Betwixt and between winter and spring, I meet this time of year with apprehension; a sense of wanting to just be done with it all. February 18th marks the anniversary of my father's heart attack and March 26th, his death. Although I live in Southern California, the tale end of winter in 2010 was long and bitter for me. Each passing year gets a little easier; I'm grateful for that. Hard-frost nights still nip at me, but my days are gradually getting warmer. Winter's grip can be strong, but time always is on spring's side. I love that about spring and this year I again welcome her!
Bloom by bloom spring begins. Looking around I see glimpses of it already. I wish we had a more definitive change of seasons here. Of all the seasons, spring can be the most fickle. I love that no matter where you live, we can never predict when it will arrive, but there's no mistaking it when it does. One morning I will awake to find the sunlight has changed. Intense, but kindly, it will saturate my winter-weary heart, seeping through me, washing over my soul and home. The underlying chill will finally be lifted again and I will be warmed by the hope of brighter things to come. Spring is a season of possibility and promise. With the fresh air comes clarity and inspiration for me; an opportunity to figure out where I am meant to be shining.
As I await her, spring cleaning is the perfect opportunity for me to re imagine rooms in my home, to rehang pictures and create new arrangements; change pillow covers with something lighter and more colorful. I nest like the birds this time of year. For me, few activities match the satisfaction of a Saturday spent cleaning floors, washing windows, and banishing dust from neglected nooks and crannies. Soon it will be time to pull back the curtains, push open all of the windows and let sunlight and the fresh breeze sweep into every room. I look out onto my very small patio area ( I really have no yard) and hear the beds and planters calling for my attention. I buy fresh flowers every week now, inviting spring to dine with me at my table. I am looking for activity and distraction during this transitional time of year. I'm uncomfortable with some dates, my journal entries marking suffering and great loss that cause me at times to still wince in memory of...
I made a beautiful egg topiary just days before my father's heart attack. I was just coming out of a fun girlfriend's weekend and had decorated a beautiful table scape in anticipation of Easter. As I would come home wearily from the hospital each night, it was the first thing I saw as I walked in through my back door. When I packed it up that April I was so angry...so sad. I couldn't bear to bring it out last year. It was still too painful for me. This year I am again looking forward to lilacs, pussy willow branches, lilies, baby chicks, (gentle springtime memories of my childhood and parents) and a renewed perspective on life after winter's long slog. I will breathe in spring and bravely dust off my egg topiary. Simple. Honest. Pure. The humble egg is nature's perfect package and symbol of the arrival of spring and Easter's renewal. I know my topiary will probably at times bring me back to that very difficult seven week period; my first orphaned Easter just days after we buried my father. I am prepared for that. However, this year I will choose to look upon it- rather than look away, as a reminder that In the depths of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible, but very late spring.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Lost and Found
You don't have to lose something or someone to ignite your passion to live. Although for me, losing my father and the stability of my husband's rock solid job was definitely the catalyst. Some of us are summoned back by numbness, fatigue, or sheer boredom. I have always had some sense of "I'm not living up to my utmost potential." Even at some of my happiest moments, I somehow felt that something was missing; some part of me was lost or yet to be discovered. I was always looking to passionately dive into something or someone. Was there more to me than I allowed myself to become?
I believe that each of us has an essence, a unique quality of something or some things at our very core that makes us who we are as individuals and created by God to be. I have felt the weight of that in my own life. At times it has grounded me, although I may not have fully understood the something extra I'd been given. For the most part, it felt like I was lugging around a heavy suitcase with nothing in it and didn't know why. I know now that despite all of that, my core essence has been a guide in my life. It has moved me towards people, the expressive arts, kept me away from other things, and tenderly cradled my thoughts, my loves, and daily living. It's been my gift.
My biggest problem over the years has been my tendency to shrink. I thought being a housewife and mother somehow required of me to abandon all of the extra passion I'd been given. My creative, expressively artistic essence was just there for good measure. It came in handy for being room mom and throwing dinner parties, but much of me was shelved for a later date. Sadly, at forty something, I discovered all of these beautiful little jars lined up nicely on my pantry shelf filled with delicious creativity, artistic flair, and my own recipe for passion fruit spread that were never opened, tasted or enjoyed. "What a waste!", I thought. It would have been so easy to find at least some "mother friendly" ways to express all of that and all of me.
To explore that then would have meant allowing myself to live fully, passionately on purpose; giving myself permission to drop the preconceived ideas of what and who I needed to be as a wife and mother. I clenched tightly instead to the June Cleaver/Martha Stewart persona I interpreted as a young girl to be best used in developing the art of motherhood. Much of it was embraced and put in place by my childhood perceptions of what my own mother lacked in both effort and ability. I upheld this preconceived model in my heart and mind as the ideal. There were many secret selves I hopelessly abandoned and left for dead along the way. It was selfless. It was stupid. I realize now the mother I tried hard to improve upon (though I loved her and understood the root of her limitations) had her own essence and unlived dreams she tucked away somewhere. I now can see more of her in my reflection. So much of what I innately carry comes from her DNA: my creativity and heart of a lioness to name but a few. I wish she were still here. I'd ask her advice about navigating midlife and I'd share my own insights. That's what she and I did. Some days I was the mother and she the child. I am sure this was some kind of unspoken agreement between us when our eyes locked for the first time back in November of 1962. I used to think this frequent role reversal hurt me in some way. I know now that it shaped me.
