Bonjour!
It's February, cold as hell but what a month! And it is starting off today with a bang, as it is my sister (and her husband)'s wedding anniversary!
35 years ago today, they were married at St. John's in the Bronx. The church was so full that day, you'd think the Pope himself was saying the Mass. The sun shone, the bride was beautiful and the groom handsome. Kids were hanging off the railings outside and in, like some rock stars were getting married.
It was a week before my thirteenth birthday and my big sister was getting married, leaving me on my own with my 5 brothers. ouch! But I got to wear a gown (mint green though it was - sorry, Dor!) and that was great. And I got to wear (again, mint green) nail polish, which my father was too nervous to comment on (nothing short of a miracle,) so that was cool. But then the hair salon gave me a Patty Duke puffy hairdo and that was definitely NOT cool. It seemed like the whole bridal party was fighting to undo my do... and it was not at all clear at first who would win. In the end, the hair let up a little, and the hat (!) helped also. The wedding was a great success, a beautiful day was enjoyed by all, and something magical had begun.
My sister and her husband went on to have a family...the kind that doesn't happen by accident, the kind that is cultivated and cared for, the intentional kind. Three beautiful children later (her daughter Lauren's wedding shower was this past weekend - sorry I not able to be there physically, at least I was in spirit!), this family is still growing in love. I am lucky to have them, each singly and together as a collective, in my life.
So how the heck are we related? ;-) My sister and I are very different. I am childless, single, and not prone to roots... houses, maybe, but not roots. My sister is stable and solid, the Gibraltar on which her family is founded (actually they form sort of a Team-Gibraltar, she and her husband.)
DNA is a funny thing. Most of our cells would be identically alike if studied in a lab. And yet our lives, the expression of our choices, are literally thousands of miles apart. And thank goodness for it!
I used to tease my sister, saying she grabbed all of the marital-happiness-gift in our family, leaving "the rest" to the rest of us. But maybe how things turned out had nothing to do with DNA, nothing to do with how we were brought up, nothing to do with the circumstances of our stories. Instead, maybe it has everything to do with our choices.
My sister chose what was (and still is) important to her. She placed that at the center of her life and carefully cultivated it, nourished it and valued it. The result is a beautiful family, and a rich life. I congratulate my sister and her husband (my brother, by now - I got over being mad at him some 33 years ago! lol) both on that.
And today, on the occasion of their 35th wedding anniversary, I thank my sister and her husband. Not just for a wonderful memory these many years later. Not just for the beautiful people they are and the beautiful family they have raised, adding to the quality of life of countless others, including me. But also I thank them for showing me that our lives are the sum total of our choices. That there is no accident, that there are no victims, that we each are wonderfully and amazingly responsible for how we "turn out".
Because if that is true, great news! The game is not over until it is over. And I have some choices to make!
dimanche 31 janvier 2010
January 31, 2010 : Sundays...
Bonjour!
Cold but clear on this very gentle, sleepy Sunday morning. I woke up, oddly, at 2:22 and then at 5:55am, but dove right back in until 9! I found a trick, a way to stay in bed (normally a very early riser - these days at least): I left the window open and the cold air invited me to snuggle under the covers, ahhh, the pleasure!
I love Sunday mornings now. Full of possibilities and promise, this Sunday stretches before me like an invitation. I can create of it what I want. Clearing and cleaning or running outside to play in the sun, the day waits for me to decide. When I do, I know it will conspire with me to be its most perfect self.
This knowing fills me with gratitude... and puts a really big smile on my face!
The past winks at me then, and for a moment reminds me that for many years, Sundays were filled with pain and dread. Dread of going back to work at a job that was not for me, a too-tight shoe that I forced myself to fit in, walk in, dance in, all the while smiling perfunctorily until finally, bruised and bleeding, I bust out. No choice. It had to end. After 22 years.
I remember too that back then Sundays were mostly passed hung over and unmoving on a couch, reaching for the sedative of television after a night of other sedatives. The night seemed always to hold the promise of life: it held friends and laughter, and seemed to be a refuge from the storm. But I can see now that really the point of the exercise had always been simply to quiet that part of me that would not sit still, that wanted something else, something truer. Now that self is singing, freed.
Voilà! I shake off the past, a uniform I no longer wear, and run with scissors towards the new day, laughing. I love Sundays.
Cold but clear on this very gentle, sleepy Sunday morning. I woke up, oddly, at 2:22 and then at 5:55am, but dove right back in until 9! I found a trick, a way to stay in bed (normally a very early riser - these days at least): I left the window open and the cold air invited me to snuggle under the covers, ahhh, the pleasure!
I love Sunday mornings now. Full of possibilities and promise, this Sunday stretches before me like an invitation. I can create of it what I want. Clearing and cleaning or running outside to play in the sun, the day waits for me to decide. When I do, I know it will conspire with me to be its most perfect self.
