Snowstorm Suite

It’s the season for gifts, for giving and receiving, for buying and returning and I’ll be the first to admit that shopping isn’t my favorite thing to do. Amazon.com has made the season brighter for me all around, and this year, I consciously and up front was a cheap ass and told people so. I bought small, thoughtful gifts for my family and it was fun. We all have what we need, I try to keep that as my litmus test in this culture of acquiring, holding in mind that things don’t bring us happiness, as much as advertising tries to make us believe otherwise.

Some gifts, even expensive ones, lay in drawers, the sentiment worn away, if not the perceived value of the item. We keep them, because they might be worth something, obviously, if they’re not being used or enjoyed; they are not.

Some gifts are intangible and priceless; like the gifts my children would often surprise me with when we were a much younger family. Kathleen, who’d clean up the kitchen when it was an overwhelming mess. Erin and Megan, out on the front porch in the cold, putting the Christmas lights up on the front porch to surprise me when I came home from work. And the day I walked into the house, worn out and weary with life, when Megan said, “Mom, you’ve got to hear this.”

I came into the living room and sat down as she cued up the music, “Listen, mom, I heard this in school, and I found this recording at the library.” It was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and it was, well, music to my ears. It assured me there was beauty in the world, and that my children would find it, and not only find it, but want to share it. Maybe this mothering gig would work out. (It did.)

Lately, more and more research is showing that classical music can help with depression, simple, but it’s true. In one study, the researchers noted that there are several possible reasons for the participants’ improved mental states, including the fact that music activates processes which facilitate brain development and plasticity. Music is good for us.

Being a research junkie, I also remember being fascinated by a story of an animal that wasn’t eating, and one day, it’s owner inadvertently dropped a newspaper over it’s food, and when it had to hunt for the food, it ate. Seems that we need to have some say in our lives, something to work for, to put forth a bit of effort for enjoyment.

So, with the thought in mind that it’s the season for gifts; that music is good for you, and hunting a bit makes you appreciate things more, I give you a gift-quest. Yes, I know that I could directly link you to sites, but I’m making you look, on purpose, because I don’t think that a life that is always just one click away from gratification is the best life for you. So here is the cheap-ass, 99 cent gift that I gave to myself this season, and that I pass on to you. Think of it as a recipe for a little happiness, from me to you.

Go to i-Tunes and find Georgy Sviridov's Snowstorm Suite IV, Romance; performed by the St. Petersburg Orchestra of the State Hermitage Museum; 99 cent download. Good for your head, good for your heart, listen and listen again. Happy New Year.

Wake Up In Your Dream

Driving west towards crosstown 62 there is a billboard, for a college I think, that says, “One day you will wake up in your dream.” This catches my eye, catches my mind, and then I’m entering onto 62 and I have to pay attention to traffic. Isn’t that the way it is, you want to mull over something good, something rich, something that you think is on the edge of brilliance, and then, you must pay attention to traffic, it’s a staying alive kinda thing.

So this morning, when I want to post something rich, something good, something to fit into the holiday season and be intentional, I am distracted by traffic. The traffic of my morning coffee making, Garrison Keillor is trying to tell me a story again this morning, but I turn a deaf ear, like the husband to the wife of an old married couple. He’d say, “You never listen to me.” And I’d say, “Garrison, I do listen to you sometimes, but today, today, I’m trying to ignore you and traffic and figure out why I haven’t awoken in my dream yet.”

Perhaps I have, and this is the unnerving thought, if this is my dream life, why does it feel like ordinary life? Why do dreams always have a glittery sheen, while real life is matte? Maybe it depends on your dreams. My dreams used to be simple, a house, a husband, warm clothes for my kids. That dream came partly true, partly untrue and there is no undoing what is done now.

I thought that if I kept my dreams small, the more likely they’d be to come true. That's how I was raised, socialized as a girl; to dream small or risk not only disappointment, but humiliation for having such a big dream to begin with. People might ask things like, “Who do you think you are?” The part they’d leave off, is “...to have such a wonderful life?” Underneath it all was the message that we live small lives, because to risk much is well, just too risky. We accept mediocrity for fear of failure, not realizing that mediocrity is a form of failure, masked in giving in.

Five years ago I had a dream of leaving Owatonna, of moving back home to MInneapolis. I dreamed of being near Lake Calhoun, down the block from where I grew up, and I dreamed of eating well, from bakeries to dinner out, enjoying the glut of food that Owatonna lacks. I dreamed of making new friends and having people in my life that I could feel a kinship with. I woke up this morning in Minneapolis, not far from Lake Calhoun, my babies all grown up, living the life, eating well, having made new friends, only it’s not a dream anymore. The glitter has fallen away, leaving a nice warm matte glow. Maybe one day you will wake up in your life.

