This is My Body, This is My Blood

Senior Project

Hey you with the pretty face
Welcome to the human race
A celebration, mister blue sky's up there waitin'
And today is the day we've waited for

Mr. Blue Sky, Electric Light Orchestra

People say we're more like an old couple than mother and son, the way we bicker and make up, share a million inside jokes, fight over what goes in the grocery cart. I suppose it's because he's the only male that's stuck around in my life for more than a few months or years--granted more by necessity than choice. Or maybe it's due to the fact that from the instant I first laid eyes on this kid, I understood he was as much my peer as my prodigy.

As a child, J was the kind of kid who would sit cross-legged in the middle of the basketball court during summer camp, his spectacled head absorbed in a book while the other kids danced the ball around and over him. He was the one consistently sent to the office for distracting the class with his jokes, arguing semantics with a teacher, or standing up to a bully with words that sliced as deeply as the punches landing on my son. And he's the the kind of kid you pull out of school a half-dozen times, trying unsuccessfully to find an odd-shaped hole for a many-faceted peg.

He finally graduated from high school this week, thanks to a newly-formed charter school that worked one-on-one with J to help him garner enough credits to earn a diploma. He earned most of those credits at Cuesta College, and now has a year of general ed under his belt, putting him a full year ahead of most of his counterparts. The graduation ceremony was simple, sweet, and unrehearsed. The 13 capped students chose a song to accompany their walk to the "stage" (a semi-circle of chairs on the lawn of the cohousing community). Jacob chose ELO's Mr. Blue Sky, fitting in that for graduation I'd gifted him with 20-20 vision, and it was his first public appearance sans prescriptions lens.

I know my kid loves me, but he's not quick to say so, at least not in words. His way of showing affection is to crack my back when he notices I'm "off" or to pick up an extra pack of sunflower seeds when he's at the store. So I didn't expect much more than a posed photo or an indulgent hug last Thursday. What I got is this: a fitting reward for twelve-plus long years of trying to give J the best education available. What you get today is the gift of J's graduation address, copied below. Bring your hankie, folks.

Wait...I thought I was the juggling act. No? Ok, then (retrieving speech from beneath his crokked cap).

The transition from high school onward never seemed like such a big deal to me. What’s all the fuss about? After all, our schooling isn’t complete, in fact far from it. If you were to ask me, or be forced to listen to me ramble on as you all are, I would say that our schooling ends with a toe tag. There are so many things to discover and explore on this planet--from new sources of renewable energy to unseen species of tropical insects to new planets and stars not yet seen or given a name. Whether we go on to college or find what we love in a simpler life, whether we travel abroad or deeply explore the comforts of home, we will spend the rest of our lives learning the complicated rhythms of the Earth.

So what are we really graduating from? I sat at my computer for hours, unable to write more than a sentence about my graduation (then again, the James Bond marathon on TV didn’t help). I was stumped. Finally, it dawned on me. I think graduation isn’t just a celebration of what we’ve done-- although anyone who has sat through some public school lessons that made eating glass look kind of appealing deserves a medal (and most of us have). No, nearly everyone has endured 12 years of standardized, platform-building schooling that in and of itself is good mostly for celebration that it's finally over.

The real focus of graduation, however, is the glorious recognition and anticipation of all the varied and amazing things we will do in our lifetimes, the things that we’ll learn from here on out-- be it thermonuclear physics, computer science, art, or underwater basket weaving. Raising a family, caring for loved ones, discovering the balance of work and play; from this day forward we each break free of standardized credit mongering and walk our own paths in life, building the tools that you--not the State of California--decide you need, and discovering what it is in life makes your heart sing.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, "To be yourself in a world that is that constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment." Then again, he also said that quotation confesses inferiority, so maybe he wasn’t the best guy to quote.

In closing, no graduation speech would be anywhere near complete without the standard thank you to a very unstandard woman. I spent what often seemed like every day of  1st -8th  grade getting my cheeky butt sent to the office, so my mother got to know a lot of secretaries very well. If it weren’t for my mother’s tireless work, I would never have received such a varied and exceptional education.

