Tag: nostalgia

The Bins

My future daughter-in-law has lately asked me more than once, to dive into my big plastic bin, to find specific types of pictures for all different events of their wedding celebration. I hope that I’m not the only one who never got into a creative scrapbooking phase, and who still has a big, full, messy plastic bin, jam-packed with pictures. “The Bin of Intentions” – The bin that has been on the vague side of my to-do list for probably decades has been opened and entered more times this year, than probably when I first hastily dumped all of the pictures in it, when we moved from North Carolina to Florida in 2011. (the bin also has a twin sister, jam-packed with our four kids’ (whose present day ages span 30-22) school art projects and crafts. The bin sisters both live surreptitiously, side by side, on a shelf in the garage.) We do have a couple of neat, organized, well-done photo albums, which we peruse through, here and there, and all of our modern day pictures are easily found on our phones, or projected up on our Aura frames, but the bin pics are from that in-between stage of life, when all of the real change seems to happen. The bin pictures are from a time when we were so busy raising four kids, and occasionally capturing these moments on camera, and then carelessly letting the developed pictures precariously pile up until I finally went to Walmart and bought giant plastic bins to dump all of the pictures in. These are the same bins that the movers rightfully groaned about, saying that they were too full and heavy.

“Full and heavy.” The movers were correct. And I’m not talking about physical weight. There is an emotional weight inside of those bins that I don’t like to approach. I don’t like the feelings of nostalgia and melancholy. And the bins are enormous Pandora’s boxes, loaded with high, high doses of nostalgia and melancholy. The bins are filled with evidence of so many different stages of life, that each stage almost seems to amount to a life unto its own. The bins are so full, of so much, it’s a wonder that they don’t just burst, like an overfilled balloon.

I was talking to my future daughter-in-law’s mother at the wedding shower about the childhood pictures, which we were both tasked to bring. When my future daughter-in-law, who is an only child, was a teenager, her father died, while her parents were in the middle of divorcing. My future daughter-in-law’s mother said to me, that it was surreal for her to pull out the old childhood pictures. “I had forgotten that at one time, we were so very happy. We, at one time, were such a happy family,” she said to me winsomely.

They say that pictures say a thousand words, but I don’t necessarily agree with this statement. Pictures never tell the whole story. Pictures are typically taken at times of celebration and reunion and joy. People pose for pictures. People smile for pictures, automatically, no matter what. Pictures are wonderful reminders of good times shared, and they are also snapshots of time, never to be retrieved again. I love to be reminded of the joyful moments, but my heart aches when I come across all that has been changed and lost – the loved ones who have passed on, the relationships that are now irretrievably broken, the places that even if you go back to them, will never be the same way as they once were, the reminder that you have been so many variations of your own self, as life has continually moved on, moment after moment, day after day . . . . I suppose that nostalgia and melancholy are made up of an intense feelings mix-up/mishmash of joy, pride, awe, disbelief and also a stomach-pitting grief. The bins promote feelings at an intensity that I can only take in really, really small doses.

Therefore, just for now, after a day of sorting, remembering, smiling, crying, feeling intense awe and gratitude for just how much of everything is packed into living the life and lives, of just one family, the bins remain closed. The feelings remain contained. The bins can hold them, until I am ready to feel them again.

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” – Marcel Proust


“How sad and bad and mad it was — / But then, how it was sweet!” – Robert Browning

“Nostalgia makes hallowed ground from mundane places.” – Caroline George

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Monday Got Me Good

“How alive your heart to feel such sorrow!” – from Catherine Newman’s bestselling book, Sandwich

So last month, I was out to lunch with two friends and our one friend gave each of us a different book that she had finished reading. She told us to read them and then to swap them. So the other day, my generous book-giving friend mentioned in a casual text to me that our other friend had finished her book. I hadn’t even started mine. So, in a frenzied mix of competiveness and a dutiful sense of consideration, I finished my book, front to back, all on Monday. That book was Sandwich by Catherine Newman, and it was essentially a heart-bearing, brutally honest account of a woman in the exact stage of life me and my friends are in – empty nest, menopause, having the people whom we love on both ends of our lives, slowly and methodically fading out of our lives, in different ways. Being in the “sandwich” stage of life, our adult children are moving out and on, and our elders are slowing, aging and sometimes even passing on. Newman mentioned something about us being at a “fulcrum” stage of our lives. Sandwich was a great, relatable read, mostly in how it touched on the big emotions and the almost feeling of disbelief, which this stage of our lives brings to the table. For me, the book was mainly a reflection of the poignancy of life and the beauty of love and living fully. Here is my favorite excerpt from the book:

