For years, my mom and I had a daily telephone ritual. When she called, her words, “How are you?” would slam me right through the phone like a bowling ball hitting a strike.
“Fine!” I would reply.
Things were never fine with my mom. Never. And, sooner or later, she’d push, and I’d be cornered into telling her the truth about what was really going on in our household, whether it involved the car breaking down or my kids losing their lunch money. Interestingly, I felt better after unloading the daily grievances.
Then my mom would often complain about the behavior of a few people — sometimes including me. She had her favorite targets, and I would sometimes find her complaints humorous, while other times I found them downright mean. But I always listened, because it would eventually turn out that she was right. At least 99% of the time.
It was as if she had a special lens that detected everyone’s flaws. She didn’t hold back; she was always honest, even if it was painful to hear. Admittedly, I spent years trying to hush her up, soften and polish her, but she continued to speak her mind. Period.
Finally, after I had children of my own, I eased up on my mom and gave her the space she needed to be herself. In fact, I owe a great debt to my children, because they were the ones who taught me just how endearing my mom was despite all her imperfections. Once I could step back from my own expectations and give her the space, I saw her humor, her creativity, and her incredible insights and sparks — many, many sparks! I was able to change my behavior toward her by asking myself the question, “Who was I to kill her spirit?”
Over the years, as I experienced betrayal and deception from others in my life, I appreciated my mom even more. She was my anchor, because I always knew where I stood with her.
As I backed off and eased up on my judgments of her, she learned the importance of tact and discretion on her own. She learned that sometimes, it’s better to say nothing at all. And this resulted from my not intervening and trying to mold her character in my image!
What I appreciate most about my mom is that she taught me the importance of having a voice by her own example. She was who she was, flaws and all.
I reflected a lot on my mom last week after I heard that Sinéad O’Connor had passed away. You wouldn’t think that the two women had much in common, but they shared a solidarity of pain and a few other things that connected them.
Anyway, I heard the news on the radio while I was driving in the car. “We have some sad news. The great Irish singer, Sinéad O’Connor, has passed away,” the news anchor announced. “She was 56 years old.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I listened to the report. A wave of shock and sadness washed over me. I pulled over to the side of the road and started crying. As much as I couldn’t believe it, it was something I had worried about after the talented woman’s son, Shane, had died by suicide a year ago.
I felt as if I had lost yet another partner in our solidarity in pain. I sat there for a few minutes, just crying and listening to her music that the station started to play in a tribute to the late singer. No denying, she was a spitfire, but she was so much more.
Often when people hurt and grieve, they fall deeply inward. What never ceased to amaze me was how during her grief journey, Sinéad did not forget about other mothers who were in her position. She may have suffered from grief and mental illnesses, but she made room to remember others who hurt.
If you could look past her infamous moments, many of which were misunderstood and none of which she regretted, Sinéad O’Connor was a lifelong advocate for the vulnerable and, in essence, gave so many people faith and hope. In fact, during one of her interviews, she said she wanted her concerts to represent a church for some audience members, a place where they could find faith and hope.
I thought about how many people she had helped over the years. She had given them a voice, a platform, and a sense of community. She had shown them that they were not alone, and that they were worthy of love and respect.
Our society often encourages people to have diverse voices, stands and opinions. However, it is also true that people who speak out against the status quo, especially against the principles of the norm, often face backlash. Sinéad, like my mom, spoke their truth, even in the face of opposition. My dear friend Kit always reminded me that it’s easy to blend in with the crowd, but it takes real courage to be the lone voice of dissent.
Taking a deep breath, I started the car. I would go home and listen to Sinéad’s music some more. I would cry some more, but I would also remember the times when I was young and single, feeling as if I were the only person on Earth. But when I turned on the radio and heard Sinéad’s voice, I found the strength to not only keep moving, but to even kick up my heels and dance.
I imagined Sinéad, hopefully, finally at peace alongside her beloved son. I saw her calling it the way she saw it, in the company of my mom, their spitfire spirits floating around, sparking their own brand of music, driving everybody batty but never backing down.
I knew that the two spitfire figures would continue to inspire me, even in death. They had taught me the importance of speaking my truth, even when it was difficult. They taught me that it was okay to be different and that it was possible to find strength in your pain.
The chilly fall air nipped at my cheeks as I rolled the garbage receptacle down the driveway to the street for the next day’s pickup.
“Meow! Meow!”
I scanned the landscape, looking for the source of the sound that had strummed my heartstrings. There, in the bushes, was a partially white, tiger-faced kitten. She was small and fluffy, but appeared well fed and reminded me of a powder puff. Next thing you know, she vanished and in case she had not a home, I left a dish of cat food for her across the way. Over the course of the following months, I assumed someone owned her since I only saw her a couple times more.
Fast forward to about a month ago, and I officially discovered “Tuna’s” story shortly after she reappeared at my house. Her feral mom had birthed Tuna, along with her four brothers and sisters under my neighbor’s shed. A few compassionate neighbors cared for the cat and her litter while a cat rescue charity had become involved trying to trap, spay, neuter and place the kitties for adoption.
Gazing into Tuna’s eyes, I felt crushed. I could tell that she was familiar with hunger, homelessness and fear. She had to hide from the pack of blood-thirsty coyotes that prowled around at night. She had never known what a human touch felt like, or a warm bed and blanket. She had only slept on hard, mud-packed ground infested with bugs. I wondered if she even knew how to purr. If I got too close, her meows would turn into low, threatening hisses.
