Fifteen Days In

Posted on September 16, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

One of the reasons I started this blog was to push myself out of my comfort zone. Committing to doing something regularly was part of the challenge. In my previous years I did manage to stick with a few things, like marriage, child rearing and graduate school, but the details of other activities were too overwhelming for me. I’m talking about not just writing a bill or letter, but actually buying a stamp for it and putting it in the mail. I’m talking about not just cutting out the fabric and sewing up an a-line shift , but actually hemming it instead of throwing it on the sewing table for “later”. My past is littered with pieces and parts of projects begun with enthusiasm and high hopes, but eventually abandoned under the crushing weight of too many steps, lack of skills, lack of remembering I had even started such a thing.

But now, with fewer responsibilities, I can cultivate the consistency I lacked in earlier years. For example, ( applause here) I’ve written this blog for over a year now. I’ve picked up a few other good habits as well, such as regular exercise. A couple of months ago I noticed my daughter’s post on Facebook, asking who wanted to do Thirty Days of Lists with her. Without knowing what it was, I agreed to do it. Then I sort of forgot about it until I saw her posted pictures of her newly decorated journal for the 30 Days.

Yikes! Turns out the 30 Days only takes place twice a year. I only had a day or so to sign up and to rush to Tuesday Morning for a blank journal. I didn’t even try to decorate mine. Just the opportunity to illustrate the blank pages with some of my best friends, words, would be enough for me.

The 30 Day format is simple: Every day there is a list topic. Period. Then people, lots of people, post their completed lists.

I am now 15 days into a 30 day commitment. I would like to congratulate the geniuses who conceived this brilliant idea! The premise is simple, but the rewards are great. Who among us couldn’t use a few minutes more a day to ourselves? Or any minutes at all? The lists can be as short or as long as the author likes. I love that there is absolutely no pressure to make your lists any way other then what you choose. A commitment with no rules is just the right commitment for me.

I think I must have expected the list topics to be, well, easier than they have been. Simple the topics may be, but the thinking and feeling involved is quite complex. Some days i have not wanted to write the list, because I didn’t want to go where the answers would take me. Things My Family Taught Me was one such topic. My family has clearly been very generous to me, but how generous have I been in return?That question caused some uncomfortable soul searching. Some days the list has taken me to unexpected places. What’s New This Year made me see I have done a lot more than I thought.

And some entries are silly!

And What Would The Young You Like About The Older You was an absolute confidence builder. Reading over what I had written, I had such an experience of the richness of my life, of having come full circle. Words have power. Taking the time to write them is the ultimate act of self respect.

I guess that’s all I have to say about The 30 Days right now. I’m going to rock right through until the end. Maybe I CAN do something 30 days in a row. Perhaps NaNoWriMo is in my future?

Summer, Seattle Style

Posted on September 9, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Somewhere in the United States at this very moment, people are inside their homes , comfortable, without air conditioning. In fact their windows are open to a silky breeze that makes the curtains dance. In fact, their actual front doors are open to further appreciate the air circulation. In fact, not a one of them is wearing what I am wearing inside the house: one of those chamois neck cloths that keep one cool.

The fact is that I am no longer in Seattle Washington, blessed by a kinder, more gentle sun, but back in go-ahead-and-fry-your-egg-on-the -sidewalk Memphis Tennessee. The typical Memphis August is one I flee as soon as I clean up my fig preserving paraphernalia. If you have ever experienced it I don’t have to tell you about the punishing heat and humidity that makes it difficult to enjoy any human activity besides imbibing iced drinks and taking cold baths. Those of you who have NOT lived through heat indexes of 104 degrees for days upon end may wonder why I am always complaining about the heat.

Here is why. The heat and humidity combined drain me of any energy I may have hoped to have. It’s hot outside and hot inside. I spend days either in a Twilight Zone of ennui, or else contemplating how I can keep myself from throwing a bag of lemons, one at a time, at the next person who asks,”Hot enough for ya?” All that is bad enough without adding that all sense of decorum or fashion fly right up to the blades of the ceiling fan. But yet I am still expected by this unfair world to wear clothing when I leave the house. So yeah, I rock those tank tops. I go barefoot at work. I sweep that red hair up into a comb, off my neck. And I am CRANKY!

This year Seattle was our refuge. I don’t know what it may be like there the other months of the year, but windows open in August is a BIG DEAL to me. The cooler weather, though warmer than usual, was restorative to my spirit. I felt like myself, a person of Northern European extraction who was not meant to wither in the tropical heat. With my energy restored, I was eager to explore the city with two of my favorite people.

I had no agenda planned for the trip. Because it was too hot in Memphis to think ahead for more than one hour. I just wanted to be revived by my company and my surroundings. My husband and daughter had done the planning, and I was along for the ride. I only had to keep up with my camera, and enjoy the sights,

It was cool here at all times of the day, despite the crowds.

the sounds,

Lots of screaming going on under the water sprayer.

the smells and the tastes.

Oh yeeesss. Delencey.

And drink the beer, of course.

I found had no yearnings to throw bags of lemons at innocent citizens. My attire was much more suitable for my age. In a word, I felt civilized. The Woman of Walmart look is not for me.

I write this post to encourage those among you who do not cotton to the heat. You are really NOT the underdressed crab you appear to be. Underneath your apparent contempt for those who stay chipper at record temperatures beats the heart of a decent human being. You just need to get some clothes on girl, and get outta town, if only for a day or two. It doesn’t even matter what you do. You’ll perk right up just like a big hydrangea that just had the sprinkler turned on it.

It wasn’t too hot to go walk down to the market and buy some fresh flowers.

