Projects and Promises..Mother's Day 2011

Here is my cute Dad putting the 

finishing touches on the gazebo project..

oh, how much Mom would have loved this!

The ROMA COMA

 
 
DID YOU KNOW that it takes one day to recover from each time zone you cross when flying? I didn't know this either, but it might help explain the butt-dragging that Ron and I have experienced since we returned from our adventure in Italy. Yes, I know I was the one who was homesick.

But here's what I need to rave about today: In addition to the "once your mind has been expanded, it can never return to its original dimensions" side of traveling, I realize that in the space of 10 days I became addicted (gasp!) to the Free and Easy life (the cocaine of empty-nesters)...and the withdrawal BLOWS!

Could it be the travel philosophy that Ron and I have cultivated is to blame?

After all, for ten days we slept to the rhythm of our body clocks. We didn’t wear watches because time was irrelevant. We ate two meals a day and lingered in outdoor cafes for hours.

Note: We have a rule NOT to eat at any restaurant chain that is also located in our city (broke that this trip...Big Mac at the train station...see Pizza and Pasta rebellion…barf..)

We didn't have much scheduled; we are not mega-tourists who have a checklist. We like to blend in, absorbing the ambience and doing things our way. We have individual priorities, but reserve our rights to change anything and everything to stay in step with our moods.

By being open to chance and opportunity, we listen to our explorer voices.. This is our own version of IN SYNC and it is one of my favorite things about us as a couple. So, we found the Groove… it was relaxing, life-affirming and exhilarating!

PERHAPS THAT IS WHY I now feel like a veal...trapped in my teensy cage/cubicle at work; burdened by mundane tasks, monthly sales goals, and never-ending expectations (highlighted by lunch at my desk....oh, rapture.)

I resent my stupid country music alarm at 6:00 a.m. My get-ready routine feels tedious and self-indulgent. You mean I have to iron? Wear make-up and pick out a power outfit for today’s politically charged, software executive's business breakfast? Y...A....W.....N........borrrrrrrrrring!!!!!

Plus, it doesn't help that I left really green, rolling hills and blue water and the energizing sunshine of spring to come back to cloudy, moody rain and threats of snow in the west's version of April... What? Winter hasn't been quite long enough? ARGH!

I know…I’m raving, but I need to get this out. Going metaphysical now: Am I really supposed to use my people skills to sell widgets, and gidgets; to cajole and manipulate (with integrity, of course) customers across the country into buying the latest, must-have medical e-product?

I want to make a difference in the world by helping others, but honestly, I vacillate between visions of doing good and just wanting to play! I want to wander more with my Ron and sip cappuccinos at a sunny cafe while others tromp off to slave in the salt mines for The Man.

Today, my fantasy is about becoming a tour guide; showing people the beauty of the world (with a little side humor and performance art thrown in).

Complaining makes me feel like a spoiled little brat who came home from summer camp to discover that Mommy has married the kind dolt with the mansion in the Hamptons and I don't like the nanny, the butler has a board up his butt, and my private tutoring and shopping schedule is simply a nightmare!   

Frankly, my lack of gratitude for the routine that is my life has me off my game. There are so many times I revel in my good fortune and LOVE my life and everything about it. These affirmations just seem to be eluding me at present…

If you are doing the TZM (time zone math) then today is DAY 16...


   8 time zones going
+ 8 time zones coming back
= 16 total time zones crossed)

Ron and I have set this as THE DAY when we both hope to find our “give a damns” and channel our stirred-up restlessness into something productive again.  Me? I am using this rave as my own little therapy session.

Besides, saying this stuff out loud to anyone else is embarrassing…

Return from Over the Rainbow

A week ago today, we were sitting at the stunning Trevi Fountain in Rome.  Ron and I made our wishes and threw our coins into the magical waters guarded by gods.  We tossed the Scottish coins from the tiny tartan drawstring bag that my daughter and her husband had filled with their own private wishes hoping to come true

We found a spot in the shade and sat watching the parade of people tossing coins and snapping photos.  Ron (ever the shutterbug) utilized his international hand signals for “Would you like one together?”, and we even watched a team of pickpockets use metal detectors to steal coins from the fountain when two patrolling policewomen weren’t looking.

We savored waffle cones filled with gelato (I don’t know exactly why this is so much better than ice cream, but it is!) and wandered looking for last little souvenirs.

I could rave about the marathon flight home….9 ½ hours over the ocean (and the 2 Valium that barely scratched my anxiety) another 5 ½ hours from Boston to Phoenix (the Cambodian monk sitting by me with his sweet calming energy as I tried to avoid going postal from claustrophobia), and the 1 ½ hour flight from Phoenix to Salt Lake City and the month-old baby girl directly behind me screaming (I hear you honey, and I feel the same way!).

But this is what I would rather remember about Rome and the green hills of Italy:

Waking every morning to clear blue skies, the breath-taking old-world vista from our balcony (no high-rise buildings) and the frenetic hum and hustle of pedestrians, teeny cars and snazzy motorbikes 

Strolling the cobblestone streets to explore the endless alleys lined with beautiful old buildings, food vendor-carts, shops, art galleries, ristorantes and palpable possibilities…

Roman Sunday in the middle of the busy promenade; stopping in my tracks to appreciate my handsome husband against the backdrop of the glorious Coliseum, and falling in love with him all over again.

