CAN WE PROMISE LOVE?

August2011


PROMISES


I don’t remember making promises except on rare occasions…as I realize I did not promise to marry ‘til death do us part’ except maybe for my first marriage, when I said “I do.” Luckily, I never promised to obey in 1969, but granted “I will try to obey,” which makes me smile a near laugh, as I write this. One promise is outstanding to me.
It is while sitting in the Elmira high school auditorium next to my two teenage daughters, listening to their father (then divorced due to him coming out as gay) sing magnificently, “The Impossible Dream” that I make a very clear promise, like a low-flying plane dragging a huge-lettered message of advertisement to sunny-beach-goers below, to mySELF. I am a newly graduated (1985) Marriage and Family Therapist sobbing. I am aware of a huge audience surrounding me, hearing my breath-filled sobs and blowing of my nose. Yet, I promise to my self, I will never again be embarrassed of my tears…I had connected in a heart-felt way; tears are healing as sunshine.
As we walk out of the auditorium into the lobby at the finish of Man of La Mancha…a man I had never met before walks up to me and says, “You are stunning.” I am shocked with happiness that my eyes have been so clearly seen.
Now it is August 2011, and I am looking forward to a date with Jimmy, to whom I am very attracted, since we met at a ballroom dance weekend a couple of years ago. We “made love” a couple of times, more than a year ago, after which he broke us off. After I spontaneously appeared at his door this past June, being in Syracuse for a meeting at Syracuse University, one hour from where I live in Ithaca, he emailed me that he wished he hadn’t had company and that we could have had lunch together that day. He went on and on about how great I looked and how he wanted to get together for dinner and catch up on our lives. We spoke on the phone a couple of times before we decided on our date for Friday night, after telling me about how he can’t keep a straight face at his dance lesson of the Paso Doble, where he eventually breaks down laughing. I think to myself, I bet I know why, because he has admitted to his childhood fear of his father and now his dance partner has put on a face of anger, part of the role in this dance.
He tells me on Friday afternoon to call him after my 4pm client, to make final plans where to meet. “I do.” I get his voicemail and leave a sweet message. An hour goes by. I call and leave another message just after 5pm. Another hour goes by. I leave a concerned message just after 6pm. I wait until after 7:30pm, and realize I have been ‘stood up’. And, although I cry easily these days, I felt no need for tears. No sign of anger.
Two more weeks have gone by and I have not heard back from him, although I wrote a caring email and called his work, finding out he is okay, when the girl states that he is not in yet. It is my birthday today, and I wish I was celebrating with him; I sense the presence of the scared little boy inside Jimmy, sadly with no room for Tears for Fears.

BEST FEELINGS ARRIVE UNEXPECTANTLY

September2011

The BEST FEELING in the World


Dear SUN (magazine):
Is it your warmth on my skin that is the best feeling? Or that you bring light after darkness, always there for me, and the world?
HOW can I name ONE BEST feeling? I need to count the ways down to it.
First thought: I’m 16, climbing the cellar stairs when I think to my self; I am an individual in my own right, not a part of another spirit or being. I try to express my warm-all-over feeling to my loving father as I reach the kitchen, with a mind of explosion.
Next: I’m 10, when a heart-felt knowing pushed into my chest like cupid’s arrow. I know the religious dogma that I must accept jesus as my savior in order to go to heaven and not to hell is not true! Still, it was not until I let go at age 38, in 1984 (how Orwellian) that I was feeling the best freedom ever.
I’m 22: walking down the aisle, with my hand intertwining daddy’s arm. I’m that beautiful virgin-bride seen by a large church-community, as my husband’s luscious tenor voice sings “Ich Liebe Dich,” to me.
I’m 24: holding my firstborn, Erin in my arms, seeing her large great toes, soft as every other perfect part.
I’m 27: experiencing natural childbirth of my second daughter Megan, (assisted by Dr.Harry Roach - yes, that’s his real name), who readily nurses as we lay on the delivery table. I proudly walk out of the delivery room with Megan in my arms AMA, (against medical advice) along with her daddy. I am an RN who likes quiet: the bright light of my daughter’s eyes, her dainty perfect fingers holding my breast, nursing in our bed together. At home.
I’m 28: my husband comes out as gay and leaves me to experience another man, like me, a virgin who is free to experience other lovers, unconsciously hoped for.
I’m 29: dancing the hustle, finally letting go of “thou shalt not dance” from my mother’s condemnation of worldly pursuits. Suits me just fine!
I’m 36: in sandals, and white dress bought by daddy a couple months before he died suddenly from a heart attack at age 60. It could be worn to a garden party, like at NY Treman State Park, where I walked on grass to the music of a waterfall, being wedded to my second husband, Reid, an astronomer like my daddy.
I’m 39: I’ve run 36 marathons in 36 months, a national women’s record, because I needed to clearly see my own goodness. As an average runner, I felt crazy to be ‘hitting the wall’ at mile 20, why wasn’t I listening to my body?
And, I hear myself saying to the audience, “I thank my daddy for his lovingness, and belief in me,” as I receive my Master’s degree as a Marriage and Family Therapist.
I’m 40: at my birthday lakeside campfire, a single parent, hearing from another, “It helps to know children can learn different ways to be in the world by having two loving homes with different rules.”