It will still be hot when you get back, but knowing about people somewhere having their front doors open will give you some hope. That’s what Seattle did for me, and I thank her. I owe her a more comprehensive post, which I will deliver… when the weather changes. Now pass me that chamois thing, will ya?

Ineffability and Responsibility, or To Hell and Back with My Sister

Posted on July 23, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

A Note from the Magpie:

Dear Readers,

You are about to be treated to the Mindful Magpie’s very first guest post, penned by none other than Ellen, my marvelously talented sister. Those who have not met her on this blog might like to visit this previous post and this one , oh, and also this one to familiarize themselves with her coolness, or just jump right in! I’ll get out of the way now before she accuses me of being bossy.

I was rocking out to the radio as I pulled up to the little ticket dispenser at the Greensboro International Airport. Yes, you guessed it! I was on my way to visit my sister in Memphis, my hometown. The dispenser buzzed and stuck out its tongue at me. Still impressing all who might be listening with my vocal talent, I blithely yanked on the tongue to dislodge the long term parking ticket from its jaws. Let the games begin! I pulled forward into the lot without rolling up my window, so when I placed the little ticket on my dashboard as I always do, I saw it flutter gracefully out of my line of sight. No bother. I would place the little runaway in its proper spot before moving onto the terminal. Luck, I thought, was surely with me today. No sooner than I had whipped Zula, my little VW Jetta, into a strategic parking spot than the shuttle magically appeared right behind me. I’ll find that pesky parking ticket on the way home, I told myself. Meanwhile, adventure awaited me in the form of my daughter’s purple roll-on suitcase and the shuttle with its patiently purring engine. With no regrets, I nimbly hopped onto the shuttle and into my wild rumpus.

On my last night in Memphis with my sister I penned a list of activities which had filled our all-too-short time together. Yes, the list was longish (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am methodical). Yes, I really did engage in all the activities happily and willingly (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am motivated). Yes, we had used our time wisely (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am organized). Yes, yes, yes; a thousand times yes! This list, which has been displayed in my sister’s earlier post, is simply a litany of activities. It can in no way encompass what we did together in Memphis. What I achieved was the goal of spending as much time with my sister as humanly possible in the short amount of time we had together. Mini-goals included, but were not limited to, laughing uproariously and in a most unladylike manner (sorry, Mother!) on any and all pretexts; discussing issues large and small in no particular order or chronological sequence; eating some foods which either aren’t available at home or which no one else at my house likes but me-or both; and reading and discussing what we’ve read.

Here’s where ineffability comes into play. The time I spend with Mary Beth is akin to how a sunflower tracks the sun as it moves through the sky. It is how Monarch butterflies journey down to Mexico and back each year. It is how the Earth orbits the sun, and the Moon orbits the Earth in its turn. They do it because they must. And I spend time with my sister because I must. Words will not suffice to make my meaning clear, but I will try (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am determined). I have had Mary Beth in my life as long as I can remember. We share the same sense of humor and the same love of reading and other intellectual pursuits. I rarely have to explain myself to her, and I never have to pretend to act or feel any certain way to gain her approval. I extend her this same leeway. Told ya words wouldn’t really get the job done. (As my sister has pointed out previously, I am task-oriented).

Responsibility touched down on my shoulders the minute I re-entered that long term parking lot after getting off the plane from Memphis via Atlanta. Remember that little parking ticket which had fluttered down off the dashboard in the breeze from my open car window? Turns out it is awfully hard to leave the long term parking lot without it. Having never misplaced one before, I was unaware of this fact. I dumped the purple roll-on in the back seat and commenced to search for the little ticket. I looked high and low, but that little ticket just did not want to be found. No bother. I proceeded to the exit gate. There I learned for the first time what hubbub could ensue when the little ticket went AWOL. No, the man could not just take my word for how long Zula had been parked in the lot. No, I did not have my boarding pass from the outbound trip. No, I did not have my itinerary (but you can be sure I will next time! As my sister has pointed out previously, I am a quick learner). Nothing for it but to trudge back to the terminal in the hopes that the desk employees could find some non-incriminating information for me. That bumpy landing in Greensboro had played havoc with other flights, so I had a long wait for my turn at the desk. Papers clutched firmly in my hand, I approached the exit booth for a second time. The fat raindrops dimpling Zula’s black hood convinced the little man that, as I had averred from the beginning, I did not park inside the deck but rather in the vast parking lot surrounding the exclusive parking deck.

When I was a young adult, Mary Beth tried upon many an occasion to share her worldly wisdom with me, often in an unsolicited manner. Unappreciative, I demanded that she quit telling me what to do. Mainly she has complied with this request. I explained to my friends that Mary Beth could call me in the middle of the night, to tell me to do something, and I would do it. Following her lead had been ingrained behavior, even if I did protest every now and then. Some things never change. If Mary Beth said, “Come on, Ellen. We’re going to hell,” I would get my knitting, my book, and my big girl drink and jump into the car. After all, if that’s where Mary Beth is headed, then I want to go there too.* Uh, we did get round trip tickets, right?

*Disclaimer: The author of the post is in no way implying that her sister is going to hell in a hand basket or in any other type of conveyance. Nor should any reader of this post so infer.

Eighty Two Dollars and Fifty Cents.

Posted on June 29, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

It has been almost six years since my Mother departed this earth. All of us knew she was not going to live, yet her death was a complete surprise. So quick. So final. One morning I was leaving the house to walk around the block, and fifteen minutes later I was in my Mother’s kitchen with Martha the caregiver and my sister, gazing at my Mother, still in her pink satin pajamas, slumped sideways in her kitchen chair. She had entered a new space for all eternity, and so had I.