Escaping tourist etiquette to Hard Rock Rome for real booze and an OMG cheeseburger …and Glenda, the bubbly Italian waitress with just the right touch of California in her smile.

Discovering my adventurous heart and romance again in the drama and peace of Positano; magnificent and quaint all at the same time.  Sticking my feet in the midnight blue water of the Mediterranean and feeling like I always do around water; that I have in some ways come home.

Sharing the days and nights, talking and laughing with the man I love so much. We are two weird little peas in a pod! We basked in the craziness and kindness of all the Italians we met; strangers who instantly felt like friends.  They enriched our journey and left their mark on our hearts.

Becoming a citizen of the world by expanding my knowledge of another place, a different culture, another time in history, and of a very sweet way to live.  I am so much richer for all I saw, smelled, felt, watched and witnessed.

And finally, how much I love HOME!


It was one of the first times I had been so far away for so long…long enough to experience the pang of homesickness.  I grieved that Mom would not be waiting for my stories.  I tried to love Italian food, but honestly, I missed the option of a different cuisine on every corner.


I missed the cleanliness, the prosperity and relative modern conveniences of American life.  I understand why people swim oceans, risk everything, and dream of coming here.  I get it….more than ever.

Near the end, I longed to return to the reality that I have built for myself; my family, my children, my career, and my cozy little home on Turpin Street.

I will bask in rich memories and someday soon, plan another adventure; out beyond the fence to follow the yellow brick road.  I will run through the poppies and perhaps even meet the Wizard.  But Dorothy knew, and so do I…there is no place like home.

Il Nostro Destino...Part II

Pepino and his family run a ristorante high in the cliffs of Positano.  On our first night, the hotel manager Maria (an Italian woman who looks just like you think she does) arranged for us to be his guests for dinner, complete with a driver to pick us up promptly at 7:00 p.m.  

The wind was blowing pretty good and it was starting to rain. I was glad someone else would be negotiating the hairpin turns and narrow streets that led to this invitation-only event.  

I didn't gasp like Mom used to, but when our driver saw me drumming my fingers on my leg, he laughingly reached over to hold my hand.  He spoke NO English whatsoever, but he knew the international sign for "holy shit"...

Pepino met us at the door like we were long lost friends. After choosing a view table that felt suspended from the cliffs over the ocean, he proceeded to bring out one sampler plate after another filled with five courses of an Italian feast!

No menu; just "whatever Mama feels like cooking tonight".  Not surprisingly, they make their own red wine (divine) and it was flowing as well.  The variety of tasties is just too numerous to list, but the Mama's Pasta No Name was a highlight.  

Right before Ron and I slipped into a food coma, Pepino brought us a tiny glass of heaven, a liqueur called Lemoncello (to give us courage for the drive down, I suspect).  

Positano is where people practice the Art of Simply Being.  After the hectic pace of Rome, no one here is in a hurry. People linger over sweets and cappuccino for breakfast before wandering the shops and basking in the sun on the black sand beaches. 

Everything is a picture postcard waiting to be snapped.  The shops highlight Italy's beautifully feminine fashion (scarves, sumptuous fabrics, lace, and leather). Most pieces are actually made here and the pride shows. 

There is a man who makes custom-fit sandals, a bakery where you don't know the names of anything, but want to taste everything, and a bright yellow boutique dedicated to...the lemon!  Fresh lemons the size of footballs fill huge urns in the doorways and every product contains or is about lemons...Oh rapture!

Our room at the Hotel California is enormous by European standards; simple and elegant, with a huge comfy bed and our own balcony overlooking the town and the sea.  Antonio is our host (think Hector Elizondo) and is our beck-and call guy.  Maria told me he chose our room...and it is the one used in filming Under the Tuscan Sun.

Our one-night plan turns to two.  In the embrace of these friendly, gracious Italians, we remember and relish how sweet life can be.  It is hard to leave, but home is starting to call to us.  

Arrivederci Positano...Grazie!

Il Nostro Destino...Part I

Do you know the name Damon Bradley? If so, you will know what started my dream of someday seeing Positano. Way off the beaten track, we were two weeks ahead of the beginning of High Season, and wanted to go.

This dramatic city built into cliffs along the Amalfi coast will take your breath away. Nestled on the midnight blue sparkle of the Mediterranean ocean, it is nirvana for romantics.

Ron and I decided to go off-grid for our little adventure...no Netbook, no internet, no data plans on our phones. Could we do it, technology junkies we have become?

From Rome, it is a 3-hour train ride (we opted for the scenic one) to Napoli.  Then what is supposed to be another hour on a local subway-like train ...graffiti-covered, old and rusted ...with at least 30 stops in villages along the way to Sorrento. 

Those riding with the two Obvious Americans were serenaded by accordion musicians, accosted by beggars and women handing out religious solicitations while crossing themselves at every bridge. 

Add two women yelling in passionate Italian while frantically smoking in the back. I couldn't help laughing out loud.

When the conductor told everyone to get off our "no good" train, we were left standing on the platform in the ominous shadow of Mount Vesuvius, wondering if we were being featured in some twisted foreign reality series.. 

Finally, a new train came to take us to the end of the line. Are we there yet?  Hardly. 

Once you arrive in Sorrento, you still must find a daredevil willing to drive you 30 more minutes along the narrow, winding, OMG, very-high-straight-down cliff roads to reach the beauty that is Positano.   So happy we found him...

