This week's Torah partion is about lepers...sort of...well, not really.
Anyway, it reminds me of a difficult and lonely time in my life when I was treated like a non-person, or less than a full member of the community. It was a period I was so eager to put behind me that I spent little time reflecting back upon it until years later, when I came back into the community and discovered a former acquaintance standing in the shoes I had once worn. I asked about her experience and, as she described the way others were treating her, my memories of rejection and loneliness came rushing back and I knew I had to help her.
I immediately made plans to throw a party and I invited a bunch of the people who were ignoring this woman in their midst. When I explained to one of them what I was doing, she argued that my perception of the situation was accurate. Ironically, this friend was one of the people who had ignored me when I had stood in my old shoes but befriended me when I returned wearing a "new pair". I told her how I knew it was true, without mentioning that she had once treated me the same way.
The shoes I'm overstretching here are the metaphorical shoes of a divorced woman, or, as some people who haven't walked in them might put it, of a "single mother by choice".
The reason I mention this is because I wonder whether it's the perception that some women CHOOSE to become divorced that exempts them from the loving ministrations of the community, or if not, what is it that makes people behave the way they do?
It is marvelous that when a married woman becomes gravely ill, the community lines up to help - they visit, they bring meals and gifts, they offer to do errands, they drive the woman to and from doctor appointments, they cart her children around for her. It is absolutely a wonderful thing. It feels great to help people in their time of need, when they feel overwhelmed, when their life seems to be falling apart. It makes us grateful not to be in their shoes, faced with our own mortality.
But when a woman gets divorced, she is often a pariah, very much like the lepers of the Torah. Generally speaking, a woman not only needs a whole new skill set, but also a whole new set of friends and support system, because she suddenly may become persona non grata to a shockingly large portion of the community. I'm not sure it is even a conscious decison people make, and I'd certainly prefer to think that it is not, but every time it happens to a friend, I reach out to them, only to hear how rare my kindness is. This saddens but no longer surprises me.
As beautiful as it is to witness the outreach to the wife whose physical health is slipping away from her, that is how ugly it can be to witness the phenomenon of people turning their backs on the divorcing woman as her world is crumbling.
I was divorced 15 years ago and since then I have counseled such a great number of people - both lifelong friends and those who were drawn to me just for that season of their lives - that I have become, quite accidentally, a bit of an expert.
I think this expertise obtained because I have so much compassion for women at this painful point in their lives. Admittedly, I simply love talking, helping, and giving advice, but it's more than that. Especially when I meet a person who came to town in a relationship and now, bereft of that relationship, finds herself utterly alone, well, I really "get it" and evidently, that is rare. First of all, no woman becomes a single mother by choice. Either her husband leaves the marriage, or she leaves because she is on the verge of losing her mind. In the latter case, she is essentially leaving in order to save her life. She generally does not leave the marriage until there is no longer any viable choice. In all my years of becoming an expert on this subject, I have only encountered one person who chose to leave her marriage to play the field because she was pretty sure she could score an upgrade. She traded up and then her second husband left her. In that instance, I had a bit less compassion, but as far as I can tell, her story is very unusual.
Because divorce sucks.
When I moved to Cincinnati married to a native son, I was embraced to some degree by the community of folks my husband had grown up with. When I divorced him, they turned their collective back on me. One woman, whom I considered a friend because she kissed me whenever she saw me, invited us to parties, took me out to lunch, brought us a lovely baby gift, attended our son's bris, had us break the Yom Kippur fast at her parents' house, and invited me to faux finish her dining room in exchange for pizza, explained, when I turned to her for comfort, that while she hadn't really been friends with my husband while growing up, so far as she could tell he had become a real mensch. So, if I was leaving him, well, we could no longer be friends.
Others were more subtle, leaving me to the conclusion that Cincinnati was just an extrmely cold and unfriendly place. I immersed myself in parenting my young son, accepting the fact that he and I were now two people "on our own", as my photo albums from that era are labelled. We had a lot of fun together, and we had an incredibly close, intense relationship, but we were constantly isolated and alone in the middle of a crowd. No invitations to playdates or shabbat lunch. No invitations to much of anything. I felt lucky if anyone spoke to me. On the playground with my son after school, the only adult who engaged with me was the grandmother of another preschooler. Ironically, she was a good friend of my former mother in law, but she was the only adult (other than the teachers) whom I remember talking to on a regular basis at my son's school. We took the kids for ice cream a couple of times and it was shocking treat for me to get to talk to another adult in this context. I wonder if she has any idea how much I appreciated her kindness. When I am done with this blog post, I plan to call and tell her.
