Category Archives: Personal

Bucket List

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Bucket

A speaker I once heard said, “The key to happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want.”

I thought about this a lot after I was diagnosed last year with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Suddenly I knew I wanted the life I already have–just more of it.

Right before they wheeled me away for a full hysterectomy, I turned to my husband, Jonathan. I expected to wake up from surgery, but you never know.

“I don’t really have a bucket list,” I told Jonathan, “Because I’ve already had everything I’ve ever wanted—this great life with you, our girls. . . ” I did not add that the things I still longed for were beyond my control—seeing our daughters settle into adulthood, spoiling our future grandchildren with too much chocolate.

Almost a year before my cancer diagnosis, Jonathan and I had stood in line at the Marsh Theater Box Office to pick up our tickets for Marga Gomez’s solo comedy show, “Not Getting Any Younger.” The woman in front of us had the bloat and stubbled hair of someone for whom chemo has nothing left to offer. She lived in the neighborhood, and had just spontaneously dropped by to see if she could catch the show.

“I’m afraid we’re all sold out,” the man behind the ticket counter told her. “But our run has been extended, so you should come back!”

“I’m not sure my run will be extended,” the woman replied.

“Hang on,” said the man, waving her to the side, then disappearing for a moment. He came back and fetched our tickets from the Will Call box, and we went to find our seats in the tiny, crammed theater.

Just before the show began, someone came in and set up a folding chair on the edge of the stage. The woman whose run was up sat down.

I watched her almost as much as I watched the show. She, like all of us, nearly fell out of her chair laughing as Marga Gomez switched from character to character chronicling the vagaries of aging.

Sometimes it seems unimaginative how little I thirst after adventure. But looking at the woman whose bloated face was beaming, I realized that I’d want to be like her if I knew I had limited time. Not off climbing peaks or having peak experiences in foreign lands. But to be right in my own neighborhood, among friends and loved ones, laughing my ass off.

*

I’m fine now, no longer contemplating a limited engagement. What would you want if you knew time was running out?

 

 

 

 

Ending Summer

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Ally and Me

“This has been the summer of my dreams,” I say to my daughter Ally.

“That’s pathetic,” she replies.

Maybe. But it’s true. In the three months Ally’s been home between graduating from college and leaving for a job teaching English in Spain, we’ve been each other’s best companion. Long walks, picking blackberries, lattes, massages, cooking side by side, a mani-pedi to mark the dwindling days of flip-flops and of our time together. We’ve even managed some good conversations until I inevitably mess up with questions like, “What if you fall in love and decide to stay in Spain forever?“

I dreamed of such a summer four years earlier, in the fleeting weeks between high school and college. But back then my dream was Ally’s nightmare. So she stayed out late with friends, sleeping in till the coast was clear from my incessant offers of ensnaring lattes.

Four years away have allowed Ally to come back not only with a college degree, but with an independent identity that makes our bond less threatening. Free lattes? Bring them on!

Our first separation was a dress rehearsal. This time’s for real. Ally’s going off to adulthood, not college.

Songs from Fiddler on the Roof keep coursing through my mind:

“Is this the little girl I carried?”

”May the Lord protect and defend you.”

Mostly I feel like Tevye on the station platform, seeing Hodel off to Siberia. I know it’s not as dramatic as “God alone knows when we shall see each other again.”  For one thing, the shtetl lacked Skype. But the pang still runs deep.

The day of Ally’s departure arrives. She navigates the ticket counter, hoping the agent will turn a blind eye to her bag’s extra weight. It’s hard to move abroad for under 50 pounds. The agent waves Ally through, and we sit awhile, steeling ourselves for goodbye. I repeat something I heard on the radio, about imagining someone you sorely miss in the next room. “I’m going to think of you in the next room,” I say as we hug. To distract ourselves, we search out one last latte. It helps wash away the lump in my throat.

Last free latte!

Last free latte–at least for awhile!

