**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.**
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…
When I was seven years old, I won an award at Girl Scout camp for fire building. We were, with fire pits all lined up in a row, supposed to build a fire that would catch quickly, (a one-match fire as the cool kids used to say), rise quickly, and burn through a length of rope that was suspended several feet above. Let me repeat — I was seven years old. Some people are naturals at downhill skiing or card games. I seem to have a natural ability in building fires. I found this recently, I don’t know the author:…
(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,…
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…
Challenges create opportunities for action. We are in a time now where there are opportunities for you to find faith – to reach for something greater than yourself.
(Episode 27, Breathing Out Stars Podcast) Before I begin I want to say a thing about carrying on. It is said that at the top of every mountain is the base of the next mountain. This is a super important lesson for us to get – that when we finish something, accomplish something, we are not done…it is just time to start the next thing. When I reached 25 episodes it was a lovely benchmark. A milestone. Not an easy thing in a difficult time. But rather than resting on my laurels I sat down immediately and began episode 26.…
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…
I am not the first to write about a wedding and neither will I be the last. My story is personal. The story of life cycle event in pandemic. The story of entitlement, perhaps. The story of change. This is the story of what we do, sometimes, while we process, process, process our life’s transitions while the world is in flux. Our daughter, Bells, told us from the beginning that everything would be blue. That I would be wearing blue, my husband’s suit was to be blue — that flowers would be blue and my shoes would be blue. Everything…
Faccio un casino. I am a bit of a mess. Time zones, eh. I am meeting B, of ambulance fame, for lunch. (L’ambulanza italiana) Our epic ride together forged an already burgeoning friendship. She is brave. So very brave. Walking the blocks towards the Crocetta station, boarding the train towards Comasina. I get off at the Duomo. Greeted by its morning glow…and armed soldiers. It whispers to me “benvenuta!” Benvenuta. Welcome. Benvenuto — I whisper to the train as I get back on towards Reppublica. We share an almost three-hour lunch, walking back through the markets near Porta Garibaldi, looking…
It was the most indulgent of rides. We scheduled a three-stop-transport…from upper Brooklyn down to his neighborhood…and then to the airport. Sure we could have taken the train. But not today. When A was in the car we discussed graduate school, summer plans, ideas for October. When he got out, after the kiss and hug and goodbye and the “don’t slam the door” I said to the driver…good afternoon, how is your day going? “It is chilly, Spring, lovely,” he said. Then he offered, “ah, your big holiday has just ended.” “I know this”, he said, “because all the cab…