Words can’t begin to describe how thankful I am for your constant support and guidance, and the support and guidance I will no doubt require when I need to figure out how to do my taxes, or buy a house, or make pot roast, or take bubblegum out of my couch. If anyone deserves a cool little piece of paper and a nifty hat, its totally you, mom. If Mr. Emerson will allow me to quote him yet again, even if it does confess my inferiority, "Men are what their mothers make them."

At this point he ad libbed, "And now if you'll all indulge me, I've got some flowers here for my mom, and for my teacher, Amy, who put up with a long year's worth of procrastination and nincompoopery from me." Then he produced a beautiful bunch of roses for me and a bouquet of mixed flowers for Amy, and walked them to us one at a time along with warm hugs. There wasn't a dry eye on the lawn.

It was a very good day. I hope yours was, too.

Miss Understanding

To be misunderstood can be the writer's punishment for having disturbed the reader's peace. The greater the disturbance, the greater the possibility of misunderstanding. ~~Anatole Broyard

There was a time in my life when I needed to be right, would have traded my favorite toe ring, nay, my toe, for a resounding "I told you, so!" rather than let a misconception linger in another's mind. For some reason, it used to be very important to me that I made my point, disproved somebody's wrong assumptions, shed light on what longed to remain in shadowy shades of ambiguity rather than leave our backs to one another in steadfast attachment to conviction.

A few months ago I experienced one of these conflicting realities opportunities for growth and a part of me really, really wanted to convince the other person that they were wrong about me. I composed long emails in which I  proved their incorrectness, held imaginary conversations where I articulated my truth, turned a spotlight on my history so that they could see the lack of blemish on my record of good intentions. But I never sent those emails, never picked up the phone, gave up investing my energy in someone else's wrong perception of me. Frankly, it's just silly to throw away all that energy in exchange for righteous conversion.

My wasband once belonged to a group I kiddingly referred to as his Libbing Lub Kult, (it's actually called Living Love) in which the members have to memorize a long list of tenets and humiliate themselves to the degree they give into "group process" and admit they are "addicted" to some set of limiting behaviors. I'm not one for organized religion or anti-religion for that matter, and as much as I disagree with the methods of LL, one can always glean something useful from any set of principals. My take-away from this one is something they call being stuck in the g.o.o., short for Good Opinion of Others. For most of my life I was not only stuck in the goo, I'd been planted in it from the moment of conception. Growing up a preacher's kid, it's really important to set an example for others, and lord forbid anyone thought we were sinning at the Edwards parsonage let alone actually doing it.  We weren't free from sin by any means, but I did learn that it's a lot easier to be a good person than to try and cover being a bad one.

So I let it go, this need to be right--or mostly, anyway. And when he called and asked for a treatment, I said yes, and not much more. As is often the case, once I'm in massage mode Love takes over and I felt any residual resentment and frustration leave me as I did what I do. Afterwards we hugged tenderly, nearly silently. He left without the wall he'd been wearing when he arrived, and I was grateful for the opportunity to heal something without having to do it with words.

Once again, a phrase out of my father's mouth, memorized from the underlined and tattered pages of his favorite Bible that now rests on my bookshelf, comes crawling back to me. Specifically, Matthew seven, verse seven.  And you will know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. I believe there is no truth that matters more than one's own, and so long as you know it, you are free from defending it. It took a while, but having (finally) learned from past experiences,  I've decided it is far better, as they say,  to be happy than to be right.

Plus, I'm really bad at math so I need all these silly toes.

Chasing Enlightenment

"Freedom and love go together. Love is not a reaction. If I love you because you love me, that is mere trade, a thing to be bought in the market; it is not love. To love is not to ask anything in return, not even to feel that you are giving something- and it is only such love that can know freedom." Jiddu Krishnamurti

From the moment I left the comfort of my father's religion, I began a haphazard journey toward a higher truth than what I perceived as his fault-ridden dogma. Beginning in my late twenties and ending a few years ago, I latched onto a spiritual pendulum that swung from Native American Studies to Wicca to New Age Metaphysics to Buddhism to Humanism to Earth Wisdom to Goddess Worship, gulping down words and rituals I hoped would slake my existential thirst only to end up more parched than ever.

