blogsfromtheedge

Recently I received a near-giddy posting from my fun cousin in Southern California excited about beginning her Autumnal Libra New Moon cleanse. She shared a beautiful Garry Liddell photo of a huge, craggled, old Japanese maple, in full fall regalia, highlighted by the slanted autumnal sunlight. She was excited about her cleansing trek, but a little anxious; “Days 2 & 3 are the hardest.” And she shared her plans to lay low and practice chakra meditation to get through it.

I smiled to myself and slightly, momentarily, envied her current path in life – she’s a happily married empty-nester with three beautiful and thriving daughters; a kind and successful husband; the flexibility to pursue her own interests, a gorgeous home with views of the Pacific ocean; good friends and of course, wonderful family (mostly) around her. I recalled our recent celebration of her 50th birthday on Martha’s Vineyard where we had our Tarot cards read by a good family friend. As I recall, hers was full of delight and mystical adventure – priestess kinds of things – and mine was full of challenges and a really yucky card of a guy lying on the ground with ten swords in his back. I pondered that a bit at the time, and just accepted that some of us have tougher journeys than others. Not that I can complain. Indeed, I’m sure many would gladly take MY journey (and swords, such as they are) over their own, so we learn to appreciate the paths we have chosen. My mantra of many years has been, “Good for her/him/them; good for me.” No envy – just happiness for others’ success, along with contentment with my own.

Well, day 2 or 3 of the cleanse came, along with, I suspect, the natural euphoria brought about by the body’s state of ketosis, and another email emerged from the mystical cousin in southern California. This one came with a gorgeous photo of a fading blue sky over the Pacific Ocean, highlighted with multiple drifting contrails and complex cloud formations. The photo was accompanied with a sound recording of Danny Boy in New Age format, as it had started playing on her home stereo system right as she was taking the picture; surely a subtle Universal homage to her Irish heritage.

She forwarded the photo and the New Age Danny Boy to a blind list of friends, generously sharing her blissful experience as well as the many images she saw in the cloud formations (God, Poseidon, Neptune, you choose), along with a Rorschach challenge to identify our own visions in the clouds.

As I toyed with the photograph, I was struck by the irony of our situations. Here I was, on the east coast, working from home on a technical report about missile defense systems and airspace exchange, while our annual carpet cleaners were upstairs, doing their damndest to clean the twelve months of crystallized cat urine remnants and dog feces residue out of our floor coverings so we could enjoy perhaps a few weeks (at most) of pristine rugs – before the next bout of Jack Russell IBS, or new foster-dog leg lifting, or mystery cat markings – and the countdown begins – until the next fall carpet cleaning.

Though my cousin certainly has plenty of animals of her own and probably her own carpet cleaning schedule, our current “autumn cleansings” couldn’t be much different on this day.

Next fall, after I make my annual call to my favorite carpet cleaners, I think I will contact my West Coast cousin for her Libra New Moon Cleanse recipe and join her in her quest. That way, I’ll not only have clean rugs, but I’ll have a renewed system, and just maybe, get my own song from the Universe while I’m enjoying the cloud formations. And who knows, I might even pull a priestess card.

Yes, here’s to autumnal cleansings – in whatever form they take in your life. May they give you renewed energy and hope, along with a positive vision of another year, full to the brim of whatever you value most.

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Mother Enlightenment

Nancy Deming-May

September 2012

I gained some enlightenment today – at least that’s what I think it was.  I love how it sneaks up on you – like the silky soft pads of kitten’s feet – and suddenly it’s in your lap enveloping you with a contented purr.  But this enlightenment had nothing to do with kittens; no, this was an “ah” moment about my mother – one I feel very little “ah” about these days.  Lately, it’s much more “ugh” and “sigh” (and NOT the contented kind).

I was surprised recently when I Googled my mother’s name for her as I was showing her (again) how to use the internet, and was taken aback when my master’s thesis showed up – first, that it was on there at all – we were still using 5 1/4 inch floppy discs when I wrote that thing – and second, that HER name was in there.  I of course clicked on the link and was then further surprised to read the dedication I had written to my mother in the front pages of the thesis – thanking her for her endless support and encouragement throughout the process.  My jaw still drops as I recall the words and I’m dumbstruck with the thought that I would no more thank her for that now than I would Rush Limbaugh.

