Jory and I now hide the remote. And police our kitchen. According to his pediatrician, our 7-year old son has joined the 42.4% of Americans who are considered obese. My friend Mary made the connection: Like many in his generation, Tyler is on an unending quest for a hit of dopamine. If he’s not cruising for sugar, he wants to be on a screen. When not on a screen, he is HUNGRY!! (I have banned the word starving from our home…I’m working on a Holocaust project and it’s all relative!). He lacks the ability to entertain himself, finding most things that are not food or screens BORING. This unending pleasure/dopamine quest is quite common in his age group. Regular activities can't compare. Therefore, I have reworked my schedule: when he is home, I engage him. Sometimes we play that we are a cleaning company, hired to do xx (wash dishes, clean the walls – pretty clever, huh?). When that is “boring”, we play games, or read. It is a tremendous time commitment, but in the long run, more enjoyable than fighting over addictive screens and food. Oh, but this morning was a trip of another kind. On the way to school, while racing back home to pick up math homework that she said she doesn’t care about, my middle daughter told me she hates me. Having already lost my mother, I told her to save it for my funeral. This paradoxically made our neighbor’s day, as from her place in the back seat, she was ever so slightly smiling, musing over how our family makes hers look really really good. At least I could make someone’s day. The above daughter, the child formerly known as Ali, is now Lexi. Last year, when we filled out applications for new Middle Schools, Alexandra told me to write Lexi. Then she spent the whole summer correcting us, “I’m NOT ALI!! I’M LEXI!!!” In light of the many kids in her generation who change genders, I figure we’re getting off easy. Still, it’s an adjustment. (If anyone wants “A” wall hangings/jewelry, LMK). Unfortunately, Lexi’s Executive Functioning Skills aren’t any better than Ali’s were. In the month she’s been at school, Lexi has lost two water bottles, two lunch boxes, a French binder and a script. Not to mention forgotten homework (most recently, this morning). I actually went to the Lost and Found a few hours ago and recovered 1/3 of the loot…I now write “ROSEN” in black sharpie on everything - which she hates because it’s so uncool - but at this point, we’re hemorrhaging cash we don’t have on items she no longer has. Surprisingly, for someone who has the guts to rebrand themselves, she is desperate to fit in. She was cast as a random “friend of Jasmine’s” in the play Aladdin at summer camp, only to audition six weeks later – same play – same director – and yes! - be cast as a random “friend of Jasmine’s”. The director claims that being in this play will improve literacy, strengthen vocal skills, gain problem-solving skills, but since he cast her in exactly the same silent background position only weeks later, it is clear that the improvement/strengthening/gain she was supposed to achieve got lost in the dark recesses of Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders, or maybe it’s with her water bottles. So we are pulling the plug on hours and hours and hours of her rehearsing the forgettable background role that she just performed, and from which she clearly didn’t improve/gain/strengthen. This, too, was lost on Lexi. “But I want to fit in!!” Lexi sobs. Be careful what you wish for, kid. Meanwhile, in only four days of being an actual teenager, Lillie Grace, 13, has already perfected the eye roll and the snark reply. Unfortunately, she tends to be a type A perfectionist, so when I mean perfected, it’s actually an understatement. She is also having 8 friends to our home for a party this weekend, 7 of whom are sleeping over. If this is my last blog for awhile, send chocolate. On the nonverbal front, our two dogs are sweet, until they are not. In the last few days, they peed on our bedroom carpet, ate Prince Harry’s book from the library (apparently, THEY loved it) and chewed holes in our new duvet. We exercise them religiously and yet… Jory continues the job search. In June, a local law firm in town conducted four interviews with him – two in person, one with the head of firm. He thought everything went really well. He was excited. Then, they asked for his college transcript (?), which he ordered from NYU. Then, they asked for his high school transcript (??). His high school, like said law firm, is here in town. However, the high school don’t have any transcripts before 1996. And so the law firm GHOSTED him. Like, he’s never heard from them again. Ever. Not even a rejection. Then in July, a firm in LA that sells gold and silver *contacted HIM* on our cruise to let him know they were hiring him to work full time, remotely. Excited, he purchased the $$$ $hip internet package, and they said they would discuss details when he was home. After which, yes, they GHOSTED him. WTF? He’s back job hunting. As for me, I am trying to keep it all together – the dopamine-addled obese child, the financial worries, the preteen angst, the teen attitude, the destructive dogs - with as much humor and grace as I can muster. It’s like herding cats on an ice rink in the rain in tap shoes. I blast songs from the Pumpkins and Jane's Addiction alone in the car. One of my best friends Michele just came out with her mom over Lillie’s 13th birthday. Having her here was a blast of sunshine. Their departure showcased some lonely valleys. As mentioned above, I’m writing a fascinating Jewish family’s story set in Paris in World War II. That’s about as dark as it can get, but paradoxically it gives me tremendous perspective and strength to keep juggling the above. Before Tyler gets home, I spend hours every day reading primary documents, getting lost in suffering and the will to overcome it. It truly is a gift to get to do research and write something so meaningful. I close, with a revelation I ready yesterday from Victor Frankl, which he had in the darkest time of his life: “The salvation of man is through love and in love.” I’ve seen how short life is. Every day is a quest: we must rediscover love.
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It was a once-in-a-lifetime bucket-list adventure: cruising through Alaska. Paradoxically, the 13-day vacation accomplished its high expectations because we all left feeling depressed it was over. We had never been on a cruise. Turns out, cruising is actually the best way to see Alaska, because many places (like its capital Juneau) are only accessible via water or air. So, we decided to fully embrace Americana and see our 50th state not just on any cruise, but via a Disney cruise. Based on reviews of cleanliness (Covid seems to be making a comeback), food quality (more on that later), and kids’ activities (tween and kids clubs), it best met our needs. We loved the surprise guests, and we had the same waiters every night, who remembered our favorite drinks and foods, and did magic tricks. Disney’s Wonder (the name of which fits nicely with my blog) holds 2,500 guests, plus crew. We thought it was ginormous, until we were next to other cruise ships that dwarfed us, one holding 6,000 guests alone. Alaska is gorgeous: majestic mountains reigning, bald eagles soaring, fish leaping out of serene blue waters. And whales. We all really hoped to see whales. In Hoona, after seeing a ton of (real) starfish in the water, we embarked on a whale watch. To our immense delight (and relief, cuz no refunds), we witnessed a pod of whales cavorting. We could even hear them coming up for air. Our driver refused to get closer (which the other boats did), and didn’t share what kind of whales we were seeing, but as I am continually learning, things don’t have to be perfect to be wonderful. Frolicking whales sooth the soul. and lounging seals are good medicine too ![]() One day we left Ty and Lexi at their respective Disney clubs so we could row to a glacier. We rowed five miles across Lake Mendenhall to a gushing waterfall: it is the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau melting. It’s as bad as it sounds. In fact, the week after we were at Mendenhall, Juneau suffered the worst glacial melt in its history when 13 billion gallons of water melted off the glacier and broke through an ice dam. The lake we had rowed on rose 9 feet in a matter of hours, wiping out the two homes on the bank. Had we come a few days later, we would not