Own Your Bones

I sat down this morning to meditate. One of my rituals is to choose a card from my “Wisdom of the Crones” deck. I bought it a couple of years ago when I was about to have my hysterectomy, which seemed at the time to be a dividing line between my youth and my old age. I’m only 51, but I’ve wanted to embrace my “crone-ness” for a while now. My long gray hair, my wrinkles, my less-than-svelte figure. I am all about honoring that, some of it being harder than others. At the same time I have cultivated friendships with women in their older years, whose wisdom and humor and insight inform my life in such powerful ways. I want to be like them. And I want to be that to other, younger women, too. This is why I choose a card from my Crone deck. Sage Woman Inspiration. I have used those cards for art journaling prompts and for meditation focus and they always give me something good to consider.

Today I sat down to meditate with this question: Why can’t I make up my mind?

I just returned from three days away from it all: my life, my family, my responsibilities. I went to the beach, solo, to find some clarity. What I definitely found was peace and quiet. The soothing sound of the waves, the warm sun on my skin. The cool sand beneath my feet. I read, I wrote, I napped, I walked. It was a fantastic respite from life as I know it.

I went to find clarity. And while I was there, I had it.

I stayed at the beach house of some old friends of ours, Sam and Ilana, and it is such a haven, all wood that glows, comfy furniture, a view of the ocean. They so generously offered their home to me (they mostly use it on the weekends) and that was such a gift. Taking a break from the non-stopness of my life, the distractions of my life, is so hard to do and so important. It was a true retreat.

After three open and quiet days you think I’d have more clarity about what I want to do, what I want to focus on. Specifically, I was hoping to gain clarity about my new passion for teaching art journaling and my new focus of sharing myself with the world via a new website, classes in person and online, and a gallery of my work.

I went to find clarity. And when I came home, I lost it.

I am in the middle of Megan Auman’s Do/Teach ecourse, readying myself to launch my “signature” online course. It is a class packed with information and opportunities and I’m learning so much, but I’m also falling behind because I can’t seem to pinpoint what the hell I want to do and what people want to learn from me. One of my problems is that I have so many ideas! (Not a problem, Megan says, put them on your list for later.) I go back and forth between them trying to find the perfect one, the one that will entice the most people, the one I am the most passionate about and the most prepared to teach. 

As soon as I think I have a grasp on what I want to do, what my next class offering should be, how to describe myself, it seems to slip through my fingers, just like sand, and is lost in the swirl of ideas, fears of failure, and too many options.

Last night, as I continued to stew about the topic for my very first online offering, it actually occurred to me that maybe I don’t even want to be an art journaling guru.

At the beach I thought I’d landed on the one. I got excited about the possibilities. When the questions and niggling doubts surfaced, I recognized that this wasn’t the only course I’d ever teach, my other ideas would have their time, too. And coming home from the beach was sort of a deadline. Time to move forward with that idea. But, actually, coming back home feels more like coming before the Judge and suddenly I don’t feel very resolved after all.

Judge: And Susie, what have you to say about your chosen path?

Me: Um, Your Honor, I think I would like to teach courses in person that combine art journaling, expression and self-reflection. And I’d like to do the same online.

Judge: I’m sorry, Susie, but I don’t know that you have enough experience with that. Have you published your art journal pages in national magazines?

Me: Well, no.

Judge: Have you published books full of beautiful art journaling pages of your own creation?

Me: Um, no, no I haven’t.

Judge: Are you aware that there are many other famous art journalists out there who have over 2000 likes on Facebook and a following of thousands more on their blogs? Are you aware that people pay good money to travel around the world to their art and creativity retreats?

Me: Yes, yes Your Honor. I am quite aware of that. I may have even liked some of their Facebook pages myself.

Judge: They’re famous, Susie Miller. What about you?

Last night I thought, “Maybe you should have spent some time considering the possibility that all of this is a fraud, that you don’t really want to be an art journaling teacher.”

As much as I might think that that is me talking, me being cautious, I realize now that that is one of my Inner Critics. It is the voice that throughout my life has led me away from really pushing myself to achieve greatness. Throughout my life that voice has always been so well dressed that I really always believed that I didn’t want to compete, that I didn’t want to get to that top spot in anything I did. For all my life, Really Goodness is all that I aspired to. Greatness just is not something I was interested in. “I’m not at all competitive,” I’d tell people. “I’m not at all competitive,” I’d tell myself.

It’s only lately that I realize that in fact I’m quite competitive, but I am afraid to put myself out there to really compete. And by compete I mean to be as big as I can be. I’m afraid to lose. I’m afraid to look like a fool. I’m afraid to find out that I’m not enough.

I might even be afraid to find out how big I actually am.

Throughout my life I have developed intricate and convincing strategies for avoiding competition. In junior high, rather than practice my ass off on the flute and compete for first chair in band (against my best friends, in fact, which made the stakes even higher), I decided to play piccolo. My flute teacher was one of the preeminent piccoloists in the world, playing in the Los Angeles Philharmonic, so he was a good person to study piccolo with, no question. And it was really fun. Piccolos had solos, so I got to shine since other kids weren’t rushing out to get a piccolo to compete against me.  That lasted all through high school. I was head piccoloist in the marching band and wind ensemble. I never did make it to orchestra (where the best wind instrumentalists would be) because I just didn’t have time. That didn’t interest me. And of course, that would mean stepping up my piccolo and flute playing game to a whole new level…and competing.