One part of my brain functioned as a fact keeper, recording the feel of the breeze on the front porch where I sat in a wrought iron chair to call my husband and say, “Please come.” I watched myself call the hospice, or the paramedics or whoever I called. Though every fact was catalogued so that I would never, never forget this surreal world, I have no idea which agencies I called that day. I think I may have tried to move some of her breakfast things out of the way in the kitchen, so we would not have to see them, so that our Mother would not be dead.

The fact keeper came with me a few days later when I volunteered to go alone to her house to clean out her closet. I don’t know what I was trying to prove, unless I thought that by facing this heartrending task I would be getting past some dreadful obstacle I would never have to face again. It was helpful in terms of being able to freely wail and sob as I yanked down her little sports shirts and robes, sniffed their heady cigarette/perfume aroma and crammed them into hefty bags. There was little in her closet, for in her last few weeks, after her Doctor told her over the phone that she only had weeks to live, she had culled her personal items to a minimum.

Her rust colored summer straw purse, though, I could not relinquish. After a lifetime of detesting her cigarette smell, I found myself wanting to keep her essence close to me for as long as possible. I sniffed her leather key ring, full of jangling keys she would never need again and actually deeply inhaled a partially full pack of Merits the purse still contained. I opened her brocade lipstick holder. I felt the handle and the nubbed straw exterior of the bag. I had my Mother’s purse, so she could not be dead.

I am sure my story is no different from anyone else’s. We expect to lose our parents, but we cannot believe we have lost our parents. We prepare to lose our parents, but find that the losing is an entire package of feelings and events for which we cannot prepare. We try to remember everything, because we know we are living in an altered reality where we do unthinkable things like go to the funeral home. Humans must be in a trance to perform the duties of death.

About two weeks ago my siblings and I received word that we were the beneficiaries of a burial policy we were unaware my Mother had had. Documents had to be gathered: death certificates, funeral home statements. As I rummaged through all her old papers I have still not been able to make myself organize, I willed the fact keeper to watch and remember while the trance part of me looked for the required information. Finally all the documentation was complete and duly submitted.

And guess what? I went through two weeks of reliving my Mother’s life and death only to find that my portion of the insurance policy comes to eighty two dollars and fifty cents. None of my siblings need money, nor did we have any grand expectations. But there was hysterical laughter among us at this outcome, followed, I am sure, by moments of private sadness.

But seriously? For eighty two dollars and fifty cents I had to see my Mother’s checkbook with all our names on it? Because she was blind and couldn’t write checks anymore? And remember in my gut the sight of her lonely red Keds beside the bed the morning she died? To have the fact keeper play back for me the scenes of my self wandering through the rooms of my Mother’s house, expecting to find her around the next corner?

But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that it turns out that after all these years my Mother is still dead After a comprehensive review of my Mother’s last months , from biopsy to diagnosis, from chemo to hospice, from her believing she was fighting her illness to her urging dishes and crystal on us every time we left her house, from the caregiver’s call to the funeral home, from the funeral to the dividing of her estate, the fact keeper concludes without a doubt that my Mother remains dead.

I found my Mother’s little straw purse today and went back through it. I think I can still detect some of her smell. There is only one broken cigarette inside , not a pack as I had recalled. Here are her wallet and her small black rosary beads. A handful of loose change covers the bottom of the bag. Somehow my Mother is still dead, and I am still surprised. I would have given a lot more than eighty two dollars and fifty cents not to find that out. Rest In Peace.

She Who Restores Me To Myself

Posted on June 18, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

Magpies, in their love of shininess, have an especial need to experience scintillating moments with glittery people. By glittery I do not mean shallow, brittle, self absorbed, or vain. I am talking about an honest shine that comes from the inside all the way out, an unconditional shine that radiates warmth over others, a brightly colored shine that pulsates with willingness to pursue novel endeavors. I am of course describing my sister Ellen.

I promised in my last post to write about our latest adventures. But first a little background. Last summer I wrote a post about my sister in which I referred to her as L.G., or Little General. Ellen did not appreciate that appellation, so I have withdrawn that name from our lexicon. Last week, in a blaze of dervish like activity prior to boarding a plane, I referred to my sister as a hurricane, knowing that should she read the post I would be in big trouble, my kind intentions notwithstanding.

I am now on record to say that Ellen gets things done, but she is NOT a general. She is a force of nature, but she is NOT a hurricane. What then, can I call her? She is a person of great intellect, wit, and charm. Her droll humor and clever imagination cannot be matched. Her no nonsense work ethic and organizational skills are an inspiration to others. Her zest for life is unparalleled, her enjoyment of it a sight to behold. Her authenticity is a beacon to my soul. AND she loves me!

I had not seen my sister since December 2012, when I spent one night with her en route to a friend’s cabin. Little did we know that six long months would pass before we could see one another again. Somehow, with our various travel and work schedules along with family commitments, the weeks elapsed with no firm visiting plans.

We don’t talk on the phone much. We write letters by hand, on paper, to one another, and have for years. But this past semester many weeks separated our letters. I was beginning to feel like an American colonist awaiting word from the continent. Had my letter been lost at sea, dashed on a rocky promontory after a shipwreck? Would I hear that she and her family had perished in a smallpox epidemic? Finally my impatience got the better of me. I left her the following cryptic voice mail,”The jig is up!”

