Monthly Archives: October 2013

A Red Marble Sink

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My sister said that yesterday’s story about San Francisco reminded her that business trips can be fun. And since she happens to be on one right now, I thought I would entertain her with another story about a time when I tagged along with her and we had us a fine time in the great big city.

The first time Gay invited me along on a business trip was right after Fartbuster and I divorced. After 10 boring years, I yearned for some adventure. The American College of Surgeons held their conference in New Orleans that year…boy, did I luck out! We stayed at the Fairmont Hotel–which is sadly no more. They chose not to reopen after Katrina. I’m lucky to have walked this Moorish style hallway for those few days back in 2001.

My sister is a world-class foodie. Girl love to EAT. We travel well together because she books the hotel and makes the dinner reservations and I research the fun little activities to do. We also both believe in the sanctity of naps.

The first night we were at the Fairmont, I told her we had to go down to the lobby bar and try the namesake drink, the Sazerac. Never heard of a Sazerac? Me either, apart from in the guidebook. It predates the Civil War and is arguably the first American cocktail: “The defining feature of the Sazerac is the preparation using Peychaud’s Bitters and two chilled old-fashioned glasses, one swirled with a light wash of absinthe for the slight taste and strong scent. The second chilled glass is used to mix the other ingredients, then the contents of that are poured or strained into the first. Various anisettes such as Pastis, Pernod, Ricard, and Herbsaint are common substitutes for absinthe when it is not available; in New Orleans Herbsaint is most commonly used.” Well, there you go.

I’ll be honest…a Sazerac is more distinctive than it is delicious. I’m glad I tried it. So glad, in fact, that after I gagged down the last drop of the concoction, I wiped out the glass with a cocktail napkin and slipped it into my purse. Then I left a $20 tip to assuage my guilt. My sister was MORTIFIED. She hissed, “What are you DOING? Put that back! What if we get caught?” I rolled my eyes and said, “This is New Orleans. Do you really think this crime wave is going to make the news?” She giggled but gave me The Look. The big sister look, like she was going to tell on me. I clutched my purse tighter. Ten years of boredom and now I was on the loose in New Orleans.

The night got even sillier after that when we asked the doorman to get us a taxi. We clambered in the back seat and Gay said, “Take us to the French Quarter, please.” The driver turned his head and said, “You IN the French Quarter.” We started giggling harder and I said, “Well, take us to the nasty part.” He drove two blocks to Bourbon Street and let us out on the curb. Five bucks to go 2 blocks. At least it was sprinkling so we could pretend that was why we got a cab.

Like I said, I love traveling with my sister.

The next night, she got us a table at Broussard’s. While we were getting ready, the two of us ended up in the bathroom at the same time, brushing our teeth. Probably to get rid of the taste of Sazerac. I spat. She spat. I looked her in the eye and said, “When we were growing up in that trailer, did you ever in your life think that one day we’d be spitting toothpaste into a red marble sink at the Fairmont Hotel in New Orleans?”

She spat again and considered for a second.

“Yes.”

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

That’s the thing about my sister. She works HARD for the privileges that she enjoys in life (and shares so generously). If you asked her what she wanted to be when she was in second grade, she said, “A doctor.” By about fourth grade, she had settled on being a surgeon. She never lost focus. She watched Daddy operate on cats and dogs, and sometimes scrubbed in to assist. She sailed through college with a double major in Chemistry and Biology. Finished Vanderbilt Medical School with zero loan debt. Worked her internship and residency as an Army surgeon. She scaled every rung on the ladder to get to spit into that red marble sink.

When Gay was still in high school, she met with the guidance counselor about applying for colleges. She told the counselor that she planned to go to medical school. That dingbat said, “Oh, being a doctor is hard. Why don’t you be a nurse and marry a doctor?”

Oh. Hell. No.

You better believe that lady got a talking to. I guess my sister did take a little bit of the counselor’s advice–she did marry a doctor. Eventually.