Take care of yourself, take care of your loved ones, protect your heart and dream big.

No More Tears

In the bleak midwinter, well, we’re not even midwinter yet, and although the solstice is less than a week away; it’s bleak enough. I’ve wondered off and on, “Do I have SAD?” (sunlight affective disorder), but it just doesn’t fit. I've always liked gray days. I finally had an aha moment and realized I do have SAD, but it’s snow anxiety disorder! I had it bad during last Saturday's snowstorm, the more it snowed, the more anxiety I had. I was, as Megan put it, freaking out.

I was trapped and I’d never get out, again. I was sure of it, even though I’ve lived in Minnesota for all but one and a half years of my life; and every snowstorm, sure enough, we dig out. So there is now plenty of sun, and a path through the ginormous piles of snow, but now it is cold, and I won’t even try to tell how cold, the analogies aren’t bitter enough.

I’ve got a plan now, though, and I need to put it on a vision map for my future. I want to rent a condo for at least a month say during January every year in Santa Fe. Hey! Deal with anxiety how you must, I’m dreaming one more sunny, warm, snowless month a year into my future. The condo of course, will have an art studio, and a patio, and a pool. Splash.

A Box of Popcorn and a Balcony Seat or Comfort and Joy

I came home Tuesday after my brother’s funeral up in Alexandria, and nothing seemed right. It had been a 'good funeral.' A lot of people, my brother had many friends. I had cried and tried not to cry for too long, and I was tired. As for family, we were all together, but we've never been the most supportive family, we have trouble (like many families) with showing emotion and offering comfort.

That evening I had just enough energy to buy food and make dinner, mashed potatoes and roast chicken. Comfort food. I woke up Wednesday to an ache that felt like the flu. My chest hurt so bad. I chocked it up to holding little Audrey at the funeral, I gripped her like a talisman through my tears. At six months, she is a joy. She’s a handful now too, so I had to hold tight, and Wednesday I was sore. So I just mostly stayed in bed and I made it through one more day.

Thursday, I made myself get up out of bed. I’d gone to bed the night before with a horrible stomach-ache, and in the morning I mercifully puked. Still, I made myself get dressed and go to work, knowing that I’d see my therapist helped me haul out my sorry ass. No makeup, but I did brush my teeth. I felt like I never want to ever feel again. Going to work steadied me in the pain.

Through my sorrow, I made it to my kind therapist, mid downtown, on the 16th floor. He is wise and caring. His insight was to tell me this sorrow was not just about my brother, but about the comfort I never got in my family growing up. The comfort that wasn’t there at the funeral, and the ache I have for wanting it. Neither of my parents knew how to accept emotions or to comfort us in our pain. I grew up being ashamed of my tears and my need for comfort.

My therapist wondered when did I get comfort in my life? I did have some comfort in my relationship with my ex-husband, Steve. In my session, I recalled the story of being about 18 and I’d had a huge fight with my dad, and I’d run out of the house in tears. Steve and I had just started dating then, and I took the bus to the Orpheum Theatre, where Steve was assistant manager and I found him in the office.

He gave me a hug, bought me a box of popcorn, and found me a seat up in the balcony. He told me to just watch the movie and wait until he was done with work and then he’d talk with me. Later in our relationship, when I’d have a hard day and he knew he wouldn’t be able to be there; he’d tell me he wished he could keep me in his pocket.

There’s so many things we need as kids. So many needs that we humans should have met to feel safe, whole and complete. I’m making my way trying to know what I’m missing, and to fill in the gaps. I’ve surrounded myself with caring friends, and I know now why I’ve had this weird anger about life. I’ve been mad, really mad about missing out on having a family that held me, that nurtured me and supported me and my feelings.

As I left therapy, it was a comfort to remember that Steve was able to offer some small comfort, that a box of popcorn and a balcony seat seemed so huge a gesture of concern to someone so bereft of it. Comforting to remember, that in my life where love has often seemed so conditional and fragile, I’ve had moments of acceptance and comfort. Moments of feeling safe inside someone’s shirt pocket, next to their heart.

"We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families and our friends, and even the people who aren't on our lists, people we've never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for boroughs and for cities, a pocket that could hold the universe."
-Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close). Which, by the way, if you haven’t read, you should read.