I had read on the internet about a place called Hotel California along with several rave reviews. Since the name was easy to remember and I knew to ask for Maria, I figured she could offer us a room, or would know someone who could.

By the way, if you still don't know who Damon Bradley is, RUN...(do not walk) to rent Only You with Robert Downey Jr. and Marisa Tomei...

I haven't even told you about Antonio, the homage to lemon-groves, Pepino or Diane Lane yet...

Six Miles and 2000 Years

Ron and I chose Sunday to go back in time.  After sleeping in (no alarm, no watch) we found a delightful open cafe for omelettes and fresh-squeezed blood orange juice (looks weird, tastes divine).  Then we began our day-long trek through Roman history. 

It is no small thing to walk in the footsteps of Julius Caesar, Cleopatra, and Mark Antony.  There is a reverence among what remains of the Forum, where self-aggrandized senators met to debate ideas years before Christ was born..  

The elaborate baths (capacity: 3000) are just a few steps away and living quarters with fireplaces, tile walls and marble floors are still visible.  A few meters down the road stands the iconic Coliseum, where countless gladiators fought to the death for the glory of Rome. 

Italians take Sundays (Domenica) very seriously, and several streets are blocked off to accommodate the masses that flood Rome in search of sun, food (its own religion here) and the joy of living.  

Music  (accordions, peruvian flutes, guitars) fills the clear skies and there are people EVERYWHERE!  It is thrilling to be a part of the energy in such a vibrant, alive place.

As promised, we walked to the sea nymph fountain in Plaza Republica to throw coins with wishes of love and a new beginning for my aunt Judy's surgery tomorrow.  

A stop at  the train station to check schedules for our trip to Positano Tuesday was the equivalent of joining an ant farm.  Absolute Craziness...!!

On our trek back to the hotel (25,000 steps) we came upon an American life raft in the sea of caprese, bruschetta, pasta, pizza, more pizza and red wine.....Hard Rock Rome.  I ordered the biggest margarita they make,  and we both devoured our Red, White and Blue cheeseburgers WITH onion rings and fries...relishing a little taste of home while rocking Italy!

 

Dolce Vita

Rachel is from Ireland.  She has a PhD. in archeology. After years in academia, she came to Rome in search of the "sweet life".  As Dark Rome's guide for our earlybird tour of the Vatican this morning, she was a 5- foot pixie, both braniac and smart ass. 

As visitors to the independent country of the Catholic church, we spent 3 hours immersed in the history that shaped Christianity. I know, I know....we went for the art.

Rachel enthralled us with the inside stories of Michelangelo, Raphael and Bernini; all men whose vision and ego transformed Rome.  The largest church house in the world, St. Peter's Basilica is jaw-droppingly opulent and the touching Pieta made me think of Mom.  She so loved the drama of this famous sculpture.

Ron summed up the Vatican (Sistine Chapel, art museums and St. Peter's Basilica) as man's attempt to glorify himself in the name of God.  It is most certainly excess run amok, but the beauty stands apart from the bombast that surrounds it

Note:  Yesterday was Cliche Tourist Day.  We sought out Ciao Roma, one of several hop-on hop-off buses for two reasons; 1) to see all the major sites of interest and  decide which ones to revisit later or skip; and 2) we were too jet-lagged to do anything but sit on our butts like zombies.

Adjusting to the eight hour time change is a transformation of body and spirit. You can feel yourself shedding the skin of your worries and the life you have left temporarily behind.  It is so liberating and heady on the other side, but the physical process makes a hangover pale in comparison.

Rachel gave us recommendations for restaurants in Trastevere.  Originally a Jewish settlement across the Tiber river,  it is where we found the Rome we had hoped lay somewhere beyond the tourist traps.  Alleys lined with cafes and patios feature the real Italian dining we had heard so much about. Street musicians, fountains, and vendor carts and shops add to the charm.  And the wine....

A young man in the square played guitar music that gave me chills.  I bought his CD immediately and a scarf that will keep me warm with memories next winter.

Today, Ron and I became adventurers once again; exploring this beautiful place, speaking the language of romance and delighting in the people we meet along the way.  We are rekindling all that seemed lost during the last year.  We opened our hearts and a young, vivacious redhead gave us her gift of dolce vita....our journey is sweeter because of her.

Thank you Rachel...

Arrivo

The sun was moving west across the sky as Ron and I headed east.  Nine hours in an enormous Alitalia jet shooting across the Atlantic is the price we are willing to pay to realize our dream. Between cat naps, I keep raising the shades of my window seat to see only black at 550 miles per hour. 

We are literally flyng through time...to our reunion with the sun in the red horizon of a crisp, clear Italian morning.

Delighted to see the lush green of spring, it blankets the rolling hills and landscaped vineyards surrounding Roma.  

Our shuttle driver (OMG...they dress in suits like fashion models here) maneuvers his Mercedes toward the city at 110 kph. I marvel at the precision and borderline hysteria of the "lanes are optional" chaos that is Roman traffic. 

But it is the stunning contrast of this cosmopolitan center with the mind-boggling edifices to ancient (before Christ) architecture that takes our breath away.  This is where the word MAXIMUS was born, and it aptly descibes the grandeur we are witnessing.

