New Year's Eve 2015-2016

Why is is so hard for me on New Year's Eve? I see a great year passing away, with so many good things that have happened. I can't let it go! I'm not good at letting things go!
     I am now a bit blitzed from a bottle of Prosecco and wanting to get the music played. Whose music? An Italian friend's music. I want to get his music played! And I will keep pressing on until I get it played! 

    It's a fugue. Only two minutes long. But he's never heard it played live, only on his computer. I want so much to get it played live for his 50th birthday in March. I will persist. Get the music played! Get the music played! Get the music played!
     And I will work on my own duet with a local friend. Get the music played! Get the music played! Get the music played!
     And please, Muses, don't give me a headache in the morning!          Happy New Year!

Frayroy, the Sensitive Artist....(a dream)

Frayroy was a frog that could paint landscapes.

      He was asked to paint this lovely field surrounded by trees, but to leave out an object in the center of the field. So he did just that.

      He sat at his easel at the left corner of the field, his beret atop his head, his painter smock covering his clothes, and painted a lovely scene.

      When he was finished, he was greatly praised for his work and greatly thanked for eliminating the book that sat in the middle of the field.

      This comment about eliminating the book absolutely horrified the sensitive Frayroy.

      He thought he was eliminating a single piece of nondescript paper trash.

      But the idea of eliminating an entire book,

            filled with so many people,

                  made him feel as if he had committed

                        an act of genocide.....

After the Fall....

On Facebook recently, I shared a graphic that had these words: 

"Strength of character isn't always about 

how much you can handle before you break; 

it's also about how much you can handle 

after you've broken." 

When I was younger, I tried my damnedest not to break. The idea of being broken—being a vessel that could no longer 'hold water'—meant, to me, only that I'd be useless. There was no other way I could see it. And I felt I had to be useful to be loved. Being raised Catholic only closed me up more emotionally with all of it's eternal seriousness about Heaven, Hell, guilt, and sin. I was barely holding myself together from the start. Notes on my first grade report card described me as 'a nervous child.' 

    Like a lot of us Boomers, I grew up handling way too much with no emotional support. I was the eldest of seven children and became the 'second mom' before I became a teenager. I've accepted that my folks were loving at heart and did the best they knew how, so no blame there; but I had to grow up quick, to handle responsibility that was really beyond me at that time.  

      I did that by always acting stronger than I felt. In the early '80s however, when I was in my mid-thirties, I started to crack. 
     First, I felt trapped in my marriage, wondered what was wrong with me for wanting to cut and run. Perhaps it was an anxiety attack? I don't know. I refused to see a counselor. 
     Then, on my 34th birthday in August of 1981, my mom was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a fatal brain cancer. My anxiety, or whatever it was, went up another notch. Too much pressure. I was going crazy, I thought. 
     I walked away from my family in 1982. 
     A few months later, my middle brother, ten years younger than me, committed suicide. 
     Before that year ended, my mom died. 
     Two years later, my mother-in-law died. 
     I tried to be extra brave and extra 'tough' for my son and daughter who were in their early teens, but then I really crumbled after my dad died in 1990. 
     In a decade, my life had fallen apart in so many ways. I was functioning, but I was numb and had stopped living.

     That's when things started to turn around. I was told to let it go, to cry, to feel the pain and release it, that crying releases good hormones to heal me but holding things in could harm me and cause me to get ill so I might not be around for my children! My children? The two who I loved more than anything and I tried to protect by being 'tough'? Yes. I was told that crying would help me protect my children.

     Who told me this? My boss at that time, author Warren Farrell. I worked with him for eighteen years, sometimes wondering why I stayed so long. It was not a career job with advancement, and I was an independent contractor for most of that time...not a beneficial spot for me to be in. When I go back to those times, I realize how big a part he played in helping me to grow up emotionally, and that I subconsciously knew that I needed to be there. "When the student is ready, the teacher appears." He told me it was okay to show that I was 'broken' rather than hide it. That I'd be healthier for it. That it's a sign of strength, not of weakness. That it would be a good example for my kids to see me break down, then get up again and continue on.

     Another amazing man in my life then was José Alejandro Peña. We were together during the last few years of my dad's life. After dad died, I soldiered on, holding back emotionally, and José felt it. One night, he got upset with me: he didn't like the way I was treating him, and so on. He pushed my button! I launched back at him—My dad just died. I arranged his funeral. I was the executor of his estate. I had to plan everything and deal with my siblings and the court, etc., etc. I finally just broke down and cried. 
     All according to his plan....

     He knew I had to break, to release what I was feeling. When I did, he held me in his arms and rocked me while I keened, wailed, and cried for what seemed like two hours. Cried like I never had before. Cried hard until I couldn't even make a sound when I sobbed. Cried with such long exhalations that I thought I'd never inhale again! Cried with the pain of too much loss—my marriage, my brother, my mom, my mother-in-law, my dad, and loss of the self I'd buried so deep within me....