Another strategy I’ve employed was becoming Jill of All Trades, Master of None. I’m almost a master of many though. I can knit well, I can sew well, I can write well. But I don’t push myself to go to the next level. Recently, I was outed about my guitar playing. I took up guitar 32 years ago and became a songleader, guitar in hand, almost immediately. For most of that time it’s been easy to do well. I’ve taught at preschools, Jewish schools, led songs around campfires, and noodled around at home. But a couple of weeks ago I was rehearsing with my friend Lorenzo, who I sing with at my new synagogue, Congregation Ner Shalom, and it came up that I didn’t want to, nay couldn’t, play any songs that had bar chords. Now a bar chord is a chord that requires you to press your index finger down across all the strings while using your other fingers to form the chord and for me it’s very hard to do. Whether it’s that my guitars don’t have narrow enough necks for the size of my hand or that I don’t have enough hand strength or I just never tried hard enough to practice it until I got it perfect, I’ve just never mastered bar chords in these past 32 years. I’ve avoided them, transposed songs that had them, and used my capo to change the key. When I play by myself I can get around it. But with other guitarists? I have to either bow out or convince them to play in a key that works for my basic chord skills. “I’ve never needed to play bar chords in 32 years,” I told Lorenzo that night, “and I’m 51 and, dammit, I don’t have to start now.” He laughed, we laughed, and I put my guitar down for the songs we were rehearsing that had bar chords and just sang. Lorenzo is an exceptional classical guitarist. I can’t do any of the stuff he can do on guitar. And he’s also a sweetheart. So he let me be. But a couple nights later, warming up for services, he let slip to one of the other musicians that I can’t play bar chords and I felt exposed. I don’t know Suzanne well. She’s an amazing guitarist and she just looked at me quizzically. Suddenly my years of avoidance seemed pretty ridiculous and I had to cop to having avoided a mainstay of guitar playing.

In January I organized a gathering of women friends. We sat together and talked about manifesting big dreams for ourselves in the coming year. I led them in visioning and meditation, conversation and brainstorming. At one point in the evening, as I led a guided meditation, I thought to myself, "You can be as big as you are. You need to be as big as you can be. Own your bigness." I breathed in deeply and I really felt it. I was expanding to fill my own space in the universe.

Later I posted that thought on a private Facebook community I belong to. But autocorrect autocorrected "bigness" to be "bones" and I didn't notice. One of my friends pointed it out. "I love that! Own Your Bones! I'm going to use that!" she said.

I've needed to remind myself repeatedly to be in my body, to breathe into my bigness. It makes me wonder: Do naturally competitive people have trouble with that? Do they have to remind themselves to stay present in their own space?

Over the years I’ve found competitive people rather obnoxious. Not my type. Now I’m wondering if really, I just find their focus on being the best intimidates me and makes me face my own fear of failure. 

This swirling brain, indecision, and my thought that maybe I should reconsider is, in fact, one of my Inner Critics stepping in to save the day. “Don’t put yourself out there! Don’t work too hard on this! You don’t really want to do this! What if no one signs up? What if you fail?”

Truth is, I haven’t failed much in my life. I can do so many things really well and I’ve mostly succeeded with those things I’ve done. I think that if I smell failure as a possibility, I run like hell the other direction, only to other people it looks like I just changed my mind and am off to create in another one of my artistic realms.

But here are a few of the things I haven't done: Submitted my art journaling pages to a magazine for publishing, written a book proposal for my memoir about Ben, submitted pieces from this blog to magazines for publishing...I haven't even decided if I want to self-publish my book or find an agent. But of course finding an agent means being rejected...that goes without saying. And so, you get the picture.

This morning when I sat my butt down on my cold metal stool and put my feet flat on the floor in front of my altar, I decided to ask the cards for some wisdom. “Why can’t I seem to find my focus? Why can’t I choose a course topic?” I asked as I held the deck of glossy cards. I closed my eyes and shuffled them in my hands. I waited until I had the sensation that this was the card to pull out. I sensed it, and pulled, and then I sensed it again, and pulled another. I laughed at myself. Of course, I can’t even choose one class topic, why would I be able to choose one card? When I opened my eyes, I laughed even harder. I’d unwittingly chosen three cards instead of two, my indecision more profound than I was even aware.

The cards were: Acceptance, Summer, and Strength.

Ok, Universe, tell me what they mean.

There are descriptions on the back of each card and here are the lines that resonated:

Acceptance: Love yourself completely and unconditionally.

Summer: Make time.

Strength: Strength is the determination to follow through.

Perhaps I need to do this. Make time to love myself completely and unconditionally. And make time to really follow through on my ideas. Envision myself as the artist and push myself to be the artist. Damn the competition. Be as big as I can be. Own my bones.

Unfold

Ever since junior high school I have had trouble with patience. Mostly it was expressed in the realm of love. As soon as I had determined that I liked a boy I would start stalking him. Well, ok, you know the infatuated-teeny-bopper style of stalking. I would arrange to be near his locker between classes. I would have my friends call him and then we'd hang up and burst into giggles. I would blush whenever he was near. I would spend all my free time on the dream of him...me and him...And as soon as I thought he had noticed me...I would jump the gun. Call him and talk to him. Ask him out. (Before it was really ok to do that. Is it ok now to do that?) I rarely waited for a boy to ask me out. (I think I tried to justify it as women's lib, after all, it was the 70's. But really, it was impatience!)

Invariably, I jumped too soon. He hadn't gotten used to the idea of me yet. He would be bowled over by my infatuated-adolescent moon eyes and forward nature. He would be nervous about me. He never liked me as much as I liked him.

When I was 13, I was not comfortable sitting in the in between. Letting life take its course. I wasn't able to stop myself from the actions that would end up in disaster. Most of the time.

Impatience. Worry. A lack of confidence in the universe and myself.

