My Not Quite Annual: Revisit, Renew and Resolve 2015 into 2016 Version

It's been a mostly good year.
This guy is my constant. 

Though I'm a creature of habit, I'm also a fan of "blank slates."

I'm particularly a fan of resolutions made upon a blank slate: A New Year filled with hope and possibility. I try to shed judgment. I try not to be a cynic and believe. . .

I like to believe I keep most my resolutions. Going back to past posts can be a fun *coughs* way to check in and see. So, that's what I've done here, and except for the wholly misguided "do Burpees daily," most years I like to think I've done a good job.

So, let's find out. I think I'll revisit a few posts past and rate myself on a scale of 1- 10:

REVISIT:

In 2010 into 2011 I renewed three long-standing resolutions I have made well in the past:

(i) take the stairs whenever possible (unless it's more than five flights or I am carrying heavy things):
   
10! No seriously, you guys!! I get a 10 on this one.

late November in the open water. And I was in yesterday,
December 5th. Not bad. 

(ii) swim whenever possible:

hmmm. Define "possible."

Okay, fine, I'm giving myself a 9 on this one. A 9. That's not too bad.

(iii) be a good confidante/friend. Don't gossip or tell secrets others share.

Crap. In all honesty, I have to go down a point. I can make excuses . . . whatever. . . but this is the reason I renew this every year. I give myself a solid 8. I've done better. Going back to being a 10 on this next year.

In 2012 into 2013, I renewed a few things too. Let's (not) see how I did.

(i) Less facebook. Shut up. *weeps* Does not rate self. Moves forward (see new fucking resolution below).

Yes, see. that is me yoga'ing in my "piano room."
No, there is no photo of me facebooking. 

(ii) More yoga, less almost going to yoga:

Well, I've been doing yoga from home (I've had two consecutive studios close since that post and decided for now to just take charge on my own. Have a few yoga videos I love on Gaia TV. I'm giving myself a solid 8 on this one too.

(iii) Less talk, more action, and

(iv) More reading, less TV.

If I'm being kind to myself, I'll give myself a 7 - 9 on these. I plan to renew and do better on both in the new year.

* a quick word on this: it's hard to take action, it really is. Some people are better at it than you are (I am). Reach out to those who are and "use" them. Let them guide you. There are organizations that will tell you exactly how. If you are as disturbed about the gun violence in our world as I am, three organizations that will walk (and text!) you through it are Moms Demand Action for Gunsense in America (you do NOT have to be a Mom to join and they have Dad chapters too!), Everytown for Gun Safety, and Women Against Gun Violence. They are all doing the good, hard work for all of us! But they need your support, monetarily and otherwise. Make phone calls, show up at walks, share information. *

2014 into 2015, skirting about more of the same:

(i) Burpees: SHUT UP! But more yoga: not bad;

(ii) Write more in different genres (a/k/a stretch my writing chops?):

Well, first of all, THE MEMORY OF THINGS which (finally) sold midyear and is due out Fall 2016 from the awesome St. Martin's Press (I am crazy excited about this!!!) is told from two perspectives, and one of those is in free verse. Why yes, I have no business writing half a book in free verse, but I have anyway, and after 4,000 revisions, and with the help of my incredible editor, I think it's really good. Like, really, really good.

I've also been trying to write some (so far crappy) short stories (hey, they are hard!!) and even sketched out half a crappy (shut up) picture book the other day about an infamous dive. Not a seedy bar, yo. Off a diving board into the water.

And, yeah, I even revisited my tween/teen/20-something roots and wrote an angsty poem which I bravely (stupidly?) shared here. And the new manuscript I'm working on is definitely pushing me outside my comfort zone in various ways, so, yeah, I'm giving myself a solid 73/4.

(iii) Try something brave and brand new: Well, crap. I meant to. I wanted to. I have three more weeks. *adds it to this year's list*

Okay, so, here we go:

RENEW:

1. Yep, swimming and yoga. Here's the thing: I never ever regret doing either after I have finished. There is your test right there.

2. As always, be a better friend and a confidante.

3. Take the stairs.

RESOLVE. . . and RE-RESOLVE:

4. Don't be lazy about the little things. a/k/a bend down and pick it up. (This is actually a renew that, for whatever reason I never mentioned before... I'll tell you story behind it in a little "*" below . . .

