Lion and Magic Boy

Yeah. Well, I don’t have much to report, actually.

Catdeathwatch 2008 is in full effect. Poor Ninja/Nacho has lost bladder control (on my bed, thank you, among other places) and hasn’t eaten or drank in, well, awhile. He can barely walk and can’t go up or down steps any more. This morning’s vet visit may well be his last, because his pitiful face is too heartbreaking.

Thanks to all who posted suggestions about my coffee problem.  This Whole Foods coffee I’m drinking presently is a temporary solution, and I’m reviewing your suggestions carefully.  You can’t overlook the importance that these types of vices play in our lives.

So, you know, the transformation stuff.  It’s been an intense week, rather.  Things feel actually quite wonderful just now, and I’m hesitant to step off the conveyor belt again into transformationland.  I’d like to enjoy this feeling of balance for a bit.  The whole process, this deep inner soul-searching stuff, is as they say like peeling layers off an onion.  Yeah, except I want to go right to the heart of it, baby!  Either that or avoid the process entirely, can I do that?

Things I learned this week (that I already knew but had somehow forgotten):

1.  I always have a choice.  Woo hoo!

2.  Um, refer to #1.

3.  What I see about myself isn’t necessarily the way other people see me.

4. I always have the answers.  Even when I can’t seem to find them.

There! Wasn’t that fun?

I will leave you with a story:

When I was 3 we lived in a 2-story house in a smallish town in the East Bay Area.  We had moved there from southern CA, not that I remember much of that place.  The new house had STAIRS!  and a playroom where we kept our record player, my brother and I, that played a Smothers Brothers rendition of “Yesterday”.  True!  I never heard the music of The Beatles AT ALL until late in high school.  Where was I?

Anyway.  The new house had STAIRS (did I mention it had stairs?).  And we’d relax after a hard day of whatever-it-was we did by watching Batman on TV, the campy version with POW! and ZING!, while dinner magically cooked itself in the kitchen or wherever,  licking peanut butter off a spoon.

And on good days I’d get someone to fasten Blankie around my shoulders with a big fat safety pin and I could be Robin, flying around the house and hiding from Batman or some Bad Guys under my crib.  Why didn’t I have a bed?  I was like three!

And once our cat Lucky, who wasn’t very, got sick or had an accident or something, and he came home from the vet and I SWEAR TO YOU this cat had polka dots.  Most of his normally black fur was gone, and instead he was white skin and red blood.  Polka dots.  I remember this CLEARLY, so I know it happened.  No one else remembers this.

All this birthday talk. Or maybe it was watching “Neverending Story” tonight, which brought me back to like 22 again, which somehow translated into being 7. I don’t know, but I recalled the birthday party I had that year. Which was so memorable that I never had another.

The big thing at the party was going to be the giant balloons. Giant balloons that you could sit on and bounce. At least, this was my idea, my vision. But it was to be the highlight of the party, bigger even than the miniature golfing. And the Shasta black cherry cola.

I think maybe 5 or 6 other girls came. Or maybe there were boysthere too; it’s all a little hazy. There was probably food. And my dad likely disappeared for the afternoon, leaving my mom to seem unnaturally convivial, jovial even, not that she was usually morose or anything, but there was definitely a heartier-than-usual “company face” that she donned for occasions like that which were fortunately infrequent. Which I am afraid may be a genetic trait.

The balloons were quickly abandoned. They were difficult to blow up and didn’t become nearly the size required, plus, hello, they were balloons? Not so hot for bouncing on.

My dream shattered, I couldn’t wait for everyone to leave. And never found it desirable to have another party.

Though if I could get one of those really big balls with a handle? For bouncing on?  Or, like, 20 of them?  I might change my mind.

When I was growing up, there was a phrase in our house: “baking cookies.”

Apparently, whenever there was something my mom didn’t want to do, she made cookies instead. Usually these were rock-hard chocolate-chip, but sometimes fork-tined peanut butter. Whatever. I didn’t care. It only happened a few times each year, but for whatever the reason, I was blissfully unaware yet eternally grateful.