I couldn’t help but wonder why some animals and people are born into such difficult circumstances, while others are born into privilege. The question weighed on me like an indigestible lump of sausage in my stomach. Needless to say, I became attached to Tuna and her family and tried to help as best as I could by doing things like checking to see if any of the felines were captured in the cage that had been set by the rescue group.
After I got involved, three weeks later, Tuna and her family disappeared. Our neighborhood cat watch party feared the worst. We searched for them everywhere, but we couldn’t find them.
Another week went by, and we received some good news. The feline family had relocated to a different area of the neighborhood, where they took shelter under another neighbor’s shed. I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured that they’re doing well. The rescue group is still trying to trap and rescue them, and I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to do so soon.
I was glad that Tuna and her family were safe, but I couldn’t help but think about all the other animals and people who were living in difficult circumstances.The question was one I didn’t have the answer to, but the mere thought of it triggered a flood of memories deep inside.
It all started when I got into my car in the parking lot after a rather extensive grocery shopping trip, feeling particularly exhausted.
When I started it up, a familiar song, “Fast Car,” on a random top-hits radio station caught my attention. It was Luke Combs’ remake of Tracy Chapman’s iconic 1988 hit “Fast Car.” Combs’ version had just hit the top of Billboard’s Country Airplay chart a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t paid close attention to it. I had listened to Tracy’s version countless times back in the ’80s, though.
Combs’ version is a faithful cover of the original, but he brings his own unique style to it. His voice is deeper and more soulful than Chapman’s, and he adds a bit of a country twang. The result is a powerful and emotional rendition of the song.
Little did I realize Luke Combs is the oversized, rust-colored bearded version of my beloved son, Marshall
The lyrics of the song caught me off guard that day. Instead of bolting out of the parking lot, I sank into the driver’s seat, wet from nostalgic tears. I recalled someone, around 15, with dirty blonde, long, wavy hair, flying like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline, outside of an oversized, open 1956 Ford Crown Victoria window.
“Lucy” was what Mac called me back then (and “Lug Nuts,” but that’s another story). He was the one piloting the Crown Vic. Probably one of my only true friends in high school, he sat grinning at my antics, his smile as bright as the perfectly white steering wheel of the car he had lovingly restored. We roared down the road, singing along to the radio as it blasted.
Our favorite song was Rufus & Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good.” So picture this: Mac would slow the car and pull over to an innocent pedestrian, and I would stretch my body like a piece of taffy and rocket out of the Crown Vic, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
“Your problem is you ain’t been loved like you should What I got to give will sure ‘nough do you good Tell me something good (Tell me, tell me, tell me) Tell me that you love me, yeah”
Luckily, no one took offense or took us seriously, regardless of their gender or age. (I think I really gave a much-needed adrenaline rush to some of the older guys’ egos, though!)
I had often thought back to those cruising days with Mac, but I never truly understood their poignant meaning until I broke down in tears while listening to Combs’ lyrics. For the first time ever, I had an epiphany: Mac had a fast car and I felt like I belonged! We also crossed the invisible line that separated our suburban neighborhood from the city (“Won’t have to drive too far, Just across the border and into the city.”)
Here are the lyrics that transported me back to those many afternoons spent in Mac’s Crown Vic, a visceral realm where I could relive the memories of those days and understand why they mattered so much:
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I do believe that these two words are some of the most powerful words in human history: I belonged.
Listening to the song’s lyrics about poverty and hardship resonated with me in that moment.
That being said, I was the kid who got kicked out of sixth grade for asking too many questions, but over the years I knew him, I only asked Mac once about his estranged dad.
You see, Mac’s mom was a single mother of five other children. Only one sister was his biological sister; the rest were half-siblings from his mom’s other relationships. They lived in a dangerous, impoverished neighborhood of the city that we loved to cruise through, naïve as we were.
“I don’t know him.” Mac said, his voice flat and emotionless when I had asked him about his father. But the deep-rooted pain in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. It was the kind of pain you can detect in a feral cat’s eyes. The kind I detected in Tuna. Decades ago, like Tuna, I too wondered why Mac’s mom was forced to live in a ransacked two-room apartment with her children.
(At one point, Tuna was safely trapped, but her cage was accidentally unhinged and she escaped the animal rescue efforts!)
Once, in fact, Mac and I had just pulled up to visit his mom and siblings when a white van pulled in. There he was, Jack or John (Mack whispered his inaudible name under his breath) as he hopped out onto the asphalt, his face hidden under dark sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous pair of jeans and t-shirt, pounding the pavement in a pair of new work boots.
Mac and I sat in the Crown Vic like two upright light bulbs without a fixture. Once Jack or John disappeared into the ransacked apartment building, we drove away. I did not ask questions.The only question that mattered to me was, “How much more hurt could Mac take?”
As it stood, Mac lived with his aunt, who had escaped poverty against all odds to live in suburbia. She managed to just get by on government assistance along with wages from odd jobs. The single mom and her six children lived in a small, rundown house that was once a meat store. She may have narrowly escaped poverty, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the judgment of the “Fat Cats” of our town, who frowned upon the welfare-enabled “feral cats.”
Mac was the eighth resident in the tiny place. He was happy to pay rent, even though he had to sleep on a five-foot slab cot on the floor. He did it to go to our high school, where I had met him. Apparently, it was a lot better than getting bullied and beaten up at his previous high school in the city where he grew up.
