I Choose Love

I’ve had a bit of a heavy heart recently. This past year – and last year as well, truth be told – has seen the passing of too many close, dear loved ones. The kind of loved ones that hold a huge part of your heart tightly with them at all times. The kind of loved ones whose presence is always somewhere in the back or even the front your mind, a sort of protection against the world when things are rough and an additional uplift when things are wonderful. The kind of loved ones who leave a ragged, aching hold in your heart when they’re gone.

I’m crying as I write this. This is strange, because at the passing of some of these beloved individuals, I didn’t shed a single tear. The shock of their passing was too great for my emotions to wrap around. For others, the tears came hard and couldn’t be held back, no matter how much I tried. But tonight, as my thoughts wander from one missed loved one to another, the tears come softly.

The most recent loss came just a couple days ago, and it was a doozy, and it came only weeks after another loss. I won’t go into the who or the why, but suffice it to say that this was one of those losses that cut deep. I haven’t cried yet, but I suspect it’s coming. My mind just cannot comprehend that this vibrant and amazing human being, someone I have known literally my entire life, isn’t here physically any longer.

The first time I experienced a loss like this – the kind of loss that takes days and days to accept – was almost 20 years ago. My grandfather – the patriarch of my family and one of the most impressive and dynamic and brilliant and loving and exceptional individuals ever to walk the earth – passed away exactly one week before my first wedding (yes, I’ve had two weddings; deal with it). To say I was stunned is an understatement. I found myself alternately silent and giggly throughout his funeral and burial; his lack of existence on this physical plane was too ridiculous to accept. Two weeks later, however, the dam burst as I was attempting to drive home from work, and I had to pull over in a parking lot where I cried uncontrollably for two straight hours.  It was the first of many such sessions.

Tonight, my thoughts wander and dance and drift across the idea of protecting one’s heart against heartbreak, of keeping love at a distance to avoid just this sort, or any sort, of deep ache and sadness. I wonder, as many others do, at the futility of loving as fully and deeply and openly, knowing heartbreak could always be imminent and that hearts are fragile things.

The thing is, I am aware – every minute of every day – of how fortunate I am to have as many close acquaintances and colleagues as I do. Even for those people who aren’t necessarily close friends, I would do just about anything, and I know that so many people in this same group would do the same for me.

Still, there isn’t a huge number of individuals I would consider very close friends, but to those who are I give my whole heart, freely, without limits. That’s a risky thing, if you think about it. That involves an insane amount of trust – not just in each person but also in circumstance. In that situation, each individual has the power to crush your heart, but so does fate. And fate’s been having a bit of a field day lately.

Add to this the fact that I’m an emotional person. I’m essentially a giant ball of emotion crammed into a small body. I practically burst at the seams with emotional energy – mostly happiness, but anger and frustration and giddiness and sadness and everything else come in this package, and pretty dramatically so. Heartbreak is no different. It can be a bit overwhelming.

So that begs the question: is it better to continue to love deeply and trust wholly and give my heart fully to each loved one, or is the potential for pain and heartache just too much to bear without putting up some boundaries and protections? It’s a quandary.  

For now, I think that I can only continue to open my heart widely, to dream broadly, to love fully and to accept that by doing so I make myself vulnerable to heartbreak and the aching pain of loss. Because there is power and brilliance and unparalleled beauty in loving so completely. And eventually, after the pain of a deep loss has eased somewhat, the memory of such a love brings its own satisfaction and helps heal a hurting heart.

Tonight, I'm counting on that. I'm counting on the fact that the memory of this most recently lost loved one eventually will bring a smile where tonight the loss feels like a grey shadow, an emptiness in the world that this beloved soul used to fill so perfectly. It will happen, and for now I'm focusing on remembering how fortunate I was, how incredibly lucky I was, to know her and to call her family and to have her around for so many years. What a gift that was.

So for me, for now, I choose love.

Kindness, Honesty and Father’s Day

As I sit typing this, it’s very late at night the evening before Father’s Day. As with any Father’s Day, I can’t help but think about the amazing fathers in my life – my Daddy, my stepfather, my father-in-law, my grandfathers (including my stepmother’s father) and my husband.

If you know me even a little bit, you know how much I value both honesty and kindness. I hold these two values above just about any others. Both of my children are whip smart and funny and personable, which I think is wonderful beyond words, but I tell them that what makes me the most proud of them is their kindness and compassion. And from friends and family and colleagues and random strangers and trusting forest creatures, I always ask for honesty, even if what someone needs or wants to (or simply should) tell me isn’t pleasant, and I offer the same in return.

I learned these values from the fathers in my life. Every one of these fine, brilliant men epitomizes (or epitomized) these traits. Any one of them could have been just as successful in some aspects of their lives – or possibly more successful – if they had been less kind, less honest. But every one of them chose this path, and for that I’m forever grateful. They not only insisted that my sisters and I behave with compassion and truthfulness, but they demonstrated these values every day.