When I met Mark I had just started therapy and as much as I was more than twice as old as that junior high school swooner, I wasn't much smarter in the love department. As soon as I got home from our first date I wanted to call him. In some ways it was about extending that luscious feeling of excitement, but also because I just couldn't wait to see if I'd made the same impression on him. If he liked me and would call me back. If he wanted to talk to me again. If we'd go out again. I couldn't wait in that not-knowing place.

My therapist had suggested that I give him space and time to call me back. Not to seem over-eager. Let things unfold at their own pace.

Well, I didn't. Ha! I told myself to wait until he called me and then, bah! I called him. He was happy to hear from me (phew!) and the rest is history. (We got engaged after three months. We didn't waste much time, in general.)

But the lessons I was supposed to be learning? I didn't catch on then or even in the many years following.

And then last September when our therapist had been missing and then suddenly reappeared, as if from the dead, I had a flash of insight. I noticed, in one of my more observant, out of body moments, that as soon as I had information about one part of the story I started making up information about another part of the story. Rather than sit with "I don't know," I don't know why he didn't call, I don't know about what was going on for him in his life that he had to check out, I don't know why he didn't respond to my emails, I don't know I don't know I don't know. Rather than sit with the unknowing, I started to make up new stories. I had no information, it was all conjecture, and yet, I just would spin and spin and spin my tales. As soon as I had gotten a bit of relief (he was alive!) I started to torture myself again with horrible stories to fill in the blanks. It had no good end. And, to be honest, it shocked me.

This story-spinning is a variation on worrying. Something I'm pretty good at, as you'll know if you've read this blog before. And I have to say, as soon as I had this newfound awareness about my storytelling in the inbetween spaces, I was done with it. For the first time in maybe ever I was so over worrying, but in a way that felt tangible. Rather than tell myself: "Don't worry, it's such a waste of energy," I told myself: "Stop telling stories to fill the void." And I did. I could. I could stop before I started.

So, when Mark lost his job back around Thanksgiving and suddenly our world seemed like it was going to spin out of control, I decided not to tell myself stories. I took action, that was a better choice. I decided it was time for me to start bringing in income again and I found myself a very good possibility of a job. But as the weeks passed and the perameters of that potential job became fuzzier rather than sharper, and people I'd told about it started asking, "What about the job? When will it start? What will you get paid? How many hours is it?" I started saying, "I don't know. I don't know." And that was ok. I was not going to spin off in 17 directions with stories about what would happen if the job didn't come through or what would happen if Mark didn't get a job or what would happen if they wanted me but wouldn't pay me enough. I just put it aside. I am not worrying. I'm fine.

And that has opened me up to have a million other ideas for myself. A million and one create ideas for my work, my writing, my art, my family, our happiness. I am feeling more energetic and happy than I have in years. I am bursting at the seams with new possibilities. And for the first time I'm dreaming really, really big about my life. I love how it feels.


On January 2nd I chose my word for 2014: UNFOLD. It is a holder of much meaning and much possibility. It's hard to have the patience necessary to let my life unfold as it is meant to. But now that I've conquered my fear of the space in between, I am excited to see how my life unfolds this year.

What I now realize is that that space in between, the unknown? That's what's holding the best part of it...what will be!

On our way to the other side

And so the journey to the other side begins.

It occurred to me the other night as I packed and repacked my suitcase for our trip to Los Angeles. This is our last (God willing) hospital trip. This activity that we’ve had to engage in over and over these past seven years is ending. No more preparing for surgery, not physically or emotionally.

What will that be like?

A couple days ago, I gathered with some of my Jewish women friends and we sang and meditated and they bestowed beautiful blessings of strength and presence and awareness on me. As I climbed into my car Barbara said, “See you on the other side.” That made me pause.

The other side. The other side.

This side I have been on has been fodder for my writer’s heart, no question. Angst and sorrow certainly does seem to call in the Muse. Ask any country music singer. Ask any artist. Ask van Gogh. And in this part of the journey I am sure I’ll have plenty to write about.

But afterwards? I spoke to a friend who I met years ago on a support forum for parents of kids seeking scoliosis treatment at Shriners. Her son went through the same stapling and hybrid rod adjustment surgeries as Ben, at the same time as Ben, but two years ago his spine just was curving too aggressively, so he underwent fusion then, at age 12. She told me that she barely could remember the time before fusion. Things are going well now, and those days of going in and out of surgeries like walking through a revolving door, well, all of that is just a distant memory.

So, of course, that sounds good and it’s so hard to imagine, as well. Like imagining you’ll meet your handsome prince when you’re out on date after date with frogs.

How do we define ourselves now and how will we define ourselves after, on the other side? Who will we be then and there?

Especially for Ben, this time will be transformative in more ways than one and certainly in more ways than just physically. But physically first, he will be a couple inches taller (straightening out a side-to-side curve, a rib rotation will do that to a body) and less self-conscious about his posture (something he shared with me today). In fact, he’ll have the best posture around…whether he likes it or not! Emotionally, it’s a different story. This is the end of so many years of hesitant living. An exhaustion (that is also physical) hangs over all of us, and I don’t even think we realize how heavy it truly is. So as that lifts and we feel lighter and lighter with no surgeries down the pike, well, I can only think it should mean we will feel more and more free. But, especially Ben. And perhaps less and less different from everyone he knows.

I am struck by Ben’s grace throughout this whole ordeal. (And by “whole” I mean, this surgery, this year’s several surgeries, these past four years…his whole story.) Today, the day before surgery, was challenging and yet Ben was fine through it all. I noticed how sweet he was with the nurses at Shriners, even when they kept us waiting and waiting, sent us home and coming back for a messed up appointment time. Even though it all worked out in the end, I found myself telling and retelling the story of our waiting to whomever would listen. At one point, after I rehashed it with the nurse at the clinic desk, Ben said, “Thank you! Bye!” over his shoulder as we headed to the elevator.  “Mom,” he hissed at me, “You shouldn’t be complaining to the nurses. They have so much crap to deal with every day.” Word.