It's not that I didn't find some truth in each of my quests for spiritual enlightenment--I did--but mostly I found a plethora of people whose walk didn't match their talk. In fact, most of the so-called gurus practiced hypocrisy through the mere existence of their self-proclaimed titles. An "old soul" will never tell you they are an old soul any more than a Wise Man needs to advertise his sagacity, because in doing so, the ego steps forward in complete contradiction to the larger truth. It's easy to regurgitate talking points, whether they be philosophical or religious. What's hard--and truly enlightened--is living those words.

The other resulting epiphany was that most of the teachings I unearthed were simply different ways to mimic Christ's teachings of love, compassion, and tolerance (or perhaps Christ mimicking others who came before him with the same message). Unlike so many self-described instruments of enlightenment who exercise habits of righteous indignation and condemnation, Christ's teachings were about acceptance. From lepers to prostitutes, he not only preached compassion, he modeled a life that embraced rather than abandoned others for their shortcomings or imperfections.

What I couldn't know when I rebelled against my religious upbringing, is that my search for truth would bring me full circle, back to words from a book I continue to reject in whole, but now embrace in essence, most specifically, The Golden Rule. Do Unto Others. Or in the verse I like better from I John 3:18, "Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action." To that end I have tried (and failed and continue trying) to live a life of love with a capital L. Giving without remembering. Taking without forgetting. Forgiving without conditions.

I think Thomas Merton said it well (although I have no idea if he succeeded in living it) when he wrote, "The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.” I have no need to see you in me. However, I do long to gaze upon the trail of your footprints as you walk your talk, do your dharma, work your plan, or whatever you want to call it rather than mire your feet on a soapbox. This daily practice of love is all I've ever needed to know.  I no longer have a desire to chase after isms in order to find the pathway to enlightenment, because this little light of mine is the truest and brightest I've ever known, and thankfully, doesn't judge its own shadow.

Photo Credit: Chapel Hill via Bill at Webshots.

Round Trip

Did it take long to find me? I asked the faithful light.
Did it take long to find me? and are you gonna stay the night?
Cat Stevens, Moon Shadow

The moon hung like a broken pendulum from an abandoned grandfather clock outside my window last night. I tried pulling the covers over my head but the white noise crawled under the sheets and played a busy highway against the mattress. I closed my eyes and tried to turn the roar into waves the way I do when I stay at a cheap roadside motel, but it didn't help any more than when I stay in an oceanfront inn and the pounding waves turn into cars on a phantom freeway. It's all the same, isn't it? Coming and going. Going and coming.

So I got up. I got up and yanked the blinds, let the light all the way in. Stood there naked in front of the window, daring the moon to drown me in his bluewhite rain. I know it's been coming just as sure as I know winter's buried beneath my feet and one of these days it's gonna burst forth and turn Cerro San Luis green again, so why not welcome it? Yeah. Why not.

Because I'm tired of this swinging door of seasons. I'm tired of saving daylight and holding onto mornings when the evening is inevitable. I'm tired of the goodbyes and laters and maybes. I've had it with watching my life unfold in a rear-view mirror, one hand waving as he shrinks in the distance. The sun does its best to shield me, burn the memories into a smile, but with the darkness comes oblivion--a million pieces of me scattered in the sky like so much nothing.

I stood there anyway. Let the lump of sad fill my lungs then wind its way up my throat, where the soft tones of denial turned into a howl that shook me to the core. I became the highway, the ocean, the nothing and the everything.

I don't know how long it lasted, don't remember the walk back to bed where the cats curled themselves around my legs like bookends. The only fragment that has stayed with me this morning is the last arc of curved light as it rose above the window, leaving behind a soft dent in the sky where I suspect that howl must have landed. I woke feeling hollow, quiet, strangely stoic against the weaving of heart and head as they rally for tactical positions.

I give myself over to my feet instead. They take me to the kitchen, back to bed, to the window, back to bed. Coming and going. Going and coming.

Technorati Tags: relationships, perimenopause, menopause, cat stevens,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, endings

Breast of Times

This post is in honor of my Breast Friend, Sue Richards, of Calendar Girl for all her dedicated work and hard-fought battles to promote breast health to men and women everywhere.  I made a vow as a Breast Ambassador to spread the gospel of breast health, so please click on over to her blog and buy a lovely Breast of Canada Calendar for as many people as you can think to endow with this gorgeous and informative gift. Thank you.