I joined a new temple and attended services weekly, took a class at lunchtime, but nobody there reached out to me, not even the rabbi and his wife. My decorative painting clients were often quite friendly while I was in their home, but that was as far as it went. It was clear that I would have to create my own life. I was (if you know me, you know this) far from shy, but I had just two, very busy friends in town - one had been my nanny, and the other, Gillian, a single friend from college, who had moved here to join the local symphony just as I was preparing to get divorced.
This scarcity of friends left me plenty of time for myself. When my son went to be with his father, I either exercised alone in my apartment, did volunteer work, laundry, filled photo albums with pictures I'd taken of my son, or hung out with the new gay friends I made through my work as a decorative painter.
The other thing I did was to go out on blind dates. These were either the result of an ad I placed in the newspaper or, later, when I became more selective, through an old fashioned Jewish matchmaker. Nobody in my "community" ever once asked me if I wanted to meet someone they knew. Early on in my divorced life, I met an older guy when I went to shabbat services elsewhere, and I went out with him only because (1) he was tall (2) I despaired of ever being introduced to anyone. I even auctioned myself off from a catwalk once when someone asked me to help the charity she worked for.
Eventually, one of those dates (from the matchmaker) actually led somewhere. I became engaged, and when I did, there was a palpable shift. Actually, it was more like an earthquake. Once I was part of a couple again, clients started acting like friends. One client made a bridal shower for me. Other clients attended, showering me with gifts and positive attention. Even though I felt like exactly the same person, no more or less attractive or friendly, it was as though my "leprosy" had suddenly cleared up, my pariah status had been nullified. I didnt have any more money than before because I was marrying a graduate student earning his Phd and paying off student loans. But some of my clients - now our friends - even came to our wedding, even though it was hundreds of miles away, in Cleveland.
So, mezora. This is still how we treat the lepers. I hope it is clear that I am sharing my story not to complain, not to criticize, but merely to raise awareness and increase sensitivity. The town I once thought of as unfriendly when I was divorced has yielded up an abundance of good neighbors and great friends, a fun community orchestra and an incredibly supportive and loving yoga community. I have a wonderful husband, three of the best children in the world, and a temple community where people in all stages of life are genuinely included and embraced.
I recently started a new blog to open up conversations about certain female topics on which we tend to remain silent, and then, this week's Torah portion reminded me there is yet more silence that I feel should be broken. My hope is that you will now think of a divorced person in your community and reach out to her or to him. My dream is that you will read this and invite them, include them, or offer them a helping hand. You never know what sort of shoes you might be standing in someday. May you never walk alone.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
reshelving books, with great love
I am missing my beloved Friday morning yoga class today because some movers need me to be home from 9-2. They are bringing to me some of my grandparents' things, for the final time. It's a big deal.
The first time a moving truck brought me things from my grandparents' home, Mama and Papa were in the process of moving out of the Great Neck ranch home that was the site of all my childhood seders, my first nights of Hannukah, my Rosh Hashanah lunches. It was a place I almost always entered through the side door, with the comforting certainty that my grandmother would be working in her kitchen and that my Papa Sam would grab me and say "hey there, ya bug, what's the word?"
The shipment they sent me last time, in 1996, furnished approximately half of my apartment in Clifton, where I lived for three years with a very sweet little boy named Max. My grandparents never visited this apartment - their last trip to Cincinnati was for Max's first birthday, just a few months before we moved - but because of this shipment, they were with us every day in spirit. On our birthdays, they called Max and me to sing to us as soon as we woke up in the morning, and later in the day, flowers would arrive from Adrian Durban and packages would come in the mail. But it made me happy to wake up on every ordinary day and see my grandmother's neoclassical Baker bench at the foot of my bed, her pretty French writing desk waiting on the opposite side of my bedroom. In the living room were her four, black, lacquered chairs, painted with beautiful roses. Perhaps best of all, sitting on my bookshelves, were many of their books.
My grandfather had lovingly wrapped, and then filled the drawers of a dresser with, very special books: a small black prayer book Mama had used in Brooklyn in the 30's, books about the great composers and their music, and books from the place they used to call Palestine, our beloved Jewish homeland, which I grew up knowing Papa just wanted to live long enough to introduce me to. Papa got his wish: we went on a family pilgrimage to Israel when I was twelve and again when I was fourteen. When my first husband and I visited Israel in 1993, my grandparents were there as well, and we met up with them in Jerusalem. Papa Sam even stuck around for yet another 5 1/2 years after that, sweetening each subsequent season of my life with his constant love and wisdom.
The other day, while on a field trip together, my son's second grade teacher asked me about my background in Judaic studies. I explained that my grandfather was "supposed" to have become a rabbi, but he left Poland to become a chemist and a businessman in America. Papa was a scholar all his life, and his love of Judaism and Israel and his life long passion for learning shaped me greatly growing up and continue to influence me today.