That, ladies and gentlemen, got a response, and at last we were able to plan for her to come see me in my town. She flew in on a Friday night just as my husband was flying out on a business trip, making the timing just right for an All Girls’ Extravaganza. I picked up the Hurric. picked her up at the airport and took her straight to my new midtown condo to spend the night. She admired the condo, and we both exclaimed over the sweet note my husband had left for us. Then she unpacked a few of her things. As I watched her familiar movements and listened to her long accustomed voice, I had this exact thought: I am restored to myself.

Our plan for the week was to have no plan. That way our plans couldn’t possibly go wrong. That evening, we wanted to eat dinner someplace where we could hear ourselves talk. I recommended a place where we chose a secluded table. No sooner had we sat down than a large group of ladies, some under the influence of more than two martinis with more in the offing, began screaming raucously, in a way that truly rattles the eardrums.

What do you suppose Ellen did? She approached those ladies, put her arm around one, leaned in and had a little ole talk with them. And they lowered the volume! When we left the restaurant a waitress followed us out to thank her for helping with the situation!!! How do you describe someone like this?

I told you she’s a force of nature!

The next day Ellen accompanied me to a Knit In Public Day at the zoo. She joined right in with these knitters, sharing knitting anecdotes from her own experiences.. And yes, she had brought her own knitting, self sufficient as always. She patiently allowed me to show her off to these folks who may never see her again,with nary a complaint about the heat or crowds. What would you call someone like that?

After knitting we stopped in a consignment store to look for midcentury modern furniture pieces for my largely unfurnished condo. She said she did not know what midcentury modern was, but she found me two tables, and rearranged my car so that they would both fit. But that is not all! She went all the way back down to the condo with me and helped me schlep them up there in grocery carts! Impressive, right?

And wait! There’s more! She moves furniture!

On Sunday Ellen gamely accompanied me to the Book Club Brunch where she knew barely a soul. I had actually not read the book to be discussed but by chance she had and was able to make salient comments while I nodded sagely. Though we were at a lovely function in a lovely home, Ellen murmured not when I announced we must be moving on to the theater to see Death Trap. This allowed me to use my last two remaining season tickets and also take advantage of the special that day for extending my subscription. All because of Ellen.

On Sunday night we dropped in to Tug’s at Mud Island to be waited upon by my son. While enjoying our meal there we proofread a paper my son was writing for a summer school class. I am fairly sure we were the only two customers there discussing poetry. After dinner we took a leisurely stroll by the banks of the Mississippi River, remarking on the environs and how many pieces of driftwood resembled dinosaurs. Thus ended another cultural evening.

After a discussion of poetry over dinner.

Ellen did not flinch the next evening when it was time for Iyengar Yoga. Her graduate school schedule had prevented her from going to her own class all winter, but she knew enough to know not to push herself. She has “subbed” in my class before, so many members were of course glad to see her. After yoga we spent some quality time outside on my pergola ( which her husband was instrumental in building) before eating a lovely dinner of grilled vegetables and chicken. Prepared by Ellen.

Post yoga quality time.

Our chef having some well deserved relaxation.

Tuesday was my hair day but we made it Ellen’s hair day too. I told her I liked her hair better red than blonde highlighted, so she obligingly had it redone. I watched to see how the stylist blew it dry so I could show her later. We were too hungry to take pictures, so just believe me that we were two groovy red haired old ladies when we left that shop.

And Wednesday. By Wednesday I had to face a deadline - Mary Hannah’s portrait. For months I had been working on the portrait my niece had asked me to paint. I had decided that I would have it finished as best I could by the time Ellen departed on Thursday so she could deliver it for me. This meant that after helping me with some yardwork early in the day, Ellen would be stuck watching me paint. Ellen had, however, bought some teeny tiny canvases, and tried her hand at them while I labored repeatedly to get M. H.’s skin color to a reasonable tone. Or tint. Or something. Eventually, though her skin looked like combinations of calamine lotion and badly applied makeup, I could do no more. Ellen was suitably soothing and optimistic that the portrait would pass muster with her daughter.

One of Ellen’s tiny canvases.

That night we again spent the night at the condo in order to be closer to the airport in the morning. We wanted to have a nice evening so I made us a reservation a place close by where I did not think there would be gaggles of loud ladies. Ellen acquiesced when I suggested she change out of those crummy shorts, and together we walked in the blazing heat to the restaurant. She changed into a skirt of mine that was too long, while I was wearing a skirt I considered a little dowdy. As we walked I saw how easy it could be for the two of us to become peculiar old ladies together, going to the Early Bird Specials and matinees, careful to be home by dark.

It was a bittersweet evening. As I doodled on my side of the tablecloth, Ellen was compiling a list of all we had done.

Now with red hair.

The list was long, but not nearly long enough. Oh, the things we would do if we had more time! Oh, how empty indeed would even the mundane events be without her! We decided once again that there was no help for it but to retire together in the same place, on the same property if possible. We’ll tell our husbands it’s the only way.

Ellen has gone home now. The portrait is delivered. I am trying to recalibrate myself after almost a week with this adorable creature who knows my thoughts, who finishes my sentences, who always finds something to celebrate. Now that you have read my post I must ask: what you would call my sister? How can she even be described? If you can think of anything - not L.G. or Hurricane of course- I’d be glad to know. For now, I’m just going to call her She Who Restores Me To Myself.

Hurricane Ellen

Posted on June 13, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

I know you wonder why you haven’t heard from me. I know you’ve been worried about me. So let me assure you that I have lost neither life nor limb. But I have experienced a powerful natural phenomenon that one doesn’t encounter every day : Hurricane Ellen.