Sometimes I really do think it's necessary to lose yourself in order to find yourself. At the very least, (in my case) to lose in order to truly appreciate all that I've been given. I struggle with "Is it too late?" I console myself with, "Perhaps now is just the right time." Mercifully, life brings us to a big lost and found box in middle age. I'm finding all sorts of belongings that still fit; aren't all that outdated. I'm reclaiming them as mine- all mine. Sure, there are a few things I must leave behind. I have begun to make peace with all of that. John Gardner reminds me, "Meaning is something you build into your life. You build it out of your own past, out of your affections and loyalties, out of the experience of humankind as it is passed on to you, out of your own talent and people you love, out of the values for which you are willing to sacrifice."
What I did for thirty years as a wife and mother is no small thing. Yes, I sacrificed a lot in mothering three incredible human beings. I loved a man and took care of him and our home. And, I reap the rewards of that daily. Could I have done things better or differently? Yes, I'm sure I could have snuck in more creative me time. Maybe I was just too preoccupied or too tired. What I know for sure: now feels just right to passionately pursue new things. Although this season in my life has brought a fair share of loss, it also brings with it an abundance of midlife offerings... just for me. As I have had to let go of children, I must redefine my roles. I am learning how to find and perfectly parent my passions again. My little blog is just the beginning!
* What is it too soon for in your own life?
* What is it too late for?
* What is it just the right time for?
I believe that each of us has an essence, a unique quality of something or some things at our very core that makes us who we are as individuals and created by God to be. I have felt the weight of that in my own life. At times it has grounded me, although I may not have fully understood the something extra I'd been given. For the most part, it felt like I was lugging around a heavy suitcase with nothing in it and didn't know why. I know now that despite all of that, my core essence has been a guide in my life. It has moved me towards people, the expressive arts, kept me away from other things, and tenderly cradled my thoughts, my loves, and daily living. It's been my gift.
My biggest problem over the years has been my tendency to shrink. I thought being a housewife and mother somehow required of me to abandon all of the extra passion I'd been given. My creative, expressively artistic essence was just there for good measure. It came in handy for being room mom and throwing dinner parties, but much of me was shelved for a later date. Sadly, at forty something, I discovered all of these beautiful little jars lined up nicely on my pantry shelf filled with delicious creativity, artistic flair, and my own recipe for passion fruit spread that were never opened, tasted or enjoyed. "What a waste!", I thought. It would have been so easy to find at least some "mother friendly" ways to express all of that and all of me.
To explore that then would have meant allowing myself to live fully, passionately on purpose; giving myself permission to drop the preconceived ideas of what and who I needed to be as a wife and mother. I clenched tightly instead to the June Cleaver/Martha Stewart persona I interpreted as a young girl to be best used in developing the art of motherhood. Much of it was embraced and put in place by my childhood perceptions of what my own mother lacked in both effort and ability. I upheld this preconceived model in my heart and mind as the ideal. There were many secret selves I hopelessly abandoned and left for dead along the way. It was selfless. It was stupid. I realize now the mother I tried hard to improve upon (though I loved her and understood the root of her limitations) had her own essence and unlived dreams she tucked away somewhere. I now can see more of her in my reflection. So much of what I innately carry comes from her DNA: my creativity and heart of a lioness to name but a few. I wish she were still here. I'd ask her advice about navigating midlife and I'd share my own insights. That's what she and I did. Some days I was the mother and she the child. I am sure this was some kind of unspoken agreement between us when our eyes locked for the first time back in November of 1962. I used to think this frequent role reversal hurt me in some way. I know now that it shaped me.
Sometimes I really do think it's necessary to lose yourself in order to find yourself. At the very least, (in my case) to lose in order to truly appreciate all that I've been given. I struggle with "Is it too late?" I console myself with, "Perhaps now is just the right time." Mercifully, life brings us to a big lost and found box in middle age. I'm finding all sorts of belongings that still fit; aren't all that outdated. I'm reclaiming them as mine- all mine. Sure, there are a few things I must leave behind. I have begun to make peace with all of that. John Gardner reminds me, "Meaning is something you build into your life. You build it out of your own past, out of your affections and loyalties, out of the experience of humankind as it is passed on to you, out of your own talent and people you love, out of the values for which you are willing to sacrifice."
