Posted in Fathers, Fragile Life, Insight, Legacy, Milestone Moments, Mother to Crone, Nuts & Bolts, Round Two, Takes a Village, Teens, Twenty-something, What's Next? (18 & beyond)

“Someday” has arrived


Our community came together one day in June to raise the frame of our home–along with 3-year-old Aidan who spent the day hammering nails into the floorboards of what would be our kitchen; and 8-year-old Lloyd who knelt beside his preschool & primary teachers laying down the floor to what would become his bedroom; and Casey, age 38, who lifted beams with friends & family (and even strangers) to realize a dream come true; and me, age 40, who never had the chance to live in one place very long and who climbed the frame at the end of the day and tapped an evergreen branch to its peak while everyone cheered below.

14 years have passed.
14 Christmases.
14 wedding anniversaries.
14 winters & springs.
14 summers.
14 autumns.

Over the years, Casey spoke of needing an addition—the living room was always too small; but I countered that the boys would be gone someday and the house was already too large for two.

“Someday” has somehow arrived.

What was “raised” to be a home for 4, becomes a home for 2 at the end of summer—which is almost as unfathomable as building this home for ur family once was.

Advertisements
Posted in Takes a Village, Fragile Life, Insight, Violence in the home, Legacy

the fruit of pain


Having had too much to drink, I once openly grieved the separation of young children from their mother and siblings, adding to that my heartache about the emotionally abusive treatment they were receiving in their new residence.

For this admission of vulnerability and empathy, I was mocked, publicly, at a table in a cocktail lounge at the restaurant I managed during my summer breaks from school.

“If you really cared about them, you would skip your semester abroad,” he said.

I considered legal proceedings. I considered dropping out of school and getting a job so that I could afford a house that would fit us all. But these thoughts, like my voice, were futile. I wasn’t in a democracy. I was in a family.

All over Facebook, friends are sharing their stories of separation–the lasting impact–from the Holocaust to asylum-seeking to summer camp.

Feeling our own pain, however large or small, is a radical act. It allows us to feel the pain of another, without making it our own, which only serves to immobilize us.

Self-connection is necessary. Self-connection allows us to stay attuned to the needs of others while remembering our response-ability to the life we inhabit, right in the moment.

Self-connection might look like a walk, or a nap, a therapist chair, a bodyworkers table, a cup of tea in the garden, a meditation on a hummingbird’s flight, a weekend retreat, anything that reminds us of our distinctness so that the connection we offer is whole.

We have each experienced the pain of separation.

May it bear fruit.

 

Posted in Fragile Life, Insight, Legacy, Takes a Village

a boy my son’s age

~This is the face of a boy about the age of my youngest son Aidan.

~This is the face of a boy who became my neighbor’s father.

~This is the face of a boy who became the grandfather of one my son’s earliest friends (who is now his co-captain on the highschool frisbee team.)

~This is also the face of a Jew on the day he was arrested and brought to Buchenwald with his brother, a Tuesday in early June, in the year 1944.

The NY Times said that the Holocaust is Fading from Memory, while a candidate for office in this nation claims it never happened.

We must do what Germany did.

The study of the Holocaust was made a mandatory part of the curriculum in their schools, as they continue to make reparations as a nation.

How might we as a people turn to face our own past? Can we commit to remembering that which we have inflicted on the inhabits here? Indigenous. Black. Japanese. Woman. Child.

Whenever we assign “other,” we seed the unthinkable, like the shooting up of a classroom of first-graders or highschoolers or the perpetuation of years of institutionalized sexual assault.

There is light and shadow to each of us and to each nation, and to ignore it is to participate in the legacy of suffering.

Because he was liberated from Buchenwald by US troops, Mr. Rosner, #1364472, will celebrate his 90th birthday this year.

He cannot deny or forget,
because he was there.

Posted in Legacy, Nuts & Bolts, Takes a Village

Democracy & the library

(written just after the 2016 Presidential election)

When the kids were little (and before the internet), we spent hours in the library each week. Dashed out to the car with coins, not once, but twice, even though we all promised: “Only an hour on the meter this time!” Filled growing arms with piles of books even though we brought the beefy canvas tote and committed, ahead of time: “10 books each is plenty!”

Inside the library, there are still places, long neglected by my feet, which are so familiar to me. Stacks and rows, like old friends… 100s, 200s, 300s, 600s. Places where I opened my world, narrowed my world, explored my world, defined it as a new mother, as a mother beginning to reclaim herself, as a woman stepping forward.

There is the table in the mezzanine where I sat working while my kids were at school. There is a view of the town. Of cars passing. Of leaves falling. Of first flurries.

And inside–readers & writers & viewers & nappers, of all ages, and race.

There are those who always vote. Those who never vote. Those who voted democratic for the first time. Republican for the first time.

We all remain quiet.
(Most of the time.)

We share tables and chairs and computers and books.

Posted in Fragile Life, Legacy, My own childhood

Pregnancy & Grief

I often think of my 20-year-old mother today.
Irish Catholic.
Exactly 8 & 1/2 months pregnant.

Her President, the age of her father-in-law, shot dead, beside his wife, on a Texas street.
My mother was 17, the age of my son, when she went door to door with her younger sister.

“The Kelly girls,” the neighbors called them.
Their mother sent them out to campaign.

I think of the unbearable grief that I felt on 9/11 & 11/9 and on the December day when children were shot inside their first-grade classroom, and I wonder that today is not my birthday.

And I wonder, what my young mother felt in those last two weeks with me inside.

And I wonder if the sweet sensitivity of my own son is due to the grief I held as he came into the world and she left it.

Posted in Legacy, Mid-Life Mama

Summer’s passing…


I consider it part of my parting duty to impart beach culture to my mountain grown sons.

Lose the hikers.
Let the hair become wild with humidity.
Get sand… everywhere.
Let it stay.
Smell the air.
Feel the spray.
Sample slices until you find the best pizza.
Welcome the fog. The rain. Let it all be one.
Thick hoodies. Leisurely breakfasts. Coffee. Music. Chaos.
Beach chairs. Flip flops. Fudge.
Salt water taffy. Beer bottles. Bar flies. Bare feet. Sunburn.
Shellfish. Sandcastles. Donuts. Surf shops.
Waves. Seagulls. Lifeguards. Sunsets.
Salt. Sea.
Devotion. Sensuality.
Creation. Myth.
Belonging. Return.
Devotion.
Womb.

Posted in Legacy, Twenty-something

Legacy Resisted

As a young woman, I steered away from any young man interested in medicine (and by steer away, I mean–a sharp & immediate U-Turn!)

But my son.

And so, I bow again to the legacy of his great-great-great grandfather (Community Health Officer), great-great grandparents (Doctor & Nurse), great grandfather (Surgeon), grandparents (Surgeon & Nurse), aunt (Doula), and second & first cousins (Nurses & Researchers & MD & Body workers), as I bow to him, with pride.