On October 26, 2009 I sent off a letter and $20 to the US Immigration and Naturalization folks in search of the date when Sam's grandfather became a US Citizen. This was the piece of information needed to determine if Sam was eligible for dual citizenship. The following August we received the letter back verifying that Sam's father was born 4 years before his own father, Salvatore, became a US Citizen. Sam was eligible!
That was the start of the journey and with the great assistance of Peter Farina (italyMondo.com) we were able to gather all of the required documents. A trip to Italy in the fall of 2011 helped to speed things along, and two weeks ago Sam was fingerprinted by the representative from the San Francisco Italian Consulate.
Today, three years and one week after that first inquiry, Sam has received his Italian passport! And with that, I can now apply for citizenship as well.
I'm excited!
Friday, November 2, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
My Pacific Northwest Mediterranean Life
I am not living in Europe - yet. Sam is now officially a dual Italian/United States citizen, and I have all but one document required to apply for Italian Citizenship through marriage, but there are no plans to move across the pond in the near future. Nevertheless, I do my best to live as I imagine I would if I was living in Italy, or Spain. I see myself either in a small village with a garden plot someplace on the edge of town, or in a simple country house with a garden and chickens and olive and fruit trees.
Here is Salem, Oregon I have a garden and blueberry bushes and raspberries, and a fig tree. What I don't have is enough sunshine, but we are able to produce some great vegetables and fruit during the summer-like window we do get. This year we were fortunate and enjoyed sunshine from mid-July until last week. The pepper crop was huge and we have tomatoes piled in bowls all over the counter. For at least three weeks in late August and into September we ate aubergines with every dinner - mostly slathered in olive oil and grilled to a crisp.
Numerous batches of San Marzano tomatoes are dried and bowl after bowl of gazpacho has been eaten. Pepper ristras dried in the sunshine for several weeks, and now they hang in front of the sliding glass door, in case the sun shines again. The figs were not abundant this year so we ate all of them fresh- right off the tree, competing with a creature-of-the-night who stole the low-hanging fruit before we got to it.
I even hang my laundry to dry on a rack like the ones we used in our various apartments around Italy. Some days I drag it out into the sunshine, but most of the year the clothes are hung to dry behind the couch, near the overhead heating vent. Still - I enjoy the ritual of hanging my clothes.
And to top off my efforts to live like an Italian peasant - this past Friday I spent the day picking grapes at a local vineyard. While throughout Italy the Vendemmia was being celebrated with harvesting, stomping and drinking, and in Spain families were coming together for the Vendimia - I worked in the pouring Oregon rain for seven hours along with about 10 other middle-aged white folks - all members of the particular winery's "wine club."
It was hard work, exaggerated by the rain and wind and chill, and two days later the back muscles continue to reminisce. While we slowly labored up and down the rows of dark pinot noir fruit, the hired work crews came and rapidly stripped the vines of the tight, sweet clusters of grapes. The men and women are paid by the bucket and they defy the limitations of the human body - running up and down the rows, somehow holding the five gallon buckets between their legs while they cut clump after clump of ripe fruit. The crews move from vineyard to vineyard, each individual doing the work that ten of us together would accomplish that day. While we were motivated by the adventure - the fun of participating in the process, and by the promised t-shirts and wine at the end of the day, these Mexican workers are motivated only by the need to earn money - much of which they will send back to family in Mexico.
I was reminded of my childhood. Dad was a mushroom farmer and I would occasionally pick mushrooms beside the hired workers. I was paid 25 cents a basket and it would take me a longgggg time to fill a basket, while the men around me were a blur of white as they pulled up the mushroom and cut off the stump, dropping the mushroom into one basket while the stump fell into another - all in one flowing motion. I respected the men who worked for my dad. They were patient when I practiced my very limited Spanish with them - but they were there to work, and they never failed to show up and work hard.
And so I will continue to seek out tastes of what I imagine a life in Italy would offer. I cook Italian meals, I read books and blogs about living in Italy and I practice my Italian - just-in-case we make a move. And I am blessed to have traveled to Italy (and Spain) several times, and will go again. Right now though, I will have an espresso and try to battle the chill that reminds me that I am living in the Pacific Northwest and not near the Mediterranean. Yet.
The photos loaded
In weird sizes. I need to learn more about the iPad blogger app.
.
Here is Salem, Oregon I have a garden and blueberry bushes and raspberries, and a fig tree. What I don't have is enough sunshine, but we are able to produce some great vegetables and fruit during the summer-like window we do get. This year we were fortunate and enjoyed sunshine from mid-July until last week. The pepper crop was huge and we have tomatoes piled in bowls all over the counter. For at least three weeks in late August and into September we ate aubergines with every dinner - mostly slathered in olive oil and grilled to a crisp.
Numerous batches of San Marzano tomatoes are dried and bowl after bowl of gazpacho has been eaten. Pepper ristras dried in the sunshine for several weeks, and now they hang in front of the sliding glass door, in case the sun shines again. The figs were not abundant this year so we ate all of them fresh- right off the tree, competing with a creature-of-the-night who stole the low-hanging fruit before we got to it.