From the moment I met him, the student who had been held back three times in school would proudly proclaim, “I’m a grease monkey!” and emphasize the point by bouncing in his chunky, five-inch, shiny black platform shoes down the hallways of our high school.
The second the final school bell rang, he whipped out of school in his Crown Vic in order to get to the service station where he worked as a self-taught mechanic. Although he paid rent to his aunt, whether out of guilt for abandoning his family or out of simple necessity, Mac gave most of his money to his mother. Between Mac’s money and her work as a caterer, his mother managed to obtain her nursing degree, and it looked like the cycle of poverty was about to be broken. It did, for a while.
Going into her second year of nursing, his mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer and died within three months. The other fathers of her children stepped up and took on their responsibilities. There was no room on Mac’s cot, and his sister was left to fend for herself and moved in with a friend. Mac grieved, and he did it over beers at a club in his native city that was notorious for allowing minors to drink alcohol. Then one day, one of the fat cat bullies lit his pants on fire. Fortunately, he was able to extinguish the flames, but he drank alone after that incident.
So there I sat in the grocery store’s parking lot, feeling the wind embrace me once again as I remembered how I nearly tumbled out of Mac’s Crown Victoria as I serenaded my audience in a notoriously unsavory neighborhood. As day turned into night, I would slide down the seat and snuggle up to Mac. He ignited my fire, and he never extinguished it—most of the world had done that at the time, kicking off the lifelong theme of my life.
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I was no longer too fat, too thin, too zany, too quiet, too foreign, too dumb, too smart, or too much — I simply belonged in our own private classic-car world like a well-worn robe that had lost half of its original weight.
After we graduated from high school, our Crown Vic cruises became a thing of the past. I would see him sporadically, but he was a recluse. Although he did show up for our 20th high school reunion, he ended up holing himself up in a cheap hotel instead of coming to the party, despite my pleas.
Years later, after fighting his own demons, it seemed he had turned a corner. He had married, had children, and became a successful business owner. It was the life he deserved. But then things turned again. At 45 years old, he finally came out, claiming his true authenticity. I was devastated to learn, he died two years later from AIDS complications. I felt a deep sense of grief, because I had lost a dear friend and a part of my own history.
Wiping the last of my tears, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but ponder on the bad luck and bad fate that seemed to follow people like Mac, like feral cats in a world of fat cats.
Throughout my life, I have been passionate about animal rescue. My friends know that they will never win an argument with me about buying bred pets, and I have opened my heart and home to numerous rescue cats and one dog, Crouton. On the other hand, I don’t know what kind of influence I had on Mac, but I know he rescued me in ways I can’t even explain. He certainly gave me faith when I had none.
Decades later, sometimes when the days feel long and dark and static, I remember Mac’s indigo tiny slits of eyes lighting up like fireflies. Like the headlights of a classic Crown Vic, they illuminate the path, guiding me through the darkness.
Enduring divorce and a host of other hardships and tragedies, I can’t seem to stop opening Pandora’s Box. The only consolation is that I am at the sunset of my life. As I mentioned in last week’s blog post, I spend most of my days in insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). I also try to remind myself that I cannot understand certain things, such as the apathy of certain ill-wishers in my life.
In my previous blog post, I also wrote about “a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world.”
This week, I’m lifting the lid on a real-life nemesis who has been a source of friction in my life like a thigh-sized bur since I was 14. I try to understand that she is struggling with her own issues, and that she is simply incapable of showing love and compassion. In addition, the woman’s continuous erratic behavior suggests that she may have dissociative identity disorder (DID).
I need to remember that I am not responsible for her traumatic childhood or her behavior, no matter what the reason. I can only control my own actions and reactions.
Fortunately, I don’t struggle to keep the faith when I am able to believe that things are the way they are meant to be. This belief takes the pressure off me, and I can leave the rest to the great creator, God, all there is, Greater Good, or whatever he or she or it may be. As long as my ego doesn’t get enmeshed into things out of my hands, it’s going to be a good day.
I also know that I am worthy of love and respect. I am a valuable person, and I deserve to be treated with kindness and compassion. The real-life nemesis in my life, most times, quite frankly, I wish she would simply disappear. But I remember back in the 80s when a few of my mentors advised me that she was here to teach me valuable lessons.
What these lessons are, I don’t know. I do know, in retrospect, that at the lowest points of my life, she tried to beat me even lower. Did her acts of cruelty make me a better person? No, I can’t say they did. Hurt supersedes all the memories of her in my life. Typically, my only desire is to shovel my hurt on her until she seeps into it like quicksand.
I suppose, though, one thing I’ve learned from her is how to bar out the negative thoughts and erase a real-life nemesis from my mind. Release her back to her own creator and go about my life, channeling whatever positive energy is left. That’s what it’s about.
“Don’t give up. It may take time to heal from the pain of indifference and deep wounds, but it’s important to remember that you can get through the pain. Don’t give up on yourself or on your faith.”
That’s the message I find without my having to consult any particular guru, because the inner voice is divine, and I don’t mess with divinity.
In the same vein as my recent blog post, Bow-Tie Breakthrough, I clearly remember the first ominous sign that things were about to change in the idyllic world of my poetic imagination.
While making my way towards the entrance of a now-defunct men’s clothing store in our hometown, I found myself juggling my toddler daughter and son. As I approached the main door, a seemingly healthy and muscular man in his thirties made no effort to move out of our path or open the door for us. He stood there resolutely, with an air of entitlement reminiscent of a lamppost that compelled me to turn sideways to gain entry into the establishment.