I volunteered to experience the effects of this powerful little swirling force. I invited her. I flew her here in fact! You may have heard of her last year if you read my post Extra Extra, Read All About It, which details my lovely girls getaway with Hurricane Ellen. I referred to her in that post as The Little General, but I have been informed NOT to call her that any more. So for now it is Hurricane Ellen. She’s not going to like that either, but my brain is in too much of a whirl to come up with a title that describes her in more superlative terms.

I do owe Hurricane Ellen a better moniker, and the flattering description she so richly deserves. In print right here I promise to do it. But not right now. I am packing to go out of town for the weekend, and my force of nature house guest just left this morning. For now I just want to tell you I am still here, not harmed, but actually much improved from having my wonderful sister here for almost a week.

In parting I will say that if you know someone you long to spend the week with, go ahead and make it happen. Don’t wait to have the time of your life. You may not experience it as a Hurricane, but any force of nature brings its own rewards. I must stop here because my husband is clearing his throat and giving me those “hurry up” looks. I will give the full Hurricane report when I return!

An Afternoon With R.

Posted on February 4, 2013 by mindfulmagpie

One of the perks of living to be 56 is that I’ve had time to collect a few people with whom I can completely be myself. Actually I’d like to think I’m completely myself whether I’m with someone or not, but with my comfortable people I truly appreciate the lack of pretense between us. I am “seasoned” enough now to be authentic, and to value that characteristic in others.

One of my authentic people is a friend I’ll call R. I’ve been thinking lately of some afternoons we’ve spent together in easy companionship. Our friendship has lasted through at least twenty years of graduate school, raising children, careers and career changes. We are vastly different yet love many of the same things. He is endlessly practical, yet hilarious at the same time. I’m sure I’ll say more about this in future posts, but he knows how to do EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING!

Anyway, I’m going to describe one of our recent afternoons. R. doesn’t care for flowery or pretentious writing, so I’ll try to be straightforward, in case he reads this. What am I saying? He’s my friend, so I’m sure he will read this!

One Sunday last November R. and I planned to go to an estate sale in West Memphis, Arkansas. We naturally got lost, and kept circling around the back of the Southland Greyhound Park while disagreeing about which way to go next. R. was driving and as is his wont, took us into a fairly sketchy neighborhood to ask for directions, whereupon, as we escaped without harm, found the estate sale. By then most things were picked over, so after we crossed back over the bridge we stopped at Tom Lee Park.

The afternoon was perfect; blue skies, bright sun, mild temperatures. We explored up and down the river bluffs, pausing to watch the boats on the river. A tug was laying some sort of pipe in the river. In a leisurely fashion we walked from Tom Lee Park to the end of the Beale Street Landing project, imagining what it would all be like when completed.

I suppose the crane isn’t really going to pick up the Pyramid?

A party had been held the night before in the partially finished building above. When the building is complete, people will be able to see straight through the glass windows out to the River.

It was fun to be in no hurry, just to have fun watching the progress of this enormous undertaking on the river. I pondered the passing of time. We were not far from where Tom Lee risked his life to save the passengers of a wrecked ship. Somewhere along this water my father as a young man had a job as a fireman on a boat, and a little further down my grandfather worked at the Army Corps of Engineers. A little further the other way, on the cobblestones, my Aunt Bessie sustained fatal injuries from the propeller of an airplane that was giving pleasure rides over the River in the 1930s.

I can’t go to the River without reflecting on the many lives that have been lived here before me. I would give anything to know all their stories, but my relatives are gone now, just as Tom Lee, the accident victims and so many others are gone. We live with our memories just as build for the future.

R. is not from here, but he has extensive knowledge of those who came before him. He also became pensive that day, mentioning that his mother was not doing well. This determined widow in her early 90s could no longer live alone in her rural home. R. and his ten siblings had made plans to care for her. R. did not say so but I knew he was doing his best to prepare for her eventual death.

Underneath the surface of the idyllic afternoon, I was uneasy for my friend. I worried that he may not be ready for all that could change in a family when a parent dies. Reactions to loss differ among family members. Alliances can shift, and long held grudges can roil to the surface. Of course, intellectually he did know things could change, having helped so many families with this as a social worker. But since both of my parents were already deceased, I had actually lived it. He had not.

I knew from experience how becoming an orphan, even at our age, is an unsettling experience. Suddenly there is no place to go back to. Though we may not have been in the habit of going back, we suddenly realize we had always counted on having a place to return. The house may still stand, but there’s no “there’ there. And of course, the un grasp-able ideas of our own old age and mortality mingle in with the sharpness of the loss.

Certainly he could no more be ready for any of this than any of the rest of us. No one can adequately prepare for the death of a parent. Though I wished I could protect him., I knew I couldn’t. Inevitably he would go through what he would go through. I would stand by to listen, to be a reality check if necessary, and to assist in any other way I could.

I’m so glad I had that afternoon with him. Soon after he was called to see his Mother who had taken a turn for the worse. R. did not leave there for two months, until after she passed away. He, with some of his other siblings, took care of her around the clock, shirking no duties, for the rest of the days that she lived. Many adults would not be so brave as to be the front line caregiver for their dying parent.

The next time I saw R. he was in a new stage of life. We both had known that change was in the air that day at the River. Change is always in the air; we just don’t know when it will be. I think it has been said before me that part of the beauty of life is knowing it is all temporary. The impermanence of life is just why we all need friends like R., to enjoy silly times as well as sad ones, and to weather the days that come.

Tender Plantings

Posted on December 16, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

Last week I found myself alone in San Francisco, one of my favorite places in the world, at a huge mental health conference. I had not planned to be alone; each year a colleague and I travel together to a high caliber conference in a desirable location. We enjoy the opportunity to learn from leading experts, and to be reminded of what we already know. We splurge a little on meals, and sometimes have a chance for some sight seeing. After several years of this routine, we are good traveling partners.

