Sunday, May 15, 2016

Right and Kind

Being right or being kind.

My brother was here all week and before the end of Day One, we had a theme for his visit.  Finding the intersection of Right and Kind on the Avenue of Life.

After a long absence, my older and only sibling has made two visits to my father's home.  The first, one day after the event that has given us the newest challenge since our mother's death, and this, the latest, a longer stay, intended to give me a break from my "duties" and to spend more time with Dad.

The event, well, let's just say that Dad was in the wrong place at the wrong time and it all turned out without bodily harm to anyone.  Long story short, he was headed to a doctor visit, a location he hasn't been to in a while, and he as he puts it "made one mistake".  Apparently, he was fully engaged in hurrying down a fairly busy street in his car, in the wrong direction.  Just one tiny"mistake" that, he argues, could have happened to any one of us.  One tiny mistake in judgement that resulted in his being found in a state of disorientation and confusion.  I found him not quite as disoriented but nonetheless, confused, in a bed in the Emergency Department of our local hospital. He had absolutely no idea why he was there and just wanted to "get the hell" out of there so he could go home.  My husband, the dearest man in the whole world, took over the job of calling the police officer who had made sure Dad got to the hospital and made sure his drivers license did not.  Joe got the car out of impoundment and before you could say "this is going to be a huge problem", we were back at his house.  And, yes, this is a HUGE problem and yes, Dad has turned into Daddy Dearest minus the wire hangers, and yes, there is no end in sight.

The very next morning, a gentleman from the D.O.T. rang the bell at the confused resident's house and handed him the official notice, telling him that his license, apparently his most prized possession (likes it better than he does his kids), has been revoked due to his medical condition at the time he was stopped from almost killing people.  That, and the discussion my husband had with the officer and I with the hospital social worker, was to put a stop to any further thoughts of ever driving again and hopefully, to accepting hired help for whatever driving would be required by an almost 95 year old who never wants to go anywhere when you invite him in the first place.  But, here's the clinker....the statement from the D.O.T. advises the distraught holder that there is an appeal process, one that would be a ringer for a young person with a whole life of driving needs at stake.  It says that one must first go to the D.M.V., get on a very long line for those who are seeking a "hearing" and other assorted problems, and then wait another very long time to be called.  This sure would take no fewer than three hours on a good day.  The document also goes on to state that after this hearing, the guilty party would then be entitled to a fuller hearing that would be scheduled approximately three months after the request, and would be held at a location that, on a good day, would take one to two hours to reach.  Finally, the word "attorney" appears.  Now, my father may get confused, he may suffer from some degree of dementia, he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is a retired law enforcement officer, one of New York's Finest, and he can still read.  The part of his brain that functions went of hyper-vigilance and he started demanding his rights, telling me that I had to do something to help him.  We thought we were "helping" when we took his keys when he wasn't looking.  No way, it was give those keys back or else.....else what?  He wasn't going to be nice to me?Didn't really matter anyway, his tire was flat.  He has the keys. I have a hard time with people disliking me.

So, our discussions centered largely on Dad.  We know what's right and we know what's wrong. We were properly raised and educated by the very same person who is our current nemesis.  We understand. We also know that it is wrong to "lie" but geesh, we spend an awful lot of our time dreaming up what I now so glibly spew forth as "fibs".  Tables turn.  They "fibbed" to us when It we were kids.  Remember the Easter Bunny? Santa? Tooth Fairy? "The radio is broken!" "That is an UNforgivable sin." The list is a lot longer than the list of our little lapses from the path of total truth. They did it to be "kind" and now, it's our turn.

So, we're still adrift.  Not sure on which shore we will eventually land.  We teeter-totter on that decision and we keep running it all by each other.  Shall we tell him that NO, there will not be a reversal of the revocation of his license.  That would be oh, so right.  He won't accept it.  I tell him that the problem is his, that he lost it on his own.  That we had nothing to do with it.  That we allowed him to hold one of the last vestiges of his independence, and he blew it.  That also is so right. We make the right assumption, along with everyone else who observed his behavior and lack of judgement on the day of the "event" and we base our affirmations on his disorientation and mental confusion at the time.  We count our blessings that there weren't any injuries, especially to innocent people who trusted him and us to help keep them safe. All of this, both my brother and I have reviewed, over and over with him, in the kindest of ways.  We found that intersection, we crossed the paths of right and kind.  We exhausted ourselves and the entire topic, times over.  He still doesn't seem to understand. Right?  Kind?  It does not matter.  He wants his license back.

My final discussion with him, the one which he began with "Do you know any lawyers?", got Hell-bent on being right, kindness, be damned.  The only words I could find came from somewhere deep within, something I had not even prepared no less given much thought about, ever.  I dug down and came up with the kindest summation of the problem.  I'm not sure that it was kind to lay this on him but I do know that it is right, as correct as it could be.

You see, Dad.....the problem is wanted to live a long life.  You are so proud of your longevity and you actually think that you will be the first of God's creations to beat death.  You are confident that you will live to at least 100.  But, Dad, there are concessions.  Between becoming old and very, very old, things have got to change.  If you want to stay in the game, you must change with them.  You cannot expect everything to be the same in your nineties as it was in your sixties.  So if you truly enjoy living this long, you have to accept the fact that one of the things that will not be in your "new" life is a license to drive.  You, and all of the others who are clawing their way toward that prized 100 year old status.  So, I'm being kind here when I remind you that you made the choice. I know I'm being right in saying "you can't have everything".  Sorry Dad.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


 My usual blogging experiences have found me up early in the morning, using the wonder-fueled technique of opinion-writing as a vehicle for venting all of my woes.  It is true, that through writing, we discover things about ourselves and yes, I have discovered many things both good and bad about my true self.  Along the way, I invested in an online writing course that held the words "true and self" in the description and I must admit, it was an exciting adventure.  