After a few hours sleep to reset our body clocks to Roman time, we feast on traditional fare at a corner cafe; cabriese, pasta with red wine, then tiramasu with cappucino. 

Walking to the most famous fountain in the world, Fontana di Trevi, we sit in the cool, clear evening and people-watch. Beautiful Italian women in tall leather boots and fashionable scarves smile for pictures,  A man kneels to propose to his girlfriend. People throw coins (right hand over left shoulder) kissed with wishes into the crystal waters as the marble gods look on. 

I can't stop smiling...we are here.

Defying Gravity

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes
And leap...


It's time to try defying gravity


My heart is pounding. It is January 8th and I know it is time, but I am afraid. After months of living in the cocoon of grief, I am not sure if I can even find the parts of me that curled up into the fetal position when Mom died. Much of what I once cared about feels unimportant… even frivolous. Nothing is the same. I am not the same.


In our life before, my husband Ron and I often dreamed of leaving our footprints around the world. Now as we sit in front of the computer shopping for hotels and flights, I am preparing to metaphorically BASE jump off a cliff with a chute I am not sure will open. Ron sits calmly. He has waited patiently all these months…hoping for the butterfly.


I take a deep breath and click the PURCHASE button. I glance up to see a greeting card long ago tacked to my office wall. It reads: Do one thing every day that scares you. What the hell kind of arrogant bravado made me find that inspiring??? The itinerary starts inching out of the printer… there is no turning back.


I have just committed to fly for hours and hours across the water. I will be abandoning my cocoon, the refuge of home, and all the people I don’t want to live without. Ron and I will take our over-developed curiosity to a foreign country. We will attempt to communicate politely in another language, and explore without looking completely lost.


“10 days in IT-LEE? What is my wife doing in IT-LEE?” (Have you seen the movie, Only You?)


I turn to Ron and he searches my face to take in all the things he knows I cannot say. I don’t want him to see me cry, but later when I am alone, I won’t have to be brave. The triumph is bittersweet, and it hurts knowing that I can’t share the news and relish the plan with Mom.


Because of her, I learned to listen to and trust my “still small voice”…that inner prompting that speaks from your soul. It is where your heart’s desires are sheltered, even when you are reeling from life’s disappointments. It is love and your eternal, unwavering source of TRUTH.

The Italian adventure awaits....5 days and counting.

The Dance

And now I'm glad I didn't know

The way it all would end; the way it all would go

Our lives are better left to chance 

I could have missed the pain

But I'd of had to miss the dance.

Six years ago today it wasn't snowing like it is outside my window now.  It was sunny and the green of spring was just starting to drive the brown away.  I was smack in the middle of marrying the man that had at last, come for me. 

A small affair at the restaurant where we first met, I was wearing the dress I wanted in a soft creme covered with beads.   My Dad, in a tuxedo, was finally going to walk me down the aisle. My radiant mother looked young enough to be my sister.  We weren't sure that all of Ron's daughters would be there, but they came and it was magic! 

I had asked everyone to wear black and white.  My sister-in-law wore a green skirt. She is so pretty, no one noticed or really cared.  A friend's husband sang Some Enchanted Evening.."Once you have found her, Never let her go.."

The elderly rent-a-judge stumbled through the ceremony like it was his first, thrown by our unconventional requests...unsure what to leave out of the vows and what we wanted to say.  It didn't matter...

My mother read a gorgeous poem written by Rod McKuen.  
It is called, I Always Knew http://www.rodmckuen.com/poetry/knew.htm 

We ate and smiled and cried a little bit.  We posed for pictures and pulled faces for some.  My Dad got his own dessert instead of chocolate wedding cake, and my three girls presented us with a certificate naming our very own Star. 

Ron had been eyeing the wine cellar, and he talked the restaurant manager into letting us in for more pictures.  The light was perfect, and in those happy moments, so were we.

 

Oh, did I mention my oldest daughter video-taped the wedding?  I can sit down, plug in the VHS tape, and re-live the entire event.  I plan to watch it sometime, but seeing my Mom so happy, so beautiful and alive...I can't do it.  Not yet.  

But I will never forget. It was one of the best days of my life.

One More Day

One more day...One more time
One more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied
But then again...I know what it would do
Leave me wishing still for one more day with you.

 

It is always there...just under the surface.  It is the ache of loneliness and the hole in my heart that will never heal.  It is the truth I despise, a reality I resent, and a desperate longing to go back...to before.  By staying busy (numb and purposeful), running my mouth, my mind, and my daily routine, I fool myself into looking and acting like everyone else.  But then I catch myself.  Walking past the rows of cubicles to lunch, standing in line at the grocery store, or sitting in a meeting, it hits me.  I don’t have a mother anymore.

Of course, it feels like I am the only one.  A reunion with my four high school girlfriends innocently starts with talk of mothers.  We jokingly ask Carolyn how long her mother has allotted for her to lunch with us this time.  Kathy blurts out that her mother is depressed and has lost her short term memory.  Holly shares her parent's struggle with varying degrees of dementia.  They suddenly freeze as they realize their unintentional gaffe.  They don't need to apologize, but they do and their sympathy and the pity in their eyes makes me fear I might come completely undone over my salad. 

For each of us, this is part of our lives now... aging parents and worries about their decline.  At one point, Kathy says, “I believe now that there are worse things than dying”.  I think to myself that she might feel differently when her mother is gone.  I ask them the age of their parents.  My mother at 73 was the youngest of them all.