I even hang my laundry to dry on a rack like the ones we used in our various apartments around Italy. Some days I drag it out into the sunshine, but most of the year the clothes are hung to dry behind the couch, near the overhead heating vent. Still - I enjoy the ritual of hanging my clothes.
And to top off my efforts to live like an Italian peasant - this past Friday I spent the day picking grapes at a local vineyard. While throughout Italy the Vendemmia was being celebrated with harvesting, stomping and drinking, and in Spain families were coming together for the Vendimia - I worked in the pouring Oregon rain for seven hours along with about 10 other middle-aged white folks - all members of the particular winery's "wine club."
It was hard work, exaggerated by the rain and wind and chill, and two days later the back muscles continue to reminisce. While we slowly labored up and down the rows of dark pinot noir fruit, the hired work crews came and rapidly stripped the vines of the tight, sweet clusters of grapes. The men and women are paid by the bucket and they defy the limitations of the human body - running up and down the rows, somehow holding the five gallon buckets between their legs while they cut clump after clump of ripe fruit. The crews move from vineyard to vineyard, each individual doing the work that ten of us together would accomplish that day. While we were motivated by the adventure - the fun of participating in the process, and by the promised t-shirts and wine at the end of the day, these Mexican workers are motivated only by the need to earn money - much of which they will send back to family in Mexico.
I was reminded of my childhood. Dad was a mushroom farmer and I would occasionally pick mushrooms beside the hired workers. I was paid 25 cents a basket and it would take me a longgggg time to fill a basket, while the men around me were a blur of white as they pulled up the mushroom and cut off the stump, dropping the mushroom into one basket while the stump fell into another - all in one flowing motion. I respected the men who worked for my dad. They were patient when I practiced my very limited Spanish with them - but they were there to work, and they never failed to show up and work hard.
And so I will continue to seek out tastes of what I imagine a life in Italy would offer. I cook Italian meals, I read books and blogs about living in Italy and I practice my Italian - just-in-case we make a move. And I am blessed to have traveled to Italy (and Spain) several times, and will go again. Right now though, I will have an espresso and try to battle the chill that reminds me that I am living in the Pacific Northwest and not near the Mediterranean. Yet.
The photos loaded
In weird sizes. I need to learn more about the iPad blogger app.
.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Pro-life should mean Pro-life. Period
"Only in America can you be Pro-Death Penalty, Pro-War, Pro-Unmanned Drone Bombs, Pro-Nuclear Weapons, Pro-Guns, Pro-Torture, Pro-Land Mines, and STILL call yourself 'Pro-Life'." ~ John Fugelsang
Today, in response to a discussion about the recent reversal of the Komen Foundation’s decision to stop supporting Planned Parenthood and the idea that pro-life should include defending all life, I was told by a “pro-life” Christian:
I will not agree that the murder of innocent babies is comparable to the death penalty. Whereas those who have been legally convicted of a crime that is legally punishable by death, innocent babies are legally sentenced to death simply for the crime of being. There is no moral equivalency at all here.
This has caused me to reflect.
I suspect (and I have no researched statistics to prove this) that the majority of men and women on death row were once an un-wanted fetus. Probably conceived under difficult and un-planned circumstances, abused while still in the womb by alcohol and drugs that were being pumped into their unformed bodies and brains, and born into horrid worlds that we cannot even imagine. At what point did their life become less valuable than it was when he/she was a fetus?
Was it when their mother dragged them by one arm up to the grocery check out counter where she paid for Coke and Twinkies and chips with food-stamps? Or perhaps it was when they sat down next to one of our clean and cheery daughters in first grade and said “Fuck-you,” because that is the language they were used to hearing day and night at home.
Maybe their life became less valuable when they showed up dirty, without breakfast, not having done their homework, with head lice in the second grade. Or was it when they were suspended for having a fist-fight in the hallway at school because someone had made fun of their dirty clothing?
Maybe it was when they couldn’t go on the sixth grade class trip because mom didn’t sign the permission slip since she was passed out drunk the night before.
Did their life become less valuable than that of a fetus the day they started dealing drugs or turning tricks – having dropped out of school without anyone noticing or caring; now left to find acceptance, perhaps love, in any way possible?
Or was it the day that they used a gun and killed someone? Had they now reached the point where their life was worth less than that of a fetus?
Now on death row having lived a life of neglect, abuse and rejection – never having been asked how their day was or what they were learning at school, or whom they wanted to be when they grew up. Having lived a life where the only affection they ever experienced came from mom’s boyfriend or a stranger who was there to take away any innocence they had rather than to offer love. Now; now as they sit in a cell a horrible angry animal. Now their life is worth less than when they were a fetus.
The final human interaction they will experience is being strapped to a gurney where someone will give them the injection that frees them from the life of pain they have lived and caused.
