The most recent time I chanted the shechechiyanu prayer, it nearly turned out to be my last. If you are not familiar with it, the shechechiyanu is a Hebrew prayer that you can say pretty much any time the spirit moves you, as it is not specific to any one occasion, but rather. simply designed to thank God for sustaining you to reach a special moment you wish to make even more holy or celebratory by reciting a blessing.
On the last night of Hannukah 5772, I decided to tack this blessing onto the tail end of two other holiday specific blessings. It just felt right. For many of us on the PACS/NYS China tour, it was the first and only time we could celebrate Hannukah this year, so busy had we been during the past week what with packing and performing and racing back and forth all over China.
Our tour's advance team had earlier examined the sleeper buses upon which we were supposed to spend the night curled up and resting on our way to the Beijing airport; they were pronounced unacceptable for our purposes. Instead, the orchestra members were being distributed among three traditional coaches, where we would each have two adjacent seats in which to spend the next 6 hours or so traveling to catch a flight to our next concert venue. Even though many of us knew it was unlikely we would get a good night's sleep on any sort of bus, we were in fairly good spirits.
Crazy as it was, day to day, we appreciated that we were in the middle of a unique adventure, giving 9 concerts all across China in the space of two weeks with an orchestra many of us had just joined days before. We were, for the most part, doing a pretty great job of staying positive and in good humor despite general exhaustion and scattered illness. Some of us had dressed for camping in the frozen tundra, wearing pajamas, warm blankets and coats, eye shields and ear plugs, and were determined to sleep on the road, while others of us were resigned to the fact that we were unlikely to sleep very much until we got to the airport and/or boarded the airplane, later in the day. I was among the latter group, as I'd already had enough experience folding myself into similar bus seats on this tour as to know with almost complete certainly that it would be too tight a squeeze to be conducive to sleeping. Additionally, we soon realized that, on our particular vehicle at least, the rear half of the interior space was entirely without heat. Consequently, if a person in the back were small enough to curl up and find either a horizontal or diagonal position in which to rest, they would soon find that they were freezing their ass off.
Before we reached that point of the evening however, it was time for a very short hannukah party. Once we reached the highway, I crept down the aisle toward the back of the bus, set the brass hannukiah on the floor and being as careful as I could not to set off a smoke alarm in the process, used a match to melt eight candles into the little brass cups at the top of the menorah's eight arms, then passed the shammas candle among the several Jewish orchestra members who had come to huddle together at the back of the bus for this occasion.
We chanted the two candle lighting blessings and then I added the shechechiyanu and some others sang along. Once the candles were all lit, some people took pictures, we smiled at each other briefly in the candle light and then the candles were promptly extinguished. Surely it was the shortest hannukah celebration any of us had ever had, but still, it seemed to make people happy. Next, we passed around a bag of hannukah gelt, milk chocolate coins wrapped in golden foil. With that little bit of sweetness melting in our mouths, we got back to the business of getting comfortable for the ride to PEK, the Beijing airport.
A kind and chivalrous trombone player and gentleman, realizing that his seats had heat and mine had none, invited me to share the pair that had been allotted to him. After a few repetitions of me refusing and him insisting, I found myself awkwardly settled beside him, uncomfortably aware that I was surely making him less comfortable by my presence. I knew it was less likely, when next he turned back to the folded blanket that was serving as both pillow and insulation and curled to face the window, that he would be able to sleep, whereas I was pretty sure I wasn't going to sleep under any circumstances.
Very soon, I became deliriously tired, so that I began to imagine I was on the verge of perceiving at a very profound level the true nature of life, humanity and our role in the universe. I decided that the best way to receive such a valuable insight would be in a position involving more ample leg room. Accordingly, I stood up and tiptoed to the front of the bus and took a seat on the floor, with my legs dangling freely down toward the driver's seat and the top of the stairs. I rested my left cheek on my left arm, which in turn lay across my legs and then gazed up through the wide windshield into the night sky.
At first, I thought perhaps it was an optical illusion, but before long I realized that not only was our bus really traveling right down the center line between the two lanes of highway, but also swerving from one side of that line to the other and back again.
Alarmed, I glanced at the driver and observed him massaging the entire circumference of his head. At first I felt sheepish for watching him, the way I sometimes do when my cat is lying in the sun, licking his entire self clean and thinking he is alone. But in the next moment I realized that rather than indulging in a private pleasure, the driver was trying to create enough friction by rubbing his face and scalp so as to wake himself up. His head was nodding toward his chest, his eyelids drooping like two lead curtains over his eyes.
With a rush of adrenalin, I imagined us one big swerve away from crashing over the guardrail to a fiery death. I'm not afraid to die, but I had promised my inlaws when I left that they would only have to keep our children for two and a half weeks, and besides, there were another 30 passengers to consider, in addition to the driver himself. I decided that I was sleepless in precisely the right place at the right time, and so I stepped down next to the driver and lacking any Chinese vocabulary, waved hello. He in turn gestured to the folded jump seat commonly used by tour guides, clearly inviting me to sit in it. I accepted his invitation, telling myself that I would somehow find a way to keep him awake for the next 4 hours and we would all be fine. When, in the next moment, he reached for a cigarette, our brief friendship came to an abrupt end.
I signaled to him that smoking was NOT OKAY, and then I poked Paul, who was sleeping right behind the driver's seat, trying in vain to wake him up.
Next, I poked David Bernard, our music director and mastermind of this crazy tour, somewhat more vigorously than I had poked Paul, and when he opened one eye, I said something like "Help! the bus driver is falling asleep and I don't know what to do!" David woke up fast and immediately roused Jong, our translator, urging him to have the driver extinguish his cigarette, open the window and, failing that, to pull over and do jumping jacks, or drink some coffee. According to David's GPS we were about 3 1/2 hours from reaching our destination, the largest airport in all of China. Soon the driver did pull off to the shoulder of the highway, but rather than exercise or find a cup of joe, he lit up another cigarette for what would be the first of several face to face, roadside conferences held among the drivers to discuss the route to the airport. Evidently, this team of bus driving professionals had neither a clear idea how to get to the largest airport in China, nor any communication technology to enable them to confer with each other while operating their respective vehicles. Somehow I got wind of the fact that there were 4 drivers in the team and I requested through Jong that a better rested one of them be sent to our bus to relieve our exhausted driver, but the translated and untrue response we got back was that we had four vehicles in our entourage, so that was not possible. We were so tired and confused that for the moment we accepted the lie and returned to the matter of helping them find the route to the airport. It was absurd to be sure, and of course David found it baffling and infuriating that they had taken the wrong route and were now further away from the airport than they had been at least half an hour earlier when he had had first consulted the map on his iPhone, but I was frankly relieved because the sun was coming up and it seemed we were no longer on the verge of perishing. All of which seemed more important at that moment - shechechiyanu - than whether we would get to the airport in time to make a flight that would take us to play a concert on little to no sleep. Which we did anyway, and did well - yet another Hannukah miracle.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Battling honeysuckle, and Beethoven.
Honestly, I do feel I deserve some kind of award. Weekend warrior? No...not that.
It is so oppressively hot and sunny outside that I have decided to come in and ponder the answer to that question on my computer while enjoying some air conditioning.
I'm not sure that my award should be in recognition of my amazonian efforts yesterday so much as for the level of lazy, wishful thinking and neglect that I indulged in for the past seven years. I realize that seven years is a long time to neglect anything, and that a child, pet, houseplant or marriage would be unlikely to survive this sort of treatment. In terms of damage, though, few things can make more progress in that period of time than a savage honeysuckle vine.
When we first bought our home, I was a fearlessly optimistic, strapping gal in my mid-thirties. We still owned and lived in a house in Symmes township while the new one, 25 minutes away, in Wyoming, was being renovated. I put my mural business on hold for a few months and committed to doing as much of the work as I could myself.
The property had been transferred to us in an estate sale. The previous owner, Julia V, a childless widow, had been alone in the house, suffering from Alzheimer's disease, for many years. Once Julia was declared incompetent, her nephew in Virginia arranged for a series of caregivers to look after her and her beloved gardens. I had very limited experience in gardening but Julia had been a master gardener and had poured her love and passion for flowers into her gardens. This property, our new home, now inspired me to step up and do some fast, hands-on learning. The younger kids were in half day pre-school and I was shuttling them to drop and retrieve Max at an endless sequence of lessons and rehearsals, so my time was very limited, but still, I managed to do an admirable job clearing the perimeter of the lot of nearly all its weeds. In the process, I uncovered some peony plants and daffodils and happily transplanted them to more suitable locations.