What I did for thirty years as a wife and mother is no small thing. Yes, I sacrificed a lot in mothering three incredible human beings. I loved a man and took care of him and our home. And, I reap the rewards of that daily. Could I have done things better or differently? Yes, I'm sure I could have snuck in more creative me time. Maybe I was just too preoccupied or too tired. What I know for sure: now feels just right to passionately pursue new things. Although this season in my life has brought a fair share of loss, it also brings with it an abundance of midlife offerings... just for me. As I have had to let go of children, I must redefine my roles. I am learning how to find and perfectly parent my passions again. My little blog is just the beginning!
* What is it too soon for in your own life?
* What is it too late for?
* What is it just the right time for?
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Why Can't I Just Do Yoga?
As I packed up my yoga mat, towels, water, and gumption to go to yoga the other day, I thought back to a conversation I had last year with my daughter, Megan. She had taken time off from dancing pre-professionally to concentrate on her demanding senior schedule, while opting to get a part-time job instead. Although she still danced, it no longer was an everyday commitment. One Saturday morning I asked her if she wanted to go to the gym with me? Her answer, " No, I don't really want to go. I feel like the elliptical machine is bulking up my thighs." According to Megan, every form of exercise except gyro tonics, Pilate's and dance had the propensity to add muscle to her dancer's legs (which incidentally, are really pretty). I immediately felt annoyed because we had bought her a gym membership to help her stay in shape without all the dancing she had grown so accustomed to doing. My ever well intended response,"Well, don't you think you should go to the gym to exercise?" She looked at me with those doe-like eyes of hers (uniquely innocent for an eighteen year old) and asked, "Why can't I just dance?" I stammered..."Well, you only dance three times a week- if you're lucky now." She told me she realized that and stared backed at me with just a hint of annoyance and asked me again, "Why can't I just dance?"
I felt my cheeks heat up and mother's heart drop, only to realize yet again, this was a teaching moment and I was the one being guided by my daughter. "Why can't she just dance?", I asked myself. The answers that immediately surfaced: It's not real exercise ( immediately followed by, well.. actually it is). Because she needs to do something else besides dance (and why exactly is that?). After a few moments of this heady self banter, I realized how ridiculous I sounded to myself ( and probably to Megan). I'm seasoned enough to know that when I find myself in those types of parental predicaments- it's usually about me ( and my unresolved Hang -Ups). I knew almost immediately this was indeed the case, as my mind panned my teen age years. I was never an avid exerciser as a youth. I gained weight when I blossomed at fifteen and have had a sluggish metabolism ever since. I always had to really work if I wanted to keep my weight in check. I never found a form of exercise that I liked (never mind loved the way that my daughter had with dance). What would it be like to completely enjoy something and have it count as exercise? The things I loved in high school weren't terribly physical; (singing, acting, dating and writing) they didn't count. Back to Megan, I thought (This was definitely more about me and less about her- Crap!). "Yes, you can just dance", I said in contrition and headed out the door to "take it out on" the stair machine.
As I stepped and stepped that morning, (a mindless, repetitive act that usually lends itself to what I have come to know as my Alpha moments) I thought about why exercise needed to be this incredibly awful and arduous task in my life? Wasn't there anything I liked doing that was remotely linked to fitness? Of course there were a few things, (yoga and walking the beach: the standouts) but what I realized was that in my mind they somehow didn't really count. I downplayed them because they didn't seem quite hard enough. But, despite how ridiculously skewed my thinking was, I realized they did indeed count and I enjoyed them both! For my daughter, dancing was and is an appetite, a joy. She wanted out of all other forced forms of exercise to do it. I couldn't appreciate that. I decided then I needed some of Megan's enthusiasm and less muddling through for my workouts. Because truth be known, I didn't do enough exercising because I didn't find it satisfying. I am a passionate type; when I love something, I want out of whatever I am doing to do it. I knew that day, that those stairs were not it and I had to find that perfect pairing of physical activity and pleasure for myself.
I began doing less gym, more walking in natural settings ( the ultimate is usually the beach) and yoga. I found that Bikram yoga accommodates best my need to do something I love and something challenging. At very forty something, habits and mindsets are deeply etched and I choose carefully how and what I spend energy on changing. It's enough that I've found something I love doing, have some natural facility for, (despite the extra weight I'm carrying) that I also deem challenging enough both physically and mentally. Oddly, I hunger for challenge in my forties the way I craved frozen pink lemonade out of the Minute Maid can as an expectant mother in my twenties. I still love walking the beach, but it somehow feels too decadent to count as a real workout. Walking (for me) is more of an emotional/spiritual mood enhancer with some physical benefits. Maybe in another ten to fifteen years I may need to change to a gentler yoga practice and lots of walking, but for now I'm content to have found my sweet spot.
