Tag: middle age

Happy Reunion

Watching Game of Thrones last night was like going to a big, happy reunion, getting reacquainted with a bunch of people from your past. (In the case of Game of Thrones, there was also a major feeling of relief – oh, yay, Jorah, Theon, Gendry – that’s right! You are still alive! Hooray!) Reunions, when you haven’t seen familiar people in a long, long time, are always joyful. You find that you are even happy to see the “less than savory” characters, because of the familiarity of your shared history. There’s been enough time and distance to soften the level of annoyance that person brought to your life and if you are honest, the annoyance that you may have brought to their life, as well.

Our two youngest children sat down with us to watch the start of the final season of Game of Thrones. They are not the GOT addicts that their parents are, so they had only seen a sprinkling of episodes. Other than what they heard anecdotally from us and their friends, they had no idea what was going on.

“You can watch with us but you can’t talk and ask questions while the show is on. Understood?” was my very serious proclamation before the show began and while HBO was ceremoniously teasing us with a countdown to the beginning of the final season.

Of course, throughout the show, I made several lively comments, as I joyfully recounted the history of the various characters to my children. They looked at each other knowingly, but dutifully kept quiet throughout the viewing of the episode. I must have used the word “remember” 18,000 times to my husband, as an old familiar face would pop up on the screen and we would try to recount what had happened to that particular character throughout the history of the Game of Thrones TV extravaganza. My only disappointment was, just like the weekend, the show was over way, way too fast. I had to check the clock to really be sure that we got our full hour’s worth.

“I was eating in a Chinese restaurant downtown. There was a dish called Mother and Child Reunion. It’s chicken and eggs. And I said, “I gotta use that one.” – Paul Simon

“Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.” – Arthur Schopenhauer

The Lens of Love

I’m about to write a post that is touchy and that might get me some flack, but I’m going to write it and I welcome any comments and insights. Last night, I rented a movie called If Beale Street Could Talk. Although the movies is based on a story by James Baldwin, it was written and directed by Barry Jenkins, the same writer and director of Moonlight. I didn’t like the movie. I found it slow moving and I found it hard to connect emotionally with the characters. I found the characters to be extreme, unbalanced, unrealistic and less than believable. But here’s the rub, I went into watching the movie, really wanting to like it. Why? Honestly, because I am a white woman and the movie is played by a mostly black cast. The movie depicts the unfair treatment one man faced when being wrongly accused of a crime, due to the vengeance of a racist police officer. The movie takes place in a city neighborhood mostly inhabited by black people.

I don’t believe that I am racist. Everything in my heart, soul and mind knows that racism is wrong. So, I have to ask myself, is it racist to want to like a movie, before even seeing it, because it is telling the story of the struggles many African-Americans face (struggles, that as a white woman who has always lived in upper-middle-class, mostly white neighborhoods can’t even begin to understand)? I don’t go into movies with mostly white casts, thinking, “I really hope that I like this movie.” I either like the movie or I don’t. But even at this point, I struggle to admit that I didn’t like If Beale Street Could Talk. I feel like I should like the film. I feel like by admitting that I didn’t like it, that I am perhaps not cultured enough to truly understand the greatness of the film. I feel like I am thinking way too much about this one movie. And all of the above statements, make me question my own personal views. If I am truly not racist, than every movie I watch would be judged the same way. I shouldn’t give any more thought to one movie or another. I either like the movie, I don’t – end of story.

I have these same struggles with my views on sexism. I am woman, for goodness sake! Of course I am not sexist! So why is it that I feel guilty about our choice of companies for our renovation project? We had three sales people give us quotes. Two of the sales people were women, and one was a man. We went with the man’s company. I am a woman who wants to support other women, but we honestly liked what the man’s company offered and designed, versus what the women’s companies offered. If I were truly not a sexist person, though, this thought wouldn’t even cross my mind, correct? If there is no sexism involved, whoever’s offer is best is what you go with, right? My husband and I both felt most comfortable with the man and his company. Did my husband relate more to the man? If he did, would that make him sexist?

I hope that my honesty hasn’t offended anyone. That is not my intention. I like to learn and grow and see things from all different perspectives. Perhaps the bigger issue here, is that I think and analyze just too damn much. I don’t know.

When my youngest son was a little boy and we lived in a different state, his best friend was black. His best friend’s parents were two older white people.

“Does J. ever talk about being adopted?” I asked him.

My son was aghast. His mouth dropped open. “J. is adopted?!?!” he asked.

My son then told his other friend in our car that J. was adopted.

His friend was aghast. “What?!? How do you know?!?”

“My mom told me,” my son said.

Maybe if we told our children less, we could be as wise as they are, without definitions, fears, intellectual arguments and smugness. Maybe we could learn again to just see the world through the unfiltered lens of childrens’ eyes. That lens is the only lens that matters – that lens is the lens of Love.

The Sound of Water

“Two waterfalls do not hear each other.” – u.fo Twitter

I don’t know what this says about me, but I had to look up the meaning of the above proverb, to be sure that I was understanding it. The proverb is saying that when two beings are being loud, endlessly making noise, there is no real communication happening. It is impossible to really “hear” and digest what is being said when everyone is talking at once.