“Here’s what foragers know: Most of what grows is neither delicious nor toxic. There’s a whole world between what we call the choice edibles- the hazelnuts and porcini and black raspberries- and say, the destroying angel mushrooms that will shut down all your organ systems after a single nibble. You can eat the grass, the lichen, and the inner bark of most trees, a thousand kinds of leaves. Not that you would, but you could. So much of privileged adulthood seems to take place here, in the space between the soaring highs and the killing disasters. It’s just plain life, beautiful in its familiar subtlety, its decency and dailiness.”

So after finishing the book, I felt a little more fragile than usual. My feelings were closer to the surface and at that moment, I remembered that I had to get six pictures of various stages of my middle son’s life to his future mother-in-law for their upcoming wedding shower. That entailed me and my husband opening up one of two enormous plastic tubs, with dusty lids, in the garage, full of photographs. Photos I haven’t viewed in years. Photos full of my children in baby clothes, and sports uniforms, and prom attire and cuddling with various pets. Photos full of vacations taken, birthdays celebrated, and sweet everyday moments which we were lucky enough to catch on camera, because something deep in us, wanting a sweet token of that simple moment for posterity. The box was full of pictures of people who are still in our lives at all different stages of their lives, and also of people who, for various reasons, are no longer in our lives. There were literally piles and piles of pictures of the life of our family, at every single stage of it. And so yeah, Monday got to me. Monday got me good.

Besides nostaglia, and meloncholy, and wishing that certain things had turned out differently, but also primarily feeling awe and gratefulness for how well most of those “raising the kids” years had gone, I also sensed myself feeling deep compassion for young mother me in all of those pictures. She was much prettier and thinner and obviously more engaged and earnest than I ever gave her credit for being. I was so damn tough on her a lot of the times. I wish I could reach back in time and offer her a glimpse of the grace I feel for her now. I guess the best thing I can do, is offer up that same grace to myself, now, in this meaningful stage of my life, so that when I am elderly and peering through the stacks (or reels) of photos and mementos, I can recognize myself as exactly who I am – a faithful forager, doing my best to enjoy and to savor my “just plain life, beautiful in its familiar subltety, its decency and dailiness.”

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

First Time

Yesterday I read a delightful article that I had trepidations about reading at first. The article was about foreigners visiting the USA for the first time in order to experience the World Cup. It was a collection of social media posts about what their thoughts were about America, now seeing it for the first time. And although I didn’t know what the slant of the article would be at first, thankfully, this was a kind and thoughtful collection of posts. These first-time foreign visitors were thrilled with visiting all-American places like Taco Bell and Wal-Mart and Waffle House. (this reminded my daughter and I about when we were on a flight home from Europe one time, hearing two young European women talking excitedly about trying pancakes for the first time, immediately when they landed in the USA) Some of the posts were about how green and wide-open the visitors found America to be. One German man stated that the forests seemed to go on and on and on. The article’s point was about what a joy it is to get to experience these “first-timers” experiences along with them. It brought some magic back to our ordinary, everyday All-American things. Seeing others delight in what we often take for granted, is perfect timing, with our country’s 250th birthday right around the corner.

There is something so special about experiencing anything for the first time. This is why I am often wary of experiencing the same places or things more than once. The “next time” just never seems to hold the same excitement and awe as the first. You have to adjust your expectations to understand that familiar places, and things, and experiences will often not live up to the hype of your memories when you go to experience them again. However, the best remedy to this, is to bring someone with you, who’s never seen or experienced what you already have, and then delight in their own delight. When you get to look at what has become known or ordinary to you through the fresh eyes of someone else, the vicarious thrill and pride and remembrance is a feeling which is almost as good as any wonderful first-time experience. Their appreciation becomes a renewed appreciation in yourself. In this way, you sharing a special place or experience with a newcomer, becomes a gift to yourself, as well. No wonder why our kindergarten teachers knew that sharing was the most important lesson to impart to us, because sharing is a loving gift that lasts a lifetime for both the recipient and the sharer.