God Says “Duh” To Me

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Half a year after Richard died, I visited San Francisco for the first time with my sister, Gay, and our sister-in-law, Beth. Gay was there for a conference. Beth and I were there to stay at the Palace Hotel on someone else’s expense account. Man, they have plush robes at that hotel. Nicest robe I ever almost stole. Also a sauna, town cars at your disposal, a brunch buffet with everything from sushi to crepes, a concierge every 20 feet. We were living high on the hog that week. I don’t know how I’ll ever come back down to the Sleep Inn between the interstate and Sonic.

One morning, Gay had meetings to attend so Beth and I were on our own to navigate the city. We decided to do some sight seeing up on Nob Hill (because you can’t get lost if you keep going uphill!). My friend, Gleam, had a thing for labyrinths and had told me much about the labyrinths at Grace Cathedral atop Nob Hill.

Now….I’m not normally one for church. At least Grace is an Episcopal church–they don’t make me itch and twitch quite as severely. I’m a church tourist, at best. Grace, however, quickly became one of my most favorite spaces I’ve ever had the privilege of visiting. I found real sanctuary there. It’s a welcoming congregation. The first chapel I stepped into remembered thousands of lives lost to AIDS. The “Life of Christ” altar by Keith Haring is surrounded by symbols of many faiths and a simple circle for people like me. This was Haring’s last piece of art. He died two weeks later from complications of AIDS, in 1990.

grace-2005

When we were there that October of 2005, the main aisle had been decorated with a genuinely soul-lifting art installation. This tiny thumbnail is the only record of it that I could find (because 2005 is like the Jurassic Period of the Internet). Translucent ribbons swooped from the ceiling, suspended by invisible wires. Hues transformed from deepest red toward the altar to pale sunshine yellow down the aisle. The floating fabric sculpture reminded me of a fiery spirit, 100 feet long. The motion of it, the color, the space inside it–all took my breath away. While Beth explored the side aisles, I slipped into a pew and sat quietly, just so I could share the same space with the fiery spirit. That’s when I began to cry. I missed Richard so deeply. He and I had spent many an hour exploring the cathedrals of Europe. Now I was learning to adventure on my own.

Beth had been giving me my space, but we eventually came back together and talked about what to do next. I felt like I was holding her back, but there was one thing left to do at Grace. I trusted her enough to risk making a fool of myself. As we stepped out into the afternoon light, I turned to her and confessed, “I want to walk the labyrinth.”

She was game. Beth’s not usually one for any kind of mumbo-jumbo–she was totally humoring me. “You’re going to need to explain it to me. I don’t want to screw it up.” I told her what I knew of them from Gleam, who had made a pilgrimage to Chartres with the last of her strength. Cancer took her the next year.

Here are the instructions for the Grace Labyrinth:

The labyrinth has only one path so there are no tricks to it and no dead ends. The path winds throughout and becomes a mirror for where we are in our lives. It touches our sorrows and releases our joys. Walk it with an open mind and an open heart.

Three stages of the walk

Purgation (Releasing) ~ A releasing, a letting go of the details of your life. This is the act of shedding thoughts and distractions. A time to open the heart and quiet the mind.
Illumination (Receiving) ~ When you reach the center, stay there as long as you like. It is a place of meditation and prayer. Receive what is there for you to receive.
Union (Returning) ~ As you leave, following the same path out of the center as you came in, you enter the third stage, which is joining God, your Higher Power, or the healing forces at work in the world. Each time you walk the labyrinth you become more empowered to find and do the work for which you feel your soul is reaching.

Beth and I chose different starting points and began our walk. We had the place to ourselves, which let me let go of some of my inhibitions about doing something so mystical in public. I focused on the soles of my feet and the contact they shared with the ground, just like in Buddhist walking meditation. I felt safe in the maze. Not rushing, just doing. The rhythm of my steps did help me let go of the details of my life. I felt the grief slip away, the anxiety abate. My quieting mind sloughed away the months of grief, the months of worry, winnowing it all down to the real question that weighed down my heart. The question I wanted to ask of God when I got to the center of the labyrinth:

“Is Richard OK?”