Up until my youngest brother pushed his way into our already-crowded house of six girls plus  two parents, I hadn't taken much notice of the difference between my chest and my mother's--or even my oldest sisters' developing bosoms.  In fact, at a mere five years of age I assumed the matching bulges that filled my mother's dresses were God's way of gifting warm pillows to sleepy heads as they nodded off on soft laps.

This all changed the day my grandmother stood over our kitchen table sprinkling starch-water on white sheets and pillow cases while my mom rocked D in her arms. To my utter amazement, she unbuttoned her blouse and  pulled the swaddled lump that was my baby brother against her bare chest. I watched in awe as D  latched onto her nipple like a Kindergarten painting onto a fridge door and suckled for all his 13-pound worth (yes, that was his birth weight!).  My mother and grandmother continued chatting as if neither considered the fat-cheeked new person gumming my mother's breast to his heart's content, was worthy of wide-eyed staring.

Dumbfounded by the extraordinary event taking place in our kitchen, I moved closer to my mother in an attempt to get a better look, but the edge of her blouse concealed both her boob and my brother's face. Undaunted, I planted myself in the adjacent chair, then matter-of-factly reclined until my head was in my mother's lap, under the arm that supported the slurping baby where I had a dead-on view of this most curious happening.  Sure as Sunday, D was sucking on the end of my mother's breast, and as if that weren't impressive enough, my mother suddenly pulled the nipple out of his mouth and flopped him over her shoulder, leaving the pendulous pillow dangling above my face where I-shit-you-not warm, bluish-white fluid sprayed my face.

I jumped to my feet and wiped my cheek with my sleeve as my grandmother cackled in the memorable way that is forever etched into my bones.

"Whatsa matter, Ellie? You want some?"

I shook my head furiously.

"Sure you do. Give her a taste, Aussie." That laugh again.

I felt a warm heat travel up my neck and over my face. In a moment more surreal than I'd yet to experience, my mother pulled me closer and placed my small hand on her bare breast.

"There's milk inside. It's how D gets his food. Same way you and all your sisters were fed."

Still recovering from the blasphemy of bodily fluids that had just coated my face, I was now completely blown away by all this new information, along with the sensory input of my mother's breast under my palm.

As if sensing my thoughts, my mother smiled. "Go ahead," she said. "Squeeze."

I looked down at the hand that no longer registered as part of my own body and curled my fingers around her flesh. Milk bubbled out from the big brown nipple and onto my mother's aproned knee. I remember thinking this was the warmest, softest thing I'd ever touched in my life.

My brother belted a burp that broke the suspended silence.

"Atta boy!" my grandmother said. "Let that air go, it ain't payin' rent."

My mother tucked her breast back into her blouse and dropped the other before shifting my brother to the opposite side while her mother moved a basket of damp linens to the mangle in the corner of the kitchen. I left a room filled with hissing and suckling and my mother's low hum changed by the extraordinary events I'd just witnessed. As I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I carried with me a new understanding of how much my mother loved us, and her mother, her.

That night I lay in bed with my hand on my smooth chest not yet knowing the magic I would experience upon nursing my own three children, nor the words a lover would one day whisper upon first caress of my nubile young breasts.

These are the warmest, softest things I've ever touched in my life...

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, breastfeeding, nursing, mothers, Breast of Canada, Calendar Girl, essay, blog, breasts, breast health, writing, writers, mothering, daughters, women, massage

Photo by Lauren Cruickshank for 2007 Breast of Canada Calendar
 

Bedroom Sweet

My mother moved the furniture when she no longer moved the man. The Story (The Angel in The House)

A few days ago I moved my bed back to where it was before S moved in. I don't know exactly what it was  that drove me to change it other than that I had to move it over for the satellite guy* to string cable through the wall which led me to clean under the bed which got me to thinking how much space that bulky headboard takes up which made me decide to give it to J which eventually led me to put the bed back against the east wall. As soon as I crawled under the covers that night, I felt more at home. I don't know all that much about feng shui (other than the crap stored under the bed is probably extreme funky shui) but I do know I slept like a drunk on payday that night and have nearly every night since.