This knowing fills me with gratitude... and puts a really big smile on my face!
The past winks at me then, and for a moment reminds me that for many years, Sundays were filled with pain and dread. Dread of going back to work at a job that was not for me, a too-tight shoe that I forced myself to fit in, walk in, dance in, all the while smiling perfunctorily until finally, bruised and bleeding, I bust out. No choice. It had to end. After 22 years.
I remember too that back then Sundays were mostly passed hung over and unmoving on a couch, reaching for the sedative of television after a night of other sedatives. The night seemed always to hold the promise of life: it held friends and laughter, and seemed to be a refuge from the storm. But I can see now that really the point of the exercise had always been simply to quiet that part of me that would not sit still, that wanted something else, something truer. Now that self is singing, freed.
Voilà! I shake off the past, a uniform I no longer wear, and run with scissors towards the new day, laughing. I love Sundays.
vendredi 29 janvier 2010
January 30, 2010 : I must be dreaming...
Bonjour!
I hate this. Okay, I hate this but I love it. I woke up at 4:22am this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. It sort of feels like I am still in my last dream though, which is good because it means I may have a shot at getting back to sleep after I write what needs writing. :-)
So, dreams. I bought a book on dreams, how to get your bang for the buck: dreams, what they mean, how to interpret them and then use them in waking life. And I plan on reading that book some day. Really I do!
Until then, I've got theories. Lots and lots of theories. I like the one that says if I wake up tired it is because my soul was up all night helping poor "lost" souls cross over. I like that idea. I like to be cast as the hero. I prefer it to thinking my soul was out all night carousing and so too bad for me, I have to just tough it out today. (Which would be, I admit, a rather ironic form of justice, I suppose...)
I also like the theory that dreams are our most profound self's way of dealing. Of sorting out the overwhelm. Of sifting the wheat from the chaff, sorting out the dross, you get the idea. Of helping the daytime "me" - who is purported to have fewer resources (not sure about that) and less time (strong likelihood) - get a grip in the world of walking around.
And the mystic in me who takes after my mother's mother (who read tea leaves for neighbors, who knew?) likes very much the idea that dreamtime is an in-between time, a neither-here-nor-there place, where almost anything can happen.
So this morning I woke up dreaming about Msgr. Doherty. I was back in the Catholic parish of my youth - St. John's in the Bronx - and Msgr. was the pastor again. He was trying to figure out FaceBook (to which I admit a teeny-tiny addiction), so that he could communicate better with the (young?) people on the parish. He asked me to help him, and I said yes. Then I woke up and wanted to - had to - write this blog on dreaming. At 4:22am.
As I woke up more and more (my laptop takes a while to warm up in the morning, probably saying "why doesn't she #$%^&*@) sleep like normal people?"), I remembered that Msgr. passed away recently. Real recently, like 2 weeks ago, may he RIP. I was sad not to go to the service, held at his last parish, St. Gabe's. He was a man who touched many lives, including mine.
I remember I was sort of afraid of him when I worked answering phones at the rectory - and I wasn't the only one. But though it was true he could give the impression of a rough exterior (when he wanted to, I suspect), and was a hardliner on church teachings (definitely), he was secretly doing good deeds for a lot of families in the parish - something I discovered only a couple of years ago. That impressed me, in an age where no good deed goes unpublished.
He helped my family too, in very personal ways. When I was a student at Georgetown, he was invited to say the opening prayer at Congress and had the right to bring a guest. He contacted me, and took me along with him, picking me up at the center quad in a shiny black car, VIP all the way. He took me to lunch afterward, and then he gave me money after lunch (he knew I was working my way through school), a stipend he had been given by a parishioner. It was greatly needed, and is still greatly appreciated.
Msgr. also helped my Dad when he got sick, when Dad really didn't feel comfortable confiding in to anyone else. And this he kept on doing, well after St. John's, St. Gabe's and after he retired, when his ministry had "ended", through almost to the end, when by "chance" my parents and Msgr. lived only steps from each other in Riverdale. My parents' apartment was right across from the retired priests' residence (now called the John Cardinal O'Connor residence, formerly the John Neumann residence for pre-seminarians).
So I send out a message of gratitude to this man for his service to my family and to all the lives he touched through the years. And then I let my mind wander on that point. "All the lives he touched". Holy crap! (Excuse me, Msgr!) He touched thousands of lives, tens of thousands!
Wasn't Msgr Doherty sort of the first blogger? Stay with me... Msgr wrote a column in the Catholic New York for decades. His was a human interest column, musings on faith and the movement of Spirit around us and through us. Not online, but still doing the blogging thing: a regular running commentary of his thoughts, brilliantly written (I think he added that part! lol), and accessible. What surprised me when I discovered his writing was its freshness, its humanity, no hiding the point behind big words or abstract theology. I think I truly met the man through his writing, and came to love him.