He heard me telling it again, though, to Mark and I heard him mutter, “I put that down hours ago, when will you?”

Later he chastised me for jaywalking. “It’s not as if there aren’t crosswalks all over the place!”

He put my hand back on the steering wheel when I patted his knee, lovingly, as we drove home from our appointment. “Keep both hands on the wheel, please!”

“I didn’t know you had such a penchant for justice,” I said.

I am listening and learning from my boy. He is definitely my teacher.

At some point today, after the appointment with his surgeon in which we went over every detail of the surgery, every gory detail, with a fine toothed comb, I noticed he was a little quiet and asked how he was doing. “You know, I was just thinking about that,” he said. “When Dr. Cho talked about the [urinary] catheter I noticed my arms started shaking. Now I’m not sure if I’ve just been in a state of denial or acceptance.”

“Maybe it’s both,” I suggested.

“How can it be both? They’re the antithesis of each other!”

Maybe not. I see them as easily coexisting for him. One part denial, one part acceptance. It’s like just enough of each to maintain equilibrium. Until the doctor starts talking about catheters. And then it gets all too real.

And life is like that. Equal parts light and dark.

Tonight on the precipice of the Other Side, I am feeling how I've been, who I've been on this side for these many long years of surgeries. Being Ben's mom has definitely defined me in some ways, and being his mom is a huge honor. And a learning experience. When I consider it this way then it feels that I will just continue on the same...honoring my son, being awed by him, loving that I am his mom.

I'm ready to say goodbye to this chapter. It's definitely time.

And, it’s also time for bed. Ben has unplugged his Xbox, is getting ready to call it a day. Tomorrow we rise bright and early and head to the hospital by 7 am. I will attempt to write and post while he's in surgery, or at least when I get back to my digs. I have more to tell you. But it’ll have to wait.

Think good thoughts.

I can tell you about my breath

I can tell you about my breath.

When I awake tonight, only two hours after first falling asleep, my body is tight, tense in every muscle. As I float to the surface I become aware of my mind. A few more minutes pass and I become aware of my body. My thoughts drift here and there and I recognize I am wandering too far into the future. I bring myself back to right now.

In. Ouuuut. Innnnn. Ouuuut. I force myself to breathe deeply. It is a struggle, but I know that it is the only thing.

Almost as soon as I begin to focus on right now and that breath, my mind is moving ahead again. I pull it back but it wants desperately, and it despises at the same time, to think about the hospital waiting room, the ticking of the clock, the hours between the rolling of the gurney into the OR and the arrival of the doctor to tell us he’s out of surgery.

I force my lungs to open wide, pulling in air, through my nostrils, slowly slowly. My belly opens up, air filling it to capacity. I can feel my shoulders, tight and strained. I try to let the air into them as well. Relax. Relax.

As soon as I breathe in, the thoughts of the hospital dissipate. But almost as soon as the exhale is done, in those last seconds of exhale, the thoughts come back, like the tide, like a wave, like a freight train.

Ben in surgery. Ben in pain. The waiting room. His bedside. Tubes. The color of his skin. The feel of the vinyl seats in the hospital room. The sound of the curtain being pulled across his bedside. The sound of other children moaning from their beds nearby.

Again, I tell myself. Breathe again. Innnn. Ouuuut.

I can tell you this is not easy. I have been here before, and yet, I truly do not remember feeling exactly like this. Perhaps it’s like the amnesia you have of pain. Perhaps that explains why this feels foreign and yet familiar.

Seventeen days before surgery and I cannot sleep. It makes perfect sense to me. But how, I ask my brain, will I survive seventeen nights like this? How will I function for those seventeen days?

I come back to my body. My skin is prickly. My nerves are on high alert. I bring myself back to my breath. Breathe innnnnn.

Breathe ouuuuuut.

I feel pain in my groin. I feel pain in my feet. My eyes burn, though they are closed, tight shut. They are dry.

I bring myself back to now. Breathe. Innnnnnn.

Out. Ouuuuuut.

Mark snores peacefully next to me. I have taken to sleeping with earplugs and an eye mask. It was working until about a week ago. My sleep improving after years of fitful, fruitless, interrupted nights.

Tonight, though, I can feel the little orange sponges in my ear canals, I can hear Mark’s snores through them and feel his dispassion. Well, I imagine his dispassion. I know he’d try to help, if I’d let him.

Again I breathe. I am forcing myself to breathe. Thank god my body knows to breathe, however shallowly, without my conscious effort, because if it didn’t I wouldn’t make it. That’s for sure. I wouldn’t make it. My mind is clearly not on survival, my breath is so shallow in the in-between moments.

And I should tell you, I’m not panicking, but I’m not not panicking, if you know what I mean. This is just where I am. It is unpleasant. It is not helpful. I can talk myself out of it, but again that’s just my brain distracting me from—

Innnnnnn.

Ouuuu—

What will I do in those waiting hours? Knit, crossword puzzles, check Facebook three million times, read a book? My attention span is getting so short these days I can barely get through a paragraph. Who will I talk to? Who will, what will distract me from the endless, murderous waiting?

I drag my mind back. Now. Right now. There is no point in this line of thought. There is only right now.

Breathe dammit!

Innnnn. Ouuuut.

The air flows in, filling up my belly again. I hold it, allowing myself to relax, focused on that one action, and then I release.

If I can only stay here, return here, to this breath, I will get through somehow. It is the key, held ever so vulnerably in my core, to survival.

At the edge of the lake

I awake, the tension in my back becomes noticeable immediately. I breathe in deeply, filling my belly with air like a vase filling with water. I let it out slowly and then do it again. The tension begins to ease.