As much as I enjoy snuggling with my snugglee, there's something about reclaiming one's space that feels almost bulimic--as though you've been stuffed with all these extra shoulds and hold-backs and then suddenly you just let it all out, take up every inch of the room with your own breath. For the first time in months (or years) you relax into the Who of You and it feels so damn good you laugh for laughing's sake until your kid hollers from the next room, asking what's so funny, which only makes you laugh harder.

In the middle of a recent night I turned over and reached across the bed, forgetting the wide open space of a frog on a queen sized lily pad. I pulled his my other pillow closer, then stretched myself diagonally across the great mattress, planting a toe in the furthest corner like a flagpole on an unclaimed planet. As I nestled back into the web of come-dreaming, I felt something tiny and rough against my thigh. In the netherworld of slow-moving limbs, I plucked a sunflower seed shell from beneath the covers and tossed it aside. As I fell back asleep I smiled the wide smile of cotton-breathed comfort on the threshold of full-blown contentment.

* I killed our TV in March and haven't missed it. J apparently has, as he's paying for it himself out of meager Subway wages.

Technorati Tags: sleeping, sleep, moving furniture,second half of life,aging, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, essay, blog, relationships, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

A Woman's Heart

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love
Can the child within my heart rise above
Can I sail thru the changing ocean tides
Can I handle the seasons of my life

Well, Ive been afraid of changing
cause Ive built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
Im getting older too
Landslide, Fleetwood Mac

I used to live my life by default, repeatedly trusting in the yielding patterns of passivity. After four decades of living the consequences of inaction, I've finally learned to steer my own vessel. If not me, then who?

As much as I adore men, it's becoming clearer that although I've loved many good men in my life, I've not always chosen partners who were good for me. For some reason I just assumed that if a man loved me, he would intuitively know how to love me. That he would mirror my own capacity for loving without first considering what he might gain or lose from unselfish giving of oneself. That forgiveness would be immediate in the face of inconvenience. That he'd understand love isn't about receiving, it's about the gift.

Yeah, so I'm a hopeless romantic. Naive. Perhaps even a little altruistic with my assumptions about others' intentions. But I'd rather be overly generous with my love than live a life diminished by personal history. That doesn't mean I won't be changed by the fact that yet another lover has passed through the door of this woman's heart. Who doesn't carry with them a bundle of bruises along with cherished memories of lovers come and gone? 

The thing about transition is that it comes with wheels. You might feel as if inertia has planted your feet in clay but external forces don't give a flying freak about feelings. When the winds of change begin to blow you either have to lean into them or give yourself over to indifference.

I've written recently about S moving out, but what I didn't say is that he didn't leave me. On the contrary, we both agreed it'd be best for him to find another place because neither of us were happy within the confines of shared housing. We still love each other and although neither of us know the direction of the future, we're both more content living apart.

In the past I'd have done everything in my power to try and fix what wasn't working because for some reason I thought that's what I was supposed to do. Our open discussion about the prospect fo living separately is a significant benchmark in my efforts toward conscious living. More importantly, by choosing my happiness over trying to make another happy, I think I've taken a huge step in the direction of loving myself as well as I've loved others.

Technorati Tags: relationships, perimenopause, menopause, hot flashes, saliva test, relationships, body image, depression,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage   

Immortal Thoughts

I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered by Richard Rogers & Lorenze Hart, performed by Ella Fitzgerald

If you'd asked my nine year-old self what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wouldn't have hesitated to answer, Samantha Stevens. Except for the part where I'd be married to that neurotic Darrin (both of them), I couldn't imagine a better life than twitching my nose to clean the house, flying to the moon for lunch, and enjoying Elizabeth Montgomery's wit and beauty. Plus I'd love having sweet little old Aunt Clara to balance out my bitchy mother, Endora who was too busy being Dr. Bombay's fag hag.

I've long since learned to make my own magic, but today is one of those day when I'd give up a month of coffee in exchange for a few simple nose-twinkles. As often as I'm in denial about the limits of my physical, mental and emotional output, I'm willing to admit that this past week has left me nearly drained on multiple levels and I'm in dire need of a few good spells to clean up my mess(es).