be able to row to the glacier. Decades worth of erosion happened a few days after we were there and hydrologists from the University of Alaska believe the glacier is forever changed. Coincidentally, had my brother been in Lahaina four days after he was, he would have been in Lahaina the day of the devastating fire. I say coincidentally, because we were both vacationing on money our parents had left us, going to places a few days before both were forever changed. I can hear our Catholic Mom say, “There’s no such thing as coincidence.” I think Mom watches over us still. And there is something about the ocean that always makes me think of our dad, and this cruise was no exception. In fact, it was the first vacation we had taken since he and Mom passed away, and I realized that I’m still learning to navigate life without them, and I probably always will be. It’s just a different season of life. On our last "on shore" day, it is raining. Once off the boat, we learn that Ketchikan is the third wettest city in the United States. Maybe we should have looked into that before booking ziplining here? Our 11-year old daughter Lexi woke up refusing to disembark. Understanding her terror, we also had to help her understand the (non-refundable) commitment she had made. We balance between acknowledging her very real anxiety and pushing her boundaries to keep her growing. There is a metaphor here: if she stays safe on board, she will miss out on life's adventures. En route to the rainforest, I get lost in thought watching the thick clouds and lush verdant Alaskan wilderness out our rain-streaked windows. Once arrived on base, the harnesses and helmets just further Lexi’s panic, and the kid looks truly terrified. We tell her that if she tries it and hates the first run, she won’t have to do the other six. Frankly, we’re all a little nervous. She wants to get it over with, so we arrange for her to go first. Mercifully, the minute she starts to zoom down the line, a tremendous smile overtakes her face. It’s like her body over-rides her worried brain, trumpeting, “This is FUN!” Her siblings perk up, and finally it’s my turn. I’m so wet I can’t feel the rain. As you walk off the platform, you sit, the harness securely holding you. Wow – it’s glorious. Zipping through the trees, I feel carefree, light, ethereal. The rain is a welcome friend – and it turns out rain is the best weather in which to zipline (because you can go faster as the line is lubricated). It’s sublime. A magnificent memory that we all want to relive. Finally, this being our first cruise, we wondered if the weight gain stereotype is real. Uh, yup. Upon arriving back in New Mexico, all five of us stepped on the scale to find weight gains varying between 5 pounds (Lexi) and 13 pounds (me). In fact, the ships don’t even try to hide it. We found this in every single bathroom, whether private or public: It’s not like “If you are diabetic and need a sharps container, please call…” Rather, it is assumed that you have type two diabetes, or, that if you keep cruising, you’ll soon have it. So yes, with a 13-pound gain weight (in 13 days), I would be qualifying for a sharps container with this lifestyle. On the cruise, we dined with lavish 3-course meals (bread! dessert! alcohol!) every night starting at 8:15 PM (10:15 our time). Disney cruises get raves for food quality, and I concur. Then, of course, there's free room service, sit down breakfasts and lunches, and 24-hour soft serve ice cream. On the bright side, it shows how surprisingly effective the discipline in my normal diet actually is. A month later, I’m down seven pounds and counting…. Coming home has been a readjustment. Jory continues his job search. I am writing a fascinating project that pays tuition for August... Welcome September! There’s a Jewish saying, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” Nonetheless, we had planned our summer pretty carefully. Although she still has six titanium screws in her knee, Lillie Grace is mobile, and frankly, we were ready for some sort of normalcy. Jory, after working overtime in his first season with the XFL, was going to coast: work for the XFL a few hours a day, and then get stuff done around the house. I, on the other hand, had committed to an all-consuming six-week sprint: teaching six different classes a day at a private school's summer camp, which the kids would attend. I’m the type of teacher who gives her all in the classroom, so I get home and need to recover. At the end of camp, we planned a much-needed vacation. So Day One after year round school is out: I'm working on curriculum for my classes. The first morning of orientation, I’m in my new beautiful summer classroom, when I get a text, “Please come home now.” While unpacking materials, and working with the fabulous tech team to synch daily video clips from the computer to the white screen, I can’t just come home. I call, thinking one of the girls needs my help, and to my surprise, find that Jory had sent the text. Jory wants me home. “What’s up?” I ask. “I just lost my job,” he responds. I sit, shocked, fear coursing through my body. Jory’s job at the XFL had been his dream job. He enjoyed his team, loved his marketing work, and had thrived. We are completely blindsided. I sit there dumbly, as he goes on to tell me that the entire marketing team has been cut, his boss and the CMO included. It made the news. No one saw it coming, and everyone is reeling. It seems that in looking for investors, the XFL brass decided to trim their expenses, so axed the entire marketing department, giving everyone one month’s pay for severance. This punch to the gut opens old festering wounds. You may remember that we suffered severe financial hardship for two years during the Covid pandemic. This latest blow surges up all kinds of dread and PTSD. Suddenly, my schedule for the next six weeks goes from overload to just-right. I continue tutoring on the weekends, working seven days a week. Jory’s summer, meant to recover from the intense work schedule he kept during the XFL season, has become once again insanely stressful, applying daily for jobs. In addition, he misses his XFL colleagues and their work. It's surreal how quickly everything can change. One minute, life is sailing forward, caressing you with a gentle breeze. The next minute, a tempest comes out of nowhere, upends the boat, and you’re holding on for dear life, cracked open once again. I want to ask why. Haven’t we (literally) paid our dues? A more tangible question: do we cancel our cruise to Alaska at the end of July? This was to be our first vacation in four years. Last year’s trip to Boston to bury my parents conjures many wonderful descriptions, but “vacation” is not one of them. We all want to see Alaska, and despite all my travels, I have never been on a cruise. But is it a responsible use of the money my parents left me when the future is so uncertain? I meditate on what my parents would say, and childhood memories of us hiking Machu Picchu, scaling the highlands of Scotland, and exploring the catacombs of Paris fill my mind. I hear my parents saying that we must say yes, for what is life, in the end, but a balance between time and money? We will get more money (we must believe!) – but time? We commit to go. Two of our kids are already in middle school, and if we don’t have these adventures now, then when? I search for silver linings. Maybe unemployment is keeping the kids from becoming entitled? They want spending money? They have to earn it, because they know that we simply don’t have it. They open their café every weekend, and despite their shyness, force themselves to talk and sell drinks and snacks to the golfers on the other side of the fence. We are united in supporting each other to earn money. At an estate sale down the road, I find a gift: paperbacks by Mary Pipher for 50 cents. Pipher is deep. She writes that we all suffer, but cautions us not to waste our suffering. We must allow our suffering to help us grow. My first thought: “Haven’t I had enough effing growth for awhile?” Apparently not, so I lean in. “How can this latest financial setback further my growth?” The obvious answer is to stop resenting it, wishing it away, lamenting its injustice. How to sit with it, and have the courage to keep being generous when income has stopped? Pipher further explains that it is only through suffering that our capacity for gratitude grows. Gratitude she believes, is not a virtue; it’s a