Category Archives: Uncategorized

4 in 5

That’s four visits to the eye doctor in five weeks. I only skipped a week because I was sick, and I’ll be back there next week, making it five in six. Wow. I really had my fingers crossed that this would be the week, but my patience is being tried, and another contact is on order for my left eye.

The day hadn’t started well. I’d stayed up too late, and when my alarm went off at 7:00 AM I decided that was absurd and overly ambitious and reset it for 7:30. But I accidently set it for PM, and woke up with a jolt at 8:11 (the room was way too bright for 7:30 in February) with thirty-four minutes to eat, make coffee, shower, dress, let dog in yard (sorry, Luck), feed dog, scrape windshield (spill coffee) and get to work with just enough seconds to prepare for a 9:00 massage. I made it, but in my haste I put the right contact in the left eye and the left in the right. I stayed like this for five hours until I could get home and switch them.

The thing was, I wasn’t sure I’d actually switched them, and during a week that is already threatening to break me I thought: is this the day I start going blind?

It was dramatic and it was pointless, but I went there anyway. There was no stopping me en route to that dark place, the place I thought years ago would be my destiny, but that now I’m pretty sure is an unrealistic worry. These are the kinds of days where I believe in the certainty of very little, and pretty sure is as confident as I can get that corrective lenses will advance as my vision decreases and I will not have to worry about being blind.

This sounds dire, but I assure you it’s not. It’s more about trust in the future, and trust in general, which in general I lack. The goal: trust that if you take care of each moment the future will take care of itself.

And if you don’t like the present moment? Change it. Shake it up. Be a little dramatic. Do what you need to make it something you like and something you can be proud of, and in the process stay in the process.

I arrived at Dr. Sheppard’s office five minutes late, but it turned out they were running late, so I got to enjoy a PEOPLE magazine and a cup of tea. It was not uplifting to read about the breakups of Heidi and Seal or Demi and Ashton. I knew all about the Sidney, MT teacher who was never seen again after she went out for a morning run, but the (inter)national coverage made the story even more alarming and unsettling.

It could happen to any of us, but what “it” is remains unclear. Sherry Arnold is missing, but her body has yet to be discovered. Two suspects have been charged with aggravated kidnapping and have been held in North Dakota, but there hasn’t been any information given about what led authorities to the suspects. Bail is set at $2.5 million for each man, and they’re being extradited back to Montana for their arraignments. The residents of Sidney, MT, population 5,000, are now locking their doors for the first time. Ever.

I was in a bad place when the doctor called my name. I went into the exam room, washed my hands, and waited for her to present me with my new left contact. She said, “This could be the one!” so optimistically as she set it down in front of me.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry yet. Be a big girl.

Seriously? Thirty-seven years old? Really? Oh, yeah. But the difference here, for me, is that it feels good to be honest about these hurts and challenges. It is somehow refreshing to acknowledge that I don’t want to be “this way” forever, but this is where I am right now and the only place to start from is where you are.

So we begin.

I put the contact in? I blink. I look around the room at various things but try to focus on nothing in particular. It is more clear, but it isn’t right. There’s something wobbly about the vision. It feels sort of like my pupils have been dilated, or like my eyes are watering and I’m looking through that distortion.

“So….how is it?” She’s so excited and you have to love her.

“Better…” I say, punctuating with a question mark, “but not perfect. I can’t describe it, but something’s not quite right.”

The doctor is hopeful, and as I put my face in the machine and she starts with the “1 or 2? 2 or 1?” and I want to stop her and say no-no-no but she’s been so kind and I don’t want to be rude so I say “I don’t know,” “I’m not sure,” and “It’s hard to say” before my eyes fill up and I sit back in the chair. Not like a big girl.

“You’re frustrated. I understand. Why don’t we let these settle onto your eyes for a few minutes.” She explains that contacts to correct astigmatism—toric lenses—are different and there are two powers to each lens. They are made to not shift around on the eye, but that have to fit just right. “Just let it settle on your eye for a few minutes.”

I go back to the lobby and anesthetize with celebrity gossip. When I’m reading everything seems fine with the eyes, maybe they are settling, but when I turn my gaze outward it is apparent that this contact is not right.

I erupt in tears when I walk back into the exam room. “I’m so sick of this,” I tell Dr. Sheppard. I quickly clarify to let her know I’m not sick of her and I really appreciate her patience, but a lifetime of this has gotten old. I just want to see. We do a little more of the “1 or 2? 2 or 1?” business and I actually let out a giggle when we’re onto something good. Next week we’ll meet again.