Wow.  Has she changed that much in just over 20 years?  Have I?

It’s been multiple strokes for my mother and several years leading to the subsequent loss of any vestige of that all-important frontal lobe “governor” and “filter” of hers.   You know, that little hesitation we have that keeps most of us from saying exactly what we think; that executive function that keeps us from leading a tap dancing class because we haven’t done it in over 60 years and we know we weren’t that good to begin with; that chief of manners that keeps us from rudely shaking our wine glass and saying, “I’m empty here, where’s the refill?”;  that boss of reason that stops us from picking up the phone and ordering a new computer because we already have one that we can’t remember how to use; that inkling of self-control that keeps us from following a 20-something grandchild’s boyfriend around like a puppy and remarking that we “wouldn’t kick him outta bed for eating crackers!”; that honcho of experience that thinks signing up for match.com at age 83 might not be such a good idea when we can’t even remember one of the grandkids is married even though we were at the wedding, (“Oh yeah, that’s right.”)

As I lament about these embarrassments and worries to my friends, I’ve grown used to the laughter that her behavior tales inevitably spawn.  Though I’m usually thrilled when I can tell a story that brings about a chuckle, I find my worries about the consequences of her actions keep me from being able to enjoy them and I’m a bit horrified by these flippant responses to her scary behavior.  I even found myself saying, “Yeah, I wish she was someone else’s mom so I could laugh at her antics!”

It was then that my teacher replied, “Yeah, kinda like Bessie.”

Whoa.  This took me back.  Back well over 20, maybe 30 years to this teacher/dear friend’s mother, Bessie.  The one I loved telling stories about because she was such a character.  Oh, she made me laugh!  She had this energy that just about busted out of every pore on her flawless skin – I can still see her eyes twinkle as she proudly looked at herself in the mirror after I showed her the latest cheek blushing techniques. I don’t remember exactly where we were going, but Bessie told her tales and we laughed and laughed as she cruised us around in her fancy, fully loaded, four-door Town Car as we sipped plastic cups of Gallo wine from our gallon jug tucked down on the floor board.  I do recall feeling a bit anxious as the wine was decreasing and the turns grew increasingly wider.  Oh, but the stories later were well worth the anxiety!

On one occasion (my teacher/dear friend’s wedding) I recall being in the throes of an animated story – wine-induced I’m sure as I seem to recall holding court in front of the head table as I pantomimed a tale about Bessie.  As I was leading up to the dramatic punch line and the groom’s parents were really starting to wonder who the heck I was talking about – it had to do with Bessie pumping Butterball turkeys full of broth and her enthusiastic method of “movin’ those turkeys on down the line!”, when my dear friend, the bride, gently (but firmly) summoned me over toward her table and whispered, “That’s enough.”  I smiled appreciatively and apologetically at my audience and made my way back to my table until the dancing began.

I got it then but not as much as I get it now.

Slightly embarrassing or even worrisome stories are much funnier when they are about someone else’s mom.

Here my dear friend, whom I call Sis, who tolerated my retelling of her mother’s antics over the years only because she HAS such an effective frontal lobe “governor” that kept her from telling me, “Shut the heck up about my mom – it’s not funny!”, can finally laugh some in my direction.  And it’s well deserved.

Thank you my friend and teacher for sharing your mother and tolerating my retelling of her stories while you cringed ever so slightly.  Thank you for pointing me toward my moment of enlightenment where I could see another mother from another angle and appreciate the humor and perhaps the concern from both sides of the room.  Thank you for helping me see many things, but most of all, my mother, through a different lens.

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I wrote this in February of 2003 but I received an email today with a similar theme (young teenage daughters) and I remembered it.  Seeing as we are about one month out from my daughter’s graduation from college, I thought it might be a good time to share this.  For those of you with girls this age, hang in there, it gets much BETTER!  Namaste.

The Future Woman in My Daughter

Nancy Deming-May

February 2003

I had an epiphany yesterday.

