Sometimes you write a poem

I still dream about you.

As if it were yesterday,

as if

time hasn’t

ravaged

and

mellowed

me.

                                    As if

I haven’t swum a thousand miles

the salt water

detoxing your touch 

from

       my skin.

I still dream about you

            as if I need you,

as if you matter one iota,

as if my words don’t fill pages, 

as if my photo won’t live on between 

closed covers

stacked neatly and

forgotten.

            As if the heart-pounding hadn’t shifted

years ago to

mere flutters,

then a

                                         flick of a 
                                                  hand.

I still dream about you.

In it

            we smile uncomfortably across a table

in a diner I’ve never been.

            Longing pulls at

my layers

            as if it can possibly                unfold

                                          who I was

                             back

                                          then.

                       

            As if it would make a difference.

I still dream about you.

                        In the dream, a waitress in a peach dress pours coffee.

            The others at our table chat,

stab at their salads,

sink teeth into 

white-bread sandwiches.

            Our eyes

                fight to

                        dart away.

I still dream about you,

            with all the rage and fury for what you took,

            with all the affection and

                        gratitude for what

                                                you gave.

I still dream about you,

like a puzzle, like a condundrum,

like a zen koan not meant to be solved,

            but that eats at me anyway.

I still dream about you,

awaken confused and drenched,

                   like a corpse descending the depths,

                                   resurfacing,

                                       like a fish 

                               glinting

                                    through

               murky water.

                       

Like a marathoner,

            who never learned how to run,

            but has covered the miles anyway,

gaining distance, 

            yet always looking back,

wondering if you will 

ever 

               go away.

- gae 11/15

Morning purge

last night
lying in bed doing one of my
constant self exams
i found a hard, little, pea-sized lump -- i thought
                          i did --
the kind they tell you about, the kind
they warn you
about
i panicked
i trembled
i shook -- i couldn't stop shaking --
i said, as my husband held me:

i am afraid

i am afraid of everything
i have always been
AFRAID,

and he wrapped his arms around me and listened,
then eventually
slept,
as i listed the fears
in my head,
as i trembled:

fear of sickness
fear of death
fear of aging
fear of losing my parents
       my sister
       my husband,

FEAR OF LEAVING MY KIDS.

(fear of my kids leaving me)

fear of war,
fear of terrorism on home soil,
fear of storms that will lower trees onto our home with a blow
that
razes things.

fear of fire
fear of police killing innocent men
fear of politicians who seek to spiral our world backwards,
fear of something happening to the goddamned dog.

                              (the dog that i didn't even want in the first place,
                               the dog that looks at me with soulful eyes,
the dog that i love,
         that i coddle like a goddamned child,
the dog that,
last night,
as i trembled and shook,
              that is not one to cuddle,
got up without a sound
and moved his sweet self from
his usual spot near the bottom of the bed
     to the curve of my side
and stayed there

(goddamned dog)

fear of my sons being hurt or unsuccessful or sad
(crushingly sad,
brokenly sad),

fear of global warming of
        seas evaporating, of the dry earth scorched,
of glaciers melting
and tornadoes erasing everything in their path.

fear of a tiny, pea-sized lump
that will terrorize and undo me

fear that i will not find the strength.
the strength so many others have,
wear like a second skin,
like proof,
like a shining badge of courage,

fear that the two little books i will leave are nothing
not much,
not really,
do not make a mark
my mark,
do not amount to a hill of beans,
will say nothing about me, about the struggle,
will not show how deeply i loved,
how hard i tried
how much i wanted to amount to more than
a carbon footprint

last night i could not stop shaking,
i told myself not to check and recheck, but i did,
because i am weak,
because i fear
(i fear
                  i fear. . .)
i fear.

and the pea-sized lump had moved, was less, was maybe
not so hard,
was maybe not there
anymore...

but still, i kept trembling,
and feeling

i lay awake
dog pressed to my side
wondering
if i will have the strength,
a fight,
if i will find the joy
              in the hardest parts,


if i can find the grace.

aging with (fucking) grace, a rambling and curse-filled post.

me

I'm trying.

Really. (Sort of).

I'm trying to be (fucking) graceful about this aging bullshit.

After all, I admire so many people who are.

In fact, when I think of the people my age and older who I admire, they are the ones who are aging with (fucking) grace.

They don't complain (at least not to me),
they embrace.

Embrace grace. How fucking Seussical.