These dads all know (or knew) the value of telling the truth, no matter how difficult that truth is to share. And for that, they were and are trusted. They have credibility. And to a man, they knew that compassion and a welcoming, caring soul aren’t signs of weakness but rather of great strength, and that such kindness, when shared, helps create strength in others. Taken together, kindness and honesty become even more powerful than either trait alone. And each of these men hold, or held, power beyond measure, because they are and were the kind of men in whom people – including my sisters and me – entrust their hearts.

So on this Father’s Day, I want to thank these men for exemplifying the kind of person I want my children to be… the kind of person I hope I am and that I strive to be.

Thank you, Dad, and thank you, Mike.

Thank you, Papa Jack and Grandpa Herbie and Papi.

Thank you, Bill.

Thank you, Shawn.

I love you all. Happy Father’s Day.

Fathers and their Truths and their Love and their Realities

Recently, I had a discussion with a good friend of mine about some of the recent blog posts written by fathers to their daughters about today’s ridiculous standards of beauty and about the importance of being a strong partner in a relationship, a woman who holds her partner to a high standard of respect and love.  My two favorites are by Dr. Kelly Flanagan:

Words From a Father to His Daughter (From the Makeup Aisle)

A Daddy’s Letter to His Little Girl (About Her Future Husband)

If you have a chance, I strongly recommend reading these posts. I don’t care if you’re male or female, young or old, have daughters or not. They’re exceptional. They speak volumes not only about the pain and worries and insecurities so many of us women have felt at one time or another in our lives but also about the character of the man who wrote the posts.  My heart swells when I think about him and other men who can so deeply grasp and sympathize with these issues and who go to such directed efforts to help their daughters see beyond these influences, to reinforce to girls that they are intrinsically and unambiguously worthy of love.

My dad teaching me the importance of a classy chapeau.

I’m not going to go into the details of these and other posts.  You can read them for yourselves.  The question my friend and I pondered – my friend is the father of two daughters – is whether this and other male authors of such posts live and internalize the “male side” of these articulated beliefs.  I’m curious if they are representative of the men they would want their daughters to love and value.

It’s not for me to judge, even if they aren’t. But it’s just something I wonder about.

For instance, in the first post above, Dr. Flanagan encourages his daughter not to focus on her external beauty but rather to seek her value in her internal beauty and sense of self. He tells his daughter, “The world wants you to take your clothes off. Please keep them on.” I love what he and other dad-authors say about being strong and choosing your dream and not being worried about the exterior over the interior. 

But I did wonder, in the back of my mind, if the authors themselves are influenced by and attracted to a woman’s exterior, by flawless skin and youthful appearance, as much as any other men. I wonder if, beneath the higher thinking they demonstrate, they also see a stunningly attractive female “as a pretty face and a body to enjoy.” Do they actively seek out images of “hot” women, naked or otherwise? Do they find some small disappointment in how the faces and bodies of the women in their lives compare to the world’s standards of perfection?

The second post delivers an equally powerful message about what Dr. Flanagan will and will not consider important in the man his daughter chooses to be with.  I love, love, love, adore, value, worship (add your own verbs here) this message:  “Little One, it is not, has never been, and never will be your job to ‘keep him interested.’” I reread that statement a number of times, tears welling up in my eyes. This one hit home. It hit home hard.

Do you know how many men make it seem like it’s our job to keep them interested?  Not all men, most assuredly, but so very many.  Sorry… about to go on a rant… but I’ll reign myself in.  Suffice it to say that I fell a little in love with Dr. Flanagan with that one statement.

Again, Dr. Flanagan isn’t alone in posting these sentiments; he just happens to have articulated them in a way that was powerful for me. But other fathers are stating the same thing out in the webiverse, urging their daughters to stand strong as equal partners, to accept nothing less than complete respect and true adoration from the men they choose.

Which makes me curious about their relationships with women in their lives. Do they take responsibility for helping sustain the interest between themselves and their partners? Do they work hard to keep their love and desire alive? Or do they sometimes get complacent?  Do a few of them move beyond complacency toward allowing themselves to be open to emotional influence from another woman rather than deal with the challenge of facing an issue with their partner?

As I stated above, it’s not for me to judge. I’m not curious about these things with a focus on learning negative things or pointing fingers. I absolutely would not denigrate what these men say or downplay the importance and validity of their messages if they themselves were imperfect. They fact is, we’re all imperfect. Also, the relationships between these men and their wives or girlfriends is none of my business… for all I know, they might in fact be the role models we all want for the boys who someday will woo and win the hearts of our little girls.

I love what these men have to say (especially Dr. Flanagan... I think I'll start a fan club... or a Flan club... but no, that sounds like a foodie thing... nevermind). I value it more than I can express. It sings to me and reinforces my faith in people. Their words give me confidence in the world in which my children are growing up.

I’m just curious, that’s all.

Just Don't Say It

Valentine’s Day. Here it comes. It’s one of those holidays that’s fraught with issues and pitfalls and romance landmines. Do you give a card? Chocolates? Jewelry? Are you expected to go out on a date? To set up something more intimate? Do you choose to avoid the pressured situation altogether? It’s a bit stressful, though hopefully it’s the kind of stress that ultimately leads to smiles and laughter and that little extra touch of sweetness between a couple.

