Something Significant

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“God, give me one thing today to make this day significant.” I found this handwritten prayer in a blue folder when I had been working in the Women’s Division library fifteen years ago. I was helping on a research project, looking around for a scrap of paper.

The sentence was beautifully written in formal script. On the folder was a woman’s name, let’s call her Esther.

“Who was Esther?” I asked another of the older women, let’s call her Bee, at lunch time.

“Esther worked part-time for the Women’s Division,” Bee said. “She struggled with depression. She had been institutionalized throughout the years and even received electroshock therapies.”

Bee and I launched into a discussion about electroshock therapies and if they worked, which I’d heard they did, simply because they caused a convulsion. I’d read the body, in extreme cases, needed a seizure to restart or reboot. Still, electroconvulsive therapy was horrific.

message in a bottle from creative commons

Esther’s life and her handwritten note stayed with me.

Her quiet desperation, her prayer, her desire for significance — I have felt these too.

The note reminded me that we have no idea what anyone else is going through. Once in a while, we find a clue, like a message in a bottle washed to shore, that someone wants their life to have significance.

Someone wants one thing to show that this day, this life, matters. Just one thing.

My Country Song

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At our lunch time creative writing workshop, Dan Licardo, an awesome musician and novelist, talked about songwriting.

He said a song can include rhyme. The message of a song can be more direct and easily understood than other types of writing. So I tried my hand at songwriting on my lunch hour. Here’s how my song went:

creative commons
Your face reminded me of the sun
Bright and sweet and always on the run
You run so fast, you run so far
You run and steal my Chevy car
I called my daddy, I called the cop
But they couldn’t find you
Not even in the hills of Vermont

I took my gun, I went on the run
I run down to the Virginia-ay shore
And there I found you with a two-bit whore

She had her legs and arms around my baby
I squinted my eye, I pulled the trigger
But you said, “Honey, Honey, I mean maybe?
Give me ‘nother chance?”

I’m seeing red,
And that floozy in the motel room
She got up and fled
But you lay there all weak and sad and mad
Like the moon, behind a cloud,
You went all bad

Honey, you went bad on me
Now I’m going bad on you
Because there’s just some things
My man ain’t supposed to do
The first is steal my Chevrolet car

That’s the first step you took 
just a little too far
The second is you left me all alone
With the babies and the dishes
You think you really flown?

Ha, you ain’t seen nothing
Sniveling on that bed
Pale and begging and, oh so red

Caught red-handed, I put down my gun
I take my car keys, then take your clothes
Just for fun

Don’t come back like the morning sun
Don’t come back when you’re broke
‘Cause my babies need a pappy
Not a two-bit joke

Plus I’m a little honey 
who needs a little bit a love
So I got me an ad on Craigslist
Gonna find some new sun shining from above

So that’s the woman’s part of my song. And then the man’s part comes in:

In the field there was a daisy
But you only saw me like I’m crazy
Yes, honey, I did you wrong
I took up with a honey on the wrong side of town

But you knew I loved the nightlife
I loved the song and the show
I told you that when we married, oh so long ago

When the babies started coming
And you just wouldn’t stop
I tried to re-enlist in the Army
And head back to Iraq

But they didn’t take me
You know I loved your hair, long and red
And I’m sorry that you caught me
With your sister in that cheap motel bed.

We thought we were done for
But you spared me and that debt I will repay
Just one more thing
Can you send me some bail money?
And then I’ll be on my way

Why Are People Mean?

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“Mean people are an excuse to stand up for yourself and show compassion,” I agreed with this on my Twitter feed the other day.

It was a day that I was the recipient of a mean remark at work. It’s taken me a while to get over it. I wish I wasn’t so thin-skinned.

If you know me IRL (in real life), you know that I am an extremely nice person. Just the other night when I went to see the movie, Take Shelter —which, seriously, inspired a panic attack in me and I had to leave the movie early — I apologized to the person who sat behind me, because my head blocked her view. So that’s how nice I am. I apologize to strangers because I sit in front of them at the movies.

After the workplace conversation, which also inspired a panic attack, I thought, “Hmmm, wait a minute! You feel I dissed someone? That’s not me. You want me to feel bad about myself? Hmmm. I don’t want to. I’ve got too much to do today. And feeling bad about myself isn’t on the agenda.” I wanted to agree, because I simply love agreement — being such a fan of my “Yes, And!” training from improv and leadership classes.

On my bike ride Saturday, I passed this scene in the Meatpacking District. The sidewalk was covered with rose petals. There were enough for everyone.

If what we’re agreeing on is that I didn’t do a good enough job, I can’t agree. I did an awesome job. I’m sorry you don’t think so — or you overheard someone who said that I didn’t do my job well enough. So it’s really workplace gossip. Wait. This isn’t about me. It’s about you and that was just mean.