I think Kabir summed it up nicely for me, "Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet." I long to be rooted in my own body and soul. I stretch, I bend; I reach, risking my own limitations and significance in the cradle of the heated yoga room. My pride melts away as quickly as my makeup in that triple digit heat with forty percent humidity. I enjoy what yogis call Presence or Being- that quality of awareness not dependent on my external circumstances, my body type, my personality, or my activities, but rather what simply is: the part of me that is present even when my body and mind have temporarily died from duty and drudgery; even the pleasures of my daily living. Savasana (Corpse Pose) is my temporary nirvana. My passions and purpose are reignited by coming to class and striking twenty six postures against the heat of the room. With the Savasanas my body, mind, and spirit are reintegrated, creating a sense of wholeness within me. I love yoga. Yes, I do!
Can I just do yoga? Most days I tell myself I can. There are on occasion nights I am seduced back into the gym by my well meaning husband who runs ( training for half and full marathons) to stay in shape. I go. I don't love it, but it's nice to sometimes just be with him doing something good for us. I feel much differently about it than I do my yoga practice; I am honest about that now. My daughter, my teacher, and sometimes my window to myself, taught me something that morning. It was a mid-life moment to evaluate why I do what I do, having extended itself beyond my rigid thinking about exercise. Life shouldn't just be about showing up, hating every stitch, and plowing through anyway. Over time this kind of living numbs the senses and robs us of spirit. There is great happiness in doing what I love; I deny myself that right far too often. If I can do yoga, then I can write, sing, dance, play, be still and do nothing...the possibilities are endless. And Megan, My Love, (if you are reading this post) I hope you will forever question even well intended insanity and dance- always dance. I will just do yoga.
I felt my cheeks heat up and mother's heart drop, only to realize yet again, this was a teaching moment and I was the one being guided by my daughter. "Why can't she just dance?", I asked myself. The answers that immediately surfaced: It's not real exercise ( immediately followed by, well.. actually it is). Because she needs to do something else besides dance (and why exactly is that?). After a few moments of this heady self banter, I realized how ridiculous I sounded to myself ( and probably to Megan). I'm seasoned enough to know that when I find myself in those types of parental predicaments- it's usually about me ( and my unresolved Hang -Ups). I knew almost immediately this was indeed the case, as my mind panned my teen age years. I was never an avid exerciser as a youth. I gained weight when I blossomed at fifteen and have had a sluggish metabolism ever since. I always had to really work if I wanted to keep my weight in check. I never found a form of exercise that I liked (never mind loved the way that my daughter had with dance). What would it be like to completely enjoy something and have it count as exercise? The things I loved in high school weren't terribly physical; (singing, acting, dating and writing) they didn't count. Back to Megan, I thought (This was definitely more about me and less about her- Crap!). "Yes, you can just dance", I said in contrition and headed out the door to "take it out on" the stair machine.
As I stepped and stepped that morning, (a mindless, repetitive act that usually lends itself to what I have come to know as my Alpha moments) I thought about why exercise needed to be this incredibly awful and arduous task in my life? Wasn't there anything I liked doing that was remotely linked to fitness? Of course there were a few things, (yoga and walking the beach: the standouts) but what I realized was that in my mind they somehow didn't really count. I downplayed them because they didn't seem quite hard enough. But, despite how ridiculously skewed my thinking was, I realized they did indeed count and I enjoyed them both! For my daughter, dancing was and is an appetite, a joy. She wanted out of all other forced forms of exercise to do it. I couldn't appreciate that. I decided then I needed some of Megan's enthusiasm and less muddling through for my workouts. Because truth be known, I didn't do enough exercising because I didn't find it satisfying. I am a passionate type; when I love something, I want out of whatever I am doing to do it. I knew that day, that those stairs were not it and I had to find that perfect pairing of physical activity and pleasure for myself.
I began doing less gym, more walking in natural settings ( the ultimate is usually the beach) and yoga. I found that Bikram yoga accommodates best my need to do something I love and something challenging. At very forty something, habits and mindsets are deeply etched and I choose carefully how and what I spend energy on changing. It's enough that I've found something I love doing, have some natural facility for, (despite the extra weight I'm carrying) that I also deem challenging enough both physically and mentally. Oddly, I hunger for challenge in my forties the way I craved frozen pink lemonade out of the Minute Maid can as an expectant mother in my twenties. I still love walking the beach, but it somehow feels too decadent to count as a real workout. Walking (for me) is more of an emotional/spiritual mood enhancer with some physical benefits. Maybe in another ten to fifteen years I may need to change to a gentler yoga practice and lots of walking, but for now I'm content to have found my sweet spot.
I think Kabir summed it up nicely for me, "Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet." I long to be rooted in my own body and soul. I stretch, I bend; I reach, risking my own limitations and significance in the cradle of the heated yoga room. My pride melts away as quickly as my makeup in that triple digit heat with forty percent humidity. I enjoy what yogis call Presence or Being- that quality of awareness not dependent on my external circumstances, my body type, my personality, or my activities, but rather what simply is: the part of me that is present even when my body and mind have temporarily died from duty and drudgery; even the pleasures of my daily living. Savasana (Corpse Pose) is my temporary nirvana. My passions and purpose are reignited by coming to class and striking twenty six postures against the heat of the room. With the Savasanas my body, mind, and spirit are reintegrated, creating a sense of wholeness within me. I love yoga. Yes, I do!