I last saw Msgr. last year when I went through NYC. Hi health had been failing, but he insisted on inviting my mother and I for lunch at the residence, entertaining as ever. He gave us a copy of his latest work, about the life of his immigrant mother "Walking with Gella, " in which traces her journey from Ireland to New York at the turn of the century. It could have been my grandmother's story, or the story of so many immigrants. Perhaps that is why he showed such great compassion - not always to the delight of the parishioners - to the Hispanic community in our parish.
He also showed us a piece he was working on for Catholic New York. And a book he had had published on the history of the place in which he was living. The man was a machine. The man was a writer.
And the man was one of the few who, upon learning that I had left a perfectly good job in a bank to live the life of a dreamer, a writer in Paris (a city he loved) said, "Wonderful!"
Thanks you, Msgr, for your support always, continuing through the inspiration for this piece. I will catch you later, in my dreams.
I hate this. Okay, I hate this but I love it. I woke up at 4:22am this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. It sort of feels like I am still in my last dream though, which is good because it means I may have a shot at getting back to sleep after I write what needs writing. :-)
So, dreams. I bought a book on dreams, how to get your bang for the buck: dreams, what they mean, how to interpret them and then use them in waking life. And I plan on reading that book some day. Really I do!
Until then, I've got theories. Lots and lots of theories. I like the one that says if I wake up tired it is because my soul was up all night helping poor "lost" souls cross over. I like that idea. I like to be cast as the hero. I prefer it to thinking my soul was out all night carousing and so too bad for me, I have to just tough it out today. (Which would be, I admit, a rather ironic form of justice, I suppose...)
I also like the theory that dreams are our most profound self's way of dealing. Of sorting out the overwhelm. Of sifting the wheat from the chaff, sorting out the dross, you get the idea. Of helping the daytime "me" - who is purported to have fewer resources (not sure about that) and less time (strong likelihood) - get a grip in the world of walking around.
And the mystic in me who takes after my mother's mother (who read tea leaves for neighbors, who knew?) likes very much the idea that dreamtime is an in-between time, a neither-here-nor-there place, where almost anything can happen.
So this morning I woke up dreaming about Msgr. Doherty. I was back in the Catholic parish of my youth - St. John's in the Bronx - and Msgr. was the pastor again. He was trying to figure out FaceBook (to which I admit a teeny-tiny addiction), so that he could communicate better with the (young?) people on the parish. He asked me to help him, and I said yes. Then I woke up and wanted to - had to - write this blog on dreaming. At 4:22am.
As I woke up more and more (my laptop takes a while to warm up in the morning, probably saying "why doesn't she #$%^&*@) sleep like normal people?"), I remembered that Msgr. passed away recently. Real recently, like 2 weeks ago, may he RIP. I was sad not to go to the service, held at his last parish, St. Gabe's. He was a man who touched many lives, including mine.
I remember I was sort of afraid of him when I worked answering phones at the rectory - and I wasn't the only one. But though it was true he could give the impression of a rough exterior (when he wanted to, I suspect), and was a hardliner on church teachings (definitely), he was secretly doing good deeds for a lot of families in the parish - something I discovered only a couple of years ago. That impressed me, in an age where no good deed goes unpublished.
He helped my family too, in very personal ways. When I was a student at Georgetown, he was invited to say the opening prayer at Congress and had the right to bring a guest. He contacted me, and took me along with him, picking me up at the center quad in a shiny black car, VIP all the way. He took me to lunch afterward, and then he gave me money after lunch (he knew I was working my way through school), a stipend he had been given by a parishioner. It was greatly needed, and is still greatly appreciated.
Msgr. also helped my Dad when he got sick, when Dad really didn't feel comfortable confiding in to anyone else. And this he kept on doing, well after St. John's, St. Gabe's and after he retired, when his ministry had "ended", through almost to the end, when by "chance" my parents and Msgr. lived only steps from each other in Riverdale. My parents' apartment was right across from the retired priests' residence (now called the John Cardinal O'Connor residence, formerly the John Neumann residence for pre-seminarians).
So I send out a message of gratitude to this man for his service to my family and to all the lives he touched through the years. And then I let my mind wander on that point. "All the lives he touched". Holy crap! (Excuse me, Msgr!) He touched thousands of lives, tens of thousands!
Wasn't Msgr Doherty sort of the first blogger? Stay with me... Msgr wrote a column in the Catholic New York for decades. His was a human interest column, musings on faith and the movement of Spirit around us and through us. Not online, but still doing the blogging thing: a regular running commentary of his thoughts, brilliantly written (I think he added that part! lol), and accessible. What surprised me when I discovered his writing was its freshness, its humanity, no hiding the point behind big words or abstract theology. I think I truly met the man through his writing, and came to love him.