survival skill. This is a paradigm shift: gratitude – not just an attitude, but an actual survival skill? We want to get through life without becoming bitter, disappointed, shut down, depressed? Then we must daily cultivate that gratitude, the kind that is forged from sitting with our darkness, be it fear of lack, disappointment, or heart ache. Since I started teaching at Georgia O’Keeffe, I’ve been rising at 5:30 every morning to journal, read, meditate and set an intention for my day. Today I read a quote from Helen Keller, dumb, deaf and blind: “So much has been given to me, I have not time to ponder over that which has been denied.” ` Boom. That's how it's done. Somehow, Keller was able to see, hear and speak that which is most essential: Gratitude as a survival skill. The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering galleries, they are clearly heard at the end, and by posterity.” – Jean Paul Richter (German art historian, 1847-1937) Much has happened: Lillie’s knee (thanks for your concern. She’s off crutches!), daily teaching third grade, weekly tutoring, ghost writing, three kids - I’ve had little time to blog. I gave myself a birthday gift: time to write. I wanted to write about what has most impacted me this year. Frankly, I kept getting serendipitous reminders about it, so feel the need to share it – and thanks to my friend Janine, have permission to do so. Last month, my 11-year-old daughter Ali heard about Anne Frank, and wanted to read her diary. Serendipitously, Jory found a used copy a few days later at our local bookstore. We began it that night. The very next day, I received an email from Sandia Prep, Ali’s new school, inviting us to a performance of Anne Frank and Me. What are the odds?? The play is about a class of teenagers in the 1990s assigned to read Frank’s diary, and the pushback some kids give to the assigned reading. But it goes deeper. Since the screenplay for the 1959 film was written by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, some students believe that the diary, therefore, was not written by Frank. Eerily, their thinking joins those who say the entire Holocaust was made up. The play was incredible, as the kids playing the roles were exactly the right ages, and I was *sobbing* (yes, sobbing) at the end (much to Ali’s everlasting mortification). I couldn’t stop crying because a few months ago, my friend Janine had sent me an email with the letter from her Jewish grandfather (Sadi Lattes), written in French. Sadi was a brilliant engineer who worked at the Citroen factory designing cars. (When I lived in Paris in the 80s, the common French cars were Citroen, Renault and Peugeot). In the 1920s, Louis Renault is on record referring to his rival Andre Citroen as “le petit Juif”. So it is little surprise that when the Nazis gave Renault a choice in 1940 to work for them or see his production moved to Germany, he chose to collaborate. Therefore, the five-story Renault factory in Boulogne Billancourt became a hub for Nazi production of military equipment. In comparison, here’s a study in diplomatic and elegant resistance: Andre Citroen died in 1935, but his successor Pierre Boulanger refused to meet with the Nazis or the Nazi automotive specialist Dr. Porsche (yes, that Porsche), except through intermediaries. When the Citroen factory was forced to collaborate with the Nazis, Boulanger organized a “go slow” on the productions of trucks for the Wehrmacht. Likewise, his engineers surreptitiously moved the fill line on their oil dipsticks lower, causing Nazi trucks to seize under stress after a few months from low oil. In fact, when the French Resistance infiltrated the Gestapo HQ in Paris in 1944, they found Boulanger’s name prominent on a Nazi Blacklist of the most important enemies of the Reich, to be deported if the Allies invaded France. Put yourself in Sadi’s shoes: if you knew your rival factory was willingly collaborating with the enemy, and you knew you could do something to stop production, would you? Sadi did. He and two of his engineer friends built a bomb and exploded it in the Renault factory, halting production. Somehow (Janine doesn’t know how) the Nazis knew who was responsible. On December 12, 1941, they went to Sadi’s apartment on Rue Gustave Zede in Paris' chic 16th arrondisement, and arrested him. Through the Resistance, Sadi’s family quickly got word to his two friends, and both went into hiding. The Nazis could never find them, and both survived the war. Sadi was taken to the Royallieu Internment Camp in Compiegne “Frontstallag 122”, which is 86 kilometers north of Paris. (Formerly, the site was French army barracks that displayed a signing of the Armistice from World War I). It was a camp for “active enemy individuals”. From there, Sadi wrote letters to his wife on any scraps of paper he could get his hands on. These were snuck out of the camp (probably by a nurse). Only one was in pen; time has dimmed the other notes in pencil. The story gets crazier: Janine and her family had no idea these letters ever existed. Until this year. Upon initially receiving the letters, Sadi’s wife Renee put them in a box, and Sadi’s son Robert put the box in the back of his closet in his Parisian apartment. There they sat for 80 years, as Robert was never able to speak of their existence. After Robert’s death last year, his daughter (Janine’s cousin) found them while cleaning out his apartment. This is exactly how our grandparents’ and parents’ generations dealt with trauma. Put it in a box and hide it away. They say trauma is passed on through our DNA. It just takes longer for the physical notes to be passed along. Janine emailed me Sadi’s notes a few months ago. She asked me to translate them, because her French cousin finds them too emotionally draining to work on. Their legendary grandfather has suddenly taken on flesh and blood, as they read his words and see his handwriting for the first time, across the decades. With Janine’s blessings, I sent the notes on to my dear Parisian friend Brigitte McLeavy, who painstakingly tried to decipher them with her cousins. What do they say? Here is Brigitte’s translation of the longest letter (in pen): (Janine is certain that Sadi wrote in a bit of code, so if the notes were intercepted, no one would be implicated.) March 20, 1942 (3/20/42) My darling --Still no news from you but this morning I found out you had seen the wife of one of my office colleagues. I also know you receive 1/20th of my pay, which makes me so happy. How are you all? I would love to have a note from you. The business of the parcels finally sorted itself out a little bit. What had been confiscated from us was redistributed among those concerned, according to their declarations. Of course, there have been injustices, like, for instance if only I had managed to get all the potatoes…which are delicious (I fried some of them. Such a miracle to eat that after 3 months). I got very little chocolate, no oranges - -- I do not know whether you heard from me via some who left yesterday, but they will have told you to send me what I asked you for regarding my personal belongings plus(adding) some food: bread, butter, jam, biscuits, tinned food, dry fruit.... taking care of noting my name and my number on all the objects and the food, and putting a copy of the inventory. This is this how I can be best helped - But no need to do this very often. Besides one has to live from day to day as it may change. Therefore, do the best you can, pile on the bread, and the jam and the cheese --I have good hope for the liberation especially if you look after me--I have moved and I am in the same bedroom as M. F——Apparently the young friend (masculine) you mentioned is expecting a visit, entrust him with a bit of food for me- Also send me as many noodles and as much rice as you can, to put in soups. When will the official parcels be ? and will they be? I think of you, it’s been nearly 100 days. I have the feeling that there is a detente. My cousins are really only big selfish people, as they virtually left me nothing and, moreover, I had to beg. A thousand hugs for the little darling ones who are fine, I hope. I hold you very very tight in my arms, kissing you a thousand times. 