We are entering the final phase before Ben’s final surgery and I am feeling it. I am feeling like I’m about to step off a dock into a lake, the dark glossy surface hiding the treacherous depths below. What is lurking there? I’m not sure.

This has happened before. It’s all happened before. I’m not pushing the feelings away. It is where I am, it is what it is. But feeling all this, the fear and anxiety, the knowing of what’s coming and the knowing that there will also be surprises and things I’ve forgotten to prepare myself for, things I couldn’t possibly have prepared myself for, well, feeling all that is heavy.

Ben is feeling it, too. He was gone last week camping with his good buddies, playing Live Action Role Play (LARP). What better activity to engage in three weeks before major surgery? Be a mage or a monster. Collect magical powers. Slay a few evil dragons. (I’m sure I’ve gotten the details all wrong, but you get the picture.) Sounds like good therapy to me. He came home exhausted, happy, and dirty. He took a shower, rested and dove right into a very cranky state of being. Headaches, back aches, general bad mood. Who could blame him?

Mark is feeling it, too, though he rarely expresses it to me. Strong and silent. Removed.  

That’s hard for me, if only because I need him and I need to talk to him and feel connected. I process through talk, he processes through silence. I can feel us getting farther and farther apart…floating on the lake…I can’t reach him and that treacherous stuff under the surface? How will he save me from it if he’s too far away for me to reach?

We usually are very good partners, and we’ve weathered hard times over and over, but we don’t do Hospital well together. Over the years, Mark’s been there at the battlefront for all but one surgery. I’ve been there for half of them (seven, if you’re counting). When Ben was in Children’s Hospital having his brain surgeries we were both there, in our little shells, trying to just survive. I remember one day, taking a break at a local café while one of the grandmas stayed with Ben in the ICU. We were nearing the end of our time there, we both knew that. Ben’s wound was finally responding to treatment and healing and he would be released soon. We sat quietly at the window of the café, drinking our coffees, nibbling on lemon bars and brownies. I asked Mark to talk to me about what life would be like when we finally got home, what we would do, how we would manage the transition, and he just wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it.

I feel the need to plan and project into the future. I want to be prepared for it. What will happen? How will I deal with it? What if? What if? Worrying…some might call it that. A mother’s prerogative.

I did it when Harry was inutero. I was so anxious that something would go wrong and we’d be that 1%...Mark’s the math guy… “There’s hardly any chance that will happen!” he told me and my response was: “Yes, but someone is that 1%...it could be us!” Cleft palatte, cleft lip, death in childbirth, stillborn.  It happens. I know people it’s happened to. “How will we deal with it?” I remember asking him. “Will you talk with me about how we’ll deal with it?”

And “No. I can’t do that,” was his answer.

We’re in that place again. He can’t go there with me. I brought it up with him the other night while we soaked in the dark in our hot tub. “I don’t want Ben to have the surgery,” I said. And from him I had silence. Was he listening? Was he processing? Hard to tell in the dark. Even though I know better, I got hurt and grumpy. I hate that. I know better. I know that Mark is processing, too, feeling it too. But I’m still feeling alone and isolated in the moment.

I am tied in knots, worrying about this surgery. Even though I implicitly trust his surgeon, I am worrying. What am I worrying about? That Ben will die in surgery? No, not really, though realistically, it’s possible. That he’ll end up paralyzed? Again, a possibility, but even I can’t go there this time.

No, I am struggling with the fact that 13 of his vertebrae will turn into one long bone in his back, an irreversible change that will affect him for the rest of his life. What if he can’t stand how it feels? What if he doesn’t want to be touched or held or hugged anymore? What if he can’t ski or ride a bike or be active the way he wants to be? There’s no backsies on this one, people.

This is regardless of what I’ve already heard from many folks. That it’s the right choice. (Hell, it’s hardly a choice. More like an inevitability.) That he won’t be hindered by it…he’ll be able to ski and be active, indeed he’ll need to be active to feel his best. And that’s great because at his core he’s an active guy, and he’s lost that along this very hard way.

After all these years of going into and out of surgeries, it will most likely be a huge relief to be done with all that. But I can’t imagine what he’ll feel like to have so much metal in his body.

I can’t imagine how he’ll feel to have lost mobility in his core.

I am afraid to watch him in pain in the hospital, recovering from an 18” incision, his vertebrae being removed, ground up, packed back in with rods and screws. I’m terrified about seeing him in pain. I want to run away to another continent when I think about seeing him that pain. Oh my god. How will I deal with that?

I’m having trouble with it all.

Last night we had our last night as a family, all together, for the next five weeks. Toby’s off to summer camp today and when the camp buses return him to us in two and a half weeks, Ben, Mark and I will pick him, go grab some dinner and then drop Ben and me off at the airport to head down to LA for the surgery. (We planned it that way. Toby wanted at least one hour with us before we were off.) Mark will join us the next day. And the day after that is Ben’s surgery day. Ben and I won’t come home for another two plus weeks.

We wanted to have a blissful family time…dinner, game night…laughing…happiness…but, predictably really, it devolved into bickering between the brothers. Toby, hyped up on nerves about leaving; Ben, cranky with transitioning home after his camping adventure; Harry, resistant and uncomfortable about change of any sort…Everyone got on everyone’s nerves. In the end, even though the two older brothers went off to watch a movie together leaving Mark and me to play some games with Toby alone, it was okay. The tension was somewhat relieved. And before bed the older brothers came out to hug their baby brother good bye and wish him well at camp.

And now, as I look at it, I see where I went wrong. I wanted us to be blissful and happy, as if we weren’t all stepping off the dock into those treacherous waters together. Telling everyone, “It’s our last night together as a family for five weeks” was the death knell to a lighthearted family night. What was I thinking?