5. Do something Brave and New. Stay tuned, motherfuckers. *smiles sweetly* (I have no clue what it is. . . )

6. Here we go (and this New York Times article is really my impetus to do better): Less facebooking/social media and, yes, this includes taking out my phone. I'll still be there on all those places (!) just with more purpose and control. There are tools to help, if you don't know them, like Freedom or Anti-social. I'm committed to keep trying and to keep renewing along the path as I fall off the wagon.


So that's what I've got solidified for now. I need to think on some of the emotional stuff -- the relinquishing and letting go.

There's big work to be done there: 2016 is an exciting and tumultuous year for me. A new book coming out. . . and, an empty nest. Can't even think about that second one... I've got some time to shore myself up on these things, and, when all else fails, I can swim.

Got any resolutions to renew or share? Love to hear them.

Hope your 2015 has been productive and good. Here's to a new year coming soon!

- gae

**Oh, crap. Edited because I forgot to tell you the don't be lazy story. Basically, there's a woman about my age at my gym where i swim in the winter months. She has MS and is relegated to a walker and very slow movement. In the time it takes me to get out of my street clothes, into my bathing suit, showered and into the pool, she has made it across the locker room and gotten herself situated to get undressed for the same routine. It takes her three times the effort it takes me to get ready; three times the effort to swim. Her name is Debra. She's an inspiration to me... always remind myself that it's so easy for me to do the little things: to pick up a piece of paper from the floor, to go back and turn off a dripping faucet more tightly. One day it might not be. At any rate, she -- that woman -- inspires me. <3 p="">

2014 into 2015: Shifting (and Settling) Sands (Renew, Resolve, and Relinquish Redux)

Study in blue. . . 

I shouldn't be blogging as I am steeped in revisions on a deadline, if mostly a self-imposed one.

Still, old habits die hard, and if I don't blog, this New Year is going to roll in in utter silence from me... with the saddest little whimper on record.

Well. it appears it's likely going to do so anyway.

The sands of my life they are a shifting. Starting with New Years Eve.

For the first time in seventeen years, I will be ringing in this new year's eve quietly.

Without either of my children at home.

Without their friends or mine.

Without the food, and festivities, and the noisemakers,

New Years Eve 2010-11 Photo credit: Rick Kopstein



without the party guests,

and the glow sticks and the confetti in the air.

2011-12 photo credit: Rick Kopstein

2012-13. . . and so on... photo credit: Rick Kopstein

The writing has been on the wall.

Each year for the past four, a group of kids has aged out, gone off to college, stopped by on their way to and from other plans.

The girls whose faces I painted,

who made wearable art jewelry with me,

whose New Year's Eve henna tattoos lasted for weeks after they'd all gone home.

And the boys,

who eagerly arrived to dinosaur scavenger hunts before retiring to the basement for video games and pizza.

Who fought over glow sticks, who trashed my floor with spilled sodas and scarred my ceiling with exploding caps from holiday "crackers," which half made me cringe, but more made me smile, at the sheer fact of it.

Of the fact that we all were here.

For seventeen years, on this one night, we were all here.

Somehow, I thought I had more time.

This year, most of the adults bowed out, their children off on their own adventures, they too have decided to make new plans. In the city for fancier dinners. For theater or concerts,

off to celebrate with their grown children.

glow sticks headband in the aftermath. . . 

Other plans.

My youngest son feels the weight of it too -- "I looked forward to it every year, Mom. It was magic," but he too, is ready to move on.

Needs to move on.

Like sand in the hour glass. . .

But, oh, how that sand rushes through.


So, I'm trying to be big about it.

Accepting.

But I'm a creature of habit, especially when the habit is having my children.

Yet, I have to accept. Let the sand settle down all around me.

Accepting, I think, is the buzz word of our fifties.

But how to accept without atrophying?

This post is a mess. I apologize.

I meant to be witty, make lists. I mean to resolve, and I will. Yes, that's what I meant to do.

I like to resolve and many of them I actually keep, even some of the bigger ones. Take these from 2010: http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/three-rs-of-2011-renew-resolve.html

although the burpees may have fallen by the wayside. . .

But it is nice to go back, reflect on some of the things I've accomplished. I know I feel like I have less energy and resolve than I had in 2010, so it gives me incentive to make new goals, to set them in (virtual) stone, and give myself less of a chance to just settle here.