In yesterday’s Wall Street Journal Health & Wellness section, there’s an article, ‘It’s Mine’ The Selfish Gene: Tots as Young as 3 Can Be Generous While Others Are Inclined To Hog by Kevin Helliker. He writes, “About two-thirds of the children chose to give one or more sets of stickers to an unknown recipient, described to them only as a child who had no stickers.”

Other studies show 70 percent of adults are generous. I believe I am with the majority, looking out for others.

If anything, I fail because I want too much to be liked and approved of. I admit taking criticism is not my strength. I like the gold star and the praise — I like to give it and I like to get it. And I like that I am nice. And I really like nice people. I like my friends smart, funny and nice. And if I could only have one of those attributes in a friend, I’ll choose nice.

So why are some people mean? Maybe it’s just a mean gene; they’re part of the one-third that won’t share their stickers. That’s just how they roll.

As the Twitterverse reminded me, an interaction with a mean person is an opportunity to stand up for yourself, show a little compassion, look within, make any corrections, and ultimately, move on, sharing the stickers. It is not easy.

Here’s the Wall Street Journal article: It’s Mine!

And this helped me too: Don’t treat unkindness with kindness.

Getting Help

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No one does it alone. No one.

I am terrible at getting help. So bad. I would much rather be the help than the helped. Having a husband with Parkinson’s Disease, I find his ability to help is diminishing. Of course he still pitches in and cooks dinner, but the quality of his work and the time it takes to get things done is very frustrating. For me. I need help.

On the flight home from Florida, I began to compose a letter to some church friends asking for their help with my darlings while I am going to be away for a few days for a worktrip to New Mexico. But then the plane hit turbulence and I put my laptop away. I have not opened that file. A part of me felt ashamed that I needed help.

In a city and a country of rugged individualists, I felt stupid and weak for asking for parenting and family support.

However, a few recent events in my life and in the world have reminded me that human beings need one another. We are social animals who like to live and work in community. It takes a village. We all need help – coping with an ill spouse, raising children, writing a book, organizing a demonstration or running a marathon. Here are some examples:

1. Occupy Wall Street — if you demonstrate alone, you look crazy. If you demonstrate with thousands of other people, you look like you have a cause.

2. NaNoWriMo — even the loneliness of novel writing can be ameliorated by thousands of on-line and real life friends cheering one another on. Creating small daily goals adds up to big accomplishments.

3. My Daughter’s Soccer Team — it’s much more fun to celebrate a win in a group than to win alone.

This weekend I saw this performance art piece at the foot of the High Line. The women were cutting each other's hair.

4. Haircuts — they just look better when someone else does them. In the same way, you can’t set your own broken arm.

5. My Family’s Well Being — I’ve met with a former colleague who started her own eldercare business and is helping us with Chris’s caretaking and I’ve also met with a lawyer to learn about protecting our family assets. These were huge and difficult calls to make and conversations to have. There’s more work to be done, but it’s a start.

Someday I may get back to writing that letter to my church friends to see if anyone wants to watch Charlotte’s soccer game or share a meal or prod the children to homework while I’m away. But I hesitate to finish and send the letter.

What if no one can help? Then I will end up exactly where I am. And it’s not such a bad place to be.

Mandala Occupies Washington Square

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image

Yesterday I was in Washington Square Park along with hundreds of other Occupy Wall Streets supporters.

Let me come clean, I would like to say that I was there for the demonstration, holding a witty, anti-establishment placard, but I was actually just passing by to meet my friend and fellow writer, Dan Wakefield, to commiserate on the writer’s life.

We weren’t the only peripheral people there. Right near the arch, there was a mandala being created from huge ziplock bags full of colored sand. The artist would step in and leave his shoe print in the art as he sprinkled colored sand like powdered sugar on the cement.

I loved the colors. And it was amazing that in this square crowded full of protesters, families and college students, there could be sacred art on the ground. No one stepped in it, except the artist.

It seems everyone respects art — much more than they respect the greed of corporate America. Times are a’changing. Let me get my placard and come up with some witty words.

Wedding in Central Park

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imageThis wedding party was traipsing around Bethesda Fountain. Every time, I’ve chillaxed here with my kids or my friends, brides and grooms and wedding parties have been soaking in the magic of this Central Park spot too, guarded over by the Angel of the Waters.

I’ve written about The Angel Above Us a few months back. She is a part of it all, yet she is above it all too. She is about to take off, yet she’s firmly rooted in place. Oh, to be an angel and watch the whole passing parade.

I’d heard that this section of the park was supposed to be a quiet zone. Yet a few weeks ago, the break dancers had music blasting, the little dogs were yapping, and all of the world’s languages were coinciding, right here at the center of Central Park in New York City.