My whole growing up, I felt judged by my family (sorry family, I love you, but there you have it) for being shallow about superficial things. Like my looks. My body. My hair.

No crease could be left unflattened in my Jordache jeans when I left the house in the mornings;

the alarm got set an hour early so I could work on my perfectly-feathered hair.

And, yes, I kept a calendar of what I wore each school day so as not to commit the offense of repeating a single outfit in a given week (so sue me. . . and did I really think anyone of value was actually paying attention to such a thing?)

So, then, I guess in some ways, I was. Shallow, about that shit, I mean.

It was hard to be a teen girl, then and now. Same as it is hard to be a grown woman, then and now. Maybe moreso, a woman over 40.

50. *coughs*

Right or wrong, so much of our identity as a gender is still tied to how we look. If you think it isn't, you're kidding yourselves. In some ways, I think this is awful. In other ways -- and I guess some would view this as anti-feminist of me -- but I actually think it's normal and okay. Or at least unavoidable as a society as we are. It's simply, how it is.

At times, I truly enjoy our gender differences, and admire good looks, admire someone who takes care of their physical body. I also admire physically many people who aren't typically handsome or beautiful, know seriously overweight people who I think are stunningly beautiful.

Maybe it's wrong of me, but I loved watching the beautiful faces and bodies parade on and off the stage at the Golden Globes . . . and, though a bit of a brouhaha apparently erupted on twitter over Jeremy Renner's rather obvious comment to JLo about her Golden Globes, what else was JLo wanting, actively seeking, but to invite admiration of her female assets by wearing that dress? Am I missing something here?

With perfect hair and my usual HS scowl,
 pre-nose job, 1982.

So, yeah, my looks have always mattered to me, which was hard since I haven't always been a fan of how I looked. After all, by the time I hit puberty, I wore glasses and braces and was diagnosed with scoliosis which was going to require me to wear a large plastic brace on my back -- not the best fashion accessory for a teenage girl.

Moreover, by puberty, my previously-cute button nose had taken on a strong hereditary Semitic bump (and low dip) that both my boys now have, which is wearable and even handsome (IMHO) on a boy, but not so much on a girl.

As I was already being badly bullied in high school, it was unbearable to not at least feel pretty when I left the house on a given day.  Maybe a less superficial person could have hacked it.

At any rate, hate me or love me for it, my looks were always an integral part of who I was, how I viewed myself, and, yes, sometimes, I think, were tied to how I succeeded at certain things. Certainly, post nose-job, I could walk into a room feeling like I'd make a positive first impression. I wanted to look good, I wanted to feel pretty, and I wanted others to think the same of me.

Having said all that, I personally don't think I was shallow or superficial. You may disagree. Really what I wanted most in the world, was what we all want: to feel good about myself, to feel loved and admired, to have friends, and to feel confident in my life. I also cared WAY more deeply about who I was on the inside, and how I treated others, and the good things I did, and so I'm not sure why that so often got lost in the translation.

At any rate, I struggled then, and still do now as so many others do, when I look in a mirror and don't love what I see.

Don't love my body -- the too-full figure, the cellulite on the thighs.

Then, in my early forties (!!!) something sort of miraculous happened: I was in the best shape of my life AND I liked the way I looked!

I think three things coincided to make this happen,

one bad (I went through a period of midlife crisis depression and literally couldn't eat much and lost every ounce of body fat I'd ever had)

and two good: I began swimming religiously -- often several miles a week by my mid-forties--  and my body, for the first time post-baby was lean and mean, and I finally got a book deal and was, for the first time, really doing something in my life I had fought hard for and only dreamed of for a long while.

At any rate. It was fun. It was exhilarating, especially since so many other good and fun things were going on.

Alas, fast forward to 2015.

My forties are somehow, unfathomably, gone.

Late into them, an age spot appeared on my hand. I kid you not, it mocks me daily. Once in a while, I take out a pen and draw a smiley face inside of it. I'd like to tell you that helps.

Late into my forties, the also-hereditary prominent eye bags started really appearing under my eyes. My flat stomach lost shape and the skin got looser around my mid-section.

And my hands. Oh dear lord, my fucking hands.

With my mother on my 50th birthday.
And, yes, I am wearing a tiara.

I have this particular recollection from when I was in my early twenties I think, of my beautiful mother lamenting how old her hands had become.

She must have been in her late forties, then.