Along the way, I distinctly remember spending a couple of overcast days wrestling six and seven foot tall honeysuckle weeds out of the late spring mud. Although the estate had kept a groundskeeping service on payroll to the tune of some $3,000.00 plus a year, certain things had been neglected "backstage" while the tulip beds and rosebushes had been lovingly maintained. The honeysuckle, I was informed by a landscape consultant, would have to be "taken out" or it would take over. In the course of my mud wrestling marathon, the honeysuckle weed that I left for last was on the smaller side, perhaps four or five feet high. Unfortunately, it was relatively inaccessible. Whereas the other plants' greatest challenge had been their extreme proximity to very prickly young holly trees, this one was located in the shelter of several large and low leafed trees. Its roots were practically wedged between two tree trunks, and the ground sloped precipitously toward a collapsed stone retaining wall that was in the process of being rebuilt. Exhausted and otherwise victorious, I decided to leave the baby honeysuckle, for now, and resolved to tackle it another day.
As it turned out, that day rolled around yesterday. The retaining wall was beautifully rebuilt in late 2004; I had no excuse except for about a million other easier, more interesting things to do.
Yesterday, before going at it for several hours with a bow saw and clippers, I had done a deep, thorough clean of the basement playroom and practiced Beethoven's Archduke trio as well as the Bach Double Violin Concerto and Beethoven's 2nd Violin Romance. Well, thank goodness for Beethoven to put things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, when my husband, over a late family dinner at the neighborhood restaurant, asked me what was the hardest work I had done that day, I thought for a moment, and then answered, "in all sincerity, the Beethoven trio".
It's true, but it was a very close call. Certainly the honeysuckle vine had exacted a higher price from me, taken a greater toll My palms were raw from tugging down vine out of the tree tops. I had been smacked in the face by a snapping branch, hit on the back and shoulders and arms by falling limbs. As the vine was forced, bit by bit, to let go its hold, the dead tree bits it had held captive for years came sailing down toward the ground. Each time, I tried to get out of the way, but it was a difficult location in which to move swiftly, surrounded as I was by branches and logs. Some of the falling "bits" were over ten feet long, so it was perilous work.
Once I moved to my neighbor, Vladimir's yard, to rescue his enormous tree from the clutches of my errant honeysuckle, I developed a system of strategically planning which captive limb I would next let fall, and I had yards of open grass across which to scoot out of the way. But that was in the home stretch, around what would normally be dinner time. When I dragged all the debris into our yard, the vine snaked from the top of the back yard down to edge of the sanctuary and firepit at the very bottom - a very, very long way for one little, once easily dismissed, neglected vine.
When I stripped out of my soaking wet, filthy clothes and I was about to step into the shower, I saw myself in the mirror and stppped short. "I look like a warrior," I thought. My face was flushed, bruised, and scraped, with bits of earth and bark stuck to it. My shoulders and upper chest looked similar. My hands were sore and I saw that the skin of my palms and fingers had been pierced in several places.
Today, I have to admit, after a longer than usual night's sleep (8 hours) my hands, back and shoulders are all a bit sore. I still need to clean up our yard from yesterday's battle and drag all my fallen victims into the woods. My afternoon trio rehearsal has just been cancelled suddenly due to an onset of fever in the pianist. I'm very sad about that, but on the other hand, it gives my body a chance to recover before I meet up with Beethoven again.
It is so oppressively hot and sunny outside that I have decided to come in and ponder the answer to that question on my computer while enjoying some air conditioning.
I'm not sure that my award should be in recognition of my amazonian efforts yesterday so much as for the level of lazy, wishful thinking and neglect that I indulged in for the past seven years. I realize that seven years is a long time to neglect anything, and that a child, pet, houseplant or marriage would be unlikely to survive this sort of treatment. In terms of damage, though, few things can make more progress in that period of time than a savage honeysuckle vine.
When we first bought our home, I was a fearlessly optimistic, strapping gal in my mid-thirties. We still owned and lived in a house in Symmes township while the new one, 25 minutes away, in Wyoming, was being renovated. I put my mural business on hold for a few months and committed to doing as much of the work as I could myself.
The property had been transferred to us in an estate sale. The previous owner, Julia V, a childless widow, had been alone in the house, suffering from Alzheimer's disease, for many years. Once Julia was declared incompetent, her nephew in Virginia arranged for a series of caregivers to look after her and her beloved gardens. I had very limited experience in gardening but Julia had been a master gardener and had poured her love and passion for flowers into her gardens. This property, our new home, now inspired me to step up and do some fast, hands-on learning. The younger kids were in half day pre-school and I was shuttling them to drop and retrieve Max at an endless sequence of lessons and rehearsals, so my time was very limited, but still, I managed to do an admirable job clearing the perimeter of the lot of nearly all its weeds. In the process, I uncovered some peony plants and daffodils and happily transplanted them to more suitable locations.
Along the way, I distinctly remember spending a couple of overcast days wrestling six and seven foot tall honeysuckle weeds out of the late spring mud. Although the estate had kept a groundskeeping service on payroll to the tune of some $3,000.00 plus a year, certain things had been neglected "backstage" while the tulip beds and rosebushes had been lovingly maintained. The honeysuckle, I was informed by a landscape consultant, would have to be "taken out" or it would take over. In the course of my mud wrestling marathon, the honeysuckle weed that I left for last was on the smaller side, perhaps four or five feet high. Unfortunately, it was relatively inaccessible. Whereas the other plants' greatest challenge had been their extreme proximity to very prickly young holly trees, this one was located in the shelter of several large and low leafed trees. Its roots were practically wedged between two tree trunks, and the ground sloped precipitously toward a collapsed stone retaining wall that was in the process of being rebuilt. Exhausted and otherwise victorious, I decided to leave the baby honeysuckle, for now, and resolved to tackle it another day.
As it turned out, that day rolled around yesterday. The retaining wall was beautifully rebuilt in late 2004; I had no excuse except for about a million other easier, more interesting things to do.
Yesterday, before going at it for several hours with a bow saw and clippers, I had done a deep, thorough clean of the basement playroom and practiced Beethoven's Archduke trio as well as the Bach Double Violin Concerto and Beethoven's 2nd Violin Romance. Well, thank goodness for Beethoven to put things in perspective. Because at the end of the day, when my husband, over a late family dinner at the neighborhood restaurant, asked me what was the hardest work I had done that day, I thought for a moment, and then answered, "in all sincerity, the Beethoven trio".
It's true, but it was a very close call. Certainly the honeysuckle vine had exacted a higher price from me, taken a greater toll My palms were raw from tugging down vine out of the tree tops. I had been smacked in the face by a snapping branch, hit on the back and shoulders and arms by falling limbs. As the vine was forced, bit by bit, to let go its hold, the dead tree bits it had held captive for years came sailing down toward the ground. Each time, I tried to get out of the way, but it was a difficult location in which to move swiftly, surrounded as I was by branches and logs. Some of the falling "bits" were over ten feet long, so it was perilous work.
Once I moved to my neighbor, Vladimir's yard, to rescue his enormous tree from the clutches of my errant honeysuckle, I developed a system of strategically planning which captive limb I would next let fall, and I had yards of open grass across which to scoot out of the way. But that was in the home stretch, around what would normally be dinner time. When I dragged all the debris into our yard, the vine snaked from the top of the back yard down to edge of the sanctuary and firepit at the very bottom - a very, very long way for one little, once easily dismissed, neglected vine.
When I stripped out of my soaking wet, filthy clothes and I was about to step into the shower, I saw myself in the mirror and stppped short. "I look like a warrior," I thought. My face was flushed, bruised, and scraped, with bits of earth and bark stuck to it. My shoulders and upper chest looked similar. My hands were sore and I saw that the skin of my palms and fingers had been pierced in several places.
Today, I have to admit, after a longer than usual night's sleep (8 hours) my hands, back and shoulders are all a bit sore. I still need to clean up our yard from yesterday's battle and drag all my fallen victims into the woods. My afternoon trio rehearsal has just been cancelled suddenly due to an onset of fever in the pianist. I'm very sad about that, but on the other hand, it gives my body a chance to recover before I meet up with Beethoven again.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
This gratitude is powerful stuff
I am so happy this morning.