I watch as Ally goes through security. It’s hard to see through the plate glass that separates us. Between the throng of travelers and the reflections of people waving goodbye, I soon lose track of her. Suddenly I feel the same panic that overwhelmed me when Ally was three, and we lost her in a museum. As my husband and I frantically searched the nearby exhibits, I glanced from the balcony into the lobby. There was Ally, calmly talking to a guard, unaware that she was lost.

She’ll be fine now, too.

I hope I can say the same for myself.

 

 

Commemoration

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I wrote this two years ago, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, and offer it again today. 

Candle in the dark

As usual, I went to yoga Sunday morning, the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. Mostly I go for the effect on my muscles, not my spirit. But on this solemn day my yoga teacher lit a candle in remembrance, and invited us to practice Tonglen, breathing in all that is troublesome in the world, acknowledging it, then transforming it into compassion and peace on the exhale. After a few minutes, the class continued with its typical focus on backs, necks, and hips, or, as one member put it, “the usual overall soreness.”

At the end of the class, after the stretching and the Namaste, another member shared what happened to her Turkish and Egyptian friends ten years ago. They owned a restaurant in Manhattan, which they managed to keep open after the towers fell despite the chaos and lack of customers. Late at night three white men came in. They trashed the place. One of the owner’s friends managed to slip away and call the police. Soon the men who had destroyed the restaurant were apprehended and brought back to be identified before they could be charged.

“Yes, those are the men,” the owners told the police, who were eager to throw the book at them.

But the owners refused to press charges.

“This is a difficult day,” they said. “We understand their grief and rage. Let them go.”

Incredulous, the police did so reluctantly.

A few hours later, the three men came back with some of their friends, pressing upon the owners fistfuls of cash for the damage. The men helped clean up as best they could, and continued to come for the next several weeks until things were put right again.

Sometimes forgiveness is the most effective kind of justice. It is much more likely than hatred or revenge to spawn atonement. This is the lesson so often lost in our decade of fear and grief and war. But it is one worth remembering as we light a candle; breathe in trouble and sorrow; breathe out compassion and peace; and seek to ease the overall soreness of the world.

 

Greenwashing

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Laundry

I have a hunch why climate change denial still holds sway, and it’s not just because of the oil and gas industry’s lock on politicians.

It’s because of laundry’s lock on me.

Take, for example, one easy step I can take to save the planet: hanging my laundry out to dry. Since I work only part-time, live in a dry climate, and no longer have children at home, this should be a no-brainer. Especially since years ago young and enthusiastic energy auditors installed a retractable clothesline for free when they switched out all our light bulbs for fluorescents.

They did not, however, stick around long enough to do any laundry. Which is how I learned that wet clothes are extremely heavy. But hey, I’m game for a little upper-arm workout if it will keep me on the good side of Al Gore. Unfortunately, keeping the ton-of-bricks laundry basket on my good side as I navigate the stairs throws me out of alignment. Pausing to rub my sore back, I balance the load on a step. It tumbles down the stairs, landing on surfaces that are not, shall we say, as pristine as they might be. (Who can see to clean in my now-dim house? On the bright side, who can see the mess?) Since I’ve switched to washing everything in cold water, the damp clothes aren’t that clean to begin with, so what’s an extra patina of fine grit?

Plus, now I get to enjoy the fresh air! For a really long time! Seriously, what would have taken 30 seconds, including cleaning the lint screen before tossing the load into the dryer, now takes a good 20 minutes. And that’s if I’m lucky, with enough clothespins and line space to hang everything properly. More often I’m draping underwear over the patio furniture and hoping it doesn’t blow into the neighbor’s yard.

The slow-clothes movement continues, especially when I forget to fetch the lot in and leave it overnight. In the morning, the laundry is limp with dew. Nothing another hour or two of solar power won’t handle.

Voila! Limpness eliminated! In fact, my laundry is now as stiff as RyKrisp. This is fine for my husband’s underwear if I’m mad at him, but makes it hard to bend the towels over the towel racks.