So in echo of 2010 into '11, here are my 2014 into '15 R&R's:

Renew: see, e.g. 2010, yes even the burpees, if more of a yogic burpee... (http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/12/three-rs-of-2011-renew-resolve.html);

Resolve:

yoga me, circa 2012...

more yoga, less sitting. 50-year old bodies need both the flexibility and balance of a yoga practice. I don't love yoga, but I'm convinced of this in my (very achy joints and) bones;

more writing in new genres. I have always wanted to write a picture book, a play, and am suddenly interested in writing short stories, which never appealed to me before, so that's cool). I have a collaborative project about to go out on submission, and I also have started to explore new publishing options for some of my unpublished work, at least the work that has garnered the approval of at least one reputable NYC literary agent (if not two or three, which some of them have!) and one reputable editor, but never made it through "acquisitions" for whatever various marketplace reasons.

Try something brave and brand new. Stay tuned. I don't know what this is. It could be a longer swim (which means longer than a 10K which could be hard!) or a swim in a brand new environment. It could be the new publishing endeavors (see above) or it could be something brand new and exciting all together.

This I know, I have to do something. It's the new things, the brave things, that keep us from feeling irrelevant.

Relinquish.

Social media. Not altogether, no. But it has to give. It has to make room for more permanent successes. This one is hard for me. To find the balance. And, equally, to find the discipline.

My view of myself and my physical body. I need to stay in shape because it's healthy and invigorating. But one glance at my legs in downward dog makes it clear there is no holding on to that body.






My children as they were,


embracing all that I can hold on to:



the wonderful young men that they are now.

This is a process. I'm figuring out how to let go.

It helps when I hear them sing and play guitar.

https://soundcloud.com/samuelgraymiller/that-western-skyline-cover

https://soundcloud.com/holden-miller-1

But, man, what an unfathomably short time we get to borrow them. . .

Relinquish: so many things. Let go.

Move forward, rather than stew. After all, 2014 has been good. It's seen the release of my new book, seen me complete a 10K in the open water. Seen Son One really find his place socially, have success with his music, know he's good. See Son Two make the varsity basketball team, himself become a really good musician.

For all of us, it's been full of successes and struggles, accolades and "rejection."

But more than anything, we're lucky. It's been good.

And so, if I ring it in quietly with my husband and our dog, and a list of things I still need to do -- want to do -- what can be blue?

How can I be anything but grateful?

Charlie at the edge of shifting sands... photo credit: Laurie Capobianco

Wishing you all a peaceful, healthy New Year full of hope and love.

xox gae

The Fear Age

Say goodbye to me. I'm dying.

Well, at least according to WEB MD, I could be.

This is what happened.

Last night, I looked down and the skin on my shins was peeling. Like, flaking off completely. Both legs.

Now, sure, I might have gone to Florida a few weeks ago and overdid the whole sun thing. But my arms peeled weeks ago. This was not from that, was it?

Also, my right shoulder has been hurting like a motherfucker.

And, yes, I typically swim a bunch of miles per week and, yes, swimmers notoriously have shoulder issues.

Add to that the yoga I've been doing a few times a week. Those chaturangas can be bitches on your shoulders.

But I've taken a FULL WEEK OFF and I'm still hurting.

Come to think of it, my left shoulder is hurting, too.

And, there's still the hip bursitis that's now lasted for a few years.

In fact, all my joints are aching.

So, back to my peeling legs.

What the fuck?

I do the prudent thing. I go to the computer (my mind screaming, DO NOT GO TO THE COMPUTER!!) and I google skin peeling on legs.

It asks me (via my further search choices) "in sheets?"

Jesus, no.  

It asks, instead:

"skin peeling and dry eyes?"

Why yes, my eyes have been dry. Just the other day, I was complaining to my husband . . .

and,

I have Lupus. Or at least, four other symptoms that match that disease.

Or, you know, some other tragic disease.

Now, the good news is, a. I have a dear friend with Lupus and b. she is, for all intents and purposes, an Iron Man. Okay, well, she's a half iron woman. But, she can do, and does do, anything. So, you know, if that's what it is, I will survive it.

But what if it's something else? What if . . . I'm dying?