The melon is sweeter, the garden more miraculously beautiful, my children and husband even more lovable than usual.
There is nothing like deep gratitude to cast a golden light on everything around you.
Last night, my plan was to get out to Zionsville, Indiana with plenty of time to spare, pick up a non-fat, no-whip venti iced mocha for the two-hour-long return trip. I have to collect Sam, my ten year old, as soon the camp fireworks end and return him to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep before getting him up to begin rehearsals for Grease, the musical, in the morning.
Fortunately, I had a sugar free Red Bull right before leaving home, because the Zionsville Starbucks is closed for the holiday.
I am greeted by friendly faces at the camp and invited to watch the fireworks (incognito, so as not to set off a wave of homesickness) with some staff in their car at the edge of the sports field where they are being set off. Darkness falls and I spend the next segment of time developing a new skill: hitting the iPhone camera button just before the fireworks explode in the sky so that their blaze is captured digitally.
After the grand finale, we see some figures moving toward the bushes. It is Sam, no longer on crutches, being escorted (by his brother, Max) to meet me at the camp office. Instead, Sam climbs into the staff car with a big grin on his sweet face. Max gives me a quick squeeze and soon, Sam and I are on our way, homeward bound, in our brand new car.
At this point, I already have so much to be grateful for. Sam's sprained ankle has been healing, in his happy place, this wonderful camp. Max seized an opportunity to see me, even if it was, as he'd text me later, only for .3 seconds. I am glad to be wide awake, having been treated with kindness, and now, buckled into a wonderful new vehicle with my precious child.
There had been light rain on the way to camp, but now, the sky is clear, and the roads are practically empty; perfect conditions for driving. Bonus fireworks sparkle on either side of the highway as Sam shares some of the highlights of his last three weeks. No, he hasn't memorized his lines, but he has become familiar with the script and he is confident enough that he will catch up at rehearsal. Life is good.
At midnight, I decide to cut short our chat. "I know you are not sleepy and I love hearing your stories," I tell him. "But you are going to be so tired in the morning. I have to wake you at 7:30, you know, Sam."
"Mom, it's a treat to sleep until 7:30!" he says.
"Not when you've been up until 1 am," I warn. "So, please, stretch out, put your seat back, get comfy, and we will talk more tomorrow."
"Okay," he says, and falls silent.
It is midnight, exactly.
Ten minutes later, I see a pair of lights in my rear view mirror. Two mismatched little stars, piercing the darkness behind me, growing brighter very quickly, too quickly. I ease into the right hand lane, slowing from 75 mph to 70 so that the driver can more easily pass me by. As I watch the lights continue to brighten at an astonishing speed, I see they are even more unbalanced than they initially appeared. The bright orb on the left seems to emit three or four times the wattage of the one on the right. As the car comes up on my left, I glance out the side window to catch a glimpse of it, curious as to who or what is in such a hurry at this hour of the night. I take in a boxy, rusted, white mid-sized sedan, 25 to 30 years old. The image has just enough time to register in my mind as it flashes past my window. How fast is it going, I wonder? The next thing I know there is a loud squealing, a screeching, a scream. I grip my wheel, and watch in silent horror as the white car spins crazily counterclockwise toward the median, spraying gravel at the front of my car, at me. Like a stunt car in a movie, but this is all too real.
I feel a fear stored up in me from an earlier moment on the highway with Sam, several years ago. In the middle of the day, in the right hand lane of a three lane highway, I had passed a car and then heard Sam announce "hey, those cars just crashed into each other!" and as I looked to my left, I saw one car careening toward the median, as the other came veering my way. I watched out my side window as the large black sedan literally broke apart, the shiny fenders, the wheels, all disconnecting from each other as if they were the universe expanding as it hurtled through space. An exit ramp appeared miraculously on my right, and I glided onto it without further incident. But my heart was beating like it was part of the drum corps.
Now, for a second time, I feel all my leg muscles tighten, my heart pounds, races, and next, my breath comes very quickly, along with a torrent of words, as if they had all piled up in my throat during the previous moment, when I must have been holding everything in.
"Holy, holy, holy..." I say, at first, not allowing myself to finish the phrase. "Holy, holy, holy...crap," I finally say. "I'm sorry, Sam, but a car just passed us and then the driver lost control and it spun out just as soon as it passed us... That noise you heard was that car, skidding and sliding, and then you heard the gravel hitting our car as it got thrown up from the ground when that car crossed the center of the highway. Oh, my G-d, Sam, oh, my G-d! I don't know how that driver can still be alive, Sam, I really don't. I hope to God he didn't hit anyone else. Oh, Lord! Everyone getting on this road right now must be drunk. Too many beers while watching the fireworks, then they get behind the wheel and try to get home. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d, I hope I don't see anyone else on this road for the rest of this ride. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!"
I struggle to shut up as fast as I can and try to get a grip on myself.
I drive on in the dark, white-knuckled, trying to calm down, listening to the BBC news, wondering if I should pull over, then deciding just to keep going, just to get home as fast as I can. Safe. We are still safe. Why are we safe? It must be Sam, I think. This special boy of mine. We were protected because of him. Both times, such narrow escapes, and completely unscathed. It must because of Sam. There must be an angel protecting him.
I need to believe this because, of course, there are still other cars on the road, and I am now afraid that all the drivers are drunk. I try to think of statistics. They can't all be drunk! I am painfully aware, with each breath, with each mile, with each pair of lights ion the darkness, that any one of the oncoming cars or trucks could come across the median at me, that the next speeding car could come up behind me and skid into me instead of away from me. For the next twenty minutes, I mutter under my breath, like a madwoman, at every car in the rear view mirror "keep away from me, keep AWAY from me!" until they are each safely past. I am tempted to speed the rest of the way home, letting no one pass me, but I realize this is impossible to do safely. I choose to continue praying, muttering and gripping the wheel rather than trying magically isolate myself from everyone else on the road.
Finally, our exit sign appears like a green and white shining beacon. We exit the highway and slow to 35 mph. I remain hyper-vigilant, reminding myself that most accidents occur very close to home, in the final stretch, when we let down our guard.
A half hour after the crazy screeching of the white car, we arrive home safely. I tuck Sam in, and he says, with a smile "a real bed!" and then, I walk across the house, splash my face with water, strip off my dress and climb into bed. On my side of the mattress, an outstretched, open hand waits to take hold of mine. I take Paul's hand, and find that I am gripping it very hard, unable to let go or to loosen my grasp. I take it in both my hands and press it to my chest, then tell him that I am wide awake, that I had a scary drive, that I am ever so grateful to be home.
Paul listens to my story, then thanks me for my safe driving, for bringing our precious cargo home safely, and drifts back to sleep. I lie awake, disturbed to realize that I did not think to call 911, wondering what happened to the driver of the white car, amazed that the accident happened just after he passed us, after having come up from behind us for so long. Had he not seen us until just then? Was it because he'd had to switch lanes, after all, in order to get past us? My mind races until some unidentifiable point in time, when it must short circuit, releasing me into a sweet, dreamless sleep.
This morning, everything is better. Paul has hidden the bathroom scale, sparing me its reproach. My boys are two angels in their neighboring beds as I brew good coffee from just enough beans. I pinch baby mint leaves from the garden, noticing the beauty all around me, observing that the Rose of Sharon has opened its first blooms of the season. I cut juicy, orange melon into slices and arrange them lovingly on a green plate. It is so beautiful that I have to photograph it. Everything and everyone is so sweet that it is all I can do not to cry.
The boys leave for rehearsal in my friend's minivan. I walk the dog in the dappled sunlight, and loop back to the house. I finish my coffee and take up my violin to practice the Archduke trio. As I begin to play, pleasure washes over me. This music, this moment, this day.
I am so happy to be here. I am so lucky to be alive.
The melon is sweeter, the garden more miraculously beautiful, my children and husband even more lovable than usual.
There is nothing like deep gratitude to cast a golden light on everything around you.
Last night, my plan was to get out to Zionsville, Indiana with plenty of time to spare, pick up a non-fat, no-whip venti iced mocha for the two-hour-long return trip. I have to collect Sam, my ten year old, as soon the camp fireworks end and return him to his bedroom for a few hours of sleep before getting him up to begin rehearsals for Grease, the musical, in the morning.