In the complete absence of Mom, my victories are still tempered with sadness, and my struggles only remind me of how much I depended on her wisdom and basked in her unwavering belief in me. I know that no one will ever feel that way about me again, and even my natural optimistic spirit suffers when thinking about the years ahead without her.

After 364 days of mourning, my family faces one of our most difficult days tomorrow.  Between our gathering today for my father’s 79^th birthday and Monday (my 54^th ) we will each bow our heads and grieve our way through the one year anniversary of our mother’s death.  I don’t know if there is some magical healing or peace on the other side of this day.  After slogging through so many painful holidays already, it feels like there is no end to the reminders of who we once were. 

This Wednesday, February 23 would be my parent’s 55^th wedding anniversary, and in some ways, I think that day will be the hardest of all.  My father’s love for my mother is the same as it was half a century ago in Mesa; honest and true.  Through our regrets and realizations, the finality of what wasn’t and the sadness of what could have been, he loves her in that beautiful, unconditional way he loves all of us.  He longs to be with her. We can't bear the thought of losing him.

During our ritual weekend walk this morning, my husband pointed up to see the season's first mourning dove perched on the wire directly above our path.  As we passed, the dove began to sing the song of my mother’s promise.  I choked back my tears and walked on. 

It is the only thing I can do.

Time in a Bottle

 “There is a sacredness in tears.  They are not a mark of weakness, but of power.  They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.  They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition and of unspeakable love.”       –Washington Irving

For Christmas, my daughter, Alecia gave me a Tear Bottle.  Deeply touched by its beauty and symbolism, I was curious about the origin of this unique gift.  I discovered that they were prevalent in ancient Egypt and Rome, where mourners would collect their tears and bury them with loved ones to show honor and devotion.  They re-appeared during the 19^th century Victorian era, when tears were collected in bottles with special stoppers.  It was believed that once the tears evaporated, the mourning period could end.  

As the final days of this year slip away, I think that the Tear Bottle is the perfect symbol for 2010.  In an earlier blog, I deemed this the Year of Loss for our family.  Losing our mother was devastating,

and probably the worst of a year that will forever be remembered as one of the most difficult and challenging of our lives.

Loss has taken its toll. What we know now about the indignities of dying and the loneliness of grief has changed who we are; as individuals and as a family.  At Easter, we gathered for the first holiday since our mother’s death.  A family friend commented to my sister that she could hardly bear seeing the pain on all our faces.  On Christmas Day, I saw that same pain on the face of my sister-in-law, Wendy.  You see, she is reeling from the death of her father just three weeks ago….the waning year's final insult.   

I long for some ritual to help me bid farewell to 2010; sending it off into oblivion with all the drama and emotion it deserves.  Secretly, I still like to imagine that this year might have been just a bad dream. 

In the incredible mind-bending film, Inception, Leonardo DiCaprio uses a spinning top to distinguish dreams from reality.   For me, the Tear Bottle is my talisman. It commemorates the reality of this year’s journey, my dreams for what lies ahead, and all the tears that have been shed along the way.

Longing for Home

I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more then I usually do
And although I know it's a long road back
I promise you

I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

Dreaming of Mom (my Christmas Angel) and home....

Days of Future Past

“Our memories are the only paradise from which
 we can never be expelled.”

It feels like she has been gone longer, but we have just passed the nine month mark…and tomorrow will be a melancholy Thanksgiving Day for our family.


It is still hard to imagine that my beautiful mother, dressed in her casually elegant style will never again arrive slightly frazzled; relieved at having survived the harrowing drive through city traffic. She will never again unload enough food from her trunk to feed Pharaoh and his army. She won’t sit with each of us through the course of the day, asking and listening; living a little vicariously through our stories and adventures.


She won’t be there to bask with us in the delicious once-a-year smells that signal our homage to tradition. We won’t pass around my sister’s picture books, reminiscing about time and people now gone. And without her, who will insist that we all gather in a circle to share what we are most thankful for?


A year ago, we came together at my brother’s home for what would be our last Thanksgiving with her. It was also the day I should have realized she was dying (denial trumped by hope). The moment I walked into the house, I was ushered to the back bathroom where my visibly shaken sisters were trying to fix my mother’s hair and put some make-up on her ashen, hollow face. She was struggling to breathe, and while we tried our best to move through the motions of the day, the air was heavy with fear and concern.


Sadly, we won’t be together this Thanksgiving. Perhaps we are still feeling a little lost as we continue to ponder our new roles within our forever-changed family. I long for someone to lead us, but it isn't time. Maybe we have convinced ourselves that our sadness entitles us to this limbo. For now at least, we have chosen to honor our grief over our mother’s memory.


So my Dad is going to join my two sisters. My brother is driving his family to California. For me and my husband, our blended family of eight daughters, their men and a grandbaby will put us in the center of our own Thanksgiving.


My oldest daughter, Joni Rose, trying to ease the stress and sadness of this day for me, offered early on to host. She wants to cook her first turkey. Of course, she has her own ideas of what she wants the day to be. Casual wear and comfortable shoes will replace high fashion and high heels. An open house and buffet table will replace our formal sit-down dinner. Friends and extended family will most likely come and go throughout the day.