No matter how challenging this day is for people with partners, or for those who have been single for a while, the day is particularly challenging for people who have recently gone through a breakup. When you’re newly single, no matter how happy you are for your friends who are happily paired up and no matter how pragmatic of a person you are, visions of romantic bliss scrape at the surface of your heart like sandpaper on a fresh wound. Then along comes Valentine’s Day, and the world shrieks at you, for weeks leading up to the day, about how glorious it is to be at the heights of romantic bliss. And you’re reminded that not only are you not part of that glory but that you had some vague hint of that recently… but now you do not.

I have a close friend going through that right now (if you’re reading this, my girl, you know who you are). She’s realistic and kind about the situation on the outside, but I know that her feelings are a jumble of dagger-like pain on the inside. And I hurt for her.

The thing is, though, while the break-up itself is rough, it didn’t have to be as painful as it is. You see, only several weeks ago this man told her he was in love with her. He told her he was in love with her, and then a few weeks later he ended things with her.

How does this make things worse, you might ask?

First of all, if you’ve ever been in love with someone but “it” hasn’t been said yet, you know how that anticipation feels. That nervous wonder and worry. Does he feel the same way I do? Is her heart in the same place mine is? Am I alone in feeling like this? And then he or she says it, either first or in response to you finally revealing your heart. And in that moment you feel elated, but even better, after that moment some of that stress and worry melt away knowing you’re “in it” together.

When you tell someone you love them – not your parents or kids or friends, but a romantic partner – you’re not simply telling them how you feel.  You’re also letting them know that you’ll look out for them, that you’re going to take care of their heart. You’re saying that you want to be in it together. It’s not a promise that everything will work out or that you’ll end up together in eternal bliss, but let’s be real, there are implications in those words that you want to try.

So let’s now put ourselves in my friend’s place many weeks ago, when this man she adored told her he loved her. Let’s feel what she felt, a lovely mix of joy and the comfort of no longer wondering and the sense that they were going to seriously give this thing a go. For a couple of weeks, that was hers. And then, after a matter of a few weeks – not months, but weeks – he broke up with her, and her heart broke. But it broke far more painfully than if he had never said, “I love you.”

Do people often end relationships after “I love you”? Of course they do. OF COURSE they do. Teenagers do it all the time. And so do many grown-ups. Long term relationships, short term relationships… it happens. But the thing is that at my age (somewhere north of 35 years) and at this man’s age (more north even than I), we should know better than to throw this line around so lightly that only a few weeks would be the difference between “I love you” and the end. We should know by now to be very cautious about bringing out these powerful words in the heat of the moment or in the rush of an emotional conversation or in the swell of intimacy. We should know the power of such a statement. They’re words, but they’re so much more. They have power, and they hold promise. And after that declaration is made, the end of a relationship is always more painful.

At our seasoned age, for that break-up to occur so soon after that first “I love you” is just bizarre. It smacks of foreknowledge of an impending end or of uncertainty, and because of that it smacks of irresponsibility.

So all of this being said, here is my request to you, dear reader.  If you find yourself in a relationship and your feelings have grown strong and you think you might be ready to declare your love to your partner, take a moment and think about it. Think about whether you’re ready to give things a go, for real, and make sure you’re not just at a point where you need to release your joy into the ether with the declaration of three powerful words. Because you may feel a sense of calm after letting it all out, but you will have changed things for your partner, irrevocably. So if you have your doubts, even if you feel a sense of elation and closeness when you think about your partner, please, I beg you… just don’t say it. Just… don’t.

For today, my focus is my beloved friend. She smiles and laughs, as she always does through everything, and my heart hurts as I listen to her talk and hear those undertones in her cheery voice that bely the pain underneath.

And as I listen to her, I thank goodness that she never gave me this man’s address. Because my Irish wants to come out and show him exactly how I feel about his recent “I love you.”

Are You Ready to Get Some?

Men!  Now that I have your attention…  Valentine’s Day is rapidly approaching.  You know what that means:  you and your romantic gestures are about to go under the microscope. 

Many women will state that they don’t really care about Valentine’s Day, that it’s a Hallmark holiday that doesn’t really matter.  For a few of us, that may hold true.  (And yes, “us.” I’m a pathetic, sappy, uber-romantic who actually doesn’t care all that much about Valentine’s Day.  But this post isn’t about me.)  For many women, however, Valentine’s Day is a huge opportunity for each of you men to be a hero.

BUT – and there’s always a but, isn’t there (and some buts are bigger than others) – if you are in a longer-term relationship, don’t expect the magic of Valentine’s Day to be a cure-all for your relationship woes.  If you want the attention and adoration of your female partner, both on Valentine’s Day and throughout the year, here are a few quick suggestions:

