Handprint

I learned to laugh at myself one summer day, circa 1983, on my front porch.  Suzy, my first friend and next door neighbor was over and she was teaching me a song from the Eurythmics. 

“Sweet dreams are made of this, who I am to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas, everybody’s looking for something….”.    She sang confidently out into the open, holding an imaginary microphone. She was nine months older and one school grade ahead of me.  In other words, she was old enough to give me advice.

So I tried, but without the microphone.

“Sweet dreams are made of this, (pause)

who I am to disagree? (pause)

I travel the world….”

Abruptly, she cuts me off.

“No, like this” she sings, louder: “Sweet dreams are made of THIS,” (emphasis)

“Sweet dreams are made of THIS,” I repeat.

And again:

 “Sweet dreams are made of THIS,

WHO am I to DISAGREE, I travel THE world…

It went on.  For some reason she was determined that hour to help me get the tempo right. I was shameless in front of her, no pretend pride, we’d met when we were four, after all.  She knew my deepest secrets, my weird fears, my private matters. She had been witness to all big occasions- first lost tooth, first bra, and the events in between.  So I kept trying, despite failing, until the entire song was reduced to one simple sentence of beats that she patiently counted out.  And then, we both laughed --at me.

Although we had endless amounts of days like this —strawberry milk at her house, grilled cheese at mine, Suzy and I eventually went our separate ways, until finally, I couldn’t see her window at night.  We caught up at our weddings but that was it.  Our overlapping childhood was replaced with the separations of time, maturity, and shifting allegiences; divergence to different paths age often brings. We lost touch during the busy-ness of our twenties and she died before we could reconnect in our later years to relive our early memories of our days up in her apple trees.  There is no one else who knows me in the way that she did.  And although we could only see what was different back then, I now see that the differences fueled our early connection.

Rachel entered my life during my college years, in the form of a teaching mentor and advisor. Just graduated with a Doctorate from Harvard, she held none of the loftiness one would expect. Instead she approached life with a gentle but direct intellect that informed her observations.  She’d notice the details, the child in the corner who was getting overlooked or the teacher who took shortcuts. Her honesty was heartfelt, and always meaningful, she did not shy away from constructive advice. Her goal was to create growth--in any place or person- she found. I looked up to her as my teacher and felt the separation that hierarchy demands but that perspective changed one day in a public school in Western Mass.  Rachel happened to be eight months pregnant, which in itself was tiring with her workload. But added to that she had a horrible case of poison ivy.  Covered, swollen and itchy in a pink dotted tent dress, she actually started to cry during her assessment of me.  And in that moment I was startled to realize that Rachel didn’t just see me as her student, she saw me as a friend.

When I finished school, she sustained her interest in me, writing me long letters in her careful cursive writing, month after month through the years. She always shared details of her life, her efforts at teaching reading to those who needed it most, shaking her head at misguided establishment bureaucracies that prevented kids from getting needs met, her yearly experiences with her Fresh Air Fund Child, the list continued. I remained in awe—both by her patience and her willingness to share her time with me during her very full life.  In fact, I was never as good at writing long letters, but would try to make up for things by long phone calls to catch up, though it felt like cheating. I never wanted to disappoint her. I still remember where I was standing when I got her letter that detailed her “latest challenge”, as she described it: stage four cancer.  Reading the words over and over again, I slowly digested the sadness that she carefully left out. At her funeral, about seven years later, the Shaker song she chose was so fitting it made me weep as it rang true in the big church —“tis a gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free, tis a gift to come down where we ought to be…

and when we find ourselves in the place just right, ‘twill be in the valley of love and delight.”   

