Gratitude

Today there was a pause in my life.

There was lightness in my chest.

Today there was gratitude.

An overwhelming sense of gratitude, gratefulness for all in my life.

For all the friends.

For all the love.

For all the pain.

For all the challenges.

For all the battles.

For all the victories.

For all the laughter.

For all the sadness.

For all the changes.

For all the unknowns.

For all the constants.

And I almost fell to my knees in supplication, right on the street, when this feeling unexpectedly expanded in my chest to the point of bursting. And it took everything in me to keep my muscles from dissolving, to keep my lips sealed - instead of melting to the ground and shouting out and weeping with gratefulness. And part of me wishes that I was brave (or crazy) enough to give in to that moment, and not be worried about the people surrounding me, and not think about what must be on those streets of New York, and just sink to the ground.

But don't think for a moment that my soul was not dancing, or my heart not lifted up in praise and thanksgiving.

Either / Or

I just finished reading two books on living out your dreams: GOD HAS A DREAM FOR YOUR LIFE by Shelia Walsh and THE ALCHEMIST by Paulo Coelho. The books differ in style, but give a similar message: belief in your self, belief in your dreams, belief in your ability to fully realize both.

Sunday night, having dreams on the brain, (so to speak) I walked into the nearest bank to use the ATM and the first thing I see when I open the door is an ad for the bank stating:

“Stop dreaming & start doing.”

I stared at that sign for what felt like five minutes – trying to reconcile that moment in my brain when I think I’ve finally got a handle on everything, and then am suddenly surprised by another reality.

Stop dreaming. Start doing. STOP dreaming.

I wondered why they had to be separate. Why was it either / or, and not both? And that made me think of other things in my life that feel like either / or…

Family / Career
Work / Fun
Dreams / Reality

I thought a lot about those things, things that seem to be opposites. Things we can’t seem to have together, but must choose between. And then I started to think about something that Andy has mentioned to me before… there are opposites in each of us. Ideas, choices, beliefs that seem to be contrary, but when put together make us Who We Are.

We wouldn’t be Who We Are (or half as interesting) without that dichotomy.

Monday morning, still thinking about opposites, I walked into my personal bank to make a deposit and the first thing I see when I get off the elevator is an ad for the bank stating:

“There’s a dream in each of us – let’s make it happen.”

Ah! There! Sunday night – one message. Monday morning – another.

Opposites all around.

In both ads, the message is the same: dreaming alone isn’t enough, you also need action. To be truly fulfilled, it can’t be either dreaming or doing, it has to be both.

Old Things

One of my favorite surprises is when, upon going through old things, you find a simple treasure that you hardly even remembered. An old photograph. A flower you were drying in a book. A note from a forgotten friend.

A few years ago, I sent a few poems to a woman whose writings I admire. An eccentric woman of good taste with a keen ear for words. While going through some old things herself recently, she found them and gave them to me with some words of her own: "Powerful stuff, miss."

I read them. And re-read them. And took those words in. Four poems I had not thought of in years. Poems from past lives. From experiences I barely remember having... until I read them again. The feelings came rushing back, the reasons I had to get it all down on paper, the hightened emotion that led me to the poetry. A good poem, like a good diary, captures the guts of a moment so clearly that when you go back and let those words wash over you - you're there again. In an instant. Especially when they're your words.

OLD

I want to grow old with you

so you can lend me your arm
as we take slow walks around the mall

& you can kiss my cheek during the day

& my forehead at night

& i could sleep safely in your embrace

from our first day

until our last breath

together

& my pains would be yours

& your joys would be mine

& we could eat at little diners

& notice young couples

glancing at us

while we love

still as our wrinkles

& gray hair have become abundant

& our speech softer than it used to be

& our hands would feel empty

if not filled with the other's heart

& soul

& our bodies would wither

without the warmth of synchronized touch

& time will be less important

& age won't matter

50 Particular Loves

Singing Bach’s “Ave Maria”
Playing a classical piano piece without any mistakes
The sound of rain, especially thunderstorms
Gardening
The scent of my beau
Hearing windchimes outside my bedroom window
Realizing how much a plant has grown when I wasn’t looking
Listening to “Carmina Burana”
Sleeping in too late