But this year, the day before we were to leave for the trip, my colleague’s elderly Mother passed away. He of course would not be able to go to the conference. I was very sorry not be able to attend his Mother’s funeral, but I knew he would never expect me to cancel this trip, so I went on alone.

Powell Street

I was not concerned about getting myself where I needed to be; I am usually the navigator on our trips anyway. But to tell the truth, I had been avoiding San Francisco for the last eighteen months. You see for most of the previous eight years I had had two of my children living in the Bay Area. My daughter was a graduate student at UC Berkeley, while my son had moved to the city to work after graduate school. Prior to their living there I had never been to San Francisco, but it quickly came to feel like a home away from home when I visited there several times a year. I was able to explore the city with my children, and feel a part of their young adult lives. San Francisco for me was synonymous with Good Times. Now they have each married and moved to other parts of the country.

I had no associations of the city without those good memories. I just knew that if I went to the city I would feel so bereft not getting off the Bart to meet my son in the Mission, or riding the yellow line out to Rock Ridge to spend the evening with my daughter. I was glad I would have my colleague there to help me make some new memories to mix in with the old. But through no one’s fault the plans changed. I went alone to see how I fared under my own changed family circumstances.

The knowledge of my own situation, along with attending classes all day which focused on helping others to know themselves better, seemed to make me hyper aware of human connections. After a hard day of traveling, I arrived at the Hilton Hotel in the Tenderloin, and was shown to my room on the 31st floor, with windows facing out on the city, Gazing out at the view, thinking of the thousands of individuals roaming below me, I did not feel the sadness I had expected. But I did feel a new respect for those who must routinely make their way alone in the world.

Later I went to the hotel restaurant where all tables were booked. So I ate my dinner at the bar, reading Winston Churchill’s World War II memoirs on my IPAD. Don’t say I don’t know how to entertain myself. I don’t routinely sit at bars alone, so I didn’t know the etiquette. If I spoke to someone, would they think me an old eccentric woman? No one met my eye, so I didn’t find out.

The next day at the conference I sat in a couple of huge ballrooms, listening to speakers, and later in a densely filled meeting room where we were as tightly packed as the most econo - econo- airline seating. From my viewpoint most people were traveling in groups, not alone. It seems generally to be human nature to speak to those you already know, but it is even more so at a mental health conference. I suppose we spend so much time listening empathically to others at work that when we come to a conference it is every man for himself.

Each evening I went to an early dinner as I did not want find myself lost in the Tenderloin after dark. After dinner I, along with Winston Churchill, would return to my room to watch the city lights twinkling outside my window. The solitude in my room was enjoyable. I would reflect on how many human interactions I had had that day, usually less than five. I noticed that if anyone struck up a conversation with me in the elevator that I would have to stop myself from, well, babbling, as if I had spent the last six months alone in the desert. I pondered the plight of people who have lost those with whom they have felt connected, or who do not feel at home in the world. I resolved not to be so self centered, to make more small moments to connect even fleetingly with others.

And so I carried on. I mingled with the shopping throngs at Macy’s and the Gap. I rode the Bart to the Embarcadero to try to take pictures. But since I had shopped so long, the sun was low in the sky, and I gave up.

This is how my feet felt.

But I had one trick up my sleeve. In the recent past, thanks to Facebook, I had been able to connect with but not to see my cousin Mark who lives in San Francisco. I had hoped all along I would have a chance to see him and his partner Dave. Because my colleague’s Mother was ill, I delayed until the last minute to Facebook Mark and let him know I would be in the city. I tried not to get my hopes up; they could be busy or out of town. But happily they were available, and picked me up at my hotel the day before I left.

After a stroll with them and their noble dog Winston, we visited the Embarcadero Farmer’s Market for just the color- filled experience I love.

These guys look as though they are going down a conveyor belt.

These patient, patient, men carried my purse so I could take all the pictures I wanted to before we went to brunch. Now, Mark is younger than I am, and I am sure as a child I paid him virtually no attention. I hadn’t seen him since his Mother’s funeral years ago. Dave I do not believe I had ever met. But let me tell you I have known them all my life! Over brunch we shared stories about our careers, our homes, our health. I felt I had just seen them last Tuesday, and I wish I had.

Mark and Dave

I left them to walk back to the hotel a while later, filled with warmth and happiness. I hadn’t realized how lonely I had become in just a few days. As busy people streamed past me in the streets and I proceeded to get lost and wind up in China Town I felt so grateful that Mark and Dave had so generously shared their time with me. Now in this big city surrounded by strangers I did not feel so invisible.

So I took a detour in China Town.

Now I am back at home. I intended to write this post earlier in the week, emphasizing the importance of love and connection in our lives. As we all know, tragic events intervened. The horrific news from Connecticut convinces me even more that no small kindness is ever wasted. Tiny, tender plantings of caring and acceptance can bring a tremendous harvest in the hearts of those who receive them. From someone traveling alone, to a middle aged man who becomes an orphan, to those struggling to find a place in the world, to those who suffer unspeakable loss, sometimes all we have to give is our compassion. Have you planted yours today?

The Way It Is In The Big Apple

Posted on September 29, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

About a year ago our oldest son and his lovely bride moved to New York City. His move made the distance between my oldest two children into a sort of extended yoga pose with one long arm stretched from the Southeast United States to Pasadena, California, and the other lengthening just as hard to New York, New York. The third child lives about twenty minutes away from me , so I can just bend my knee behind me as I balance on one leg to symbolize his distance. Try that pose for a minute. Don’t forget to breathe!

