Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Retrieving Remmants of the Past
There have been many heartbreaking stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - tales of utter devastation, unbearable loss.
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Friday, January 12, 2007
Signs of Being Behind-the-Times
On a recent clothes shopping trip with my daughter, I suggested a type of shirt that would go with her newly purchased pants. “Something simple, like a nice little shell,” I said. “A what?” she replied. “You know, a shell, a sleeveless shirt,” I said, running a finger across my shoulder to show where the edge of the shirt stops. “Oh, you mean a tank top,” my daughter answered, laughing. A similar incident occurred a few weeks ago when I said I would pick up some creme rinse at the drug store. “Some what?” she said. “Creme rinse, you know, the stuff you put on after you shampoo,” I said. “Oh, you mean conditioner,” she said. More laughing.
I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.
But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.
Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.
These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.
On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
I’m slowly getting used to the outward signs of aging—the slightly expanding waistline, the crow’s feet and sags, the graying hair. And though it’s distressing, I’m not surprised by ‘mind-pause’ things like forgetting where I put my car keys, going off on a tangent when telling a story and the sporadic inability to retrieve names for common objects.
But this business of feeling old simply by what I call things is a whole new realm of aging. It’s not like I always call conditioner creme rinse—I haven’t bought Tame since I was a kid—but sometimes the words just slip out. Though I refer to pants that hit mid-calf as capris, I have to admit I secretly think of them as peddle-pushers. In addition to finding that names for things have changed, meanings for names of things have changed. To me, thongs will always be casual sandals (i.e. flip-flops), not some ridiculously skimpy, horribly uncomfortable-looking undergarment.
Clothing is another sure-fire way to show age. I know this because up until a year ago, I owned a pair of those high-waisted, straight-legged, front-pleated, baggy old age-broadcasters known as “mom jeans,” until my daughter kindly pulled me aside for some much-needed fashion advice. Thankfully, she also talked me into replacing my comfortable but unsightly square-toed, thick-soled shoes with something a bit more modern.
These days, age is also revealed in the products people use. Using a regular (non-digital) camera, paper appointment book or Sony Walkman will instantly add 20 years to someone’s age. Even buying CDs is becoming dated. A recent New York Times article, “The Graying of the Record Store” was all about this kind of thing, how independent record shops, especially in big cities, are closing because kids are downloading music and no longer buying CDs. Even something as innocuous as wearing a watch is becoming old-fashioned. With digital clocks built into cell phones, many young people—phones affixed to ears—no longer feel a need to wear one.
On top of what I wear and use, every now and then, I’ll say something that I know instantly dates me. Though I’ve never been known to utter anything as Draconian as “you silly goose” or “if I had my druthers,” I have been known to talk about having a “conniption fit” and needing to “keep my eyes peeled.” And I know I’m guilty of telling my kids more than once that “money doesn’t grow on trees” and “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” These old sayings just pop out of my mouth—unrestrained, automatic. I suppose it’s just another all-too-obvious sign that I wasn’t born yesterday.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My Mother's Day Life Lessons
This Mother's Day, I enter a new stage. I am now the parent of an adult child. Though my daughter is grown, she is still my child. And though I am now old enough to have a grown daughter, I am still my mother's child.
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
It doesn't seem possible that we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital 18 years ago. In those early days, I never thought much about what it meant to be a mother. Like most new moms, I floated in and out of a foggy, sleep-deprived, though blissful state. I don't remember being particularly worried about the awesome responsibility of caring for a child. Perhaps if I'd stopped to think about it I would have been more anxious. Mostly I just remember being entranced by this perfect little being.
By the time my children became toddlers, I thought more about my role as a parent. I supported their natural curiosity about the world while trying to keep them safe. Safety rules were critical, my responses automatic. Other decisions - like denying the extra cookie or telling a defiant child it was bed time - were not things that required deep thought.
As my children grew older, I had to think more, making important decisions about what to allow, and what to refuse. My kids began asking questions I was unprepared to answer. The canned, clever responses of the past like "we'll see" or "ask me later" no longer worked. And it was never easy giving an answer I knew would be followed by tension, anger and tears, even if it was the right one. I always told my kids the surest way to get "no" for a response was to plead "everyone else is doing it."
There have been many lessons over my almost two decades as a parent. One thing I've learned is that I can't fix everything for my kids, and more importantly, I shouldn't try to. Sometimes the best thing is to just be there, to listen.