I last saw Msgr. last year when I went through NYC. Hi health had been failing, but he insisted on inviting my mother and I for lunch at the residence, entertaining as ever. He gave us a copy of his latest work, about the life of his immigrant mother "Walking with Gella, " in which traces her journey from Ireland to New York at the turn of the century. It could have been my grandmother's story, or the story of so many immigrants. Perhaps that is why he showed such great compassion - not always to the delight of the parishioners - to the Hispanic community in our parish.
He also showed us a piece he was working on for Catholic New York. And a book he had had published on the history of the place in which he was living. The man was a machine. The man was a writer.
And the man was one of the few who, upon learning that I had left a perfectly good job in a bank to live the life of a dreamer, a writer in Paris (a city he loved) said, "Wonderful!"
Thanks you, Msgr, for your support always, continuing through the inspiration for this piece. I will catch you later, in my dreams.
jeudi 28 janvier 2010
January 29, 2010 : Scars
Hello!
January 29th, already? Mein gott! Got to make this day count!
I am laughing now as I type because I just looked down at my right hand...which is not in itself funny. I look down and see my right hand, which has a scar... also not funny. I look down and see my right hand, my scar, and remember that it is my newest scar, only a few months old, sustained as I did my underwater scuba training last fall in the south of France. Not particularly funny, either, eh? I agree.
What IS funny, is that when I look down at my right hand, and see that scar that tells that story, I feel a rush of pride. I'm not kidding. This scar was borne of completely screwing up (I can promise you, I won't be touching everything when I scuba in the future, not without extreme caution or gloves. And the BLOOD! It didn't start until I had hauled my butt out of the water into the boat, and then when I hit the air, I was looking like of of those Knights who say Nee after their arms get chopped off!), and I realize that some perverse part of myself that maybe never grew up (okay, most of me never grew up) is actually proud of it! A badge of honor, or some such. I am really laughing now, because even as I write, I am still proud of it. Incredible...I thought bringing that into the light would disperse that feeling, but nope.
I think then of the many other scars on this battle-torn body: the scar above my left eyebrow from a metal swing that I ran into (while someone was swinging... lots of blood that day, too - I am a bleeder! I remember my sister was meant to be watching me and so she got into trouble. I remember Mr. O'Toole who took me to the hospital - I think he took us all to the hospital, he was like our neighborhood ambulance, the man who actually had a car. Nice man, RIP. I think about eating ice cream and people saying how I almost lost my eye. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Lots of drama, without the eye loss. Excellent.)
Then I think of the incredible symmetrical scar on my right outer thigh, a badge from walking the fence inside our apartment complex. Or rather from not walking the fence, from trying to walk the fence. I fell. Walking the fence was a particularly interesting exploit designed by older kids, a rite of passage most were smart enough to pass over... The rickety and rusted, sometimes green painted metal fence had a flat part about two feet off the ground that one was to walk on. The walking-on part was about an inch wide, maybe an inch and a half. Normally emminently doable, but on one side of the walking-on part, there were spikes. Metal spikes, not particularly sharp, but spokes nonetheless, which effectively impeded any effort to balance on that inch-and-a-half. And wasn't that the fun of it? So I fell. And my heart's desire carried me the 93 steps up to my apartment, bleeding all of the place again. (I was of course delighted if in pain... I would like to see someone carry me like that now! ;-) Arriving at the apartment, my mother ushered me into the bathroom where she sat me on the sink and pour hydrogen peroxide on my cut to clean it. YOWZER! It got cleaned, and the scar still walks with me.
And then the scar-not-scar of my tattoo. Which I got as part of a longstanding tradition of midlife crisis, apparently, but which I still love. A dolphin jumping over the moon. Never you mind where! I am laughing again, because my behavior in the tattoo parlor, well, it could have been better. And no, I was not drunk. It's just that it hurt. It hurt like a moth- well, you know. And so after the kindly man named Cap'n something - with an eye patch no less - after he started the work, I was wriggling. I knew I couldn't stop him, or I would just have a strange line on my - oh no you don't! - so I stayed, but I really annoyed the man. And my dolphin has a shadow. That's how he fixed my screwup. But I still smile when I think of my dolphin...I can't really see it unless I have a mirror...
Anyway, that was fun. It is fun to look back, to think of the scars and the good times as well. After long enough it really is all good. I look back at the dramas in my life and now I can laugh because I see them differently, like a movie I can enjoy. And it helps, too, when drama arises anew in my life. (And it always does, doesn't it?) It helps because I know that this, too, shall pass.
I've got the scars to prove it.
January 29th, already? Mein gott! Got to make this day count!
I am laughing now as I type because I just looked down at my right hand...which is not in itself funny. I look down and see my right hand, which has a scar... also not funny. I look down and see my right hand, my scar, and remember that it is my newest scar, only a few months old, sustained as I did my underwater scuba training last fall in the south of France. Not particularly funny, either, eh? I agree.