Waking up early when the world is still quiet

The chiming of a grandfather clock
Heaing church bells in the distance
Monarch butterflies
Wassail at Christmas
My mom’s girlish laugh
My brother's goofy grin
My sister's wacky sense of humor

My dad's backbreaking hugs
The sound of an orchestra tuning
Window shopping

A long walk in the fall
Making lists
Completing a crossword puzzle
Reading a great book all day on the couch
Horseback riding
A breathtaking sunset
Hot cocoa with mini marshmallows
The mesmerizing flame of a campfire
Soreness in my muscles after a good workout
Old pictures of my grandparents

Long, full, flowing skirts

Chocolate & peanut butter

Wildflowers

The weight of a baby on my chest

Slow kisses

The crisp, white pages of a new notebook

Icing Christmas cookies

Long dinners with good friends

Red wine & a chocolate dessert

Minature golf

The questions kids come up with

Embarrassing home movies

Writing letters the old-fashioned way

Thinking about the future

The way you can smell the ocean before you can even see it

Giving gifts for no reason

Watching someone do something they love

The Union Square Green Market

Seeing a good friend after too many months apart

The feeling of being at home... wherever it may be

Patron of the Arts

Have you ever noticed that it’s so much easier to support someone else’s creativity than to produce your own? I suppose it might be because there’s less of a gamble that way, less personal jeopardy, less of a chance that someone will criticize you (after all, you’re just a patron of the art, not the artist himself).

And while it is important that there be people like that in the world, (especially ones who might be well-off and willing to financially support your work) are those same people putting aside dreams of their own and hiding behind the artist’s personal risk?

I am surrounded by friends and family who are artists of every kind – writers, actors, singers, painters, dancers – and who are actively, even when it’s heartbreaking and frustrating, pursuing their dreams. A gal who just had her first novel published (real copies on the shelves of Barnes & Noble). A guy who’s currently in one Broadway show at night and rehearsing another during the day. A few girlfriends who compose their own music and choreograph their own dances and boldly perform their work in the middle of Times Square. A father who paints a sanctuary of beauty in someone’s breakfast nook, creating a European look so real you can almost smell the fresh baguettes and café au lait.

Is it a question of bravery? Of being willing to take the risk even though you know that your art may be rejected by others? Is it a question of survival? Of knowing that you could never be satisfied doing anything else? Is it a question of persistence? Of being (as my mama says) the “squeaky wheel” until you get greased?

And isn’t it odd how those of us who “support” can often be so judgmental and critical of those who create.

“His headshot looks ridiculous.” (Read: I’m much better looking than this guy – but then why is he the one who got the part?)

“Her voice is too nasal.” (Read: I’m a much stronger vocalist that this chick – but then why is she the one in that new musical? Seriously.)

“I can’t believe he’s going on another audition in the middle of the day while I have to sit here at my desk and enter these bills.” (Read: I’m so dedicated to my job and he’s obviously not – but then why haven’t I even entertained the idea of auditioning when I work at a company whose whole purpose is to support artists?)

It is difficult to sit down and be quiet and come to realizations about yourself that you might not want to believe.

It is difficult to spend hours at the piano until you’ve notated the whole song that’s in your head. It is difficult to give your best audition only to get a simple nod and “thank you” as your response. It is difficult to compose a dance for a whole company in your tiny living room because you can’t afford to rent a studio. It is difficult to practice that aria in your apartment, knowing that your neighbors can hear you, without assuming that they’re judging you.

But is it any easier to have creative desires in your soul and not take the risk of exposing them (and yourself)?