It is also true that excitement begets excitement. When I go somewhere that I have never been, I get giddy, like a kid in a candy store. And I can feel the locals attracted to my happiness and so they often go out of their way to make my experience as amazing as it can be. They have a renewed sense of honor and confidence about what they are offering in their corner of the world. It is my gift to them, to help them to feel this way again about “their stuff and their turf”, and it is their gift to me, to share the best that they have to offer.

It’s so easy to attack and look for the faults in anything. When I look at the list that some of the people visiting were excited about: Wal-Mart, Taco Bell, Waffle House – I can feel a sneer forming on my lips. But it’s not about the places. It’s about experiencing something new like you’ve never seen. It’s interesting to experience almost anything novel, even if you decide it’s not anything you would ever want to experience again.

I hope that we all offer the best that we have to our World Cup visitors. And I hope that they look for the best in us. It is a truth in life that you often see what you look for, and when you look at things with curiosity and enthusiasm and optimism, what you see and what you get, add up to amazing memories that last a lifetime, like the first time a delicious, steaming stack of pancakes was headed your way. And the only real way to experience that feeling again, is to watch someone happily dig into the first pile of pancakes which they have ever tried.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Anesthesia

My daughter-in-law hired a “day of wedding coordinator” named Anastasia for the wedding last week. My daughter-in-law’s mother’s Autocorrect feature on her cellphone, constantly changed the name “Anastasia” to “Anesthesia”, which while amusing, was actually quite apropos. I don’t know if I have ever met a more calm, soothing, serene woman than Anastasia in my entire life, particularly at a wedding. Anastasia was like an eight-armed goddess as she sewed, handed out flowers, took instant photos, steamed dresses, and calmly reminded everyone where they should be at any given time, all at once, and all of the while, maintaining the aura of pure peace and serenity. Whenever we had a question or concern, we would joke with each other that Anastasia would magically, and instantly appear, sometimes out of the fireplace, or the floorboards, to answer the question or to solve the problem, calmly and confidently. It reminded me of a long time ago, when we were on the Disney Cruise with our four young children. It was at that time that I started truly believing that Disney magic was actually the real deal, when again, the beyond cheerful crew and smiling staff appeared almost miraculously and instantly, in order to solve any issues or upsets, with just a wave of Tinkerbell’s wand. Throughout the day and night, my daughter-in-law kept repeating that Anastasia was easily the best money spent on the wedding.

It was at one point during the evening, right before the wedding was to start, that I blurted out, for no particular reason, “I WANT an Anastasia in my life.” Then, a second later, in a lightbulb moment, I blurted out, to no one in particular, but to anyone in earshot, “I think that I am my family’s Anastasia.”

My middle son, about to take a bite out of a piece of the pre-wedding pizza, matter-of-factly stated, “You are, Mom.” Then he continued to joke around with the other groomsmen.

This was one of those personal a-ha moments that came out of left field for me. It occurred to me, just in that very moment, that our family always did have a live-in Anastasia. It was me. We moms are our families’ “Anastasia/Anesthesia”. Now I’m not going to pretend that I ever pulled it off with such placid and tranquil vibes that the real Anastasia imbued. I’m not go to pretend that I never had a meltdown in a crisis. But overall, I fully understood that it was my job to make sure that our family’s schedule/celebrations/sporting events/ceremonies/appointments/feeding times/surprise emergencies, etc. etc. were all handled, and executed in a timely manner, day after day. I was the one who made sure that the Venn Diagram schedule of each member of our family, happened and flowed, in the best way possible. And all of my other fellow moms did the exact same thing for their families. And sometimes, we even pulled it off, with totally unruffled energy, making it look simple and seamless. Damn, we were good. Damn. We are good.