So I unpin the RyKrisp and crunch it into the basket in preparation for the penultimate step of playing Green Goddess Laundress—lugging everything up all those stairs again, and slipping the load into the dryer for 10 minutes on Air Fluff (no heat, but alas, no more nice fresh air scent either). Then the grand finale: Sorting. Folding. Putting everything away. (This step is the same whether you’re green with virtue, or green with envy at those wasting away happily in their bubbles of denial.)

And that is just the first load of laundry.

How much have I saved? According to a Terrapass report from 2006 (presumably data collection discontinued thereafter because too many research subjects threw themselves down the stairs), air-drying 183 loads of laundry a year saves 1,016 pounds of carbon dioxide emissions and $63.88, not counting the trips to the chiropractor. But good news–it does factor in the cost of what the report refers to as the “clothes horse!”

Which you definitely will not be if you insist on wearing RyKrisp.

*

What greenery have you tried, for better or for worse?

 

Vocabulary Lesson

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GRE for DummiesMy daughter Ally is studying for the GREs. Despite graduating with a BA in Linguistics and a near-perfect GPA, her vocabulary is:

  • a. wanting
  • b. wanton
  • c. wonton
  • d. pathetic

So I’ve been helping.

Or maybe not. It depends on whether you consider it helpful to reel off synonyms whose meanings are equally obscure.

“Perfunctory,” I coach Ally. “You know, pro forma.”

She rolls her eyes before returning to GRE for Dummies. “How about diffident?” she asks.

“You know, it’s like . . . reticent ,” I stammer. “I know what it means, I just don’t know how to explain it.”

“How do you even pronounce p-h-l-e-g-m-a-t-i-c?” Ally sighs.

“Phlegmatic,” I boast. “It either means calm or its opposite. I can never remember which. But isn’t phlegm related to bile, one of the dark humors? Oh, yeah, I think it means angry.”

For the record, it does not. Nor is Ally remaining phlegmatic.

“How about effete?” she asks, agitation rising in her voice.

“Hmmm. Like ‘Effete intellectual.’ Maybe elitist or snobby?” I venture.

Wrong again. Apparently Vice President Spiro Agnew was not back-hand-complimenting people of a certain persuasion on their braininess, but accusing them of “lacking in wholesome vigor; worn out.”

It occurs to me that not only am I a vocabulary snob: I am a vocabulary fraud. Like a smart person who passes for literate, I’ve been pretending all these years.

What new fad did I fall victim to during my formative years in the 60s? My ability to ferret out close-but-no-cigar meaning from the context suggests a whole-language approach. Probably some hippie-dippy, out-of-the-box, newfangled pedagogy. What I remember, though, is literally learning out of the box—pulling those self-paced, color-coded flashcards from the big Scholastics box on the low tables of grade school. Kill-and-drill. But I loved it! I was a straight-A student, adept at that quintessential secret of success—faking it.

Now, as I help Ally with her own kill-and-drill cramming, even the words I’m sure of turn out to be wrong. Take tenuous, for example, as in, “She has a tenuous grasp on reality.”

But the only definition GRE for Dummies offers up is: “thin; slim.” As in, “I wish I were tenuous.”

Hmmm . . . maybe not. But I’m excited to have learned new and proper usage. Now I can say with full confidence that my vocabulary is pretty:

  • a. tenuous
  • b. slim
  • c. effete
  • d. pathetic

 

Subversive

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Peaches

In honor of today’s news that the California Supreme Court has rejected another last-ditch attempt to revive Proposition 8, I’m running something I wrote years ago paying tribute to an unlikely pioneer in gay rights.

*

My bathroom houses a miniature library of periodicals, from the literary to the political to the lifestyle-you-wish-you-had-but-don’t. Sunset magazine is my favorite leisure reading for those private moments behind closed doors.

But not for the usual reasons.

My home improvement skills end with changing light bulbs.

I use the water shortage as an excuse to let my garden go to seed.

I am too poor for a kitchen makeover of $50,000.

And who has time to cook?