Fortunately, I had a sugar free Red Bull right before leaving home, because the Zionsville Starbucks is closed for the holiday.
I am greeted by friendly faces at the camp and invited to watch the fireworks (incognito, so as not to set off a wave of homesickness) with some staff in their car at the edge of the sports field where they are being set off. Darkness falls and I spend the next segment of time developing a new skill: hitting the iPhone camera button just before the fireworks explode in the sky so that their blaze is captured digitally.
After the grand finale, we see some figures moving toward the bushes. It is Sam, no longer on crutches, being escorted (by his brother, Max) to meet me at the camp office. Instead, Sam climbs into the staff car with a big grin on his sweet face. Max gives me a quick squeeze and soon, Sam and I are on our way, homeward bound, in our brand new car.
At this point, I already have so much to be grateful for. Sam's sprained ankle has been healing, in his happy place, this wonderful camp. Max seized an opportunity to see me, even if it was, as he'd text me later, only for .3 seconds. I am glad to be wide awake, having been treated with kindness, and now, buckled into a wonderful new vehicle with my precious child.
There had been light rain on the way to camp, but now, the sky is clear, and the roads are practically empty; perfect conditions for driving. Bonus fireworks sparkle on either side of the highway as Sam shares some of the highlights of his last three weeks. No, he hasn't memorized his lines, but he has become familiar with the script and he is confident enough that he will catch up at rehearsal. Life is good.
At midnight, I decide to cut short our chat. "I know you are not sleepy and I love hearing your stories," I tell him. "But you are going to be so tired in the morning. I have to wake you at 7:30, you know, Sam."
"Mom, it's a treat to sleep until 7:30!" he says.
"Not when you've been up until 1 am," I warn. "So, please, stretch out, put your seat back, get comfy, and we will talk more tomorrow."
"Okay," he says, and falls silent.
It is midnight, exactly.
Ten minutes later, I see a pair of lights in my rear view mirror. Two mismatched little stars, piercing the darkness behind me, growing brighter very quickly, too quickly. I ease into the right hand lane, slowing from 75 mph to 70 so that the driver can more easily pass me by. As I watch the lights continue to brighten at an astonishing speed, I see they are even more unbalanced than they initially appeared. The bright orb on the left seems to emit three or four times the wattage of the one on the right. As the car comes up on my left, I glance out the side window to catch a glimpse of it, curious as to who or what is in such a hurry at this hour of the night. I take in a boxy, rusted, white mid-sized sedan, 25 to 30 years old. The image has just enough time to register in my mind as it flashes past my window. How fast is it going, I wonder? The next thing I know there is a loud squealing, a screeching, a scream. I grip my wheel, and watch in silent horror as the white car spins crazily counterclockwise toward the median, spraying gravel at the front of my car, at me. Like a stunt car in a movie, but this is all too real.
I feel a fear stored up in me from an earlier moment on the highway with Sam, several years ago. In the middle of the day, in the right hand lane of a three lane highway, I had passed a car and then heard Sam announce "hey, those cars just crashed into each other!" and as I looked to my left, I saw one car careening toward the median, as the other came veering my way. I watched out my side window as the large black sedan literally broke apart, the shiny fenders, the wheels, all disconnecting from each other as if they were the universe expanding as it hurtled through space. An exit ramp appeared miraculously on my right, and I glided onto it without further incident. But my heart was beating like it was part of the drum corps.
Now, for a second time, I feel all my leg muscles tighten, my heart pounds, races, and next, my breath comes very quickly, along with a torrent of words, as if they had all piled up in my throat during the previous moment, when I must have been holding everything in.
"Holy, holy, holy..." I say, at first, not allowing myself to finish the phrase. "Holy, holy, holy...crap," I finally say. "I'm sorry, Sam, but a car just passed us and then the driver lost control and it spun out just as soon as it passed us... That noise you heard was that car, skidding and sliding, and then you heard the gravel hitting our car as it got thrown up from the ground when that car crossed the center of the highway. Oh, my G-d, Sam, oh, my G-d! I don't know how that driver can still be alive, Sam, I really don't. I hope to God he didn't hit anyone else. Oh, Lord! Everyone getting on this road right now must be drunk. Too many beers while watching the fireworks, then they get behind the wheel and try to get home. Oh my G-d, oh my G-d, I hope I don't see anyone else on this road for the rest of this ride. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!"
I struggle to shut up as fast as I can and try to get a grip on myself.
I drive on in the dark, white-knuckled, trying to calm down, listening to the BBC news, wondering if I should pull over, then deciding just to keep going, just to get home as fast as I can. Safe. We are still safe. Why are we safe? It must be Sam, I think. This special boy of mine. We were protected because of him. Both times, such narrow escapes, and completely unscathed. It must because of Sam. There must be an angel protecting him.
I need to believe this because, of course, there are still other cars on the road, and I am now afraid that all the drivers are drunk. I try to think of statistics. They can't all be drunk! I am painfully aware, with each breath, with each mile, with each pair of lights ion the darkness, that any one of the oncoming cars or trucks could come across the median at me, that the next speeding car could come up behind me and skid into me instead of away from me. For the next twenty minutes, I mutter under my breath, like a madwoman, at every car in the rear view mirror "keep away from me, keep AWAY from me!" until they are each safely past. I am tempted to speed the rest of the way home, letting no one pass me, but I realize this is impossible to do safely. I choose to continue praying, muttering and gripping the wheel rather than trying magically isolate myself from everyone else on the road.
Finally, our exit sign appears like a green and white shining beacon. We exit the highway and slow to 35 mph. I remain hyper-vigilant, reminding myself that most accidents occur very close to home, in the final stretch, when we let down our guard.
A half hour after the crazy screeching of the white car, we arrive home safely. I tuck Sam in, and he says, with a smile "a real bed!" and then, I walk across the house, splash my face with water, strip off my dress and climb into bed. On my side of the mattress, an outstretched, open hand waits to take hold of mine. I take Paul's hand, and find that I am gripping it very hard, unable to let go or to loosen my grasp. I take it in both my hands and press it to my chest, then tell him that I am wide awake, that I had a scary drive, that I am ever so grateful to be home.
Paul listens to my story, then thanks me for my safe driving, for bringing our precious cargo home safely, and drifts back to sleep. I lie awake, disturbed to realize that I did not think to call 911, wondering what happened to the driver of the white car, amazed that the accident happened just after he passed us, after having come up from behind us for so long. Had he not seen us until just then? Was it because he'd had to switch lanes, after all, in order to get past us? My mind races until some unidentifiable point in time, when it must short circuit, releasing me into a sweet, dreamless sleep.
This morning, everything is better. Paul has hidden the bathroom scale, sparing me its reproach. My boys are two angels in their neighboring beds as I brew good coffee from just enough beans. I pinch baby mint leaves from the garden, noticing the beauty all around me, observing that the Rose of Sharon has opened its first blooms of the season. I cut juicy, orange melon into slices and arrange them lovingly on a green plate. It is so beautiful that I have to photograph it. Everything and everyone is so sweet that it is all I can do not to cry.
The boys leave for rehearsal in my friend's minivan. I walk the dog in the dappled sunlight, and loop back to the house. I finish my coffee and take up my violin to practice the Archduke trio. As I begin to play, pleasure washes over me. This music, this moment, this day.
I am so happy to be here. I am so lucky to be alive.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Nancy' ark (Part One)
Yesterday, I dug out of my jewelry box a brooch I seldom wear. It is silvertone and yellow brass, and depicts happy animals crowding the top deck of Noah's ark, presumably during a sunny moment immediately following the 40 days of rainfall. It was given to me by Mary Lee Sirkin, in appreciation for the many hours I spent in the preschool "muscle room", donating a mural for the children there. Yesterday, I needed any good karma that might be stored in this pin. I needed my children to feel as happy and secure as the smiling giraffe and hippo. Essentially, I needed an ark.
While in between car ownerships, just the other day, I received an email asking me (1) to what extent and (2) how I wanted to participate in a local carpool for my sons' upcoming production of Grease.
My answers were:
(1) fully!
and
(2) with deep gratitude, as the new owner of another minivan or its equivalent.