That is much more moral than abortion?
Today, in response to a discussion about the recent reversal of the Komen Foundation’s decision to stop supporting Planned Parenthood and the idea that pro-life should include defending all life, I was told by a “pro-life” Christian:
I will not agree that the murder of innocent babies is comparable to the death penalty. Whereas those who have been legally convicted of a crime that is legally punishable by death, innocent babies are legally sentenced to death simply for the crime of being. There is no moral equivalency at all here.
This has caused me to reflect.
I suspect (and I have no researched statistics to prove this) that the majority of men and women on death row were once an un-wanted fetus. Probably conceived under difficult and un-planned circumstances, abused while still in the womb by alcohol and drugs that were being pumped into their unformed bodies and brains, and born into horrid worlds that we cannot even imagine. At what point did their life become less valuable than it was when he/she was a fetus?
Was it when their mother dragged them by one arm up to the grocery check out counter where she paid for Coke and Twinkies and chips with food-stamps? Or perhaps it was when they sat down next to one of our clean and cheery daughters in first grade and said “Fuck-you,” because that is the language they were used to hearing day and night at home.
Maybe their life became less valuable when they showed up dirty, without breakfast, not having done their homework, with head lice in the second grade. Or was it when they were suspended for having a fist-fight in the hallway at school because someone had made fun of their dirty clothing?
Maybe it was when they couldn’t go on the sixth grade class trip because mom didn’t sign the permission slip since she was passed out drunk the night before.
Did their life become less valuable than that of a fetus the day they started dealing drugs or turning tricks – having dropped out of school without anyone noticing or caring; now left to find acceptance, perhaps love, in any way possible?
Or was it the day that they used a gun and killed someone? Had they now reached the point where their life was worth less than that of a fetus?
Now on death row having lived a life of neglect, abuse and rejection – never having been asked how their day was or what they were learning at school, or whom they wanted to be when they grew up. Having lived a life where the only affection they ever experienced came from mom’s boyfriend or a stranger who was there to take away any innocence they had rather than to offer love. Now; now as they sit in a cell a horrible angry animal. Now their life is worth less than when they were a fetus.
The final human interaction they will experience is being strapped to a gurney where someone will give them the injection that frees them from the life of pain they have lived and caused.
That is much more moral than abortion?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Animal Medicine
Today while cleaning out files on my computer I found this, written about 10 years ago just after separating from my second husband.
I see the road behind you. It is a long road with many turns, dips and side-roads that dead-end. I see the path you followed and I see where you could have gone instead. I see the places where you chose to go one way at an intersection and avoided tragedy that waited down another un-chosen road.
I see the wounded travelers that you have helped along the way. I also see those you didn’t help because you were focused on avoiding falling rocks, or eroded sections of the road. I see the narrow places and the steep drop-offs where it took all you had not to go over the edge. I see the loose gravel where you started to slide, but managed to climb back up and resume your journey.
I see the road ahead; there are many roads and frequent intersections. I see dangers ahead on some of the roads, and I see smooth, scenic stretches on others. I don’t know what roads you will choose. They all have places where trees, or over-hanging rocks, or tunnels make is impossible for me to see the terrain. Each road has flat stretches, hills and gullies.
I see where you are standing now. You are in one of the most lovely places on your journey. I am glad that you stopped here to rest. I see the path that parallels the one you are on and from what I see ahead, you were fortunate to jump from the one path to the other.
There is so much to see where you are standing. Rest in the cool shade; bathe yourself in the pure waters. Sleep on the soft moss and drink from the fresh spring. There is no need to hurry from this place. There are no enemies approaching. Take as long as you need to rest; replenish and delight in the beautiful place your life has found.
Otter, why do you play so much when you need to focus on survival?
What is the purpose of survival if there is no time to play? I survive only so that I can play and I play so that I can survive. Food nourishes my body; I eat only what I need. Shelter provides safety for my family and a place to rest. All other time and space is to be celebrated and enjoyed.
It is the time spent playing that gives energy for my other responsibilities. During play the food I eat turns to muscle and fat which are needed in order for me to survive. When I float on my back I rest so that I have the reserves needed later to hunt and to care for my family.
Without play my life would be short. I would be worn out; too tired to defend myself or my family from predators. I would not have strength or energy to find food. I would not know the joy of being an otter.
I needed this message today.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Character is higher than intellect. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
A couple weeks ago I found a sticky note on my car window when I went to drive home at the end of the work day.
I looked for the scratch, wondered whether it was her left or my left, looked again and, sure enough, there was a slight smudge on the bumper. I was stunned. Who does that anymore? Who actually owns up to backing into a car, especially if the damage was minimal - really I would not have noticed until I washed the car again (sometime next summer!) I called the number and it was one of our students (I work at a university). I suspect she thought I was a tad wacky as I went on and on about how much I appreciated her doing the right thing and leaving a note.