Can I just do yoga? Most days I tell myself I can. There are on occasion nights I am seduced back into the gym by my well meaning husband who runs ( training for half and full marathons) to stay in shape. I go. I don't love it, but it's nice to sometimes just be with him doing something good for us. I feel much differently about it than I do my yoga practice; I am honest about that now. My daughter, my teacher, and sometimes my window to myself, taught me something that morning. It was a mid-life moment to evaluate why I do what I do, having extended itself beyond my rigid thinking about exercise. Life shouldn't just be about showing up, hating every stitch, and plowing through anyway. Over time this kind of living numbs the senses and robs us of spirit. There is great happiness in doing what I love; I deny myself that right far too often. If I can do yoga, then I can write, sing, dance, play, be still and do nothing...the possibilities are endless. And Megan, My Love, (if you are reading this post) I hope you will forever question even well intended insanity and dance- always dance. I will just do yoga.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Full Circle
I am a Valentine's Day Maven. I am pretty sure I was born with a love for all things red, romantic and heart shaped. Guilty as charged, I confess to adoring the month of February and all that it promises lovers both young and old. To underscore just how overly maudlin I am about this month- I was married on a Friday night February 14th, 1992. I know... I know... "How incredibly cliche", you say! This month and all that it represents just makes me so darn happy and I am not a closet worshipper. But, in my quest for truth; asking all the questions out loud, and then being willing to share the answers won through this incredibly liberating process- I will tell you not everyday has been Valentine's Day" in my soon to be twenty year old marriage.
Pat and I have had some incredibly romantic and creative Valentine's Days. Because he knows just how important this day is to me, the man has worked hard trying to be thoughtful and innovative most years. I see now the anniversaries that didn't go well and take full responsibility for creating too much pressure for the poor guy. We have even had a couple of ( at least one for sure) horrible Valentine's Days. Shamefully, those are the years I sat silently waiting for him to fail with (invisible) arms crossed and lips pursed tightly. And for a girl who holds love and romance as the breadth of her existence, ( having looked forward to Valentine's Day her entire life)know that's hard for me to admit out loud. My love for romance, girlish pink and white dreamy fantasies have lived inside me for as long as I can remember. All of this combined with an intensely passionate, creative nature is both my gift and my curse. I've ruined a Valentine's Day or two for myself and most definitely for my sweet husband with expectations that were met with disappointment because what I received didn't quite measure up to what I had built up in my heart and head. As I near fifty, I am not willing to lose even one more Valentine's Day/Anniversary to this transient attack. What I've come to realize in my forties: It's not really about the day and what it did or didn't contain for me in romantic delight and detail, rather what has been missing or declining in our marriage in the months that lead up to this day of all days. February is my LOVE month and Valentine's Day will forever hold my heart and my wedding anniversary. So... I've learned to come prepared to meet her.
The truth of the matter is, the soul and strength of my marriage exists in the day to day. If it is depleted of life and energy, it is both my and Pat's responsibility to nourish and exercise it like we try to do with our own bodies. Much like our physiques, (when we don't) our marriage becomes tired and out of shape. Some of our very best anniversaries and Valentine's Days have been bred out of the work put in months before the big day. This past year has been a tough one with Pat's unemployment and our daughter leaving for college across the country (all on the heels of losing my father). I felt like I was hit from every direction in an eighteen month span. It was awful and it was wonderful because as I began to "unravel", so did our marriage to a degree. This catapulted us into an opportunity to review the neglected basics. Subsequently, we have relied a lot this year on what I call the 3 R's of a Mid-Life Marriage: Reflection, Repair and Renewal. As we master these three R's, we are better able to advance to a higher level of loving and learning. At this age we aren't beginners, but for us a refresher in the basics was critical; then we were ready to tackle an advanced course dedicated to empty nesting.
For the very first time in our married relationship, we are not defining ourselves or our marriage in terms of our responsibility to others ( in particular- our three children). Our "mom" and "dad" roles have been stripped away like outdated clothing, and without our timeworn identities, we again see one another "naked". Mid-life incandescent lightening is not always kind. In preparation for Valentine's Day we have worked at bringing in a little soft, candlelight back into our relationship and have practiced looking at each other again with new eyes. As we are now a week out, I am looking forward to our anniversary and Valentine's Day with a giddiness reminiscent to our first. After a solid year of working on myself; as I have shifted my focus back to us (and more specifically my husband) this year, I have decided to buy Pat a new wedding ring as an anniversary gift to commemorate the work we have done. Shh... It's a surprise.