What I really love about Sunset is that it’s been quietly on the vanguard of gay rights for years.

Readers are just as likely to find Craig and Jeff and their golden retriever in the sun-washed kitchen of their lovingly restored farmhouse as they are Tom and Judy sipping chardonnay with guests on their new deck.

A recent issue features Janie and Virginia and their eco-friendly paint company.

As the reader drinks in room after room of sumptuous color in the photo spread of their Portland digs, it’s clear that these women are not just business partners.

While some fan the flames of bigotry and fear, Sunset quietly broadcasts that we are all the same.

Well, almost the same.

The couples in the glossy pictures just have more disposable income and fewer dust bunnies on their gleaming hardwood floors than the rest of us.

As I read in the privacy of my own bathroom, I think of how irrelevant it is what others do in the privacy of their own bedrooms.

Besides, Craig and Jeff, Janie and Virginia, Tom and Judy probably aren’t doing much of anything. Like everybody else, they’re too exhausted from hauling dirt and lumber around, not to mention cleaning up after all those fabulous dinner parties.

Let’s hope the sun is setting on ignorance and intolerance.

Meanwhile, I’m going to grab my magazine and fantasize about a better life to come–new kitchen cabinets, the perfect peach, and love and justice for all.

 

Resurrection

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Resurrection plant

I’m not in the habit of paying much attention to those shopping circulars that clutter up the mailbox, but this one caught my eye:

Resurrection Plant

The House Plant That Never Dies!

Keeps “Coming Back to Life” for 50 Years

No Matter How Dry You Leave It!

 I’ve been in a pretty dark place lately, so my first thought was to question Resurrection’s insanely optimistic premise. Eternal Symbol of Hope & Rebirth!? All I could think of was why awful things we thought were finally gone just keep resurfacing: Bellbottoms. Whooping cough. Unfettered market capitalism.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that Resurrection wasn’t so much a plant as a plan to survive the Apocalypse:

NO Water?

NO Sunlight?

NO PROBLEM!

The plant, promised the ad, “’comes back to life’ from a dormant brown ball . . . It can survive a full 50 years without water or light.”

Resurrection’s appeal was growing. I, too, sometimes feel like curling up into a dry brown ball and lying low for awhile. Plus, I’m always on the look out for things I can neglect without consequence. Children, husbands, pets, bills—not so forgiving, except for the dog.

With Resurrection, however, once the Apocalypse or the dereliction of duty passes, all you need to do is add water.

So even though Resurrection looked like green plastic dreadlocks atop a cheap bowl, I took out my credit card and placed my order. If anything failed to satisfy, I could return it for my money back.

Which is a lot more than you can say about kids and husbands.

An unassuming mailer arrived a few days later. I tossed it onto the kitchen table and forgot about it. After all, the whole point was inconsequential neglect. It’s not like I’d sent away for baby chicks needing immediate revival under a heat lamp after a traumatic night with FedEx.

Eventually I got around to opening the mailer. Most of its contents consisted of advertising for various bunion cures. Clearly the target consumer craved relief from all kinds of suffering. Then came the box that held the real treasure—my Resurrection.

The bowl in which life would begin anew looked like one of those plastic domes on the super-sized Slurpees from 7-11, except without the hole for the straw. There was a small bag of what appeared to be kibble or, more accurately, kibble dust. Another bag contained a mass of shriveled threads stuck to something resembling a dessicated walnut. As instructed, I rinsed everything and added water. Then I sat back to watch life unfold.

Within minutes, a couple of shrunken fronds limply rose above the mass of what was starting to look like freeze-dried seaweed. I was hopeful. After one hour, if the picture on the box was any guide, Resurrection would look like the lettuce garnish on a platter left out in the hot sun. After three hours, it would rehydrate into its full-blown glory.

I read more about what awaited me. That’s when the first seeds of doubt crept in. The instructions printed on the inside of the box, the ones you can’t see until it’s too late, demanded that the plant and bowl be rinsed thoroughly, the water replaced daily for the first week. This wasn’t part of the bargain. But isn’t doubt always an aspect of faith?