But then I got to wondering...why did this make such an impression on me? All she did was the "right" thing...but it was at the end of a week where I had been equally stunned by people NOT doing the "right" thing, which is the more common behavior these days.
I have always had a very clear sense of the absolute rightness or wrongness of certain behaviors. I credit my mother for this. I vividly remember being gathered up with my brothers to drive back to the milk store, twenty minutes away, because my mother realized that she had been given too much change. She told me once that her father would not park at a meter that still had time on it from the previous person because he did not believe that you should get something for nothing. He would have been benefiting from the expense of another.
A high-school friend recently reminded me of a talk that I gave during my senior year. This was a Christian school and all seniors were required to give a chapel talk once during the year. Apparently I spoke about integrity and I told the story of a man who had a job interview over dinner in a restaurant. At the end of the meal the man took a couple pats of butter (the kind that sit on the tiny square of cardboard with a square of waxy paper on top) and slipped them in the pocket of his jacket. The interview had gone very well, however he did not get the job. If he would take advantage of small things, how could be be trusted with great responsibilities? I don't remember the talk and I have no idea where I got that story from, but I found it amusing that I have always been this rigid. And then I was thankful. I called my mother and thanked her for the example she was to me even as a small child first developing a sense of right and wrong.
Does this mean that I have lived a life of unfailing integrity. No. Hardly! I have not always been honest. I have gone long periods living dis-honestly, but the conflict that caused inside landed me in therapy: for years. But even then, I had a rigidness about certain things and my own actions fell short of who I really was.
I believe that at the core, people are good. Small children have a sharp sense of being "good" or "bad." But in time this internal compass gets beaten up until for many it no longer points in the right direction and that intrinsic guide gets lost. From the start I told my kids to pay attention to how they felt inside. When they would do something, good or bad, I would ask how it made them feel. But I believe many kids are numbed because regardless of what they are feeling inside, they are seeing the contrary lived out around them. Or they are directed only by the fear of consequences, so they learn at an early age to succeed at hiding things, rather than to just do the right thing.
But this is all on my mind because of the unethical behavior of some adults. I have recently witnessed a person in a significant position of authority come up with a neat little plan to take advantage; to get something for nothing, and this has required the "buy-in" of several others. The work-arounds required make it clear that those involved know this is absolutely wrong, perhaps illegal, but clearly the small gain is worth that risk? Regardless, it is just wrong. I need to determine what to do with my knowledge of the situation.
I scratched your car. Backed into it. Left side, front tireish. Have meeting, here's my # ....
I looked for the scratch, wondered whether it was her left or my left, looked again and, sure enough, there was a slight smudge on the bumper. I was stunned. Who does that anymore? Who actually owns up to backing into a car, especially if the damage was minimal - really I would not have noticed until I washed the car again (sometime next summer!) I called the number and it was one of our students (I work at a university). I suspect she thought I was a tad wacky as I went on and on about how much I appreciated her doing the right thing and leaving a note.
But then I got to wondering...why did this make such an impression on me? All she did was the "right" thing...but it was at the end of a week where I had been equally stunned by people NOT doing the "right" thing, which is the more common behavior these days.
The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he never would be found out. ~Thomas Babington Macaulay
I have always had a very clear sense of the absolute rightness or wrongness of certain behaviors. I credit my mother for this. I vividly remember being gathered up with my brothers to drive back to the milk store, twenty minutes away, because my mother realized that she had been given too much change. She told me once that her father would not park at a meter that still had time on it from the previous person because he did not believe that you should get something for nothing. He would have been benefiting from the expense of another.
A high-school friend recently reminded me of a talk that I gave during my senior year. This was a Christian school and all seniors were required to give a chapel talk once during the year. Apparently I spoke about integrity and I told the story of a man who had a job interview over dinner in a restaurant. At the end of the meal the man took a couple pats of butter (the kind that sit on the tiny square of cardboard with a square of waxy paper on top) and slipped them in the pocket of his jacket. The interview had gone very well, however he did not get the job. If he would take advantage of small things, how could be be trusted with great responsibilities? I don't remember the talk and I have no idea where I got that story from, but I found it amusing that I have always been this rigid. And then I was thankful. I called my mother and thanked her for the example she was to me even as a small child first developing a sense of right and wrong.
Does this mean that I have lived a life of unfailing integrity. No. Hardly! I have not always been honest. I have gone long periods living dis-honestly, but the conflict that caused inside landed me in therapy: for years. But even then, I had a rigidness about certain things and my own actions fell short of who I really was.
When I do good, I feel good. When I do bad, I feel bad. That's my religion. ~Abraham Lincoln
I believe that at the core, people are good. Small children have a sharp sense of being "good" or "bad." But in time this internal compass gets beaten up until for many it no longer points in the right direction and that intrinsic guide gets lost. From the start I told my kids to pay attention to how they felt inside. When they would do something, good or bad, I would ask how it made them feel. But I believe many kids are numbed because regardless of what they are feeling inside, they are seeing the contrary lived out around them. Or they are directed only by the fear of consequences, so they learn at an early age to succeed at hiding things, rather than to just do the right thing.
