Creating Space for Mistakes. A Tale on Vulnerability, Angry Karma Gods and the Process of Becoming.

@

It’s another hot day. A hot Florida day, I might add, which would be bearable, even pleasurable I suppose if I were on a beach somewhere. But . . . I’m not. I’m here sitting on a park bench beneath a canopy of shady weeping willow trees writing these lines as quickly and as intently as possible while my granddaughter Meghan sleeps undisturbed in her carriage a few inches away.

Every few seconds my eyes lift to check on her. Everything in that look fills me up with such abundant joy as I soak in those soft rolls of baby fat lacing about her naked arms and legs making me instantly forget just how tired I truly was.

My world is now this world. That of a baby, poopy diapers, their every whimper is the only call to which I beckon. Leaving me ragged with no time to devote to anything else — let alone me.

Interestingly enough though it does afford me a great deal of time to think. To ruminate about the universe, about myself, who I am, and all those changes, those amazingly scary, difficult-to-digest events that have brought me here. To this particular place, to this particular moment.

“Life is a process of becoming,” said the percipient Anais Nin, “a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.”

I’ve always believed that nothing is without purpose. It takes many lifetimes meshed with many dramatic transformations to get us to where we need to be. And by sitting still . . . we’ll never get there.

Had I been a different person, had I not approached life in the “unusual” manner I did, taking a vacation from one life to start another, packing up, leaving all behind, reinventing myself over and over in search of a new life, love, until something spectacular finally emerged, I wonder . . . would I be here at all?

I gaze into the carriage. Would she?

♦   ♦   ♦

In the beginning, everything was an adventure. But then again, I was still in that clueless phase, barely twenty-one and fresh from suburbia where an exciting night to me meant locking lips with some guy under the bleachers or speeding down Peninsula Boulevard catching all the lights.

So with college behind me, I threw my dreams to the wind and made my way to New York City. That seventeen-square-mile piece of bustling real estate where the worlds of finance, fashion, and food collide. And to every single girl everywhere, Utopia. Yes, I had arrived. In no time at all, I’d blended into the scenery. I’d morphed into that fast-talking, fast-walking Marlo Thomas working girl. From the top of my Chanel beret to the bottom of platform shoes, the pieces of my plan quickly began to fall into place like pennies from heaven. I partied at The Bottom Line. I shopped on Canal Street. I spent summers at the Hamptons and winters in Vermont and for a long time in my mind, things were good. I took pleasure in this life I’d created even the quiet, consistent things that moved my daily world. The homeless man grounded to the sidewalk, the boots crunching in the snow, the typewriter at my desk, the coffee cup, the stack of yesterday’s newspapers.

But then like everything else that time touches sharpening those imbalances of what we refuse to see, the luster began to fade. My slice of the apple didn’t look so shiny to me anymore. And by then feeling slightly whittled away by years and a blur of romantic liaisons not worth mentioning, I found myself in an older and somewhat wiser position with my sneakers back on and running. Running and running as fast as I could thousands of miles away to Guadalajara, Mexico where I next fell into the arms of Mr. Medical Student, who eventually fractured all of me into a million pieces.

By the time I landed in Miami, the place where tacos weren’t the only thing on the menu, I was twenty-six and my Nikes and emotional fiber were already showing those recognizable signs of wear and tear. I tried to view this next stop as a fresh start, but it was difficult. The reality of constantly reinventing myself, the toll it took, had finally sunk in. And while I’d allowed my life to breeze by with the giddiness of discovering the world and growing up as only I believed I should, I could also see that by continuing down this road like rootless tumbleweed with nothing to show for all my troubles, what I wanted to achieve … might not be what I was going to get.

So I did the unthinkable: I hung up my running sneakers and let life happen.

♦   ♦   ♦

Over the next thirty years, I married Mr. Bicycle Man, had two children, added a panoply of professional hats to my resume, started three businesses, closed three businesses, got divorced, lost a sister. I remember sobbing a lot in those days. I remember mourning the loss of so many things within that same fragile space of human wreckage, so many things that never felt more devastating.

I was fairly certain that if a rock bottom existed … I was there.