This email brought an extra frisson to what was already proving to be a very disquieting adventure. It added a small measure of desperation to my increasingly urgent search for three rows of fun for under $30,000. Every other mother in this very desirable carpool could take another 3 children in addition to her own. In order to participate fully, in this any any future carpool, I was going to have to find some spacious wheels, and soon.
On our way to camp earlier this month - the first of ten trips I will make to the kids' camp this summer - Max wanted to drive, since he would be unable to access a car for ten weeks. We were nearly there when I thought I hard a race car about to pass us on the highway. I looked up from my iphone, where I had been peacefully reading friends' facebook status updates, but could not detect the source of the revving engine. I looked all around us, but the race car was nowhere to be found. Turns out, that revving engine was ours.
(to be continued...)
While in between car ownerships, just the other day, I received an email asking me (1) to what extent and (2) how I wanted to participate in a local carpool for my sons' upcoming production of Grease.
My answers were:
(1) fully!
and
(2) with deep gratitude, as the new owner of another minivan or its equivalent.
This email brought an extra frisson to what was already proving to be a very disquieting adventure. It added a small measure of desperation to my increasingly urgent search for three rows of fun for under $30,000. Every other mother in this very desirable carpool could take another 3 children in addition to her own. In order to participate fully, in this any any future carpool, I was going to have to find some spacious wheels, and soon.
On our way to camp earlier this month - the first of ten trips I will make to the kids' camp this summer - Max wanted to drive, since he would be unable to access a car for ten weeks. We were nearly there when I thought I hard a race car about to pass us on the highway. I looked up from my iphone, where I had been peacefully reading friends' facebook status updates, but could not detect the source of the revving engine. I looked all around us, but the race car was nowhere to be found. Turns out, that revving engine was ours.
(to be continued...)
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
storing away the popsicle stick star
I knew it had seemed much too easy.
Yesterday, I dropped my boys off at camp. We are empty nesters for the next 12 days, and we've planned a trip so that we don't have to look at their empty beds. That's what I told them, so that they wouldn't feel bad about missing out.
"You'll be at camp, so what else can we do? You can't expect us to wake up and see your empty beds each day, your empty chairs at the breakfast table..."
But secretly, I was gleeful. This was a dream we had concocted when they were both still in diapers: someday, when they'd both be grown up enough to join their big brother, Max, at sleep-away camp in Indiana, we would have a couple of weeks of freedom: to sleep, to have uninterrupted conversations, to travel, to get to know one another again...
It had seemed so remote, and yet now, here we are.
An unexpected wrinkle on this page was that on the way to camp we had to visit the minivan the boys had grown up in and remove the license plates, put the key and the title in the glove compartment. I photographed the boys standing beside our collection of bumpers stickers, purchased each Mother's Day in Yellow Springs, Ohio and plastered all over the van's rear half. I filled two shopping bags with paraphernalia gathered from the van's innards and we went across the street to have lunch.
After our last meal together of fruit, yogurt, bagel and burrito, we went to camp. They needed my help, to varying degrees, with making their beds and sorting their clothes and possessions, but eventually, I was lovingly dismissed by two very happy campers.
On the ride back to our vehicles, the busload of cheerfully bereft parents compared notes on what we planned to do with all of our free time for the next 2, 4, or 8 weeks. I was in a bit of a rush to return my rental van and meet up with dear friends in a nearby Starbucks, who were waiting to drive me back to Cincinnati.
We zoomed homeward for two hours until we met up with Paul, dined al fresco, and then decided to stay out and see the 9:45 screening of Midnight in Paris. I felt fine; tired from a long day's work, but content, and generally unburdened. We walked the dog together, I dunked a forgotten nightgown, rescued from my erstwhile minivan, into a bowl of Oxiclean, and fell into bed, exhausted.
An hour or so ago, I rose to brew coffee as I do every morning, and stooped to poke through one of the bags of items collected from the van. I pulled out the popsicle stick Magen David that I'd ceremoniously kissed as the boys watched me cut it down from the rear view mirror. As I gazed upon its glitter glue embellished surface, the blue paint now completely faded away, the glitter bleached from rainbow to a pale gold, I felt my face crumple.
First, I realized I had no vehicle with which to adorn it. This is fine, a situation that will be addressed soon after we return from Paris. But immediately thereafter, I knew that I could not put the star up in my new car. It would be ridiculous to choose to hang a pre-school judaica project in the front window of a vehicle used to transport children who will soon be turning 9 and 11. Even if the boys were to indulge me, as they surely would, it would be a clear sign - to my orchestra carpool and many others - that I was trapped in the past, out of step with reality's forward lurching. In the next moment, I was back in bed, crushing myself into Paul's back as the tears rushed up to moisten his pajamas and fill my sinuses.
My outburst was lovingly dismissed as "hormonal living" and then Paul suggested that someone might make me a new mirror dangle while at camp. As I walked the dog, just now, with my first cuppa joe, I realized it was inevitable that the emotion of this milestone would hit me as hard as it just did. By releasing us from minivan ownership on the very same day our youngest child becomes a camper, the Universe is sending a clear message: we are in a new chapter of our lives.
And, as the Woody Allen movie impressed upon us for about two hours last night, we must live in the present. Life is by definition somewhat unsatisfying, the film's protagonist observes, but for maximum enjoyment, we must embrace the time in which we find ourselves. This era; this moment. I'm all in.
Yesterday, I dropped my boys off at camp. We are empty nesters for the next 12 days, and we've planned a trip so that we don't have to look at their empty beds. That's what I told them, so that they wouldn't feel bad about missing out.
"You'll be at camp, so what else can we do? You can't expect us to wake up and see your empty beds each day, your empty chairs at the breakfast table..."
But secretly, I was gleeful. This was a dream we had concocted when they were both still in diapers: someday, when they'd both be grown up enough to join their big brother, Max, at sleep-away camp in Indiana, we would have a couple of weeks of freedom: to sleep, to have uninterrupted conversations, to travel, to get to know one another again...
It had seemed so remote, and yet now, here we are.
An unexpected wrinkle on this page was that on the way to camp we had to visit the minivan the boys had grown up in and remove the license plates, put the key and the title in the glove compartment. I photographed the boys standing beside our collection of bumpers stickers, purchased each Mother's Day in Yellow Springs, Ohio and plastered all over the van's rear half. I filled two shopping bags with paraphernalia gathered from the van's innards and we went across the street to have lunch.
After our last meal together of fruit, yogurt, bagel and burrito, we went to camp. They needed my help, to varying degrees, with making their beds and sorting their clothes and possessions, but eventually, I was lovingly dismissed by two very happy campers.
On the ride back to our vehicles, the busload of cheerfully bereft parents compared notes on what we planned to do with all of our free time for the next 2, 4, or 8 weeks. I was in a bit of a rush to return my rental van and meet up with dear friends in a nearby Starbucks, who were waiting to drive me back to Cincinnati.
We zoomed homeward for two hours until we met up with Paul, dined al fresco, and then decided to stay out and see the 9:45 screening of Midnight in Paris. I felt fine; tired from a long day's work, but content, and generally unburdened. We walked the dog together, I dunked a forgotten nightgown, rescued from my erstwhile minivan, into a bowl of Oxiclean, and fell into bed, exhausted.
An hour or so ago, I rose to brew coffee as I do every morning, and stooped to poke through one of the bags of items collected from the van. I pulled out the popsicle stick Magen David that I'd ceremoniously kissed as the boys watched me cut it down from the rear view mirror. As I gazed upon its glitter glue embellished surface, the blue paint now completely faded away, the glitter bleached from rainbow to a pale gold, I felt my face crumple.
First, I realized I had no vehicle with which to adorn it. This is fine, a situation that will be addressed soon after we return from Paris. But immediately thereafter, I knew that I could not put the star up in my new car. It would be ridiculous to choose to hang a pre-school judaica project in the front window of a vehicle used to transport children who will soon be turning 9 and 11. Even if the boys were to indulge me, as they surely would, it would be a clear sign - to my orchestra carpool and many others - that I was trapped in the past, out of step with reality's forward lurching. In the next moment, I was back in bed, crushing myself into Paul's back as the tears rushed up to moisten his pajamas and fill my sinuses.
My outburst was lovingly dismissed as "hormonal living" and then Paul suggested that someone might make me a new mirror dangle while at camp. As I walked the dog, just now, with my first cuppa joe, I realized it was inevitable that the emotion of this milestone would hit me as hard as it just did. By releasing us from minivan ownership on the very same day our youngest child becomes a camper, the Universe is sending a clear message: we are in a new chapter of our lives.
