his wife, therefore she felt no responsibility to intercede when they lived in the rental without paying their garbage bill for a year (which cost us several hundred dollars), and without paying rent for two months, which cost us a couple of thousand dollars. Interesting thing about promises. They only last until you decide to break them. But, lesson learned.
Now the house is empty, we're working like crazy to do improvements we couldn't do when the tenants were, uhhh... such crappy tenants... because (1) we avoided them as best we could and (2) they didn't communicate with us once they planned to bilk us so we had no way of knowing the sprinklers didn't work, some tile was missing in the kitchen, and the roof needed replacing, not patching. They've moved out, we're dealing with all the junk they've left behind, and on one unexpected encounter with him, when the tenant made a fist and would have hit me if Frank hadn't gotten between us, and threatened, "Wait till you see what I do next," we called the sheriff. A roofer was there at the time to witness this, and there's a report on file. So we'll see where this goes from here.
Bottom line, in a weird way I'm enjoying the process of spiffing up the old place, but my heart hurts when I allow myself to explore the old fashioned, outdated attributes of honesty, integrity, and loyalty. Let alone appreciation. And just when I was recently spiralling downward emotionally, Louis stopped by with a big smile, a warm hug, and a reminder to me that in all bad there is good. Who would have thought that the one kid of all our kids, who gave us the most problems, would end up giving us the most reassurance that it was, indeed worth it. When Louis says on occasion, "I love you," he means it, and I feel it. It feels good.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
On Caring, Worrying, and Letting Go
I don't remember living with my mother until I was six years old, when she married my stepfather and retrieved my sister and me from our grandmother's house. Looking back, my perception is that she never worried about anything except missing one of her soap operas, or spilling a drink. In fact she prided herself on not worrying. Not caring, for that matter. She took great personal satisfaction in being a "tough broad."
I, on the other hand, worry about everything, and care too much. Overcompensation, of course. Basic psychology. However, realizing that at some point I chose to worry and to care, so as not to be like her, gives me the ability to investigate the choice I made when I was young, and rethink it. I understand, for example, that I learned to worry from a woman named Mary, who seemed to me to be a very loving person who worried about everyone she loved. I, therefore, equated love with worry, and preferred Mary's example to my mother's.
At the same time I met Mary, my high school English teacher (the first male role model in my life who was not mean spirited and abusive), introduced to our class the concept of complacency. He spoke out against it of course, and because he was a hero in my eyes, my decision to care/worry was compounded. I chose to worry about not only those I knew and cared about personally, but about the state of the world in its entirety... all matters animate and inanimate. I developed the skill that, at the time, seemed an honorable and appropriate attribute.
Now it drives me nuts, and I've come to realize that I can care without worrying. Furthermore, I can care without being obsessive about it. Wow! Insight! Realization itself, however, isn't what gets the job done. Would that it were that simple. What it takes is vigilance and consistent practice. This means I now notice myself worrying needlessly or caring too much, and I make a concentrated effort to rein myself in. I do it with -- borrowing from psychobabble -- self-talk.
The ones I seem to talk to myself about most are my kids. Using the term kids loosely, since they range in age from 32 to almost 50. I worry about things that challenge them and scare me, mostly involving their physical and emotional safety. I worry about not being able to protect them and. realizing it's no longer my role to do so, I worry that I somehow fell short during the earlier stage of our relationship when it was my role. Enter the ugly monster... guilt.
So I talk to myself about caring, worrying, and feeling guilty. Makes for quite a conversation but at least it isn't about soap operas and whiskey and soda with a twist. I tell myself what I would tell a client, or a close friend, coming to me for advice... an effective communication technique. I tell myself, "You've done the best you could. Give yourself credit for what you did well. Stop berating yourself for falling short of perfection, since no human can be perfect. Your kids are smart and sound and finding their own way in life. You pointed them in the right direction, but you don't get to choose their path or lead the way. Let them go. It's your turn now to focus on your own path, which grows shorter every day."
I've learned that letting go is a process, less like dropping an object and more like trying to get gum off your shoe. So I work at it, and try not to work so hard that it monopolizes my life. Humor helps, so I finish my self talk with a phrase one of my yoga students shared with me years ago. She learned it from her mother in German, but the English translation is: Go with God. But go.
I've also learned that letting go leaves one not empty handed, but free. A wonderful reward for the ongoing effort required. Freedom -- you gotta work at it. And you gotta love it. Without it our lives weigh heavy on the scale of universal balance.