• Be Considerate, Make Her Feel Adored:  Do you remember early in your relationship when you would do little things to make her think fondly of you?  Well… do you still do things like that?  Do what my friend L's husband does for her... Send her little notes that let her know you’re thinking of her. Help her find time to do something for herself. Give her a foot rub or neck rub without her having to ask. Bring her flowers or her favorite candy or a knick-knack for her desk for no reason. Don't expect anything in return. Just do it.
• Don’t “Fix” Her:  Look, none of us is perfect.  Not one of us.  Not even models, if they are to be believed when they go on and on about how they're all airbrushed.  I, for one, tend to believe - as do about 98.3% of all straight adult males - that the models are lying and that they're actually just that perfect and that they came up with this airbrushed nonsense in order not to be hated as much by "normal" women. But I digress.  The point I was making is to please realize that if you recognize a flaw of your partner's, it’s likely she not only recognizes it as well but is 182 times more aware of it than you are.  You know what, interestingly, will improve her flaws far better than pointing them out, picking at them or passive-aggressively trying to get her to fix them?  Try this... pay attention to and compliment those things about her that you find attractive.  Repeat.  Repeat again.  It’s almost magical how quickly the flaws lose their prominence among all that adoration.
• Tell Her You Appreciate Her:  We all know how much it stings when we try to tackle something – around the house, at work, etc. – and the first words someone throws our way are criticisms about how we could have done it, whatever it is, better. Take that kind of insight and use it to remember not to nitpick. Instead, identify what she does well, or even simply what she tries to do, and let her know you appreciate her efforts. When my family has dinner around the dining table, my husband always thanks me for cooking, whether the meal is stellar or so-so, and his gesture never fails to bring a smile to my face and warm my heart.
• Let Her Know You Respect Her:  Women are a bit of a quandary.  If you compliment a woman’s looks too much but don’t let her know you respect her, she’ll worry you only want her for her physical attractiveness.  Tell her too much that you respect her without letting her know you think she is attractive, and she will worry you don’t think she’s attractive.  Yes, we’re annoying like that.  Be that as it may, be sure you actually converse with your girlfriend or wife, and not just about household stuff or family stuff or kid stuff.  Ask for her opinion or insight, and then listen.  Listen for real.
• Tell Her She Is Beautiful:  This is one that I think is often misconstrued by men, so listen carefully… when I say tell her she is beautiful, what I mean is this:  Tell her she is beautiful.  “Pretty” is all about looks, and that’s fine but not the same.  Same goes for “cute,” unless you’re kidding about something she said or did.  “Hot” is too sex-laden and gets old quickly. There is something special and precious about being called beautiful.  Maybe it’s that beautiful is so multi-faceted, and as such it allows a woman a little room for interpretation. Beautiful can refer to facial loveliness, and it can refer to a woman’s physique. Beautiful can mean something beyond pretty in the physical sense, even an aura.  And beautiful, of course, can refer to a woman’s heart.  Beautiful is a special word that is often reserved for someone who is beyond the norm.  So tell her she is beautiful. And mean it.

Finally - and this one is important - tell her that you love her.  I don’t mean the cursory “I love you” we all say to a long-term partner at the end of a phone call or as we say good-night.  I don’t mean the light-hearted but fully felt “I love you” that some of us say to our good friends. (I tell my best friend several times a week that I love her. Because I do.)  I mean take a non-routine moment to look in her eyes and tell her, while she is listening, that you love her. 

And, just like when you tell her she is beautiful… mean it.

Voices

Happy 2013! 

Today's post - as often is the case on this blog - is completely random and unrelated to anything in the past.  On this fine January 2, I thought I'd share with you a short story.

If you don't like short stories, no worries.  Just close the window and come back another time.  

Otherwise... enjoy....

VOICES

January 2, 2013

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a red brick walkway.  Close, to her left, she can see the lower leg of his expensive trousers and the toes of his glossy black shoes. 

His feet shift undecidedly for a moment, then move past her through the gate. She allows her gaze to draw upward and follow the path of his heavy, black wool overcoat. His shoulders droop forward slightly, and she senses sadness in the set of his jaw.

He pauses at the point on the brick path where his next step will carry him out of her view behind a formidable red brick building. His dark eyes look directly into hers, holding her gaze, her attention, her soul.

"You know that I..."

He seems to struggle for a moment to find the right words, then stops and falls permanently silent.  He sets his shoulders back, high and confident, though his stance does little to dissipate the concern in his eyes. He holds her gaze for a moment longer, then turns and continues down the path and out of sight.

For long minutes, she stares at the spot where he last existed for her. When she feels she can walk steadily once again, she passes through the gate and follows the path that he broached. She wants to run after him, to throw decorum and pride to the wind, but her long skirts, snug corset and slim-heeled shoes keep her stride and her dignity in check.

She passes into the dimness between two buildings and, several feet along the path, arrives at elegant, wide double doors containing broad panes of clear glass that allowed an unobstructed view of a large ballroom. Within, gleaming wood-paned walls and light from dark yellow sconces display the promise of warmth and ease. A happy gathering is in progress, and well heeled partygoers talk and laugh with one another.

A uniformed doorman opens one of the double doors and directs her inside to an attended greeting table. She opens her handbag and finds the small, square card on which her invitation is inscribed. As she frees the card from the bag, she glances up and sees him several feet away standing among a small throng. His back is to her, but his features are etched in her memory. A tall, slender woman stands to his left, her hand resting in the crook of his arm with the assurance of years of familiarity. She is attractive with a ready, assured smile and the relaxed but upright stance of a woman certain of herself and of her place.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving the two of them, she places the invitation back inside her handbag. She smiles apologetically at the woman minding the greeting table. Then, without a final look at the couple, she turns and walks through the double doors into the darkening afternoon.