It may sound silly to think of contorting one’s body to demonstrate the whereabouts of one’s children, but being a parent is nothing if not a contorting experience. As time goes by I adjust more to the idea that my children’s adult statuses are permanent, and no clever bargaining I do will ever change that. In the transition I have hopefully been able to form close adult relationships with them, and share in the joys and travails of their lives. I am enormously proud of all three of them, and of the new son and daughter I have acquired through marriage. And I’ve taken quite well to the empty nester experience. So all is well except that I can’t see them whenever I want to. And I do want to.

Therefore when my husband recently announced that he had a business trip to the Newark, New Jersey area, I immediately made plans to meet him there at the end of his business so that we could spend the weekend with our son and daughter in law in The Big Apple. We arranged to stay through the weekend so we could have all day Saturday and Sunday with the busy couple, and fly back Monday. I was thrilled to get to see my darlings, but also to see the city without having to make any of the plans. Past history has shown that when we visit our children they do all the leg work. It’s nice having them do some of the contorting. By the way, you can come out of that pose now.

We arrived Friday afternoon and checked into The MAve Hotel. We couldn’t both fit into our children’s postage stamp sized Manhattan digs, so I chose this hotel because of its proximity to my son’s home. In case anyone cares, I expect to stay there again. It is in a narrow building on Madison Avenue. The room size is reasonable by New York standards, the beds comfy, and the furnishings new and clean. Another plus was the good overhead light and bed side reading light, which one does not often find in hotels. The employees were polite and attentive. There is a free grab and go breakfast, but we didn’t need it.

The MAve Hotel.

I liked the staircase in the building. I think we were on the eleventh floor.

After checking into the hotel we went to a neighborhood craft beer establishment , The Rattle and Hum to wait for our companions to arrive after work. We were happy to relax at the bar and sample new brews while reflecting that yes, once again we were the oldest people in the building. Then of course once our son arrived with his wife I had the chance to embarrass them both with my effusive welcome.Once we greeted one another we capped off the evening with dinner at Southern Spice Chettinad Indian restaurant. I was tired by then and didn’t get pictures but just trust me; it was all delicious.

In the morning our son took us to their new apartment, a four story walkup. While small in size it is large in character with an exposed brick wall, a fireplace and lovely wooden ceiling beams. So what if there is not much closet space? They always have the roof of the building to stretch out in. It didn’t seem too much smaller than their previous apartment in Brooklyn, plus it is much closer to all the things they want to do.

At the doorway.

On the rooftop.

Our next stop was to Kalustayan’s, an enormous Indian and ethnic grocery store on Lexington, where I nosed around for as long a time as I thought my companions could wait for me. This store really requires its own separate blog post. Pictures and words simply cannot do it justice. There are rows and rows of spices, salts, teas, flours, cooking utensils and so many other goodies. Could I have stayed longer? Yes, but I also wanted to go to the The Tenement Museum.

I love all this stuff.

Fresh tumeric.

The deli on the top floor.

Newly made halvah.

We arrived at the Museum to learn that we would need to sign up for a tour which would not begin for over an hour. So we amused ourselves watching the neighborhood sights, sometimes from inside this establishment, Top Hops. From a sweet window seat we munched on a cheese plate and tasted beers.

The Tenement Museum.

Refreshments before the Museum tour.

Top Hops.

Photography inside the Museum is prohibited, and they mean that. So I will just tell you that we took a tour called “Irish Outsiders”, which talked about the crowded and sordid living conditions of the area in the 1800s and the many trials the immigrants faced trying to succeed in their new land. We were able to see an unrestored and a restored tenement apartment, each containing 325 square feet. Walking through the apartments, viewing the stripped back layers of paint, it was evident that many many stories remain to be told of those who once lived there.

Our tour guide seemed to want us to discuss tolerance and bigotry in today’s world, but our group was not forthcoming. Speaking ,though, of how public perceptions have changed I did share that my grandmother used to sing, with no sense she was degrading anyone, a song with the following lyrics: “I come from Hong Hong China, Me workie for the Mellican (American) man, catch rats all day in the laundry, Me catch ‘em just the best me can.” So I feel I added to the canon of information on the subject.

Following our leaders from the Museum, we hopped in a cab and headed for the open rooftop bar atop The Pod 39 Hotel. I had read about this ultramodern hotel/hostel and here I was, right on the cutting edge! Oh, if I could have stayed all night I would have! The patio bar gave no hint of the hipster haven below. Rather, the arched bricks, plantings and fountains evoked a scene from days gone by. I bobbed from one side of the patio to the other, madly taking pictures as the sun sunk lower in the sky. My companions eventually but gently nudged me toward the elevator after several hours. Really. I would have stayed there all night!

The Pod 39 Hotel.

A lovely setting.

The view from the patio.

Empire State Building.

: Night was falling but I still wanted to take more pictures.

It was getting cold up there so we had to leave.

Our young guides had decided upon a sushi place for dinner, for the wait was too long at their first choice, so we went to another spot across the street. Like the night before, I was tired. I don’t remember what all this was, but it was the chef’s specialty that night. And it was absolutely fabulous.

A lovely dinner.

Too soon it was Sunday. We met for brunch at Resto, a Belgian Restaurant. The place was hopping, with some soulful Al Green in the background. I had a frittata with ham, gruyere and avocado that filled me up for the REST of the day. So it was good that we did a lot of walking.

Our first stop after brunch was the Marianne Boesky Gallery where there was an ongoing exhibit by Lucie Fontaine and her employees. But if I have my facts straight, Lucie Fontaine herself is a creation of the three artists who work for her. During the exhibit, work by the “four” of them, plus other artists is on display in the space they have designed to be Lucie Fontaine’s home. The “employees” live there and play the parts of servants in the home.