I've made many mistakes over the years, sometimes by saying the wrong thing, other times by not saying enough. I've learned if I'm not comfortable with something, I need to speak up. After all, that's what I've always told my kids to do.
There were many times, especially in the adolescent and teenage years, when my ambiguous discomfort was the sole reason for refusing a request. I'm sure there were times I was unreasonable, maybe even unfair. But I also knew I could not ignore uneasy feelings. I'd always wonder what would have been different if I'd said something. Though I may have hesitated before giving an answer I knew would make my kids mad, I never feared making waves. In the end, I always went with my gut. I suppose I still do.
As a mother, I've tried to give my kids freedom to try new things and make mistakes while also helping them stay safe. For me, this balancing act is the hardest part of being a parent. The other day my daughter and I talked about it. "You and dad have done a good job as parents," she said. She went on to say it was good how we built up to things, refusing some requests, allowing other things, each time with more freedom, more responsibility. I guess we've managed the right mix of "yes and no." Not perfect, but good enough.
Being a parent is a life-long thing. Though older, my children still need me, just as surely as I still need them. And I still need my mother for so many things - advice on handling a problem, having someone to share what's on my mind. And my mom, she is always there, ready to listen with genuine interest to both the thrilling and ordinary stories of my life. When I think about it, I guess that's what mothers are for.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com May, 2006)
Losing a Filene's Friend
I haven’t shopped at Filene’s in Downtown Crossing in many years. Still, I took the news of its planned closing very hard. Filene’s is as closely connected with Boston as anything I can think of. It is the Red Sox of department stores. While I can’t claim Boston as my birthplace, having lived here almost thirty years (and hence, the bulk of my life), I’m entrenched enough to feel the loss profoundly. It’s as if a dear friend—the one with whom I share my deepest, darkest secrets—has announced she’s moving away.
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
Ever since I learned about the closing of Filene’s, I’ve been trying to understand why I am so sad. I realized I’ve never fully accepted that Jordan Marsh turned into Macy’s. I mean, Macy’s is about as ‘New York’ as the Yankees. Though that change was almost ten years ago, when I picture Downtown Crossing, I still see Filene’s and Jordon Marsh, kindly neighbors, eyeing each other from across the way, keeping each other company like life-long friends.
There have been many corporate takeovers and changes in Boston over the years, and though I’ve been affected by all of them in different ways, none has hit me as hard as this one. I felt sad when BayBank become Bank of Boston, in part I think, because BayBank was where I first used an automatic teller card. I wasn’t bothered when it eventually become Fleet, and I cared less when Fleet became Bank of America (by then I’d switched to Sharon Credit Union). I guess I just wasn’t emotionally tied to my bank.
I wasn’t troubled when Sullivan stadium became Foxboro stadium, or when CMGI Field turned into Gillette. Having only been there once, I guess I wasn’t emotionally tied to the stadium either. The news of Gillette being bought out by Proctor & Gamble was distressing for reasons other than personal. It was hard to take yet another story of corporate greed at the expense of hard-working people. As upsetting as the Gillette news was, for me, it fell into the category of public outrage, rather than private upset.
And there have been other local losses and changes: Polaroid, John Hancock, Lechmere, Great Woods. Though I get a pang of nostalgia when I utter these institutional names, the loss does not feel crushing. Not like Filene’s.
I think the reason the Filene’s news has hit me so hard, is because it is much more than a department store. It is linked with bits of my life. Filene’s will be forever meshed with my move to Boston in 1976, with the excitement of living in a new city, and starting college. When my roommates and I went to Downtown Crossing, it was an all-day affair. We’d hop aboard the T at Boston College, screeching along Commonwealth Avenue until we entered the eerie under-road darkness. We’d climb the grimy Boylston Street station stairs, and stroll through the Public Gardens, taking in the glorious colors and scents.
We’d walk through the Boston Common, cross over Tremont Street and stroll into the shopping district. We’d peek in the windows and check out the bookshops and record stores, before heading into the heart of Downtown Crossing. We’d never make the trip without stopping at Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Being money-strapped college students, Filene’s basement was always the first place we’d go—rummaging through the racks and piles for bargain blouses, slipping on those perfectly priced shoes.
