Making history

Either way, history would have been made....the first woman or the first African American man as the Democratic Presidential nominee. But as I sat in my living room under a fuzzy blanket with my sleeping dog peaceful and happy on my lap, CNN blaring Obama's eloquent and inspiring speech, I was acutely aware of what I was witnessing. Aware of all the monumental things for which I have been present and about which my children will ask me someday, like I asked my mother about the day Kennedy was shot. I could feel myself in time, in history, outside myself as if seeing myself in a black and white photograph. Face turned up to the TV, inspired, awed, full of hope and moved by the words of this man who speaks of change. One invisible spectator, one tiny moment in time. Maybe it WILL be the moment that changes everything.

There have been quite a few events I've lived through that have affected me, that have seared memories into the fabric of my life. Where I was, who I was with, faces, expressions....very few have been happy. The Challenger explosion. I was in 5th grade and I remember the moment of silence we observed at the end of the school day, standing at our desks made heavier with the weight of our overturned chairs. Feeling the sadness of the adults around us, not really knowing how to feel, slightly embarrassed in the silence. I can see the plume of smoke, still.

The Gulf War. I remember the day I realized the magnitude of what this meant. A junior in high school, I was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table doing homework with the TV on. They were broadcasting the death toll in Kuwait, I think. Suddenly the weight of the world was on my 16 year old shoulders and I cried uncontrollably for the men and women that were dying, for the terror of my own mortality, for the enormity of war and death and the intangible reasons for it.

The night Princess Diana was killed in a car accident in Paris. I was out with a now former boyfriend and his family. We came home, I went down into the florescent light of the basement and turned on the TV. I heard the news and yelled up the stairs to the others.

September 11th. I was driving to work when it happened. My morning radio show news guy was still reporting it as an accident. Then another plane hit. Still no one knew what was going on. I got to work and I asked a co-worker who had already arrived if she knew what was going on. She didn't. Someone said our boss was on her way in with a TV. That morning all of us gathered around a little TV with rabbit ears that sat on the table in DK's office. I sat on one side and Becky sat on the other. We held the antennae so there was reasonable reception. Everyone was talking, the reporters were talking, it was chaos. Then the first tower fell and as long as I live, I will never forget the look on Becky's face. Eyes wide with confusion and fear and sadness. We didn't say anything. There was nothing to be said. They started evacuating buildings downtown and anyone who knew anyone in NY was on the phone. Our NY sales rep was in our office in Skokie that day. She was in a meeting with a client and didn't even know what was going on for at least an hour. Sobbing, she ended up splitting a rental car and driving back to NY with another sales rep. With nothing to do but watch the news and sit in stunned silence and terror, the office was closed. We went home to our houses, the houses of loved ones, the places we had made comfortable and safe for ourselves and our families and continued to watch the events unfold on TV. So much TV. We were inundated with explosions, people falling from buildings hoping to save themselves or at least end it quickly. And so much dust. Firefighters emerged from the clouds like heroic scenes in a movie. But this was real. So real. That night and for a few nights afterwards I sat on the backporch of my apartment. The silence was eerie. Planes were not flying, flags were at half mast. The United States was in mourning. All of us together, black, white, polka dotted. Four days later one of my closest friends got married. We drove down to central IL with an American flag flapping in the wind.

Hopefully we have happier things to look forward to and remember like an African American President and the Cubs winning the World Series.