I read on, only to discover that Resurrection “prefers” semi-shade and “prefers” to dry out several times a year. This was beginning to sound like an alcoholic relative intermittently committed to rehab. Or a houseguest who promises her visits will be no trouble, except she “prefers” eggs over easy and toast lightly buttered with her fresh-squeezed orange juice.

The instructions also advised, “Don’t be afraid of any mold you see.” I wasn’t so much afraid as annoyed, but, since practicing forgiveness was in keeping with the theme, I breathed deeply and went on with my day.

Several hours later, I took a peek, when full vitality was promised. Resurrection had definitely progressed beyond the seaweed stage. As the box noted, the plants resemble moss, and it did indeed look like the feminine hygiene products our ancient ancestors were forced to use before the advent of tampons.

Dutifully, I rinsed Resurrection and replaced its water daily for the first week. The only change was the growing mold.

“What is that thing on the windowsill?” my husband asked.

Instead of giving me a pass on neglect, Resurrection just screamed out a silent rebuke.

There is a time for everything, and it was time to put my experiment in the trash. Relieved, I slid the gelatinous mess into a bag and put it out for the garbage pick-up.

I’m glad to have a guilt-free windowsill again. Besides, now Resurrection has gone to a better place, with the plastics in the landfill that have also found eternal life.

 

 

 

 

Homeland Security

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UCSB graduation 2013With Janet Napolitano leaving her job as head of Homeland Security to become president of the UC system, I’ve found myself imagining her transition as metaphor. How great it would be if this move symbolized a rebalancing of priorities, with public education deemed as important as anti-terrorism spending in keeping us secure.

Just a few weeks ago, my daughter graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara. She began her college career the same day general strikes were held on every UC campus to oppose slashes in public funding and huge tuition hikes. Protesters were angry that the Master Plan, which ensures affordable, excellent education as a linchpin of California’s well-being, had been betrayed. Over the next four years students continued to pay more for less, in part because of the recession, but largely because of anti-tax sentiment throughout the country. Austerity fervor led to widespread divestment in the programs and institutions that ensure a prosperous and fair society. For my daughter’s California cohort, this meant fewer course offerings, larger classes, more time needed to graduate, and huge debt—if students could afford or find a place among the shrinking slots in higher education at all.

In my daughter’s senior year, Californians, rejecting anti-tax absolutism, passed Proposition 30, interrupting the perpetual cycle of budget cuts and escalating tuition.

When we arrived for graduation, the mood on campus was festive and hopeful. Naturally, I was proud of my daughter as she walked across the stage to receive her diploma. But I was just as proud of the visionaries who devised the Master Plan, and of voters who finally acted to stop its dismantling.

The dream of ensuring opportunity for every student has been tarnished. Maybe it will shine again as we realize that Homeland Security includes taxpayer commitment to public education. After all, it’s one of our best defenses.

*

This piece appeared July 29, 2013, on KQED’s Perspectives.

 

You Are Not Alone

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Picasso's Blue Nude

In September 2012,  I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Treatment was successful, and I am happy to report that I am cancer-free and doing well. I wrote for a private circle of friends and family about my experiences at the time, and am now sharing some of my musings here. 

Two packages arrive today. One, from my friend Gale, is a CD called “preparing for surgery: guided imagery exercises for relaxation and accelerated healing.” I wonder about the all-lowercase title. Is it meant to be soothing and low-key, the typesetting equivalent of hushed tones? Or reminiscent of ee cummings from decades ago, when none of us worried about preparing for surgery?

The other package, from my friend Mary, also contains information about surgery preparation, including another CD. “Successful Surgery and Recovery” promises to help me “LEARN AUTOGENIC PRESURGICAL TECHNIQUES, MINIMIZE COMPLICATIONS, ENHANCE THE HEALING RESPONSE, CONTROL POST-OPERATIVE PAIN.” The full caps are even more alarming.