81 years later, Sadi’s emphasis on food is chilling. It seems he was starving. As Abraham Maslow wrote a year later (in 1943), until our physiological needs like hunger, are met, we can’t think of other things. What is surprising is his optimism. Janine believes either he was given bad information, or was trying to lift her grandmother’s spirits – perhaps both. However, on March 27th, a mere seven days after he signed off with a thousand hugs and kisses to his family, things did indeed change. Sadi was loaded on the very first transport to leave French soil: from the Royallieu Prison to Auschwitz. There were 743 French people in his convoy. He arrived at the death camp two days later. According to official camp records, he died in Auschwitz 16 days later, on April 14th, at the age of 41. As soon as it became feasible, Said’s wife Renee became active in working for the deported, trying to find out if her husband were still alive. The family didn’t learn of his death for years. How to properly bury your husband, your father and express your grief under these conditions? Those of us who have lost family know how comforting a formal ceremony is. Sadi’s family was denied this. Understandably, his daughter, Janine’s mother Denise, wanted to get as far away from the war as she could. She married an American GI, and moved with him back to…East Texas. Denise told no one of her true identity, so Janine was raised unaware of her Jewish heritage. How is Sadi’s story relevant and important for us now? 1)This week, the Biden administration released the first ever American strategy to combat antisemitism. This is partially in response to a pandemic poll that revealed that 63% of Gen Z and millennials don’t know that 6 million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust, with 10% unaware that there even was a Holocaust. Upon reading this, you now know one of the six million stories. You’ve read Sadi Lattes’ letter from Royallieu, and understand why, as a French Resistance fighter and Jew, he was considered enemy #1, and put on the first of the 40 transports from Royallieu to Auschwitz. In our day of hate crimes and mass shootings, Sadi’s story is a reminder of how hate can become normalized. 2) Sadi’s example, one of a life cut short, is also one of a life courageously well-lived. Sadi’s life was one of connection. In those darkest of times, Sadi did what he could to improve others’ lives by destroying Nazi production lines. “The secret of life is suffering. It is what is hidden behind everything.” Who wrote this towards the end of his life? Nietzsche? Sartre? Sadi? Actually, it was the famously witty Irish writer Oscar Wilde. Fifty years before Sadi, Wilde had become convinced that suffering was baked into the world, because suffering means we are in touch with our losses, our failures, our disappointments, our weaknesses. Here we are, 80 years after Sadi, and Wilde’s words still resonate. To accept Wilde’s maxim, is to not only better understand Wilde’s humor, but to better prepare us for life. In accepting suffering, we paradoxically free ourselves to really delight in the moments that override it. Moments of joy, of hope, of connection, of light. Sadi lived in a time and place where sabotaging the enemy’s production of war equipment would save lives, even if it meant losing his own. He received no recognition or fortune for doing what he could. Like his brothers and sisters in the Resistance, he just did what he could to keep his fellow citizens safe. Thankfully, none of us live in a time of literal war, so our struggles don’t hold a candle to Sadi and millions like him. Peacetime affords us the luxury of complacency. Unfortunately, it’s easy to forget that everyone around us is fighting some kind of battle, be it loneliness, health issues, financial struggles, anxiety, depression, loss of loved ones, loss of stability, loss of relevance in an ever-changing world…we are all of us fighting a battle of some sort, and usually more than one. Sadi’s sacrifice is a reminder that a life courageously well-lived is ultimately about doing what we can to keep each other safe and well, no matter how inconvenient. It's getting involved in each other's lives when it may be easier not to. It's finding the time and energy to check up on each other, to encourage and to help each other. In the end, there’s only us, after all. *Snap* - and just like that, life can change. JM Barry wrote, "The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." How telling that the man who wrote this profound quote also authored a story about the everlasting boy from NeverNever Land. By never needing to grow up, Peter Pan never has to commit to one finite life, and thus never has to compare his life with the one he dreams of living. There is a loss that comes with growing up, whether it is leaving behind our naivete, or coming to terms with how our bodies inevitably betray us. About two months ago, on February 16th, Ali and her friend Piper were the MCs of their elementary school’s talent show. This was a big deal for Ali, a kid diagnosed with anxiety. Therefore, it became a big deal for the family. On top of my teaching and ghost writing, my week unexpectedly became consumed with writing a talent show script with Piper’s dad and rehearsing the girls and script with Piper’s mom. Here we were: the night before the show. I was scrambling to find Ali a jean jacket to match Piper’s, looking through the jungle that was Ali’s closet (she has since purged it). To shake off some anxiety, Ali and her sister Lillie Grace were dancing the Macarena around her room. Lillie Grace is by far the best dancer in the family, having been in dancing classes for 9 of her 12 years, so the Macarena is child’s play for her. As she causally jumped and turned, she collapsed on the ground, writhing in pain. I had not yet found the jean jacket, so frankly, Lillie’s seeming misstep seemed an inconvenience at the time. Her dad offered to run her a hot bath. But rather than getting better she was becoming hysterical. “Should we take her to the emergency room?” I ventured. “I think she’ll be OK,” Jory said, which was fair, given that this was only the damn Macarena. After the bath, she was still crying in pain. Having found the jacket, I volunteered to take her to the emergency room. Jory went instead. They came home hours later, in the middle of the night, with Lillie on crutches because the X-rays revealed some sort of injury to the knee, for which they gave her oxycodone (!). She would have to see an orthopedist on Tuesday, because no one was available on Friday, and Monday was Presidents’ Day. We still thought this was no big deal. Ali and Piper crushed the talent show. They were funny, and well spoken. It was a watershed moment for Ali, and her teacher even came out to support her. We celebrated her courage that night, having no idea of the courage Lillie Grace would need in the coming weeks. On Tuesday we were ready to get to the bottom of Lillie’s knee problem (sprain? Ligament tear? fracture?) But the orthopedist only said she needed an MRI, which couldn’t be done until Thursday (a week since the fall). After Thursday’s MRI, they would call with the results – on Monday. On Monday, they didn’t call. So, we called. And called. And called. We finally reached someone only to be told that Lillie needed to see a sports orthopedist/specialist. So we called him on Tuesday. Only to find out he was on vacation until the following Monday. On Monday, when poor Lillie finally gets in to see the right doctor, he is alarmed at what he sees, and schedules surgery for three days hence, on Thursday. Three weeks to the day that she fell, Lillie is going to have surgery because her knee is really bad. Much worse than we thought. That day, Jory and I are fighting a cold. But it’s not a cold. Our three-year Novid status collapses with a positive Covid test each. It’s been said there’s never a good time to get Covid. This really was not a good time. Ali and Tyler test negative on Wednesday, while I battle a fever of 102. And Lillie? Like her siblings, she is asymptomatic, so we don’t even test her. The next morning, we live by the “ignorance is bliss” mantra and don’t test Lillie. You can judge, especially since that morning of her surgery, both of her siblings tested positive. Yet if Lillie tested positive, we would feel obliged to say something, and then this surgery that took three weeks to happen would be pushed back another two weeks, and scar tissue would further form and – (Two days later, Lillie tested positive, earning points for “worse Covid experience ever.”) It gets worse: once they open up her knee, they see that the articular (hard) cartilage has snapped in two, breaking