We're all dying, I remind myself, trying to stop that snowball from rolling. From the moment we're born, we're dying. 

BUT, what if I'm dying NOW??

where I swim to find my calm. It's been four months since I've found my calm.

Just so you know, so you're prepared, if I am dying, I'm not going to be one of those graceful, positive people I wish I could be when faced with some tragedy.

I'm going to be a blathering, disastrous mess. Tears. Puking. Panic. Passing out. It's a well known fact that I'm a passer-outer.

I'm sorry. I'd like to believe otherwise, and I guess we can hold out hope. But we should be otherwise prepared.

And, I know I'm not alone in this fear of dying thing. My brilliant writer friend, Amy Ferris, has documented her own Post-WEB MD spiral hilariously and poignantly HERE.

In fact, I remember a neurologist telling me that it's quite common with mothers . . . that overwhelming fear we develop that we will die and leave our children too soon.

In good humor, I've had many a facebook friend confirm their own, daily morbid fears.

I also know it's not mothers alone. My dear friend Jeff, a father of four, jokes about the goodbye videos he's made for his children, with every WEB MD self-diagnosis he's made. In fact, he's made me promise to keep them, and dole them out year after year.

And, yes, I've agreed. Of course, of course, I have agreed.

Look, we laugh about it. We joke. But the truth is, we're all terrified.

We're all laughing through our fear and our tears.

So.

In the middle of the night, I woke up hurting, all dizzy and reeling too. This has happened on occasion, too, over the past two years.

So, I've called the doctor and made an appointment. Hopefully, she'll tell me it's all nothing but age and fear and dry skin. The good old process of "getting old."

And, if that's what she says, I swear -- I mean, pinky promise, girl scout's honor, signed in blood -- it's the last time I'll google WEB MD.

- gae

of space stations, and emails with my mother, and time that is fleeting

sometimes I can barely stay afloat.

sometimes I can barely stand how very fleeting it is.


- gae

Post-Hurricane Lamentations and Thankfulness

Bodies of water nearly merged where once they were separate
West Neck Beach, Long Island
Photo: The Water-blog, Carol Moore

Hurricane Sandy blew through here, razing homes, yanking down power lines, changing the shoreline forever.

Our power was out for 11 cold days (house down to 46 degrees by the end of the second dark week), and, yet, we were so very lucky compared to so many others.

Despite the downed trees lying across roads like so many dead bodies left to decay, lost of any of their once-magestic magnificence, and one hatcheted school vacation, there is little evidence of the utter destruction it left in its wake.

Go a few towns over, and that is not the case.

We haven't spoken in over twenty years, but I keep wondering after my high school boyfriend who I know has a family in Lindenhurst.

Here, things have gone pretty much back to normal.



Me, out front, getting an endorphin rush the other day,
with a few friends from the West Neck Pod. Photo, Carol Moore.

But for the occasional effort to donate non-perishables, warm clothes and blankets, my life has returned to its usual mix of parenting, writing, swimming, and entertaining my falsely-perceived masses on facebook.

Of fretting over how gray my hair has gotten (very), or how much more my knees can possibly continue to sag (hopefully, not much more).

And, over larger things, too, like the departure of my first child, in less than a year, to the cruel hard world of college.

How will he fare?

How will I fare without him?

Over my younger son's self esteem, having gotten cut from the high school basketball team. And, no, that Michael Jordan story holds no magic for anyone anymore.

And, yes, over which quinoa recipe I should make for this year's Thanksgiving Table.



My three boys at last year's Thanksgiving table.

I'm going with a fig, arugula, orange and goat cheese quinoa, drizzled balsamic reduction. I may toss in some pomegranate seeds -- a symbol of renewal -- for good measure.

I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving this year. Especially this year, though it's always been my favorite holiday.

I have a good, easy life of which I am endlessly cognizant, grateful.

For which I am eternally thankful.

Well, except for the sagging knees.

- gae

p.s. A very happy Thanksgiving to all my readers. I am so appreciative that you stop by here.

Submersion and reconstitution

me, emerging from the water on
November 11
a whopping 39 degrees. . .

Some days I could be convinced to move to warmer climate.

Write on the beach,

bask in the sun,

swim in the open water in nothing but a bathing suit and goggles.

New York, post-hurricane, is hell right now. People suffering. Moreso, on this gray, gloomy day.