What IS funny, is that when I look down at my right hand, and see that scar that tells that story, I feel a rush of pride. I'm not kidding. This scar was borne of completely screwing up (I can promise you, I won't be touching everything when I scuba in the future, not without extreme caution or gloves. And the BLOOD! It didn't start until I had hauled my butt out of the water into the boat, and then when I hit the air, I was looking like of of those Knights who say Nee after their arms get chopped off!), and I realize that some perverse part of myself that maybe never grew up (okay, most of me never grew up) is actually proud of it! A badge of honor, or some such. I am really laughing now, because even as I write, I am still proud of it. Incredible...I thought bringing that into the light would disperse that feeling, but nope.
I think then of the many other scars on this battle-torn body: the scar above my left eyebrow from a metal swing that I ran into (while someone was swinging... lots of blood that day, too - I am a bleeder! I remember my sister was meant to be watching me and so she got into trouble. I remember Mr. O'Toole who took me to the hospital - I think he took us all to the hospital, he was like our neighborhood ambulance, the man who actually had a car. Nice man, RIP. I think about eating ice cream and people saying how I almost lost my eye. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Lots of drama, without the eye loss. Excellent.)
Then I think of the incredible symmetrical scar on my right outer thigh, a badge from walking the fence inside our apartment complex. Or rather from not walking the fence, from trying to walk the fence. I fell. Walking the fence was a particularly interesting exploit designed by older kids, a rite of passage most were smart enough to pass over... The rickety and rusted, sometimes green painted metal fence had a flat part about two feet off the ground that one was to walk on. The walking-on part was about an inch wide, maybe an inch and a half. Normally emminently doable, but on one side of the walking-on part, there were spikes. Metal spikes, not particularly sharp, but spokes nonetheless, which effectively impeded any effort to balance on that inch-and-a-half. And wasn't that the fun of it? So I fell. And my heart's desire carried me the 93 steps up to my apartment, bleeding all of the place again. (I was of course delighted if in pain... I would like to see someone carry me like that now! ;-) Arriving at the apartment, my mother ushered me into the bathroom where she sat me on the sink and pour hydrogen peroxide on my cut to clean it. YOWZER! It got cleaned, and the scar still walks with me.
And then the scar-not-scar of my tattoo. Which I got as part of a longstanding tradition of midlife crisis, apparently, but which I still love. A dolphin jumping over the moon. Never you mind where! I am laughing again, because my behavior in the tattoo parlor, well, it could have been better. And no, I was not drunk. It's just that it hurt. It hurt like a moth- well, you know. And so after the kindly man named Cap'n something - with an eye patch no less - after he started the work, I was wriggling. I knew I couldn't stop him, or I would just have a strange line on my - oh no you don't! - so I stayed, but I really annoyed the man. And my dolphin has a shadow. That's how he fixed my screwup. But I still smile when I think of my dolphin...I can't really see it unless I have a mirror...
Anyway, that was fun. It is fun to look back, to think of the scars and the good times as well. After long enough it really is all good. I look back at the dramas in my life and now I can laugh because I see them differently, like a movie I can enjoy. And it helps, too, when drama arises anew in my life. (And it always does, doesn't it?) It helps because I know that this, too, shall pass.
I've got the scars to prove it.
January 28, 2010: Late and beat
Hello!
Today I am starting late and I am beat. I love to write in the morning when inspiration fills me and my fingers can't keep up with the words in my head. But tonight I am tired and my eyes are squinting at the screen. I just wanted to say hello, and how glad I am to be here, to sit at this screen and to bitch about the writing, about doing something I love.
Today was weird.
I started the day with an early session of rolfing - structural integration - and it hurt. It hurt like a mothafucka. (When I am tired I revert, apologies to any gentle sensibilities out there. I like this word. I like it spelled as one word, just like that. So sue me.) It hurt like a MF and then it was done. So I guess that means my structure has integrity now. Or my integrity has structure. Or something.
Then I went to see a friend - I'll call him John - who was diagnosed 2 years ago with colon cancer. He is tired. I did a little reflexology on his feet, then we went for a walk and some vegetarian couscous. (And a rhubarb tartelette - I couldn't resist. Who'd'a'thought I would ever eat rhubarb tartelettes?) This is a friend with whom I go way back to my first job out of Georgetown, way back to Wall Street. As we talked he cracked a joke, something to the effect of "You know, when I eat, I get nauseous and am in pain...and when I can't eat, I get nauseous and am in pain." It was way funnier than that, his timing was perfect.
I was - and still am - blown away by his joking, his absolute determination to be on that up frequency. Instinctively I asked myself if I would be able to joke around if I were wearing those shoes. (Probably, they'd be falling off me and sliding all over the place and probably knock something expensive over and break it or knock someone over maybe and that would make me laugh...) I hope so.
I hope so, but really, how often do I find something to bitch about (see the first paragraph of this very blog - you don't have to look far for the answer to that one! ) now, when I have everything I need: health, happiness, blahblahblah? Pretty often, I ruefully admit.