It started with S's announcement that he'd found an apartment (another day, another blog) followed by my habit of processing change via ripping shit up--in this case, the mildewy shower surround above the old, scratched bathtub I can never get clean. While S has been slowly packing up various boxes and making multiple trips to his new studio, I've been picking up heavy pieces of cast iron tub (amazing what a husky college student equipped with a sledge hammer can accomplish in ten minutes) and making multiple trips to Home Depot. Thanks to my bright idea of putting in a galvanized stock tank to replace the old tub, it's taken nearly 20-man hours of hired labor to deal with the wood rot/termite damage behind the shower wall, install wood laminate flooring, change out rusty plumbing, and replace the old crank-out window.

Yesterday, after a full day of clients, errands, and dealing with no less then three contractors (only one of which showed up on time) I kept my promise to take J to the Mid-State Fair. I'm not really a carnival kind of girl, but his buddy backed out and I felt bad for him. We ended up having a fun evening (minus the part where I freaked out and asked to be let off a ride) but by the time the shuttle bus dropped us back at our car, I could barely keep my eyes open to drive home.

I headed back out at nine this morning to give three massages, made another trip to Farm Supply only to find the tub they'd promised to fix was still leaking, and still managed to play lose two sets of racquetball at the Y with J. Afterward I took yet another sponge bath due to our current lack of shower facilities then looked around at all the dust and dirt awaiting my attention.  I picked up a broom, made one half-hearted sweep, then promptly sat down and cried.

On Monday evening--the day S officially moves out--a couple of my favorite bloggers are coming down from BlogHer for a brief visit. I'd planned to be the perfect host, show them around our beautiful coastal towns, maybe even do a little wine-tasting, but after this very long week I'm glad I reserved a room at the Inn. Instead of racing up and down the coast, we'll spend a couple days lying in hammocks, grabbing fresh fish off the pier to bbq for dinner, and drinking wine on our oceanfront deck.

Although I'm looking forward to treating both women to nurturing massages, the gift of sisterhood to help replenish my overtapped well will be the real treat. I've never met either of them in person but my intuition tells me I can count on Janeen and Sue to make the dent left by S's departure from my immediate environment a little softer. In fact, what better recipe for brewing up a few magical spells than the alchemy of three women, two nights, and one big-assed ocean under a waxing moon. Better start doing your nose-exercises girls. We've got some serious bewitchin' to do.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, weight gain, bewitched, blogher, loss of energy, relationships,  essay, blog, self image, baby boomers, writing, writers, poetry, prose, women, hormones, massage

Old School

UPDATE: I finally told him and he took the news with more grace than I did--moved through all the stages of grief in one evening while I was still stuck on denial and barganing after four days. Thanks so much for all your compassion and support. 

The good news is that Midland has agreed to keep him enrolled "on paper" while he takes classes at community college next fall so he can do his last year of high school and first year of college simultaneously. Should be a no brainer. Unfortunately, it's the heart, not the head, that took the biggest hit in all this.

That's J practicing the zen of blowing bubbles in the back yard this afternoon. I could learn a lot from this kid.

So while Midland doesn't offer all the luxuries and flashing lights that other schools do, we do offer a school program that is demanding, authentic, and profound in its simplicity and commitment to its students. From "Why Midland?"  

It started with a ring, then another as I stood next to my van at the beach considering whether to answer. Without looking at the number, I flipped open the phone and said hello.

"This is P. I'm sorry. I have bad news."

"No," I said, knowing how anxiously we'd waited for good news.

"J's not being invited back to Midland for his senior year."

My heart cracked, leaving a ragged fault line along its center. " Why would they do that?"

"I'm sorry. I advocated for him, but a vote was taken. Your son lost."

This is J standing if front of his cabin on his first day at Midland, his freshman year, a day that seems ions ago. Ever since he first set foot on campus, he's dreamed of seeing his name inscribed on the chapel hall alongside the others who've graduated from the school over the past seven decades. The last three years have been an up-and-down struggle, but no matter how many times he screws up or how many laps they throw at him, he's remained committed to the Midland Way. He doesn't drink, smoke, do drugs, or screw around with underclassmen and he's been more than willing to live without the Ipods, heaters, and other modern conveniences many students can't forego.