Initially perplexed by this behavior, anger was not an emotion that suited my state at that moment. Nonetheless, as I ruminated on this incident later that day, I became incensed trying to fathom why someone who appeared physically capable would not extend even so much as common courtesy towards a young mother by simply stepping aside or opening the door for her!
Fast forward through the decades, and the nameless man who refused to open the door of the onetime men’s store somehow opened the door on a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world like an old-fashioned hobo sneaking aboard a caboose on a train.
One example of the insidious adversary, far from appearing as a hobo, who presented herself as an affluent and entitled middle-aged woman at a grocery store a few years later, refused to allow me to go ahead of her at the bottle return — although she had about thirty bottles while I only had two. Was this justifiable?
Another incident, soon after, involved a parent-teacher conference that was divided into fifteen-minute intervals, the entitled couple in our well-heeled suburb that preceded my ex-husband and me consumed ten minutes of our allotted time as we waited patiently. Why did they do this? We were perplexed as we assumed that each pair would receive their full fifteen minutes. However, when it came to our turn, we were granted merely five minutes before being hastily dismissed from the premises. (Thankfully, there were no significant matters to address concerning our son; otherwise, we would have insisted on utilizing the entire duration allocated to us.)
As previously mentioned, my ex-husband frequently voiced his favorite adage: “Don’t expect anything and you won’t be disappointed.”
The first time I heard him say it, I was stunned but did not allow the sword of an idea to penetrate my idyllic world of my poetic imagination — until a certain and final act of self-centered conduct shattered it.
I think the day I woke up to smell the coffee, as my dear friend Bruce had often suggested during my youthful and carefree years, I stepped into insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). It was the day when I met head-on the selfish act of my ex-husband’s aunt, which I’ve already elaborated on in previous blog posts. The day she felt entitled and justified to close the door on me and my daughter’s soul by shutting us out and declining our plea for moral support following our firsthand experience with tragedy after having already endured countless hardships.
I suppose it is the day when I lost faith in people, but in the subsequent years that followed, remarkably, gained it in myself. Instead of plummeting down, I rose up into a place of acceptance and peace, not to mention a deeper realization of gratitude.
Fast forward to about a month ago when I was driving one evening and noticed headlights flashing behind me. Despite this, I chose to ignore what I assumed was another adversary poised to disrupt my existence. However, the vehicle pulled up next to me and revealed a male and a female inside. Even so, I pretended not to see them as I did not want any kind of altercation for something unknown or unintentional on my part. After spending over a minute attempting to grab my attention without success, they eventually gave up and drove away — much to my relief. It wasn’t until later that I realized they were trying to signal me that my car lights were carelessly turned off.
Following this incident, it saddened me how one would expect strangers only pose threats rather than good deeds; however, it served as an example of how Richard’s statement in Bow-Tie Breakthrough, rings true for me: “This is not my world anymore.”
Collectively, the abrasive experiences, though, have not led me to abandon the use of affirmations or positive thinking techniques, but rather opt to exercise prudence and safeguard myself. In essence, I am embracing a universal truth that many already acknowledge — Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. I joke around to my friends and say if I have grandchildren, I will teach them all about Darwin’s theory first and foremost.
My late brother Mike, who was a highly decorated Vietnam Veteran, and whom I’ve frequently written about, categorized people into two groups: draft dodgers or non-draft dodgers. War aside, when you truly contemplate it, who would risk their own life for others? Although my brother did so himself, I doubt many people would do the same. I don’t know if I would!
As a matter of fact, (let’s go back to the topic of war for a moment), only recently did I learn about the Confederate conscription law during the Civil War that allowed draftees to hire someone exempt from the draft to replace them — this could be someone under or over the mandatory conscription age or one whose trade or profession exempted him; even foreign nationals were eligible. The fee was $300 and obviously only affordable to those with wealth, such as Andrew Carnegie, one of the richest Americans in history (In fact, I read about the Confederate conscription law in Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict, but that’s another story!). Many casualties were substitutes who tended to be young men aged 18 or 19 years — old enough to serve but too young to be drafted — representing some of society’s most vulnerable including Irish citizens seeking “a better life.” This all helped me understand why my father warned me about those hiding behind privilege and degrees since it is simple for such individuals to manipulate their way ahead without any regard for morality or ethics.
However, there is an upside midst all this downside …
Soul! Seriously.
The essence of our being transcends the hustle and bustle of commerce in the world, enabling us to reconnect with our inner selves. Furthermore, the part that connects us to something bigger than ourselves — you can call it Good Orderly Direction. It is what gives us purpose, meaning and fulfillment in life. And among all the negativity and manipulation that can come with the Darwin-versed modern world, privilege and degrees, it is our soul that can keep us grounded and true to our values.
When we focus on nurturing our soul, we become more resilient to the challenges that come with what we deem as success. We are able to stay humble and grateful for what we have (or think we have) achieved, rather than becoming arrogant or entitled. We are also more likely to use our presumed success for good, using our resources and influence to make a positive impact on the world around us — and sometimes all that it means is opening the door for another!
So while it may be easy for those with privilege, as well as those who feel entitled to dominate and manipulate their way ahead, it is ultimately their soul (or lack thereof) that will determine their true success in life. As my father warned me, never underestimate the power of a strong moral compass and a well-nurtured soul.
“Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” My mom’s heavily accented voice exclaimed every time she spotted a yellow flower or garment.