Though we often returned with our arms filled with shopping bags, we didn’t really go to Downtown Crossing to shop. We went for the excitement. We went to explore the vibrant city and to stroll on the no-cars-allowed-cobblestones. We went to feel the pulse of the lively crowds, laughing and talking, just like us. We went to experience a little slice of life.
These are the things I will remember. Filene’s, I will miss you.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2005)
Taking Time to Feel the Fall
The days, I’ve noticed, have slightly changed. In early mornings when I take a breath, a cool stream fills my chest. A faint fog blows before me. I jump and shake and move my limbs, rubbing my hands, warming my finger tips.
All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.
In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.
I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.
So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
All around it looks like summer—the grass is green, the trees are full, the sun is bright. But some things are different. The crickets have quieted, and the bird-chirps are lower, longer, the sounds seeping into the chilled air. Though still green, there is a trace of turning of the leaves—fading tips, spots of russet.
In the nearby fields the towering sunflowers have started to die. They are hunched and bent, tired from standing so tall for so long. The cornstalks stand firm, but they too will soon begin to bend. The neighborhood gardens are blooming with fuchsia and lavender and yellow and blue, impatiens still spreading, covering the beds. There is, though, a hint of decline—crumpled petals, dropped leaves, specks of brown.
I want to see and feel every bit of fall before the days become shorter, before the darkness makes me feel heavy and slow and more tired than I know I should be. Soon the leaves will turn brilliant gold and orange and red, and then they will dry up and fall. The flowers in the beds—even the hearty mums—will wither and crumble and mix with the ground. The cool air will turn bitterly cold, and people will be buttoning coats, turning up collars, hurrying along.
So I will stop to look at the stooping sunflowers, at the turning leaves, at the slightly withering petals. I will listen to the birds and strain to hear the last remnants of the crickets. I will feel the cool air on my bare skin. I will breathe as long and hard and slow as I can, taking it all in. Before it is gone.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
Friday, January 5, 2007
The Man with the Hat, Coat and Cane
There he is again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street. It is cold today. I can see his breath, a hazy cloud puff. His head is covered in a thick fur hat, the kind old men in Moscow wear when it snows. His hair underneath is wispy, grayish-white. His coat is long and dusty and brown and full. It looks warm. He clutches his cane with a glove-covered hand, moving it in sync with his steps. He doesn’t lean on it much; he steadies himself just fine.
He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.
There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.
Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.
And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)
He is tall and lean and delicately strong, like the limb of a large oak tree. His face is kind, his long life deeply etched in it. He has a perfect profile—a fine, pointed nose, deep set eyes. His mouth is a thin line drawn straight across—pensive, serious. He is proud, but not overly so. He nods as he approaches. Sometimes he faintly smiles.
There was a time long ago when his steps were shaky, hesitant, when he walked arm-in-arm with a younger man—his son I supposed—at his side. He is better now. He walks alone. He makes his way around the block just fine.
Sometimes I see him from my living room window, rounding the corner, ambling up the road close, closer. Other times I glimpse a hat and coat and cane in my rearview mirror as I back slowly, carefully, out my driveway. I wonder how long he’s been walking, how much further he plans to go. I wonder what he’s thinking as he moves so steadily along. I watch and wonder some more as he turns the corner and disappears around the bend.
And I know it won’t be long—a day or two, a week at most—before I’ll see him again, plodding along in slow, steady steps, making his way up my street.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com February, 2006)
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Memories in a Makeup Shop
I knew it would happen like this, the slow sinking-in of how things have changed. I haven’t seen my daughter lately. It’s not because we are on different schedules—she a night owl sleeping late into the morning, and me an early-to-bed-early-riser. It’s not that she is busy with homework, at play rehearsal, out with friends or working at her summer job. It is not for any of the usual reasons. My daughter has left home for college. She really is gone.
I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.
There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.
We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.
The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.
We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.
Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.
I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.
My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.
Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.
(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)
I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.
There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.
We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.
The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.
We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.
Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.
I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.
My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.
Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.
(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)
A Fresh and Familiar New Year
Last year I tried a different approach to New Year’s resolutions. Rather than setting unrealistic, largely unattainable goals that would just make me feel like a failure when I didn’t reach them, I vowed to make a simple commitment to discovery. I promised to take on each day with a new attitude, to try things I’d not done before, to look at old things in new ways.
I could discover a new author, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story. I could find newness in anything — a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd, or be stirred by the power of a single word.