And as much as artists can be judgmental and cynical – they are also human (maybe even more so). And they can identify with those risks. And they understand them. And they will support you. In fact, they probably already do.

Connection

On the subway, just the usual fare. A quiet car full of people: reading, listening to music, staring into space trying not to look anyone directly in the eye – and though it’s routine for us to act this way on the subway, I thought of how strange it must seem to an outsider, to someone who doesn’t know that this is typical “subway behavior”.

That’s just what you do. You get on (hopefully with something to read or listen to or do, because you really don’t want to be that person who is reading the Times over your neighbor’s shoulder or gets caught staring at someone when you didn’t even know you were looking at them) – and, in essence, you ignore everyone else.

And it is a bit strange. It’s probably the only time that you’ll be in a space that confined with that many people who are not engaging with each other in any sort of way. Oh sure, there might be the occasional young man who gets up and gives his seat to the pregnant woman, or the lady who picks up the newspaper that has fallen off someone’s lap and gives it back to them… but on the whole, when the train stops moving and you no longer hear the engine, an uncomfortable silence takes over.

But I witnessed a rare occurrence when I was on my way to work the other day. There was a man, perhaps in his forty’s, who got on at one end of the subway car and started walking to the other end. No one took much notice of him, as we were all in our usual pay-no-mind-to-anyone-else state. When he got to a free seat on the other end, he no sooner sat down than jumped right back up and exclaimed “I didn’t even know what country you were in!” And all of a sudden, he and the woman sitting across from him (turns out, she was an old, traveling friend whom he hadn’t seen in years) were in a full embrace on the train and laughing and talking a mile a minute – and neither one was self-conscious about being the loudest people on that train or adhering to the unwritten rules of “polite subway greeting etiquette” – they were just so surprised at each other’s presence and so honestly caught up in the moment that their joy had no other recourse than to spread to many of the surrounding passengers.

I watched other people watching this couple of old friends… how their faces lit up with that same feeling of recognition, smiling to themselves, openly staring at them with a brazen desire to know their whole story. And it seemed apparent that we were all longing for that same kind of connection. Honest, open, unashamed. Even if just for a short moment during your morning subway ride.

Is it that New Yorkers just naturally start to avoid connection with others? In my home town, when you’re walking down the street and someone is walking the other way, there’s a nod or a quick hello when you pass. Is it just that there are so many people in New York that you’d exhaust yourself saying hello to every one of them, so instead we just don’t say anything at all? Or is it just that we’re shy and unsure of ourselves…

It seems to be a pleasant surprise when you see a friendly face in the drugstore and the clerk honestly wishes you a good day. Or when you take notice of a teenage boy helping an elderly person cross the street. Even when you’re on the subway and a few women strike up a conversation over the adorable baby one of them is carrying.

Is it more beautiful because it’s rare? Or is it just something that’s so recognizable and familiar and we’re all longing for it…

Perhaps New York is not the city of fast, angry people that it is perceived to be on the outside. Perhaps it is a city full of people who are just a bit overwhelmed and miss the simple act of human connection.

Take It With You

A busy week in a small apartment can leave quite a big mess. When you leave the house at 8am and get home after 10pm, it’s hard to have any desire to wash the dishes or do the laundry… and when you have a whole week of that schedule, inevitably both pile up. It can feel a bit overwhelming when you decide to dive in and do the “big clean” – when you stop searching for the many ways to procrastinate and just get started.

But I find that when I’m done (which is always sooner than I expect) and I sit in my favorite chair, drinking in the warmth of the candles and a glass of Shiraz… there is such a sense of peace that comes over me. The pride of accomplishment mixed with the calm of a clean house.

I like to take that moment and indulge in it. No music, no television, no books or magazines. Just a time of quiet reflection when the only sounds are a few ticking clocks, the wind chime outside in the breeze, and the light snore of our napping cat.

It’s as if in that brief moment, the chaos of life pauses – giving me a respite in which to take a breath and sit back and enjoy this picture of everything in its place, before the chaos sweeps back in, (which is also always sooner than I expect).