I distinctly remember that when she accompanied our family, regardless of how preoccupied we were with our daily tasks, such as running errands, her outburst would cause us to pause in our tracks, focus on, for example, yellow roses and transcend ourselves in order to appreciate their beauty.
My mom sounded like a yellow canary chirping in perfect rhythm, “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” After about three minutes, we reluctantly interrupted her captivated state and peeled her away in order to resume our daily activities.
I became reminiscent of these halcyon times when yellow wildflowers caught me off guard as I was walking at the end of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac. All at once, my mom’s voice reverberated through the sky in tandem with a radiant sun.
End of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac
Ironically, despite planting numerous perennial flower seeds last year, only a single variety of the daisy blossomed. The color? Yellow — a vibrant shade of Yell-OH!
Our Yell-OH! daisies
My mom not only had a penchant for all things yellow, but actually, all things, down to a modest piece of bread that the 98-pound woman stashed in her fake leather purse. And, most times, before consuming it, she’d kiss the crust in gratitude.
As I have previously written about, my mother was a proud American and WWII survivor who endured forced labor under the Nazis during her youth. Prior to her passing in 2015, she exhibited profound gratitude for each moment of the day. Many Americans, myself included, may require reminders of the things to be grateful about. I believe that for most American immigrants, gratitude starts the minute a pair of feet hit free soil.
The Fourth of July is a time to celebrate America’s independence and all that it stands for. It’s a day filled with parades, fireworks, and most importantly, the colors that represent this great nation —red, white and blue. But for me, there’s one more color that holds a special place in my heart — yellow — yell-oh!
You see, my mom, was not only one of the most grateful persons I’ve every known, but also one of the most patriotic people. (Don’t these two qualities go hand in hand?) Additionally, she was a proud mother of two veterans who courageously served in active duty during the Vietnam War.
To her, each day held the same revelry as the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Flag Day and every other holiday on the American calendar. She would joyfully declare, “Every day is Sunday!”
She also enthusiastically expressed her appreciation for America by exclaiming: “God Bless America!” to everyone she encountered — from store clerks to librarians, you name it.
Don’t think though that America handed her an easy life on a silver platter. She and my dad experienced discrimination and were exploited by many individuals. Every Monday, for instance, a bulldog of a neighbor would plop an enormous pile of dirty laundry (excluding any yellow clothes!) on our porch, causing my mom to groan from the weight when lifting the basket. Throughout the week, Mom tirelessly ironed and starched each garment while juggling her other responsibilities, a skill she acquired firsthand from the Nazis’ emphasis on producing flawless results. The same neighbor would retrieve the laundered articles on Friday or Saturday, while simultaneously expressing dissatisfaction with my mother’s work. Consequently, she would begrudgingly offer my mother meager compensation consisting of only a few coins or occasionally one dollar.
On Sundays, my parents never failed to attend church. I can vividly imagine my mother prostrating herself on the ground in prayer, grateful for the opportunity to worship her personal understanding of God without fear of being subjected to violence or even death. On her way out, Mom never failed to contribute half of her earnings into the charitable receptacle of the church.
“It’s for the poor people. God Bless America,” she’d whisper to me after we left church.
In the final decade of her life, my mother grieved the passing of her eldest son, Mike, as a result of illness; nonetheless, she retained an unwavering appreciation for her freedom to mourn openly and, in fact, helped others who suffered comparable loses.
When one considers the experiences of enduring war, division, hatred and brutality or suffering from inadequate footwear during blizzard-like weather conditions, minor discomforts faced by those in the middle- and, certainly, upper-class, such as a power outage for the day, pale in comparison.
Regardless of the hardships she endured in America, my mother never lost her faith in America even during its darkest moments. Her attention remained fixed on the selfless acts of our nation’s forefathers and their successors, including her own sons, in upholding our liberty and autonomy.
When I find my self amid personal struggles, I am grateful for her legacy that rarely fails to empower me. Fortunately, during summer months, her positive spirit is especially evident as I stroll along the path towards my house and behold the sunny faces of flowers beaming at me. Meanwhile, a melodious tune chirps within my mind, singing out “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!”
As we celebrate the holiday today, let us remember those who have gone before us and the traditions they held dear. Let us honor their memory and carry on their legacy, whether we wear red, white, blue or even yellow — Yell-oh! —because we are FREE to do so! Happy Fourth of July!
About six years ago, when my friend, Richard, a retired art director, celebrated his two-year sobriety milestone, he donned an eye-catching crimson bow tie that juxtaposed his somber expression. The poignant declaration he uttered at that moment has remained ingrained in my memory ever since: “This is not my world anymore.”
Richard was faced with the realization that his marriage of 50 years was not only coming to a close, but also that his children had grown distant from him. In addition, he also needed to reconcile with the reality that he had wasted a considerable amount of his earlier years as an alcoholic who functioned nevertheless.
His faith in what once was, had come crashing down.
Richard’s realization that “This is not my world anymore” is a sentiment that we all may encounter at some point in our lives. It represents the stark (sober) realization of what truly holds significance in life, and conversely, what does not; such as an unfulfilling marriage that has become a matter of convenience and habit rather than one that is rooted in love and admiration.
Over the past two decades, and particularly during the last three years, I have encountered numerous epiphanies that have left me feeling disconnected from my surroundings. These experiences forced me to recognize who my true friends are while accepting that most of them, for various reasons, have vanished from my life. Furthermore, it is clear that the path I had once envisioned for myself will never come to fruition. Each time I catch sight of my age-spotted hands that no longer resemble my own, I can’t escape the fact that before I know it, a significant birthday is just around the corner. In truth, “This is not my world anymore” often morphs into “This is not the world I imagined at 19,” which serves as a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual evolution.