The truth was I’d suffered through ten years of a loveless marriage. I’d sacrificed my sense of self-worth all for the sake of a plan. A dream. A silly dream that anticipated the life I wanted. A house to have a family in, a husband to grow old with. That was the vision I’d created for myself as a girl. And as the years passed when those things didn’t materialize I began to feel the dream also starting to leave me like the sun setting in the distance and did the only thing I could: I brought those things to me. I forced a life that in reality wasn’t mine. Taking without feeling the love that should have been there before all else.

“Do we settle for the world as it is, or do we work for the world as it should be?” ―Michelle Obama

Needless to say, I paid dearly for that dream. But once the karma gods saw fit to forgive my transgressions I began to grow in unexpected ways, bolder ways, vowing never to short-change myself ever again. Those days of turning myself inside/out like some ridiculous human pretzel just to please someone else were over. And from that point forward my mantra became: to thine own self be true. No matter how lonely, how harsh the world around me became.

For all this confidence the credit was not mine alone. Looking back had it not been for the wonderful support system of friends and family I had in place, I know things could have easily gone in a whole different direction for me at that precipice in time. Those compassionate faces helped me reconstruct a spine, find that footing I’d so foolishly misplaced along the way, and realize that I still had a whole lot of life in front of me left to live.

Yes, I was lucky in that respect. I had love in my corner.

I also just turned fifty-five. An age when most people viewed their empty nest as the perfect time to take actions like fixing up the house or selling it, finding a new hobby or investing smarter with thoughts of retirement versus traipsing off somewhere they didn’t know another soul and starting all over again.

Over the years I haven’t really spoken about why I picked myself up like that and just left, other than to say I was looking for something more than what I had. In those early years of taking vacations from life to life, I wasn’t sure I could articulate that type of exploration to anyone — even if I wanted to. But the truth was … I was simply running away from the person I was in the hope of becoming someone better.

“Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions” — Dalai Lama

Yes, that was me six years ago. Runaway mother and bad daughter with a one-way ticket in hand at the Ft. Lauderdale Airport bound for LA, sneakers back on, an apartment already lined up in Santa Monica and ready for anything. And why shouldn’t I be? I was heading to the entertainment capital of the world, the place where glitz and glam and bling oozed from every nook and cranny, where unbelievably it never rained, no one ever grew old and darned if I could figure . . . you could always find a bar open when you needed it.

Suddenly as if shedding a layer of skin, I felt alive again. Exhilarated by what I saw, what I did, every sense was on overdrive. My days were spent exploring while my nights were spent eating, drinking, and forgetting that I was no longer twenty-five. Shops and restaurants weren’t simply shops and restaurants to me. They were Spago, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton all rolled up in this magnificent experience as though an affirmation that the decision I made to trade in a life of balmy weather and bad hair days that left me looking like Sideshow Bob’s sister for one of sleek do’s and the certainty that my next date would be with someone that didn’t remind me of my grandfather, was by far the easiest — if not the best — I’d ever made.

I knew there was life after menopause. I also knew dating — once over a particular mile-marker — was a whole different animal. No more braving the bar scene or any scenario similar to that where I’d be surrounded by a sea of perky-busted twenty/thirty-somethings with not a hint of cellulite or wrinkle anywhere. That was not my idea of fun or anyone else’s for that matter endowed with more brains than chutzpa!

No, if romance was in the cards for me, well, then, it would just have to come find me in my new environment where I was suddenly playing catch-up with all those things that I’d forgotten brought calm to my storm. Painting, writing, reading, taking long drives up the PCH, through Topanga Canyon past Neil Young’s house, wandering around the Getty, it seemed as if all at once my world felt full. So full, in fact, I didn’t even notice that the dinner dates and coffee dates that were once an almost weekly affair had slowly dwindled to a big fat zero.

The strange thing was in all those years not once did I give up on the idea of love. But I couldn’t help but think somehow it had given up on me. I’d already invested more years than I cared to discuss in pursuit of it and despite its elusiveness, I somehow still found myself plodding along, perhaps though a bit more sluggishly seeking out this mythical Holy Grail that might or might not even exist, believing should I find it, all those missing pieces of my life would finally, miraculously fall into place.

What I didn’t realize was that they already had. But not in any way I ever imagined.

My daughter became pregnant. She was alone and three thousand miles away. I felt blindsided. Gobsmacked. The idea of grandparenthood suddenly thrust into my lap like hot coal was about as alien a thought to me as living on the moon.

No, no, no! I definitely did not want to be this person, this grandmother person, I kept telling myself repeatedly, frantically until I heard nothing else except the gentle, creaking sound of one door closing and another opening.

