**At the time that I wrote this we did not know that my mother was descending into dementia. But this piece, written in early 2017 and shared at the Madison, Wisconsin “Listen to Your Mother” production, now paints an accurate picture of what dementia looks like to our loved ones and to us, including mood changes, fears and frustrations. This is my first Mother’s Day without her. I am sharing in her memory.**
I am here to remember the shapes of those days.
So there I was, sitting in Izmir, Turkey, overlooking the sea. I love the Aegean. Yeah, in my own mind. The truth is I was not at the Aegean yesterday. I was not in Turkey. I was with Asli, a daughter of the town of Izmir and her husband Ilgaz – at their home in Georgia. But I have to say that last night I was in Turkey. First of all, when we arrived, you cannot imagine what we saw: On every surface there were ingredients: cheeses and four kinds of seafood and lamb and walnuts and several aromatic oils…
"...she always strove to repair the small tears in the fabric of society to make things better, to leave things better than when she found them."
They told me that although they didn’t remember many of the exhibits — they remember so strongly how that museum made them FEEL…
I saw a video in the early hours of this day – around the time of the blood moon eclipse – of a dog who had fallen in love with a small pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. He carried that little pumpkin around – cuddled with it, nurtured it, slept with it. It was his “emotional-support pumpkin”. Today is the midterm elections. There is quite a lot of energy associated with today. Mostly I have been laying low. Preparing for the apocalypse. Ha. Today is also the anniversary of the death of my father. A few weeks’ ago R and I had…
(This is also the transcript for the podcast Breathing Out Stars — Episode 31) There is a moon in the evening sky. Around it – many clouds. A storm has just passed. It is stunning. It is, in fact, the reflection of the moon on the clouds that makes it look thus. It was quite a storm. It was a few days before my first surgery that I happened to read that you don’t get the transformation unless you go into the Underworld. But we will talk more about that later. I beg your indulgence as I share this story.…
While we watched an Italian game show, we packed. So it was extra easy the next morning to take off after breakfast. Of course that was after I spilled a whole bottle of water on the breakfast counter “ho sbagliato!” (oops) Linate is always the super facile airport. It’s like venti minuti – twenty minutes to be there, super easy everything. The plane was fast and we arrived at Napoli. Così pazzo. So nuts there. Thousands of people. Our driver found us. Paola. Come si aspetterebbe— As one might expect there were at least six quasi-incidenti – almost-accidents before we even emerged from the parking lot. We chatted in Italian for the whole more-than-an-hour. She drove…
There is a place I have wanted to go. But last time I was not mobile and it was not possible. It was great to be there. Nothing crazy, nothing fancy. Just joy. Stone steps, antiquities. Religious frescoes (why oh why do I love them so much?). I go to the garden. Hydrangeas – ortensie, hosta, ferns – felci, come nel mio proprio giardino — as in my own garden. Beautiful comfort. I peek in on the sculpture class in the studios. I am reminded of how we chip away at our lives, adjusting, adjusting, always adjusting. There is a story I have heard of Michelangelo…
It was many years ago during a dermatological excision that we, in our family, learned that Nancy Sinatra could be associated with surgical procedures. At the time, the doctor, a 70-something eccentric, loved to listen to his music — loud — while holding a scalpel. So, “Summer Wine” and “These Boots were Made for Walkin”, previously favorite Nancy Sinatra songs from my childhood, took on new meaning, involving Tylenol, gauze, well – you can imagine. This association is so ridiculous — that we cannot hear these songs without glancing at each other and grimacing. It’s a type of pop-song-flavored PTSD. So…
The city is hot. We are on the numero 15 tram…stiamo andando in centro – we are going to the city center. Per the government order people are masked. But a few, purtroppo, no. We smell caffè, cigarette smoke. Through the open door we see a musician sitting, playing soprano saxophone. The air is still. The sound carries. C’e’ una ristorante di Pizza – a pizza restaurant, another, poi uno dopo un altro…then one after another. Empty. Tables set. At the ready for i turisti…tourists. And there are plenty of tourists. As many as I have ever seen, except at Natale. And it’s Wednesday. Fittingly,…
I was told the most wonderful story. Thank you, A, for this. He knows that I have written about the Poste Italiane – the post office. And when he told me this story It was in the spirit of my story of the Poste Italiane – which terrified me. That one day that I was sitting in the line – which lasted forever, at the post office. And the women who were thirty years my senior always leaned over and talked to me – not only at the post office, I might add – but on the numero 10 tram. This one…
We did it. We flew. The first day I always think — I am fine. But it is not until the third day that I understand that I was not fine. But I will be. I always am. We are here deliberately to soak up inspiration. Beauty. Joy. We are here to hold hands and to dream. Not knowing how to begin again after the world changed, we just took off walking, trying to wrap the city around us again. This block, that block, street by street our former life began to unfurl itself. More and more things familiar. We…
Episode 23. Blue Grace. It was Grace. It was pure, unadulterated grace. Like the old-fashioned kind. The Gift of the Magi kind of grace…when the young bride cuts her hair to sell — to buy a chain for her new husband’s pocket watch. But he has just sold his watch – to buy sterling combs for her long beautiful hair. It’s the kind of grace in that story — the gift of the magi — but not quite. It is a story of our times. Whatever your ideological leanings I hope you will take a moment to take in this…
(This piece was debuted at Whiskey & Words, Madison, Wisconsin, October 21, 2021 for The Madison Reading Project) As one could expect in times of change, there was a strong wind. And oh, how it blew. This story is personal. This story may be entitled. But it is mine. It isn’t just that it was a wedding. Or a wedding in blue. And outdoors, at a park. By a pond. With seriously menacing geese. It was an August wedding. A wedding in a pandemic. The storm is coming. This is our life now. He asked me at the beginning, her…