A dead tree, toppled by Sandy, is blocking my view of the street.

I'll get back, but the hurricane knocked me off my path.

My revisions are due soon on the book still (temporarily) known as Frankie Sky. College apps are due for my oldest son. . . the man who is taller than I am, who sleeps in the other room.

How did he get big like that, my son?

How did his childhood speed through here?

I tried to stay alert, and present and focused, to soak it all in, to take my time and enjoy it and make it all last. But, alas, I find myself awakened like some aging Sleeping Beauty, to it disappearing beyond reach, the tail end fading off in the rear view mirror.

I know there is life after the kids leave home -- after 50 -- but, still, I don't know how I got here, on the verge.

Waving goodbye to a whole part of my life that was just stretched out before me.

How often in this blog do I long (whine? God, let me not whine) for the days and weeks back, to slow time down. To stop it from blurring by so fast.

How often do I douse myself in water, hoping the submersion will preserve me, reconstitute the days and years that have simply flown by. Or, at least my ability to ground myself, and the will to accept they are gone.

a few short years ago. . .

- gae

Bye, Bye Birdies

Bobo and Taha, our ex-cockatiels

I'm not an animal person. I wish I were.

Partly, I'm not good with noise, smell or mess. I joke at times that I'm borderline autistic in my senses -- to the point of discomfort, at that.

Also, I'm terrified of them being hurt or injured. I overempathize maybe. But I can't bear the thought of the suffering. And I have all I can handle to try to keep the humans I'm responsible for from suffering.

Suffice it to say, I don't make a good pet owner, and I know it.

Now, you should know, I grew up with pets. Cats and big dogs. As a little girl, I was definitely devoted to our first dog, Maverick. But, as I got older, I got less tolerant of the drool and the smell and the hair. I enjoyed an occasional cuddle with the kittens, but I couldn't clean up cat vomit without gagging. Or, scoop poop from the ground or their litter.

I am just not cut out for poop scooping.

And the good goes in hand with the bad.

People think I don't like animals. I do. I just love them more from afar.

I get how that truth doesn't seem reasonable.

At any rate, fast forward to my two beautiful boys who, by the time they are toddlers, want what every kid wants: a cat or a dog. Except, I'm not a good pet owner, and, anyway, Son Number One is allergic. Badly, badly allergic.

The parade of non-cat or dog animals begins.

Enter:

hermit crabs (RIP);

bunny rabbits (oy vey, what was I thinking?!), and, then

birds.

And one supposedly hypoallergenic dog (Not!) in between.


I didn't even want a freaking dog and I wept for days when we had to give him back.

Sobbed, I tell you.

Some of you might remember the weeping.  

Son Two with Taha recently

At any rate, the birds lasted here for nearly six years. It was a good run. Honestly, I think and hope we were actually pretty good owners.

BUT, they never got the attention they seemed to crave, or I felt they truly deserved.

They would love nothing more than to be out on my shoulder all day -- and guess what, I'd let them be, except for the constant liquid poop thing. . .

Still, we gave them a decent amount of attention, as best we could.

But, the boys are getting bigger, and the older leaves for college next year.

And he is the person in our house who has always been best with the birds.

So, the other day, when a chance conversation came up with a friend  -- her partner was BADLY wanting a bird; she had owned one previously that had died, and her heart was craving another -- I felt maybe it was karmic, and I jumped on it.

Last night, with the boys' consent, we packed their cage and brought them to their new home.

So, today, the spot with the bird cage is empty, and Taha and Bobo are gone. I keep turning my head to the sound of phantom tweets.

And, yes, I have shed a few tears.

I can only imagine how it will be when the boys' bedrooms are empty. I mean, I never even minded their poop.

But, in the meantime, I am grateful. I know the birds have a wonderful -- better -- new home.

And, of course, life marches. And birds fly.

With love and gratitude to Carol and Carole.

- gae

This is Not

I dropped my boys off at school this morning.

They rushed out, swept into the sea of moving bodies.

A train came, slowing my path home. The 7:27 that bothers me every time.

Still, three minutes later I was home.

I pulled into my driveway and stared at my small brick house trying to picture it, one year from now, my oldest gone.

Four years from now,
with only my husband and me in it.

Where is the time where little children roamed the rooms,
drew on chalkboards,
made stick puppets,
cuddled safely in my arms?