Another of their books that I found in my mother's childhood dresser that day in 1996- a piece of furniture which I would soon repaint for Max - was a gorgeous illuminated Megillat Esther. The cover is beautifully embossed black leather, with a window featuring an engraved copper plate of men praying at the Western Wall. Tissue paper lies protectively atop each breathtaking illustration of this book, which was published in Jerusalem in 1947. This Megillah is not only a valuable and beautiful book, but meaningful for several other reasons. My grandmother was the most regal person I knew (and that includes the arab Prince I hung out with in London in 1987). Mama's given name was Esther, and from well before I was born she reigned over our family and continued to do so until her death about a year ago. Her historic namesake's holiday, when we read the Megillat Esther in temple, has just passed, and now, Mama Esther's first yartzheit is fast approaching. After 43 years of having her in my life, I am still unaccustomed to her absence.
When I got the call, just two weeks ago, that the shelves from her living room and den, as well as my grandfather's desk, were soon going to be in my home, my first impulse was to call Mama up and tell her the good news. I knew she'd be happy. I see her picture on my kitchen windowsill every day and think of things to tell her as I wash the dishes. The few items I admitted I would like to have after her death - she had pressed me to name them and then promised they would be mine - were evidently not itemized in a will. I never heard anything about her having written will and testament; all I know is that the few items Mama promised to me are in my mother's possession instead. I was rather upset for a few minutes and then promptly put it in perspective; it's just stuff.
But today, I can't help it; I am just so thrilled to have these shelves and desk. It may sound impersonal to you, perhaps, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The shelves that are wrapped and sitting on pallets in a truck right now are something I stood before, in wonder, throughout the first several decades of my life, gazing upon the display of my grandparents' most treasured items. In their living room, first in Great Neck and then in the apartment in Garden City, their immaculately shiny chrome and glass shelves displayed books about Jerusalem and Masada, about the first days of Israel, about Ben Gurion and Golda Meir. The shelves held silver spice boxes and kiddush cups, and a hannukiah made of Jerusalem stone. The shelves in my grandfather's den held more books, and also displayed pictures of my sister and me, their only grandchildren, and photos of their two daughters. Eventually, it also held a picture of the six of us, standing in Jerusalem with the Western Wall behind us. Both sets of shelves were walls that defined my grandparents. Now I will be able to return some of their favorite books, which they shared with me years ago, back onto the shelves where I first gazed upon them. My mother is holding several other of Mama and Papa's special books for me in her home, and these will be returned to the shelves as well.
The desk is another story. It was private; it was Papa's; end of story. I never once thought to snoop inside its drawers. My snooping was strictly limited to the guest room, in the back of the house, once my aunt's childhood bedroom, where Mama kept a closet full of handbags, shoes, scarves and long beaded necklaces, perfect for dress up.
Ah, the mover has just called from down the street. I'm going to try not to cry as we unwrap all these memories in my living room. I feel so fortunate to be bringing my grandparents things once more into my life, into a home that is so full of love, Judaism, music and learning. Mama and Papa are still with us and they always will be. And for that, I am so very grateful.
The first time a moving truck brought me things from my grandparents' home, Mama and Papa were in the process of moving out of the Great Neck ranch home that was the site of all my childhood seders, my first nights of Hannukah, my Rosh Hashanah lunches. It was a place I almost always entered through the side door, with the comforting certainty that my grandmother would be working in her kitchen and that my Papa Sam would grab me and say "hey there, ya bug, what's the word?"
The shipment they sent me last time, in 1996, furnished approximately half of my apartment in Clifton, where I lived for three years with a very sweet little boy named Max. My grandparents never visited this apartment - their last trip to Cincinnati was for Max's first birthday, just a few months before we moved - but because of this shipment, they were with us every day in spirit. On our birthdays, they called Max and me to sing to us as soon as we woke up in the morning, and later in the day, flowers would arrive from Adrian Durban and packages would come in the mail. But it made me happy to wake up on every ordinary day and see my grandmother's neoclassical Baker bench at the foot of my bed, her pretty French writing desk waiting on the opposite side of my bedroom. In the living room were her four, black, lacquered chairs, painted with beautiful roses. Perhaps best of all, sitting on my bookshelves, were many of their books.
My grandfather had lovingly wrapped, and then filled the drawers of a dresser with, very special books: a small black prayer book Mama had used in Brooklyn in the 30's, books about the great composers and their music, and books from the place they used to call Palestine, our beloved Jewish homeland, which I grew up knowing Papa just wanted to live long enough to introduce me to. Papa got his wish: we went on a family pilgrimage to Israel when I was twelve and again when I was fourteen. When my first husband and I visited Israel in 1993, my grandparents were there as well, and we met up with them in Jerusalem. Papa Sam even stuck around for yet another 5 1/2 years after that, sweetening each subsequent season of my life with his constant love and wisdom.