Looking back, I only partially reached my goal. Sure, there were some moments of newness. I discovered authors like Marilynne Robinson, Dave Eggers, Robert Olen Butler and Ann Patchett whom I’d never read before. I explored the beautiful city of Vancouver with my husband, and spent time with my mom in small New England towns where I’d never been.
I saw some new art exhibits — “Americans in Paris” at the Museum of Fine Arts, “Paris in the Countryside” at the Portland Museum of Art and the wonderful “Trees” exhibit at Moose Hill in Sharon. I worked on a political campaign, something I’d not done in over 20 years.
Though I didn’t learn to crochet, I took a creative non-fiction course, writing and learning from some terrific writers. I played indoor soccer for the first time ever — only once — but I tried it nonetheless. And there were other little bursts of discovery, taking on different work projects, listening to new songs.
What I remember most about the past year, though, are not the new things, but the old. As much as I sought to discover, I found myself seeking things that were comforting, reassuring. I re-read some of my favorite books — “Anna Karenina,” “Pride and Prejudice” and Tobias Wolff’s memoir “This Boy’s Life.”
I re-watched some of my favorite movies, “It Happened One Night,” “Notorious,” and “Dave” (twice). I fell into the routine of life, catching up with family and friends, shuttling my son to sports practices and games, managing work projects, running and writing, preparing the usual dinners, watching movies at home with my husband on Friday nights.
For the most part, my new experiences over the past year didn’t happen because I planned them. It was just life. By far the most significant change was my daughter leaving home for college. While my daughter’s departure meant major changes for her, it also created a challenge for me as I adjusted to daily life without her. And though my high school-age son is still at home, he has his own busy life with school, homework, sports and spending time with friends. It won’t be long before he, too, will leave home.
As I watch my children grow and change and see how fleeting everything is, I feel a sense of urgency. As much as I want to discover new things, I find myself longing for both the old traditions and everyday moments with family and friends. I know my life this New Year won’t be the same as the last. It shouldn’t be. But still, I want to hold on to all that is good about the past. I suppose what I want is the best of both worlds — the old and new coming together, creating something exciting and different, but at the same time reassuringly familiar.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
I could discover a new author, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story. I could find newness in anything — a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd, or be stirred by the power of a single word.
Looking back, I only partially reached my goal. Sure, there were some moments of newness. I discovered authors like Marilynne Robinson, Dave Eggers, Robert Olen Butler and Ann Patchett whom I’d never read before. I explored the beautiful city of Vancouver with my husband, and spent time with my mom in small New England towns where I’d never been.
I saw some new art exhibits — “Americans in Paris” at the Museum of Fine Arts, “Paris in the Countryside” at the Portland Museum of Art and the wonderful “Trees” exhibit at Moose Hill in Sharon. I worked on a political campaign, something I’d not done in over 20 years.
Though I didn’t learn to crochet, I took a creative non-fiction course, writing and learning from some terrific writers. I played indoor soccer for the first time ever — only once — but I tried it nonetheless. And there were other little bursts of discovery, taking on different work projects, listening to new songs.
What I remember most about the past year, though, are not the new things, but the old. As much as I sought to discover, I found myself seeking things that were comforting, reassuring. I re-read some of my favorite books — “Anna Karenina,” “Pride and Prejudice” and Tobias Wolff’s memoir “This Boy’s Life.”
I re-watched some of my favorite movies, “It Happened One Night,” “Notorious,” and “Dave” (twice). I fell into the routine of life, catching up with family and friends, shuttling my son to sports practices and games, managing work projects, running and writing, preparing the usual dinners, watching movies at home with my husband on Friday nights.
For the most part, my new experiences over the past year didn’t happen because I planned them. It was just life. By far the most significant change was my daughter leaving home for college. While my daughter’s departure meant major changes for her, it also created a challenge for me as I adjusted to daily life without her. And though my high school-age son is still at home, he has his own busy life with school, homework, sports and spending time with friends. It won’t be long before he, too, will leave home.