And, as the Woody Allen movie impressed upon us for about two hours last night, we must live in the present. Life is by definition somewhat unsatisfying, the film's protagonist observes, but for maximum enjoyment, we must embrace the time in which we find ourselves. This era; this moment. I'm all in.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
mezora
This week's Torah partion is about lepers...sort of...well, not really.
Anyway, it reminds me of a difficult and lonely time in my life when I was treated like a non-person, or less than a full member of the community. It was a period I was so eager to put behind me that I spent little time reflecting back upon it until years later, when I came back into the community and discovered a former acquaintance standing in the shoes I had once worn. I asked about her experience and, as she described the way others were treating her, my memories of rejection and loneliness came rushing back and I knew I had to help her.
I immediately made plans to throw a party and I invited a bunch of the people who were ignoring this woman in their midst. When I explained to one of them what I was doing, she argued that my perception of the situation was accurate. Ironically, this friend was one of the people who had ignored me when I had stood in my old shoes but befriended me when I returned wearing a "new pair". I told her how I knew it was true, without mentioning that she had once treated me the same way.
The shoes I'm overstretching here are the metaphorical shoes of a divorced woman, or, as some people who haven't walked in them might put it, of a "single mother by choice".
The reason I mention this is because I wonder whether it's the perception that some women CHOOSE to become divorced that exempts them from the loving ministrations of the community, or if not, what is it that makes people behave the way they do?
It is marvelous that when a married woman becomes gravely ill, the community lines up to help - they visit, they bring meals and gifts, they offer to do errands, they drive the woman to and from doctor appointments, they cart her children around for her. It is absolutely a wonderful thing. It feels great to help people in their time of need, when they feel overwhelmed, when their life seems to be falling apart. It makes us grateful not to be in their shoes, faced with our own mortality.
But when a woman gets divorced, she is often a pariah, very much like the lepers of the Torah. Generally speaking, a woman not only needs a whole new skill set, but also a whole new set of friends and support system, because she suddenly may become persona non grata to a shockingly large portion of the community. I'm not sure it is even a conscious decison people make, and I'd certainly prefer to think that it is not, but every time it happens to a friend, I reach out to them, only to hear how rare my kindness is. This saddens but no longer surprises me.
As beautiful as it is to witness the outreach to the wife whose physical health is slipping away from her, that is how ugly it can be to witness the phenomenon of people turning their backs on the divorcing woman as her world is crumbling.
I was divorced 15 years ago and since then I have counseled such a great number of people - both lifelong friends and those who were drawn to me just for that season of their lives - that I have become, quite accidentally, a bit of an expert.
I think this expertise obtained because I have so much compassion for women at this painful point in their lives. Admittedly, I simply love talking, helping, and giving advice, but it's more than that. Especially when I meet a person who came to town in a relationship and now, bereft of that relationship, finds herself utterly alone, well, I really "get it" and evidently, that is rare. First of all, no woman becomes a single mother by choice. Either her husband leaves the marriage, or she leaves because she is on the verge of losing her mind. In the latter case, she is essentially leaving in order to save her life. She generally does not leave the marriage until there is no longer any viable choice. In all my years of becoming an expert on this subject, I have only encountered one person who chose to leave her marriage to play the field because she was pretty sure she could score an upgrade. She traded up and then her second husband left her. In that instance, I had a bit less compassion, but as far as I can tell, her story is very unusual.
Because divorce sucks.
When I moved to Cincinnati married to a native son, I was embraced to some degree by the community of folks my husband had grown up with. When I divorced him, they turned their collective back on me. One woman, whom I considered a friend because she kissed me whenever she saw me, invited us to parties, took me out to lunch, brought us a lovely baby gift, attended our son's bris, had us break the Yom Kippur fast at her parents' house, and invited me to faux finish her dining room in exchange for pizza, explained, when I turned to her for comfort, that while she hadn't really been friends with my husband while growing up, so far as she could tell he had become a real mensch. So, if I was leaving him, well, we could no longer be friends.
Others were more subtle, leaving me to the conclusion that Cincinnati was just an extrmely cold and unfriendly place. I immersed myself in parenting my young son, accepting the fact that he and I were now two people "on our own", as my photo albums from that era are labelled. We had a lot of fun together, and we had an incredibly close, intense relationship, but we were constantly isolated and alone in the middle of a crowd. No invitations to playdates or shabbat lunch. No invitations to much of anything. I felt lucky if anyone spoke to me. On the playground with my son after school, the only adult who engaged with me was the grandmother of another preschooler. Ironically, she was a good friend of my former mother in law, but she was the only adult (other than the teachers) whom I remember talking to on a regular basis at my son's school. We took the kids for ice cream a couple of times and it was shocking treat for me to get to talk to another adult in this context. I wonder if she has any idea how much I appreciated her kindness. When I am done with this blog post, I plan to call and tell her.
I joined a new temple and attended services weekly, took a class at lunchtime, but nobody there reached out to me, not even the rabbi and his wife. My decorative painting clients were often quite friendly while I was in their home, but that was as far as it went. It was clear that I would have to create my own life. I was (if you know me, you know this) far from shy, but I had just two, very busy friends in town - one had been my nanny, and the other, Gillian, a single friend from college, who had moved here to join the local symphony just as I was preparing to get divorced.
This scarcity of friends left me plenty of time for myself. When my son went to be with his father, I either exercised alone in my apartment, did volunteer work, laundry, filled photo albums with pictures I'd taken of my son, or hung out with the new gay friends I made through my work as a decorative painter.
The other thing I did was to go out on blind dates. These were either the result of an ad I placed in the newspaper or, later, when I became more selective, through an old fashioned Jewish matchmaker. Nobody in my "community" ever once asked me if I wanted to meet someone they knew. Early on in my divorced life, I met an older guy when I went to shabbat services elsewhere, and I went out with him only because (1) he was tall (2) I despaired of ever being introduced to anyone. I even auctioned myself off from a catwalk once when someone asked me to help the charity she worked for.
Eventually, one of those dates (from the matchmaker) actually led somewhere. I became engaged, and when I did, there was a palpable shift. Actually, it was more like an earthquake. Once I was part of a couple again, clients started acting like friends. One client made a bridal shower for me. Other clients attended, showering me with gifts and positive attention. Even though I felt like exactly the same person, no more or less attractive or friendly, it was as though my "leprosy" had suddenly cleared up, my pariah status had been nullified. I didnt have any more money than before because I was marrying a graduate student earning his Phd and paying off student loans. But some of my clients - now our friends - even came to our wedding, even though it was hundreds of miles away, in Cleveland.
So, mezora. This is still how we treat the lepers. I hope it is clear that I am sharing my story not to complain, not to criticize, but merely to raise awareness and increase sensitivity. The town I once thought of as unfriendly when I was divorced has yielded up an abundance of good neighbors and great friends, a fun community orchestra and an incredibly supportive and loving yoga community. I have a wonderful husband, three of the best children in the world, and a temple community where people in all stages of life are genuinely included and embraced.
I recently started a new blog to open up conversations about certain female topics on which we tend to remain silent, and then, this week's Torah portion reminded me there is yet more silence that I feel should be broken. My hope is that you will now think of a divorced person in your community and reach out to her or to him. My dream is that you will read this and invite them, include them, or offer them a helping hand. You never know what sort of shoes you might be standing in someday. May you never walk alone.
Anyway, it reminds me of a difficult and lonely time in my life when I was treated like a non-person, or less than a full member of the community. It was a period I was so eager to put behind me that I spent little time reflecting back upon it until years later, when I came back into the community and discovered a former acquaintance standing in the shoes I had once worn. I asked about her experience and, as she described the way others were treating her, my memories of rejection and loneliness came rushing back and I knew I had to help her.
I immediately made plans to throw a party and I invited a bunch of the people who were ignoring this woman in their midst. When I explained to one of them what I was doing, she argued that my perception of the situation was accurate. Ironically, this friend was one of the people who had ignored me when I had stood in my old shoes but befriended me when I returned wearing a "new pair". I told her how I knew it was true, without mentioning that she had once treated me the same way.
The shoes I'm overstretching here are the metaphorical shoes of a divorced woman, or, as some people who haven't walked in them might put it, of a "single mother by choice".