Dr. Sheppard and I always talk about books, and we’ve recommended some to each other every week. She wants to reconnect with me that way, take my mind off the blurriness, so she tells me that she’s enjoying A Widow for One Year by John Irving, one of my favorites that I recommended a couple of weeks back, and she can’t wait to finish it while she’s at a friend’s mountain lodge this weekend. I’m happy to hear that, but am having a hard time pulling myself together. Dr. Sheppard has another patient waiting and I feel guilty for taking so much of her time. I do not pay for each visit. I paid at my first visit for the exam and contact lens “fitting,” but five visits for a contact lens fitting? This woman is a saint.

She hands me a box of Kleenex and tells me to hold on. She scurries off and runs up and down some stairs and she returns with a stack of books. “I went into my lending library and grabbed a few books. Now, I know these may be too ‘cutesy’ for you, but they’re terrific stories.”

They are too cutesy for my taste, but they look terrific. The wise doctor reads my face and can possibly even see into my heart. “Maybe you could use a little cutesy right now?”

Heck yeah I can. Thanks, doc.

 

Eyes up...

Silence is Golden

I’ve been quiet lately. I’ve been seeking simple, intimate groups, and have lacked tolerance for a lot of noise, both literally and figuratively. I begged for some sort of “break,” and then I got it in the form of a cold/flu combo that took me out for nearly a week. That was followed by the rearing up of a decade old back injury that was likely brought on by skiing which I did more this year than in the past seven years combined. Which was not a lot.

This has all lead to a lot of questioning, some of which has been productive, a lot of which has felt like gears grinding, clutch slipping, motion in reverse. It can make a person want to simultaneously scream and stifle. It makes a person repeat: this will pass – this will pass – this will pass. We have to trust it, because we know all things do.

Almost a month later and three trips to the (wonderful) eye doctor, we still have not found my new prescription. We’ve gotten close, but we’re not there yet. This may be the week. It’s been a struggle to have a blurry left eye, which is ironically my dominant eye. I asked her last week to do the dominant eye test again, and again it was the left eye, the one that is more near-sighted, the one that we struggle to find the proper prescription for. My perspective is still askew and I can’t understand—nor can the doctor explain—why my weak eye is the dominant one. It makes a girl ponder, usually too much, and it makes me wonder what plays tricks on us most. Is it the mind? The eyes? The heart?

Something heartbreaking has been going on at my neighbor’s house. Her son died and she moved into his house last year, putting her home on the market. She wanted to live in her deceased son’s home—and who could blame her—but her house didn’t sell and the two mortgages were killing her. Her house is in a neighborhood that doesn’t allow renters, so she was forced to move back over there and rent her son’s house. In the interim period there were a few real estate deals that fell through and a lag on getting a renter because it really would have been a disaster if she sold her house and rented her son’s house, rendering her homeless. So there was a delay, and she was neither here nor there. She joked with me that her peanut butter was at one house and her jelly at the other.

Finally she had to take a chance and just rent the son’s house. She found two guys to move in there who she thinks seem pretty terrific, and she only committed to a six-month lease. But then there was the process of getting everything out, and the emotion attached to taking every single thing out of the house. Her son’s skis were still hanging in the laundry room, and I’m guessing that some of the plants had been his—he was a gardener—and lord knows what else.

She has another son who was helping, and at least a dozen people showed up with cars and trucks to get everything moved. Her mascara was down to her cheeks while I chatted with her the afternoon before everyone came to help. I was torn between wanting to help, but worrying about my back and the fact that maybe it should be more of a family and close friend affair. I was paralyzed and did nothing.

This was a few days ago. Tonight I noticed her car there again—the renters move in tomorrow—and I imagined that she was in there grabbing the loose ends that are always the most annoying to move, and possibly even cleaning which always feels like the most exhausting and depressing thing to do after all of the moving is over.

I wanted to go over and knock on the door, make sure she didn’t need any help, and offer a hug if she needed one. I didn’t. I respected her privacy and I walked back into my own house and burst into tears.

I have a few things to work out right now and it feels a little daunting, but really, it’s not that bad. I’m going to give myself permission to be a little quiet right now. Who knows what I might discover.

“In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth.”
Mahatma Gandhi (1869 – 1948)

near(ly) sighted

I cried at the eye doctor yesterday. Nothing is wrong. It was just a routine check up. I completely understand if you’re thinking, “Who cries during an eye exam?”

I know I’ve cried after an exam when I’ve found out that my prescription needed to be stronger—AGAIN— which is sort of like crying after a bad haircut, but worse because it won’t grow out. But to cry during the part of the exam where you determine if one is better than two or two is better than one? Who does that?

I do. I have all sorts of emotion bound within my vision issues, and though I’ve gotten upset about it before and worried about the going blind, I never really came undone the way I did yesterday.

About five years ago I threw a fit that almost got me kicked out of an optician’s office in Florida. I’m surprised I didn’t end up in jail after the scene I caused. I called the ophthalmologist an asshole and managed to slip in something about how I felt sorry for his wife. I was about to get kicked out, but my mom dragged me out first.