************

Not far away, in another section of the city...

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a gravel walkway.  With tremendous force of will, she slides her gaze along the gravel path until her eyes take in the landscape in front of her.

Several feet down the path, green lawns expand outward in softly rolling hillocks.  Placed with care among the grass, flowers and occasional tree, small headstones stand patient and silent next to one another in tidy rows.

For long minutes, she stares transfixed at one point on the lawns, a rise away. When she feels she can trust her legs once again, she takes a steadying breath and walks slowly through the gate.

She follows the path as it weaves through the landscape and arrives at the small, white rectangle that bears his name. She stares at it, willing his name to disappear in favor of another, to fall away, to simply not exist.  

She finds herself envisioning him as he looked the day they parted, his smile both reassuring in its warmth and terrifying for the fear he was trying so desperately yet unsuccessfully to hide.

Thoughts and doubts swim through her mind. She should have brought flowers. She should have worn the green dress he loved. Was it dark underground? He would have loved the view along these lawns almost hidden within the city. He never gave much thought to flowers anyway, except to give them to her. What does it matter what she wore? He will never see her again.

He will never see her again. Ever.

And although she heard his voice speaking to her as she made her way here, she has not heard him since passing through the gate. She hears only the whisper of the chill breeze and the distant whir of the city and her own shallow breath. And silence.

Her legs crumple beneath her in front of the stone bearing his name.

And there she kneels. And weeps.

The Boy Who Wanted To Marry Me

Several months ago, I wrote a couple of posts – here and here – about men who restored my faith in, well, men. In those posts, I explained that I’ve had doubts in the past about men’s innate ability to love… like truly, madly, deeply (great movie, by the way) love. L.O.V.E. Oddly, these doubts have never extended to random, select men in my life, such as my dad or my husband or my Papi or Stanley Tucci.

Anyway, despite the revelations that prompted the posts earlier this year, I’ve been having a little crisis lately where my doubts have come creeping back in. It’s completely unfair. It’s heartless of me (there’s irony for you). There’s no reason for such a judgment.

This all was weighing on me until earlier today. Then… I remembered Dominick. Ah, Dominick, my romance from my last two summers of high school and the first man to ask me to marry him.

If my best friend or my sister or my mom read this, they’ll shake their heads in that way we women do when we’re feeling simultaneously exasperated and nostalgic. But they’ll hopefully also remember what an amazing young man Dominick was back then.

Dominick lived not far from Yonkers, I lived in southwestern Connecticut, and we met at the Jersey Shore. We hung out in a large group of kids from around the tri-state area who had gravitated toward each other upon arrival at the beach and who were relatively inseparable for the brief time we all spent at the Shore each summer.

Somehow, among all of these kids and all of the fun and craziness and distractions, Dominick was interested in me. Me! And boy did I like him. He was tall and lanky with the most beautiful smile and a sweet, tender blue-eyed gaze that simply emanated kindness. It was that kindness, that genuine consideration for others, that drew me to him. He was athletic and fun and a teenager through and through, but he also was sweet and gentle and caring beyond words. I was crushy beyond crushy. Serious puppy love. I was distraught when it was time to return home and beside-myself-excited when we returned to the Shore the next summer to find him and the rest of our crew already there and looking for us.

What I forgot about Dominick until this morning was that he asked me to marry him. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a “Someday I’m going to marry you.” It was an honest-to-goodness proposal of marriage. True, there was no ring involved, and the question was asked by phone, but he really did ask me to marry him when I was 17 and he was 18 (or was he 19?).

The ring I did not receive. Or have offered. Or ever see in real life.

Why, you may ask, would this simple act by a boy – because he really was more boy than man still – restore my faith in men?  There are a few reasons. First, more than the proposal itself, the memory of Dominick reminded me of what a beautiful soul that boy was, how selfless and thoughtful. Second, despite your initial thoughts about why a boy would propose marriage – yes, I can read your mind – there was no underlying motivation of the get-in-your-pants nature driving this.  Dominick proposed to me in winter, when we weren’t at the Shore. He lived at least an hour from me, and I wasn’t allowed to drive out of state to visit or meet up with him, so I pretty much never saw him aside from the week or two we would spend near Seaside Heights. So proposal or no proposal, he wasn’t gettin’ any. And… my family wasn’t scheduled to go back to the Shore the following summer. Finally, when I told Dominick I couldn’t marry him because I wanted to go to college, he offered to come with me and support me in whatever dream I wanted to pursue.  

Dominick and I stayed in touch here and there until I left for college, and then we fell out of touch for good.  For years, I kept a photo of him in my wallet (remember when we used to do that sort of thing?). When I was sad or lonely or stressed, I would look at his sweet face and would feel a sense of calm knowing someone so kind-hearted was out there in the world. Then, at some point the photo disappeared. Years later, my mother saw Dominick in a magazine article featuring his wife, who apparently is brilliant, and we were simply thrilled to see him looking well and happy.