She has also told me that she does not want us to sit around in a circle to share what we are thankful for. But even without the circle, my list of thankfuls is long. I might not be able to say it out loud tomorrow, but I am so thankful for the precious memories of the family we used to be. And I will stay hopeful for the family we can become.

Lost in Eugene

Some people have an amazing sense of direction. Without a landmark (mountains, ocean, buildings) to gauge their whereabouts, they possess an internal compass. They relish the adventure of finding new places, not quite sure where to turn next, but confident that their destination is patiently waiting for them to arrive.


Others can’t find a place they have been to ten times with a map, directions, and a GPS. (My husband would prefer I not divulge which one describes him here)


On this particular Saturday morning, I know exactly where to go. This is my second visit in four months and I have visualized the road and our journey many times before today. I am behind the wheel of the shiny silver Camaro my daughter Joni Rose insisted we rent to drive the scenic miles ahead. We are excitedly on our way to the Oregon coast…or so I think. My aunt Judy is going to meet us at her beach house later, as Joni and I have a little boutique shopping to do first.


I can’t wait to show my oldest daughter the breath-taking green forests, foggy cliffs and crashing surf of the Northwest Pacific. I follow the winding road from Judy's house through the trees, down the hill and turn onto the main road to begin our adventure. Joni and I are talking and all of a sudden I realize…I AM LOST!


None of the roads look familiar and the way I have mapped in my mind is very wrong! At first I feel stupid, as this is shocking to my directional superiority (yeah, I’m that one) and then I get anxious. I have NO idea where to go and it throws me into a slight panic. Joni is trying to be calm (we have no map) and I am wracking my brain trying to remember how I got the directions so wrong, how I could have made this mistake, and what the hell I should do next.


In that moment, my cell phone rings….it is Judy. “Angie, are you okay?” she says sounding slightly worried. “No, I’m not. “I am quite lost” I tell her. “What?” She is surprised. “I have no idea where I am and which way to go!” I confess.


As she calmly talks me through my navigational faux pas (I was headed in the exact opposite direction), the scenery starts to look familiar again. Joni whispers over our conversation, “Why did SHE call? I look confused. “Why did SHE call US?” I ask Judy, and she says something about the last gas station before Florence. I look down. The gauge reads half a tank, and my heart has stopped pounding. ”See you at the beach” Judy says and the call is over.


“Don’t you think that was strange?” Joni asks. “Why did she call at that exact moment? And how did she know we were lost”?


Later, at the beach house, I ask Judy about it. She tells me that she doesn’t really know what made her call; she just felt that something wasn’t right, and she dialed my cell phone instinctively. She said her first thought was, “This is stupid…they just barely left. “And”, she said “Angie will think I am being a Mother Hen”.


Her words pierce something inside me, and I blink back tears. It is a sign.


Throughout my life, I’ve had many days of feeling lost and alone. How often my phone would ring with my Mother on the other end. She would explain she had been thinking about me and somehow sensed I was struggling and maybe needed someone to talk to. It felt like she was tuned in to my soul.


I stand in Judy’s kitchen wondering if it is possible that Mom somehow transferred her loving intuition to the one woman in my life she knew would carry on for her.


A mother hen? Surely she knows how much I still need one.

End of the Innocence

I don’t know when it happened…that moment I realized I would be okay. All I know is that gradually it has become easier to breath, to sleep, to laugh, to feel.. I’m still not as brave as before, but I have picked up my dreams and am again making plans for the future.


But only after days and days, and nights of something else. My mother’s death was the beginning of a journey with no destination…only the slogging will to make it through the day and then tomorrow, and the next day, and then the next.

After the public rituals of grief were over and friends and relatives retreated to their own lives, I returned to mine forever altered. The sun hiding behind a cloud; the world around me was suddenly moving at a different pace. I was quite certain it was being powered by society’s oblivion to anything meaningful.

I was sure part of me had died as well.

I would awake each morning unsure whether I could do all that was still expected… empty, heartsick, emotionally exhausted. I mistakenly thought that returning to work would be best (not)! Five days a week spent shoving down my feelings, pretending to be normal…really? Struggling to remember things, to complete simple tasks, I couldn’t make even easy decisions. By the end of the day, I was fighting back tears, and grief was waiting in the parking lot to envelope me again. Sleep was the only reprieve, but until a few weeks ago, I couldn’t remember the last time I slept through the night.

Since her death, I have carefully avoided places my Mom and I last went together. Minefields of blue pain; they were (and still are) not to be disturbed. For months, venturing into public made me anxious… I would pray no one would speak to me. Crowds are still just cruel; all those people moving about and not one of them the person I so desperately long to see just one more time.

So much of the music I love, songs I shared with my mother, the soundtrack of my life, is still off limits. The piano sits silently, gathering dust. Last played for Mom on Christmas Eve, it is hard to imagine when I might ever walk by and feel like playing it again

My phone is ringing less now, but it used to sound every day with my Dad, the King of Pain, on the other end. I scramble to answer, aware that my loss is dwarfed by his loneliness. I want him to feel free to grieve with me. Listening to his desperation, I search for words that will comfort him for about 2 seconds after they leave my mouth. Worry and sadness weigh heavy as I shoulder the burdens of the oldest.