Richard’s and my journey serves as an example to illustrate how life is constantly changing. We may not always be in control of these changes, but we can choose how we respond to them. While conceding that there are numerous occasions when my faith falters and my perseverance wanes, it is evident that I am able to persist through such moments due in large part to inspirational figures, such as Richard.
Richard is not, as far as I know, a religious man. However, he does believe that there is something that is ultimately good and benevolent and, despite all his challenges, Richard never lost faith that things would turn out okay. He faced each obstacle head-on and emerged stronger from it all. Sure, it’s still not “his world” anymore, but he never falters as he adds a colorful array of bow ties to his wardrobe reminiscent of a blooming garden filled with vibrant peonies.
Last night, I was writing my weekly blog post when I realized how sad I was feeling. I was writing about solemn topics, which is perfectly acceptable, but as the midnight hour approached, the blog post was starting to weigh on me and obnubilated my mood. I decided to switch gears and started to write about something entirely different. By the time I finished the new blog post, I had awakened my funny bone. In one way this was a positive thing; on the other hand, I was a bit annoyed that I was wide awake in the wee hours of the morning. 😂
What inspired the complete turnaround was that earlier in the day, I had read something I had no awareness of: laughter is a way of being mindful; you can even say that it’s a form of meditation. I hadn’t thought of laughter as a form of meditation before, but it makes sense. I mean, if we examine mindfulness: it is the practice of paying attention to the present moment without judgment. When we laugh, we are fully present to the moment. We are not thinking about the past or the future. We are simply enjoying the moment.
Of course, who doesn’t know that laughter is a powerful thing? When we laugh, our bodies release endorphins, which have mood-boosting and pain-relieving effects. Medical studies show that laughter can also help to improve our immune system and cardiovascular health.
The “funny” thing was, the same day that I read about laughter was when an appliance repair person was scheduled to fix our washer. And, of all people, at all times, he turned out to be a pop-in comedian. Oh, that’s right, he wasn’t a comedian, he had “a PhD from Vermont: a Paper Hanging Degree.” 😂
As he was fixing the washing machine, he painted a hysterical picture, sprinkled with a whimsical accent, that conveyed his recent trip to Italy where he drove over 1,500 miles from the southern to northern part of the country. How vividly I saw him sitting cross legged, with a tall, lanky Al Pacino stature, sipping wine in the same chair that he sat in while playing the starring role of The Godfather.
I mean, man, did I have a lot of afternoon mindfulness. I even recalled Tuscany, one of my bucket list places on a list I had nearly forgotten. Suddenly, I was inspired and as if ready to climb the Apennine Mountains, I could taste its fresh legumes, pasta and cheese (I no longer eat meat). I felt the beaming smiles of its friendly people. Inhaling its burst of sweet oxygen made me feel hopeful and optimistic. I realized that I could live with the limp of PTSD, and a number of other limitations, but still inch my way forward – or if need be, press the “restart” button.
Through all my thoughts and feelings, toppling over with humor, I even learned how to load the washing machine properly so it (hopefully) wouldn’t break down again.
Anyway, I started to think more and more about laughter and our comedian-appliance guy, and realized how we connected through the funny side of life. (Although I wouldn’t want his mom in Portugal to hear how he described her as having a big, square wine barrel body, a heavy mustache crowning her lips and nylon stockings that she tied in knots at her knees! 😂)
I started thinking that if laughter could connect people, then it could be a way to connect to something much bigger – bigger than ourselves. Whether we call it a higher power, God, or “All There Is,” there is something bigger than ourselves, such as the Apennine Mountains, that we are all connected to. And when we laugh, I believe we are acknowledging that connection. We begin to open up to the joy and wonder of life while expressing our gratitude for all that we have.
Anyway, not to sound too esoteric, leave it to the appliance guy to reinforce that the best medicine – and meditation – really is laughter. After a roller coaster of a weekend, it took his humor to level me. Switch things around and jump start a blog I had not planned on writing.
There is no doubt that laughter can help us find hope in the midst of despair. In this way, laughter can act like a tip-top washing machine, cleansing our saddened hearts and minds with its healing power.
Have you ever had an experience with someone who seems to know you better than you know yourself? That’s how I feel when I encounter my neighbor Eli Louise who constantly seems to fold herself into my stratosphere like a bur on your ankle socks that you can’t loosen no matter how hard you pull at it. She has no idea about me or my life, but within seconds after running into her yesterday, she was setting forth directives that she deemed were tailored to my needs.
A.YOU should retire. B. YOU should sell your house. C. YOU should move into a condo.
I work hard not to take Eli Louise personally. She “shoulds” all over everyone she meets.
Before I offered a reply to her momentous pronouncements, I felt the solid ground beneath my feet. I looked her in the eyes. To summarize what I said, it basically amounted to something like people who feel out of control internally often try to regain a sense of control by controlling the people and situations around them.
After I said this, she immediately shifted the conversation to lamenting about the people she had met the previous weekend. Fortunately, I managed to escape the situation and her tornado of toxicity.