And finally, Charmaine appeared with the arrival of Will, my firstborn.  She lived right next door in our little row of townhouses. Despite being my age and childless (not by choice), she’d pop over without knocking and burst in like the ray of sunshine we needed but could not find-even though our shades were up. Long days alone with a newborn are disorienting, especially when there is no particular schedule. I had actually run out of things to say to Will by 9am.  But then, there she’d be, at our most desperate moment—chatting away about anything, nothing, about the strawberry that I was holding, waving it in front of Will excitedly. I’d be in my pajamas but she was from Texas, so she was in her high heels and makeup.  I’d ask her where she was going, and she’d answer “to the grocery store,” and I’d say something like “you don’t have to dress up to go to the store here in NJ, like that” and she’d just look at me quizzically.  (To this day, whenever I accidently end up at Kings in my slippers, I think of Charmaine). She rambled on with Will and he smiled back at her, clearly relieved by her lightness of being. She taught me how to make real barbecue and gave me a Junior Women’s League Texas edition cookbook that I have cherished over the years.  (Those Texan women must be pretty competitive because I have never owned a recipe book with so many good recipes. Usually you have to buy a whole series.) Charmaine ended up moving a year or two later, and we gradually lost touch. With the advent of Facebook about fifteen years later, I was able to thank her for her help during that first year of Will’s life before she abruptly died of pancreatic cancer last spring.

So this is the gift that death leaves behind to those still alive, a sudden and complete understanding of the essence of the person, which remains like a permanent handprint in our lives. The other details, the details of our differences fade away in the wake of premature endings.  Instead, we are left remembering the specific light of that one person that glowed in its very particular way.  I’d like to think that I made the most of the relationships I had with these three particular women—women that intersected my life at critical junctures.  But the truth of the matter is, is that I didn’t.  There were reasons of course.  Busy with different paths. Busy with life. Busy with kids. Or even busy inserting other people in the places that those people left empty when we changed towns. But now I look back and think about how each one of them changed me so specifically, that of course they have always been irreplaceable. Their absence is only softened by their permanent mark on my life. 

Not Routine

It’s been a month of breaking routine, culminating with a café latte at a new Italian place at 5pm one afternoon, a decidedly small test of my commitment.  Usually it’s a bad time to have caffeine on account of the risk involved of not being able to fall asleep later because of those intrusive thoughts that alarm you.  College kids on road trips demand that sleep stay on track.  The young woman at the counter, however, appeared a bit bored, just wiping off the new shiny frother, without real purpose, as things were already in good order.   Impulsively I ordered it as an act of generosity and because I had specifically decided not to worry about the future.  Walking back to my car with my bag of specialties, including another spontaneous purchase of very expensive pistachio butter, I put my latte in my cup holder and felt the stirrings of liberation, small that they were.

Soon after, one early evening, I found myself on a walk at a time usually reserved for making dinner. Facing the setting sun, a memory drifted into my thoughts—those occasional nights in college when I had chosen to stay home instead of going out.  Alone in my dorm room I’d sometimes decide to head over to the indoor track and run with Suzanne Vega playing on my headphones.  Running, lap after lap, 10 to a mile, in a mostly deserted place but bright with florescent light. Other scattered people would be there, although there was a randomness that felt comforting, as if I wasn’t really alone in my search for something else. I ran miles longer that I ever could in daylight.   Now, on the cold road in early spring, I could almost smell the red cushioned track of my past in the evening air, and it reminded me of possibility.

It all started, these miniscule escapes, when I ended up unexpectedly at my brother’s house for an unplanned week.   My husband made the lunches back home, as I texted instructions about preferences: iceberg lettuce rather than romaine; mayo on one, vinegar on the other; etc.   It was a first for me to leave everyone behind and that week found the kids surprised to find Oreos  (not flax seed tortilla chips) wrapped in tin foil (not un-dyed wax paper) at the bottom of their brown lunch bags.  Meanwhile, my brother and I drove through the tight snow banked streets of Boston looking for parking, while recalling our childhood and dissecting the variables that made us choose our paths.  We walked together to pick up his youngest from school and chatted with the crossing guard, remembering our own Mrs. Lake who waited for us each afternoon on Main Street.  The people of his town all knew his name as we sat in different bars at night while they served the two of us dinner.  At noon, we met at yoga and he showered before returning to work a few steps away.