But this is all on my mind because of the unethical behavior of some adults. I have recently witnessed a person in a significant position of authority come up with a neat little plan to take advantage; to get something for nothing, and this has required the "buy-in" of several others. The work-arounds required make it clear that those involved know this is absolutely wrong, perhaps illegal, but clearly the small gain is worth that risk? Regardless, it is just wrong. I need to determine what to do with my knowledge of the situation.
God grant me the courage not to give up what I think is right even though I think it is hopeless. ~Chester W. Nimitz
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Crash, Burn and Re-group
Thursday night I lost it. I know what (who) got it started, but it was a long time coming. After dinner with another couple that I am trying desperately to consider "friends," but who continue to press buttons that make that a challenge, I got in the car and before Sam had backed out of the parking space I was wailing. This is not an over-statement. It was the kind of crying that feels like I might turn completely inside out. There was moaning and screeching and sobbing. Somehow Sam managed to drive us home. I even scared myself a bit. I knew that I could choose to get a grip, but I chose not to. I just wallowed in letting go and getting it all out. I continued a bit after we got home; a limp mass on our bed sobbing and then groaning until I realized that both Sam and the dog had gone downstairs to get away from what clearly appeared to be a psychotic break. I figured I should pull it together before the men in white coats showed up.
The past few months have carried numerous stresses and moments of pain and sorrow. Throughout the fall and winter I have nursed continuous worry for my son who is struggling emotionally while somehow managing to do well in the first year of his PhD program. I think there will be a break-up with his girlfriend within a week and I believe (hope) that will help with his anxiety and as a result, with mine. I start each day hoping it will be a good one for him and I go to bed each night praying that he might find a way to fall asleep. I get a daily report each evening as he waits for the bus in Seattle's winter rain and rarely do I hear a spark of anything close to happiness. It has been hard.
My dear friend Sue died in January. She had survived ocular melanoma in 2004 but five years later it returned in her liver. The early prognosis was for 3-6 months, but Sue has the determination, and at times the demeanor, of a bull and she sought out trials and managed to keep the inevitable at bay for over a year. In November of last year the tumor started to win and grow and the cancer was showing up in her heart and lungs. They tried new treatments but I think we all knew the battle was being lost. Sue was healthy and worked right up until Christmas. Her goal was to have Christmas with her family and to make it to her 58th birthday which will be on April 2nd. But the day her family returned to California she started to turn yellow. I saw her the first week in January and it was clear that she had turned a corner. A week later the doctor told her she had 2 weeks to live. Hospice came in that night and set up a bed in her family room. The next day I saw her in the afternoon and she was blissfully drugged up, but clear-of-mind. We held hands and shared "I-love-yous," then she said, "Ok, bye now." That night she died. It has been 2 months and I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her.
I have reached the age where my parents and those of my friends are truly elderly. One mother fell and broke her hip; another fell and hit her head on concrete and died several days later from the brain trauma; my ex-mother-in-law had a stroke, and each time I call "home" I realize that my own mother doesn't find the word that she wants as readily as I expect and at times she just chooses another. Aging - it is inevitable and even at 50 I am very aware of the mighty force it uses on our bodies, but the reminders that this generation above me will soon be gone and I'll be the "old people," can be sobering. There is too much to see and do - in many ways I have only recently discovered what I enjoy. This year my son will be half my age - in that much more time I will be my mother's age. It goes too quickly.
Our Corgi is slowing down and soon we will have to make "the decision." He has a neurological condition that is not treatable and he is losing the use of his back legs. One day he will not be able to get up, and then we will know. We are watching for signs from him but for now he still has moments of puppy-like joy and as long as we see that we'll celebrate having him in our lives. There is no physical pain with this and so we stay alert to his sense of pride more than anything.
And then there is the news. For Lent I have given up reading anything about national politics because it is discouraging and causes spikes of rage inside of me, and has really become so petty. But I will not stop reading about the things that are real. The numerous Arab nations where the people have decided to use their voices and demand democracy and the resulting violence: and now today we have launched air strikes on Libya. Whenever we get involved I think of all the suffering and abuse that we have not used our might to try and resolve - Rwanda comes to mind - or famine that is a constant abuse in Sub-Saharan Africa. The list is long. Human suffering. I can barely read about Japan - the children gathered in their classroom a week later still waiting for their parents to come pick them up; the snow and freezing temperatures that have hindered any lingering search and rescue attempts in areas destroyed by the tsunami - a touching, but heartbreaking tale of two dogs, one near death and the other muddy and cold, but standing by his dying friend. I didn't read that story until the headline made it clear they had been rescued. The pain is so strong as a spectator far away- what must it be like for the 50 year-old mother who has lost everything and doesn't yet know if her son and daughter are alive or dead? Not to mention the pending consequences of the nuclear meltdown...