I know he can’t be here. I know he’s not here. I know I can’t know where he is. But…is he OK?

That’s when God said DUH to me. Not in a mean way, more in an “of course, sweetie, bless your heart” way. It wasn’t a thunder thump of a DUH. I was open to what was there for me to receive and the gift that I received was a simple, quiet knowledge that Richard was beyond all the hurt. I was the one who was hurting, but I could set down my worry about him. That’s the burden I left in the center of the labyrinth.

On my exit journey, I did experience Union. I felt empowered to do the work for which my soul was reaching. Healing myself. I smiled a lot on the way out.

The story of the labyrinth came back to me this week because every time I’ve tried to write a word about anything, my mouth is filled with ashes and grief for my friend, Chris. Last week, Chris’ beloved daughter died suddenly, leaving two beautiful and bright children whose hearts could be broken forever by this. I worry for Chris because no parent should have to lose a child and Chris has had this happen to her twice. Both of her daughters have gone before her and that’s not fair. There are no words for what it is.

In the autumn of 2005, when I was sunk in grief and learning to live in the world again, I got back from San Francisco and began to plan my solo trip to Paris. Chris, Gleam, and the rest of our writer bunch cheered me on. The week before my trip, we gathered together for my bon voyage dinner. Chris presented me with a soft blue beret and scarf to keep me warm in Paris. She had knitted it from the leftover yarn from her grandson’s blanket. The son of the mother who is gone now. The blanket, the beret, the boy–they’re here. The beloved is gone.

I hope that grief, even a grief this abysmal, can be like the labyrinth. A path we all walk, in our way, that teaches us to receive what we need to receive and empowers us to continue the work for which our souls reach.

If you pray, pray for Chris and Wayne and Amy and Charlie and Emma. May they find some peace on this journey.

Saturday Snort–Weekend Animals

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Friday, 3:45 p.m.:

thinking

Friday, 5:45 p.m.:

sexy face

There Must Be a Better Word for That

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Today I spent the whole day dragged down and wrapped up in words like

governance

guidelines

script

apology

inconvenience

infection

deadline

remorse

exit

notify

meh

necessary

error message

My day was shaping up into a depressive haiku.

squirrel About 5:15, I gave up (or as I call it “threw my f*ck it flag) and left the office. Walking back to my car, I passed a patch of tea olives and the scent tapped me on the shoulder. “Pardon me? Miss? The world is lovely and it’s right here.”

A new word popped into my head: waft.

I smiled…just a little. The tense muscles around my face rearranged themselves gladly. More words: smirk, moue, whimsy.

The sun pattering down through the oak canopy warmed my cheeks and I thought of another word: dappled.

A sleek squirrel scampered across the pebbled path. We locked eyes–gazed–for a fleeting moment, then he was off.

I stopped there on the path and filled my mind with better words…

aroma

dawdle

meander

respite

breeze

soar

lilt

lark

arc

swoop

horizon

rooted

heady

Then I continued on my way. Rejuvenated. Replenished. Refreshed. Hopeful. Satisfied.

What’s the most beautiful word you know? The most peaceful? The word that makes you stand still? The one that gets you going?

Body Wisdom

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Today’s writing prompt is: “Something my body (or someone else’s) has taught me.” Dena Hobbs, yoga instructor and author of “Lighten the Darkness: An Advent Journey Through Hope” thought this one up and I’m glad she did!

When I first read it, my reaction was that I’ve never thought about my body as a teacher. It’s a vehicle. A warm blanket. At times a burden. Ballast. Buoyancy. A hideout.

body wisdom For the first 30 years of my life, I thought of my body as the thing that carried my brain and my heart around. My brain got things DONE. My brain got me attention, acclaim. My brain made progress. My brain achieved my goals and moved me forward in life. My brain got me the grades that won the awards that led to the scholarship that got me the fellowship that landed me the job. Then the next job and the next one and the next one. My brain pays the bills.