When we arrived, no one answered the door for a long time. Just as we were about to leave, a young woman came to the door and said that the gallery was not really open, but that we could come in. Was this part of the original conceit? We didn’t know. She allowed us to see the first floor, Lucie’s living room, and the second floor with her office, bedroom and bath. We looked and puzzled around until we had seen it all. On our way out, we thanked the young lady for letting us in. I asked her to please tell Lucie Fontaine we were sorry to have missed her. On the stoop we asked ourselves again if the place had really been closed. Had we participated in a play within a play? We didn’t know. And in my opinion, leaving an art exhibit in a state of not knowing fulfills the purpose of an exhibit.

Ms. Fontaine’s dining table.

The living room.

Fruit Pits.

In Ms. Fontaine’s bedroom.

In Ms. Fontaine’s office.

From there as it was a lovely day we went on to Central Park. My husband and I had only been to Central Park before in cold weather, so it was quite a treat to roam through parts of the park we hadn’t seen, with no particular destination in mind. There were lots of people in the park, but not so many that we felt crowded. It was after 5:00 by the time we emerged from the park. A confab on a concrete bench at the park’s gate resulted in the decision to eat that evening at Otto Enoteca Pizzeria, one of Mario Batali’s restaurants.

A wedding in Central Park.

The whole park seemed romantic.

Once again we hopped a cab to whatever the right neighborhood was. On our way to the restaurant I saw what looked like a tiny little lady pushing a shopping cart. But a closer inspection revealed her to be a sculpture. And beside her, in the stoop of a building. was a grouping a magazines and other items which apparently was part of the exhibit. After I started taking pictures the artist, a homeless woman, came out from somewhere demanding that I give a donation. I gave her one, but she discombobulated me so much that I didn’t stick around for more photos. At dinner we had an interesting conversation about the ways of big city life, and whether I should have donated. But as my son said, her work was intriguing. . So I didn’t mind the donation.

And what to say about Otto? Homey and welcoming, it is modeled after an Italian train station. I can guarantee that once you eat there you will beg to return. The wine list is three pages long. My husband had to seek the services of the sommolier who kindly helped him choose an appropriate wine for the evening. Why can’t I eat there for every meal? Do you see how I am already begging? I had a cucumber and watermelon salad with mint and shaved cheese that was so good it brought tears to me eyes. And I think I did cry when I tried my arugula and prosciutto pizza. I don’t have any Mario Batali cookbooks but it is clear that I need one. I love the simple dishes with big big flavors. May I please go back?

In the “waiting room” of Otto.

Heavenly!

Clam Pizza

Arugula and prosciutto pizza.

After dinner we took what was for me a sad taxi ride back to the hotel, where we would go our separate ways. My son and his wife were no doubt eager to return to their own apartment and prepare for their respective weeks ahead. After they left and while I packed my suitcase. I reflected on how not once did this young couple seem resentful to be giving up their whole weekend for us. Never once did they show impatience at my endless picture taking and dropping of my lens cap on the busy sidewalks. Never once did they show embarrassment at our touristy ways. In my youth, would I have behaved with such grace and maturity? I can’t say.

In stages I realize that my children are adults. In stages I realize I am no longer in charge of things. That’s just how life is right now. I can remember back to days when I never could have dreamed that my grown children would delight me so, or that they would be the most interesting people I know. Well, I’ve earned it, and so have they. And I’m going to enjoy things just the way they are.

Pergola III

Posted on July 16, 2012 by mindfulmagpie

It’s time for a pergola update! In my last installment I left you with the concrete poured for the posts. Today we pick up with construction. First I ordered all this lumber.

There was more lumber, but you get the picture. All was in readiness for the pergola designer and his lovely wife to fly in for the weekend, he to help build the pergola, she, to lounge by the pool. Bright and early in the steamy Saturday air the construction began.

Initially some time was devoted to measuring and mulling. It seems that the posts were a bit wide for the brackets to which they would be attached, so some shaving of the posts had to be done. Then they decided to carve a more decorative top to the posts.

Now they were ready to attach the beams to the posts. This process involved big silver bolts.

During this time a third minion had arrived to help. The three of them attempted to lift the post and beams.

But it took a little more muscle to lift the structure past the 45 degree point. I wouldn’t even want to guess how heavy this was.

Luckily your author and the designer’s wife were on hand to lend some brawn to the effort. We all held our part of the post until it was attached to the brackets.

And it’s up!

See how pretty?

And on to the next side! These sweet guys worked all day in the 100 degree heat. I surely raised some good sons.Meanwhile, the designer’s darling wife worked on her tan.I provided fresh pitchers of ice water, took photos and made cold salads for my workers. Workers must be fed. It has ever been so.In the evening they had all the ribs they wanted. But I didn’t take any pictures of that.

And here we are the second day raising the second side in the rain.

As the sun popped back out the first temporary joist was installed.

Here is the first real joist.

And more joists.

This joist was thicker because it will hold a fan.

All the main joists were now attached. We could already see that when finished the pergola would provide some lovely shade patterns. Why is the designer putting shutters on top of the structure? You’ll just have to wait for the next post to find out!

Here is a nice side view.

And another nice side view?

Here are two thirds of the work crew at the end of the day. It’s so much fun going back and looking at this process. Our family’s times together are too short, but so filled with joy and laughter. The beams and the joists were properly placed, but the real prize was how we as a family all fell into place, helping, loving, appreciating. That’s the best design of all.

mindfulmagpie

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