off with it an inch and a half of her femur. (Why didn’t this show up on the MRI?) The surgeon says he’s never seen anything quite like this, but that she was predisposed for it. (File it under the condition called “osteochondritis dessicans”). That little fall? A game changer. How quickly things can turn. Lillie has three metal screws holding her articular cartilage back in place. As of this writing, she’s still on crutches, unable to put any weight on her leg, because the articular cartilage is what bears our weight. She can do no impact activities for six months. She does half an hour of PT exercises daily, and has PT visits once a week. What does this mean in the long term? We. Don’t. Know. While knee braces are usually a temporary measure, she’s encouraged to use them whenever she does activity in the future. For the rest of her life, she is a candidate for PTSD arthritis in her knee. For now, she’s had to (obviously) stop dancing, shelve the golf lessons, quit PE class, miss out on her class hiking excursion (though thankfully she was able to attend the overnight). It has also taken away her independence. At an age where she is trying to prove her self-sufficiency, Lillie is learning that she has to continually ask for help. (This is not a bad lesson, I tell her, to which she rolls her eyes). She needs assistance to carry her lunch tray, her school project, navigate the crowded halls. In middle school, when you ask for help, some kids deliver, but some actually say “no” to your face and walk away. Some take your crutches and play with them, leaving you stranded and feeling alone. Many find you an inconvenience, and ignore you while you struggle to get to class. The school nurse may drive you across campus, but sometimes forget or be unable to pick you up, so you miss your lunch period as you traipse slowly back across campus. As if Middle School’s not hard enough, how do you deal with the maelstrom of depression, disappointment, helplessness, frustration and fear? Lillie wonders when or if she will ever get back to normal. Life is trying to get her attention, but at 12 she is still wishing none of this has happened, still resisting one of its biggest lessons. It is the lesson of letting the disappointments of life mold us into someone new. Of letting go of Plan A, as JM Barrie writes, and humbly surrendering to what has happened. Acceptance of the ugly “what is” gives us the confidence to turn our suffering into connection with others. Without connection, facing pain and loss renders us isolated and scared, brittle and angry. Trying to inspire her, I send her lists of names with the childhood conditions they had, and how they overcame them by learning new things when they couldn't carry on in their normal life. On this list are Mia Farro (polio), Seal (lupus), George Washington (diptheria), Desmond Tutu (tuberculosis) Jean Michel Basquiat (hit by a car). After this, she focuses on what she CAN do, taking online courses in piano and Spanish every day. Meanwhile, I must focus on what she CANNOT do, daily tidying her room, emptying the dishwasher, carrying and fetching her things for her. Her casual misstep has made us all more aware of how quickly things can change; how fragile we are; how we all need help to become our best selves. And so I end with another quote from J.M. Barrie: Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always try to be a little kinder than is necessary Violence: it’s been called the last refuge of the incompetents.
I have been asked to submit something for a book about our years in Paris. I could have written about the food, or the friends, or the travel. In fact, I assumed those would be my primary topics. So, I found it strange that my thoughts kept creeping back to a few incidents of violence that occurred in the almost seven years we lived there. I didn’t understand why, and thought perhaps in investigating them, I would gain clarity. While gun violence has taken center stage in the United States in the 21st century, there was already an undercurrent of violence in the 1980s. My most vivid memory is from January 18, 1982. I was in 8th grade, my final year at Marymount, and my sister Pauline was a sophomore at the American School of Paris (ASP). That night at dinner, Pauline mentioned that Mark, a boy in her class, had been told that his father had been killed that day. At 9 o’clock that morning, Mark’s father, American Colonel Charles Ray, had walked outside their apartment on the Boulevard Emile Augier in the upscale 16th arrondissement. Ray was walking 100 feet to his car, which was parked on the street, when a middle Eastern assailant shot him once in the forehead at point blank range, killing him instantly. Ray’s wife had been in their apartment at the time of the shooting; his two teenage children were already out in St. Cloud at ASP with Pauline. My parents tried to downplay the tragedy as an isolated incident. What else could they do? It’s not like parenting books advise you on how to discuss the assassination of a classmate’s fathers. There was a state funeral for Colonel Ray at Notre Dame, shortly after which Mark, his sister Sharon and mom moved back to the States. The Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction claimed responsibility for Ray’s death, while in the New York Times the following day, the American Ambassador Evan Galbraith said there was no way to ensure the safety of all embassy personnel or Americans. My parents dealt with the stress of this by keeping us focused on the dailiness of our lives. For me, that meant finishing middle school, complete with drama club and Girl Scouts. Ah, girl scouts. An American woman, who lived out in the suburbs by ASP, had married a Frenchman, and lead a Girl Scout troop. With two sons and two daughters, she wanted her daughters to experience American life, and figured what’s more American than scouting? I was the youngest troop member, and didn’t feel comfortable amongst the older scouts. I felt a lot of the requirements for earning badges were tedious and frankly, beyond me. I couldn’t sew. My family didn’t camp. Lacking both skills and friends, I wanted to quit, but my mom encouraged me to stick with it, hoping that with time my confidence and comfort level would grow. Five months after Colonel Ray’s murder, our façade of calm was once again demolished. At 1:31 AM on Friday June 4th, a bomb exploded at ASP, shattering windows and blowing out doors. Graffiti was written on the wall, saying “American pigs out of San Salvador.” The terrorist group Action Direct claimed responsibility for the bomb, saying they were protesting President Reagan’s visit to Paris for the 7-nation Versailles Economic Summit. Since no one was hurt, ASP would resume classes that Tuesday, once Reagan left. But before Reagan left on Monday, Sunday was June 6th, the 38th anniversary of D-Day. First Lady Nancy Reagan helicoptered from Paris to Normandy for ceremonies at the American Cemetery, as many of those involved in the invasion were still alive. Our Girl Scout troop had been invited to meet her, so early that morning, we drove up to Normandy in a caravan of cars. One of us would be chosen to give Reagan a bouquet of flowers. When we arrived at the manicured lawns of the cemetery, our names were put in a hat. To everyone’s surprise, my name was picked. I felt a chill settle upon the group, as one of the girls requested a redo. “Why her?” I overheard one of the girls ask the troop leader. “She’s not even a good scout.” As if on cue, to prove what a lacking Girl Scout I was, a woman approached me and very slowly, as if speaking to a mentally challenged person, said, “Do. You. Speak. English?” “Yes,” I replied, “I’m American.” Without missing a beat, in the same slow and loud English, she said, “Good. The. Hem. Of. Your. Skirt,” here she mimicked the hem of a dress collapsing, “is falling.” The Girl Scout leader whipped out a safety pin and fixed my hem. This, of course, only increased the incredulity of the troop, that such a poorly shod member would be selected for such an honor. My immature and foolish mind said, “One day, they’ll regret the way they’re treating me. One day, they’ll realize that I matter.” But life, of course, does not work that way. Those “one days” never come, and in their minds, if you were to ask them about the incident today, they would probably still begrudge my being chosen to give flowers to Nancy Reagan. Mrs. Reagan, wearing a red raincoat, came