     During tough times since then, I've learned to accept, and appreciate, help and support from others. More than once from my own kids. Even from my ex, who somehow remains to this day always near, always ready to help out, even though I'm the one who broke us up. He tells me to stand up more for myself, not to be afraid to show upset with our kids and him! We're family, he says, and that will never, ever change. He's one amazing soul....
     And so are friends who have watched over me for decades. Even if we don't stay in touch regularly, they still check on me periodically just to see how I'm doing, if I'm still 'above the sod'. 
     You are my angels, every one! Bless you! 

     I'm better now at bending before I break. Better at showing emotions. Better at allowing myself to show upset without fear of losing someone dear. Better at getting back to my life afterwards. Better at getting back up after I fall, not only emotionally, but physically as well, since I'm now recovering from a broken leg, and I suffered a broken hip three years ago! Haha! 

     I've been told that I can't have a serious discussion, because I always have to crack a joke. Do I want to stay serious? No, I don't! I've decided this month to start working on my 'silly'! I have no talent for 'silly', so I'll need a lot of practice. It's coming along. Good-bye to being hyper-tough, not breaking down, trying to do it all, and trying to do it all alone. 

     Then and now, as always, others guide me along this path I walk. This notion caught up with me not to very long ago, mostly since my dad died, and I'm so grateful it finally did. 

     How much can I handle after I'm broken? Quite a lot, actually. But I don't try to handle it alone anymore. And I'll be adding a bit more 'silly' to the mix as I walk along.
     Is this broken vessel leaky? You betcha! But I've got lovely flowers along the path where I spill!

September 11, 2001

     I was in my grandmother's Italian hill town (Ariano-Irpino) that day. I had just had lunch with my friend Milena and we were walking back to her classroom for her afternoon sessions. She ran the English Lab School where she taught English, as well as Italian, French, and Spanish. 
     As we reached her class at the top of the stairs, an awaiting student starting talking to her excitedly. Milena translated what was being said. 
     Her first words were, "A plane hit the tower in New York." My immediate thought was "ooo, bad airport accident."
     The student explained more to Milena, who then turned and said, "Two planes hit the tower!" As she turned back to the student who was telling her more, I thought, "wow, a really bad airport accident!"
     Then came the words that put me in shock: "And a plane hit the Pentagon!" 
     She had to stay and teach her class, so I walked alone down the hill to my hotel. After somehow contacting my kids in San Diego to be sure they were safe, I watched TV for hours. Milena should have pluralized the word tower, or said Twin Towers, but maybe her student's information, or Milena's English, didn't translate it that way for me. 
     The broadcasts seemed surreal, not only for what was being reported, but for the way in which I saw them. All the English language broadcasts were overdubbed in Italian, and I understand almost no spoken Italian. All the chyrons at the bottom were overwritten in Italian, so I couldn't read any updates in English. I had limited channels to choose from in this rural area, but the videos and photos told me more than I ever wanted to know. 

    I immediately went to the phone in the lobby and called my kids in San Diego, worrying that attacks might have happend there to the headquarters of the Pacific Fleet, to the research institutes, to the military bases. All was okay in San Diego, except for the shared horror of the morning. 
    The next morning, I went down to the lobby for breakfast. The dozens of guests already there were quiet, and I felt like all eyes were on me—the poor American. I imagined, maybe hoped, that they were quiet out of kindness and respect for the tragedy that had just happened.
     That was eleven years ago, but it's still so real for me. 
     And still so surreal.

Bob's Big Boy—The "Way Back" Machine

     Bob's Big Boy is a restaurant chain that started in the 1930s. I think I first heard about them when I was in high school in the mid-'60s and remember being absolutely stunned that they had two patties in one hamburger sandwich...so innovative!
     After I got married and my kids were old enough for us to enjoy a restaurant experience, we would go there. After trick-or-treating one particular Halloween when they were about four and five, we went there. My son was the cowboy, and my daughter was the little witch all dressed in black. In those days, they were young enough to share a fish and chips dinner and be full afterwards. They passed along the salad to one of us because neither of them wanted it. Of course, we had to take a picture next to the tall Bob's Big Boy statue out front. My husband and I remember when the time came for them to each get their own dinner. They were growing up.
     Years later, when my husband and I were at the brink of breaking up, I took the kids to Bob's Big Boy for lunch, and I told them what was about to happen. They were 12 and 13 at the time. My daughter, unusually quiet, sat there, just absorbing the words; but my son spoke up. He said, "Great. That's all I need...divorced parents." My heart vaporized within me. 
     Back then, I was singing nearly every night in a local rock band, so the kids stayed with their dad, in their own home. He worked weekends, so I spent most of mine with the kids. We enjoyed the local mountains or the beach or Balboa Park; but quite often, those weekends included a meal at Bob's Big Boy, so we collected many more memories.
     These days, sighting a Bob's Big Boy is quite rare, but there is still one in town, so I invited my son, his wife, and their two daughters for dinner tonight. We oohed and ahhed over the Original Big Boy Combo and the hot fudge cake dessert on the menu, looking the same as they had more then 20 years earlier. 
     Kevin and I laughed together has he told his two daughters, ages nine and five, about him progressing from sharing a meal with his sister, to having his own combo plate, to moving on to the spaghetti with chili. Lily dabbled at eating her mac and cheese; but Kyra had the best applesauce and the best cheeseburger (only meat and cheese for her) ever! We found out that kids eat for free, so you know they'll be back. 
     And, once more, my son and I stood out front next to the Bob's Big Boy statue and took photos. 
     Tonight at dinner, I got the warm glow of having a reunion—not just with family, not just with one of my children, but with my entire past and with my children as teenagers and youngsters. 
     Bob's Big Boy proved to be more than just another restaurant tonight. It was a "Way Back" Machine of sorts, taking us 'way back' into happy memories while creating yet another for us to tuck away for future smiles.