As I watch my children grow and change and see how fleeting everything is, I feel a sense of urgency. As much as I want to discover new things, I find myself longing for both the old traditions and everyday moments with family and friends. I know my life this New Year won’t be the same as the last. It shouldn’t be. But still, I want to hold on to all that is good about the past. I suppose what I want is the best of both worlds — the old and new coming together, creating something exciting and different, but at the same time reassuringly familiar.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)
Monday, January 1, 2007
New Year Discoveries
Beginnings and endings are times of reflection. As I reach the end of this year, I inevitably look back. I praise myself for accomplishments, and wonder what I might have done differently. As I look ahead, I also wonder. With a blank slate before me, anything seems possible. In some ways, the idea of a new start on a new year is arbitrary. There is, though, something appealing about a chance for a "do-over" or a "finally do."
Though daunting, the unknown is also exciting. As I imagine all the possibilities, I am determined to get things right. I think that is why, like many people, I make promises to myself at the beginning of a new year. My resolutions tend to fall into two categories: things I want to start and things I want to stop. It sounds simple enough. Why then, I wonder, do I so often seem to fall short?
I thought and thought and thought about this, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer - my answer -came to me. And like many revelations, it was in plain view all the time, rooted in the name of the holiday itself. New.
If I seek out the new, if I discover the fresh in the familiar, I will be doing something hugely important. I will make no specific promises. There will be no rules. No things that I should (or shouldn't) do. I will simply make a commitment to newness, to trying what I haven't, to noticing what perhaps has passed me by. There's a freedom to this kind of thinking. Rather than restrictive resolutions, I'll alter my outlook, one in which every day has a clearly defined, straightforward purpose - discovery.
With no oppressive pledges hanging over me, I will be free to determine my destiny. The discovery could involve anything from the simple to the complex. I could visit a new city, explore different work, try a new recipe, discover a new author. I could take on a cause, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story.
While I desire new experiences, I also want to discover the newness in the old ones. The other day, I had a moment like this when I gazed up at the sky. The cloud-covered winter sun has an altogether different feeling than a summer sun hidden by clouds. The winter sun is quietly mysterious. I'd never noticed this before. I'm not sure why it's like that, but it is. Maybe it's because I don't expect to see a warm sun - even a cloud-covered blurry one - in the backdrop of ice and snow and bare trees. Whatever the reason, it is. Quiet. Mysterious.
I could find newness in anything - a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd. I could be stirred by the power of a single word. A fresh take on the familiar could lead to more tolerance as I see someone's annoying habits (even my own) as quirky, endearing.
So this new year, I will steady myself as I step into the whirling winds of the unknown. I will breathe with my full being so that everything penetrates. I will do my best to embrace the new and rediscovered things that surround me.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
Though daunting, the unknown is also exciting. As I imagine all the possibilities, I am determined to get things right. I think that is why, like many people, I make promises to myself at the beginning of a new year. My resolutions tend to fall into two categories: things I want to start and things I want to stop. It sounds simple enough. Why then, I wonder, do I so often seem to fall short?
I thought and thought and thought about this, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer - my answer -came to me. And like many revelations, it was in plain view all the time, rooted in the name of the holiday itself. New.
If I seek out the new, if I discover the fresh in the familiar, I will be doing something hugely important. I will make no specific promises. There will be no rules. No things that I should (or shouldn't) do. I will simply make a commitment to newness, to trying what I haven't, to noticing what perhaps has passed me by. There's a freedom to this kind of thinking. Rather than restrictive resolutions, I'll alter my outlook, one in which every day has a clearly defined, straightforward purpose - discovery.
With no oppressive pledges hanging over me, I will be free to determine my destiny. The discovery could involve anything from the simple to the complex. I could visit a new city, explore different work, try a new recipe, discover a new author. I could take on a cause, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story.
While I desire new experiences, I also want to discover the newness in the old ones. The other day, I had a moment like this when I gazed up at the sky. The cloud-covered winter sun has an altogether different feeling than a summer sun hidden by clouds. The winter sun is quietly mysterious. I'd never noticed this before. I'm not sure why it's like that, but it is. Maybe it's because I don't expect to see a warm sun - even a cloud-covered blurry one - in the backdrop of ice and snow and bare trees. Whatever the reason, it is. Quiet. Mysterious.
I could find newness in anything - a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd. I could be stirred by the power of a single word. A fresh take on the familiar could lead to more tolerance as I see someone's annoying habits (even my own) as quirky, endearing.
So this new year, I will steady myself as I step into the whirling winds of the unknown. I will breathe with my full being so that everything penetrates. I will do my best to embrace the new and rediscovered things that surround me.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
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