We were in her bedroom, I, lazing on her bed, she getting ready for some function.

I told her she was being silly, and she walked over and she pinched the skin on the top of her hand, and showed me how inelastic it had become, and, thus, how long it took it to resettle. I gave her the typical eye roll and she showed me on my hand, the difference, pinched the skin on mine which immediately shot back down.

My hands have become her hands back then. I'm sure she doesn't want to talk about her hands now.

This morning, I sat on the floor playing with the dog, and bottoms of my feet. . . so cracked and dry. . .well, I don't even want to talk about that. . .

And don't get me started on my thighs in downward dog.

No one over fifty should ever go into downward dog. Well, at least without long pants on.

So, I'm trying. I really am. To embrace my own aging with grace. I'm really fucking wanting to be graceful.

My gorgeous, fucking kickass, goddess writer friend Amy Ferris wrote this the other day:

courAGE.
i've decided today that's my new age.
it looks just like 60, but with a little extra OOOOOMPH.

I'm trying to emulate her. Be brave. Be kickass. Embrace this fifty bullshit with grace.

Embrace the changing body, the thinning hair that's lost all its luster . . .

the aching back, sore hips and knees and shoulder (okay, that last one probably more a hazard of all the miles swum than my age, but still. . .).

I'm trying to remind myself I swam a fucking 10K last summer.

I'm trying to hold on to the truth that the numbers are arbitrary and just numbers.

I'm always grateful. I promise. Please don't tell me in the comments to be grateful, because I swear I am. And don't tell me I look good, because what most of you see is photoshopped anyway.

Besides, it's really NOT the point.

And, yes, I see so many others struggling with real health problems and I kiss the ground for this body -- this very one! -- that has done its work so beautifully, so strongly, without too many major disruptions, kept healthy for me, and keeps carrying me along. I swear, I am not without the right priorities and gratitude. In fact, I'm usually overwhelmed by an aching sense of gratitude toward my random dumb luck in this hard, hard world.

But I am also my physical body. At least for now. And I am struggling to view it with grace.

Fucking grace. It keeps on eluding me.

- gae

The Grass, Softer and Greener. . .

me, a few, brief years ago. . . 

I look at this photo and I think: wow, look how much younger, sexier, bolder, skinnier, more entertaining I was.

I crave her. I miss her.

I wonder how she drifted.

I forget that she was also depressed,
anxious,
lost,
wanting, waiting, wishing, and, um,
not eating much.

I forget how she stumbled through the dark house trying simply to hold onto things.

My life since then is happier,

less on edge,

more content.

And, this is a good thing.

But sometimes, I look back on her -- that me from a few short years ago -- with longing.

me, the other day, shorter hair,
more shadows and lines,
a bit less longing,
and yet. . . 

Maybe that's just how I am.

Maybe I am made up of longing.

So that, if I'm not longing someone,

or something,

I am just longing for that old me.

Maybe it's a writer thing. Maybe we must keep scratching at the surface, picking, turning over emotions, until we hit raw nerves.

Maybe we're afraid we'll be stale and staid (boring) if we're not in some glorious state of pain.

And the truth is, it's not hard to get there -- stay there -- wanting,  wishing,

fretting,

longing.

Life obliges,

makes it easy to feel unsettled,

by making it all so tenuous and fleeting.

Face it.

In front of you, it's all a blur,

whooshing by faster than you can catch your breath.

So, behind,

back there,

you,

then,

"ago"

seems stretched out,

heightened,

nearly gilded.

The grass back there is softer, somehow,

isn't it?

Younger,

and greener.

gae

*post script: this blog post has been resonating with friends -- both on my facebook page and in my email -- it made me remember this other post of similar theme, with this beautiful  "green" poem by my friend, and poet and artist, Lori Landau. You can see it HERE.

Needing Time to Slow Down While Wishing it Away...

Okay, fine. The title of this post is a lie.

I never really wish it away.

In fact, I'd probably make a deal with the devil to have it go backwards for a while.

But, the more I swim and need water, the more I need December - April to just go away.

Is that so much to ask for, to have longer days packed into a seven-month year?

But I'm teetering on 50 here (holy fuck), and I need time to stop, slow down. I need time NOT to fly, or months to disappear.

I need to wish 2014 to stay looming in the FAR distance, even though I won't see my next YA in publication until then.

Competing interests, wouldn't you say?