The other day, while on a field trip together, my son's second grade teacher asked me about my background in Judaic studies. I explained that my grandfather was "supposed" to have become a rabbi, but he left Poland to become a chemist and a businessman in America. Papa was a scholar all his life, and his love of Judaism and Israel and his life long passion for learning shaped me greatly growing up and continue to influence me today.
Another of their books that I found in my mother's childhood dresser that day in 1996- a piece of furniture which I would soon repaint for Max - was a gorgeous illuminated Megillat Esther. The cover is beautifully embossed black leather, with a window featuring an engraved copper plate of men praying at the Western Wall. Tissue paper lies protectively atop each breathtaking illustration of this book, which was published in Jerusalem in 1947. This Megillah is not only a valuable and beautiful book, but meaningful for several other reasons. My grandmother was the most regal person I knew (and that includes the arab Prince I hung out with in London in 1987). Mama's given name was Esther, and from well before I was born she reigned over our family and continued to do so until her death about a year ago. Her historic namesake's holiday, when we read the Megillat Esther in temple, has just passed, and now, Mama Esther's first yartzheit is fast approaching. After 43 years of having her in my life, I am still unaccustomed to her absence.
When I got the call, just two weeks ago, that the shelves from her living room and den, as well as my grandfather's desk, were soon going to be in my home, my first impulse was to call Mama up and tell her the good news. I knew she'd be happy. I see her picture on my kitchen windowsill every day and think of things to tell her as I wash the dishes. The few items I admitted I would like to have after her death - she had pressed me to name them and then promised they would be mine - were evidently not itemized in a will. I never heard anything about her having written will and testament; all I know is that the few items Mama promised to me are in my mother's possession instead. I was rather upset for a few minutes and then promptly put it in perspective; it's just stuff.
But today, I can't help it; I am just so thrilled to have these shelves and desk. It may sound impersonal to you, perhaps, but nothing could be farther from the truth. The shelves that are wrapped and sitting on pallets in a truck right now are something I stood before, in wonder, throughout the first several decades of my life, gazing upon the display of my grandparents' most treasured items. In their living room, first in Great Neck and then in the apartment in Garden City, their immaculately shiny chrome and glass shelves displayed books about Jerusalem and Masada, about the first days of Israel, about Ben Gurion and Golda Meir. The shelves held silver spice boxes and kiddush cups, and a hannukiah made of Jerusalem stone. The shelves in my grandfather's den held more books, and also displayed pictures of my sister and me, their only grandchildren, and photos of their two daughters. Eventually, it also held a picture of the six of us, standing in Jerusalem with the Western Wall behind us. Both sets of shelves were walls that defined my grandparents. Now I will be able to return some of their favorite books, which they shared with me years ago, back onto the shelves where I first gazed upon them. My mother is holding several other of Mama and Papa's special books for me in her home, and these will be returned to the shelves as well.
The desk is another story. It was private; it was Papa's; end of story. I never once thought to snoop inside its drawers. My snooping was strictly limited to the guest room, in the back of the house, once my aunt's childhood bedroom, where Mama kept a closet full of handbags, shoes, scarves and long beaded necklaces, perfect for dress up.
Ah, the mover has just called from down the street. I'm going to try not to cry as we unwrap all these memories in my living room. I feel so fortunate to be bringing my grandparents things once more into my life, into a home that is so full of love, Judaism, music and learning. Mama and Papa are still with us and they always will be. And for that, I am so very grateful.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
to Help Stop Bullying
The One you just called fat? She has been starving herself and has lost over 30 pounds. Someday she may see an endocrinologist to learn about why her body's metabolism is different from yours...
The One you just called stupid? She has a learning disability & studies over 4 hrs a night. She is full of wonderful, original ideas she has not yet learned how to express.
The One you just called ugly? She spends hours reading magazines about how to be popular, tweezing her eyebrows and putting on makeup, hoping people will like her.
The One you just tripped? She is abused enough at home. When she is alone, she cuts herself and picks at her scabs so she can feel a sense of control over her own pain.
There's always more to people than you what you see.
The One you just called stupid? She has a learning disability & studies over 4 hrs a night. She is full of wonderful, original ideas she has not yet learned how to express.
The One you just called ugly? She spends hours reading magazines about how to be popular, tweezing her eyebrows and putting on makeup, hoping people will like her.
The One you just tripped? She is abused enough at home. When she is alone, she cuts herself and picks at her scabs so she can feel a sense of control over her own pain.
There's always more to people than you what you see.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
the nesting imperative
For some people, the harbingers of spring are little green shoots poking out of the partially thawed ground. For me, it is another miracle of nature that signals the coming change of season, but it takes place in my open air art studio, right off the kitchen.