I’d spent hours trying on dozens of frames for my mother, who thought they all looked great. In my pre-contact lens days I had relied on her to choose frames for me, because without corrective lenses I couldn’t make out the details of my face. Even if I was ten inches from a mirror. Yes, I am that blind. But I still like to have someone with me who isn’t trying to sell me something. If the frames don’t look good with non-corrective lenses in them, they will not look good with my double-digit prescriptions welded in place.

After I narrowed my picks down to a half dozen I asked the optician, “which ones will work with my prescription?” She said any would work with the new thin lenses she was special ordering for a bazillion dollars so I didn’t have to worry about size or shape as much as I had in the past. Woo-Woo! Able to move into rectangular frames I went big and bold with gorgeous, made in Italy, turquoise blue frames. I imagined myself wearing them out to breakfast! To dinner! To movies! My life as a severely near-sighted person was changing, literally, right before my eyes.

Tomorrow would be different. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and I imagined myself sitting around with my family in my glasses, basting a turkey in my glasses, allowing a picture to be taken of me. In my glasses.

The optician had specially ordered (via courier so I could have them the same day) the (supposedly) thinnest lenses available. I was optimistic. I trusted her. I handed her a credit card (that had what seemed at the time to be a limitless balance) and began to get excited about the potential for having glasses I felt comfortable wearing out of the house.

Although it had been twenty years since I’d relied solely on glasses to see, and I was grateful for my contacts, I was tired of wearing them all the time. I was tired of friends seeing me for the first time in my glasses and saying, “Wow! You weren’t kidding! You really are blind!” As if I didn’t know. I was tired of sleeping with my contacts in around new boyfriends. I was tired of seemingly obligatory comments like, “Well I think you look cute in your glasses,” which may or may not be true, but all I hear is “your face looks good in glasses.” This also may or may not be true, but I know one fact to be non-negotiably true: lenses in my prescription strength distort the eyes and parts of the face that are viewed through them. I don’t look or feel like myself behind glasses.

I got contacts when I was twelve years old and was finally able to see myself, for the first time. It was also the first time I felt like I could be seen. I became more confident and sassy, and though these things would eventually lead to trouble, I liked the way I felt with my naked face turned outward at the world. My baby half-sister called me Jaime when I had my contacts in, and Diggie when I wore my glasses. She thought I was two different people, and I suppose I acted that way too.

With contacts I also had something I’d never had before: peripheral vision. In addition to viewing the world less myopically, I was able to see left and right of center. This changed sports and school for me in dramatic ways, but it also changed my social life. I know longer had to turn my face toward someone to see them or to see if they were seeing me. I’d discovered the brave new world of peeking out of the corner of my eye. I could be sneaky.

But that day In Florida, as a thirty-two year old, I threw a child-sized temper tantrum when the glasses—that looked like something you could use to start a fire—were presented to me. My old glasses were coming apart at the seams, and because I was living on a remote island thirty miles off the coast of Honduras I needed a backup source of vision. Although I hate wearing glasses I panic over not having them on hand in an emergency. I can barely make it to the bathroom in my own house with my glasses. It is downright dangerous for me to be without backup eyewear. I could not go back to the island without my security blanket, loathsome as they are.

The problem wasn’t just my dissatisfaction with the ugly new glasses—ugly glasses were my norm—it was that the optician had misled me.

I was out of control. I expected something different—despite the fact that I’ve always had lenses that resemble glass from a lighthouse—because the optician had promised that thin(ish) lenses that would look terrific with the frames I’d picked out. Price was not a factor for me that day; I wanted something I would wear and I believed I was about to get it.

I fought—arms crossed, foot tapping, glare head-on — for a refund (they wouldn’t refund the lenses or courier charges, just the frames), and we headed to the Lenscrafters at the nearby mall that was open late. I’m pretty sure I blacked out a little because I barely remember any of it except that I got some functional frames for emergencies. Oi.

I’ve been to several eye doctors since then—and every time I’ve left upset in one way or another—but before yesterday I’d never cried during the exam. I’ve choked back tears when there was little improvement between one or two or two and one—the common denominator being “I still can’t see”—but never have tears slid down my cheeks with my face in the mask-like phoropter.

The problem yesterday was not with the ophthalmologist. Dr. Sheppard was wonderful and the exam was thorough. She used a combination of modern and old-fashioned examination tools, and we chatted about how she’d never give up some of the older methods—many of them glorified pieces of cardboard—because they do things the new machines just can’t. I felt like I was in good hands and I trusted her assessment of my eyes. If she noticed my tears—I’m not sure how she could have missed them—she didn’t fuss about it or appear to be in any way fazed by it.