When our four kids were little, it was never the physical work that made me totally exhausted (although it certainly added to the mix), it was the mental exhaustion that got to me every time. I would often wish that someone would just hand me a timed schedule, and a to-do list, and a recipe and a plan for what to make for dinner, all which I could accomplish in a tranced-out robotic state and still have time and energy for my own interests and hobbies. (My husband will be forever scarred by the one time that he called me at a McDonalds to ask me what exactly he should order for each of the four kids, on a rare Mommy’s Night Out. Let’s just say that I didn’t have a serene response.)

I’m not writing this in “victim-mode.” This choice to be the matriarch of my family is the best decision that I have ever made in my entire life. I would make the exact same decision again and again. Being the female head of my family, is my honor, privilege and my greatest pride. However, lately, I am starting to get a better understanding and a closer-up glimpse, that it really is time for me to start pulling way back, scaling down my self-described duties, in order to just really put my focus on being a lighter-duty Anastasia – a concierge, mostly for myself. This is a strange adjustment. This transition doesn’t happen instantly. It starts slowly when one kid moves out, and then another. It becomes more obvious, when the kids graduate and find loving, responsible adult partners who are looking out for them, too. It’s the realization that the grocery cart doesn’t need to be nearly as full anymore. It’s the mental and emotional shift of being an active creator of the life of your family unit, to becoming the more passive experiencer/observer of the expanding lives of your family. It’s the realization that your family has now become plural. There are multiple sprouts growing in the family garden now. Your family is becoming “families.”

As a mom, I will always be an Anastasia/Anesthesia in some form or other. It comes with the territory. It’s a hard habit to break. Something tells me, I’ll pull off a serene Anastasia a little bit better with my future grandchildren. I certainly hope that I have the opportunity to try.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Farewell

Yesterday we gave our Ethan Allen dining room set to a worthwhile charity. Next week, my husband and I will be married for 31 years. We bought that dining set a few years into our marriage. It was one of our first “major, significant” purchases of our marriage. And honestly, this set signified so much more than just a table and chairs and a place to eat. It was paid for by one of my husband’s first bonuses from work and it cost almost the entire bonus. It was one of those moments that I knew that my husband’s chips were all in, on me and our children. We were “it” for him.

We took our dining room set to four different houses, in three different states. We hosted on it, countless Christmas dinners and Thanksgiving dinners and other various celebrations along the way. Although the set was made of top quality solid wood and we were generally careful with it, like us, it was definitely showing its age. It had a fair number of scratches (and I could have named most of their occurrences) and as the kids grew up and out, it became more of a “catch all” than any part of a fine dining experience. In our current house, the dining room is a 12 foot square, and so the long rectangular shape of the table, always felt somewhat teetering on its edge, when all of its leaves were in it. (Sometimes, I would worriedly envision the Thanksgiving Dinner plunging to its untimely demise, since our dining room is two steps up from the main floor) And while the dining table was a simple, traditional style, it wasn’t old enough to be considered “mid-century” style. In short, it was hopelessly out of place and outdated.

And so yesterday, we gave away our Ethan Allen dining room set to a worthwhile charity. And today I am reflecting on what it represented to me: love, generosity, quality, celebration, abundance, memories, solidity, constancy, reliability, artistry and craft. Despite contrary belief, sometimes it is the “things” that point you to what matters. If life is nothing else, it is a nuance.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Comfort Cairns

Screenshot

Hello, friends. I’m sorry that I have been MIA. I am busy working on my summer projects: cleaning out my house for a fresh start to our relatively new empty nest stage of life (see the meme above – I’ve probably gone into that store and many, many others like it, way too many times in my life), healing from another incredibly painful episode of cervical radiculopathy (so far, the most helpful has been electroacupuncture, but if anyone has any tips or suggestions out there, I’ll take ’em) and getting back to my equilibrium after a highly eventful first half of the year. (This takes longer the older that I get, I am finding.)