So now it’s midnight, and tomorrow the world is supposed to end, according to several misinterpretations of the Mayan calendar. And if the world truly does end, at least I can feel some sense of relief that my faith in men has yet again been restored thanks to that boy who long ago offered to follow me anywhere, who told me he wanted to spend his life with me, and who made me feel truly, madly, deeply loved.

The Little Things, from The Little People

The last several days can only be described as a pile of stress. Between friend "stuff", work "stuff", family "stuff" and trying to get ready for Halloween, things are abnormally abnormal. That's saying a lot in my existence. On top of that, a historic storm bearing my mother-in-law's name -- so much opportunity for humor if she was a stereotypical mother-in-law... darn it -- just did serious damage to my childhood hometown in Connecticut  plus devastated Seaside Heights, New Jersey where my family spent a few weeks each summer. B***h of a storm attacked my youth.

My stressy time clearly doesn't hold a candle to what others are going through right now, so it feels selfish to feel stressed. But the stress is there, and what is it that they say?.. You can't fix the problem if you don't acknowledge there IS a problem. Or something like that. Likely something pithier or more clever.

Watching my kids tonight, I realized that they hold the key to getting a handle on serenity. It's NOT that they epitomize serenity personified -- no, they are more "this is what 5-Hour Energy would look like as tiny humans" -- but their outlook and actions hold the keys to bringing life back into balance.

Without further ado, here are lessons from them regarding what to do to reestablish bliss... these all came from a single evening:

• Hug everyone good-bye. Everyone. Every. One.
• If you don't get your way the first time you ask, keep asking. Several times.
• Chat up everyone you encounter. Be sure to introduce them to everyone you are with, including sharing everyone's ages, birthdays, address and phone numbers. It's friendly.
• Walk up to someone you like and sit in their lap, then cuddle up to them. Without asking.
• Challenge people to impromptu foot races. In the hallway. Naked.
• If the urge hits you, grab someone's face with both hands and kiss them. And then do it again. Then follow up with an Eskimo kiss, a butterfly kiss and an upside down kiss for good measure.
• Find your passion and then give it your all, even if your passion is battling fancy tops (beyblades).
• Close your eyes, extend your arms, and spin and spin and spin. Because it's fun.
• Tell someone you love the following, verbatim: "I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something. Hey. Hey. Are you... Hey... Are you hearing me? Hey, so um... This is important. Ready?... 'Kay... I really love you. A lot."

Try it. Report back. Now... Go.

Still Reeling

I apologize ahead of time that this post is a little lengthier than most that I write. However, it’s imperative that I tell today’s story correctly rather than focus on keeping it especially concise.

Originally, I’d intended to break my recent hiatus from posting with a fun little piece about Halloween costumes. As fate would have it, that post will have to be delayed.

Let me start this by setting the stage a little bit. My son’s hero of all heroes is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When we visited the King Center this past January on Martin Luther King, Jr Day, my little Bear didn’t want to leave first the museum and then the memorial. He wanted to commune with Dr. King all day. On a recent trip to Washington, DC, Bear didn’t want to leave Dr. King’s statue, and he made it a point to read aloud every single quote inscribed along the long wall of the memorial. As Bear’s mom, I am proud beyond words.

As for my daughter, Ballerina, she isn’t quite old enough yet to understand these matters and historic struggles for civil rights. However, from her friendships and from the discussions we do have with her, it’s clear that she would be baffled by someone disliking or excluding someone based on a physical trait.

Yes, my husband and I talk to the kids about these issues, in children’s terms. We ask them if they feel that any skin color or hair tone or eye hue is better than another, and when they answer no, we make sure to ask them why so that they solidify this belief in their hearts as completely as possible.

With this as the backdrop and as a reflection of how my husband and I feel about discrimination of any kind, I will tell you about today.

This afternoon, while my husband took my kids on errands, I took off on my weekly long run. I expected a relatively uneventful, if slower than usual due to humidity, 8-mile run. Because of the length of the run, I started listening to a novel on my iTunes to pass the time.

A little over 3 miles along the trail, I came upon a detour sign and a loose mesh fence blocking the arm of the trail I usually follow. Being curious, and figuring I could just turn around at any sign of real danger, I went around the detour and continued on another tenth of a mile or so until I reached the spot where the trail passes under a road. Signs indicated that until early October the city is doing water line construction, so the portion of the trail under the road is closed.

I have a small fear of underpasses, so I decided not to risk going under. The thing is, this underpass is relatively new. The trail used to wind along another tenth or so of a mile up to the road itself, where a runner, walker, cyclist, etc., using the trail had to wait for a walk light to cross the street to the trailhead at the other side. I felt adventurous and decided to follow the old trail up and over the road.

Just as I was about to continue along, a slightly older couple on bicycles happened along – apparently, like me, they considered the detour sign to be more of a suggestion than a rule. We all spoke for a couple of minutes, and they decided to follow me up the old trail. For the sake of clarity in the story, let me state that this couple was African-American. The necessity of this description will be clear in a moment.

We approached the road, and as we arrived at the spot where the final turn up to the road used to be, we discovered that last length of connecting sidewalk had been removed and trees and shrubs planted along the strip where the paved trail had been, effectively blocking the easiest rise to the road. What was left was a very steep, grassy rise straight in front of us of about twenty or twenty-five feet up to the roadside sidewalk.