I love how phrases arise in families that mean something other than originally intended. I am trying to think of how this applies to my own family but I’m just drawing blanks.

Procrastination, though, that’s something I can get behind.

My whole mind is a blank today. I’ve been unable to post at Strollerderby all day; everything I start writing just sounds trite. I’m totally into my NaNoWriMo project, though, and read an installment to everyone over dinner today.

Serena: You sound just like a real author!

Me: I am a real author.

Serena, astounded: Really? But you haven’t written anything.

Ooh. The bitter truth of a seven-year-old.

No worries.

But I’m dealing with the-glass-is-half-empty-syndrome today. Which leads me to believe I have been deceiving myself all this time. And have bitten off more than I can handle. And this is only Day #2.

A long month.

There aren’t many people who know this, least of all my dad, but we’ve had kind of a rocky relationship, though it wasn’t always like that. In fact, not that he picks favorites among his children, but if he did I think I would be it.

One of my earliest memories of my dad is from when I was about four or five. My older brother was in the hospital having his tonsils out. Maybe my mom was with him and Dad was filling in, I don’t know, but he took over the story-reading for awhile: “Old Mother West Wind.” I sat close to him with a Dixie cup filled with little pretzel sticks and listened as he hammed it up. It doesn’t get better than that.

For my dad, it always seemed that academics were paramount. He has an IQ of 190 and will tell you so if you ask him. At a paltry 150, I knew I could never compete with him: he was a physicist, clearly brilliant, and I was just a kid. And he liked to expound and prides himself on being able to speak extemporaneously on practically any topic. And he can! Which either charms people or frustrates them.

At the dinner table, I’d hold whatever piece of exciting news I had that day anxiously, awaiting the time when he’d take a breath and I could squeeze in an interjection. I still find myself doing this when speaking to people.

Once I listened in horror through the wall between our bedrooms as my Dad berated my brother for not doing better in school. Eric was, to me, the Perfect Older Brother and was a huge role model for me. Hearing “Why aren’t you more like your sister?” was just plain wrong. Sure, I was an A student, but I also knew that Eric was smarter than me. He just didn’t care as much as I did about making an impression and did what he wanted. And now he’s a brilliant guy who does mysterious computerish things that I am clueless about and for which people pay him much.

Being brilliant, Dad can do anything. When I was growing up he was a consummate chess player, and he took it upon himself to try to pass along the chess genes. I found chess an interminable game. It bored me and I continually made excuses to abandon games. I couldn’t win anyway, so what was the point in prolonging the torture? I could anticipate all sorts of possible future moves but never knew which one Dad would actually make. In fact, I only ever finished one game: I was losing badly and even had lost my Queen, but with a Knight and a couple of pawns, and likely a Bishop, I won. It was the only game I’ve ever won against anyone, I might add. I caught him completely by surprise, setting up moves in between being chased about the board. He never saw it coming. I was ten years old and triumphant! I beat my dad!

He doesn’t remember this.

My one hour of triumph, and I’m the only one who remembers.

When my parents divorced when I was 18, Dad was sort of lost for awhile. I dropped out of college and moved back to my hometown. For awhile, we were roommates, and he suggested I refer to him as “Gordon”. I found this awkward, and we lasted as roomies for about 3 weeks before I found my own place. He still signs his emails to me as “Gordon”, by the way, but I no longer find it weird. It’s just Dad.

It was Dad who introduced me to the spiritual path I’ve been on ever since, the one that now forms much of my vocation. Prior to that I had never thought of him as a spiritual person (or myself, for that matter), but he’s a well-known voice within the community at this point.

In my twenties, I often turned to Dad for advice. There were times I felt I had no one else to talk to, yet I always came away slightly dissatisfied. I felt unheard. He always turned the conversation around to himself. I always felt that sense of competition. Sometimes it was maddening.