The other day, our elderly neighbor, who is always working on his lovely yard, donning his red/white/blue headband, (and I love this – this is one of my “comfort cairns”. I can look out of my window almost any day of the week and see my neighbor lovingly attending to his yard. It gives me a feeling of peace and serenity. It’s one of those calm places in the midst of the myriad of storms swirling about, on any given day. This is a good time to take a pause from reading my fascinating blog (wink), and think about what your “comfort cairns” are – examples of other ones of mine are watching our collie, Josie, lying in the grass “sunbathing”, lighting candles, bowls of feathers and rocks and shells that I have collected from my travels in life, the list goes on . . . . ) told me that he and his wife were going away to visit his brother and he asked me to get a package, that he couldn’t stop from coming, from their front stoop, when they were gone. So, I said, “yes”, of course, but I also told him that I would miss seeing him out in his yard. When I went to retrieve the package, I noticed two adorable little wooden Snoopy characters on stakes in the side garden by their front door. I texted my neighbor that I had gotten his package and that I loved their Snoopys. He texted me to remind him to tell me the story about the Snoopys when they got back.

So when my comfort cairn was reliably out in his yard after his trip, I asked him to tell me about the Snoopys. He smiled humbly, and he proceeded to say that his wife has loved Snoopy since she was a little girl. Her father was a carpenter and so her father made the wooden Snoopy stakes for her, but they were only the outline of Snoopy. (her father was a woodworker, not a painter) My neighbor said that they faithfully took the Snoopys from house to house, as they raised their family, and then, they finally moved them to the garage, in this current home, their retirement home. My neighbor said that right before Mother’s Day this year, he saw the wooden stakes hanging in their garage and he decided that he wanted to bring them to life for his wife. He bought some paint and he asked his artsy granddaughter to paint them, in order to really bring Snoopy alive. And so she did. And so my elderly neighbor’s elderly wife woke up on Mother’s Day, and she walked outside to see her beloved Snoopys dancing in her garden. And I thought to myself, what she really saw dancing in the garden was the love that her father and her husband and her family, have for her now, and for always.

And as I finish writing this post, I realize that one of my biggest comfort cairns (besides shopping for things that I don’t need) is writing this blog. <3

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

16 Years Ago

A friend texted me a flashback photo this morning of me with a group of our mutual friends, 16 years ago today. Honestly, I’m going to brag a little. I looked really good in that picture. I was 38-years-old. But what makes me sad, is that the 38-year-old woman in the picture didn’t realize it. She was hypercritical of herself. She was insecure and desperately trying to make everything “stay the same”. It was one of the most stressful times of her life, as she and her husband had just become the “poster kids” for the Great Recession. I wish that I could go back in time and hug my 38-year-old self. I would hug her so hard. I wish that I could sit with her, hold her hand, and tell her that things were going to be tumultuous, and scary, but also amazing and thrilling and that all of the changes ahead of her were actually going to be really fantastic springboards towards her most authentic life. That 38-year-old woman was really worried about the future. She sometimes got panicky thinking about it. She wanted the full-proof plan to be shown to her immediately, as to what the future was going to look like for her and her family. And the crazy thing is, even being a positive, resilient, hopeful, faithful young woman, she still could have never, ever imagined how wondrous the years ahead would be. She could never have imagined that she would successfully make it through all of the ups and downs (some of these being really, really steep ups and downs, as is the way of life) and have so many incredible adventures along the way, bringing her to this moment, now. Here. Now. I can’t go back and hug my 38-year -old self, but I can hug my 54-year-old self. Here. Now. My 54-year-old self is hypercritical about her aging face and body. She is sometimes insecure and feels a little wrecked when things don’t “stay the same.” But I’m guessing that 16 years from now, I will look back at pictures of my 54-year-old self, and I will smile. I will brag a little. She will look good. She will be smiling at the camera, having no idea of all of the events that will happen in the next 16 years of her life, but hopefully, she will sense my hug. She will feel loved by herself. And that will be enough to sustain her, as she carries on down the unknowable winding path of her marvelous life.