down the line of scouts, shaking each of our hands. I was surprised at how petite, almost fragile, she was in person. My 14-year old self remembers thinking that she looked like an elegantly dressed toothpick with a huge helmet of hair. Of course, I never shared this with my scouting companions. It was Mother’s Day in France, not America, so I surprised Mrs. Reagan by wishing her a happy Mother’s Day. She embraced me. The troop was gratified I made them look good, and the ride back to Paris was a peaceful one. But I never returned to a Girl Scout meeting after that. I figured that meeting the First Lady was the greatest experience I would have as a Girl Scout, and I might as well go out on top. All of that was 39 years ago. The Reagans have passed away, as have my parents, as have all those who participated in D-Day. Now that my kids are nearing the ages that I was during all this, I look back at my parents’ response to the violence with both incredulity (how did they normalize their kids’ school being bombed or classmates’ parent assassinated?) and pride (they refused to let Fear win). I wish I could talk to them now. As if in response, in a box in my garage, I find a diary my mom kept. It’s from 1984, which is two years after the above events. I open it, remembering 1984 as a calm and peaceful year. I don’t remember any violence. My sister graduated from ASP that year, and I was a sophomore. Mom’s first diary entry reads, “Dimanche, 1 janvier- Cloudy and grey. We sleep in. There were 2 bombings on trains last night – one on the TGV itself and one at the Gare de Marseilles. Six in all were killed, lots wounded. I am tired.” Lundi 2 janvier - Polly received a call from (drama teacher) Ted Miltenburger. ASP received a bomb threat and police were at the gates. I drove out with a casserole that I had to pick up at the Schultz.” The rest of the month is filled with French lessons, cooking classes, travel and wine tastings. Then 31 janvier - Lunch at the Embassy with the Shedlicks. Get home to an urgent message to call (Marymount Principal) Sr. Diane back no matter what time. L. (a teacher) was attacked in the main (68) convent building at Marymount at 5 PM by a black man. She received 4 stitches in her ear. Lips are bruised. Everyone is upset. Oh Comforter, where’s your comfort? John calls from the States. 9 fevrier - At French conversation, Francoise told a gory story about a man she saw on the metro yesterday with a bloody hand inside his shirt. Pork chops for dinner. John brought me home flowers – nice surprise! 16 fevrier - Jake (in 7th grade) brought me home a rose! He and Ken were slightly mugged at La Defense. Went after Jake’s Olympic bag and his money. Polly, staying with her friend Maria, calls to say hi. 25 fevrier - Sr Diane and I have coffee at Angelina’s. While we were parking, a woman is ripped off by gypsies. I must finish reading “the Butcher of Lyon” as we are meeting the author Brendan Murphy soon. The whole year is like that. The diary is a pattern of everyday events punctuated with violence. Mom never reflects on the violence or even comments on it, which *almost* makes it humorous. This nonchalant recording of frequent violence explains why my mind went to violence when I thought of the 80s in Paris. While I had erased most of the violence from my consciousness, surely I was aware of it at the time. The mind is an incredible world. We were fortunate that although in a sea of violence, somehow we were never harmed. My final memory of violence comes two years after mom’s diary, in May 1986, my senior year. Although most seniors drift through their final semester, I was determined to do well on my IB exams, modern European history in particular. I remember nervously taking our seats in history class, when the fire alarm sounded. Our principal Mr. Cohan had rung it to evacuate the school. Apparently, a bomb threat had been called in to the school. There would be no test that afternoon. We all filed out onto the field, and, rather than feeling scared, I was annoyed. I just wanted the exam to be over. We lounged in the sun as the French police combed through the school, their bomb dogs sniffing everything, leaving nothing unturned. A bomb threat was called in the following week. Same drill. And it happened a third time. Perhaps because the faculty and staff were by now irked, people started talking. We deserved to know if we were in danger. Interpol was on the case, but they didn’t believe it was a terrorist organization this time. They thought it was a student. In fact, through voice recording identification, they determined exactly which student it was. We were told it was the son of the leader of my Girl Scout troop. He didn’t want to take his final exams. So, he called in bomb threats. Is this how violence is perpetuated? Had violence become so normalized that it was a logical resort to get out of an unwanted situation? Or was it more that in the undeveloped mind of a kid, violence was a plausible deterrent, with little comprehension of how serious a bomb can be? I suspect it’s both, the last refuge of a boy who felt incompetent to sit his exams. Paris, City of Lights, playground of terrorists, muse to the soul. It's been Hemingway’s moveable feast, and Hitler’s prize. If we were listening, Paris was teaching us to embrace life’s simultaneous contradictions that are always at play. It was showing us the importance of embracing the constant paradoxes of life, in this case to feel at home in a poetic place of violence. Paris was encouraging us to accept both life's beauty and its brutality. I missed the lesson then, but I welcome it now. For when I next return to Paris, I will be perceived as old, in fact older than my parents were when we lived there. Yet paradoxically, when I next walk Paris' paved sidewalks, I will feel like a teenager once again. Sisters with Sir Otis and our little Windsor Roo Cheerio, Duchess of Delight....Our second car .
I recently read musings by writer Paula D’Arcy in which she talked about a dream she had. She was a child again, sitting at the family kitchen table with her siblings and parents. Hers is a scene I still can recall: Mom asking us about our days as she picks up her glass of red wine; Dad carving the chicken; Pauline, Jake and I vying to share the best nuggets from our days, or get the juiciest pieces of chicken. Then, suddenly, as in D’Arcy’s dream, the table is gone. And so it goes. The kitchen table of our childhoods, once so constant and oft taken for granted, crumbles to a memory. This image got me thinking: Whom have we brought to our next tables (both metaphorically and physically) and what are the foundations of these tables? We actually sit at many tables, often in the same season of life, and of course as we enter different seasons. How does each table nourish us? Whom do we choose to sit closest to? Are there tables that no longer serve us, from which we should move on? Are there tables that would benefit us to join? This led me to thinking about transitions, and how in life, it seems I have gone from a season of Rejection and Loss to a season of Flourishing and Growth, almost inexplicably. Despite what pop psychology tells us, I didn’t change my thinking or intention or outlook. I just kept believing in myself as I weathered some intense losses, a few unnecessarily brutal rejections, some “wait and sees” and then… Jobs I applied for in June and July came to fruition in November and September, respectively. Thankfully, they are remote contractor project-based, and I love both. It turns out, I am really gifted at both and add tremendous value. Likewise, the incredible principal at the kids’ school where I was substitute teaching in the meantime (before the floodgates opened), offered me a teaching position for the rest of the year. Luckily, it is from 7:30AM-11AM every day, so I can work my other two jobs. Next, a dear friend started throwing some medical editing work my way every month, and it’s fascinating. I learn so much. Then, my beloved tutoring picked up. I feel so lucky to contribute at each of these tables. Sure, it’s sometimes over 40 hours a week, so a lot of juggling. The laundry gets done less frequently, cards & emails don’t get sent, and the frozen section of Trader Joe’s makes more appearances at our table than it used to. Yet, after all the unexpected no’s and the painful goodbyes, I am extraordinary grateful to be thriving in so many milieus. Where my former self might