I guess like most epiphanies, it didn’t come in a zen-like setting surrounded by still waters and rustling leaves.  It was in a bowling alley, at a formica table, with styrofoam cups of soda and baskets of french-fries.  I was sitting with my 13 year old daughter and her two friends, Maria and Joanna—in their hip hugging jeans and snug tee shirts—each girl wearing the other’s clothes—braces, hair clips and make-up.  One of the girl’s was reminded of something funny that her grandmother always did and then Lauren started telling stories about her Grammy—my mother.  How Grammy never hears you the first time and is always saying, “What’s that?” How she will stare at your food and say, “Are you going to give me a bite of that?”  After every meal, she’ll sit back and hold her belly and say, “I am sooooo full” and then she’ll lean forward and want to try whatever you have on your plate or ask “Are you going to eat that?”

We started going back and forth imitating her many funny nuances.  Lauren had her friends and me in stitches.  I thought at one point of correcting her imitation because she didn’t have it quite right—the imitation of my mother, but I caught myself and thought, this is HER story and she’s doing fine.

I suddenly had a glimpse, not just into the future but into now, of the woman she is becoming.  Of the funny, independent person she is.  Every mother knows the worries about the attitudes, the slammed doors, the secrecy, the defiance, but most of all the distance.

Somehow, surrounded by crashing ten pins, we connected through laughter and I knew, at least for a moment, that everything would be okay.  And one day, our connection will be much more complete and our laughter much more frequent.

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Several times a day I enter or walk through my master bathroom in my house.  It’s a pleasant room, with pale lavender walls, a Barbara Pappendick signed print of a woman in her bathing suit (not a Sports Illustrated model), reading while relaxing at the Jersey Shore, a Monet Boats at Argenteuil print (not signed) from my college days, the not-too-ornate white cabinetry, a Jacuzzi tub, and a very comfortable and functional shower.  There is a lot of tile in the bathroom – of various colors and sizes – mostly hues of brown and tan – earth tones – very neutral.  I’ve moved far too many times in my life, such that I can’t decorate with anything too provocative – especially if it’s permanent or costly to change.  I consider tile to be one of these more permanent items.

It was less than a year that we’d been in our house when we started noticing cracks on the floor tiles.  These are large 16 inch Italian-kilned square tiles, and the separations that started out as quite mediocre fissures, gradually blossomed into bellowing crevices that would not be ignored.  Since the house was still under its one year warranty, we contacted the builder who blamed it on the tile guy, though both agreed to quick repairs.  We had spare tiles in our attic and the replacement went smoothly.  And then it got cold and we noticed our heated tile floor was no longer getting warm – it fact, it was REALLY cold since our bathroom is over the garage.  We again called the builder, who called the floor heater fellow, who blamed it on the tile guy.  Not to worry, as he could remove the few tiles he needed in order to repair the break in the floor heater circuit, and we still had some spare tiles in the attic.  Just not enough.  Thus began our saga with the tile store.  The tile was no longer in production, plus you really need to get the same dye lot as what’s already on the floor, or it won’t exactly match.  We tried several other tile stores, plus the internet, with no luck, and eventually found some left over tiles by the same name, that would have to do.  There’s just one problem – they don’t exactly match all the other tiles in the floor.  Thus begins my mismatched-tile metaphor of life.

I used to find, as I passed through this pleasant room, despite the lavender rugs I placed about, that my eyes were drawn to the nonmatching neutral toned tiles scattered throughout the floor.  I would register a mild annoyance at this incongruity and go on about my various missions in life. But one day I was struck by the irony of my behavior.  Here I had a beautiful, pleasant and darn-near perfect space, yet I kept focusing on the flaws.  Shouldn’t I spend more time noticing the things that I liked, that made me feel good and warm at the memory, than allowing my eyes to be drawn to the small little bit that annoyed me?  Isn’t this just like life?  We usually have so much good around us, so much to be grateful for, yet we often obsess about the teensy parts we don’t like.  (We can make them big or we can relegate them to “teensy”; it’s up to us.)  What if we trained ourselves to focus on the NICE parts of our “space” so that every time we pass through that place, wherever it is, we see the beloved Monet, or the special perfume that reminds us of a loved one, the crystal flower that stirs a warm memory, or the print that matches a gift given to an old friend that always makes me smile. 

So here’s to the mismatched tiles in life.  May they help us focus on the many beautiful gifts by which we are indeed surrounded.  May we train ourselves to let them redirect us to the warm, loving and balanced space in which we prefer to abide. 

Thank you, mismatched tiles.  Thank you.

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