And now you know why I called this blog My Beautiful New York.

an upturned tree

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Up in the Adirondacks, Sunday morning, I was sipping coffee before my family woke up. I was crabby because I’d have to rally the troops, pack up, leave the country, return to the city, get ready for the week ahead. Even writing in my journal didn’t work the usual magic of lifting my mood.

So I went for a run. I watched the fitness app on my phone, noticing that I was still unable to run faster than a 13-minute mile. Yes, I was in the slow lane; my feet hurt. And I couldn’t get enough breath. I tired easily.

I ran for five minutes, then walked for a minute. Then did that again. The first part of the run was easy. I passed the school house. Then it was wet so I looped around the Cold Spring Road instead of going down to the Stable Inn. I began the walk up the rough-hewn stone steps to the Big House. That’s when I saw this upturned tree.

Hard to capture in a dark, rainy forest, but this wide swath of trees and roots were upturned by Hurricane Irene.

Un-be-liev-able! It took my breath away.

If some special effects geek tried to recreate this 10-foot circumference of a sideways forest floor, it would cost millions of dollars and people would never believe it. But nature did this outstanding damage free of charge. Nature is whack, doing crazy shit. Hurricane Irene must’ve tore up this part of the woods as she tore through Vermont and the Adirondacks a month ago.

I gave up running, walked up the steps back to the house, packed and woke the darlings. I wasn’t crabby any more.

For some reason the extraordinary sight of the upturned tree calmed me down.

Today people are contemplating Steve Jobs’ death. And I’m remembering the upturned tree.

We all will die. I will die. I am small. Whether my death comes by cancer like Steven Jobs, by hurricane like the forest floor, or my personal preference, by old age, I will die. Running away from my troubles on a dreary Sunday morning made me remember that. And it humbled me and made me less crabby.

NaNoWriMo

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This November I am going to enter and win NaNoWriMo — National Novel Writing Month.

As the days get colder and my psyche more depressed, I want to hunker down with my dreams, like wrapping my hands around a warm cup of coffee.

Some runners complete the NYC marathon, some women have babies, some consumers shop early for Christmas presents. I’m not those kinds of crazy. I am the kind of wacky that gets up at 6 the morning and stays up until 11 at night (I told you, CRAZY!) hunched over my keyboard, spewing out meandering plot points about imaginary friends.

Why do it? I have a lot on my plate (4 blogs, 3 kids, 2 jobs, and a partridge in a pear tree!)

I do it because:

  1. It is there, like Mount Everest.
  2. My imagination will surprises me.
  3. It’s a communal writing experience. Tens of thousands of writers will appear at the start line, encouraging one another as they write.
  4. It feels so good when it’s done.
If you want some writing done, a novel written, give the assignment to a busy writer. She can do it. This is not the first year I’ve been contemplating nanowrimo Last year and the year before, I wanted to embark on NaNoWriMo, but didn’t want to start a new novel until I rewrote, sold and published my last masterpiece. But life is a work in progress. And so is my writing. Lost characters roaming around my unfinished novels will have to wait. I’ve got something new up my sleeve. And so have you. Think about joining me. nanowrimo sign up now!

Mountain Meadows

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imageEvery day I wake before the kids. I put on coffee.

In New York City I write at the kitchen table with a view of a wide airshaft. Usually there are construction materials piled in a corner back there. On Tuesday and Saturday mornings, garbage pick-up days, I hear the porters wheeling bins of garbage. Sometimes I notice a light in the windows in the backside of another apartment building. I wonder if someone’s just had a baby, is going to the gym, has an early breakfast meeting, or is getting dressed. I wonder what they’re doing up so early.

But then I go back to my writing, submerge myself in my own world.

This was my view from the Mountain Meadows Bed and Breakfast in Keene Valley, the Adirondacks.

When I am up in the Adirondacks, I still wake before the family. I make some coffee. Or like the other morning, I woke up at Mountain Meadows, a sweet little Bed and Breakfast in Keene Valley. I had a lovely writing spot.

My mind wandered. I wondered about nature, not about people. I thought Wow, is that a hawk?  Maybe it’s just a crow. Sunlight moves across the mountain in a parallelogram.

I don’t write. I just wonder. Sometimes beauty inhibits my creative flow, but feeds my soul.

Haiku

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Hope

In the creative writing workshop I taught yesterday, we wrote haiku. This traditional Japanese poetry looks surprisingly simple — seven syllables, then five, then seven. But we found it challenging, a habit of writing we are unused to.

I told the class to think of the poem’s structure like the cage around a songbird. You have to confine your poem, your bird, your meaning, within the frame. Within the constraint, the songbird can sing freely. And then the poem can flow like a song, traveling far from its cage.

I gave us about 10 minutes to write our haiku.  Here are a few of mine.

I have been teary
Hoping to be understood
Fearful of shadows

Somehow I miss you
Your crazy way of kissing
I live on longing

Need to swim far out
Farther than you can catch me
Splashing, laughing, far