I need to process. I need to be in it to get out of it. And all I did was stir it up for them. Yet, if I hadn’t? If I hadn’t alerted them to the fact…Pay attention people! This is the last night we have together for a while! Take note! If I hadn’t said that, I’d be blamed later for not having warned them, alerted them, called attention to it all.

Sigh.

The thing is I haven’t been just preparing myself for what’s coming. I’m busy preparing everyone in the family. It’s my job. My thankless job. And yet, not thankless. I know that though they push back, they can see I hold it for them and I’m there for them when it’s time for a hug or reassurance or healing.

And so, I will continue to worry, and predict, and consider what is hiding under the surface. And lure their worries out of them too, consciously or unconsciously, it’s what I’ll do.

road trip

I awoke this morning dreaming I was heading out on a spontaneous road trip, all by myself. The destination was not clear, but I was not concerned. It was about the journey, after all. I hadn't even packed a suitcase yet, was thinking about the route, and how soon I could hit the road.

When my mind became more aware, I had a strong urge to write it down and immediately, I connected it to a journey I've been on since last fall.

In October I was turning 50 and I was preparing the music and sermon for my synagogue's biannual women's retreat. Hitting menopause I had been feeling like my voice was changing and I indulged in some voice lessons for the first time in my life. I dug deep into the music, I dug deep into the Torah. My enjoyment of the process started to blossom. I was singing Jewish music night and day. I was reading and thinking about Jewish texts, I was peeling back layers, I was writing and questioning and discussing something intellectual and spiritual. I suddenly became aware of a new desire in my heart.

Not coincidentally, the theme of our women's retreat was "Liminal Moments," threshold moments, doorways of time and space, emotion and experience. I was turning this over and over in my mind, reading about transitions, writing about those doorways in my life which I'd already walked through.

In addition to all that, at the same time I was also taking an online course called Cultivating Courage, taught by the amazing and wonderful Andrea Scher. 30 days of Courage. "One conscious, brave choice every day -- for 30 days." 30 days to put on my Wonder Woman cape and flex my courage. I took it to heart. I was so brave that month.

And by the time the women's retreat came, and went, I had a whole new plan for myself. I wanted to be a Jewish spiritual music leader. I was headed down a new road with a very new sense of myself, what I could do, and who I could become.

I've been a Jewish songleader ever since I first owned a guitar 33 years ago. I don't even remember why they hired me, but when I graduated from high school I was asked to be the music teacher at the secular Jewish school, Sholem Educational Institute, at which I had been first a student and then a teacher's aid up till that point. The guitar was a present from my parents for my high school graduation. I began taking lessons that summer. By September, I knew about 5 chords and was standing in front of groups of kids and parents leading them in song, as I recall a fairly even mix of Yiddish folk songs, Negro spirituals and Bob Dylan. "The Garden Song" by Arlo Guthrie was also one of our favorites.

Throughout the next 33 years my guitar was often in my hands as I led singing at that Jewish kindershul and another, in my elementary school classrooms as I ventured out into the world as a grade school teacher, in all three of my children's preschools, at yearly family Passover Seders, on family camping trips, and at our synagogue's religious school. When, a few years ago, I took a break from teaching music at Hebrew school, my guitar sat quietly in a corner of the living room. I didn't take it out much to play. It was the first time in years that I'd not had calluses on my fingertips.

But last fall, on the brink of my milestone birthday, the potential beginning of a new period in my life, my guitar came out and I opened my mouth, and my heart, and something really surprising emerged: a deep inner spiritual expression of myself.

What I started to appreciate was how I felt differently when I sang Jewish music, Hebrew lyrics, really Hebrew poetry and prayers as opposed to folk songs, pop songs, other music. Not that that music can't lift your spirit or touch your soul. Absolutely, it can. But there was definitely something different in me and coming from me when the music was Jewish.

At the retreat, I was seen and also saw myself as someone who could do this. Could create a soulful experience for others. With my music and my words I reached into hearts and souls. Women were embracing me, were crying, were smiling and thanking me for helping them to feel deeply in those moments. The pleasure I got from that was immense. It wasn't a surprise, I had been leading music for over three decades, but the spiritual part...that was new.

I wasn't even sure how to couch this new-found belief. It felt like a spark, a knowing. It was deep inside me and didn't fit easily into the words we have for it: God, soul, religious. Meh. Those words just don't express what I was experiencing.

I have always had a strong Jewish identity. It went beyond beliefs. It's about a history. A common thread. A tribe. I am very tribal! But the God part was not comfortable or even familiar to me. I didn't just accept the idea of God without a trial. That kindershul I grew up in was secular. It was Judaism without God. Jewish history, culture, music, food. It was good for my realist and rational thinking parents, and at the time it was good for me. But the miracles were all explained away. The mysticism was not there.

Through the years I've questioned and questioned. I've felt uncomfortable at services. All that praising of God! I even felt uncomfortable singing and teaching religious Jewish music when I first became the Hebrew school music teacher nine years ago at our synagogue. It was something I did, but it wasn't a perfect fit.

And then suddenly, last fall, turning 50, feeling brave, and taking on the job of leading services at the retreat, I noticed the feeling was different. There was less struggle and more flow, less questioning and more knowing. Suddenly there was a sense of God within me, unfamiliar and yet familiar. (And after 50 years of being unsure, it is not easy to change one's ways. Even now I hesitate to put it out there lest someone think "She believes in God!")

There's definitely a place or a need and a want in my heart for holy thinking, sacred space, the unknown and unknowable. 

And yet I can't deny that I now feel there's a place for those miracles and for the kind of thinking that accepts the possibility of miracles. There's definitely a place or a need and a want in my heart for holy thinking, sacred space, the unknown and unknowable.