I’ve told my friends, By all means, bring it on–send me anything you think will be helpful. I am open to all resources, good wishes, prayers, and casseroles. But now that the material has arrived, I think, Get this stuff out of here! I do not wish it in my life. More accurately, I do not wish to have cancer and the kind of life that requires knowing what “AUTOGENIC” means.

Mary has enclosed a card. It’s orange and red and grey, with a picture of a smiling little girl with straight-cut bangs holding a cake. (Mary and I are both good bakers, and know how to deliver comfort by creaming butter and sugar.) The front of the card says “shine a light where it’s dark and scary,” and my goodness, hasn’t cake often been that kind of light?

Inside the card Mary has written, in her beautiful Catholic-school cursive:

 Hope some of this ‘shines a light.’ You are, of course, in my thoughts and prayers. Get better soon!!!

The last thing I pull from Mary’s care package is another booklet: “You Are Not Alone: A Guide for Women Newly Diagnosed with Cancer.”

I burst into tears.

 

Like Everybody Else

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I wrote this just after my friends Ann and Joan got married  in 2008, during the brief window before California’s Proposition 8 was passed. In honor of enduring love, and of Proposition 8’s demise this week, I’m running it again. What has the Supreme Court’s historic rulings on marriage equality meant for you?

Hands in MarriageAnn and Joan got married recently. The brides were radiant in their silk tunics, silvery hair, and sensible shoes. After waiting 17 years to walk down the aisle, they’d earned their comfort.

Like any couple getting married, Ann and Joan vowed to love, honor, and cherish each other until parted by death. They could pledge this with more certainty than the average newlyweds, having already lived through so many years of for better or for worse.

Ann vowed to try not to throw things away. Joan promised she would try to throw things away. That’s what comes from being forced to wait nearly two decades for marriage. You know one another’s foibles so well that what used to drive you crazy now deepens your love. You know it’s precisely your differences that bring balance. You know it’s the trying that counts.

The brides spoke in honor of their dead parents. When Ann first revealed she was gay, her mother responded, “It’s about time you figured it out.” Ann quipped that her father would have loved to give her away to Joan, if she were the type to let herself be given away to anyone.

Joan’s family was less embracing. Her mother died when Joan was 24, fearful that her daughter would suffer terribly from a hostile culture. Joan knew her mother would be delighted that her fears had not come true, and that her life was rich with love and happiness.

Guests were invited to place a rose in a silver vase and share what this wedding meant to them. There was an outpouring of hope and gratitude and joy. By the end, the vase was crammed with roses of every hue.

I grew up dreaming of bridal bouquets and my bridesmaids’ matching sashes. I didn’t know what blooms would be in season when I married, or whether my color scheme would be driven by the daffodils of spring or the chrysanthemums of fall. But as a straight woman, I knew I could count on having a season.

Now there is a season for everyone.

Opponents to same-sex marriage argue that gay people shouldn’t be granted special rights. But what is so special about wanting to be treated like everybody else? It’s not just gays who benefit—it’s all of us. My joy in realizing my childhood dreams is enhanced because Ann and Joan are no longer excluded from having such dreams.

I also cannot imagine how, as some claim, same-sex weddings threaten marriage between men and women. My feelings for my husband deepened as I listened to the readings about love, friendship, and commitment that Ann and Joan chose for their wedding. A marriage that draws its strength from discrimination is not a marriage at all.

Surely Ann and Joan don’t really need the state to affirm their love and commitment. At 60-something, they can buy all the bath towels and appliances and flowers they want. They can even buy a lawyer’s time to secure most of the rights that straight couples take for granted. But without the state’s sanction, something is missing.

Now we all have what money can’t buy: Inclusion and equality.

At the end of the ceremony, Joan and Ann grinned through their tears while we all cheered and wept like crazy.

“This is something we never dreamed would happen,” Joan said. “We never imagined that we could get dishtowels and kitchen gadgets, like everybody else,”

At last they can.

And at last we can give them.