Yesterday I caught myself thinking that I need to call Mom this week, and for an instant I felt that old excitement until I remembered. I still lay in bed at night trying, in the darkness, to remember the sound of her voice. When my sister recently asked me how I felt about beginning the process of dispersing Mom’s stuff, I started shaking at the thought of even opening her closet. .

I have staggered through the darkness with the wind of loss and longing howling in my mind. I have dreaded, confronted and survived each painful anniversary during this First Year, and the most difficult ones are yet to come. I have been afraid and lonely, vulnerable and diminished. Against the storm, I carry a flickering candle that burns with memories of home, childhood, and the undying love of my mother and the family she left as her legacy.

Today is October 20…eight months since her death. Missing her even more than I ever imagined, it is my soul’s desire to keep my promises and make her proud.

I love you Mom…I am okay.

Sir Galahad and the Truth

I have tried three different times to write this story. There are reasons I couldn’t tell it until now. " You can’t have peace until you have all the pieces". Some of this story I knew; some of it I did not. Thanks, Judy for helping me with the rest.


Even as a little girl, I knew my mother and grandmother didn’t get along. I overheard painful conversations between my parents often followed by mom crying on the bed. Living only a few hundred yards from her mother-in-law, Mom was sure our lives and activities were constantly being scrutinized, judged and ridiculed. My opinionated, feisty grandmother did little to contradict these fears, and over time, the air became thick with misunderstanding and mutual distrust.


My grandmother’s family parties filled my mother with dread for weeks in advance. Positive she would be greeted with only cool disregard; she became almost physically ill. I was relieved for her when they were over.


For 30 years, my grandmother played the grand dame, keeping her daughters close, with my mother always on the outside. In fairness, my mother’s hurt turned to bitterness, and she would set her jaw; unsmiling in an attempt to look dispassionate. It made her appear haughty, cold and unapproachable.


Oh, how it must have hurt her when, during one of our legendary arguments, I “ran away” to my grandparents for solace, blurting out all my mother’s alleged crimes against me for my grandmother to distribute as juicy family gossip. (Teenagers are arrogant and stupid, and for a time, I was their Queen)


Only after my grandmother and her iron influence had passed away, did my aunts begin to reach out to my mother. She cautiously accepted their invitations to shop and lunch. I believe she never completely abandoned the dreams of a 19-year old newlywed, so hopeful she had married into a family that would embrace and accept her.


Here’s what I didn’t know. Ironically, my grandmother had been treated as an outcast in my grandfather’s rigid and righteous family…always. Never seen as worthy, women in-laws were simply viewed as outlaws. Surprisingly, even the wife of my grandmother’s favorite son (not my dad) had often felt like an outsider! My mother was convinced that only she had been singled out for rejection…but this sad tradition of exclusion had been going on for generations.


When my dad told me he was having lunch with three of his four sisters and his only brother, I thought…how nice, they will visit, make awkward small talk and reminisce. I guess that is how the afternoon started. But at some point, my father decided to speak up. Finally, it was time….


He spoke of the hurts my mother had been too proud to confront when she was alive. He told them of her isolation and the years of desperate loneliness. While my mother tried to pretend that their acceptance and friendship was not important; he believes it would have changed her life...so do I. He asked how they could have ever pretended to care about him while treating his wife with such disdain.


They listened with their hearts. The sisters were anxious to try to explain my grandmother’s possible motives and their fear of her wrath or rejection. All shared their own perspectives and spoke openly of their regrets. There were apologies and many tears. In the end, Dad, the oldest, led his siblings to forgiveness and a hopeful new beginning.


For all he said and did that day, my dad is a Hero. He is my shining knight and I have never been more proud of his kind and quiet strength. As he described  this moving family gathering, we both wept for all that had been lost;  for my mother, for the years of heartache, and for the healing catharsis of truth.  

I like to imagine that she was there somehow; beaming as he finally found his voice…for both of them.

Loss after Loss

You may my glories and my state depose, but not my griefs. I am king of those.”
~ William Shakespeare


Come Friday, my girls and I will gather under my gazebo to celebrate what would have been their father’s 77th birthday. We will order take-out from his favorite Mexican restaurant and share memories precious to us. Their dad and hero died when they were just teenagers, and watching me cope with losing my mother has stirred up their pain and exposed their wounds again. In the last three weeks, they have each chosen to get a tattoo. Symbolic words and pictures of their loss are now and forever etched in their skin

Our family just passed the six-month anniversary of my mother’s death. But it is one year ago today that we really lost her. She never could fully recover from hours on a heart bypass machine, and the damage already done so many years before.. And during some of the most agonizing days of our lives, we have experienced other losses. If we were Chinese, it might be our Year of Loss:

My husband lost his job in June.

My youngest daughter, so triumphant in recovery, lost hers before that.

My husband and I lost our trip to Rome; at least for now.

My sister lost her boss and friend to retirement and shockingly, lost the opportunity to replace her. She also lost her sweet cat, Leo to old age.

My youngest sister lost what she thought was her dream job after a couple of nightmare months. She left discouraged and disgusted.

My brother lost his career’s passion to the company that was forced to surrender after 20 years. His wife is losing her father to lung cancer. He has stopped experimental treatment to enjoy whatever time he has left.

If mom was still alive, she would suffer our losses with us; sometimes taking them even harder than we did. She would listen to our despair and empathize as only she could. She would patiently talk us through the slings and arrows, and softly remind us that everything happens for a reason. She would tell us that we deserved whatever we were seeking...joy, resolution, victory, or peace.  She would then valiantly bear testimony to her belief that we would most surely find it.