Postscript: Over the weekend, when I talked with my mom on the phone, she broke down in her grief and cried; and then apologized for crying. I was able to tell her, “Mom, it’s ok to have feelings.” She said, “I was brought up that its selfish to have feelings.” I replied, “Mom, I know” and gently said, “I was too.” I continued, “Mom, what’s so exciting to me to be studying emotions is that I’m learning that they are necessary, and useful, and they give us information that we need. What these tears are telling us is that we need to remember to cherish life. Our emotions are good, it’s ok, it’s ok to cry.” She said that she’d hoped that she wasn’t as harsh on us as her parents had been, and I assured her that she wasn't. I let her know it’s the best we can do as families, to make progress on what doesn’t work, and to celebrate what does. I was able to offer my mom some comfort in this sad, sad time for us.

Grateful for Tears

December 2nd, 2010

This morning I am grateful for the fact that the bathtub water is running out hot. Some days it is just warm. I don’t know what’s up with that, and living in this huge four-plex does not make me want to try to find out. In a house, you know, it’s all yours, and you can see where one thing leads to another. Not so much here.

This morning I am happy for left over half and half for my coffee, not just milk. This morning I am mourning, my brother Steve died yesterday afternoon. I was driving after work to pick Megan up from Erin and Andy’s, where once a week she’s a ‘mother’s helper.’ My cell phone rang while I was in traffic.

When my sister asked if I was at home yet, I knew. I told her, “No, I’m driving.” And we both knew. It was the call I’d known would come. The call I’d been waiting for, dreading, yet anxious for, ready for the wait to be over, for all of us. And now that it is, I am so sad, and so tired. My body is crying tears I didn’t know I’d been saving up.

I’m trying to be kind to myself as I try to go about my day. I’ll go to work, at least, and get through my day, and wait to hear about the funeral arrangements.

Last night, I was grateful to get to Erin’s to get a hug, to hold Audrey, to smile at her through my tears. I called my mom while I was there, and fortunately, my younger brother, who lives in Waconia, was already there with her. My sister and I shared making phone calls to other family.

On my drive home, I told Megan, “It was so much easier when I believed we all just went to heaven. But really, we just don’t know what happens to us after we die.” Megan philosophically replied, “But we know we go back into the earth.” And she’s right, we go into the earth, somehow, someway we contribute to however this earth keeps re-birthing. I took small comfort in that. Maybe my brother is in heaven with my dad.

Once home, I warmed up left over chili, wrapped my hand around a glass of wine, wrapped a blanket around my body and watched 3 episodes of The Office in a row, then went to bed.

This morning, I am mourning. Writing, drinking coffee, warm tears on my face.

Crying at the Madonna

Last March I went to visit my mother in her new apartment; a few months earlier we’d moved her from her large town home, into a smaller apartment. She is near my brother now, who works from home. He is a good man and will watch over her. She moved from Owatonna, where I used to live, to Waconia, a beautiful spot west of the Twin Cities. My mom turned 85 in April.

It was hard for her to move again, the second time since my dad died 8 years ago. Even now, she still has lots of unpacking to do. She said she wanted to put her Hummel nativity set up, even though it was barely spring. I said, “Let’s do it.” This nativity set is precious to my mom for a number of reasons. Firstly, because it is very valuable. My mom likes valuable things. Secondly, because it was my dad’s Aunt Sue’s and anything that Aunt Sue had was ‘very valuable.’ And thirdly, because it's just beautiful. The colors are soft and subtle, the features of the figurines are serene and painted with care.

I am not so certain, as my mother is, of the value of things. I grew up having to be too careful of all her things, and so my relationship with things is more ambivalent. I can be grasping and greedy one minute, “Ooh, it’s pretty, I want that,” to “Oh sweetheart, this vase, do you want it? It’s just collecting dust.” I am learning to be more fluid about stuff, knowing it is often, easy come, and easy go, especially in my family. And the value of things is always negligible, we assign things their worth.

So, we unwrapped the Nativity, a simple set, just baby Jesus, Joseph, the barn, and Mary. For some reason, when my mom handed me the statue of Mary, I choked up. I looked at this little figurine in my hand and I remembered the awe I felt at the back of our Catholic church, lighting candles in front of the statue of the Virgin. I was suddenly only six or seven years old, and I remembered my dad, taking my hand as a child after Mass on Christmas morning, stooping down, saying gently, “Theresa, do you want to go up and look at baby Jesus?”