This idea has been bubbling like champagne for some time, but went flat in dealing with some of the lows of recent years. With this year our twentieth, I'm in the mood to celebrate! Despite some inevitable life crises that have come our way, we have used these somewhat traumatic events as a positive turning point for our marriage. As I have thought about a wedding ring: an eternity band and seamless circle that never ends, it is impossible for me not to reflect upon my marriage vows. Those covenants I made before God and promises made to another human being: an imperfect partner (just like me). This year my own quiet reflection will be my best Valentine's gift. True to his simple and somewhat frugal nature, my husband picked out for himself a plain, braided yellow gold band in 1991. Over the past twenty years some of the gold has rubbed off; it has worn thin, making it uncomfortable because it is so flat. And it digs into what my husband calls, "his sausage fingers." Because he suffers from mild to moderate arthritis in his left hand, it causes his ring finger to sometimes swell. Occasionally I will spot his ring on the nightstand now and he has always worn his ring. I want him to have a comfortable ring. All I can think about is how suprised he is going to be!
His relatively inexpensive and unassuming ring pales next to the extraordinary vintage ring he bought for me more than twenty years ago. He had my ring set anew with a bright (almost flawless) one carat diamond. I often say, " If I had a dollar for every time I received a compliment from both men and women about my ring- I'd be rich." It's a beautiful ring and every time I look at it, it's impossible not to remember that my husband cherishes me. If I could, I'd buy him a ring that matches mine in both beauty and value. But, money is tight ( Megan is at NYU and retirement is on the horizon). And truthfully, I don't think Pat would want an extravagant ring. Like it or not, he's a simple guy (like my dad) and his mantra: " I don't need much to be happy." Again, I am brought full circle... It's no accident the men that have loved me most in my life bear a resemblance to one another in this regard; yet another Valentine's gift to number and remember...
As I type at my desk looking up to Chagall's Lovers in the Red Sky, (while sipping tea from my special Valentine's cup my husband gave me last year) half listening to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet as I write, I can do nothing but smile and confess I am hopelessly in love with love! I was struck by Cupid's arrow as a little girl infecting me with a love for all things Valentine's Day and I will never be cured! But this year, as I look to next Tuesday with starry eyed anticipation, (probably more than my age should allow) I also anxiously anticipate giving again to My Valentine: My Handsome, My Foyboy, ( a.k.a. my husband). And this little circle of love means more than I ever imagined it would when I placed the original on his finger two decades ago. As I have looked at new rings, I decided rather than discard or bury his old band in a drawer or box somewhere. I plan to have it dipped in white gold and wear it on my right thumb as a reminder of all that has taken place between us... bringing us back really to where we began.
Pat and I have had some incredibly romantic and creative Valentine's Days. Because he knows just how important this day is to me, the man has worked hard trying to be thoughtful and innovative most years. I see now the anniversaries that didn't go well and take full responsibility for creating too much pressure for the poor guy. We have even had a couple of ( at least one for sure) horrible Valentine's Days. Shamefully, those are the years I sat silently waiting for him to fail with (invisible) arms crossed and lips pursed tightly. And for a girl who holds love and romance as the breadth of her existence, ( having looked forward to Valentine's Day her entire life)know that's hard for me to admit out loud. My love for romance, girlish pink and white dreamy fantasies have lived inside me for as long as I can remember. All of this combined with an intensely passionate, creative nature is both my gift and my curse. I've ruined a Valentine's Day or two for myself and most definitely for my sweet husband with expectations that were met with disappointment because what I received didn't quite measure up to what I had built up in my heart and head. As I near fifty, I am not willing to lose even one more Valentine's Day/Anniversary to this transient attack. What I've come to realize in my forties: It's not really about the day and what it did or didn't contain for me in romantic delight and detail, rather what has been missing or declining in our marriage in the months that lead up to this day of all days. February is my LOVE month and Valentine's Day will forever hold my heart and my wedding anniversary. So... I've learned to come prepared to meet her.
The truth of the matter is, the soul and strength of my marriage exists in the day to day. If it is depleted of life and energy, it is both my and Pat's responsibility to nourish and exercise it like we try to do with our own bodies. Much like our physiques, (when we don't) our marriage becomes tired and out of shape. Some of our very best anniversaries and Valentine's Days have been bred out of the work put in months before the big day. This past year has been a tough one with Pat's unemployment and our daughter leaving for college across the country (all on the heels of losing my father). I felt like I was hit from every direction in an eighteen month span. It was awful and it was wonderful because as I began to "unravel", so did our marriage to a degree. This catapulted us into an opportunity to review the neglected basics. Subsequently, we have relied a lot this year on what I call the 3 R's of a Mid-Life Marriage: Reflection, Repair and Renewal. As we master these three R's, we are better able to advance to a higher level of loving and learning. At this age we aren't beginners, but for us a refresher in the basics was critical; then we were ready to tackle an advanced course dedicated to empty nesting.