Every year at this time, our breakfasts are enlivened by the darting back and forth of little brown finches outside the enormous louvered windows facing the studio. The birds are terribly busy refurbishing a double decker nest on the lower and middle shelves of a antique kitchen cabinet. So old and exposed to the elements that its vanilla yellow paint has achieved a natural crackle effect never to be matched by faux technique, the cabinet hangs on the exterior wall of our home, origianlly intended merely as a convenient spot to store paint, gesso, glitter glue, sequins and the like.
The two slightly warped doors of the cabinet each hold several panels of glass, and during the first year in our home, when I occasionally felt inspired to tidy up the studio, I would force them shut and fasten them with a dangly, painted metal hook. The rest of the time, I left them slightly ajar and they would slowly swing to a fully open position in the breeze. This gave the birds easy access to the shelves inside, and evidently, they found or created enough space behind a lean to of plastic palettes to build a suitable nursery. Now, the cabinet doors hang open permanently, allowing the easy return of the nest refurbishment crew.
As winter ends, the cabinet becomes a veritable condominium for finches. I look forward to this event each year and delight in the various stages of the bird life cycle that we are privileged to witness so very close up.
This time, as we watch the renovation and refeathering, Isaac asks me if he and his brother Sam could also build a nest for themselves, because it looks like such fun to build and so very cozy inside. I tell him that his father and I had already provided them a cozy nest: their bedroom.
I explain that this is part of nature. "The Mommy bird has something inside her," I say, "that makes her start bringing bits of fluff to a nest before her eggs are ready to hatch. Whether a Mommy is a bird, a monkey or a person," I tell Isaac, "this is what we are programmed to do. Whenever one of you babies was on the way," I say, "I would be overtaken by an irresistable impulse to order new bedding and repaint the furniture."
"But what about the Daddy bird?", Isaac asks, as I knew he would. "The Daddy bird is programmed to help," I tell him. "And your Daddy would put the crib together for the new baby." We stand together in the kitchen, watching the pair of finches dart busily back and forth, in and out of the cabinet, working in what appears to be perfect harmony. I silently marvel at the lack of squawking on the part of the Mommy bird. Either she thinks her mate is doing a perfect job helping with the nest, I reason, or else, she is just too busy using her beak to haul and arrange feathers to have time to stop and criticize him. Constructively, of course.
Soon, it will soon get very noisy out there. The birds - both parent and offspring - are very vocal once the babies arrive, and I'm looking forward to that stage as well. I'll take and post pictures of the nests as soon as the coast is clear.
Every year at this time, our breakfasts are enlivened by the darting back and forth of little brown finches outside the enormous louvered windows facing the studio. The birds are terribly busy refurbishing a double decker nest on the lower and middle shelves of a antique kitchen cabinet. So old and exposed to the elements that its vanilla yellow paint has achieved a natural crackle effect never to be matched by faux technique, the cabinet hangs on the exterior wall of our home, origianlly intended merely as a convenient spot to store paint, gesso, glitter glue, sequins and the like.
The two slightly warped doors of the cabinet each hold several panels of glass, and during the first year in our home, when I occasionally felt inspired to tidy up the studio, I would force them shut and fasten them with a dangly, painted metal hook. The rest of the time, I left them slightly ajar and they would slowly swing to a fully open position in the breeze. This gave the birds easy access to the shelves inside, and evidently, they found or created enough space behind a lean to of plastic palettes to build a suitable nursery. Now, the cabinet doors hang open permanently, allowing the easy return of the nest refurbishment crew.
As winter ends, the cabinet becomes a veritable condominium for finches. I look forward to this event each year and delight in the various stages of the bird life cycle that we are privileged to witness so very close up.
This time, as we watch the renovation and refeathering, Isaac asks me if he and his brother Sam could also build a nest for themselves, because it looks like such fun to build and so very cozy inside. I tell him that his father and I had already provided them a cozy nest: their bedroom.
I explain that this is part of nature. "The Mommy bird has something inside her," I say, "that makes her start bringing bits of fluff to a nest before her eggs are ready to hatch. Whether a Mommy is a bird, a monkey or a person," I tell Isaac, "this is what we are programmed to do. Whenever one of you babies was on the way," I say, "I would be overtaken by an irresistable impulse to order new bedding and repaint the furniture."
"But what about the Daddy bird?", Isaac asks, as I knew he would. "The Daddy bird is programmed to help," I tell him. "And your Daddy would put the crib together for the new baby." We stand together in the kitchen, watching the pair of finches dart busily back and forth, in and out of the cabinet, working in what appears to be perfect harmony. I silently marvel at the lack of squawking on the part of the Mommy bird. Either she thinks her mate is doing a perfect job helping with the nest, I reason, or else, she is just too busy using her beak to haul and arrange feathers to have time to stop and criticize him. Constructively, of course.