Six years ago I hopped on a plane. Continuing this extraordinary process in search of that perfect life, that perfect man, and that perfect home. A quest that had taken me from one end of the universe to another, one lifetime to another. But somewhere in all my searching, all my wearing out of leather soles and doormats I failed to grasp what I should have known right from the start: that home is only a word. That four walls are just that — four walls. And what matters most in life and in love is what’s contained within.

That’s the good stuff!

Some people always seem to know exactly where they’re going, while others take forever to figure it all out. Perhaps I’m one of those that fall somewhere in the middle. And even though my long vacation stints are now officially over and my running shoes tossed away, as I stare at this remarkable sleeping bundle licking her lips getting ready to wake, I’m here with open arms for whatever falls into them next. Because I know life is always going to be a surprise. Oh yes, a wonderful surprise.

Even for those wayward dreamers like me.

♦   ♦   ♦

Photo: Me as a chocolate chip cookie, circa 1993.

2 Comments -Leave a Comment

Battle Scars Tell Their Own Kind of Story

@

One that’s usually messy … but all too real

For the past few weeks, every morning I find this tiny bird perched at the feeder my neighbor, across the way, installed just outside his window. The thing is I’m thoroughly dense in the bird department. In other words, I wouldn’t know a whippoorwill from a chipping sparrow — let alone its gender. But everything tells me it’s female. The way she moves, the way she’s so completely in tune with her body as she sits patiently waiting her turn at the feeder unfettered by the human lounging around in sweats watching her.

Part of me loves this air about her, this radiating sense of inner zen with those God-given parts. While another part, the one not naturally hardwired in this fashion sulks slightly with envy. As women, the majority of us struggle with body image our whole lives. What we see in the mirror, what we imagine, what really is, the denial, the twisting ourselves into clusterfuck knots trying to fit someone’s else mold. It’s a long road. A painstaking stretch of self-loathing and self-doubt from that young girl to that older and hopefully wiser woman who has to figure shit out, break the spell of deception and reclaim what society snatched away.

Beyond those graceful nuances, something else draws me to this particular furry creature. She has only one leg. Yes, (for those screaming in my ear right now) I’m fully aware that many birds do stand on one leg to minimize heat loss. However—despite my prior disclaimer I wasn’t part of the Audubon Society—after countless hours and cups of coffee sitting there watching her in action, there’s little doubt in my mind the only thing that plume is sheltering is heart and bone.

I have to admit, my first reaction to this abnormality tugs at my emotional strings with an outpour of pity. My time invested makes me think of us as friends of the imaginary kind like Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin. But then I stop myself. Stop with the sinking realization pity is the last thing she deserves, that and as living, breathing creatures we all share in this commonality of existence which will undoubtedly, from time to time, leave us with those lost legs, broken wings and I suspect warrior badges far worse to help remind us where we’ve been, how far we’ve traveled, the battles we’ve suffered, and what we’ve lost.

I don’t imagine for one second anyone or anything passes through this life unscathed. We all come away with those lessons that don’t come cheap. As a person with my own share of deficits and tragic losses weighing me down, I often find myself side-tracked from the most universal of truths: real pain isn’t necessarily in the experience of those losses, rather in the aftermath of them when we find ourselves digging deep into a place we didn’t even know existed then somehow, just somehow manage to push one foot in front of another. I don’t know about you, but as far as I’m concerned … this is what I call grit. The stuff we’re really made of. The true breakfast of champions.

Out of our greatest suffering and our deepest anguish miracles arise.

Anyway, that’s my take on my little friend. Whether she agrees with me or not … it seems pretty safe to say: I’ll never know. But as I sit here smiling wistfully to myself watching her fly away, what I do know is that if this courageous ladybird can endure a few ruffled feathers along the way, so can I.

Arrow_Divider

I hope you enjoyed my somewhat whimsical and lighter perspective on life. Perhaps you’d like to complement the read with If You Don’t Show Up For Your Life Who Will?

                                                                                      *    *    *

No Comments -Leave a Comment

The Face of FEMA

@

When Hurricane Sandy hit in 2012 I was thousands of miles away in Europe with my family on a riverboat floating on the Danube somewhere between Budapest and Passau fixed to the television screen watching New York’s Rockaway Beach (the place where we were all born and raised) being bombarded with monsoon-like waves and wind.