So I stepped onto that path. After the women's retreat there was a sense that I was going to do this, to lead people spiritually with my guitar, my voice, my presence. Oddly, there was a hole that had opened up at the same time at our synagogue when the week before the retreat they had let the new cantor go, suddenly, only 3 months into his contract. Many people looked to me and asked, "Can you do this? Do you want to do this?" and my answer was "Yes!" But that was not to be. There is, apparently, a protocol, there is a process, and there are a lot of rules at our synagogue...in synagogues in general? I am naive, it was not as simple and clear as I thought...We have a need, I have a voice and a desire, an ability.

Leading music at Kindling the Spirit.

I'd like to say they, the synagogue leadership, opened their arms to me, delighted that my personal epiphany was timed so right for the sudden musical vacancy on the bimah (stage). But they didn't. They actually seemed fairly threatened by my confidence, my passion to sing and be a spiritual leader, and unfortunately, they were pretty negative. (Why? I don't actually know. Only conjecture.) Over the months they've come around a bit, and I've had the opportunity to lead several services there.

But something better came out of the retreat. Two friends of mine, Barbara Hirschfeld and Margo Miller, one a Hebrew teacher and Torah and Jewish prayer scholar and one a meditation teacher, came to me and asked me to collaborate with them. We sat down a few months later to create a program called "Kindling the Spirit: Exploring Judaism through Meaning, Music and Meditation." Margo takes a phrase or a word from Jewish texts, prayers, the Torah and then unpacks the wisdom and meaning in it. Then I pull in music, some new, some old, some I even have written (yes, I've even started to write Jewish music!) for the occasion that helps us to connect the text to a musical expression. And Barbara leads us in meditation focused on that theme, that new understanding. It's powerful and beautiful stuff. The collaborating is incredible. We teach in Barbara's gorgeous meditation center, Open Sky Retreat Space. We are a wonderful trio together. And we have a following now, people, not just Jewish people either, who are seeking more meaning and more meaningfulness in their connection to Jewish teachings. That has been an incredible experience, a blossoming of our passions together, and a path I never considered was there, was viable, was possible. We have taught several workshops already and have more planned for the coming new year. And we were recently invited to bring our workshop to our synagogue...and share our wisdom there. Huh!

We brought Kindling the Spirit to our synagogue this month.

Barbara led me to another connection..."You should talk to my friend Lorenzo..." and so I have also started to collaborate with a wonderful guitarist and composer, Lorenzo Valensi, who leads music at another local congregation, Ner Shalom. I've been embraced there with open arms. It's a really positive and moving experience to sing with them.

Singing my own music at Hava Nashira's open mic night.

In May I attended Hava Nashira, the Jewish songleaders' conference in Wisconsin. And in June I attended a 4 day intensive program with Joey Weisenberg, a terrifically talented and inspiring musician. I feel like I'm a pot under a spigot, filling to the brim. I'm taking it all in...processing, learning, sharing, bursting with spirit and passion for this music and learning.

There have been periods when I felt that I needed some concrete idea about where I was headed. I think we're accustomed to that type of thinking. "Oh, you can do ________, then you must be a __________." I lead Jewish spiritual music, then I must be a cantor. That type of thinking made me feel quite insecure. I mean, how does one do that when one is settled and not planning on moving, and there's only one cantorial position in the immediate vicinity...and they're not offering it to you? And also, is that the only way to lead Jewish spiritual music? From a bimah? On Friday nights or Saturday mornings?

Well, no. Clearly, being a cantor is one thing that I could be. But it's not the only thing. Once I released myself from that type of thinking I relaxed.

Two weeks ago I brought my guitar to my aunt's deathbed and sang to her, and family and friends who were gathered there. She was in hospice care, failing, practically unresponsive. And then we sang. We sang for over an hour and she opened her eyes. She listened and was present, in some way, for that music. When I was leaving I went to her, kissed her good bye and said "I'm leaving." "Where are you going?" she mouthed to me, the first sentence she'd uttered in days. I came back the next day to sing again.


The path, this road trip...where is it leading? There have been periods where I've thought I needed to know, but I don't feel that right now. I am creating my own opportunities to share my spirit. And as in my dream this morning, I guess I just need to get out on the road. The path will lead me where I need to go.

Think Like a Team Captain

I’ve noticed lately that it all seems to go back to those days in junior high school. I sat with my p.e. class on the itchy, prickly grass of the softball field, watching the jocky girls, their muscly legs emerging from their blue and gold gym shorts, pacing back and forth deciding who to pick for their teams. I was invariably picked last or almost last. I was newer to the crowd and I wasn’t an athlete. I was just a small, shy girl picked last. The one nobody wanted on their team because she didn’t have what it took to win.

If I wasn’t the very last at least there was that feeling of Thank god I wasn’t last. They wanted me.

Well, sort of.

And if I was last? Not only did they not need me. I’d bring them down.

Which brings me to the crux of the issue: I didn’t even want to play. I hate sports.

But 7^th grade girl still remains. I wrestle with her daily when I consider the many options in front of me. Now, the difference is that I am asked to consider this position, this volunteer job, this committee, this task and I have trouble deciding what I want to do. I have options. They want me! Not only that, they tell me I’d be perfect for this job.

They want me. They want me. They want me. How can I pick what I want when I have been picked by them? Maybe I should do it all? Say Yes and Yes and Yes to every single thing?

My life is full of children and animals and responsibilities. I have health issues. I have a son with health issues. I have a messy house and a messy car and I can’t even find my three to-do lists. If I only respond to that shy 12 year old I might not do exactly what this 50 year old needs to do most.