Soon, it will soon get very noisy out there. The birds - both parent and offspring - are very vocal once the babies arrive, and I'm looking forward to that stage as well. I'll take and post pictures of the nests as soon as the coast is clear.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
why I am happy to do a teenager's laundry
When Max was starting high school, I was looking forward to his doing more to help around the house. I grew up with a housekeeper picking up after me and I went off to college a spoiled slob, and I wanted to prepare Max differently. Two and a half years later, I take full repsonsibility for the fact that his activities have gone in a different direction than domestic. It took me a while to work through some disappointment and even resentment of the fact that I was still his maid, but eventually, I realized that if he stopped to do his own laundry, put away his clothes, to clean up his room, even to set the table, he would have less time to do the countless and truly awesome array of wonderful things that he does do. And while I imagine there are many of you who will disagree with me and say I am spoiling my child, I am now strong enough in my convicton to able to defend my continuing to pick up after him and generally be as helpful as I possibly can.
I was just in Max's room, straightening up, making his bed, picking up bits of trash and loose change from the carpet, when I came across an email which reminded me all over again why I so cheerfully continue to act as his maid, cook, laundress and butler, even after being dismissed as his driver.
The email subject was "Ideas for Max" and it was written by the woman to whom Max reports at his volunteer job at The Drake Center, a rehabilatation facility where Paul is a salaried employee.
For the next couple of days, she writes, it would be great if Max could go from room to room and play for the following residents for 15 minutes a piece. She then lists some patients for Max to visit, 4 for Wednesday and 4 for Thursday, and describes them and their bed location to prepare Max for each encounter:
1. alert, oriented and verbal, but difficult to understand at times
2. nonverbal, enjoys music, at times will swing elbows
3. nonverbal
4. repetitive verbalization, will sometimes yell out
Wow. Not your typical audience for live music; not by a long shot. Many teens with Max's musical gifts would use them merely to get attention from their peers, to become popular, or a "chick magnet". Max is very familiar with the power of his musical performance to command the attention of his peers, but he chooses to do so much more with his talent, and I could not be more proud.
Max gets up early almost every Sunday, drives to temple with his guitar and spends the morning teaching small children to sing Hebrew songs, for just $15 before taxes are withheld. He leads religious services at temple and at home, with me (his mother) and on youth retreats. And now, he plays and sings, four afternoons a week, for people living in a rehab center, some of whom are nonresponsive.
I will wrap this up now, hopefully before it has become a disgusting brag fest. As I said recently, when Max acted in Brighton Beach Memoirs and people called him a star on my facebook page, it is terrific to win over an audience and to garner critical acclaim, but it so much more important to me that he be a mensch. I'm going to run back upstairs and finish putting Max's clothes away. When he returns later from the Latin Convention he's been attending all weekend in Columbus, I wnat him to have a nice, tidy room to collapse in; or, more likely, to stay up late and finish his homework in.
OK, here I go...
I was just in Max's room, straightening up, making his bed, picking up bits of trash and loose change from the carpet, when I came across an email which reminded me all over again why I so cheerfully continue to act as his maid, cook, laundress and butler, even after being dismissed as his driver.
The email subject was "Ideas for Max" and it was written by the woman to whom Max reports at his volunteer job at The Drake Center, a rehabilatation facility where Paul is a salaried employee.
For the next couple of days, she writes, it would be great if Max could go from room to room and play for the following residents for 15 minutes a piece. She then lists some patients for Max to visit, 4 for Wednesday and 4 for Thursday, and describes them and their bed location to prepare Max for each encounter:
1. alert, oriented and verbal, but difficult to understand at times
2. nonverbal, enjoys music, at times will swing elbows
3. nonverbal
4. repetitive verbalization, will sometimes yell out
Wow. Not your typical audience for live music; not by a long shot. Many teens with Max's musical gifts would use them merely to get attention from their peers, to become popular, or a "chick magnet". Max is very familiar with the power of his musical performance to command the attention of his peers, but he chooses to do so much more with his talent, and I could not be more proud.
Max gets up early almost every Sunday, drives to temple with his guitar and spends the morning teaching small children to sing Hebrew songs, for just $15 before taxes are withheld. He leads religious services at temple and at home, with me (his mother) and on youth retreats. And now, he plays and sings, four afternoons a week, for people living in a rehab center, some of whom are nonresponsive.