“In twenty years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.” – Mary Schmich

“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” – Dr. Suess

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Vintage Friday

Happy Friday!! Happy Favorite Things Friday!! On Fridays, I discuss the tactile stuff that is fun to eat or to drink or to smell, or to hear, or to read, or to wear, or to touch, or to play with! Lately I have been feeling really sentimental for the toys I played with when I was a little girl. I’ve even purchased a few things on eBay. I tell myself, “Won’t it be fun for my future grandchildren to play with the toys I used to play with?”, but I think it’s more than that – I think my inner child is reaching out. There is something comforting about remembering being a child, and being in the moment, not a care in the world, just using our imagination. Below are some of my favorite toys from childhood. What were your favorites?

Barbies, Dawn Dolls, Liddle Kiddles, Rosebud dolls, Sea Wees, Inchworm Riding Toy, paper dolls, Holly Hobbie dolls, Sunshine Family Dolls, Honeybunch Hill Kid dolls, Bionic Man and Woman dolls, Wonder Woman dolls, I Dream of Jeannie Playset, Wizard of Oz Dolls, Big Wheels, Baby Chrissy doll, Mrs. Beasley doll, Chinese jump rope.

As I started growing out of toys, my sister (who is five years younger than me) really got into Strawberry Shortcake dolls (she particularly loved Blueberry Muffin) and Cabbage Patch dolls and never one to sit quietly, she LOVED her Sit-N-Spin.

Anyway, take a trip down memory lane today, and look up some of your own favorite toys on the internet. This will make you feel that happy/sad syrupy feeling of nostalgia. It will bring all sorts of feelings up to the surface, but in a good way. It will make you feel like a kid again.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Here is the question of the day from 3000 Questions About Me:

823. What vegetable do you hate? (Don’t say “all of them” – just because I advised letting yourself be a kid again, doesn’t mean you get out of eating your vegetables!)

Park It

I’m sorry for the late post today. We were at a major amusement park all day yesterday. I’m out of practice with amusement parks. The last time I was at this particular park I was a chaperone for a school trip – middle schoolers. Ugh. It was quite stressful back then, trying to keep track of hormone-filled tweens with all different interests (and/or lack of interests) in rides, and who also had especially keen abilities to disappear. I remember being on the bus on the way home from that trip, smiling to myself, as 12 Rod’s “Glad That It’s Over” played loudly in my headphones.

Yesterday was truly wonderful though. My husband and I smiled at each other, thrilled that we were still able to handle some of the major rides (without getting sick), but also able to be the human coat racks for our kids who were going on some of the major, major rides. My husband commented that the marvelous thing about theme parks is that they make it so that many generations can be together, and still have great fun together. There is usually something there for everyone in theme parks, even if it is just to vicariously see, and to feel the joy that occurs in a day of “escape” for everyone together in the park. We left the park (at closing time), exhausted but in a good way. I looked at all of the other people leaving the park with us, and everyone looked weary, but also utterly satiated. All of our muscles were clearly rubbery and spent from walking all day, and from holding tenseness on the rides, but our smile muscles couldn’t stop working for all of us, as we peacefully made our way to our cars, knowing that we were all headed to a good night’s sleep.

Question for the Day from 3000 Questions About Me:

1119. What keeps you optimistic?

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Soul Sunday

Welcome to poetry day on the blog. Our two middle sons moved to new apartments recently and so, as we mothers do, I sent them a reminder text to change their mailing addresses on the post office’s website. I wrote, “Hi boys. Please remember to change your addresses on the post office’s website.” Two hours later, I had an aha moment. Our sons are not “boys.” Our sons are fine young men of the ages of 25 and almost 23. I sent a new text to them, correcting my error, and telling them that I should not have called them “boys”. I proudly see what amazing men they are turning out to be. But, fellow parents, let’s be real. If I am honest with myself, our sons will always be my little baby boys (and our daughter will always be my precious little baby girl) and so when I read this poem, shared below, this past week, I thought to myself, “Wow, Robert Hershon nailed it. He just nailed it.” I think that there is nothing more fulfilling in any creator’s heart than when we have written/sang/painted/photographed, etc. something and we get this proud knowing feeling that says, “Damn, I just nailed it.” Try nailing one of your passions today (maybe even nail art?), and give yourself that satisfactory feeling of savoring it.

Are you passing on love or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.