I, on the other hand, worry about everything, and care too much. Overcompensation, of course. Basic psychology. However, realizing that at some point I chose to worry and to care, so as not to be like her, gives me the ability to investigate the choice I made when I was young, and rethink it. I understand, for example, that I learned to worry from a woman named Mary, who seemed to me to be a very loving person who worried about everyone she loved. I, therefore, equated love with worry, and preferred Mary's example to my mother's.
At the same time I met Mary, my high school English teacher (the first male role model in my life who was not mean spirited and abusive), introduced to our class the concept of complacency. He spoke out against it of course, and because he was a hero in my eyes, my decision to care/worry was compounded. I chose to worry about not only those I knew and cared about personally, but about the state of the world in its entirety... all matters animate and inanimate. I developed the skill that, at the time, seemed an honorable and appropriate attribute.
Now it drives me nuts, and I've come to realize that I can care without worrying. Furthermore, I can care without being obsessive about it. Wow! Insight! Realization itself, however, isn't what gets the job done. Would that it were that simple. What it takes is vigilance and consistent practice. This means I now notice myself worrying needlessly or caring too much, and I make a concentrated effort to rein myself in. I do it with -- borrowing from psychobabble -- self-talk.
The ones I seem to talk to myself about most are my kids. Using the term kids loosely, since they range in age from 32 to almost 50. I worry about things that challenge them and scare me, mostly involving their physical and emotional safety. I worry about not being able to protect them and. realizing it's no longer my role to do so, I worry that I somehow fell short during the earlier stage of our relationship when it was my role. Enter the ugly monster... guilt.
So I talk to myself about caring, worrying, and feeling guilty. Makes for quite a conversation but at least it isn't about soap operas and whiskey and soda with a twist. I tell myself what I would tell a client, or a close friend, coming to me for advice... an effective communication technique. I tell myself, "You've done the best you could. Give yourself credit for what you did well. Stop berating yourself for falling short of perfection, since no human can be perfect. Your kids are smart and sound and finding their own way in life. You pointed them in the right direction, but you don't get to choose their path or lead the way. Let them go. It's your turn now to focus on your own path, which grows shorter every day."
I've learned that letting go is a process, less like dropping an object and more like trying to get gum off your shoe. So I work at it, and try not to work so hard that it monopolizes my life. Humor helps, so I finish my self talk with a phrase one of my yoga students shared with me years ago. She learned it from her mother in German, but the English translation is: Go with God. But go.
I've also learned that letting go leaves one not empty handed, but free. A wonderful reward for the ongoing effort required. Freedom -- you gotta work at it. And you gotta love it. Without it our lives weigh heavy on the scale of universal balance.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Doctors Deliver the Goods
I read something interesting on FaceBook recently -- a chiropractor speaking out against the medical field. He wrote, among other things, that women have been “brainwashed” into believing they have to be in a hospital to give birth. He favors home deliveries. My first reaction was to wonder how many times he has given birth, either at home or in a hospital! But I didn't go there. Instead I responded by telling him that two out of three of my children would not be here today if I had not been in the hospital at the time they were born.
My first son weighed 9 lbs 6 ounces which, 50 years ago, was saying a lot -- especially considering my normal weight was 110. The nursing staff called him "the big guy." We delivered his head, but his shoulders were too broad. The doctor had to decide between breaking the baby's clavicle and then resetting it, or giving me an episiotomy that was twice the normal length. He chose the latter, and I'm glad. Then he used forceps, which folded one tiny ear and left a mark on one little cheek, but both were temporary; and thank goodness I was in the hospital!
My second son was more cooperative, and provided no battle stories to tell.
Sixteen years later, however, when my membranes broke and amniotic fluid rushed out, my daughter settled on the umbilical chord and cut off her supply of oxygen. By this time fetal monitors were in use, and we could see that her heartbeat doubled. The fetus was in distress. Emergency c-section -- with an infant resuscitation specialist on hand! I then required a transfusion of three pints of blood, and was comatose for nearly 24 hours. Thank goodness I was in the hospital!
But back to FaceBook. The chiropractor stated that, although most births in the US are in the hospital, our U.S.A. birth mortality rate is "one of the highest in the world." Rather than continue the debate, I chose not to respond by pointing out that, in some parts of the world, birth mortality is so common that many cases are likely not even reported. These are births that take place apart from a medical setting --but not by choice. Not everyone is as fortunate as we are to have opportunities other than “squat, push, and pray,” the third being optional.