After Dr. Sheppard determined my prescription she said she’d order my contacts, and suggested I try a different type that will correct my astigmatism. She didn’t say what the other doctors have said, that she’d sure I’ve gotten used to it after all these years. She said, “let’s try something different.” Other doctors have never suggested the alternative, they all figured I’d be happy to stick with what I was already doing, assuming it was working. Until yesterday not one had said, “Why not try to see better?”

Astigmatism “…results in distorted images, as light rays are prevented from meeting at a common focus.”

I didn’t even know until yesterday that astigmatism-correcting contacts were an option, and look forward to trying them when they arrive. It might be a whole new world of increased clarity, or I may decide to stick with what’s been comfortable, but I sure hope I don’t. I’d like to try seeing the world differently, to see myself differently within it.

I’ve most likely been astigmatic my entire life, but the condition is an appropriate metaphor for the present as I work on my latest writing project. I’m distilling my experiences on Roatan and creating a framework for those stories that will (hopefully) result in a fun, interesting, and thought-provoking book. Some of those images are distorted in my memory, so I sift through the emotional aspects to bridge the gap between what happened and the stories I told about what happened. Will an improvement in my current vision change my perception of past memories? It’s a possibility and I’m willing to give it a try. Why keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result?

We all tell stories. We tell them to others and we tell them to ourselves; we say things to convey comfort and confidence, and sometimes we fib. We say, “It’ll be okay,” even when we’re not so sure, even when the prognosis is not good. We say, “I’m well,” even when we’re not because we don’t want someone to worry and because it feels good, even for a second, to just pretend it’s all okay.

I regularly use the idiom, “I can’t see the forest for the trees,” and it’s true. The big picture often eludes me. I habitually get bogged down in minutiae and can’t get past the details to see what might really be happening or to see what is right in front of me or beyond what is right in front of me. I can’t help but wonder if this forest/trees mindset is more of a problem for me because I’m so near-sighted.

Without corrective lenses my very close—like one inch close—vision is like a microscope. I bet I could do a killer eyebrow tweeze (on someone else) with my naturally microscopic eyes. Oh, the gifts. Any takers?!

I got my first pair of glasses as a three year old though they were mostly abandoned in favor of sitting three feet from Sesame Street. When I got to school I needed them to see the board, but I’d choose instead to sit in the front row. I avoided wearing my glasses as much as possible, but as my prescriptions grew stronger wearing them became inevitable. I even had to wear them to recess and P.E. class if I wanted to avoid whiffing or tripping. Yes, I was the kid with the Croakies on her glasses. I chose red, as if to say “I don’t care. I’m not trying to hide anything,” when in reality I cared a lot. Clearly.

During swim classes I’d place my glasses on the edge of the pool so I could put them on as soon as we were out of the water. One time a parent or lifeguard moved them to a “safer place,” not realizing I’d have a hard time getting to the picnic table let alone finding my spectacles without them on my face. I hated swim class.

I spent many months of each year from middle school through high school with pink eye. Instead of wearing my glasses for a few days while using antibiotic drops I prolonged the affliction by treating one eye at a time so I could go about my days wearing one contact. Splitting headaches and chronically reinfecting myself seemed like a small price to pay to keep my vanity intact.

Obviously my life did not change with my firestarter/lighthouse/turquoise blue glasses in Florida; not even close. Will it change next week when I get my astigmatism-correcting contacts? Will correcting the astigmatism clarify the images and allow them to meet at a common focus? Will this do more than affect the way I see things? Will it help how I feel about things? Will it help how I organize my stories? Will the focus be sharpened, light rays meeting as they should? Might it help me have a clearer perspective on life in general? Perhaps with my corrected vision I’ll be able to accept that sometimes the forest really is just the trees, and sometimes the spaces between are what we seek.

Goodness, let’s hope so.

Porky

My mother has given me innumerable gifts over the years–some anticipated, some not–but when she told me a few days before Christmas that my package contained a “surprise” it got my wheels cranking.

I was stumped. The box was medium in size and square. It was light for its size so I imagined there was a bit of packing material in there. I didn’t have to sign for its delivery, and it was left on my front stoop like a sweater might be. But something told me: this is not a sweater.

When I slit the box open on Christmas morning styrofoam peanuts exploded out. As I scooped off the top layer I saw the size and shape of the bubble wrapped present and instantly knew what it was.

It was Porky, my grandfather’s piggy bank. For the record, I was 100% surprised by this gift.

I suppose I could’ve expected something special this year, but I also know what a hard time my grandmother has getting rid of things with sentimental value. I can only imagine how hard it was to remove Porky from the bookshelf where he’d sat among dozens of old 78 records, vintage photo albums and other necessary things like broken flashlight parts and expired insurance cards.

But she knew he was going to a good home.

My pop was a sharp pool player, and he loved the game, the table banter, and winning. When he won a game he’d put his winnings in Porky, and when the pig got full he’d “take him for a walk” down to the bank and cash the full belly in for a few crisp bills for me. He did this once or twice a year, and if Porky had a tough season or two he’d add a little on the top for me.