While my brain got things done across all those years, my heart decided WHAT I should do. Even with my practical streak, I spent plenty of time following my heart. I chased after it all those times it went chasing after a boy. I carried my heart right out in the open. I needed to be loved. I delighted to feel it swell with friendship and love. I went down in the depths when my heart was broken. My brain couldn’t keep my heart from doing what it was going to do. My heart, my heart, my heart. Even as I exercised my brain and it grew stronger, I relied on my heart to decide–I felt my way through my teens and 20’s.

Then I hit my 30s.

That decade was a doozy. I ran into the parts of life that my brain couldn’t think my way out of. I hit the spots where my heart led the way and got shattered. After Fartbuster and I had been separated for seven months, the phone rang one night–his girlfriend calling MY HOUSE, asking if he was there. WTH??? I had already hung up the phone by the time I was good and awake. My heart lurched with the familiar heartache. My brain tried to kick into overdrive–was that a dream? Did that really happen? What does it mean? Where IS he? My brain began to calculate whether that was the final straw. My heart flopped and wrenched and twisted–it didn’t flip off like a switch. But my body? My body was so tired from months of his foolishness that it just went back to sleep. I woke up knowing that I was going to get a divorce and my heart was calm. The late hour eclipsed the brain and the heart–the body took over–and my life got to a better place.

That’s what I learned from my body–get the brain to hush, get the heart to sit still, let the body do what it does.

When Richard got leukemia and we spent 10 months walking side by side towards The Door, my brain was at its peak–I kept it all together. My body kept me moving, traveling back and forth, tending to him, tending to me, holding down my job. My heart…well, I’ll write a book about that one day. After he died, my brain couldn’t think its way out of the grief. My heart needed time. My body kept going. I remember standing at the kitchen sink at my dad’s house on the Easter Sunday a few weeks after Richard died and asking myself, “How did I get here?” The kids were playing in the backyard. There was a ham on the stove. I was dressed. My car was in the drive. The neighbor had come across the street to give me her condolences. My body was there, living. My brain and my heart didn’t know what to do.

A few years passed. My heart had wanted a child for over 10 years. My brain knew that the clock was ticking. My body? My body said, “I got this.” After my first date with G, I called Andrea to talk it over. She asked, “Was there chemistry?” and I giggled, “Girl. He’s got a PhD in Chemistry!” No need for the reproductive endocrinologist. Saved that copay.

The first baby was born. My brain had read the books. My heart loved her before I ever saw her tiny heart beating. My body stitched her together with no regard for all the alarmist messages my brain found in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” My brain knew I was supposed to have a typed up birthing plan. My body said, “Hush. I am doing something here. Watch and learn.” My body knew how to feed her. My body was her refuge and still is. The love we have for each other has nothing to do with my brain.

The month I was turning 40, my brain decided that my heart and my body needed to get into shape. I joined boot camp with the goal of being able to do a military push up on my 40th birthday. I did three! I didn’t think my way or wish my way to those push ups…my body did the work. I learned to run long distances by keeping my heart steady and my brain quiet. It’s the brain that wants to stop long before the body has to. It’s the heart that is afraid to even begin. When I let my body begin to move, it took over and took me places I had never believed I could go.

Now I’m 45. I have learned that there will be times when my brain has to think my way out of a snarl–like planning dinners so that the produce all gets used up before it turns mushy. There will be times when my heart leads the way–like when I want to ignore that “Mama!” cry at 3 a.m. but that’s ME he’s calling for. Other times? My body will know just what to do. Like now, when I need to sleep so I can get up a little early tomorrow and do some push ups.

What has your body taught you?

Wordless Wednesday–Bluebirds

The Light Gets Brighter With Every Year

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Today is my birthday. Just like any other Tuesday, it’s the best day of my life.