For the very first time in our married relationship, we are not defining ourselves or our marriage in terms of our responsibility to others ( in particular- our three children). Our "mom" and "dad" roles have been stripped away like outdated clothing, and without our timeworn identities, we again see one another "naked". Mid-life incandescent lightening is not always kind. In preparation for Valentine's Day we have worked at bringing in a little soft, candlelight back into our relationship and have practiced looking at each other again with new eyes. As we are now a week out, I am looking forward to our anniversary and Valentine's Day with a giddiness reminiscent to our first. After a solid year of working on myself; as I have shifted my focus back to us (and more specifically my husband) this year, I have decided to buy Pat a new wedding ring as an anniversary gift to commemorate the work we have done. Shh... It's a surprise.
This idea has been bubbling like champagne for some time, but went flat in dealing with some of the lows of recent years. With this year our twentieth, I'm in the mood to celebrate! Despite some inevitable life crises that have come our way, we have used these somewhat traumatic events as a positive turning point for our marriage. As I have thought about a wedding ring: an eternity band and seamless circle that never ends, it is impossible for me not to reflect upon my marriage vows. Those covenants I made before God and promises made to another human being: an imperfect partner (just like me). This year my own quiet reflection will be my best Valentine's gift. True to his simple and somewhat frugal nature, my husband picked out for himself a plain, braided yellow gold band in 1991. Over the past twenty years some of the gold has rubbed off; it has worn thin, making it uncomfortable because it is so flat. And it digs into what my husband calls, "his sausage fingers." Because he suffers from mild to moderate arthritis in his left hand, it causes his ring finger to sometimes swell. Occasionally I will spot his ring on the nightstand now and he has always worn his ring. I want him to have a comfortable ring. All I can think about is how suprised he is going to be!
His relatively inexpensive and unassuming ring pales next to the extraordinary vintage ring he bought for me more than twenty years ago. He had my ring set anew with a bright (almost flawless) one carat diamond. I often say, " If I had a dollar for every time I received a compliment from both men and women about my ring- I'd be rich." It's a beautiful ring and every time I look at it, it's impossible not to remember that my husband cherishes me. If I could, I'd buy him a ring that matches mine in both beauty and value. But, money is tight ( Megan is at NYU and retirement is on the horizon). And truthfully, I don't think Pat would want an extravagant ring. Like it or not, he's a simple guy (like my dad) and his mantra: " I don't need much to be happy." Again, I am brought full circle... It's no accident the men that have loved me most in my life bear a resemblance to one another in this regard; yet another Valentine's gift to number and remember...
As I type at my desk looking up to Chagall's Lovers in the Red Sky, (while sipping tea from my special Valentine's cup my husband gave me last year) half listening to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet as I write, I can do nothing but smile and confess I am hopelessly in love with love! I was struck by Cupid's arrow as a little girl infecting me with a love for all things Valentine's Day and I will never be cured! But this year, as I look to next Tuesday with starry eyed anticipation, (probably more than my age should allow) I also anxiously anticipate giving again to My Valentine: My Handsome, My Foyboy, ( a.k.a. my husband). And this little circle of love means more than I ever imagined it would when I placed the original on his finger two decades ago. As I have looked at new rings, I decided rather than discard or bury his old band in a drawer or box somewhere. I plan to have it dipped in white gold and wear it on my right thumb as a reminder of all that has taken place between us... bringing us back really to where we began.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Putting the Pieces Together
As I thought,"What do I want to name my blog?" many titles came to mind; ideas surfaced, but I chose Mid-Life Mosaic with intention. I have been experimenting on and off for the past fifteen years with the art of mosaics. I love this art medium for it's ability to be spontaneous; it can be simply appealing in form, color, and texture; or it can be carefully planned and executed to evoke sentimental memories. As the artist, I can base my craft on instinctive feelings of design, proportion, color, symmetry, style, and balance rather than the formal constraints of traditional art theory. One of the greatest joys of mosaic for me is the lack of restrictions; its ability to loosen the artist within me and instantly engage me in the creative process.
Folk Mosaic has a legion of names: broken tile mosaic, bits and pieces, memoryware, funky mosaic, fragment work; fantasy mosaic. Mosaic (much like my life thus far) is a "collection" of nostalgic fragments, collected tessarae (Greek word- meaning four sided or cubes) or irregular, broken and even shattered pieces- all carefully chosen for shape, color, size and beauty. These bits and pieces are then applied (affixed with adhesive); carefully spaced; lastly grouted- transforming any "sturdy" surface into an unified creation of beauty. As I have ( rather reluctantly) moved into middle age, I've come to realize mosaics can be a metaphor for life; with each- it's about how you put the pieces together.