So I am making a resolution. I know, I am a bit late, but I never like to work on other people's schedules. My resolution is the following; it is a baby step. I will not resolve to stop bitching. I will not reolve to be always grateful for everything, all the time. I am a realist. I gotta start someplace feasible, reasonable. So here goes... I resolve to do the gratitude thing at least as much as I do the bitching thing. That is doable. I can do that.
So my friend and to all the "John"s (don't you dare! lol) out there, bravo and bon courage! Thank you for the inspiration... I got a lotta livin' to do too!
"To all that has been: thanks!
To all that shall be: yes!"
- Dag Hammarskjold, former UN head
Today I am starting late and I am beat. I love to write in the morning when inspiration fills me and my fingers can't keep up with the words in my head. But tonight I am tired and my eyes are squinting at the screen. I just wanted to say hello, and how glad I am to be here, to sit at this screen and to bitch about the writing, about doing something I love.
Today was weird.
I started the day with an early session of rolfing - structural integration - and it hurt. It hurt like a mothafucka. (When I am tired I revert, apologies to any gentle sensibilities out there. I like this word. I like it spelled as one word, just like that. So sue me.) It hurt like a MF and then it was done. So I guess that means my structure has integrity now. Or my integrity has structure. Or something.
Then I went to see a friend - I'll call him John - who was diagnosed 2 years ago with colon cancer. He is tired. I did a little reflexology on his feet, then we went for a walk and some vegetarian couscous. (And a rhubarb tartelette - I couldn't resist. Who'd'a'thought I would ever eat rhubarb tartelettes?) This is a friend with whom I go way back to my first job out of Georgetown, way back to Wall Street. As we talked he cracked a joke, something to the effect of "You know, when I eat, I get nauseous and am in pain...and when I can't eat, I get nauseous and am in pain." It was way funnier than that, his timing was perfect.
I was - and still am - blown away by his joking, his absolute determination to be on that up frequency. Instinctively I asked myself if I would be able to joke around if I were wearing those shoes. (Probably, they'd be falling off me and sliding all over the place and probably knock something expensive over and break it or knock someone over maybe and that would make me laugh...) I hope so.
I hope so, but really, how often do I find something to bitch about (see the first paragraph of this very blog - you don't have to look far for the answer to that one! ) now, when I have everything I need: health, happiness, blahblahblah? Pretty often, I ruefully admit.
So I am making a resolution. I know, I am a bit late, but I never like to work on other people's schedules. My resolution is the following; it is a baby step. I will not resolve to stop bitching. I will not reolve to be always grateful for everything, all the time. I am a realist. I gotta start someplace feasible, reasonable. So here goes... I resolve to do the gratitude thing at least as much as I do the bitching thing. That is doable. I can do that.
So my friend and to all the "John"s (don't you dare! lol) out there, bravo and bon courage! Thank you for the inspiration... I got a lotta livin' to do too!
"To all that has been: thanks!
To all that shall be: yes!"
- Dag Hammarskjold, former UN head
mercredi 27 janvier 2010
January 27, 2010: Happy Birthday, Stephen!
Hello!
Today is my "little" brother's birthday and so I start with best wishes going out to him! Flitting through images of the past, my heart warms and this cold January morning loses its chill...
I pass to another anniversary that falls on this day. On this day, about 20 years ago, I made my first and last bet. I was at the time in a relationship with a wild and wonderful but inveterate gambler, and he had insisted. Insisted so much that we got into a fight over it. Insisted so much that I made that bet (with an illegal bookie in a bar in the Inwood section of Manhattan in the early morning hours, no less) and then left, saying, "Never call me again unless I hit that number!"
That afternoon, waking me from a sound sleep, my phone rang. I knew right away. Sure enough, I had hit the number for $800, a whole lot of money for me at that time. The story goes on (for another time, perhaps) but the laughter of the universe still rings in my ears. Great news, $800 from the sky. Bad news, back into a toxic relationship. What will our heroine do with that? I missed the opportunity that day to take the money and run; my growing took many years still after that, before I stood tall enough in my own boots to walk.
These many years later, I sit at my window here in Paris, looking through the branches of the tree outside to the Seine, which is flowing fast today. It feels like time has been flowing just as fast... but for a moment I visit that past, that who-I-was, and send her love. Love and gratitude. Because if I had never been that me, struggling to find my self, my voice (though a haze of work and play and intoxicants and tears and some laughter), I would never have gotten here.
I woke up with the phrase "I pass peacefully though portals", an affirmation my friend Sophie shared with me, one that her friend Tom shared with her (thanks, Tom!) This has truly become my mantra and I now live it with gratitude. Life is SO much easier, SO much more peaceful now. I see now that we have a choice: it is up to us how we pass through the trials of our lives, and through the joys as well.