Indeed, I feel like one of those push-me-pull-you's
from Dr. Doolittle,
wanting time to fly almost as badly as
I want it to stand still.

And yet, I know better.

As I sit here and type, my eyes keep darting up to this sweet little
art project my youngest brought home to me what
feels like five minutes ago. . .

Five minutes ago, I put it up on that shelf for safe-keeping (and viewing) until I could find a better spot for it.

It must've been November, for All Saints Day or Day of the Dead, in elementary school, at least five years ago.

Five years in five minutes, I tell you.

Five lousy minutes ago.

Yeah, I'd make that deal with the devil in a heart beat.


-gae

I need somehow to embrace the cold, dark chill in the morning and feel productive, rather than melancholy and dull.

Fall Rush

Me, two winters ago. Time to chop my hair off again.
The old "change my hair" trick...another distraction. ;)

It was June.

It was August.

Now September is nearly gone.

Life is giving me a headrush.

The start of a school year is always a busy time...

add to it, my youngest has taken up a new sport in the mix (golf), and my older has college apps looming over his (my) head, and Drivers Ed.

My revisions on my next book were turned in and I'm waiting for feedback from my new editor at Algonquin (*gulp*). In the meantime, that starts the clock running on the four months until I can turn in my next option book. I don't want another big gap between books if I can help it, and I've got miles to go on those revisions (and would like a back up in place, to boot).

While my "paid work" has been slow, I've also been reviewing the movie script (!!) for The Pull of Gravity movie, if that ever comes to fruition and I have a bunch of book-related stuff coming up including a school visit in PA, and some local, Skype, and NYC events.

And, of course, have still been trying to get in the open water almost daily. . .

West Neck Beach under moody September morning skies

Which means

fall is rushing by.

As always,

life is rushing by.

Lately, faster than ever.

One of my favorite photos of Holden from a few years ago,
taken by my talented friend Rick Kopstein.

I want to stop every parent with a small child who passes by, and shake them, and yell, "Pay attention to every second! Every moment! It will be gone before you know it! You think you know, but you don't know. You don't know!"

I remember people telling me that. I sensed the urgency in their voices, and, I promise you, I took heed.

But, the truth is, even paying attention to every second with wonder and gratitude, won't make it last longer, or slow time down.

I want time back, but it doesn't work like that. Life keeps marching forward.

My beautiful friend Jennifer once wrote to me in a letter (in our early twenties!): "There are only two truths: the first, that you can never let go, and the second, you can never hold on."

I never forgot those words.

How right she was.

- gae

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

West Neck Beach yesterday, where I submerged & felt carefree

So far, I've lived a fairly tragedy-free life.

Sometimes, I'm terrified this means

that

any day now, 

Maira Kalman shoe drawing. Oh, how I love Maira!

the other shoe

will drop.

Why would I get to go unscathed?



That's not to say my life is easy.

We each have our trials and tribulations.

I constantly face the small battles we all face:

tight finances,
marital woes,
injustices done to our children.
Our parents' aging,

my own slow demise.


But here's this boy, Lane, and his scans keep coming back "hot."

His whole life is one big, nearly- insurmountable battle.**

I have friends who have lost parents young,

or lost spouses at their peak of life.

I have friends who have battled cancer.

Friends who lost jobs, lost their homes.

Why would I get to go unscathed?

Or maybe that's the cruel trick of things. That even when we're unscathed, we wait for that other shoe... we know it's only a matter of time.

So, we make bargains with invisible powers,

and remind gods we don't believe in

that we know how truly blessed we are.

**I am swimming in Lane's honor on August 11th.

If you are able to donate . . . any amount NO MATTER HOW SMALL is appreciated.



Here's the link: http://www.swimacrossamerica.org/site/TR/OpenWater/NassauSuffolk?px=1134312&pg=personal&fr_id=1526

Meanwhile, sharing this magnificent poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, from my friend Stephanie's moving blog, Live-Blogging Love and Loss,

and truly am counting my blessings.

- gae

Before You Know What Kindness Really Is

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness. . . .
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Pining for the Young Me

Fuck.

Yesterday was my 19th wedding anniversary - and 24 years together.

We met in law school when I was 24 (yes, yes, honey, you are still a year younger).

He was way different than the guys I was dating and, in truth, I can't tell you what first attracted me to him. I mean, clearly he is cute, but I tended to date older, more sophisticated, more ambitious and self-assured guys.