Surprisingly, gratitude managed to penetrate my ruffled state. I realized that despite her attempts to sound superior, I knew that I was the one who was truly fortunate. She may have thought she was the one reaping the benefits of wealth and retirement, but I had a different perspective. I intrinsically knew that true peace of the mind could not be bought or obtained through the material world. True peace is an inner state of being that must be cultivated from within.
How? By making a conscious choice and decision on a daily basis to stay close to our true selves, away from the chaos of everyday life. It also helps to stay clear of those who “should” all over us. They are not helpers. They distract us from what truly matters by flooding us with their own insecurities.
And so, there I was after my brief encounter, feeling pressured to feel “I should” live up to certain standards of success and happiness. In my fury, I planned to write a seething blog post about Eli Louise and describe the indignation of being judged by a self-righteous person, and how it felt infuriating and demoralizing. I also wanted to explore why judgmental people are only a reflection of themselves and how to deal with them.
But then I asked myself, “WHY? WHY invest the time and energy to focus on negative forces?”
I mean, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the Eli Louises in the world. However, with a little faith, we can shift our perspective and fill our lives with meaning instead of siphoning our spirits with the “shoulds.”
Besides writing a blog post focused solely on my negative emotions regarding Eli Louise, I decided how I could incorporate my feelings and use them as an opportunity for personal growth. However, I procrastinated and put off writing by going on FB, which I rarely do and, lo and behold, I found the following image that perfectly encapsulated the next steps for me to take.
The rest of the day I spent in a scavenger hunt style, combing through the trash and panning for gold – the things that truly matter in my life, such as writing this blog post as I wore my Bombas socks that my childhood friend, Anna, had sent me as a “Just Because” gift this past winter. Sipping a freshly brewed cup of steaming coffee that was so pure, I easily imagined the smooth beans cooling my palms as I held the cup in my hands.
I was further rewarded to get to bask in the sun’s rays in my home office and feel the sturdy winds from the open window that moved around me – forces at work in the world that reminded me how they were beyond my control. The realization made me appreciate the beauty of nature, and its power to bring a sense of solitude and peace to my life – even without the luxury of retirement.
Last week when I took my car in for service, I decided to spend an extra thirty dollars to fill the four new tires I purchased with nitrogen instead of air. For me, my car is especially meaningful because it was originally my son’s. He started the tradition of taking special care of this car, which he bought shortly before his passing, and I am proud to carry it on in his memory.
The service manager, Darren, who is likely the age my son would have been, had asked me if I wanted to continue using nitrogen in the new tires the mechanic was putting on my car. He explained that nitrogen, unlike air, is a much more stable gas and is less affected by temperature swings. Other gases, alternately, expand with heat and contract with cold, causing the tire pressure warning light to come on when colder fall temperatures hit. Nitrogen is becoming increasingly popular in the tire industry as it can help to extend the life of tires and to improve their performance.
In the moment of agreeing to the question at hand, I spontaneously added that we should all get a spurt of nitrogen inside us. This statement may have seemed random and out of place, but it actually was a reflection of my belief. When we take the time to reflect on our values and beliefs, we create a sense of balance that helps us maintain a harmony within ourselves regardless of what happens in the world around us. It may feel impossible at times, but with a little faith, anything is possible. At least, this is what I started learning nearly 39 years ago.
Darren was taken aback by my suggestion. He paused to consider what I had said and after a few moments, his face lit up with delight as he replied, “You’re right.” Then he added, “You know nitrogen makes up a part of the air we breathe.”
After we both reflected on the concept, he turned around and bee-lined back to his work area. This instance was an example of how even the smallest moments can have a profound impact on our lives.
While sitting alone in the waiting room, I heard guests on a TV talk show in the adjoining room shout and spew insults at one another. At once, I contemplated nitrogen with a new set of appreciative eyes. I thought about how rhythmic breathing is a powerful tool for managing stress and anxiety. It can help us to accept life’s challenges, foster resilience, and cultivate peace of mind.
Since I was four years old, reading a variety of books has been an integral part of who I am today. Thanks to my dear friend Bruce, who in the 80s introduced me to a book, Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, that profoundly influenced me. The book was published in 1946 and chronicled the author’s experiences as an inmate in the Auschwitz concentration camp during World War II. This book provided me with an insight into the power of resilience and the strength of the human spirit. Frankl’s idea that our greatest freedom is the ability to choose our attitude at any instance in life has always resonated with me. It serves as a reminder that we have the power to choose how we respond to any situation, no matter how heart-shattering it may be. I always imagine Frankl escaping the atrocities around him by playing a birdsong in his mind, and experiencing a moment of peace and joy by tapping into his imagination that broke through and penetrated his reality.
Below is a quote from the book in which the author silently converses with his wife in his head.
The guard passed by, insulting me, and once again I communed with my beloved. More and more I felt that she was present, that she was with me; I had the feeling that I was able to touch her, able to stretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling was very strong: she was there. Then, at that very moment, a bird flew down silently and perched just in front of me, on the heap of soil which I had dug up from the ditch, and looked steadily at me.
The more I thought about Frankl and all the other random ideas, the more I realized the metaphor of how nitrogen works and how we can also take in the hardships of life and breathe out peace. It is the balance of our wheels, both physical and metaphorical, that gives us the strength to keep rolling even when the sky falls like a sharp shard of ice in the split center of our head.
Two days ago, my two grand fur babies departed after 10 intense days of staying with us at my house while my daughter vacationed in Puerto Plata in the Dominican Republic. During this time, I experienced an intense mix of emotions: fear of the indoor cats escaping into the wilds around our house, happiness at seeing them so content and playful, angst when they tried to tear apart furnishings. On the other hand, I felt deep sadness knowing that our time together was coming to an end yet, paradoxically, counting the days until they left.