Another place that I am able to feel this brief respite, this sense of time suspended, is in a place of worship. To walk off the busy streets of New York City into a reverent and quiet and calm environment – it immediately shocks your system. You cannot do anything but catch your breath and still your mind. The light is filtered differently; the smell is one of incense or old, polished wood; the echo of each step is heard; and you cannot help but adjust. Your eyes take a moment to open up; your nose is awakened by unfamiliar scents; your gait is measured, slower.

Sometimes I am there for ten minutes, sometimes two hours, and regardless of how long I’ve spent inside this place of reverence, it is again a shock to my system when I step back out into the busy world. The sunlight is harsh; the comforting aromas gone; and I am swept up into the heave of New York City Walking (or else risk being scoffed at for daring to enjoy a leisurely pace).

The trick – and I’m only beginning to understand the concept of this noble idea – is to find some way to take it with you: the sense of calm into the busy world, the wave of peace into the crisis-driven office, the gentle reminder of that moment in the clean house.

And it is not an easy trick. In fact, it shouldn’t even be called a trick at all – a trick implies some sort of “slight-of-hand” or magic in place of real work. The reality is: it’s a challenge. It is a hard thing to carry that inner peace with you throughout the day. Let’s not fool ourselves - it’s hard to carry it past noon!

But if today you can make it until noon and tomorrow you make it to 12:15 – there is the proof that it is not unattainable. It is in the small, conscious choices we make at each moment of every day. When we choose to be positive or to be negative; when we choose to smile at the person sitting next to us on the subway or to immediately bury into our newspaper; even when we choose to wash each dish as soon as we’re finished eating so they don’t even have a chance to pile up.

However you get to that place of serenity: yoga, worship, meditation, running… it is worth it to go there. It is worth the ten minutes or two hours or however long – to indulge in that moment.

And it is worth it to meet that daily challenge – to take it with you.

Love Without Condition

I went to church this evening for Maundy Thursday and learned that "Maundy" translates from Latin meaning “Commandment” – this day of celebration during the Easter Holy Week is representative of the Last Supper and the greatest commandment of all: “Love One Another as I Have Loved You”.

What a HUGE task! To have a love that pure, that unselfish, that all-encompassing is impossible for most of us. But the aspiration is what really matters – aspiring to that love, keeping a mantra in your head, a daily reminder to try and live that commandment. It is such a simple statement: just eight words,

but the weighty responsibility of them makes it a tough commandment to follow.

“Thou shalt not kill” – easy. Just don’t murder anyone. “Thou shalt honor thy father and mother” – not always easy, but it doesn’t say “Thou shalt agree with thy father and mother”, it just says honor them – which you can do while respectfully disagreeing with them. But “Love One Another as I Have Loved You”: LOVE. That’s the word that trips us up. Not “like" one another, or “respect" one another or even “tolerate" one another – but love. LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

There is love that comes from your soul for a partner or a friend, there is love that comes from your heart for a family member or a life-time pet… but this love, this LOVE must come from something, someone, some place bigger than yourself. It’s too big for your heart and too overwhelming for your soul. It’s Love without condition. Love no matter what. Love when you don’t want to love, when what you feel is the farthest emotion possible from love. Love beyond all measure. Love that we cannot even comprehend.

And the funny thing about this Love is that when you think it, and trust it, and send it out into the world… it turns out that it’s really there. It just might be easier than we all think. It’s an intention of Love. It doesn’t mean that you have to go around hugging all your co-workers and baking cookies for your neighbors (although that probably couldn’t hurt ,for you’d like them to follow the same commandment, too!) but it means sending them Love. Putting Love out there, even if you don’t feel it. Even if you don’t want to. Even when you’re not getting that same Love in return.

That’s conditional love – loving for the sake of gaining love in return. But loving for the sake of loving – that’s love without condition – that’s Love Divine.