We’re gonna need a bigger cake.

When I was a kid, Grandmama Irene made my birthday cake each year. She was famous for her cakes–even had a story in Georgia Magazine that dubbed her “The Cake Lady of Gay.” Legend has it that she bought so many 50lb bags of sugar that the revenuers got a little suspicious and thought she might have a still going somewhere out in the woods!

Some years I chose red velvet with the cream cheese and pecan frosting piled thick between three layers. Other years, I asked for a lemon cheese cake with the glistening lemon frosting. Those of you from other parts of the world may think I meant to say “lemon cheesecake,” but no, that’s something totally different. A lemon cheese cake is a tower of three heavenly white cake layers filled and frosted with translucent and tart lemon curd. There were a couple of years that I chose chocolate or caramel–buttery yellow layers cloaked in hard-cooked icing that got better as the days went by. By the time I went to college, she opted for chocolate pound cakes because they traveled well.

In my teenage years, my dad discovered that I loved coconut cakes as much as he did. He set out to make me a coconut birthday cake. Even though he’s a great cook, there was some kind of black cloud curse over the coconut cake baking process. It got to be a running joke. One year, he said he spent $45 on 3 different batches of frosting and it all still slid off the cake in a glop. It was delicious anyway! The next year, he nailed it with a coconut pound cake and avoided the subject of frosting altogether.

But we all know how kids are, right? Because I had been raised on astounding homemade cakes I yearned for a big old grocery store cake. One with pink frosting roses and my name spelled in piping. Maybe even some of those hard sugar princess castle decorations they sold at the grocery store. Don’t get me wrong–I appreciated every morsel of the cakes Grandmama made for me. But they didn’t look the cakes on TV. And when you’re seven…y’know. You think life is supposed to look like “The Facts of Life.”

I wished for candles. Grandmama made cakes for birthdays, not birthday cakes, so they didn’t come with candles. I really really really wanted candles. I had some wishes I wanted to make.

In my first year at Wesleyan, my friends surprised me with a cake–and it had candles on it. I was so unfamiliar with the process that I caught my thumbnail on fire trying to light all eighteen tiny candles. We had a great laugh and I got to make my wish. I don’t remember what I wished for.

Here’s what I learned from all those birthday cakes. The real treasure, the greatest gifts, were those cakes made by people who love me. Butter, sugar, eggs, time, patience, a light touch–alchemy that spins ordinary food into a celebration. Birthdays are when a family looks back to celebrate the day that the family got bigger. Eating cake reminds us of that sweetness. The candles, though, the candles are for the future, for wishing and thinking about what is to come.

I used every birthday candle from the age of about 28 to 37 to wish for a child. As luck would have it, on my 38th birthday, I hosted a Leukemia Society chili party. I was feeling really light-headed, had to go lie down, but I got my legs back under me in time for dessert. My friend, Karen, remembered that it was my birthday and brought a butter cream dream of a cake. We fired it up and I wished for a family of my own on those candles….and a few weeks later found out that my wish had already come true. Vivi was there for my 39th birthday.

That’s the thing about candles–and family–the light gets brighter with every year.

I’m Working It Today!

That Was Kindergarten, This Is First Grade: My Daughter Coaches Me Through A New Job

Click on over and check it out!

Saturday Snort–The Grape Depression

The Pie Town Fair

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Daddy Makes Lunch

As a nod to yesterday’s post, here’s another picture of a sweet girl’s daddy feeding her a special lunch. Look at his gentle smile:

Daddy feeding his daughter at the Pie Town fair.

The Pie Town Fair

One pretty Saturday, almost 75 years ago, in a ramshackle place called Pie Town, New Mexico, the homesteading families got together for a fair–barbecue, calf-roping, cakes made with all the eggs the chickens could lay. A photographer named Russell Lee was there with his trusty camera and a brand new invention: color film.

Families like these: