I'm still here, still believing though I don't always know why. Last year was the worst of my life. Son Malik was so sick. He spent large portions of the year in the hospital. When I think about it, I want to scream or throw up. I spent much of the time howling like a banshee then acting like a smiley bobble head doll in the hospital. But that's what you have to do. It wouldn't have helped him at all to see me breaking down.
But it's a new year now. Time for a change they tell me. Or maybe it's a CHANGE. We'll see. The important thing is that if I'm still here, there must be a reason. There must be something for me to do, some task to complete. One would think that by now I'd know my much touted "purpose in life," but I guess that has to wait till I grow up.
Meanwhile, I'm going to continue this search. Hey, my son's alive. All the rest is one big ole piece of double fudge mocha chocolate goodness.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Picture of Health
Somehow or other, I have become one of five finalists in the Prevention Magazine/ABC "Picture of Health" competition. ( http://blogs.abcnews.com/picturefinalists/ ) This unusual competition is geared for women over 40 who have had health and other life challenges but who feel they are now the "Picture of Health." We had to write an essay and send a video to enter and people get to vote online until May 28th.
I'm still wondering how the heck I, with my little sore back and hurt knee, got in there with women who had real health challenges. Who thinks that pinched nerves and torn ligaments measure up to heart troubles, breast cancer or brain surgery?
It was my buddy and co-worker Jean who pointed out that my picture of health might be a bit more universal. Perhaps people who may not have had extreme health crises can still relate to other kinds of challenges. Maybe they can relate to getting older and still being alone, to losing a home, to financial problems, to depression--to the kinds of things that life insists on throwing at most of us. Perhaps they can understand looking up in shock one day and realizing, "oh my God, this is not where I thought I'd be! This is not my dream!."
Certainly overcoming physical challenges can be daunting, but so can facing mental and spiritual obstacles. What do you do on the day you realize your memory isn't what it used to be and will never be again? Where do you turn when you've prayed and prayed and listened and waited and prayed some more and no one seems to be listening? There are all kinds of good and bad health. Or ease and dis-ease as some call it.
So maybe I snuck into that select group of amazing women to bring the message from Everywoman: You can overcome, you can survive. If life throws lemons your way, pick those suckers up and lob 'em right back. When in doubt, laugh then dance then laugh while dancing. Make faces at a baby. Fill your mouth with whipped cream and recite Shakespeare, kiss your mirror and tell you how wonderful you are. Join me with the hula hoop (get one that lights up!) Meditate, pray, be one with nature. Learn to laugh again. Choose to be happy.
Now that's healthy.
I'm still wondering how the heck I, with my little sore back and hurt knee, got in there with women who had real health challenges. Who thinks that pinched nerves and torn ligaments measure up to heart troubles, breast cancer or brain surgery?
It was my buddy and co-worker Jean who pointed out that my picture of health might be a bit more universal. Perhaps people who may not have had extreme health crises can still relate to other kinds of challenges. Maybe they can relate to getting older and still being alone, to losing a home, to financial problems, to depression--to the kinds of things that life insists on throwing at most of us. Perhaps they can understand looking up in shock one day and realizing, "oh my God, this is not where I thought I'd be! This is not my dream!."
Certainly overcoming physical challenges can be daunting, but so can facing mental and spiritual obstacles. What do you do on the day you realize your memory isn't what it used to be and will never be again? Where do you turn when you've prayed and prayed and listened and waited and prayed some more and no one seems to be listening? There are all kinds of good and bad health. Or ease and dis-ease as some call it.
So maybe I snuck into that select group of amazing women to bring the message from Everywoman: You can overcome, you can survive. If life throws lemons your way, pick those suckers up and lob 'em right back. When in doubt, laugh then dance then laugh while dancing. Make faces at a baby. Fill your mouth with whipped cream and recite Shakespeare, kiss your mirror and tell you how wonderful you are. Join me with the hula hoop (get one that lights up!) Meditate, pray, be one with nature. Learn to laugh again. Choose to be happy.
Now that's healthy.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Lost Leaders
When people die, when they are taken from us suddenly, unexpectedly, especially violently, we are shocked and angry of course, but then our thoughts leave what was and go to what might have been; what should have been.
I have lived the blessing and curse of being from a huge extended family. There is always someone being born, but there is always someone dying. In just the last year, three died on my father's side and five on my mother's side of the family. Almost all of them were under 65 years old. We lost my oldest cousin Phyllis last month and mere weeks later, welcomed her second granddaughter Mackenzie. Life does continue.
But that doesn't take away a single tear, a moment of regret. What might they have done with their lives? Why now? Why our family? People are supposed to live to get old aren't they?
Phyllis' nephew, my cousin Daren, was murdered some years ago at the wrong place with the wrong person--a so-called friend who left him to die. I was the last family member to see him. I was at Kinko's near Catholic U in DC copying some of my writing. He saw my car while riding by with a friend--the same friend who, a few hours later, would also get shot but survive--and Daren had him stop so he could see me.