In my marriage to The Ex I recognized similar patterns. Yuck. Who wants to be married to their dad? I was slightly skeeved by this. Of course, there were other things going on there as well, but that’s another story.

Last year when we lived in Colorado, Dad moved out there also. By that time he was supported just fine working parttime in a Barnes & Noble (an excellent place for someone who reads 4-5 books a week, and we always got great Christmas gifts). He started coming over for Saturday night dinners. His grandkids got to know him. Nathaniel beat him at chess. It was very nice. I still felt unheard, but by then I was used to it. Then we had to move back to Pennsylvania, leaving Dad behind. I wasn’t pleased about this.

So by last year I had resigned myself to always feeling slightly dissatisfied after talking to Dad. I had “issues”, but doubted I could get past them. It’s just how things were. At the same time, I knew that the process I’ve been going through, the one that resulted in being able to really see and appreciate my mom for who she is, would likely extend to my dad as well. It was a matter of time.

But I wasn’t holding my breath.

A couple of weeks ago I had the best conversation I’ve ever had with Dad. It included all the things that previously left me feeling dissatisfied: I had a personal and emotional issue that I wanted to talk about. Dad doesn’t do emotions so much, not like me, a person who lives in them most days.

But this time, I had a new understanding not only of Dad but of our relationship, and my perceptions. It was huge. And, that sense has lasted, so a shift has really occurred.

So now, when Dad turns the conversation to himself, I know that it’s because that’s how he processes things, through his own experience. Plus it’s his way of helping people see their own stuff, thinking that maybe by relating his experience he can show people things. It’s not about competing. It was huge to let go of this, huge!

And I know too that Dad’s not comfortable being hit up front with a lot of emotion. I need to move into it slowly with him, because he has a sense of stubbornness that makes him resistant if you go too fast. This doesn’t work well with my impatience, but I see now that if I back off a little and allow it to unfold he’s very receptive. Who knew?

And now I can finally begin to see Dad through other people’s eyes. Sure, he still pisses some people off, but most find him “delightful”, as someone said to me recently about him. And he is. He’s a brilliant, caring person who loves talking and relating to people. He’s accepting of others despite being hard on himself.

I realize now what being a teacher is really about. It’s not about telling people things. It’s more about holding yourself true to who you are, and allowing others to come up against that and have experiences based on it. That’s the epitome of “teaching by example”, by not even being an example but instead being the essence of Truth, against which everything is measured and evaluated. I’ve been throwing myself up against the pillar that is my dad all my life, and I think I finally see what the lessons have been. I see him for who he is, perfection and flaws all wrapped up in one, and likely the greatest teacher I’ve ever known.

Happy Father’s Day, Gordon. And thanks for everything. I love you.

[tags] Father’s Day[/tags]

[I began writing this on Monday, Memorial Day, but got sidetracked by the obvious excitement of Crocs]

Not necessarily being in a morose frame of mind this week what with remembering dead people, nevertheless the date prompts me to reflect.

For today is, or was, the birthday of my grandmother, Miriam.

Miriam was my dad’s mother, and brought with her, at least to my mind as a child, the strict academically-oriented emotionally-distant energy that I always thought my dad had. We were not a close-knit extended family: I had grandparents in Arkansas and Florida, and we were in Califormia. It didn’t make for frequent visits or even much in the way of getting-to-know-you. Most of my contact with my grandparents was via birthday and Christmas cards (with obligatory $5 inside) or occasional forced and uncomfortable phone calls with some distant old stranger on the other end of the line. I always wondered about the people in books who knew their grandparents. What was that like?

When I was five, my family made the Grand Tour and we visited both sets of grandparents in their respective locations, sedately posing for snapshots of us pretending to pick backyard grapefruit in Florida. This was the trip that my mother never lets me forget was when I left my white sweater on the airplane. That sweater must have meant a lot to her. I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t fit me now.