At work it is the time of year when we get endless phone calls from kids and their parents hoping, asking, and at times begging for more financial aid so that they can "make their dream come true." They really believe I can do something if they just talk to me. Only I know they are just a cell on a matrix that is a combination of their grades, test scores and financial need.
I carry all of these things inside. I don't have a very good filter but instead I feel it all is if it is happening to me or my kids or my mother or my dog.
And so sometimes I fall apart. The last time I cried like that was in 2006 after another long period of stresses and life-changes. That night I thought I hit a cat with my car and that was the trigger. (Sam took the car back and swears he didn't find a dead cat, but I have never believed that). That night the dog ran downstairs to get away from me too. So much for "man's best friend."
I woke up Friday morning feeling as if I was at the bottom of a cliff. I have written before about clinging to the edge when I feel depression looking for me, but this time I didn't have a chance to get a hand-hold, I just went - free fall all the way to the canyon floor. I was frightened. I have not fallen all the way since I met Sam and I didn't know what to expect. But today I am ok. A friend wrote recently that if you let depression take you - as if you are drowning in the deep end but you don't fight it and instead you sink to the bottom without a struggle, then you can use that momentum to spring back up again. Perhaps she has found the secret to a quick rebound.
I am alone this weekend. Sam is skiing with a friend and I am home with the elderly Corgi. I realize that I am never alone. Never still. My first impulse is to go someplace or at least go for a run or clean the house or something that will justify the space I am taking up. But I have decided to use this time to be still and to re-group. I will read and meditate and drink green tea and hopefully by Monday I'll be ready to face another week.
Totally unrelated photo except that I remember at that moment thinking about how happy I was and recognizing that I should note that for use later as a memory.
The past few months have carried numerous stresses and moments of pain and sorrow. Throughout the fall and winter I have nursed continuous worry for my son who is struggling emotionally while somehow managing to do well in the first year of his PhD program. I think there will be a break-up with his girlfriend within a week and I believe (hope) that will help with his anxiety and as a result, with mine. I start each day hoping it will be a good one for him and I go to bed each night praying that he might find a way to fall asleep. I get a daily report each evening as he waits for the bus in Seattle's winter rain and rarely do I hear a spark of anything close to happiness. It has been hard.
My dear friend Sue died in January. She had survived ocular melanoma in 2004 but five years later it returned in her liver. The early prognosis was for 3-6 months, but Sue has the determination, and at times the demeanor, of a bull and she sought out trials and managed to keep the inevitable at bay for over a year. In November of last year the tumor started to win and grow and the cancer was showing up in her heart and lungs. They tried new treatments but I think we all knew the battle was being lost. Sue was healthy and worked right up until Christmas. Her goal was to have Christmas with her family and to make it to her 58th birthday which will be on April 2nd. But the day her family returned to California she started to turn yellow. I saw her the first week in January and it was clear that she had turned a corner. A week later the doctor told her she had 2 weeks to live. Hospice came in that night and set up a bed in her family room. The next day I saw her in the afternoon and she was blissfully drugged up, but clear-of-mind. We held hands and shared "I-love-yous," then she said, "Ok, bye now." That night she died. It has been 2 months and I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her.
I have reached the age where my parents and those of my friends are truly elderly. One mother fell and broke her hip; another fell and hit her head on concrete and died several days later from the brain trauma; my ex-mother-in-law had a stroke, and each time I call "home" I realize that my own mother doesn't find the word that she wants as readily as I expect and at times she just chooses another. Aging - it is inevitable and even at 50 I am very aware of the mighty force it uses on our bodies, but the reminders that this generation above me will soon be gone and I'll be the "old people," can be sobering. There is too much to see and do - in many ways I have only recently discovered what I enjoy. This year my son will be half my age - in that much more time I will be my mother's age. It goes too quickly.
Our Corgi is slowing down and soon we will have to make "the decision." He has a neurological condition that is not treatable and he is losing the use of his back legs. One day he will not be able to get up, and then we will know. We are watching for signs from him but for now he still has moments of puppy-like joy and as long as we see that we'll celebrate having him in our lives. There is no physical pain with this and so we stay alert to his sense of pride more than anything.
And then there is the news. For Lent I have given up reading anything about national politics because it is discouraging and causes spikes of rage inside of me, and has really become so petty. But I will not stop reading about the things that are real. The numerous Arab nations where the people have decided to use their voices and demand democracy and the resulting violence: and now today we have launched air strikes on Libya. Whenever we get involved I think of all the suffering and abuse that we have not used our might to try and resolve - Rwanda comes to mind - or famine that is a constant abuse in Sub-Saharan Africa. The list is long. Human suffering. I can barely read about Japan - the children gathered in their classroom a week later still waiting for their parents to come pick them up; the snow and freezing temperatures that have hindered any lingering search and rescue attempts in areas destroyed by the tsunami - a touching, but heartbreaking tale of two dogs, one near death and the other muddy and cold, but standing by his dying friend. I didn't read that story until the headline made it clear they had been rescued. The pain is so strong as a spectator far away- what must it be like for the 50 year-old mother who has lost everything and doesn't yet know if her son and daughter are alive or dead? Not to mention the pending consequences of the nuclear meltdown...