But, something about him called to me (which is funny, because he was really a bit of a mess back then). He was smart, and funny sure, but something else: he was genuine. In truth, I was head over heels with him. There was tons and tons of chemistry.

We went through a few big bumps before we got married (including several break ups) and a few big bumps afterwards. Did I mention big?

And, yet, here we are.

Marriage isn't easy. And it isn't always exactly what I want. I imagine he feels the same.

But I still love the guy. I still admire him. I still want more than anything for him to be happy.

But here's the thing: I don't know where the fuck those 24 years went. And I'm pissed about it. And i want them back.

And, while you're at it, I want that waist and neck back.

I want that perfect, smooth skin, and my future stretched out ahead of me . . . even though, I am actually the happiest I've ever been at this particular point in my life. I want my future stretched out FROM HERE.

If only we could keep those lovely superficial externals as we gain the wisdom and contentedness that comes with middle age.

But we don't, and we can't, and I see this photo and pine for that external youth so badly it physically hurts.

I look in the mirror and see only the sags and the lines and find myself calculating the costs and risks of Botox and eye lifts and such.

I'm about to turn 48.

If I don't get a grip, what will I do ten years from now?

Twenty- five?

Thirty?

I should be so lucky, I KNOW.

Norah, you will be missed.

The talented, funny and beautiful Nora Ephron died this week. In her book, I Feel Badly About my Neck, she wrote:

"At the age of fifty-five you will get a saggy roll just above your waist even if you are painfully thin.
This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate half the clothes in your closet, especially the white shirts."

I bet you're all thinking how, faced with death, she probably didn't worry about such things.

But I bet you she did. And, I bet you I would.

Even after surgeries and during illnesses, women want to look good. We may feel too sick to try, there may be a level where we say, "fuck it," but it doesn't leave our mind.

It's not vanity. It's what we know. So much of our identity -- of feeling loved and wanted -- is tied to being attractive and young.

I want to be bigger than this. I want not to pine for that old waist and smooth neck, but I do.

I want to toss out the white shirts instead of fretting that my back fat will show.

But, I'm not there yet. I'm not there.

Add caption

Even though my internal life is as happy as it can be.

Even though, aches and pains aside, I am stronger physically now, than I've ever been.

Even though I feel lucky and blessed.

Maybe, instead of botox and tucks,

I just need to have faith that the internal truth of this shines through, bigger than the wrinkles and folds.

Or better yet, really figure out how not to care.

- gae

Limitations and Distractions

Yesterday, I swam 2.25 miles, the last 3/4 miles alone.

Compared to what some people do this is nothing.

Seriously, why is this the first place my brain always goes? Why must I point this out to myself?

Or, maybe it's what keeps me striving -- maybe it's what stops me from being afraid?

Even for me, yesterday's swim wasn't exactly a milestone. I've swum over 3 miles before, though not completely alone, and not in yesterday's conditions: full moon tide, wicked current, some fairly roiling waves.

We had a two-mile swim planned as a group, but the others decided to cut the swim short, due to the conditions,

A post by Carol Moore on the West Neck Pod facebook page
Carol is one of the strongest female swimmers in the pod...
and way faster than I am.

but I needed to push myself. To keep proving I can.

I was tired but (momentarily) satisfied when I got back.

There are days like yesterday, when I feel so strong and capable, and days (like today) where I feel my age endlessly honing in.

I try to kid myself that 48 year old me (soon, soon) is the same as 30 year old me, and the truth is, in some ways I'm stronger, but in others... shit, how the body is cruel. . .

On other fronts, I am endlessly distracted these days by the usual "shiny" things -- facebook, twitter, trying to keep up with blog posts,

the endless lure of the open water

or a lounge chair by my pool.

I keep thinking how happy I am that I wasn't computer savvy (and that some of these things didn't exist) when my boys were little. . . how I truly and happily gave them my undivided attention.

I did. I gave them my undivided attention and I'm grateful.

They truly were my only shiny things and I tried to soak in every mommy moment.

And, still,

and still,

the moments are gone,

and those undivided days have

flown by.

- gae

Blind Contours (with love and thanks to Lori Landau)

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

There's an age spot on my left hand.

It's been there for some time now.

I try not to notice it.




This is my father's pond:

and these, my father,

and my father's gardens.

My father was always ageless. Now, he is nearly 75.