He’d send me that money with a note that instructed me to either “go out for a burger and a beer” (it was a Coke when I was underage) or to “buy something nice for Mimi and Mommy.” What a treat it always was to have cash to buy something terrific and beautiful for my mom and grandmother!

So. Porky is in my hands now. I realized when I took him put of the bubble wrap that I’d probably only held him once or twice. He was never a toy. I held him in my Christmas morning hands, turned him over and over, and inspected him in the bright light.

He has quite a few chips and a few slight cracks. His plug is missing and there is masking tape residue from where various makeshift stoppers have been held in place. He’s nicked up at the slot from years of coins dropping in and he has a flat spot on his right side from what looks to have been a drop.

He’s been around for a while–so he must be pretty tough–but I don’t know what he’s made of. Could be ceramic, stoneware, or chalkware. I’m guessing chalkware and that he was made during The Great Depression when that medium hit its second high point for production. I did a little research to try to find out where and when he was originally made, but the “Edmond original” stamp that’s on his neck didn’t turn up much with a Google search. As it turns out, there are still some things Google can’t help much with.

I know I heard numerous stories about Porky’s origins, but my mind draws a blank. A huge blank where all I can remember is the history that Porky and I shared with my pop. I think he belonged to my great-grandmother first, but I’m not sure right now.

I want to know if he sat on the bar at the original cottage or on a bedroom bureau? Was he bought at a Woolworth’s or a “better” store like Bloomingdale’s, Lord & Taylor, or Macy’s? Was he a gift or a personal purchase? Did he serve a purpose as a money saver or was he mainly a cute decoration?

I can get some of these answers from my mother and grandmother, but the details will not be as accurate as they would be from the the mouth of my pop as informed by his (almost until his death) rock solid brain.

Does it matter? Yes and no, I think. Do I wish I remembered everything my pop ever told me? Of course I do, but I also have to be realistic and grateful for the memories I do have, and the acknowledgment that we don’t always get all of the answers and that some of the blanks do not get filled in.

The history that Porky and I shared with my pop is locked down in my brain, and now Porky and I can create new memories together. Who would ever have thought he’d migrate to Montana? Here he is though, as usual, looking happy and content. Just like my pop.

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PARADISE is overrated

This is my first blog post from my iPhone. (forgive errors please.) I’m without regular Internet, but in writing paradise at the end of a road with an abundance of dog love. This girl, right now, couldn’t want anything more.

The sale of the Roatan house (AKA ball-and-chain, AKA hard lesson learned, AKA the experience of a lifetime) became official yesterday when the proceeds hit my account at the credit union. It could have been an instant transfer to Bank of America, but I waited two weeks because I didn’t want them holding my money for a second. I’m loyal all the way to Missoula Federal Credit Union.

I’ve been wanting to write about my experiences on Roatan–and what got me in, out, and through it–but I needed to know how the story ended first.

Now I do.

The writing I’ve done about it thus far has been plagued with anger, resentment, and fear. Now, no more. I can tell an honest story that I hope will make people laugh, sigh, and thoughtfully (re)consider their own lives.

Today the serious writing of that story commences. No excuses. I have the time, the freedom, and the positive headspace to get it down and get it done. My Yogi tea fortune this afternoon:

say it straight, simple, and with a smile.

Perfection.

The working title of this book is PARADISE IS OVERRATED. Feel free to tell me your own stories of paradises you’ve known, both underrated and overrated.

Last weekend I experienced paradise in Venice, CA. What a town! It’s a cool place in it’s own right, but what made it magical were my wonderful tour guides Ed and Martha. Those two are the tops. Here’s a classic photo of me and Eddie and one of the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Reap!

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Pure Joy

I’m in love with Waterworks Hill. I can’t believe I call it that now after so many years of calling it “the peace sign,” long after the actual billboard size peace sign had been removed from the hill.

The place brings a lot of happiness to Missoulians. All of its trailheads are within the city limits and easily accessible. The place is dog friendly and (for now at least) we can let the dogs roam untethered.

I don’t think I could ever tire of the place, for it’s never the same. The color of the grass changes. The sky is a different blue. The vista changes. Sometimes there are 360 degree views at the top, sometimes it’s a foggy mess of a town we’ve risen above.

One thing is for sure at Waterworks: it never sucks. The place just asks for it’s people to recharge. To feel pure joy resulting from the simplest things.

Here’s a short video of a very happy, very lucky boy:

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Closing the Gap

The gaps between my posts are too long. I know this, and know I need to get better at it. Some of the writing I’m doing these days is (for various reasons) not for sharing. But I’m closing that gap too, diminishing the space between public and private.