If only she could be here when we did.

Humility 1, Hubris 0

There is a theory about the magic of 3’s. Supposedly you have to hear, see, or experience something three times for it to sink in; for it to become part of your consciousness. I can prove this theory with the extraordinary happenings of last Thursday…and I have witnesses.

To review:  It was August one year ago, almost to the day that I sat across from my Mother having “the” talk…the “what if you die” talk. I asked her to choose a sign, a way for her to let me know she was still around me if she did not survive the reconstructive heart surgery she was facing on the 25th. She was quiet for a few moments before choosing the mourning dove and its melancholy song.

I.

Fast forward to January. Eight of us have come to Florida, one month before Mom would leave us all. It is early, and my husband and I are alone on the pool deck, drinking our morning coffee. My escape from the agony of watching her decline is coming to an end, and I say to him, “I have to go home now and watch my mother die.” He points up. There is a mourning dove sitting on the wire above the yard. “She knows” he says.

II.

My father, husband and I are standing at my Mother’s grave.  I am feeling rather annoyed by this ritual as I feel only emptiness and silence here. We place flowers near the wreath and cherub that mark her place, still without a headstone. Suddenly, the mourning dove’s song fills the air. A butterfly begins flitting around us and settles on her grave. It flits away but returns with a partner. Now two butterflies are darting around the three of us, then lighting again on Mom’s grave. This happens for several minutes, and I ask out loud, “Why are they only landing here?"

III.

It is Thursday evening. I am sitting outside under our gazebo, having drinks with my sweetie. My brother calls and we chatter about our weekend plans. As I walk inside to fix another cocktail, the conversation goes where it often does now; to talk of Mom and the painful anniversaries of August. He tells me about chatting with my youngest sister over the internet in the wee hours the night before, and I remember that our middle sister’s blog had a time stamp after midnight that same night. I was awake as well, still haunted by the hope of last summer and the defeat we couldn’t see coming.

I complain to him that I haven’t heard a mourning dove for weeks and that I want more. The birdsong isn’t enough and lately there has been nothing, only quiet. I walk back outside. In that instant, a mourning dove begins singing. It is insistent, singing so loud my brother can hear it over the phone. It  is a different song than we have ever heard before. We marvel at the message our mother is sending, interrupting our conversation to say, “I’m here, I’m here…I’m HERE!” We hang up and the singing stops…just like that. I walk outside a few times after to listen…she is gone.

I know that the butterfly is symbolic of rebirth after death. But I didn’t know that in ancient Christian lore, the dove is a symbol for mother. Or that Gypsy folklore holds that mourning doves are messengers – singing of love to the living from the spirit world. In daughter lore, it is my magic 3.

I hear you Mom, Finally, I do.

Get Up, Stand UP!

For the last several months, our quiet middle class neighborhood has been under siege. The home next door was rented to a liar, his sourpuss wife and a couple of mongrel boys with skinhead haircuts. They proceeded to create a private junkyard, innundating the property with trucks, trailers, a boat, four-wheelers, a work van and a 30-foot dilapidated motor home parked on the front lawn! Yard maintenance was apparently a foreign concept, although bike ramps, blankets, trash and cigarette butts littered the dead grass. I was the first to confront Rich, a gangly, loud-mouth who couldn’t look me in the eyes when I said, “you don’t intend to park all of these vehicles here, do you?” He assured me that everything would be moved and rambled something about being nice, quiet neighbors. Thus began the Assault of the Transients, complete with more lies and a F*** You attitude that made me seethe every day

When they broke the fence between our homes moving their boat for the umpteenth time, I asked my son-in-law to access public records at the county to find out who owned the home. Shockingly, the four owners live only three blocks east of us; apparently oblivious in their beautifully manicured neighborhood.  That really ticked me off! After three drafts of my letter (the first including several profane, sarcastic phrases), I drilled down to a straightforward outline of each violation and a plea for action and compliance with basic neighborhood standards. I cc’d everyone on my street. I waited.

Imagine my elation when I discovered that the liar, his sourpuss wife and the mongrels were moving! Was my letter the last straw? Had some of my polite elderly neighbors called the city or the landlords to complain as well? Rich bragged that they had found a bigger, better house in some poor unsuspecting neighborhood on the other side of town…I had this vision of them driving away in their dirty, noisy diesel truck as the neighbors danced in the street with middle fingers waving in their rear view mirror…Oh joy, oh rapture!

Last evening, a young girl and her father knocked on my door. They came in response to my letter and they wanted to know how they could make amends. I invited them in. We accepted their apologies and came to a new understanding. They said that my letter would be helpful in the lawsuit that Rich is threatening. We exchanged phone numbers and they promised more thorough screening of potential new tenants.

Admittedly, I am feeling heady about the power of ONE. I channeled my disgust and anger by speaking out and standing up for my rights. My cocky bravado was tempered by a painful realization. The person who would enjoy this story most is not here to tell it to. My mother would relish the twists and turns of this politically-incorrect neighborhood saga. She would laugh with me at the ironies of Rich and Co. (they own a cleaning service?!) and we would bask together in the victorious resolution.

She would be proud of me…and that is what I miss the most.