He hauls pots and plants and small boulders up his hillside alone. Even as his eyes grow cloudier,

he gardens from dawn to dusk.

My father is old. My father is strong.

I, too, am aging.

I have a liver spot on my left hand.

It's been there for some time now.

If you were an artist, and you closed your eyes, this is me:

My friend Lori Landau drew this blind contour.
I love this more than words itself.
I see me. I am not old or young. I just am.

When I enter the water, I am strong. I can swim forever.

Yesterday, I braved the water alone.

The waves were strong. They slammed me down.

I was free and not afraid.

When I swim, I have no
age spots
or unfamiliar creases,
or tired eyes.

When I swim,

I am all blind contours.



This is the swing that looks out over my father's gardens:

today it was empty because he was working
in his gardens.
One day, it will just be empty.

How I wish everything could stay green.

- gae

Wind breathes longing,
greens the trees
Burns the mountain
Rains the heart,
Exhales fractiles of green

flecks the eyes

Kaleidoscope retina rearranges

vision

turns like seasons

Kisses open trembling lips

sings songs on tongue of green

Antique (green) syllables fall

amber unto a table set with green

Door opens,

woman stares at wheeling
copper Sun

streaking the sky with fading light 

I want to tell you

About the green of time

Bone, flesh and wild mind

Grasps greenly

here you are and here I am

and here it all is

in the palm of green sand in the green of the hand

fisherwomen go down to green

seas troll green waters

for green’s true and secret name that hides among

heartbroken weeds of green  

-  Lori Landau

** you can see more of Lori's amazing work here at the Art House Co op, Sketchbook Project.

The Other's Gold

Not the best shot, I know.
We were in a restaurant.
It was late and rainy.

I know. I know. It's the Brownie's mantra:

"Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver, and the other gold."

I quit the Brownies after just a few weeks.

Knowing me, I didn't like the uniform.

And, here's the thing. I'm not really a "saver."

Maybe I'm a little bit buddhist in that way. . . people come and go from my life; material things are just that. When I'm done with them, I'm done. My children aren't their childhood drawings or crappy ceramic pots. Or maybe it's just too painful for me to look back. . .

Either way, I'm not a scrapbooker, and I'm usually pretty good at moving on.

I've been blessed to make many friends in the last several years, and many amazing women friends,

my wonderful writer friends, Christine and Megan

My gorgeous, peachy friend, Heidi, who makes
me laugh and keeps me stocked with dizzy skull bags.

A few of my swimmy women friends who save me...

with my friend and partner in crime, Annmarie

More swimming girls, after a swim.

which is something I never truly appreciated as a twenty or thirty-something.

Maybe, it's because I'd been burned plenty of times in my life by my female friends, or maybe it's because I was insecure. Take your pick. One is no more right than the other.

At any rate.

April, 2012 in Columbus Circle, NYC

Yesterday, I spent the day in the city with my best friend from high school.

Understand, we were joined at the hip in high school.

We shared clothing, adventures, boyfriends,* and plenty of heartache.

As always, the relationship was fraught with complexity. The truth is, I envied her: her athleticism, her particular type of smarts, and her beauty.

As a teenager, I wanted to be her.

During periods of my life, when we weren't in touch, she permeated my dreams, and arose with love and, yes, pain in my writing. Here, from a still-unpublished manuscript of mine, is a snippet of my very-fictionalized first view of her:

"The first time I see Joanie, she is in fitted Lee jeans, a white button-down shirt and cowboy boots the color of wet sand.  A cherry red wool sweater drapes across her shoulders and her flaxen hair slips midway down her back in a perfect blunt line.  But it is not her hair or her moon-shaped ass I am in awe of, but rather the ease with which she wears the battered leather boots."

Maybe that captures some essence of the childlike awe I felt for her.

Jennifer, this month in Hawaii. :)

Yesterday, I spent the day in the city with her.

With my best friend from high school.

I still envy and admire her all the things I did when we were 16.

I still love her with a connection that is deep and visceral.

Turns out, the Brownies were right.


- gae

*rarely at the same time ;)

I Dig a Poster (with Charles Hawtry and the deaf aids)

Yep. It's true.

At nearly 48, I have made it. I can die happy.

I may never have another book deal. I may never have fortune and fame.

But, apparently, now, I am a poster*:

*coughs*

It's true. As promo for the Rochester Teen Book Festival (May 19), you can order my author poster and hang 46** year old me on your wall (*more coughing*) like some fading Charlie's Book Nerd Angel.