It had been years since my brother and I drove together, in the car, unfettered by spouses and children.  It was during our very late teens the last time this happened for any significant time---that we’d drive to escape our encapsulated lives.  We’d end up in the city looking for stereo equipment or one time, Minnesota, on a road trip across the country that ended abruptly the moment we realized our sibling limitations.  Staring at the little tent in upstate Canada made us realize that camping might not be the thing that would bond us together. But this week, in the outskirts of Boston, was a touchstone of a certain sort.  It was an intimate glance at both of our lives, a midlife checkpoint of where we were at, and we found we had decidedly different insights to offer one another.  It was as if our childhood heartbreaks had brought us to this moment---where an honest analysis of our past informed our future.  But the bigger issue was that it was just the two of us together, and it was easier to see each other clearly.  It is hard to measure the impact of surrounding demands (work, travel, family, children) on the essential relationships we crave.

There are few people who know us so deeply well.  Few people, in fact, who are witness to the early light of who we are, before experiences and challenges shape us to our current selves, before life gives us the narrative. Many hours and days of obligations deny us easy access to our original intuitions --yet, if we are lucky enough to see ourselves reflected by a long time friend and/or sibling and are able to look honestly, the barriers fall away—and, possibly, we find the courage to return to our elemental selves.

And, finally, the last place I arrive this month is at a meditative retreat—the place where the spotlight shines on the soul.  And though huddled together in a crowd--with my knees touching the person in front of me, while feeling the breath of those next to me, I am actually alone.  Instructed to close our eyes, we are asked to concentrate on something that we want to change, something to let go of, an intention of sorts.  Even though it is a private mission, there feels some public pressure to think of something, anything/ to not be the one who doesn’t have something to find.   So I follow the plan and I close my eyes.

It’s oddly surprising how in a crowded, quiet room, monuments of the mind can actually start to shift.  That practiced ways of living in the world offer themselves up to change.   Suddenly, we are able to entertain the possibility of letting go of the constructs that do not serve us, the boundaries that stop us from feeling.  It’s scary to change the comfortable routines.  But these routines are the true barriers to our senses, our memories and our connection to truly feeling alive.  

Untidy Life

Meat thermometers and fat separators were among the myriad of items my mom brought to me to equip my first kitchen.  No matter that I was a vegetarian at the time, soon enough I would get serious and come to my senses she surmised.  She has strong opinions about what belongs in a kitchen and stopping the influx of rectangular 9x14 Pyrex baking dishes over the years required an official statement, not an easy thing to do with mothers.  But my stack of glass cookware had gotten so tall that it was in danger of toppling over and breaking someone’s finger.  And, honestly, a supply of 15 pie plates is more than enough, especially when you don’t bake pies.  One notable item, one that she snuck in under the radar and a bag of cookies, was a shiny brand new looking food mill.  “This is what you need to make applesauce” she confided, as if---AS IF- I would ever make homemade applesauce.  In fact, just looking at the handle elicited some odd remembrances from childhood that gave me pause.  But of course, I thanked her in the only way you can when you don’t want something and put it in the back of the cabinet.  It has been quite some time that I have actually even thought about it.

But recently, I happened upon a wonderful book called “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up” by Marie Kondo.  You might have seen a review of this book in the NY Times magazine recently.  It truly is life changing----if, and only if, you do not have awkward fitting appliances like applesauce mills.  Her main thesis is to move things on in your life that do not bring you joy.  I started with my underwear drawer, which was very clear cut, moved on to socks, then shirts.  I tasted some freedom of which she described, leaving me yearning for more.  But all that stuff was comparatively easy, as my resolve was truly tested when I got held up on old letters from the box in the basement. Old friends came to life and I had to, of course, reread the notes and then track them down on Facebook, a time consuming task. 

I reread the book for inspiration and decided the kitchen would be the next logical step, more  manageable with fewer emotional ties. What was I thinking?   I might as well have been in the Fire Swamp scene from The Princess Bride.  Everywhere I looked there was a gifted appliance from my generous mom that I needed, including 1950’s era flour/sugar/coffee/tea containers rescued from my mom’s dear friend’s estate sale.  Let me point out humbly here that there is no chapter in this book for this particular situation.  None.  My mom had delivered them with such pride of accomplishment-- and belief-- that I had the depth to appreciate their ageless beauty, efficiency and practicality.   It turns out that Life Changing Magic of Tidying isn’t quite so simple.