We talked about his unborn baby (a beautiful girl who he never saw but who looks like his twin sister) and how he was finally getting his life together including his new job and his plans to buy my car (He didn't know but I would have given it to him). For the first time that I can recall he said, "I love you, " for no reason and in front of another guy. And my heart smiled.
And then he was gone.
When terrible things like the massacre at Virginia Tech happen, we draw a collective horrified breath, shake our heads, and each in our own way, we mourn for these strangers touched by unspeakable tragedy.
But they are us. Their loss is ours. We can't help it, we wonder what might have been. If they had lived to old age, might they have been parents, grandparents, teachers, inventors, performers...might they have been that leader that we've waited for, the wise one; the one who would have led us to peace.
We will never get the answer.
All we can do as we say goodbye is to honor their memories by appreciating the ones who are still here. Hug them now. Tell them you love them now. That visit, that fun weekend, that silly little gift, that back rub, special dinner, delayed apology--that thing you've been putting off because there'll be time to do it later--do it now.
If we lose someone and the inevitable sadness comes, let it be because of the great times that will be missed not because of the ones that never happened. That is true loss.
I have lived the blessing and curse of being from a huge extended family. There is always someone being born, but there is always someone dying. In just the last year, three died on my father's side and five on my mother's side of the family. Almost all of them were under 65 years old. We lost my oldest cousin Phyllis last month and mere weeks later, welcomed her second granddaughter Mackenzie. Life does continue.
But that doesn't take away a single tear, a moment of regret. What might they have done with their lives? Why now? Why our family? People are supposed to live to get old aren't they?
Phyllis' nephew, my cousin Daren, was murdered some years ago at the wrong place with the wrong person--a so-called friend who left him to die. I was the last family member to see him. I was at Kinko's near Catholic U in DC copying some of my writing. He saw my car while riding by with a friend--the same friend who, a few hours later, would also get shot but survive--and Daren had him stop so he could see me.
We talked about his unborn baby (a beautiful girl who he never saw but who looks like his twin sister) and how he was finally getting his life together including his new job and his plans to buy my car (He didn't know but I would have given it to him). For the first time that I can recall he said, "I love you, " for no reason and in front of another guy. And my heart smiled.
And then he was gone.
When terrible things like the massacre at Virginia Tech happen, we draw a collective horrified breath, shake our heads, and each in our own way, we mourn for these strangers touched by unspeakable tragedy.
But they are us. Their loss is ours. We can't help it, we wonder what might have been. If they had lived to old age, might they have been parents, grandparents, teachers, inventors, performers...might they have been that leader that we've waited for, the wise one; the one who would have led us to peace.
We will never get the answer.
All we can do as we say goodbye is to honor their memories by appreciating the ones who are still here. Hug them now. Tell them you love them now. That visit, that fun weekend, that silly little gift, that back rub, special dinner, delayed apology--that thing you've been putting off because there'll be time to do it later--do it now.
If we lose someone and the inevitable sadness comes, let it be because of the great times that will be missed not because of the ones that never happened. That is true loss.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Laura Mae in the House
Son Malik turned 36 on Feb. 26th, 2007. It's a strange feeling to be a mother for such a long time. I never thought about getting to this point, and yet here I am. Each year, I annoy him with the story of his birth, how Aunt Louie and I were on the phone and she and my cousin Kenny made the 20 minute trip to my DC apartment in about 7 minutes when she realized I was having contractions, how the first thing I said to him was, "Hi baby!" and I could swear he answered.
I got that from Mama Laura, one of my mother's mothers. Every year on my birthday she told me about my birth, about how tiny I was, how I looked at her with my face all "squinched up." She made me feel ten feet tall.
Mama Laura could make any dress, coat, hat, quilt, sweater or anything else just by looking at a picture of it. She could cook for two or twenty with equal ease. She always had a hanky or a red and white striped mint candy at the ready. She was that Grandma who only exists at Central Casting but so much better.
Mama Laura secretly took driving lessons when her 50th birthday was a thing of the past. She was going somewhere with her husband Booker and volunteered to drive. He let her sit in the driver's seat since he knew she was joking. I still wish I'd been there as she started up the car and drove off. She said he almost fainted. I tend to believe that in those pre-seatbelt days he may have just jumped out and kept running.
As I contemplate my 36 interesting, shocking, fun, frustrating, wonderful years of motherhood, I can see how Mama Laura helped me along the way even when she wasn't around. I don't think I ever told her how lucky I was to have her, but whereever she is now, she's smiling with those big dimples (twice the size of mine) and saying, "that's Mama Laura's baby." So everything is all right.
I got that from Mama Laura, one of my mother's mothers. Every year on my birthday she told me about my birth, about how tiny I was, how I looked at her with my face all "squinched up." She made me feel ten feet tall.
Mama Laura could make any dress, coat, hat, quilt, sweater or anything else just by looking at a picture of it. She could cook for two or twenty with equal ease. She always had a hanky or a red and white striped mint candy at the ready. She was that Grandma who only exists at Central Casting but so much better.