Where is the woman with babies, with toddlers, with children rushed to baseball games, tennis lessons, piano?

Where are the pancakes and Big Book of Trains and boys in the snowman pajamas?

How are so many meet-the-teacher nights gone?

Whose house will this be, with no small boys to tuck in?
To teach to be brave?
To set free?

Whose house will this be, if I am the mother of these boys
and these boys are
gone?

This house is not me
without them.

This is not a house.

N'est pas un pipe.

- gae

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.

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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

Parenting by Example, Not for the Faint-Hearted

me, right side up, the way a mother belongs

To my friends and family who love me, I am known as a passer-outer. I'm not proud of it. It is, as they say, what it is. I faint when I get scared because I breath-hold or over-breathe and end up with what's known as a vasovagal response. (I know it's wikipedia, but trust me, it's close enough).

I know it's a mind over matter thing, and for a short while in my late teens, I was able to let my mind win out, but little since then, so I've mostly learned to deal with it. I bury my pride and ask to lie down when I have my eyes "touched" by anything that they shouldn't be touched by (IMHO this includes pretty much anything and everything except my own finger/contact lenses), or when I have blood drawn or any major medical work done. The fear isn't in my rational mind, but obviously it's there somewhere. I also get lightheaded if I think my family is in danger or there's a health scare.

I seriously couldn't even *look* at the photos
of real ears with needles sticking out. Oy.

Which leads me to yesterday and my son's appointment with an accupuncturist. And the part where I tried to demonstrate how simple and easy it was to get acupuncture by letting the guy stick needles in my ears first.

It wasn't just the needles, however, it was his lack of gentle delivery when he saw an "issue with your uterus" that I may have wanted to "get checked out."

Son watching. Mind racing to the "C" word, to the specialists I would have to see, to the teary videos I would leave for my children in an effort to say a proper farewell. And, of course, NEEDLES being poked in my EARS.*

Suffice it to say, it wasn't my best parenting moment, but we've learned that my son is very good in the face of an emergency which includes watching his mother turn an inhuman shade of green-white, as her eyes roll back in her head and her normal self disappears from conscious view.

Also suffice it to say, No, he did NOT choose to get acupuncture himself after that.

- gae

*and, yes, everything is fine, as far as I know, with my uterus. Turns out the dude was merely being awkward about asking if perhaps I was pregnant (no!) and/or had my period (bingo -- and kind of impressive that he could tell that from my ear).

Do Something New

Me as my lawyer self. . .

I'VE BEEN A LOT OF THINGS, and done a lot of things, in my life, if not nearly as much as I wished to (in somewhat chronological order): gymnast, actress, special events coordinator, tv production assistant, flower seller, paralegal, lawyer, wife, mother, mediator, writer.


I've piloted a hot air balloon as part of a the crew, I've flown over the Bermuda triangle to Bimini for lunch with my uncle in a two-seater plane. I've been up the side of Mt. Blanc in a gondola. And, I've skied off the side of a black diamond ski slope. Er.

I'M STILL WAITING FOR MY WETSUIT TO TURN ME INTO A SUPERHERO. Having said that, I've never been a huge risk taker (never bungee jumped or sky dived or did half the things I thought I would), and the older I get -- and especially once I became a mother with two amazing boys that depend on me -- the less of a daredevil/adventurer I've become. If truth be told, my life has become pretty staid.

NEW THINGS. So, it's been interesting and exhilarating, if sometimes scary, after years and years of trying, to have a brand new career as a "real" published author ahead of me. It means all sorts of ways of putting myself out there (if not of the sky jumping variety). It means public appearances and readings, including ones across country alone. I have not travelled alone since I was a young adult. It means getting reviewed and putting myself out there for the ultimate success or the fall. Or the "dreaded" somewhere in between.



At the same time, I still want new ways, if slightly safer, to put myself out there. I've joined an open-water swim group, that starts out in the Long Island Sound this weekend. I've got my wetsuit, and my beanie cap and my booties and my gloves. But the email I just got from the group leader says, water temps are still in the mid-fifties. This means numb face, which may just be too tough for me to bear. Do I wait a few weeks till the water chugs up to 60 degrees? Or do I bite the buoy and put myself out there?


WHAT DO YOU DO to keep your world from getting old?