In Arkansas, things were a bit more fun because my cousins were there. Not having had cousin-contact before, it was thrilling and somewhat appalling to interact with these strangers who were somehow related, a part of us yet not. I couldn’t wrap my head around it somehow. The stand-out memory from that trip was a day at nearby Horsehead Lake (I had already begun a lifelong love of horses, so this must be a magical lake, I concluded) where I watched my uncle throw his kids into the lake. I wasn’t used to seeing dads play that way. Me, I just watched them enviously while I walked around feeling the squishy lake-bottom beneath my feet.

My grandmother remains a bit of a mystery from that time, but they did come to visit us several years later when my grandfather’s Parkinson’s disease was more pronounced. I was deathly afraid of her (so proper! so reserved!) but she insisted on slipping me a $20 anyway.

After Jess was born and my grandmother had been on her own for several years after the death of her husband, she insisted on driving from Arkansas to Arizona where I lived to meet her great-grandchild. Evidently this driving thing was a big deal to her, being in her 80’s at the time. My dad came too and I still have the obligatory multi-generational photo that commemorates the occasion.

Even in my twenties, I was still afraid of her. All five feet of her!

She inflicted herself on me yet again a few years later. My biggest memory from that visit was the fact that she timed her teeth-brushing activities: three minutes.

Years went by and I still received the obligatory semi-annual cards, now each containing an inflation-adjusted $10. I also received occasional surprise phone calls, which always threw me off base a little. What did she want? Why is she judging me? Why is she calling me? Why does she hang up abruptly without a ten-minute extended goodbye like everyone else I know?

The year Miriam turned 95, Nathaniel was a toddler and we went to Kansas where she was now living in an assisted-living community for the celebration. She had given up her car and much of her independence, making choices instead that seemed prudent; there was distant family nearby, and she’d be taken care of if there was a problem. While neither of her sons lived anywhere close (both in California at the time), she was okay and seemed content.

It was during that trip that I started to glimpse a different woman than the grandmother I thought I had. She clearly had made an impact upon the other residents of her building, a everyone greeted her warmly as they walked by. She played piano weekly in a common area, and although she may have lost some of her ability over the years, she still played beautifully and strongly. She showed me her paintings, having taken up oil painting in her 90’s. I have some of them here in my house now.

She sat like a diminutive queen during the birthday proceedings, which weren’t much: her two sons, me and my family, and my youngest cousin and hers. The other cousins maintained a family grudge that had to do with their father, my uncle, that likely pained her considerably.

But through that weekend she gave me tantalizing glimpses of the woman she had been, the woman she was.

Miriam was the loved and petted child of a Methodist minister, who along with her sister grew up to marry a Methodist minister. Runs in the family. Somewhat of a rebel, she showed me pictures of herself as a teenager leaping over fences in her slightly post-Edwardian dress. Miriam went to college, not the expected thing for women in those days, and instead of becoming a flapper created change on a small-scale level as the wife of a preacher-man in small towns in the west and northwest.

Miriam married my grandfather Roy about a month before the stock market crash of 1929. He was still a student in seminary but being married was able to obtain a student pastorate. The Depression hit and times were hard but they managed. Before my uncle and my father were born my grandfather was still attending seminary and was away all week. One week there was no money in the church treasury and Miriam ate nothing but parsnips all week from their garden. After that she wouldn’t touch them again.

Miriam likely resisted the role of preacher’s wife but managed. She said many times later on that if people in the church knew what she really thought she’d be drummed out for sure!

At age 98, she wrote a book containing many memories of her life, especially as a child. I have a copy of that book, which I treasure, because it gives me a real picture of who and what she really was. After that birthday party when she was 95, we remained in much closer touch and I was able to let go of many of the presuppositions I had kept about her.

Like my mother, Miriam was a woman who simply and quietly went on about her life and gently created change about her simply by being there. Most of the people whose lives she touched are no longer around. She died in 2003 at the age of 101, having left behind her a small handful of people who will be forever changed having known her. I truly think that’s probably the best legacy a person can leave: small bits of themselves intertwined in the lives of others.