I will wrap this up now, hopefully before it has become a disgusting brag fest. As I said recently, when Max acted in Brighton Beach Memoirs and people called him a star on my facebook page, it is terrific to win over an audience and to garner critical acclaim, but it so much more important to me that he be a mensch. I'm going to run back upstairs and finish putting Max's clothes away. When he returns later from the Latin Convention he's been attending all weekend in Columbus, I wnat him to have a nice, tidy room to collapse in; or, more likely, to stay up late and finish his homework in.
OK, here I go...
Friday, February 25, 2011
Opening The Throat Chakra
I find there are very few true coincedences in life, but they are all worth paying attention to. When you notice what you think is a coincedence, it is usually the "universe" sending you a message. People often find there is a particular place where they tend to receive these messages most easily and consistently. For some, it can be as simple as sitting on a tufted cushion in their own private meditation room. I have not yet managed to develop a disciplined meditation practice, but I have been fortunate enough to locate several places where I feel really supported in my connection to the divine, to my spirit guides, or to whatever you want to call the Source of inspired thoughts.
I just returned home from my favorite yoga class at one of these special places: Shine, in Hyde Park. As she did last year at the same time, Shine owner and yoga teacher Wendy Anderson is guiding us through the chakras, ninety minutes at a time, week by week. Last week, we focused our practice on the heart chakra, and the class happened to follow right on the heels of two lovely days of mild, sunny weather in the middle of winter, so we were all feeling the love.
Today, our practice was dedicated to opening the throat chakra, which enables us to speak our truth more fully and freely. Wendy reminded us, as we sat in preparation to begin, that we should keep part of our awareness on our root chakra, because we are not working to open our throat chakra merely to talk more freely. We want to open it in such a way as to express truths that are rooted in the core of our being. I was very amused by her articulating this connection, which I did not recall her doing last year, but not because what she was saying was inherently funny. I was smiling as I listened to Wendy make this very valid point because only the day before I had found the courage to give voice to the truth specifically about my experiences in the pelvic region, which also happens to be the locus of the root chakra.
To that end, so to speak, I created a new blog yesterday called Vaginologue. In my previous post, below, I wondered whether I should share the story of some particularly female experiences here, or whether they were better kept private. I also considered whethr there might be some other, more appropriate forum for such a conversation. I decided the last choice was best, so I created a separate blog devoted completely to the experience of being a woman. I recognize that I am in my essence a writer, and not a very private one; I am a memoirist more than a journalist. I write for a number of reasons, including to process some of my experiences and to heal from them, as well as to entertain and inform. I also believe in creating a community through writing, and I find blogging to be a wonderful way of reaching out, sharing stories as a means of connecting with other people. Some people believe memoir to be an immature, self indulgent, or narcissistic form of writing. I disagree, believing it to be in some ways the most courageous and valuable writing a person can provide for their readers. My first day of feedback on Vaginologue indicates that many of you agree with me.
So, as was also true last year at this time, my throat chakra is wide open. My neck is as long as it can be, and my head is held high and in proper alignment with the rest of my spine. I speak my truth fully and freely when people ask my advice or opinion. I tell people when I find what they are doing to be exceptional and praiseworthy. I also speak up when I think something is not right, whether I have been invited to or not. I try always to be respectful, but I am also as genuine and honest as courtesy allows.
All sorts of readers are welcome to read either or both of my blogs. I will continue to post to Unburied Treasure about my general adventures and random reflections. I reserve Vaginologue as a space in which I share my own story of being female, and invite readers in turn to share as much as they are comfortable doing, because I believe that each of us sharing our story can do a great deal of good. By exchanging stories of our unique personal experiences, in community, we can discover a commonality we never knew existed.
I just returned home from my favorite yoga class at one of these special places: Shine, in Hyde Park. As she did last year at the same time, Shine owner and yoga teacher Wendy Anderson is guiding us through the chakras, ninety minutes at a time, week by week. Last week, we focused our practice on the heart chakra, and the class happened to follow right on the heels of two lovely days of mild, sunny weather in the middle of winter, so we were all feeling the love.
Today, our practice was dedicated to opening the throat chakra, which enables us to speak our truth more fully and freely. Wendy reminded us, as we sat in preparation to begin, that we should keep part of our awareness on our root chakra, because we are not working to open our throat chakra merely to talk more freely. We want to open it in such a way as to express truths that are rooted in the core of our being. I was very amused by her articulating this connection, which I did not recall her doing last year, but not because what she was saying was inherently funny. I was smiling as I listened to Wendy make this very valid point because only the day before I had found the courage to give voice to the truth specifically about my experiences in the pelvic region, which also happens to be the locus of the root chakra.