Thanks to my pal, Rick Kopstein, a fantastic photographer whose work you can see there on that link or HERE on his Photo of the Day website, it's not a bad representation:

Me, in my best light, if you will.

As much as this whole poster-me thing brings me endless amusement, like everything else lately, it's also a mixed bag. It brings up issues for me. Indeed, there something sad and poignant and ironic (?) about it, weighed against my lamentations here of late about loss of youth and physical appearance.

I mean, here's the the new fear brewing: that I will sorely disappoint in person.

And don't start typing comments to make me feel better.

I'm almost 48. It is what it is.

Still, I can hear them now, the slack-jawed rumblings from the twitter and facebook crowd, and others who know me from my author photos, as I walk to the dais and sit down:

Blogger A: "Is that her?"

Blogger B: "Man, that must have been years ago ..."

Blogger C: "Years and years and years..."

Nope. *sigh* Just two. Hey, look, I'm teetering on the brink of 50 here. Besides, it's nothing a little photoshop can't hide.

Anyway, here's the deal. I've decided I'm coming to the festival armed, just in case, with a few 8 X 10's of me now:

Me, this minute, standing at my computer

Plunk me in a pool in the bright sunlight with a good photographer, and I look exactly the same.

*coughs*

Okay, maybe not.

What? There are a few more creases and lines. And, yes, the bags...

Crap.

Poster, anyone?

- gae

*poster is really only an 8 x 10 I think...
**author photos taken 5.8.10

Clinging to my Aura

I'm growing more and more jealous of deeply religious or spiritual people (while emphatically having almost zero desire to be one), if only because they have a goal or desire or comfort that extends beyond this life, be it to Heaven or enlightenment in a new form through reincarnation.

Without that, there are endless goals ahead of me that I badly want to achieve, but they all feel marred, or at least laden, by the concrete fact that this physical body, from head to toe, is going to give out on me.

It's already begun.

Try as I might to somehow settle myself in this knowledge, and be okay with it, I can't get there; it's all too much to bear.

Which is why it fascinates me that, in the yoga room, I promise you (I kid you not), I can see my aura. A halo of light that outlines the entire edge of my body expanding and vibrating with my breath.

And, not just around me, but around all the bodies in the room.

Back when I was in my late thirties, and was practicing yoga on a regular (almost daily) basis, I remember how, right when I turned 40, I saw it then, after a uniquely spiritual period in my life. Soon after, for various reasons not important here (though one being that I don't really like doing yoga -- only like how it makes me feel after), I stopped, and began my current passion of swimming.

Now, so many years later, returning to a mild practice, I thought fondly of the aura sighting, and worried that it wouldn't be there.

But, alas, there it is.

And if I focus on it while I'm trying to hold a pose, it will often pull me through.

According to Wikipedia, "an aura is a field of subtle, luminous radiation surrounding a person or object (like the halo or aureola in religious art). The depiction of such an aura often connotes a person of particular power or holiness. Sometimes, however, it is said that all living things (including humans) and all objects manifest such an aura. Often it is held to be perceptible, whether spontaneously or with practice: such perception is at times linked with the third eye of Indian spirituality.^"

Well, whatever it is, I can see it. And I need it bad, so I'm clinging to it. And I'm not letting go.

I have an aura, and you have an aura, and that has to mean something good.

- gae

The Pieces of Me

Some days I feel frantic, others lucky, to try to push myself to do more, be more, than I originally thought I could be.

I am acutely aware of time ticking.

Of days passing me by.

Of seasons changing from summer to fall
to winter once again.

I want to grasp life -- to embrace it and make more of it -- but some days I just don't really know how.

I try not to say no out of fear.

I want to take in the small moments, make them indelible, hold them captive, tiny photographs in my brain,

while grabbing the huge moments with gusto, a big, shiny, sturdy brass ring.

I swim. http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fthewater-blog.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F10%2Ftempest-meets-ides-of-october.html&h=-AQDcvu4yAQB3zGV9avoRAGA4CZIcn91UiLRmSfQNBZT-Hw

I write. http://gaepolisner.com



Now, I even teach. http://www.lenaroy.com/2011/10/why-i-heart-gae-and-ya.html

I lawyer. I parent. I wife. I love.

Sometimes none of it feels like enough.