At work it is the time of year when we get endless phone calls from kids and their parents hoping, asking, and at times begging for more financial aid so that they can "make their dream come true." They really believe I can do something if they just talk to me. Only I know they are just a cell on a matrix that is a combination of their grades, test scores and financial need.
I carry all of these things inside. I don't have a very good filter but instead I feel it all is if it is happening to me or my kids or my mother or my dog.
And so sometimes I fall apart. The last time I cried like that was in 2006 after another long period of stresses and life-changes. That night I thought I hit a cat with my car and that was the trigger. (Sam took the car back and swears he didn't find a dead cat, but I have never believed that). That night the dog ran downstairs to get away from me too. So much for "man's best friend."
I woke up Friday morning feeling as if I was at the bottom of a cliff. I have written before about clinging to the edge when I feel depression looking for me, but this time I didn't have a chance to get a hand-hold, I just went - free fall all the way to the canyon floor. I was frightened. I have not fallen all the way since I met Sam and I didn't know what to expect. But today I am ok. A friend wrote recently that if you let depression take you - as if you are drowning in the deep end but you don't fight it and instead you sink to the bottom without a struggle, then you can use that momentum to spring back up again. Perhaps she has found the secret to a quick rebound.
I am alone this weekend. Sam is skiing with a friend and I am home with the elderly Corgi. I realize that I am never alone. Never still. My first impulse is to go someplace or at least go for a run or clean the house or something that will justify the space I am taking up. But I have decided to use this time to be still and to re-group. I will read and meditate and drink green tea and hopefully by Monday I'll be ready to face another week.
Totally unrelated photo except that I remember at that moment thinking about how happy I was and recognizing that I should note that for use later as a memory.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Steppin' Up
When I met Sam he was recently widowed. His son was in college back in Rhode Island and his daughter was a junior in high school. And, oh yeah, he had a dog. I easily moved into the role of step-mom to Tom and Kristen, long before Sam and I were actually married. During Kristen's senior year of college I planned, and then accompanied them on a college visit trip up and down the East coast. I went to ballet recitals and choir concerts - parents' meetings and banquets. There was one evening at an Honor Society banquet that I sat in tears listening to Kristen play the piano and kept thinking that it wasn't right that her mom could not be there - I was humbled to sit in her place and then I was overwhelmed with her presence. It was as if this woman I had never known was telling me that it was ok to be there representing her. The feeling was so powerful and I knew that Susan knew that her kids were going to be loved.
And all the time there was Rocky, the overly-large Corgi.
Rocky had been Susan's constant companion as her brain cancer progressed and in the last weeks he spent his days and nights laying full-body length along Susan's side in bed. Rocky was 4 when I came into his life. For a long time I was competition for him. Sam referred to us as "litter mates," in Rocky's mind. In bed, Rocky would get between us and use his legs to push against Sam so that his back would push me further away from Sam. Many mornings I woke to find Rocky's head next to mine on the pillow, with his back pushing against me. He was always moving to be sure that he came between my body and Sam's.
I like dogs, but I am not a "dog person." I was disgusted by dog hair in my bed and found nothing cute about him sleeping on my pillow. I walked him, but having grown up in the country where our dogs ran free, the idea of carrying a bag and picking up his poop, was annoying. I was not as patient with him as I might have been as I would wait, and wait, and wait, while he sniffed every last plant and rock and stick. I had never known that dogs could have significant gas issues, and his barking could drive me crazy. But as time passed and my own kids and step-kids needed me less and less I seem to have transferred my nurturing needs to Rocky. I have now been his "mom" twice as long as his first mom was and he clearly adores me.
Fortunately, as a dog of limited height, jumping on the bed was one of the first things to go for Rocky. The day he could not get on the bed we bought him his own bed and since then he has slept happily on the floor of our room and I no longer wake up with dog hair stuck on my lips! This change was probably the most significant turning point for me. He trusts me, he depends on me for calm and routine. Sam is still the alpha male, but I am the one that most frequently has the dog sleeping on my feet while I read or eat or work on the computer, and I get nudged if we forget to give him his 5:00 "scoop." I take him on walks when the weather is nice, and I talk to him constantly.
Recently my step-son suggested that Rocky needed his own Facebook page. Tom now lives in Ohio but he has remained Rocky's number one fan from afar. For kicks I created a Facebook page for Rocky. I did not think about the weird, but deep connection that would result from channeling the dog's thoughts as I update his "status" every few days. Tom has noted that Rocky's status reveals not only how Rocky is doing, but also how I am thinking or feeling. I get a ridiculous kick out of putting into human words what I imagine Rocky to be thinking or feeling. And it gets really weird when I find myself commenting, as Rocky's Facebook "friend" on something that Rocky has posted on his own page.