My husband likes to hear our family’s chatter. Sometimes, I ask him why he is being so quiet and he says he just likes to “hear” our family. A couple of days ago, one of my meditations talked about how soothing the sound of water is to our hearts and souls. It’s so true. Think of all of the different sounds water makes. The trickle of a small fountain, the rush of the tide, rain hitting the roof, bubbly brooks flowing down a mountain, the filling of a bath tub with the anticipation of how good the water will feel against our skin are all the beautiful, unique nuances of the sound of water. The sound of water is incredibly therapeutic and available to all of us. If we just listen . . .

I guess the sound of water is like all things, best in moderation. The sound of two large, crashing waterfalls would become deafening after a while. But if we didn’t have all of the lovely sounds water makes, the silence could be deafening, too.

“The sound of water says what I think.” -Zhuangzi

“I first noticed how the sound of water is like the talk of human voices, and would sometimes wake in the night and listen, thinking that a crowd of people were coming through the woods.” – Freya Stark

Smack Dab in the Middle

We are at the halfway point of our home renovation project. We are at the crescendo point, where every bit of fatigue and frustration with the whole thing is meeting at a head and ready to explode. There is no turning back. You can only keep your eye on the prize – the end result. It’s like being halfway through earning an advanced degree or being halfway through a pregnancy. It’s like being a little over 13 miles on marathon day. It’s like Christmas break for seniors in high school. The end is not close enough in sight, for real hope or for that last, exciting burst of energy. But the beginning is far enough away, that there is no turning back.

Yesterday, the swirling ball of frustration and the “Will this ever end?” drama cloaked me in a gray cloud of doom. I feel sorry for anyone who had contact with me yesterday. Please accept my apologies. I am just getting a little tired of sharing a powder room with my daughter and having half of my bedroom being encased in a plastic tent. I keep peeking through the plastic, half expecting to see scientists working on E.T. or for Walter White from Breaking Bad to be cooking up some meth in what used to be my ridiculously ugly, yet intact and usable 1980s bathroom. But all I see now are bare naked walls and a project that feels like it is moving at a snail’s pace – a snail who is taking a nap.

I have been through long renovations before in other homes that we have owned. I thought that I had prepared myself and set my expectations correctly. But just like any long, arduous, expensive project one decides to partake on, you can never fully be prepared. It is best to just keep a stiff upper lip and carry out the old British adage, “Keep Calm and Carry On.” Of course, one of my favorite coffee cups has the American version of this adage printed on it: “Now Panic and Freak Out.” I’m an American.

Learning to Let Go

My eldest son got a big promotion at his job and moved just outside of the Big Apple a couple of weeks ago. As much as my heart strings have had to stretch, I am very excited and proud for him to partake in this adventure of a lifetime! Of course, the protective mom part of me is always concerned for his well-being.

We have family that live in that part of the country, but they are still wintering down south and while our son has acquaintances who live up north, I am not aware of anyone he is particularly close to, being in close proximity to his new digs. His work associates are still new to him and they are busy with their own lives and families. My son moved into an apartment without any roommates for the first time in his life. He comes from a big family. Oh my goodness, he must be so lonely! He might be feeling existential grief! (In this paragraph, I’ve just let you peek into where my mind has been swirling the last couple of weeks, in regards to my eldest son.)

So, of course, we have been texting my son regularly and keeping up with his life’s happenings. Turns out he spent his birthday (Friday evening) in Manhattan with some work associates and by the looks of the pictures, he had a blast. He made it safely back to suburbia and texted us beautiful, scenic pictures of a hike he took on a trail not far from his home yesterday.

“Did you hike there all by yourself?” was my tentative text.

“No, I did it with a local hiking group. It was great!” he replied.

Many years ago, when we did our first major move for my husband’s job, we were busy unpacking our things. Our eldest son, a budding first grader announced loudly, “Okay, it’s time to get out and meet some people!”

When he was in college, my son spent a summer semester in a study abroad program, travelling all over Europe. He told us that the Australian kids were particularly fun and wild, staying out to all hours of the night.

“I wonder how he knows that, ” my friend said snidely with a coy look on her pursed lips.

My eldest son has always been a confident, adventurous soul who lives life on his own terms. He has always beat his own drum, and his life’s rhythm has always been an upbeat, interesting, unique, spirited sound. Perhaps I should let my own heart beat along with his drum, instead of the slow, fearful, hesitant, projection of a protective, grasping heartbeat belonging to a loving mother who is having to learn to let go . . . .

Bread Pudding and Curly Fries

My daughter asked us to explain what “bread pudding” was the other day. In explaining it to her (I don’t serve it typically, because frankly, I don’t like it), I started to think about the origins of food and how there are certain dishes that have been around forever, but in reality, some cook, somewhere, had to make to the first version of it.

When I looked up the origin of bread pudding, it turns out that it started in the 11th or 12th century, as a frugal cook’s way to not let stale bread go to waste. It was called “poor man’s pudding” in England for centuries. I grew up in Pittsburgh, where pierogies were a popular dish. The “poor man’s pudding” reminded me of a friend who used to slap mashed potatoes in-between lasagna noodles and exclaim, “There! “Poor Man’s Pierogies!”