When I think of my mosaic (life) as a puzzle, pieces or fragments should fit comfortably into the space left by surrounding tesserae, while mimicking their form. If something doesn't fit, you need to trim it. When I can't eliminate a piece or a role that is negative, I work to transform it and then I can view it less negatively. In making a mosaic I use my nippers and may have to re-cut existing tessarae to "work" within the design. It is sometimes a process of trial and error. Sometimes I cut away too much and have to start again with a new fragment of glass or tile. Because this is extra work, I am often guilty of forcing a piece that's too large to fit. This is a mistake. I am learning to avoid this practice as it compromises the overall aesthetic of my project and when it comes time to grout, it may potentially crack or not fill in completely. Learning to enjoy the process and not rush through to completion doesn't always come naturally; when I don't- I sometimes have to start over.
As I move into this new middle phase of my life, I am not asked to abandon those people and things I love. As life leads me forward towards fifty- to now an empty nest for the first time, my new roles as mother in law, grandmother, middle aged wife and peri-menopausal woman don't require me to close my heart to all that has gone before. My heart is a worthy vessel. It carries beautiful bits gained from my living, loving and losing. It carries room enough for other treasures to be gathered on my way towards old age ( yes, I am saying that out loud). I have lost, discarded, and have misplaced people and things along the way- all pieces of me. I re-examine many, evaluating them for their beauty and what they add or don't to my life . I am wiser and more discerning now. This season affords me that; I deserve it.
I am not finished. I'm still playing with things. I know I must start adhering because I don't have forever. I choose the things I love most as my focal points: God, family and my sometimes neglected marriage. Friendships and creative expression are added passionately and liberally once again, bringing back color and interest to my life; I am careful to evaluate for balance. I like the way it's looking. Sometimes I get overly excited; I haphazardly add new things far too quickly and consequently I'm unhappy. Have I ruined it? I tell myself I haven't because I can still pry the pieces off. Do I really want to do that? I am not so sure. I sigh... It's a lot of work, but in the end, how it turns out really matters to me. I realize that I still have plenty of time before I need to grout. I take a breath and enjoy where I'm at in this artful process; say a little prayer, hoping it's going to turn out beautifully.
Folk Mosaic has a legion of names: broken tile mosaic, bits and pieces, memoryware, funky mosaic, fragment work; fantasy mosaic. Mosaic (much like my life thus far) is a "collection" of nostalgic fragments, collected tessarae (Greek word- meaning four sided or cubes) or irregular, broken and even shattered pieces- all carefully chosen for shape, color, size and beauty. These bits and pieces are then applied (affixed with adhesive); carefully spaced; lastly grouted- transforming any "sturdy" surface into an unified creation of beauty. As I have ( rather reluctantly) moved into middle age, I've come to realize mosaics can be a metaphor for life; with each- it's about how you put the pieces together.
When I think of my mosaic (life) as a puzzle, pieces or fragments should fit comfortably into the space left by surrounding tesserae, while mimicking their form. If something doesn't fit, you need to trim it. When I can't eliminate a piece or a role that is negative, I work to transform it and then I can view it less negatively. In making a mosaic I use my nippers and may have to re-cut existing tessarae to "work" within the design. It is sometimes a process of trial and error. Sometimes I cut away too much and have to start again with a new fragment of glass or tile. Because this is extra work, I am often guilty of forcing a piece that's too large to fit. This is a mistake. I am learning to avoid this practice as it compromises the overall aesthetic of my project and when it comes time to grout, it may potentially crack or not fill in completely. Learning to enjoy the process and not rush through to completion doesn't always come naturally; when I don't- I sometimes have to start over.
As I move into this new middle phase of my life, I am not asked to abandon those people and things I love. As life leads me forward towards fifty- to now an empty nest for the first time, my new roles as mother in law, grandmother, middle aged wife and peri-menopausal woman don't require me to close my heart to all that has gone before. My heart is a worthy vessel. It carries beautiful bits gained from my living, loving and losing. It carries room enough for other treasures to be gathered on my way towards old age ( yes, I am saying that out loud). I have lost, discarded, and have misplaced people and things along the way- all pieces of me. I re-examine many, evaluating them for their beauty and what they add or don't to my life . I am wiser and more discerning now. This season affords me that; I deserve it.
I am not finished. I'm still playing with things. I know I must start adhering because I don't have forever. I choose the things I love most as my focal points: God, family and my sometimes neglected marriage. Friendships and creative expression are added passionately and liberally once again, bringing back color and interest to my life; I am careful to evaluate for balance. I like the way it's looking. Sometimes I get overly excited; I haphazardly add new things far too quickly and consequently I'm unhappy. Have I ruined it? I tell myself I haven't because I can still pry the pieces off. Do I really want to do that? I am not so sure. I sigh... It's a lot of work, but in the end, how it turns out really matters to me. I realize that I still have plenty of time before I need to grout. I take a breath and enjoy where I'm at in this artful process; say a little prayer, hoping it's going to turn out beautifully.
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