I turn it all over in my mind again and again. If they say I am the one, how can I not stand up and sit on their bench? My heart races when I think about letting people down. They need me. They need me. They need me. But, what do I need?

In the end I feel both selfish and anxious. Somehow choosing me first isn’t my habit. I’d say it comes with being a mother, but I wonder, what do those former team captains in their cute little gym shorts do? Did they grow up to just take on whatever came their way? Or did they look out for their best interest, just like they used to do in front of the back stop on the softball field?

I take a deep breath. It’s time to think like a team captain. 

:: right now ::

Maurice was impressed with the size of the onions at our local farmer's market.

 
right now I am...

:: enjoying  getting to know our 15 year old foreign exchange student, Maurice, who is staying with us this month. He is a delight: bright, witty, enthusiastic, willing, and open. His English is excellent and he loves video games! What more could our family ask for?

:: basking  in the sweet afterglow of two teen boys returned from a week of meditating and getting real with themselves. The conversations we've had...aaaahhh...sweet!

:: watching  said boys turning into spectacular young men.

:: digging  into some serious creative sewing using the book Do-It-Yourself Clothing Design by Cal Patch. My first attempts last week (with A-line skirts) turned out beautifully and I can't wait to get started on the second project!

:: gathering  food to make our 3rd of July picnic. We have a glorious down-homey celebration here in town the night before the big day. We'll be showing Maurice the Big American Holiday, Sebastopol-style!

:: feeling  the gratitude for a bountiful life, a beautiful place to live in, and much, much love around me every day!

:: right now ::

Saying goodbye before the bus carried Toby off to Camp Tawonga.

 
right now I am...

 :: breathing  in the quiet of a house sans three boys as all have gone off to adventures in the woods

:: wondering  what each boy is up to at this very minute: meditating? eating? singing? hiking? playing? laughing?

:: worrying  (just a little bit) about the boy who is prone to home-sickness and hoping that his big brother will gently take him under his wing and brush away his sadness

:: feeling  the space open up in my life when my children are away and my list of responsibilities is more closely focused on just little ol' me

:: noticing  the gooseflesh on my arms and legs and appreciating (or trying to, anyways) that today won't be a scorcher and accepting that maybe I should get some jeans and a sweatshirt on

:: listening  to the soft snoring of one very tired man who went to bed before I did last night and has stayed in bed past when I awoke. Me thinks he has some catching up to do!

:: enjoying  the thought of three days off together with that very same tired man

:: thinking  about all I want to accomplish in the few days before two boys return from meditating and one (new) boy arrives from Germany

:: procrastinating  about getting started with the chores because that might mean I'm not relaxing anymore

:: considering  if there might be a new way to approach chores that could incorporate a more relaxed frame of mind...hmmmm...

:: hoping  to make time this week to exercise and cook and meditate and write and sew and organize and clean out and pretty up and build and plant AND knowing it can't all be done but wishing it could and (still) thinking maybe it can (Ha! take that pessimism!)

Hope your day and week is peaceful and fruitful!

another musical moment

It just so happens that I was in charge of putting on a very special concert at my synagogue on Sunday. It was a dream come true: a solo acoustic concert with Dan Nichols. And because of a connection (see below) and seeing as I'm a (some time) songleader in that community, Dan asked me to join him in a song. That's the photo above. Below, is the introduction I read at the beginning of the concert. He seemed to like it...what do you think?

We all connect with our Judaism in different ways. For some it’s through the rituals, for some the food, or the prayers, or the holidays. For many, myself included, it’s the music. Jewish music has always affected me in profound ways, making me smile, bringing me to tears, helping me to pray, and get in touch with the liturgy of our Shabbat and High Holy Day services. More than anything else, it’s helped me to feel the presence of God in my life. Having taught Jewish music since I first picked up my guitar over 30 years ago, and having led the music at our women’s retreats and camping trips, and being a member of the choir, I can tell you that for me Jewish music is my hook. If I’m feeling disconnected from my spiritual self, all I have to do is listen to some Jewish music or sing some myself to start to feel that fire light up again.

A few years back I had the enormous pleasure of attending Hava Nashira, the Jewish songleaders’ conference in Wisconsin. At the conference I met Dan Nichols, amongst other amazing Jewish musicians. I’d heard Dan’s music before, as one of many contemporary Jewish musicians taking our liturgy and transforming it into something fresh and beautiful. Dan was one of my teachers there. Whether we were praying together or singing rousing camp songs after a meal, Dan was the one whose presence and music transported me to another place. 

And it was Dan’s music I came home listening to. (Literally, I sat there on Midwest Airlines with Dan Nichols streaming out of my ipod!)

It’s Dan’s music I’ve gone back to and back to over the years. I’ve taught his songs to our children here at STaRS, I’ve belted them out in the car while I drove my own kids around. I’ve even hummed them as I’ve fed my donkeys out in the pasture at home. Dan’s music stays with me and moves me and fills me up. He is, most definitely, one of my spiritual teachers as well as one of my musical teachers.

For that reason, I’ve wanted you to be able to experience some time with Dan. Not just listening to the music he’s created, but being with him while he shares it with you.  We are so fortunate to have him here with us today.

He comes to us from North Carolina where he lives with his wife and little girl. He spends much of his life bopping around the country from congregation to congregation, and camp to camp, sharing his joy of Jewish values and liturgy with his audiences and students. His career is largely focused on the Jewish camp scene and, indeed, he is Artist-in-Residence at all 14 URJ summer camps, including Camp Newman. At Hava Nashira he is the mentor for all the up’n’coming URJ camp songleaders, of which he was one a couple decades ago. He is the definition of hamish. He’s humble and sweet and down to earth. He’s an immensely talented musician. And he’s here, waiting to sing for us…Dan Nichols.