When I was in high school, my friend’s parents owned a restaurant and sometimes they would let us take their tickets for the local “food show.” I never turned those tickets down! It was at one of those food conventions that I experienced “curly fries” for the first time. After eating my sample, I knew that they would be a hit with me and with everyone else, for the rest of my years!

Food is such a vital part of a community’s identity. When you go to certain parts of the country you just have to eat their local specialty, i.e. Philly Cheesesteaks, Chicago Deep-dish Pizza, Texas and Carolina BBQ, San Francisco sour dough bread, etc. And then when you go back home from a fun trip, full of food breaks, you desperately try to find a local restaurant who can best duplicate the original specialty cuisine. What’s your favorite Greek restaurant, Italian restaurant, Mexican restaurant, and/or Chinese restaurant? I bet we can all answer that question.

I guess I must be hungry right now to be pondering food so much. We have been celebrating birthdays and life with a lot of caloric gusto lately, so last night I told my husband I was just wanting to feast on some salad. So we split a nice, green-y salad and then we decided we might as well split a lobster BLT with some onion straws, for good measure. (We live in a part of the country that is known for good seafood.) Oh, well, baby steps . . . . into the kitchen . . .

Fly Away

Happy Birthday to the love of my life! My husband turns 50 today. Yesterday, I decided to make our rather torn up (due to renovations) house look a little more festive for his birthday, than its current “war zone” look. I went to the florist/balloon section of our local grocery store. There, they keep all of the mylar balloons in bags with pictures of what they look like. I picked a “5” and a “0” and I asked the florist to fill the balloons while I did the rest of my shopping. When I came back to get the balloons, imagine my surprise that these balloons are about 3 feet tall, each, when filled with helium!!

Now, I drive a small convertible. There was no way all of the groceries and the balloons were going to fit into my car with the top up. So, I had to put the top down. I had to weigh down the balloons with my purse and some heavy groceries and I had to drive home at the sludgy speed of a turtle. Drivers in my area of the country, are a bit aggressive and obtuse, so I literally had someone right behind me, tailing me, when they could have driven around me. I’m wondering if they did it to annoy me. It was the most stressful 10 minute drive home, I’ve ever had!

Still, the balloons made it home without flying away and they definitely add to the festivity. The things we do for love. I’m glad that I didn’t get pulled over, although a police escort might have eased the tension of the drive. It’s times like this that you wish you could have an out-of-body experience and look at yourself, and the crazy things that you do in life. It would be very easy to be self-amused, in my case.

Sacredness in Tears

I don’t have words today. Everything that I write seems trivial and wrong and ridiculous. You see, one of my good friends, a friend who has been so supportive of my writing and of my blog, is going through one of the worst pains imaginable for a parent. She lost her child. And nothing I say or write or do, can take that pain away. My heart is breaking for her. She is bearing her own pain, plus the pain of her husband and her other children. All that I can do for her, right now, is to pray for comfort and peace, for both she and her family. I ask you for your prayers for my friend and for her family as they travel that treacherous, long, rocky road called Grief. I love you, friend. I’m here for you.

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the 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

Is Anything Private?

“The only thing someone spying on me would learn is how many of my meals I eat in bed.” – someecards

I read an article the other day talking about how people are now doing a new form of cyber-stalking by watching people’s Venmo transactions. What?!? Apparently, unless you change the setting, all Venmo transactions that you have made, sending money to various people for various reasons, are public, for all the world to see. As a mother who does scan the transactions in my college son’s bank account, I am acutely aware of how much information you can glean from just looking at bank statements. Late night and early morning uber charges, are very telling.

I have a friend who can always give me “the skinny” on all of our kids’ mutual friends. I asked her once how she knows all of this stuff and how she can keep up with it all. She told me that she has insomnia and that teenagers are very public and open about their lives, on-line.

I’m still guilty of the “what I don’t know, can’t hurt me” mentality. I like living in my own fantasy land, believing that the world is a prettier, neater, kinder, place than it often is, sometimes. There is a lot out there that I really just prefer not to know, even with The Truth (if it is the truth?!?) being available to me with just a couple of Google searches and a click of the mouse. I guess I would have made a terrible detective.

“I’m not a stalker. I’m just curious and oh and, by the way, you are out of milk.” – someecards

Fried-day

Last night, I ordered the fried seafood extravaganza at a local little restaurant my husband and I love to frequent. With a side of fries. It arrived, a giant, overflowing pile of various shapes, in crispy brown. Yes, it tasted great, but now my mouth is still coated in grease, my stomach is churning and burning, and my mind is trying to come up with a formula for the number of cucumbers and kale leaves I must eat today, to counteract the damage done. I’m going to have to cut this short today, friends. (Friend is a much better word than fried, it’s amazing what one little letter can do . . . ) Virginia Woolf said it best:


“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” 

Nor can one write well. Well, maybe Virginia Woolf could, but she was Virginia Woolf.