I talked to my grandmother (Mimi) on Thanksgiving morning just as the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was ending. The parade is three years younger than she is, but she told me it was the first time she’d ever watched it start to finish, no interruptions.

She misses her husband of sixty-six years, but Mimi has always been—and will hopefully remain—a silver lining type of gal. “You know, Jaime, I was never able to watch the whole parade even when Poppy told me to relax and enjoy it. He always asked me to get him a cup of tea or something….” And then the silence hung in the air and there wasn’t much to say.

The people we love drive us crazy sometimes, but we love them anyway. Pop would say to Mimi, “Hey, Cat, how ‘bout I let you make me a cup of tea?” I thought his patriarchal ways were cute, but she rolled her eyes when he said these things, yet behind the eye rolling a twinkle in her eye and an undeniable smile.

Mimi always vacillated between calling Poppy a “good guy” and referring to him as a “pain in the ass.” It wasn’t that she was wavering on her feelings about him, but rather than she recognizes that we’re all some of each, and that nobody is perfect.

“I don’t let anything bother me,” she’s always says. She closes the gap between loving someone despite imperfection.

Right now I feel like I’m in limbo. The house on Roatan closed (not without a few hitches), but there are still a few loose ends of paperwork to be tied up. There are gaps within me between the emotional, financial, and psychic freedom associated with the purchase and ownership of that little yellow house. I’m ready to let it go and have been for a while, but the lesson occupies a heavy space in my heart, just as letting go of anything painful creates a dichotomy of feeling.

When I was getting ready to leave the island, Steve (my realtor, boss, and friend) and I were driving along the shore. “Do you really hate it here?” he asked? “Do you hate it so much that you can’t imagine ever coming back here? Ever loving it.” “YES!” I screamed while also laughing. “Yes! I’m done!”

“Hate and Love are closely tied emotions.” Steve said, eyes on the road. “You can’t hate something you didn’t once love.” As Norman Maclean said in A River Runs Through It, “We can love completely without complete understanding. “

The entire quote is:

Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don’t know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them – we can love completely without complete understanding. 

Goodbye, Yellow House….I’m going to close that gap and put a nice, tight seal on it.

Making it Happen

Do not wait to strike until the iron is hot but make it hot by striking. –William B. Sprague

I went back to voice lessons this week. I went solo this time, and for days leading up to it was a nervous wreck. I’m not great (yet), but Dan Comstock’s studio is a safe place to learn and explore. He always finds something his students are doing right, and compliments them on that rather than pointing out what they’re doing wrong. It is far easier to build on what the student is already doing than to destroy that progress by pointing out what they’re not.

I went in with two new country songs. This isn’t even “my type” of music, except it is; both songs tell stories and have strong, women singers. I’m singing Taylor Swift’s “Mean,” but the focus is going to be on this song by The Band Perry.

I was pretty terrible the first time, but Dan found some positives and we ran with those. We worked on my breathing. Like a lot of people, I hold my breath when focusing intently on something. This doesn’t work with anything that isn’t underwater, and it really doesn’t work with singing.

Breathing is both involuntary and voluntary. When we’re asleep it is involuntary, and when we’re awake it is both. Regardless, it is more of a reflex activity than one based on will. If we think about breathing we can slow or quicken the pace, but it continues to happen even—and especially—if we stop thinking. Amazing.

I started to overthink the sounds coming from my instrument (me) and Dan could tell. We stopped and he gave me the best advice of the day/week/year/life:

You can’t sing the next line if you’re still worrying about the last one.

Thank You, Dan, for always knowing what to say.

“Yes” & “Yes”

So. I’ve been working on a post about all of the incredible things I experienced when I was in New York for my Pop’s funeral, but it’s taking a long time. I’m writing it all down, then will cut more than half of it to make it more readable because I wouldn’t want to bog you all down in the minutiae. But I’ve been busy. With life.

I hit the ground running when I got home to Missoula, and am at the tail end of working fourteen out of seventeen days. Tomorrow I’m going back to voice lessons. (YES!), but in the meantime I’ve been giving myself lots of treats and liberties. I’ve been saying all sorts of “Yes.” Yes to walks and hikes, coffee dates, dinners out and dinners in, glasses of wine, breakfasts, brunches, stopping by and just hanging around. I’ve said yes to the fundraiser and the roof raiser, and have been delighted when they’re one and the same. I’ve made the time for these things because at every opportunity I couldn’t think of a single good reason not to say “Yes!”

The dirty house can wait. The flip-flops by the door that need to be replaced with snow boots can wait. The writing…well, even that could wait too. Every moment of life with these wonderful friends is just too precious not to be savored.

Today I gave a massage to a man I’d say was around seventy. He was scheduled to come in with his wife, but she was sick and couldn’t make it. He was sweet; I knew it the moment I greeted him. But there was something else going on, and he seemed slightly distracted and tense during his massage. I could tell he appreciated it, but wondered if he was worrying about his sick wife or something else.