BIG changes are occurring in my life right now, but diving under the surface, I am no longer tossed about in the waves. It was not always so. I had to swim upstream, to be tossed about on the surface, to swallow whole mouthfuls of turpitude and despair and hope and chaos until I gagged and spit it up, spit it out, willfully ejecting what was pulling me down.
I never could have gotten here without having been there. So I send out my thanks and love to that Kathryn, that Kathy, and ask her to hang in there because at some point, she will pass peacefully through portals. And I wish for you all the same. Peace.
Today is my "little" brother's birthday and so I start with best wishes going out to him! Flitting through images of the past, my heart warms and this cold January morning loses its chill...
I pass to another anniversary that falls on this day. On this day, about 20 years ago, I made my first and last bet. I was at the time in a relationship with a wild and wonderful but inveterate gambler, and he had insisted. Insisted so much that we got into a fight over it. Insisted so much that I made that bet (with an illegal bookie in a bar in the Inwood section of Manhattan in the early morning hours, no less) and then left, saying, "Never call me again unless I hit that number!"
That afternoon, waking me from a sound sleep, my phone rang. I knew right away. Sure enough, I had hit the number for $800, a whole lot of money for me at that time. The story goes on (for another time, perhaps) but the laughter of the universe still rings in my ears. Great news, $800 from the sky. Bad news, back into a toxic relationship. What will our heroine do with that? I missed the opportunity that day to take the money and run; my growing took many years still after that, before I stood tall enough in my own boots to walk.
These many years later, I sit at my window here in Paris, looking through the branches of the tree outside to the Seine, which is flowing fast today. It feels like time has been flowing just as fast... but for a moment I visit that past, that who-I-was, and send her love. Love and gratitude. Because if I had never been that me, struggling to find my self, my voice (though a haze of work and play and intoxicants and tears and some laughter), I would never have gotten here.
I woke up with the phrase "I pass peacefully though portals", an affirmation my friend Sophie shared with me, one that her friend Tom shared with her (thanks, Tom!) This has truly become my mantra and I now live it with gratitude. Life is SO much easier, SO much more peaceful now. I see now that we have a choice: it is up to us how we pass through the trials of our lives, and through the joys as well.
BIG changes are occurring in my life right now, but diving under the surface, I am no longer tossed about in the waves. It was not always so. I had to swim upstream, to be tossed about on the surface, to swallow whole mouthfuls of turpitude and despair and hope and chaos until I gagged and spit it up, spit it out, willfully ejecting what was pulling me down.
I never could have gotten here without having been there. So I send out my thanks and love to that Kathryn, that Kathy, and ask her to hang in there because at some point, she will pass peacefully through portals. And I wish for you all the same. Peace.
lundi 25 janvier 2010
January 26, 2010: I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair...
Hello!
I am not sure why I am up already, the alarm is not going to go off for another hour or so. Then again, I DO know why! I was woken up by a song - I woke up with the song from South Pacific in my head "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"...
No worries, no hatin' , no denigratin'!
Yes, I think this is about my ex, but more importantly, it is about my bedroom, the state of affairs in said bedroom, the complete and TOtal chaos in my bedroom (and since "as below so above", in my life), and this is about what I can do about it!
Huh?
Well, I am in a Paris apartment and thus space is somewhat limited...at least by American standards! French friends always think I have SO much space, particularly so much space for "rangement" - putting things away, storage. And it is true, by French standards. I have a cave - a storage basement in the building, as well as 4 closets and lots of overhead and built-in nook-and-cranny-type space (will I always think of Thomas' English muffins when I hear ort use that phrase?).
Yes, I have a good bit of space. But I also have a lot of stuff. (So proud I didn't use the phrase that came to my sleepy Bronx-born mind - a lot of shit! Advancing, always advancing... though which is more accurate, stuff or shit, who can tell?... )
Here's the thing: I have one whole half-closet filled with wedding photos, albums etc from my wedding in 2003/4 (two weddings, one civil in Paris and one church event in the Bronx.) On the other hand, I have a no-Feng-shui bedroom with books and stacks of papers everywhere... the chi cannot circulate around the bed, and neither can a human.
Hmmm... seems clear doesn't it?
But to clear out the old wedding stuff is to close a chapter - a chapter that wasn't all bad - and specifically to clear out memories of a day that was a lot of fun. Since my ex is French and not a lot of his people were there, the wedding reception was filled with my people: friends from kindergarten through college, friends from numerous bars and bank jobs (not heists, the other sort), and family. Lots and lots of my Irish Catholic family. (Memory is of course selective. I COULD choose to remember that my miscarriage came to its full denouement that day, or that my Dad found my ex smoking a joint outside, or that a friend gave my soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law a lapdance, oh wait - that was a highlight! )...
Anyway, in clearing this stuff out, I am saying it's okay to leave the past (even the nice choice bits) IN the past. And that makes me kind of sad.
Of course there are other memories in the making even as I write. And in order to have the new rush in, I need to clear out some space for it. (I can feel the fresh air whirring and whirling it's way towards me even as I write...) So maybe it's ok. Maybe I am ready to move on.