Both of my daughter’s kitties are rescue cats. The newest addition, June, is deaf. Now, I’ve had my share of cats over the years, but I must say, none of them had come close to her fiendish personality. From her mischievous antics to her friendly demeanor, she is a one-of-a-kind feline. Just imagine Spider-Man’s slow crawl up, as he relies on static electricity to attach to walls and ceilings. This is how she looked when she climbed up the living room window’s brand new screen. She set out on a mission to capture a bug and prove that there is indeed a method to her madness. Unfortunately for her, the bug flew free. Fortunate for us, the screen remained intact.
She may look like a pure white angel with a sweet face, but beware! She is living proof that appearance can be deceiving. Perhaps, it is because she is still young, around 18 months, or because it was her first experience at my house or maybe her deafness played a part in her behavior, but here’s the nicknames I and my daughter’s godmother came up with: House Wrecker; Demolition Crew; Hellish Hellion; Loonie Junie and Loon June.
When June first arrived, she hissed at everyone, particularly Gemini, or shortened form, Gemi, who is a real Gem. My daughter rescued him from a New York City shelter, and he rescued her, and their bond is unbreakable. Over the years, the sleek, black cat, that can be cast as an Egyptian model, has “shed” many of his idiosyncrasies. One particular habit that remains a constant is eating plastic and then throwing up. His favorite type of plastic is the white Amazon mailing bags. His second preference is the loud, stiff, crunchy clear plastic.
A week prior to my fur babies’ arrival, I not only hid the plastic, I spent no less than four hours “June” proofing my house by storing vases, breakables and finding alternative space for my houseplants. Then there was shopping and getting litter pans and food and toys, so many toys, prepared.
Why even bother? Why can’t she hire someone to come to her place? You have other priorities. Sure, I heard plenty of objections from “concerned” parties and some interesting self-talk discussions that I conducted on my own.
Why do it? During trying times when I over-extend, inconvenience myself and, truthfully want to pull my hair out, what helps me is calling to mind: Faith without works is dead. Without getting too esoteric about the idea, it is merely my way of saying, “thank you” to the universe. I use the acronym: FAA. Faith. Attitude. Action.
The cruel blows from my life have been difficult to bear, but they should not blind me from the lucky strokes that have found their way through the pain. It is these lucky strokes that give me hope and courage to keep going, no matter how hard it gets. For example, people who love me. A safe neighborhood to live in. Clean water to drink. Nutritious food to eat. And music, OMG, music. I’ve never had such an appreciation before for it as I do now.
Before my firstborn was born, I was the most self-centered person on earth, and I loved every minute of it. Don’t get me wrong. Even though I had to juggle my own commitments, I never failed to make time for charity work, which is why people called me Sister Stacy in the 80s. The difference was that the charity work was done on my own schedule and at my convenience. When I felt like it. Inconvenience was incomprehensible.
In 1993, after my son was born, I had to be ready at any given moment to tend to his colic and medical issues. Luckily, I had a tight support group. Every week, I would mouth the same thing to the members, “My son is teaching me how to love.”
Twenty-one months later, my daughter was born and by then sleepless nights and putting my life on hold became the norm. This was particularly true since my then husband was not as flexible about not having the ability to enjoy himself.
In the end, I was the winner. This crash course in parenting taught me the importance of having flexibility and the ability to drop everything at any point in time.
Keeping my faith in times of difficulty and having the right Attitude and Action to show unconditional love have been two of the most important lessons I have learned in life. My children have taught me the most important lesson of my life – how to love unconditionally. Without their help, I would never have welcomed these furry creatures into my home and my heart.
There’s another reason I like to have the open door policy at my house (as long as June and Gemi don’t spring outside of it!). I learned it after grief stripped my being to a bare minimum. The lesson is that I must take advantage of every moment that I have with my loved ones and strive to build strong bonds with each other through communication, understanding, compassion, kindness and make it as meaningful as possible in light of the fleeting moments.
Martin Hägglund’s This Life: Secular Faith and Spiritual Freedom reminds us that life should be lived in the present moment and encourages us to make every second count. By understanding and embracing this concept, we can make better use of our time and focus on what really matters in life.
His love of the place is tinged with a sense of impermanence and an acceptance that nothing lasts forever. In the following passage, the author paints the picture of his native northern-Swedish landscape and perfectly illustrates what I refer to:
When I return to the same landscape every summer, part of what makes it so poignant is that I may never see it again. Moreover, I care for the preservation of the landscape because I am aware that even the duration of the natural environment is not guaranteed. Likewise, my devotion to the ones I love is inseparable from the sense that they cannot be taken for granted. . . . Our time together is illuminated by the sense that it will not last forever and we need to take care of one another because our lives are fragile.
In this vein, I survived the ten days albeit exhausted and sometimes overwhelmed, but it was worth it, and my agreement and follow through to cat sit for my daughter’s fur babies reinforced just how much I love her, and I hope one day when I am no longer around, she will be able to draw my feelings for her out of her memory bank. You see, in each funny, silly, harried and dastardly moment, I was in the process of carving a legacy for my daughter that is framed with the words: I loved you then; I love you now. I will love you always and forever, and my love reaches farther than the moon, stars and infinite catwalks through eternity and beyond. It is a reminder that my love for her transcends time, distance and even death itself.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 