Rocky is twelve now and he is slowing down. His back left leg is weak and often trails behind the other three as he moves about the house. He is stiff when he gets up and most of the time he gets stuck half way up the stairs and needs to be carried the rest of the way. And the mother in me is more attached than ever. There is something about his vulnerability that has reached into my soul and grabbed it hard. I don't know how much longer Rocky will live. He seems to be in good health, but the life expectancy of a Corgi is eleven to twelve years. I used to think only of how much simpler life will be when we don't have a kid, I mean, DOG at home. But now I can get sad just imagining how much I'll miss his presence. When I cook he is at my feet hoping for something to drop on the floor for him to eat. When we watch TV he has made a nest for himself under the lamp table where he hangs out just to be near. He has a large vocabulary and understands my emotions with or without words. He knows swear words and will run downstairs when he hears one, alerting us to what we just said. And perhaps more than anything I'll miss being his mouthpiece on Facebook where he currently has 17 "friends."
Rocky Converse
Basic info
Gender: Male
Relationship Status: It's complicated
Interested in: Women and Men
Looking for: Friendship
Current location: Salem, Oregon
Hometown: Salem, Oregon
Political Views: I am a raging, bleeding heart liberal. Healthcare for all (except squirrels!)
Religious views:I believe that all life begins in the bottom of the yogurt bowl. Praise Yoplait.
And all the time there was Rocky, the overly-large Corgi.
Rocky had been Susan's constant companion as her brain cancer progressed and in the last weeks he spent his days and nights laying full-body length along Susan's side in bed. Rocky was 4 when I came into his life. For a long time I was competition for him. Sam referred to us as "litter mates," in Rocky's mind. In bed, Rocky would get between us and use his legs to push against Sam so that his back would push me further away from Sam. Many mornings I woke to find Rocky's head next to mine on the pillow, with his back pushing against me. He was always moving to be sure that he came between my body and Sam's.
I like dogs, but I am not a "dog person." I was disgusted by dog hair in my bed and found nothing cute about him sleeping on my pillow. I walked him, but having grown up in the country where our dogs ran free, the idea of carrying a bag and picking up his poop, was annoying. I was not as patient with him as I might have been as I would wait, and wait, and wait, while he sniffed every last plant and rock and stick. I had never known that dogs could have significant gas issues, and his barking could drive me crazy. But as time passed and my own kids and step-kids needed me less and less I seem to have transferred my nurturing needs to Rocky. I have now been his "mom" twice as long as his first mom was and he clearly adores me.
Fortunately, as a dog of limited height, jumping on the bed was one of the first things to go for Rocky. The day he could not get on the bed we bought him his own bed and since then he has slept happily on the floor of our room and I no longer wake up with dog hair stuck on my lips! This change was probably the most significant turning point for me. He trusts me, he depends on me for calm and routine. Sam is still the alpha male, but I am the one that most frequently has the dog sleeping on my feet while I read or eat or work on the computer, and I get nudged if we forget to give him his 5:00 "scoop." I take him on walks when the weather is nice, and I talk to him constantly.
Recently my step-son suggested that Rocky needed his own Facebook page. Tom now lives in Ohio but he has remained Rocky's number one fan from afar. For kicks I created a Facebook page for Rocky. I did not think about the weird, but deep connection that would result from channeling the dog's thoughts as I update his "status" every few days. Tom has noted that Rocky's status reveals not only how Rocky is doing, but also how I am thinking or feeling. I get a ridiculous kick out of putting into human words what I imagine Rocky to be thinking or feeling. And it gets really weird when I find myself commenting, as Rocky's Facebook "friend" on something that Rocky has posted on his own page.
Rocky is twelve now and he is slowing down. His back left leg is weak and often trails behind the other three as he moves about the house. He is stiff when he gets up and most of the time he gets stuck half way up the stairs and needs to be carried the rest of the way. And the mother in me is more attached than ever. There is something about his vulnerability that has reached into my soul and grabbed it hard. I don't know how much longer Rocky will live. He seems to be in good health, but the life expectancy of a Corgi is eleven to twelve years. I used to think only of how much simpler life will be when we don't have a kid, I mean, DOG at home. But now I can get sad just imagining how much I'll miss his presence. When I cook he is at my feet hoping for something to drop on the floor for him to eat. When we watch TV he has made a nest for himself under the lamp table where he hangs out just to be near. He has a large vocabulary and understands my emotions with or without words. He knows swear words and will run downstairs when he hears one, alerting us to what we just said. And perhaps more than anything I'll miss being his mouthpiece on Facebook where he currently has 17 "friends."
Rocky Converse
Basic info
Gender: Male
Relationship Status: It's complicated
Interested in: Women and Men
Looking for: Friendship
Current location: Salem, Oregon
Hometown: Salem, Oregon
Political Views: I am a raging, bleeding heart liberal. Healthcare for all (except squirrels!)
Religious views:I believe that all life begins in the bottom of the yogurt bowl. Praise Yoplait.
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