The man of the couple and I carefully worked to pull the bicycles up the rise, and when all was secure, the woman gingerly made her way up as well. Did I mention it was steep? It was really steep. I was impressed that they climbed up, and in such good spirits! They didn’t complain about this obstacle. They didn’t wince at the climb. They took it in stride and laughed almost the whole time.

I was just telling them that I’d lead them to the trailhead across the street, when a small, white SUV passed, filled with young men or teenagers – they went by so quickly, I couldn’t tell – and the most hateful word in the English language was screamed out the car window at our little group.

You know the word I’m talking about.

There’s no way you don’t.

I refuse to type it.

Like most people, I can write things and type things that I’d be embarrassed or even mortified to say out loud. But this… I don’t want any effort of mine to produce this word. But you know it.

Of course I have encountered this word numerous times in my life. In movies. On news reels. In history lessons. On talk shows. In philosophical discussions. But I have never encountered it flung as an invective at me or at people I’m with. This is a new experience for me. And hey, I’m Irish with a temper that matches the stereotype; I get furious enough just hearing about this word being used. Hearing it marring the air around me and directed at people in my proximity performed the miracle of simultaneously stopping my heart and sending my blood pressure skyward.

I heard myself yell some impotent remark at the boys as they drove off; what I really was thinking was, “What I wouldn’t give right now for a baseball bat and a red light.” Of course, violence against these fools – or at least against their vehicle – would have accomplished all of nothing, but it was the first response that came into my head, and I felt it through my gut and along every nerve ending.

The man of the bicycle riding couple looked at with me, and with his unwavering smile still brightening his face, he asked, “What did they say?”  I looked at him for a moment to determine if he was only pretending not to have heard… to try to spare me? to spare me what? embarrassment? to spare himself embarrassment? to sweep away anger and not let someone else’s idiocy ruin the day? 

Either way, I said, “I’d rather not say. Let’s move on. The trailhead’s right across the road.” I gave the couple what I hoped was a warm smile that didn’t reflect how shaky I felt inside, and we continued up the sidewalk, chatting about the area and the trails.

The rest of my run was pretty terrible. I turned off the audible book; I wasn’t listening any longer to anything but the thoughts raging through my mind. I tried to grab hold of my anger and leverage it to drive me forward, but the shock of that word and the hatred it reflects invading the day deflated my motivation and killed my energy. And I wasn’t even the object against whom the word truly was flung. Fortunately, the couple who were the targets either didn’t catch what was yelled or were able to rise above it.

To everyone who ever has fought hatred without turning to hatred themselves… my respect, which always has been tremendous beyond description, somehow managed to increase a hundredfold today.

I’m not naïve enough to believe that people don’t still use the awful word that was yelled today. I’m not Pollyanna enough to think that racism is dead. But I like to believe that it’s becoming increasingly shameful and unacceptable. I like to think that people “out there” are becoming increasingly aware that varying skin tones and ethnicities should be appreciated and embraced, not hated and feared.  I like to believe that parents are teaching their children to be a better generation than ours and the ones before.

Ultimately, I refuse to let today kill my spirit, but it’s going to affect me for the long haul. What I experienced was so insanely minor compared to what others have had to experience and continue to experience today. And yet it was so powerful, that one word, that one moment. It was a perspective changer.

Even so, to those who tease me about being a bit of an idealist in my view of the world… no, this won’t make me less of one. I continue to be realistic about the world as it is, but I also refuse to stop being idealistic about how I want the world to be. Because being an idealist requires a person to have and strive for ideals. And if people don’t have ideals they firmly believe in and want to strive for, how will anyone ever make a difference… how will they ever make this world a better place?

As long as young men like the ones from today are out there, the world needs to be made better. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do about it, but I’m working on it. I’m doing my best to ensure that my children not only think differently than these young men but that they also are passionate enough about their beliefs to stand up for them.  I’m encouraging my son’s choice of hero, because not only did Dr. King make a difference but he did so with a focus on peace, education, love and non-violence. Focusing my efforts on my children may be the equivalent of a drop in the bucket, but there are millions of us out there, and if all of us would contribute a drop, the result wouldn’t be just a full bucket… but a flood.

How about you? What are you doing to make the world a better place?

Love Is (NOT) A Battlefield... AKA: 6-Year-Old Wisdom

The kids and I were driving around with the radio on, belting out current sugar-pop hits like “What Makes You Beautiful” when the classic 80s Pat Benatar song “Love Is A Battlefield” came on. 

Seizing the opportunity to enhance my children’s repertoire of music's best decade ever, I turned the volume up to bad-for-eardrums-but-not-loud-enough-for-the-permanent-damage-to-be-obvious-for-several-years-yet.

To their credit – and to my great pride – the kids loved it.

                                    

The song ended, and this was the conversation that ensued:

Bear:  That song is called “Love is a Battlefield?”

Me:  Yes.

Bear:  Well, love isn’t a battlefield for me.

Me:  What do you mean?

Bear:  The song is saying that it’s hard to decide who you’re supposed to love. But that’s not the way it is for me.

Me:  It’s not hard for you?