When he came out of the room after his massage he handed me a generous tip, and gave a heartfelt “thank you.” He told me his wife would be in soon to see me, and he was sorry for lousing up my schedule. I told him it was no problem, and I hope she feels better soon so she can get her massage. He paused. “This massage was a gift. It was the last monetary gift my daughter gave me before she passed away. She passed last summer.”

His nose reddened. This man was about to cry and so was I. We hugged. I thanked him for coming in, and told him I was grateful that I was able to be a part of the experience for him. I told him that when he checked out downstairs he didn’t have to hand in the gift card even though he was redeeming it. “Keep it,” I said, “If you want to.”

Then I went back into the massage room and burst into tears. Luckily my co-worker had a moment and I shared my experience with her. She teared up too. How could you not?

When I checked out at the front desk the girls told me that my client asked if he could keep his gift card, and of course they said yes. I realize that this man’s wife–the deceased woman’s mother–might not have been sick with the flu or a cold this morning, but that she may have been heart sick. She might have been physically and mentally unable to redeem that last monetary gift from her daughter. Maybe she wasn’t ready; maybe she never will be. I like that the man said “last monetary gift” as a way to distinguish it from the gifts his daughter gave him that had nothing at all to do with money or material goods. Her last monetary gift was not her last gift. The fact that she continues to live in their hearts is a gift that will never stop giving.

I went to Noteworthy* Paper + Press (mentioned here before, but in case you missed it: http://www.noteworthystore.com ) to buy a birthday card for a friend. But I had another card to buy today. My next door neighbor’s son died in a ski accident a year and a half ago, and today was his birthday. She and I talked about the upcoming birthday a few weeks ago, but since then I’ve hardly seen her. It could be the freezing temps, or maybe she’s just laying low. It doesn’t matter why; I just knew I didn’t want to let the day pass unnoticed. I bought her a card that said:

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

I love finding the perfect card. I wrote her a simple note, saying that I hoped her day was more full of fond memories than of sadness, and that when I woke up this morning I thought of Chris. The sun was blindingly bright on a cloudless, bitter cold, blue sky morning after a late autumn snowfall, and although I didn’t know her son, I knew this was the kind of morning he would have loved.

Today was, in large part, about loss, about missing, and about loving. It was also about cherishing, honoring, and accepting what is.

Am I exhausted from all of the “yes” saying? Oh yes, I’m beat. But if I had it all to do again I’d say “Yes” to all of it. And then some. These ARE the days.


The best worst time

I’ve had the best worst time in New York. Burying a loved family member isn’t easy, but it’s incredible what happens when your eyes and ears are open to life’s more subtle gifts.

I’m writing this on my iPhone, so won’t say too much, but my next post will not be a sad one. It’s going to be about old friends, babies, an October blizzard, pizza, laughing, remembering, forgetting, and realizing what is important.

I spent less than twenty-four hours with my friend of thirty-three years. We met when we were four-years-old, and are still in love although we live on opposite sides of the country. I took pictures of her kids while we were visiting, but none of us. She dropped me off at a fast food restaurant so I could hop in my mom’s car and go back to the city and she could take her four kids and herself back to Boston.

I ran around to her side of the car and asked my mom to snap a shot of us. Here we are after 14 inches of October snow, driving around downed trees and power lines, having too little sleep and too much coffee, but our hearts are brimming with love …..

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HONOR AND SERVE

Thursday night, 10-27-11:

This has been quite a week. My Pop died a week ago today. I was supposed to arrive in New York today, but I’ve been here for four days. Four days? Really? How in the world has it only been four days? My mom and I were browsing in a shop last night, and all of a sudden I felt like I was going to keel over.  I was checking out a sweater that looked like it would need an instruction manual to get into, and my mom commented that she couldn’t even remember what anyone wore yesterday. I had to stop and think when I heard the word “yesterday.” I couldn’t remember it right away, but then I did: we buried my grandfather yesterday. We promptly left to eat dinner and get in bed early.

My family does a wake the old fashioned way, and it’s a process. Some of the older relatives were talking about when wakes used to be twice as long—five full days—which seems unfathomable. Pop’s wake started Sunday night and went from 7-9:30. There was another viewing Monday from 2-5, a break for dinner, and then another one from 7-9:30. At this point you pretty much feel like throwing a wake for yourself, but no, this is not an option. We were back at the funeral home at 9:00am for a final ceremony, then we said our last goodbyes (agony, any which way you look at it) and we were off to the church. Then to the cemetery. Then to a luncheon.

We’re not Jewish, but oy vey.

It is absolutely incredible who showed up to pay their respects to Joe. There were people my grandfather had gone to grammar school with. His tenants were there. There was a guy there named Joe Potatoes (not his real name), a guy named Slickman from my grandparents’ old neighborhood, and another guy named Slicky from the V.F.W. A lot of the guests were shuffle stepping around. One guy wet his pants. A few women wore too much perfume. Most spoke in very loud voices. Everyone was awesome.