I’m 49: while running, 3 titles come to me: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken, TEARS ARE TRUST…waiting to be felt, TEARS ARE TRUE LOVE…waiting to be known. I’m surprised to EVOLve into a writer, after receiving 65 in English from Cornell University.
I’m 50: feeling increasingly hopeful at the Primal Center, while crying deeply for a year, creating a new-found openness and trust in my heart, after marrying my soulmate, my fourth husband, Gregory.
I’m 52: Denali, my first granddaughter calls me in NY from California, (she called her mom in Baltimore to get my number) asking me to tell grandma Ruth to let her cry, not send her to her room until she can stop crying, which makes me feel estatic.
I’m 53: TEARS ARE TRUTH…waiting to be spoken is self-published…saying, “I’m afraid to stand up here and speak,” in Barnes &Noble at my first book signing.
I’m 55: I see the word LOVE mirrored in the word EVOLution, truly jumping for joy!
I’m 56: at daughter Megan’s wedding, she being 5 month’s pregnant, both of us without shame! She in a white dress. Later, holding one leg as her husband Ben holds the other, Megan pushing Riley Shea into the world, hearing her best first breath, and mine of connected-ness. After a lifetime, my mother finally tells me “I love you,” February 15th, 2002, a few months before she dies at age 80, those same words on her last breath.
I’m 57: I see mirrored in the word EVOLution: kNOw-IT-U-LOVE: I scream outloud!
I’m 59: Denali is 12, staying overnight with me. I find the note she wrote me at 10pm that night a few days later: “I know I’m supposed to be asleep but I needed to write this to tell you how greatful I am to have you as my grandma. Thank you so much for everything you do to help me. Lots of love, Denali.” Appreciated is an understatement.
I’m 60: crying at orgasm, his eyes holding and completely accepting me.
I’m 61: TEARS ARE TRUST….waiting to be known is published and receives the USA Best Books Award as a finalist in the mental health category.
I’m 63: Emily’s jumping into my arms when I come to visit, her first words, “How is your leg, Didi?” (My grandma name) She’s my third granddaughter, age 5.
I’m 65: It’s my birthday, and my first look out my kitchen window surprises me with a hummingbird floating from a Petunia blossom to look straight into my face before flying off. It is two hours later, and I’m looking out the dining room window as a hummingbird backs out of a wild Touch-Me-Not and rises to look at me straight in the eyes! It felt like both of my parents were there to hold me in their love, as it is rare to see a hummingbird, let alone have one come and look at me straight away!
That was August 30th 2011, then on September 24th, while reading The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, it is surprising to read, on page 111: “Paul ate them (wild strawberries) by fistfuls, juice running down his wrists. Two hawks circled lazily in the deep blue sky. Didi, Paul said, lifting a chubby arm to point.” I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. Didi is the name given to me first by my best friend Tanya’s son Lukie when he was very little. I had never heard this name before, nor seen it written, so is this the best feeling of connected-closeness-oneness of LOVE?

WARNING SIGNS of LOVE

July2011


WARNING SIGNS


Next month (august 2011), I am expected to sign up for Medicare; I had no warning that I’d feel so young. Despite forgetting my purse at the Laundromat last week, my memory snapped in ten minutes later, just as I arrived home. I called Pete’s, who owns the Laundromat. The girl on the phone said she’d send someone across the street to “see if it’s there,” adding, “Call back in 5 minutes.” I quickly reply, “I’m driving there now.”
I trust my purse is safe. I may be praying. When I arrived, Pete’s had retrieved it! Reassured again, I can trust the Design of the Universe to love me.
I remember back to my lake house, when I’m nigh unto 40 years old, looking for my car keys, finally seeing them in my left hand. That memory consoles me, as does me leaving my wallet on the top of my Camaro, driving off, later finding it along the side of the highway. Another near-forty memory comforts me.
Alzheimer’s media constantly warns of signs of memory loss; yet I am still (should I be?) amazed how sharp my memory is while executing my four-days-a-week job as a psychotherapist. Just the other day I marvel, to feel the touch down of a mosquito on my forearm, without seeing it happen.
Also, I wonder at my easy flow of tears since the early 90s, whereas beforehand I held them back, like a mother refusing to push her baby out, embarrassed, while reassuring myself of my inner strength.
For the past three to four years, a raised brown pigment has grown on my right cheek; two years ago a dermatologist at a nudist camp told me it was not cancerous, “nothing to worry about.” Over one month ago, my granddaughter showed concern, suggesting I see a doctor-type. About a week later, I noticed that the spot had become flat; I had tried to scratch off its layers for many months. It kept rearing its brown head. Now it was flat?
At the next weekly dinner with my daughter and granddaughter, I point out the disappeared spot, now flat, even creamy like the rest of my cheek. She asks, “What did you do?”
“Nothing different, it must be my tears have finally cured it.” They both smile that I know mom smile. Aware they know that tears break open cracks of our hearts, like wildflowers growing out of rock faces, making more room for love. It must BE true; no new diet, no new creams on my face, no new nothing.
My healing feels like this morning; taking a break from reading “The Help” to talk to my kitty of five years, Radiance, lying on the other side of the porch. We live alone. I am feeling a bit guilty as I ask, “You get enough attention from your mama?” when a tear out of nowhere appears and dances down my now smooth cheek.