Ten days later I landed at LAX. Then as a FEMA Reservist working my first deployment I was on the next plane out for New York. I can’t express the anguish in my heart, the trepidation I was experiencing in those very, long hours before I touched down at LaGuardia, before I saw it all for myself. I knew it wouldn’t be good. And it wasn’t.

I spent the next six weeks shuttling in the car between the city and Long Beach, where I was assigned. At night before I would head back, I would take the drive down Central Ave, loop around past my old house — that’s no longer there — to the beach, then just ride that long stretch of Beach Channel Drive all the while staring vacantly out the window, feeling the only thing I could: devastated.

The beginning days were the hardest. They’re always the hardest as people come to grips with their new reality. It’s like a fog lingering, but lifting just enough to see the river of water inside their house, the pots and pans and toys and bits of furniture floating about as if looking for a life preserver to rescue them. Nothing makes this right. When tragedy hits we’ll all on the same playing field. It’s one person in need and one person reaching out to help.

I’m always blown away by the transformation that takes place during these times. People become people. Their humanity is luminous. I’ve witnessed this repeatedly and without fail in my years working for FEMA. Seeing that glimmer of gratitude on survivors’ faces when being handed cans of food, blankets, water, clothing. Or when you show up at a shelter where auditoriums are filled to the brim with cots and crying babies and tell mothers and fathers a check is on the way. Just by being there, hope finds its way back.

You know when you think about it hope is such a small word. But in the FEMA world, it’s the glue that holds it all together.

Over the years I’ve seen a lot of America I wouldn’t normally. And from time to time, in between the long hours going from door-to-door, listening to survivors, seeing the damage, ensuring their environment is safe, registering them, getting them to a local food pantry, anything and everything it takes to survive a disaster, I write about it.

I write about it because I don’t want to forget all the wonderful people I meet along the way. I don’t want to forget their unbelievable stories, their bravery in the face of what would make some of us crumble. And most of all I don’t want to forget their humility.

Two years ago working Louisiana after record-breaking flooding took over most of the state, I found myself on the front porch of a house that from the street appeared abandoned. The yard was like a swamp with overgrowth clinging to the entire exterior and not a sign of life anywhere. Someone else might have passed this house by and not bothered to check. But unfortunately, after seeing all that I’ve seen, I was not at all surprised when the old man came to the door. I can’t describe the condition of his home. As Reservists, for safety reasons, we’re not permitted to go inside. But my partner and I didn’t need to. From the threshold we could see and smell the mold growing along the ceiling and walls. We could see the piles of damp clothes spread out in every corner. We could hear the despair in his voice because he had no family to turn to. Within forty-five minutes we had registered him for financial assistance. We had arranged for temporary housing, located a neighbor to drive him. Made sure social services were available to him and armed him with all the telephone numbers and referrals he would need to take that next step.

You know throughout this entire process not once did this kindly old gentleman utter a complaint about his situation when it was so obvious he had everything to complain about. Instead, he stood there in this humble pose and thanked us over and over. That is the image I took away. This man living in the most deplorable of conditions, smiling and thanking me when deep in my heart I was the one thanking him.

I realize not everyone feels that way about FEMA. Some folks don’t get that warm and fuzzy glow. I remember right after I’d published my first book I was in New Jersey speaking at a book club. Naturally, everyone was curious with questions and eager to discuss the characters and storylines. It isn’t every day a book club has the author right there to get into the nitty-gritty of things. Anyway, somehow it was brought to light that I wasn’t just a writer, I double-dutied as a FEMA Reservist. It was as if someone had just dropped a bomb because one of the women stood up and gave me a verbal lashing that I’ll never forget. It seems her daughter didn’t fare well during Hurricane Sandy and unfortunately laid that blame on FEMA’s doorstep. And I being the face of FEMA was equally to blame.

Forget that it put a kibosh in the evening. I’m a big girl. Getting the finger, being called all sorts of names is nothing new. I can’t explain to people, especially those who don’t want to hear, that FEMA’s job isn’t to make people whole but to offer a leg up. A hand of assistance.

And to some … that’s everything.

Not everyone can say they love what they do. Not everyone gets the opportunity to be part of something bigger themselves on a somewhat regular basis. And I only know that I’m given the tools to make a difference and when I deploy, when I knock on someone’s door, I hope to God I do.

4 Comments -Leave a Comment