have felt overwhelmed by these multiple jobs, now I strategize balance, from a place of appreciation. Where last year I wrestled with not being able to afford things, now I joyfully wrestle with how to fit in commitments. I probably wouldn’t have been able to handle all this had I not stumbled through the dire desert of last year. With the extra income, we’ve been able to buy a ridiculously-needed second car. And, much to Jory’s hesitation, a second dog, a sweet puppy friend for Sir Otis. I even have been able to add to my wardrobe for the first time in forever. We can start paying off debt. It is a time of expansion, of growth, of YES. So for those of you persevering through a season of Loss and Rejection, hear this: There’s nothing wrong with you, broken as you may feel. The losses that crushed you don’t go away, but somehow you will stand tall again. As for the rejections, with perspective, you will see them differently, too. For example, a person in authority had even taken the time to tell me that while my query didn’t “deserve a reply”, he would still speak to me. While initially really hurt and confused, I clearly now see that my energy simply is not a match for that institution’s, his especially. Having persisted, I am now in synch with so many wonderful employers and opportunities that some nights, I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. And I dream. Wonderful dreams, where I can see how I contribute, and learn and grow and celebrate at each of these tables. Then I wake up, and joyfully take my seat for another day of yes. Happy New Year indeed. Bring some Light into the Darkness
Bring some Darkness to the Light As we Dance among the Shadows Flickering in Black & White RSV visited our home. File it under “Really Sucky Virus” or “Ridiculously Savage Virus” either way, Respiratory Syncytial Virus is no joke. Although it came to us through one of the kids and hit her hard, now thanks to my asthma, I’m on a round of antibiotics and steroids while the kids are doing fine. On the bright side, the days in bed gave me pause to reflect. It was a year ago on December 1st that Mom died. In the year since she’s been gone, I have tried to dream about her and looked for signs from her, but to no avail. I woke early on the morning of her death anniversary and dug out one of her journals, one she never finished. It was gifted to her by a friend in 1986 when we lived in Paris, and I’d never read it before. I opened it randomly to an entry from March 6, 1986. When she wrote this, Mom was 49, healthy, and we had no plans to move. Therefore, this entry is completely unexpected. She wrote, “Goodbyes have been some of the most difficult moments of my life until Paul blessed me with his vision in Galatians 2:20: And I live now, not with my own life, but with the life of Christ who lives in me…” She goes on to explain: “I wind in and out of people’s lives. Having touched them, I am blessed. Having touched me, they are blessed. Our roots are deepened and wings are strengthened. We have given each other grace to live more deeply.” This insight, I realize, is Mom’s parting gift to me. It is what I have been seeking in 2022. She then goes on to write about the “beautiful war between our roots and our wings”. It is a magnificent and painful contradiction, one we would do well to celebrate. She writes, “it feels as though my feet are in two worlds. It hurts. I look at all the people I love. I know the day will come when I must celebrate goodbyes with them as I have with so many others.” What gave her great comfort is the belief that she will live on: “not I, but those I love…I will live on through them. (Here she wrote the names of three friends, not her then-teenage kids, LOL). These friends will always be part of me, for they were present during so much of my unfolding.” She would die 35 years after writing this, and I, while still grappling with her loss, would find it 36 years later, as a message from the grave. How, I wonder, can we live more consciously, embracing this contradiction of roots and wings, and two worlds? It seems wrapped up in our ability to appreciate the privilege of winding in and out of each other’s lives while we can, to behold each other’s continual unfolding. Holiday cards arrive, and with Mom’s perspective, each one sparks joy and reflection: to be present for each person at this time, here and now. I hope to find the time and strength to send out our own greetings, but in the meantime, I bask in the wishes of my tribe. On Sunday December 11th, my thoughts are in Boston, remembering the profound memorial we held for my cousin Gary a year before. My cell phone rings from a Hingham number, and it is one of Mom’s friends. We haven’t spoken since the memorial in July, but she is calling to tell me that there is a huge gorgeous holiday bouquet on my parents' snowy grave. Do I know who sent it? I check with my siblings. We have no idea. That their loved ones are visiting their graves, anonymously remembering them with flowers, holding space for them, has me in tears. It reminds me that even in the dead of winter, we are not alone in our grief. We are not alone. For our loved ones live on in ALL those they loved, and that continues to sustain us. We are, each of us, blessed by one another. Our showing up for each other, beholding each other as Mom wrote, deepens our roots and strengthens our wings. For we give each other grace to live more deeply. Tyler, the Toothless Wonder. He's lost three teeth in the last week. I told him it was thanks to all his Halloween candy. Here he is at the zoo, in spontaneous pursuit of a peacock with sidekick Kurt. As for giving thanks, the first thing that comes to mind is: I’m grateful that it’s not last year. As the late Queen Elizabeth would say, last year was my “annus horribilis.” It was losing our sweet dog of 15 years, holding deathbed vigils for both parents, losing a dear cousin to suicide, all while stressing out over finances. This last factor is insidious. It’s nothing compared to the final mist of death, but it is a depleting way to live: always trying to figure out, while raising three children, “Do we really need this? Can we make do without it? How will we pay the mortgage this month?” As of a few precious weeks (not quite a month), Jory is (finally) gainfully employed. I am loving a slew of part-time jobs, which both delight me and pay for our eldest’s private education. We can exhale. After years of living in survival mode, I gravitate to a book about fun because I have become estranged from it: I mean, what really is it? How does one cultivate it? In her book The Power of Fun author Catherine Price writes, “There are many situations that make it difficult, if not impossible, to focus on fun, such as poverty, sickness, abuse, trauma, and job insecurity.” Our meager earnings actually had us in the poverty tax bracket last year, so I’d check three of those five boxes. In a world that worships fun, not being in a space to pursue it only made us feel more isolated. In addition, as this book argues, “fun” is wildly overused, which should make us all feel better. People say “it was fun” out of habit, with no mindfulness attached or awareness of what fun really is. I’m sharing all of this because I know many of you reading this are having a horrible year of sorts, if not your epic “annus horribilis”. For some, there's a new empty seat at the Thanksgiving table, or it's not being able to afford the fixings this year, or it's a family member is battling mental illness, or terrified about college applications, or it's nursing an elderly parent, or facing your own health crisis. I see you. Your year bites, and, going into the holidays, it’s OK to call a spade a spade and acknowledge that you are in survival mode. Later, fun will seep back into your life, just not now. Hold out the space that you are not alone and that it will get better. Not perfect, but better. I’ve had to share this with both daughters a lot lately, along with modeling: “Don’t lose the lesson from your hard times. Let them mold you into a better person.” For, while our eldest is excelling academically in her dream school, she often comes home and throws herself on her bed, sobbing. While outright bullying is verboten, its insidious cousin, indifference, thrives in today's middle school. Indifference is the new put down. My daughter says she feels invisible as she tries to make conversation on the long walk from dance class to English