Sometimes, all of it feels like too much.

I am so many pieces. I am exhilarted. I am lacking. I am fulfilled. I am numb.

I let the waves embrace me.
I hold on for dear life.

I let go as much as I can.

I am acutely aware of time ticking
and the days passing me by.

- gae

Fucking Peter Gabriel

er, that's not how it sounded, but I wish.
okay, no I don't. Jon Hamm, maybe. Or these days, Adam Levine. But anyway.

I blame Peter Gabriel for my angst this morning. Like a Pavlovian trigger, In Your Eyes, took less than two minutes to take a sunny day and turn it angsty. Or maybe I've been hovering there all week. It's the whole end of summer/time flying thing. There are days I can't take it. There are meds for that, I know. Maybe I could use some.

Trust me on this: It's hard to get older. To see the days flashing by. To watch your face and body change no matter what you try to do to hold it suspended in your youth. Life is hard. Then you die. Someone famous once said.

And, I'm not fishing for compliments. I know I look pretty good for 47. Still, it aint no 25. Thanks anyway, though.

I sound gloomy, I know. Apologies. It's that fucking Peter Gabriel song that gets me every time.

I've had two unrequited "loves" in my lifetime. It's amazing how those stick with you no matter how many years pass. In both cases, the boys (men, whatever they were) pursued me, then dropped me without warning, and without a willingness to remain friendly or ever basically speak to me again. When I think of either of those people, it still hurts -- or worse, brings me back to this intense place of longing. Is there anything more angsty than longing?

A few years ago I read (in the New York Times) about a study that demonstrated that, when we remember something painful, it triggers a chemical or a spot (forgive me on the technical details) in our brains that actually momentarily behaves as if we are reliving the pain at that moment. Ah, then there's a science behind it. This makes me feel less crazy.

At any rate, Peter Gabriel just brings me back there. And so he did this morning. Luckily, there's water in my back yard and a bathing suit right over there.

- gae

Obsessed!

Me, underwater.

This is me. In the water. Like you know I like it.

Over the past three years, I've become a fairly obsessive swimmer. I've done some things I'm pretty proud of, like became an open water swimmer at age 45, swam a 5K (against current), and made a second 3.2 mile swim with a friend. Like plunged into waters not much more than 53 degrees, swam with jellyfish and bunkerfish and other such unmentionables that got stuck down my bathingsuit and stung up my back. I'm not the bravest girl in the world (check out my first few open water swim posts, here if you want to see how far I've come:  http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/05/do-something-new.html,  http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/conquer-and-fail-but-more-conquer-than.html, http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/to-fresh-water-or-salt-water.html,    http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/lure-of-body-parts-and-kissing-baby.html), but I've pushed myself in ways I never thought I could. I was never much of an athlete, now I sort of am.

Me, center, coming out of the water
with the girls.

My goal this summer is still to swim 5 miles. It may be this summer, it may be next, depending on who I can get to go with me (and finding a boat-safe route).

I've been relatively proud of myself. I mean, after all, these are pretty cool things. 

But, man oh man, how we push ourselves is all relative. A few weeks ago, a fellow POD member sent us an email about Diana Nyad. If you don't know who she is, you should. I've become pretty obsessed with her, if you must know. Especially if you're over the age of 40, you should spend a minute checking her out, because I'm telling you right now, she can change how you view middle age.

At 61, Diana is poised to swim 103 miles from Cuba to Florida through shark and poisonous jellyfish infested waters. Without a wetsuit, without a shark cage and without rest. At least, she's poised to try. That's 60+ hours in the ocean. Not the little harbor off the cozy Long Island Sound where I swim, people! That's a whole different roiling ball of water.

I swim for an hour or two,
then have a nice little shower.

By the end of the swim, her tongue will be swollen, her skin will be salted and stung raw, and she will be suffering pretty badly from hypothermia. And, of course, that doesn't factor the sharks. . .

To "warm up" for the swim (which is about to start any day -- she's waiting for water temperatures to settle at 86 degrees) she did a 24-hr ocean swim. She's set records before. All her life. She doesn't need to do this again. But she wants to keep pushing herself to try.

For her sake, I hope she makes it all the way; for my sake, it doesn't matter at all. Finish or not, she's already inspired me. With every stroke I take, with every mostly-innocuous jellyfish that slips through my fingers as I swim.

Cheering you on, Diana! Thank you.

- gae