The reason I mention this is because I wonder whether it's the perception that some women CHOOSE to become divorced that exempts them from the loving ministrations of the community, or if not, what is it that makes people behave the way they do?
It is marvelous that when a married woman becomes gravely ill, the community lines up to help - they visit, they bring meals and gifts, they offer to do errands, they drive the woman to and from doctor appointments, they cart her children around for her. It is absolutely a wonderful thing. It feels great to help people in their time of need, when they feel overwhelmed, when their life seems to be falling apart. It makes us grateful not to be in their shoes, faced with our own mortality.
But when a woman gets divorced, she is often a pariah, very much like the lepers of the Torah. Generally speaking, a woman not only needs a whole new skill set, but also a whole new set of friends and support system, because she suddenly may become persona non grata to a shockingly large portion of the community. I'm not sure it is even a conscious decison people make, and I'd certainly prefer to think that it is not, but every time it happens to a friend, I reach out to them, only to hear how rare my kindness is. This saddens but no longer surprises me.
As beautiful as it is to witness the outreach to the wife whose physical health is slipping away from her, that is how ugly it can be to witness the phenomenon of people turning their backs on the divorcing woman as her world is crumbling.
I was divorced 15 years ago and since then I have counseled such a great number of people - both lifelong friends and those who were drawn to me just for that season of their lives - that I have become, quite accidentally, a bit of an expert.
I think this expertise obtained because I have so much compassion for women at this painful point in their lives. Admittedly, I simply love talking, helping, and giving advice, but it's more than that. Especially when I meet a person who came to town in a relationship and now, bereft of that relationship, finds herself utterly alone, well, I really "get it" and evidently, that is rare. First of all, no woman becomes a single mother by choice. Either her husband leaves the marriage, or she leaves because she is on the verge of losing her mind. In the latter case, she is essentially leaving in order to save her life. She generally does not leave the marriage until there is no longer any viable choice. In all my years of becoming an expert on this subject, I have only encountered one person who chose to leave her marriage to play the field because she was pretty sure she could score an upgrade. She traded up and then her second husband left her. In that instance, I had a bit less compassion, but as far as I can tell, her story is very unusual.
Because divorce sucks.
When I moved to Cincinnati married to a native son, I was embraced to some degree by the community of folks my husband had grown up with. When I divorced him, they turned their collective back on me. One woman, whom I considered a friend because she kissed me whenever she saw me, invited us to parties, took me out to lunch, brought us a lovely baby gift, attended our son's bris, had us break the Yom Kippur fast at her parents' house, and invited me to faux finish her dining room in exchange for pizza, explained, when I turned to her for comfort, that while she hadn't really been friends with my husband while growing up, so far as she could tell he had become a real mensch. So, if I was leaving him, well, we could no longer be friends.
Others were more subtle, leaving me to the conclusion that Cincinnati was just an extrmely cold and unfriendly place. I immersed myself in parenting my young son, accepting the fact that he and I were now two people "on our own", as my photo albums from that era are labelled. We had a lot of fun together, and we had an incredibly close, intense relationship, but we were constantly isolated and alone in the middle of a crowd. No invitations to playdates or shabbat lunch. No invitations to much of anything. I felt lucky if anyone spoke to me. On the playground with my son after school, the only adult who engaged with me was the grandmother of another preschooler. Ironically, she was a good friend of my former mother in law, but she was the only adult (other than the teachers) whom I remember talking to on a regular basis at my son's school. We took the kids for ice cream a couple of times and it was shocking treat for me to get to talk to another adult in this context. I wonder if she has any idea how much I appreciated her kindness. When I am done with this blog post, I plan to call and tell her.
I joined a new temple and attended services weekly, took a class at lunchtime, but nobody there reached out to me, not even the rabbi and his wife. My decorative painting clients were often quite friendly while I was in their home, but that was as far as it went. It was clear that I would have to create my own life. I was (if you know me, you know this) far from shy, but I had just two, very busy friends in town - one had been my nanny, and the other, Gillian, a single friend from college, who had moved here to join the local symphony just as I was preparing to get divorced.
This scarcity of friends left me plenty of time for myself. When my son went to be with his father, I either exercised alone in my apartment, did volunteer work, laundry, filled photo albums with pictures I'd taken of my son, or hung out with the new gay friends I made through my work as a decorative painter.
The other thing I did was to go out on blind dates. These were either the result of an ad I placed in the newspaper or, later, when I became more selective, through an old fashioned Jewish matchmaker. Nobody in my "community" ever once asked me if I wanted to meet someone they knew. Early on in my divorced life, I met an older guy when I went to shabbat services elsewhere, and I went out with him only because (1) he was tall (2) I despaired of ever being introduced to anyone. I even auctioned myself off from a catwalk once when someone asked me to help the charity she worked for.
Eventually, one of those dates (from the matchmaker) actually led somewhere. I became engaged, and when I did, there was a palpable shift. Actually, it was more like an earthquake. Once I was part of a couple again, clients started acting like friends. One client made a bridal shower for me. Other clients attended, showering me with gifts and positive attention. Even though I felt like exactly the same person, no more or less attractive or friendly, it was as though my "leprosy" had suddenly cleared up, my pariah status had been nullified. I didnt have any more money than before because I was marrying a graduate student earning his Phd and paying off student loans. But some of my clients - now our friends - even came to our wedding, even though it was hundreds of miles away, in Cleveland.
So, mezora. This is still how we treat the lepers. I hope it is clear that I am sharing my story not to complain, not to criticize, but merely to raise awareness and increase sensitivity. The town I once thought of as unfriendly when I was divorced has yielded up an abundance of good neighbors and great friends, a fun community orchestra and an incredibly supportive and loving yoga community. I have a wonderful husband, three of the best children in the world, and a temple community where people in all stages of life are genuinely included and embraced.
I recently started a new blog to open up conversations about certain female topics on which we tend to remain silent, and then, this week's Torah portion reminded me there is yet more silence that I feel should be broken. My hope is that you will now think of a divorced person in your community and reach out to her or to him. My dream is that you will read this and invite them, include them, or offer them a helping hand. You never know what sort of shoes you might be standing in someday. May you never walk alone.
Friday, March 25, 2011
reshelving books, with great love
I am missing my beloved Friday morning yoga class today because some movers need me to be home from 9-2. They are bringing to me some of my grandparents' things, for the final time. It's a big deal.
The first time a moving truck brought me things from my grandparents' home, Mama and Papa were in the process of moving out of the Great Neck ranch home that was the site of all my childhood seders, my first nights of Hannukah, my Rosh Hashanah lunches. It was a place I almost always entered through the side door, with the comforting certainty that my grandmother would be working in her kitchen and that my Papa Sam would grab me and say "hey there, ya bug, what's the word?"
The shipment they sent me last time, in 1996, furnished approximately half of my apartment in Clifton, where I lived for three years with a very sweet little boy named Max. My grandparents never visited this apartment - their last trip to Cincinnati was for Max's first birthday, just a few months before we moved - but because of this shipment, they were with us every day in spirit. On our birthdays, they called Max and me to sing to us as soon as we woke up in the morning, and later in the day, flowers would arrive from Adrian Durban and packages would come in the mail. But it made me happy to wake up on every ordinary day and see my grandmother's neoclassical Baker bench at the foot of my bed, her pretty French writing desk waiting on the opposite side of my bedroom. In the living room were her four, black, lacquered chairs, painted with beautiful roses. Perhaps best of all, sitting on my bookshelves, were many of their books.
My grandfather had lovingly wrapped, and then filled the drawers of a dresser with, very special books: a small black prayer book Mama had used in Brooklyn in the 30's, books about the great composers and their music, and books from the place they used to call Palestine, our beloved Jewish homeland, which I grew up knowing Papa just wanted to live long enough to introduce me to. Papa got his wish: we went on a family pilgrimage to Israel when I was twelve and again when I was fourteen. When my first husband and I visited Israel in 1993, my grandparents were there as well, and we met up with them in Jerusalem. Papa Sam even stuck around for yet another 5 1/2 years after that, sweetening each subsequent season of my life with his constant love and wisdom.