Harder to Fall

     There is the old phrase "the bigger they are, the harder they fall". That might apply to our expectations in love. At least for us older folks.
     We fell in love more easily when we were younger. We suffered our share of breakups along the way; so, as we got older, we lowered our expectations.
     We don't expect to find someone who would be perfectly suited to us. At least not easily.
     Because we learned about compromise, we know we will not find someone whose views and opinions match ours. Not exactly.
     We expect that "all the good ones" are taken, so we have to settle for second best.
     No, you are saying, this is not true. I agree. But we have grown a bit numb to the process.
     And that's where we run into trouble.
     We have learned to ignore our expectations. We won't consider fanciful expectations, until they look like more of a sure thing than they used to. We tend to ignore them until they go away. Unless we fall in love.
     That is when all the blood drains from our brain and we again do stupid things, like daydreaming about a future as half of a loving couple, imagining our new sweetie pie being fawned over at family events, even envisioning that certain ceremony that unites two into one....
     The deeper we fall, the less the brain works, the more hope takes over, and the bigger our expectations become.
     Then reality strikes. The feet turn cold. The looming commitment is spurned. Our big expectations tumble.
     And the bigger they are, the harder they fall....

A, B, C, C, C, C, ....

     My friend Rachel's husband died yesterday in the small, dark hours before dawn. She is only 33. Her husband Brian was 41. They were married not even six years. Their son Lucas, who they call Luke, is about three.

     She is a friend, but I never actually met Brian. Rachel is the daughter of José, who I dated for about a dozen years, mostly during the '90s. 

     Rachel was about nine when I first met her. Our August birthdays are one day apart, and we are both typical Leos, but in our different, generationally-appropriate ways.

     I saw her a couple of times during my time with her dad, but knew her mainly through his words, his memories of her as a toddler: her straight, black hair hanging down to her 'culito'—his Spanish term for her baby bottom; or, after his divorce, Rachel standing at the screen door, crying her eyes out, watching him walk away after a visit. He said those moments killed him. 

     In 1997, before my son's wedding, I wanted a make-over and went to see Rachel at Merle Norman's. 

    José and I broke up the next year, but stayed in touch. Rachel knew that, and she called me in 2003 when her dad was hospitalized in a coma. She told me he might not make it. I immediately drove the hundred miles to sit with him. He didn't move; but, for one last time, I held his hand; told him how much I still loved him; that I knew how much he loved me, too; and that it was okay to let go and find peace.

     He, too, died later that evening, in the small, dark hours before dawn.

     I lost track of Rachel for awhile, but somehow found her again. Maybe it was Facebook. I can't remember. Rachel posted her life on Facebook, telling when Brian's cancer was treated, went into remission, or resurfaced. Her friends rallied around her.

     I baked a carrot cake for them, coincidentally Brian's favorite. Rachel was to meet me to pick it up, but sent her sister instead. Brian had taken sick very suddenly and had to be rushed to the hospital.

     At another time, we were to meet for lunch. After waiting awhile, I called her. Oh, no, you have the right date and time, she told me through her tears; then apologized because she was at the hospital with Brian. He had again taken a sudden turn for the worst.

     In 2011, we got together for dinner and talked long about her situation, and also about José, laughing and sharing stories. She knew he was no saint, but we agreed that we loved him dearly and we knew how much he loved us in return. 

     In early 2012, Brian was admitted to the hospice on an urgent basis, something that would recur several times before he passed. Rachel came to my place that first time, in tears over his suffering, her heart breaking for fear of losing the love of her life, about Luke losing his dad, about Brian's own sorrow for not being there for Luke as he grows up, and about her fears of coping afterwards. So much for one to take on...at any age.

     A, B, C, C, C, the Big C, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer. That's what took Brian yesterday. That's what took my ex's wife of 20 years in 2009. What took my dad in 1990. And my mom in 1982. And friends. And classmates.

     On Facebook, I see so many posts of anti-cancer images and slogans, with entreaties for all of us to 'like' and 'share' them "if you are against cancer." If? Are you serious?

     A, B, C, C, C, ... C me die. C me die. C me die....