Hmmm... I think I will wash my hair today.
I am not sure why I am up already, the alarm is not going to go off for another hour or so. Then again, I DO know why! I was woken up by a song - I woke up with the song from South Pacific in my head "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"...
No worries, no hatin' , no denigratin'!
Yes, I think this is about my ex, but more importantly, it is about my bedroom, the state of affairs in said bedroom, the complete and TOtal chaos in my bedroom (and since "as below so above", in my life), and this is about what I can do about it!
Huh?
Well, I am in a Paris apartment and thus space is somewhat limited...at least by American standards! French friends always think I have SO much space, particularly so much space for "rangement" - putting things away, storage. And it is true, by French standards. I have a cave - a storage basement in the building, as well as 4 closets and lots of overhead and built-in nook-and-cranny-type space (will I always think of Thomas' English muffins when I hear ort use that phrase?).
Yes, I have a good bit of space. But I also have a lot of stuff. (So proud I didn't use the phrase that came to my sleepy Bronx-born mind - a lot of shit! Advancing, always advancing... though which is more accurate, stuff or shit, who can tell?... )
Here's the thing: I have one whole half-closet filled with wedding photos, albums etc from my wedding in 2003/4 (two weddings, one civil in Paris and one church event in the Bronx.) On the other hand, I have a no-Feng-shui bedroom with books and stacks of papers everywhere... the chi cannot circulate around the bed, and neither can a human.
Hmmm... seems clear doesn't it?
But to clear out the old wedding stuff is to close a chapter - a chapter that wasn't all bad - and specifically to clear out memories of a day that was a lot of fun. Since my ex is French and not a lot of his people were there, the wedding reception was filled with my people: friends from kindergarten through college, friends from numerous bars and bank jobs (not heists, the other sort), and family. Lots and lots of my Irish Catholic family. (Memory is of course selective. I COULD choose to remember that my miscarriage came to its full denouement that day, or that my Dad found my ex smoking a joint outside, or that a friend gave my soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law a lapdance, oh wait - that was a highlight! )...
Anyway, in clearing this stuff out, I am saying it's okay to leave the past (even the nice choice bits) IN the past. And that makes me kind of sad.
Of course there are other memories in the making even as I write. And in order to have the new rush in, I need to clear out some space for it. (I can feel the fresh air whirring and whirling it's way towards me even as I write...) So maybe it's ok. Maybe I am ready to move on.
Hmmm... I think I will wash my hair today.
Today, January 25, 2010: Day One
Hello! I have been thinking about creating a blog-format-type-thingy for sooooo long, and here it happens as if by accident when looking at the blogspot of a friend.
I love when things slide easily into place!
It feels like it doesn't happen so often, but when I think about it, I really am incredibly lucky and life is falling - granted, sometimes in big heavy pieces that just miss my head, but falling nonetheless - into place.
The life of a very happy - ok USUALLY very happy - ex-banker originally from the Bronx living her life in Paris, writing and following a creative and spiritual path in the city of her dreams is the stuff that would have once made me want to barf. (Nice vocabulary, eh? I knew it would impress!) Or maybe it would have been the alcohol or the drugs that would have made me want to throw up. At that time, one could never have known!
But now, I am getting used to things happen fortuitously - the Universe conspiring with a more conscious me, surprising and delighting (or not) as things seem to move inexorably forward. No more need for intoxicants, life has become trippy enough, thank you! And BOY does it feel better to wake up refreshed and feeling good! Sending out a great big bearhug of thanks to the Universe...
And so it goes...the blog starts unsurreptitiously, creeping in on tiny cat's feet (this phrase always provoke an image of the cat's claws scratching across linoleum for me, but whatever) and without fanfare. Happy Monday!
I love when things slide easily into place!
It feels like it doesn't happen so often, but when I think about it, I really am incredibly lucky and life is falling - granted, sometimes in big heavy pieces that just miss my head, but falling nonetheless - into place.
The life of a very happy - ok USUALLY very happy - ex-banker originally from the Bronx living her life in Paris, writing and following a creative and spiritual path in the city of her dreams is the stuff that would have once made me want to barf. (Nice vocabulary, eh? I knew it would impress!) Or maybe it would have been the alcohol or the drugs that would have made me want to throw up. At that time, one could never have known!
But now, I am getting used to things happen fortuitously - the Universe conspiring with a more conscious me, surprising and delighting (or not) as things seem to move inexorably forward. No more need for intoxicants, life has become trippy enough, thank you! And BOY does it feel better to wake up refreshed and feeling good! Sending out a great big bearhug of thanks to the Universe...
And so it goes...the blog starts unsurreptitiously, creeping in on tiny cat's feet (this phrase always provoke an image of the cat's claws scratching across linoleum for me, but whatever) and without fanfare. Happy Monday!
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