The other day, while on a field trip together, my son's second grade teacher asked me about my background in Judaic studies. I explained that my grandfather was "supposed" to have become a rabbi, but he left Poland to become a chemist and a businessman in America. Papa was a scholar all his life, and his love of Judaism and Israel and his life long passion for learning shaped me greatly growing up and continue to influence me today.
Another of their books that I found in my mother's childhood dresser that day in 1996- a piece of furniture which I would soon repaint for Max - was a gorgeous illuminated Megillat Esther. The cover is beautifully embossed black leather, with a window featuring an engraved copper plate of men praying at the Western Wall. Tissue paper lies protectively atop each breathtaking illustration of this book, which was published in Jerusalem in 1947. This Megillah is not only a valuable and beautiful book, but meaningful for several other reasons. My grandmother was the most regal person I knew (and that includes the arab Prince I hung out with in London in 1987). Mama's given name was Esther, and from well before I was born she reigned over our family and continued to do so until her death about a year ago. Her historic namesake's holiday, when we read the Megillat Esther in temple, has just passed, and now, Mama Esther's first yartzheit is fast approaching. After 43 years of having her in my life, I am still unaccustomed to her absence.
When I got the call, just two weeks ago, that the shelves from her living room and den, as well as my grandfather's desk, were soon going to be in my home, my first impulse was to call Mama up and tell her the good news. I knew she'd be happy. I see her picture on my kitchen windowsill every day and think of things to tell her as I wash the dishes. The few items I admitted I would like to have after her death - she had pressed me to name them and then promised they would be mine - were evidently not itemized in a will. I never heard anything about her having written will and testament; all I know is that the few items Mama promised to me are in my mother's possession instead. I was rather upset for a few minutes and then promptly put it in perspective; it's just stuff.
But today, I can't help it; I am just so thrilled to have these shelves and desk. It may sound impersonal to you, perhaps, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The shelves that are wrapped and sitting on pallets in a truck right now are something I stood before, in wonder, throughout the first several decades of my life, gazing upon the display of my grandparents' most treasured items. In their living room, first in Great Neck and then in the apartment in Garden City, their immaculately shiny chrome and glass shelves displayed books about Jerusalem and Masada, about the first days of Israel, about Ben Gurion and Golda Meir. The shelves held silver spice boxes and kiddush cups, and a hannukiah made of Jerusalem stone. The shelves in my grandfather's den held more books, and also displayed pictures of my sister and me, their only grandchildren, and photos of their two daughters. Eventually, it also held a picture of the six of us, standing in Jerusalem with the Western Wall behind us. Both sets of shelves were walls that defined my grandparents. Now I will be able to return some of their favorite books, which they shared with me years ago, back onto the shelves where I first gazed upon them. My mother is holding several other of Mama and Papa's special books for me in her home, and these will be returned to the shelves as well.
The desk is another story. It was private; it was Papa's; end of story. I never once thought to snoop inside its drawers. My snooping was strictly limited to the guest room, in the back of the house, once my aunt's childhood bedroom, where Mama kept a closet full of handbags, shoes, scarves and long beaded necklaces, perfect for dress up.
Ah, the mover has just called from down the street. I'm going to try not to cry as we unwrap all these memories in my living room. I feel so fortunate to be bringing my grandparents things once more into my life, into a home that is so full of love, Judaism, music and learning. Mama and Papa are still with us and they always will be. And for that, I am so very grateful.
The first time a moving truck brought me things from my grandparents' home, Mama and Papa were in the process of moving out of the Great Neck ranch home that was the site of all my childhood seders, my first nights of Hannukah, my Rosh Hashanah lunches. It was a place I almost always entered through the side door, with the comforting certainty that my grandmother would be working in her kitchen and that my Papa Sam would grab me and say "hey there, ya bug, what's the word?"
The shipment they sent me last time, in 1996, furnished approximately half of my apartment in Clifton, where I lived for three years with a very sweet little boy named Max. My grandparents never visited this apartment - their last trip to Cincinnati was for Max's first birthday, just a few months before we moved - but because of this shipment, they were with us every day in spirit. On our birthdays, they called Max and me to sing to us as soon as we woke up in the morning, and later in the day, flowers would arrive from Adrian Durban and packages would come in the mail. But it made me happy to wake up on every ordinary day and see my grandmother's neoclassical Baker bench at the foot of my bed, her pretty French writing desk waiting on the opposite side of my bedroom. In the living room were her four, black, lacquered chairs, painted with beautiful roses. Perhaps best of all, sitting on my bookshelves, were many of their books.
My grandfather had lovingly wrapped, and then filled the drawers of a dresser with, very special books: a small black prayer book Mama had used in Brooklyn in the 30's, books about the great composers and their music, and books from the place they used to call Palestine, our beloved Jewish homeland, which I grew up knowing Papa just wanted to live long enough to introduce me to. Papa got his wish: we went on a family pilgrimage to Israel when I was twelve and again when I was fourteen. When my first husband and I visited Israel in 1993, my grandparents were there as well, and we met up with them in Jerusalem. Papa Sam even stuck around for yet another 5 1/2 years after that, sweetening each subsequent season of my life with his constant love and wisdom.
The other day, while on a field trip together, my son's second grade teacher asked me about my background in Judaic studies. I explained that my grandfather was "supposed" to have become a rabbi, but he left Poland to become a chemist and a businessman in America. Papa was a scholar all his life, and his love of Judaism and Israel and his life long passion for learning shaped me greatly growing up and continue to influence me today.
Another of their books that I found in my mother's childhood dresser that day in 1996- a piece of furniture which I would soon repaint for Max - was a gorgeous illuminated Megillat Esther. The cover is beautifully embossed black leather, with a window featuring an engraved copper plate of men praying at the Western Wall. Tissue paper lies protectively atop each breathtaking illustration of this book, which was published in Jerusalem in 1947. This Megillah is not only a valuable and beautiful book, but meaningful for several other reasons. My grandmother was the most regal person I knew (and that includes the arab Prince I hung out with in London in 1987). Mama's given name was Esther, and from well before I was born she reigned over our family and continued to do so until her death about a year ago. Her historic namesake's holiday, when we read the Megillat Esther in temple, has just passed, and now, Mama Esther's first yartzheit is fast approaching. After 43 years of having her in my life, I am still unaccustomed to her absence.
When I got the call, just two weeks ago, that the shelves from her living room and den, as well as my grandfather's desk, were soon going to be in my home, my first impulse was to call Mama up and tell her the good news. I knew she'd be happy. I see her picture on my kitchen windowsill every day and think of things to tell her as I wash the dishes. The few items I admitted I would like to have after her death - she had pressed me to name them and then promised they would be mine - were evidently not itemized in a will. I never heard anything about her having written will and testament; all I know is that the few items Mama promised to me are in my mother's possession instead. I was rather upset for a few minutes and then promptly put it in perspective; it's just stuff.
But today, I can't help it; I am just so thrilled to have these shelves and desk. It may sound impersonal to you, perhaps, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The shelves that are wrapped and sitting on pallets in a truck right now are something I stood before, in wonder, throughout the first several decades of my life, gazing upon the display of my grandparents' most treasured items. In their living room, first in Great Neck and then in the apartment in Garden City, their immaculately shiny chrome and glass shelves displayed books about Jerusalem and Masada, about the first days of Israel, about Ben Gurion and Golda Meir. The shelves held silver spice boxes and kiddush cups, and a hannukiah made of Jerusalem stone. The shelves in my grandfather's den held more books, and also displayed pictures of my sister and me, their only grandchildren, and photos of their two daughters. Eventually, it also held a picture of the six of us, standing in Jerusalem with the Western Wall behind us. Both sets of shelves were walls that defined my grandparents. Now I will be able to return some of their favorite books, which they shared with me years ago, back onto the shelves where I first gazed upon them. My mother is holding several other of Mama and Papa's special books for me in her home, and these will be returned to the shelves as well.
The desk is another story. It was private; it was Papa's; end of story. I never once thought to snoop inside its drawers. My snooping was strictly limited to the guest room, in the back of the house, once my aunt's childhood bedroom, where Mama kept a closet full of handbags, shoes, scarves and long beaded necklaces, perfect for dress up.
Ah, the mover has just called from down the street. I'm going to try not to cry as we unwrap all these memories in my living room. I feel so fortunate to be bringing my grandparents things once more into my life, into a home that is so full of love, Judaism, music and learning. Mama and Papa are still with us and they always will be. And for that, I am so very grateful.
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