Granted, in the majority of cases home deliveries go smoothly, and thank goodness for that. Thank goodness, also, for midwives and doulas, who are trained in assisting. However… let’s not malign the medical doctors whose expertise and hands-on experience, and state-of-the-art equipment qualifiy them to handle unpredictable emergencies that can be life threatening.
I do not agree that women have been “brainwashed” to believe they must be in a hospital to give birth. I believe in this day and age, in this country, most women are well ware of their options, and grateful to have so many of them. Based on my own experience, however, I say “better safe than sorry.” Hospitals aren't my favorite places, but if I'm in labor, that's exactly where I'm heading. Without delay. Other women are welcome to decide for themselves based on their own criteria -- mine is life or death.
In any event, medical professionals looked down their noses at chiropractic for many decades. Now they've come a long way and MD’s and DC’s refer back-and-forth. It disturbed me to see a DC putting down the medical profession. AND I AM A PROPONENT OF CHIROPRACTIC! I feel a wiser strategy would have been to build up the perceived advantages of home births, rather than to tear down the perceived disadvantages of hospital deliveries. And all this opining came from a man... which gave me pause.
This also gives me an opportunity to share, as I have many times, one of my favorite things that my husband has ever said to me. Back when our daughter was born, fathers weren't allowed to attend c-section deliveries. I was brokenhearted. Frank asked me why I was crying and I told him I felt I'd let him down. He said, "Silly. You've just given me a million dollars, and you're crying because you dropped a dime."
And that's just one reason I've kept him these 35 years!
My first son weighed 9 lbs 6 ounces which, 50 years ago, was saying a lot -- especially considering my normal weight was 110. The nursing staff called him "the big guy." We delivered his head, but his shoulders were too broad. The doctor had to decide between breaking the baby's clavicle and then resetting it, or giving me an episiotomy that was twice the normal length. He chose the latter, and I'm glad. Then he used forceps, which folded one tiny ear and left a mark on one little cheek, but both were temporary; and thank goodness I was in the hospital!
My second son was more cooperative, and provided no battle stories to tell.
Sixteen years later, however, when my membranes broke and amniotic fluid rushed out, my daughter settled on the umbilical chord and cut off her supply of oxygen. By this time fetal monitors were in use, and we could see that her heartbeat doubled. The fetus was in distress. Emergency c-section -- with an infant resuscitation specialist on hand! I then required a transfusion of three pints of blood, and was comatose for nearly 24 hours. Thank goodness I was in the hospital!
But back to FaceBook. The chiropractor stated that, although most births in the US are in the hospital, our U.S.A. birth mortality rate is "one of the highest in the world." Rather than continue the debate, I chose not to respond by pointing out that, in some parts of the world, birth mortality is so common that many cases are likely not even reported. These are births that take place apart from a medical setting --but not by choice. Not everyone is as fortunate as we are to have opportunities other than “squat, push, and pray,” the third being optional.
Granted, in the majority of cases home deliveries go smoothly, and thank goodness for that. Thank goodness, also, for midwives and doulas, who are trained in assisting. However… let’s not malign the medical doctors whose expertise and hands-on experience, and state-of-the-art equipment qualifiy them to handle unpredictable emergencies that can be life threatening.
I do not agree that women have been “brainwashed” to believe they must be in a hospital to give birth. I believe in this day and age, in this country, most women are well ware of their options, and grateful to have so many of them. Based on my own experience, however, I say “better safe than sorry.” Hospitals aren't my favorite places, but if I'm in labor, that's exactly where I'm heading. Without delay. Other women are welcome to decide for themselves based on their own criteria -- mine is life or death.
In any event, medical professionals looked down their noses at chiropractic for many decades. Now they've come a long way and MD’s and DC’s refer back-and-forth. It disturbed me to see a DC putting down the medical profession. AND I AM A PROPONENT OF CHIROPRACTIC! I feel a wiser strategy would have been to build up the perceived advantages of home births, rather than to tear down the perceived disadvantages of hospital deliveries. And all this opining came from a man... which gave me pause.
This also gives me an opportunity to share, as I have many times, one of my favorite things that my husband has ever said to me. Back when our daughter was born, fathers weren't allowed to attend c-section deliveries. I was brokenhearted. Frank asked me why I was crying and I told him I felt I'd let him down. He said, "Silly. You've just given me a million dollars, and you're crying because you dropped a dime."
And that's just one reason I've kept him these 35 years!
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