To that end, so to speak, I created a new blog yesterday called Vaginologue. In my previous post, below, I wondered whether I should share the story of some particularly female experiences here, or whether they were better kept private. I also considered whethr there might be some other, more appropriate forum for such a conversation. I decided the last choice was best, so I created a separate blog devoted completely to the experience of being a woman. I recognize that I am in my essence a writer, and not a very private one; I am a memoirist more than a journalist. I write for a number of reasons, including to process some of my experiences and to heal from them, as well as to entertain and inform. I also believe in creating a community through writing, and I find blogging to be a wonderful way of reaching out, sharing stories as a means of connecting with other people. Some people believe memoir to be an immature, self indulgent, or narcissistic form of writing. I disagree, believing it to be in some ways the most courageous and valuable writing a person can provide for their readers. My first day of feedback on Vaginologue indicates that many of you agree with me.
So, as was also true last year at this time, my throat chakra is wide open. My neck is as long as it can be, and my head is held high and in proper alignment with the rest of my spine. I speak my truth fully and freely when people ask my advice or opinion. I tell people when I find what they are doing to be exceptional and praiseworthy. I also speak up when I think something is not right, whether I have been invited to or not. I try always to be respectful, but I am also as genuine and honest as courtesy allows.
All sorts of readers are welcome to read either or both of my blogs. I will continue to post to Unburied Treasure about my general adventures and random reflections. I reserve Vaginologue as a space in which I share my own story of being female, and invite readers in turn to share as much as they are comfortable doing, because I believe that each of us sharing our story can do a great deal of good. By exchanging stories of our unique personal experiences, in community, we can discover a commonality we never knew existed.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
self criticism (examining my virtual navel)
I truly love myself. I don't want to be anybody else but me. I am living an incredibly blessed life. This blog, with its positive name, very intentionally reflects that positive aspect of my reality, partially because it helps me to dwell in that space more than I might without the exercise of grounding myself in it by consciously writing about being in it. In a sense, blogging is a form of meditation for me. But as a resuly, I realize that this blog does not reflect my life accurately. Nobody's blog can, of course, so this is an example of my being self critical, I suppose. But an episode of the television show "House" brought the issue of self-censorship to my attention recently. There was a patient who blogged incessantly. She had a large, devoted following and she believed it was dishonest to withhold anything significant in her life from her readers. She went way outside her comfort zone in the name of blogging integrity, sharing things with her readers when she would have much preferred the luxury and comfort of keeping them private.
I do not operate this way, but I have lately wondered if some difficult things I am dealing with in my life belong on my blog or not. I generally do not want to air other people's dirty laundry on my blog, so my interpersonal stuff mainly stays out of this zone, with occasional exceptions. But I do wonder whether I am delivering maximum value to you, the reader, by staying - not at a superficial level, exactly - but closer to the surface than I sometimes might. I had to ask myself, after watching that episode of "House", whether I consciously edit what I share here in order to preserve a certain image of myself in your eyes. Or, would it be strange to share more here than I do in my sidewalk life, where I run into people in the flesh, seem to share so much, am considered extremely open, and yet still, hold so many things back?
For example, I am about to run out to a medical appointment for a condition many women suffer from in silence. I wonder whether I should be sharing my journey here about something I have denied and neglected for years. On the other hand, this is not a medical blog, and not just for women, either. So, that is a quandary I'm facing today as I head off to begin taking care of myself in a new way. I wonder whether to share and then I examine my impulse to hold back. Many questions arise: What is at the root of my fear? What is my purpose in blogging? From what aspect of my blogging do my readers currently derive the greatest value? Why blog if I am creating a fictional character of myself by doing so and at what point does editing (i.e. withholding) part of my truth make my blogging dishonest?
I would welcome your feedback.
I do not operate this way, but I have lately wondered if some difficult things I am dealing with in my life belong on my blog or not. I generally do not want to air other people's dirty laundry on my blog, so my interpersonal stuff mainly stays out of this zone, with occasional exceptions. But I do wonder whether I am delivering maximum value to you, the reader, by staying - not at a superficial level, exactly - but closer to the surface than I sometimes might. I had to ask myself, after watching that episode of "House", whether I consciously edit what I share here in order to preserve a certain image of myself in your eyes. Or, would it be strange to share more here than I do in my sidewalk life, where I run into people in the flesh, seem to share so much, am considered extremely open, and yet still, hold so many things back?
For example, I am about to run out to a medical appointment for a condition many women suffer from in silence. I wonder whether I should be sharing my journey here about something I have denied and neglected for years. On the other hand, this is not a medical blog, and not just for women, either. So, that is a quandary I'm facing today as I head off to begin taking care of myself in a new way. I wonder whether to share and then I examine my impulse to hold back. Many questions arise: What is at the root of my fear? What is my purpose in blogging? From what aspect of my blogging do my readers currently derive the greatest value? Why blog if I am creating a fictional character of myself by doing so and at what point does editing (i.e. withholding) part of my truth make my blogging dishonest?
I would welcome your feedback.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