The other part of Maundy Thursday is the celebration of the Last Supper. The final meal that Jesus ate with his friends. Just think of your group of close friends – having them over to your house, the cleaning up you’ll do before hand, the appetizers you’ll make, the dinner that could be simple but because of the company will turn out to be one of the most satisfying meals you can remember. And then think of it being the last time. Would it make each moment sweeter? Or bittersweet? Would you want to prolong the night and make it last into the early morning? Or would you want time to savor the moment and reflect afterwards?

The simple breaking of bread. The sharing of wine. The blessing given to each before he partakes. Amazing the feeling of fulfillment that such a small, simple meal can give.

Funny how I watched that final moment of AMERICAN FIESTA in rehearsal and it seemed to be saying the same things to me as the Maundy Thursday church service. The bowls may not match, the family may come in all different shapes and sizes, but the gathering together is what makes the event of sharing a meal holy and sacred and full of love. Simple: Love and Food. Food and Love.

Setting the Table

Yesterday I watched a run thru of AMERICAN FIESTA – a beautiful, simple play. One man’s story of how he struggled with an obsession of Fiestaware (colorful, depression-era dishes that are now a collector’s item) and also an obsession to fit in to a mold of what he thought his life should be. A career that made him lots of money, but didn’t fulfill him. A marriage to his partner that didn’t quite gel with the image his family had in mind. A need for approval and acceptance from his parents – even though he was forty and no longer legally needed their approval. A struggle within himself to be who he was and to reconcile that with the lifestyle in which he was raised.

The Fiestaware serves as a vehicle for his story. A chipped dish to represent his granny and her hardships. A small bowl that held a memory of his childhood. A big red bowl as his conservative and overbearing father. A big blue bowl as his mother who could never fully accept who he was, but still loved him forever. Every dish has a story, every family member has a history.

And in the final scene he is setting the table, with these dishes, these – his family… and while doing so, he comes to the realization that this is what heaven looks like. It’s not the pristine perfection of having a complete set of mint-condition dishes all in corresponding size and color. It’s the disarray of all the many colors and shapes and cracks and imperfections that create a family of love and life and togetherness.

While watching, I also came to a realization: that I have some of the same hang-ups in my own life. I am not a person struggling for acceptance from my parents – I am very lucky in that regard. But I am still experiencing a struggle within myself: a tug-of-war between what I’ve always pictured in my head as the ideal life, (the ideal table setting) and what is the reality of my life – the wonderful and blessed reality.

I suppose I am old-fashioned. More than a few people have told me on many occasions that I’m an “old soul”. But I’ve always had this vision of what my life would be like when I was older. I’d be married in a big wedding. I’d have children. I’d live near my family. I’d have a house and a yard and I’d make Sunday dinners. I’d celebrate birthdays and holidays and graduations surrounded by my parents and siblings and cousins.

But, as my world has turned out – right now, I’m not married. I don’t have children. I only see my family a handful of times each year. And though this is not what I intended when I was 14 and my best friend and I would plan our lives together, it is still good. It is still joyous. It is still a blessed life. And of course, there is still much time. As my beau, Andy, says: “Life is long.”

Perhaps my Easter Sunday won’t be spent with my parents and brother and sister this year… but instead I will enjoy the holiday with Andy and our good friends who just got engaged, and the four of us will be a kind of family of our own. And when we set the table and sit town to eat and give thanks for the bounty before us, it will truly feel like family. Not flesh and blood, but of a different kind – an extension of our four separate families, each of us bringing to the table something of our own traditions and histories and childhood memories. And that will make us family to each other.

I realized watching that final scene, that holding on to my childhood ideal of what a perfect life should be may be holding me back from fully enjoying the adult life I have now… which is quite different than I pictured, and quite wonderful also.

To leave room for new traditions while not forgetting the old. To embrace the ideals of your partner while not giving up on your own and to somehow conjoin the two – that is marriage.