Now, in the meantime, there was an event this week that confirmed that I am just unready for total and complete decluttering. Strolling along on Facebook, I happened to click on “crockpot recipes for some easy dinner ideas.”  It has been so cold out, after all, that a crockpot seems to be a solution of some kind.  Unexpectedly, among the dinner ideas was a recipe for simple crockpot applesauce.  It coincided with a moment in time when Charlie, who happens to love applesauce, was all out of the individual container variety.  How fun, I thought, to make him some warm applesauce in the crockpot!  It would be so easy.  So, a few days later I picked up some apples at the store.  In the meantime, I had actually forgotten why I was making applesauce because I had forgotten about the crockpot article.  I just remembered to buy apples because they were on the list.  When I got home, I googled applesauce recipes  (still forgetting about the crockpot) which just entailed coring them, slicing them and putting them on a pot on the stove.  Which I did.

The next step in the recipe was to puree the apples and of course I had several options here –the immersion blender? my Cuisinart? the Vitamix?  Great options!  But wait.  I suddenly remembered about the applesauce mill in the back of the cabinet.   So a few minutes later, there I was, in the kitchen, rinsing off that dusty thing and turning the squeaky handle.  It was a decidedly odd feeling spinning the cooked apples. It had been a long journey to this moment.  Years in fact.  What had I been avoiding? I wondered what Marie Kondo would say about this.  My boys, staring at me, asked why I was making applesauce.  

“Because I don’t like freedom, I guess?”  was my reply.  

For the Last Time

With icecream, you have some warning when you are getting to the last bit. You can emotionally prepare bowl by bowl and when things are looking close to the end you can go out and get some more --or at the very least, not be startled when you run out. But endings of the “details” of life are so much more insidious and surprising.  It’s hard to tell when it will be the last time you do something.  I mean, everyday for 18 years, I was giving some little boy a bath.  I was soaping up someone’s head, telling them to “close their eyes and tilt back” and then taking a random plastic cup, filling it up and rinsing off the bubbles. Everyday. Until I was not. 

And the really strange thing was is that I didn’t notice the change of events right away.  It was actually a couple weeks later or even a month or two, if I was to be totally honest.  I was in the middle of making dinner, and, while stirring the onions, the random thought intruded-I can’t remember the last time I washed Charlie’s hair. My thoughts then escalated as I realized that you can be doing something every single day without notice, because it is so usual—but then one day, when you aren’t paying attention, the 20-year old routine dies because your kid started taking showers.  Although you technically noticed that he was taking showers, you were not paying attention to the other thing—the fact that you are not giving him a bath.  

So, in this example, I did what any normal mother would do.  I immediately tracked down Charlie, who was busy doing something else and casually, as if this was the most routine question in the world, asked if he minded if I washed his hair that night.  He said “sure,” as I thought to myself- thank you. Thank You.  His simple acquiescence meant I was given one more chance –one more chance to pay attention. And I did.  I soaped up his childhood head, scrubbed a little longer than it needed, made a little design with the soap through the layers of very thick hair, all while thinking about the thousands of baths I had given. They summarized themselves into this very last one that I would always remember.  As I absorbed the warmth and the water, I also absorbed the ending.

How do you remember to pay attention, daily-To say to yourself, notice THIS moment.  Everyday I read some quote on Facebook or in my ‘Book of Days’, or in some spam forwarded email that tells me to live in the moment.  So I read the quote and think “yes” I am going to live in the moment.  But then, there are all these daily routines that escape me, that numb me.  And when they change---like when my oldest went to college and I only had to make three lunches instead of four---I was busy feeling freedom.  Until the freedom actually came, and then I only felt nostalgia. 

Heritage Day is coming up at school.  I know this because I got one of those Evite reminders to sign up for something.  I can donate water bottles, utensils, muffins, or I can go in and serve the heritage day foods and help with cleanup.  A few years ago the Evite reminders filled my email. Annoyingly so.  There were lots of times I either had to drop off the water or even delete the mail because I had so many things to do.  But this is fifth grade.  From experience, I know that the events will now be few and far between.  As I checked off the box to help serve the food, I realize that volunteering at school is becoming a thing “I used to do.” I am glad for this opportunity to volunteer--but more importantly, I am glad for this chance to prepare for the ending.   I don’t want to be surprised the next time I am cooking dinner.