Bear:  Nope. It’s easy. I met G and I thought she was beautiful. And I knew I loved her. And that’s that.

Bear just turned 6.  G, who will be 5 soon, has been Bear’s “girlfriend” for almost 2 years now.  They say the ability to commit is something that comes with age and maturity...

As Forest Gump would state, "That's all I have to say about that."  

Feeling Replaceable

I love my friends intensely. Fiercely. So you can imagine the depth of my concern when I received this online comment from a good friend of mine: “Today, I hurt so much. Today, I feel tremendously replaceable.”

How do you respond to that? Well, I’ll tell you how I did… I sought her out and made her tell me what happened. She was reluctant. The last thing someone wants to do is recount the events that would make her feel less than appreciated, less than special. But in this case, I wasn’t taking no for an answer. When she was finished, and when we had re-established firmly the fact that she is unique and precious and wonderful, she gave me permission to share this with you. Why? I’ll tell you at the end. (Stories are best when you reveal the moral last!)

My friend is single.  Let’s start there.  She’s wonderful and smart and beautiful.  She simply hasn’t found the right man yet... but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So my friend – let’s call her Jill, because that’s nothing close to her real name (as far as you know) – recently started to feel a little crushy on a guy she’s known for a long time.  As luck would have it, this man started to show interest in her at about the same time. Voilá!  Romance begins. 

Because Jill and this guy both hang out with many of the same people, often in group situations, the guy suggested that they keep their budding relationship quiet for a bit.  He made the cogent argument that they needed to determine on their own, with no friendly interference, if their relationship really had long term potential before “coming out” to their friends. This way, if things worked out, they’d know it was because of the relationship, not because of pressure from the group. Similarly, if things didn’t work out, no one – either of them, anyone in the group – would feel awkward about the situation.

No matter what the arrangement was, Jill was beside herself.  She was happy.  She clearly thought things were going well.  If I had to guess, I’d say she was falling hard for the guy.  She never said it in so many words, but to me, from the outside listening to her, it was obvious.

So this went on for a few weeks, when Jill started to notice a slight change in this guy’s demeanor. It was slight, yes, but Jill’s a perceptive woman. Still, he gave no direct indication that his interest was waning. In fact, Jill gave him several “outs” which were never acknowledged or taken. Then, in recent days, Jill noticed this guy paying the slightest bit more attention to another friend of theirs. A hint of it. A whisper of it. Nothing anyone from outside would notice. Nothing anyone else on the inside seemed to notice.  Anyone but Jill.

Jill thought about bringing this up with this guy, but she didn’t want to seem jealous when they’d barely started dating. That’s all sorts of uncomfortable, right? So instead, she took a circuitous route that you may question… she went to the other woman.

Now, before you get crazy, Jill did NOT let on to the other woman that she (Jill) and this guy had anything special going on. Instead, she lightly mentioned to this friend that she’d noticed the guy paying a little bit more attention to her (the friend), kind of in that wink-wink-nudge-nudge way that friends will do. I’m sure you can guess what happened next… the friend was beside herself excited to confide in Jill that she and this guy had decided to start quietly dating to test the waters, to see if their interest in each other was something worth pursuing further.

You know the rest of the rationale.  And I’m sure that by now you, like I, can completely grasp what Jill meant when she said she felt “replaceable.”  After all, the guy set things up with this other woman the exact same way he set them up with Jill – things he said to her, things they shared, ways and times they spent time together, including some details I can’t share here at risk of revealing to a select few who Jill is. Identical.

Is Jill going to say anything further to her friend, the other woman in this situation?  She considered it, more to protect her friend than anything.  But she also doesn’t feel it’s her place to presume that this guy will treat her friend with the same disrespect as he showed her.  It’s a crap shoot, really. 

And of course Jill is going to end things with the guy. That part is tough because she considered him a close friend for many years prior to this. Now she wonders if they can continue to be friends at all, since he lied to her and betrayed her trust.

So what is the moral of this story?  There are several, but these are the points I want to drive home with you:

1. Trust your gut.  Yes, sometimes your gut will be wrong, of course. Sometimes you may come across like a crazy person.  But listen to it.  Even a little.
2. Be direct and be honest.  Jill gave this guy many opportunities to be direct and honest with her if he felt he wanted to revert to “just” friendship or felt interest in someone else.  She would have been hurt, but she would have felt respected by his honesty, and their friendship could have recovered. Now, this guy likely will lose a friend, and by being dishonest he augmented Jill’s pain tremendously.
3. Trust people.  Just because this happened to Jill, it doesn’t mean that all men are dishonest or that relationships are fraught with disaster.  This happened to Jill.  Not to everyone.
4. Most important of all:  YOU are not replaceable.  Jill is not.  You are not.  You are unique in all the world.  If someone you desire doesn’t recognize all the special qualities you have or feel the same way about you, or if someone you care about betrays your trust, it doesn’t diminish you one iota.  It simply says something about that person. You continue to be wonderful, amazing you.   

This still leaves us with Jill’s dilemma. Does she go back to her friend (the woman) and let her know the full story related to the guy in this situation, or does she leave it to fate?  Any thoughts?