I know it's not been easy for them or him. J is disorganized and impulsive, a classic case of ADhD.  But he's also brilliant, writes stunning poetry, has become a confidant among his peers, and is the kind of kid who'd pack a tuxedo to hike Grass Mountain, just to make his friends and teachers smile when he breaks the peak. Or paint his whole body green and jump up and down at the sidelines as a self-appointed Midland-Man for a cheerleader-less team. Or sing his heart out as the lead in Grease! and thrill audiences with spot-on renditions of a French Maitre' D and a Middle Eastern Interpreter. Or wear silly nose and reindeer ears during a surprise birthday party for him one evening in December.

"No," I finally answered. "Midland lost."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

How is it that in one moment you can feel on top of the world as you absorb the massive panorama of ocean and sky in front of you and in the very next, the world suddenly turns on itself, crushing your chest until it's all you can do to pull in a single breath?  Fighting against a wall of inertia, I hefted my heavy heap of grief onto my back and climbed the stairs toward my massage studio, hunched over like the man in Diego Rivera's painting. I hoped no one would notice that the flowers were dead and my eyes were holding back a flood.

I made it through the massage; drove home in a daze wondering how I'd ever find the right words to tell J about the phone call. When he asked for a ride to the store for sunflower seeds and soda after dinner, I stuck my feet in slippers figuring I'd somehow break the news on our way back home. Sitting in the car while he ran inside Albertsons, I thought about his story of  two butterflies accompanying him on his way to Midland's graduation ceremonies last Saturday, how sure he was their presence was an omen. A good one.

When he got back in the car, I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was, "Your hair is getting really long."

"Yeah. I'm not cutting it until after I graduate from Midland next Spring."

Oof. That foot in my stomach again. Maybe I'll tell him tomorrow.

Maybe not.

Technorati Tags: aging, perimenopause, menopause, relationships, parenting, mothers, midland school, childhood, essay, blog, boarding school, high school, writing, writers, disappointment, prose, women, massage,

Anything for Love

The only reward for love is the experience of loving. -- John LeCarre

Karl over at Secondhand Tryptophan recently chronicled in his blog the numerous and often outrageous things he's done in the name of romantic love. In a blatant attempt at one-upmanship, I declared myself the winner (not that he'd advertised any contest) having once administered an enema to my constipated 80 year-old MIL who accompanied us on a vacation to California. Talk about bonding.

It's true that on some level I offered my personal and extremely intimate attendant services on behalf of my wasband whom I loved deeply and for whom I'd have done most anything (including showing up at the airport to pick him up after a couple weeks out of the country wearing a leather mini skirt and thigh-high stiletto boots), however, looking back I now understand my actions weren't so much out of love for my ex as they were out of compassion for another human being. In fact, the more I think about the mental list I ticked off as I read Karl's  post, the more I realize that these things we do for our loved ones aren't necessarily for them so much as for ourselves. It feels good to do good deeds, surprise our lovers, or put a smile on someones face and we like to feel good. Sure, some of our actions may be genuinely altruistic yet at our core, we all want to be loved and will do most anything to get (or retain) that love, even to the point of codependence.

I believe the one exception to these acts of enlightened self-interest is the love of a parent for his or her child. Last year I sold my beloved 12-string guitar in order for my son to continue at a private school rather than be called a fag a dozen times a day in public school. I didn't do it in order to prove my love for the sake of martyrdom, in fact, I didn't even tell him I'd sold it.  I did it because it was simply the right thing to do, just like the many sacrifices my parents made in order to feed and clothe seven children--sacrifices I wouldn't fully appreciate until well into adulthood.

My two oldest children are now grown and married, and my youngest has only a year to go before he graduates from high school. As I move closer to 50, I'm becoming more aware than ever how much energy I've invested in doing for others, whether they've been children, lovers, clients, or friends. Tonight I'm wondering how to gather all that love and turn it inward, do something crazy for myself one of these days, maybe hire someone to stand on the table and sing me a love song. Or better yet, head for the airport to take a vacation out of the country instead of picking up someone else.

I just hope I don't get constipated on the trip.

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