Live well

My grandmother passed away the night before Easter. And while I thought it wasn't going to be devestatingly sad or difficult, it has proven to be exactly that. Of course, you say...it's your grandmother. But she had had dimentia or alzheimer's for quite a few years and I couldn't remember what she was like before that. I didn't like going to my grandparents' house the last 5 or so years. It was a chore for me. I didn't have any connection to these old, dependent people. And I was torn between duty to family and anger that their care took so much of my parents' lives. Is that how it's supposed to be? I don't know. My grandmother was in the hospital for 4 weeks then a nursing home for 2 then died in her sleep around 9 pm the night before Easter. It wasn't all together unexpected, although it was more sudden than we thought. It was all business for a few days; making arrangements, putting together picture collages for the visitation, etc. It wasn't until the night after the funeral that it hit me. Gone forever. My dad did a beautiful euology that sent Cathleen and my cousin into tears, but I held my ground. It was still business. Then that night I had a massive panic attack. Gone forever. Once alive and happy on this earth, but now gone forever, for eternity. Only pictures and the memories of those of us left behind are left of this person who lived a very full and happy life. Whose presence on this earth made mine possible, who loved me and her family more than anything. I found out more about my grandmother after her death, going through pictures and the editorial church bulletins she used to write, than I ever knew about her in life. She was a terrific writer and understood and followed my life, the lives of all three of her granddaughters more than I thought. The generational distance did not have to be as large as it was. But I didn't know. I thought they didn't understand. And now I regret that I didn't know my grandmother like I could have.
The week before my grandmother passed, my girlfriend lost her father, her dad, to a heartattack and resulting complications with diabetes. It was horrible. We were updated with good news, then bad new, then good news then bad news the entire week before. And on Sunday the 16th, he finally let go. It was around 1pm when they took him off the ventilator. We got the call about a half hour later. I remember it was 1pm b/c I remember looking at the clock and wondering how he was doing at exactly that time. I didn't know Mr. Olson. I'd met him once at the christening of his grandson. But I know Kate. And my heart breaks for her. Kevin lost his mom almost a year and a half ago and watching Kate go through this was very difficult for him. All I can do is be there with them, to sit with the pain and try not to move to hide it or fade it or fix it. Because there is nothing that can be said, nothing that can be done to fix it, change it or cover it.
All of this, two weeks of death, has made me constantly aware of my life, my actions, my anger at small things, my purpose, what I'm going to leave behind. And I'm trying, desperately trying to live more fully, happier and take nothing for granted. It is hard, though. Life is riddled with tiny, insignificant details that demand attention. Still, going back to work and worrying about making a deadline is silly. Getting angry at the idiot in the car ahead of me is meaningless. Feeling like I will be happy "when" I have more money, a bigger house, nicer clothes is time wasted. Only people matter in this life. Ok, and maybe the family pet. We are too often mired in the details of existence and forget to actually live our lives. We don't take the time to truly know, deeply love. "When" is here.
I asked Kevin one Thursday night if we should open the smoked salmon on Saturday or if he was saving it for something important. I will always remember and always adore him for his response: "What's more important than Saturday?"

Searching the million corners

I am in need of something. I feel restless like I need to run. The ache is there, making my muscles itch under my skin and my mind churn around and around, in a desperate search for something still without identity. I constantly make lists, at work at home, in the car, to try to remember, try to organize, try to see the big picture clearly. It is not that I am unhappy. In fact, I believe that it is in this weird time in my life when so much is changing, when I can see my future, the future I want, open up, that has brought on this need to come out from under this weight. I am happy. But I could be happier. Or perhaps a more peaceful happy. I have always lived with too many questions, not enough faith, too much living for "when" instead of "now," too much anxiety and not enough peace. And like skin forgets the cloth of a shirt, I have forgotten there was any other way. It just is. This is my life. But I have found that it doesn't have to be that way. Kevin is the opposite. Extremely laid back, he shrugs about what to have for dinner, when we have to leave and what we can't forget. I....have made a list and I'm already worried about being late. He doesn't fret about what cannot be changed, he sits in calm to watch TV or read a book. I live in constant fear -terror, really- of my mortality and as I watch TV or read a book, most often a part of my brain is thinking about 17 other things at the same time. It is true that I am aware of all of this. I can feel it in my tense shoulders that I have to conciously let fall from my ears, my aching body that starves to be rubbed and my running mind that needs to make lists. But I can learn how to change. I can learn to allow myself to be free from my own mind. I don't want to search. I don't want to worry. I don't want to wonder. I don't want to fear. I want to be able to be quiet within myself and happy there. I want to be still without the urge to run or hide or speak. I want to be less angry and more compassionate, less anxious and more patient. I want to be fully present in my life when things are good and when they're tough but more importantly be ok with all of it.

The last line of my favorite poem, "The Invitation" is this:

"I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments."

A very close girlfriend gave me a prayer box necklace for Christmas 2006. This poem was printed on a tiny, tiny little scroll then rolled up super tight and placed in the miniature box. This is one of my most treasured possessions. To wear around my neck, against my heart, the words that I want so much to live means so much to me. I'm not even sure my friend knows how much.

Oh to have empty moments. The quiet rhythm of my breath, peace in my body, my mind.

My promise to myself - formatted in a nice little list.
take another yoga class
work out on a regular basis - break a sweat, feel my muscles work then ache two days later - the good pain.
write more (thus the blog) about how I feel, what I want and my progress. And read more.
spend more time with people I love and more time getting to know people I have yet to love.

In time, I hope to find my peace and unconditional happiness. This is the stuff with which I want to fill the million corners of my life. The good and bad, the happy and sad, the calm and chaotic.....I will be fully present and at peace with all of it.