My mother’s friends from Connecticut came up—several groups—and Kate (bless her heart) drove down two days in a row so she could be at both the wake and the funeral mass. This is not a woman who likes to drive or who knows how to drive in the City, but it is incredible what you’ll do for the people you love, and Kate loves my mother and me. If you’ve ever driven on the famous BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway) without knowing where you’re going then you know what a feat this was and how much it means. The lanes are narrow, the potholes are deep, and the drivers are ruthless. For Kate from Darien, CT it was basically like going to a foreign country.

Several of my mother’s childhood friends were there. An uncle came from Florida and a cousin from Baltimore. Some people didn’t tell my mom they were coming because they didn’t want her to tell them not to. There were a lot of surprises that led to tears of gratitude.

About a dozen nurses and aides from the nursing home showed up, and not a single one had dry eyes. These were the people who knew him best in his final months, and they shared their stories with me. They told me about how much sharp he was, how handsome, how funny. Also, how naughty. One girl told me that he never wanted to go to bed when he was supposed to, and one night she said, “Ok, Joe. Time for bed.” and he said, “is that an invitation?” He got away with saying things like that to the girls because he was so sweet. I found out about a female resident on his floor who had a big crush on my pop and liked to hold his hand. Left unattended she got out of her wheelchair and was found hovering over his bed; this woman can’t take a step by herself, but she got herself into a standing position to be closer to my pop.

I heard some sad things too. When an infection was raging through his body he hallucinated and said disrespectful things to some of the Asians living and working in the facility, thinking they were Japanese and he was back in W.W. II. He thought that a bomb had been planted in his prosthetic leg, he thought a plastic spoon might explode and kill them all, he was worried about my mother getting off the ship alive. He was clearly not living in reality at that time and was forgiven his indiscretion. It’s sad, but I heard it happens all the time with some of the older Veterans.

A dozen or so Veterans came from the V.F.W. post that my Pop was active in, and performed a sweet ceremony at the wake on Monday afternoon. They spoke about courage, determination, and loyalty. Every single one kissed and hugged my grandmother on his way out the door.

At the cemetery Pop’s beautiful Mahogany casket was covered with an American Flag, and two Naval officers stood at attention at either end while the deacon said the final prayers. The officers were not only women, but they were also black. My Pop was not sexist or racist, but he was from “that generation.” It’s safe to say that he would have preferred the officers be white and male, and all I could think of was the expression “over my dead body,” and how those women literally were.

Those women were amazing; we all saw it and knew he could too. They were so proud and stoic. They stood like statues, gorgeous and unflinching in their dress uniforms. It was a brisk, windy afternoon and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Our group huddled together, but those girls stood alone, facing each other at attention until it was time to fold the flag.

They wore white gloves and took the flag folding seriously. Taps played in the distance. Every speck of dirt was wiped off and every crease smoothed before each of the twelve symbolic folds. My family stood mesmerized. I was next to my grandmother with my arm around her, and knew they’d be coming to present her with the flag. The officer presenting it stopped in front of me. She looked me in the eye and spoke in a voice clearer than anything I’d ever heard said,  “On behalf of the President of the United States and the Chief of Naval Operations, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your Grandfather’s service to this Country and a grateful Navy.”

When she was done I said “Thank You,” and she said, “No, thank you.” And then she was gone.

I held the flag for a few moments in my outstretched hands then I brought it to my chest and hugged it. I was completely overwhelmed by the honor of the presentation, and was shocked that the flag had been given to me. I asked my grandmother if she wanted it, but she told me she already had one and he would want me to have it. My cousin Robert is brilliantly hilarious and always knows when to make a joke. He’s in his mid-40s, married with four children, and has a solid career, but he said, “It makes me want to join the military just so I can have an awesome funeral.”

My pop had an awesome funeral that concluded a tremendous life. He was in pain for a few months and his quality of life had deteriorated, but luckily he didn’t have to live that way for long. Unfortunately, we have to worry about my grandmother now.

She can’t seem to remember much in the short term. She keeps forgetting that Pop died, and confuses his funeral with his father’s funeral or her brother’s funeral, though he’s alive. Five minutes after leaving the funeral home after the first night of the wake she asked me what I wanted to do the next day. She knelt or stood by his open casket several times during each of the viewings, and it looked like she was seeing him, but she never shed a tear. She nearly giggled during a few of the serious ceremonies. She sang “dooby-dooby-do” in the limousine on the way to the cemetery.

My grandmother will most likely be the subject of my next post, which I’ll try to get up in a day or two. If you’d like to read the eulogy I read at the funeral mass click on the tab above marked “POP.”