because no one responds to her efforts at conversation. She sat down at a table in science only to be told that the spot was saved for someone else, so she had to sit alone during class. We urge her to make more effort, so over a period of weeks, she gives out my number to four people for hang time, and not one reaches out. She also meets her goal one Monday to ask five people how their weekend was, but no one reciprocates to ask about hers. The first thing we do, of course, is pull out the mirror: why is she not connecting? Remembering how shallow middle school can be, we play Eliza Doolittle with her: change up her wardrobe, her hair style. But our second daughter who has a kickass sense of fashion, is having an even tougher go (what the hell, Universe?) Four girls told her during four-square last week that, “Nobody likes you.” (Am I raising my kids to be misfits?) In fairness, I have spent time with the kids in her class, and my daughter doesn’t fit in. Simply put: It’s not her tribe. I keep telling her to wait for middle school, but then I see her older sister and think, “Yeah, I should just shut up.” While this understandably feels traumatic to both girls, I think we need to inject more fun into our family (now that we can). True fun (according to Price, who spent a few years researching it) is actually a combination of three things: 1) playfulness 2) connection and 3) flow. (Much to my kid’s dismay and disagreement, true fun is not passively watching TV or movies, or numbing out on their devices.) Fun begins with a mindset, and is characterized by spontaneity, silliness, vulnerability, imagination, positivity and laughter. Initially, it is often a decision of mindfulness. Price says it is helpful to ask, “How could I add a bit of playfulness, connection or flow to this moment right now?” At night, to get more into the habit of injecting fun into your day, ask, "When did I add playfulness, connection and flow to my day, despite the stress?" Make efforts to connect with people who bring out your playfulness, connectivity and flow. My monthly zoom with my Amherst classmates is spot on here, as are the friends with whom we shared our Thanksgiving dinner. I know some reading think I have earned a new medal in geekdom. I mean, who needs to *learn* about fun?? After the immense grief of loss, and gnawing fear of scarcity, the disappointment of failures and despair that blankets it all, the answer is: me. And if you’re honest, it’s you. How are we supposed to know how to have fun when we feel continually stressed and judged? (That question was from my daughters). We learn despite it all. This Thanksgiving, I am grateful to be on the high crest of a wave, knowing more lows will come, along with more highs. I was not equipped to face last year, yet here I am, grateful and becoming reacquainted with fun. Cynthia and I at the Balloon Fiesta... Tyler and Abuela, who adopted each other “Is someone in your dining room on live with KTLA right now??!?!” an LA friend texted Jory. “Yup” he replied. This is a fantastic story of recognizing your tribe, and holding those members close. The measure of intelligence is the ability to change – Albert Einstein If we use Einstein’s measure as a barometer of intelligence, my friend Cynthia and I are scoring pretty high. Cynthia and I met ten years ago when she was the principal of a parochial high school in Playa del Rey, and I was a local resident with a two-year old toddler and six-month old baby. My friend Lory had gathered neighborhood moms to meet with Dr. Cynthia Colon in the hopes of seeing how we could support the local high school and raise its academic standards so our children would attend it. Dr. Colon and I immediately clicked. We "got" each other. I loved her energy, her kindness, and yes, her intelligence. I put her on my radar as someone I connect with, even though our lifestyles were different. I recognized that we are from the same metaphorical tribe, which is why we worked to stay in touch from that first meeting, especially since none of the neighborhood kids ended up going to the school, she no longer works there, and we’re no longer remotely part of Playa del Rey. After deciding the life of a principal was no longer for her, Dr. Colon wrote a fantastic book about getting into college. She now runs a successful business in which she mentors high school students. On our end, we came to Albuquerque in order to find academically suitable and more affordable high schools for our kids. But when you recognize a tribe mate, you find a way to stay in touch, even sporadically. Thus, Cynthia and her mom graced us with their presence during this year’s Balloon Fiesta and were incredible house guests. Her second day here, KTLA contacted her about doing the above live segment on the college admissions process. However, the shadow – and painful - side of recognizing your tribe members is being reminded that you’re not always part of a tribe you think you want to be in. When working or communicating with a person or community is repeatedly difficult or excruciating, you’re not of the same tribe. Cut your losses and walk. This can be hard because you feel like you have somehow failed. But you haven’t. They are just not your tribe. Your tribe is somewhere else. Speaking from recent experience, I requested help to ameliorate a situation in a community I was excited to belong to, but my words were apparently misunderstood. Instead of asking for clarification (or asking me anything, curiosity not a value here), I was instead chastised and even berated. It was like a scene from the 1950s. At the end of the day, I had dared to question the status quo. What was most shocking is while I had initially gone to this authority figure for help, I was told to apologize for being offensive, though mysteriously never told *how* I had offended, or exactly *what* I said that was offensive. I then was informed that my apology was unacceptable because (even though my husband helped me word the demanded apology) this person felt the wording of the apology was not as he wanted. (Why yes, this was a man, a white man with authority.) I saw I couldn’t get anyone to understand me, or even like me here. So, I left the community that initially attracted us to Albuquerque. Through the harshness of several interactions, I came to accept that this is not the tribe I thought it was. My offer to volunteer had gone ignored, my requests to work on a sporadic basis had been denied in writing, my plea to help a situation was even castigated. So, yes Albert Einstein, I had to change. It’s the best any of us can do in a situation like this. To my surprise, a few days after I surrendered, doors from other communities opened right and left of their own accord, as if in some sort of Universal justice. A private prep school saw me teach three days of history for them and, even though they have no current openings, on the spot offered me a full-time teaching position in their summer program. The same week, a friend I’ve known since 1997 (we are tribe mates) hired me to write two projects for a lit agency she just joined. And the dynamic and whip-smart principal of my younger kids’ school (who reminds me so much of Dr. Cynthia Colon) showed up in an incredible way. Having observed my teaching, she moved heaven and earth to get me in as a morning long-term sub teacher for two third grade special ed classes. She sees that I can help these kids, and I can. We are of the same tribe, putting the kids first. The ease and fluidity of all these offers make me wonder why we try so hard to be part of tribes that don't respect us. Why do we feel the need to put in all that effort to change their mind about us? An exciting thing in life is that when we stay open, we keep stumbling upon – and recognizing – people from our tribe. Finding each other is a cool drink on a hot day, a Kleenex for a faucet nose, a parachute on a plane. Since my family has been in Albuquerque, the world (in general) has broken our hearts, stomped on our dreams, and shut doors in our faces to an alarming degree. In response, we've learned to celebrate tribe members, celebrate victories, celebrate the mundane. And when a tribe member has the chance to shoot a live broadcast for Los Angeles television from our dining room table, we make it happen. |
AuthorSteph: friend, writer, wife, mother, sister, daughter, lover of life, and of chocolate. Archives
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