And me? I was Mama Laura's baby. At Mama Laura's house I felt safe and warm. And creative. I felt like I could make anything. She taught me to sew and crochet and make potholders with a small loom. Her example made it possible for me to teach myself macramé, knitting, and any craft that caught my fancy. She made it all look so easy.
Mama Laura secretly took driving lessons when her 50th birthday was a thing of the past. She was going somewhere with her husband Booker and volunteered to drive. He let her sit in the driver's seat since he knew she was joking. I still wish I'd been there as she started up the car and drove off. She said he almost fainted. I tend to believe that in those pre-seatbelt days he may have just jumped out and kept running.
As I contemplate my 36 interesting, shocking, fun, frustrating, wonderful years of motherhood, I can see how Mama Laura helped me along the way even when she wasn't around. I don't think I ever told her how lucky I was to have her, but whereever she is now, she's smiling with those big dimples (twice the size of mine) and saying, "that's Mama Laura's baby." So everything is all right.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
High Apple Pie Hopes
Several months ago, my friend and fellow writer Mers sent me a myspace link to a writing competition. It was for a PEN Emerging Voices Fellowship(penusa.com) and was designed to help writers who are working on a major project but don't have access to publishers, agents, managers and the like; the kind of access that could change or create a career. We had to be working on a major project ( a novel in my case), fill out a long form and write an essay. I poured my heart into it and completed about 13 pages on a book that was still an idea when I first saw the announcement.
When the call came informing me that I was a finalist, I thought I'd died, gone to heaven, and come back as Oprah Winfrey. The only thing left to do was a 15-minute interview; just a short interview with a few PEN people to "meet and greet," no prep, no rules.
It was on a Saturday and was over so fast I hardly had time to blink. I thought it was just a formality. I had already planned what I was going to wear at the celebration party. So when the thanks but no thanks letter arrived on Monday (how the heck did they get it out that fast???), it was like a really good sucka punch to the gut. I still don't know what I said or didn't say in that few minutes that formed their decision.
I felt twenty pounds heavier as I dragged myself up the stairs to my door.
You see, things that would have rolled off when I was younger (and I know this from many hundreds if not thousands of auditions) aren't as easy to shrug off these days. This wasn't just a little, possible "sumthin sumthin:" This could have changed my life. It could have meant an agent, maybe publishing, maybe a multi-book deal, maybe... Maybe I should stop counting non-existent chickens and use the egg in my hair as a conditioner.
I stopped moaning about what could have been and enjoyed what was: I was a finalist. It wasn't the completion of the journey or even a major stop along the way, but I think it was a darned good step or two up the path.
I'm going in the right direction. Time ain't long as it has been, but I still have some left.
When the call came informing me that I was a finalist, I thought I'd died, gone to heaven, and come back as Oprah Winfrey. The only thing left to do was a 15-minute interview; just a short interview with a few PEN people to "meet and greet," no prep, no rules.
It was on a Saturday and was over so fast I hardly had time to blink. I thought it was just a formality. I had already planned what I was going to wear at the celebration party. So when the thanks but no thanks letter arrived on Monday (how the heck did they get it out that fast???), it was like a really good sucka punch to the gut. I still don't know what I said or didn't say in that few minutes that formed their decision.
I felt twenty pounds heavier as I dragged myself up the stairs to my door.
You see, things that would have rolled off when I was younger (and I know this from many hundreds if not thousands of auditions) aren't as easy to shrug off these days. This wasn't just a little, possible "sumthin sumthin:" This could have changed my life. It could have meant an agent, maybe publishing, maybe a multi-book deal, maybe... Maybe I should stop counting non-existent chickens and use the egg in my hair as a conditioner.
I stopped moaning about what could have been and enjoyed what was: I was a finalist. It wasn't the completion of the journey or even a major stop along the way, but I think it was a darned good step or two up the path.
I'm going in the right direction. Time ain't long as it has been, but I still have some left.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Everything Old
This is the first time I've posted on my new blog. Hello and welcome if you're reading this. I've been journaling for years, but of course, no one can read that but me. Just as well. There are things that y'all don't need to know, but so much more that I want to share.
"Everything old is new again." And that includes me. I feel like I'm back in high school. People look at me and decide what they think I should be. They set my limits by their own limitations, sigh deeply and walk away satisfied. They "know" who I am before I've even opened my mouth. They laugh at me and whisper behind hands if I don't "act right."
Apparently, I'm not doing my 50s correctly. My slowdown isn't slow enough for those who measure such things. My tastes aren't predictable enough. I am different. And, like in high school, those who do not conform often suffer the consequences. Apparently, I'm not supposed to like MTV or VH1. Wildboys shouldn't make me laugh, rap should offend my sensibilities, videogames should confuse me, change should infuriate me. Oops.
But like in high school days, I feel like I'm just starting out. I'm back in school (majoring in Film Studies), I'm trying new things, like furniture recycling. I'm laughing and being silly, craving attention and full of hope and enthusiasm about my future. Yes, at almost 60, I have plans for the future.
Ain't I something! I hope many, many young types will read and respond to this. I'd love to hear what you think.
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