But things are changing.  At least, I want and need them to change.  I want to discover somethings about myself that might have been left buried.  I need to explore and unearth and find peace, carma and true self-adoration.  Life has changed in ways that only those who are of a certain age can understand or perhaps, not understand.  There are hosts of those, of the certain age who are totally home free.  No parents, no kids, no mortgage, no jobs, just lives of uninterrupted bliss.  They earned it and now, they are cashing in.  Alas, I am not in that elite group and I am surrounded by others who also disqualify for the Perfect Final Years Club.  However, staying on track here, grousing and complaining and shouting out have not helped.  I can't say that I have actually turned to higher ups and found my solace the art of "praying".  I suppose that comes as a result of a case of A.D.D. that started as a child in the days before there was an awareness so it was left un-attended.  I've referred to my "Monkey Brain" several times and it is still alive and well.  So, prayer like the nuns do, escapes me.  But, hang in there Monkeys and friends.  There may be hope.

The postman arrived on Sunday.  Drove a little package right up to the front door.  For me!  From one of my dearest friends, one who knows.  One who comes from the No-Judgement Zone. It is a book, a gift of a book.  Outrageous Openness by Tosha Silver.  Letting the Divine Take the Lead.

Darling Barbara, the daughter of another of those stubborn 94 year old fathers who do bad things with their cars, said on the gift card "Lynn, it seems like a good time for you to have a copy of this wonderful little book.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I have and receive a little encouragement and comfort from her sometimes kooky approach".  Wise friend as usual.  

So, I plunged into kooky Tosha's book, trying all the while to understand why a Jew loves all the things the Christians are taught to love, like it or not.  I am still working on trying to figure out who the "Divine" is (I always thought it was God) and I'm still reading and wondering when it is going to hit me over the head like a frying pan.  It's the A.D.D. that prevents me from being a  good and steady reader, but I am trying to overcome that problem (new meds help).

I woke up this morning with a new determination.  I'm going to TRY to apply some of the principals I'm reading about.  I'm going to TRY to open my heart and my entire life and allow whoever this Divine person is, to direct me.  I got a gift from a friend who obviously was directed to send it to me so there's a hint that there may be something to this. And, okay, maybe I want to read something more into this....but.....the gift arrived during an agonizing dinner with my father at our home. It was his second visit in almost a year.  We dragged him over here, trying to give him some respite from his worries and, in return, he tortured us with his dementia.  The door bell rang, and hope was on its way.

So, for today, a thought from the lovely book....

"My perfect new path is already selected and will arrive at the right time.  I'll be shown the steps to receive it"

Is that perfectly great or what?

Friday, April 1, 2016


Edvard Munch, The Scream

I should have one of those carefree hair styles, one that the more you shake your head, the better it becomes.  I would be the prettiest girl in town. Instead, I have a carefree hair style that does not move no matter how hard I shake my head.  It does respond well to having my fingers run through it and the palms of my hands pressed up against it when I am in shock or utter horror.  I could have modeled for Edvard Munch, really, I could have.

The day that I reluctantly brought my latest piece of art to the Cultural Center, it was teaming with rain.  I've been so busy with a multitude of other projects lately and honestly had not prepared anything for entrance into the show so I grabbed an older acrylic off the bathroom wall, freshened it up a bit, threw a plastic bag over it and took off to fulfill my duty as a volunteer, registering beautiful works of art done by other, more talented members of the Yarmouth Art Guild.  I left mine in the car. I felt embarrassed to bring it in.  It didn't even meet the gallery hanging requirements!  One by one, pieces arrived and in passing, I mentioned how I was happy to have not put my fellow Guild members through the agony of having to reject mine.  And then came the encouragement.  "Go out and get it from your car!! And I did.  And they were complimentary.  What could they say? So, later in the day, when I got a call from the Guild president, I was certain she was going to tell me to come and pick up my rejected work but instead, she delighted in telling me that I had won and Honorable Mention and that the judge loved my painting. Hands up to head, utter shock and disbelief.

This is not a story about a hair style, nor is it about an art show or an artist.  This is about the Universe, once again speaking clearly to me.  I named my painting. I called it "I Can See the Light Now".  I did not know then, two weeks ago, how this would become a cornerstone, how that clarity would become so meaningful.

Tonight, we are leaving for Italy.  While we've made this trip many times before, this truly is anticipated to become one of the most special.  We're meeting our son and his wife in Rome.  Neither has been to Italy so we are looking forward to la prima volta and hoping that they will be as thrilled to be with us as we will with them.  Our plans for this trip, one during which we will celebrate my husband's 70th birthday, have changed several times.  The Universe spoke again, and we all decided that what we really want is to relax and enjoy art, the country-side, and days of new adventures so we're taking them to Tuscany to live a few days of the Italian Spring.  In anticipation of our journey, I wanted to refresh my memory.  It's been three years since our last Italian voyage.  So, I pulled a book down from the shelf.  Joel Meyerowitz. Tuscany, Inside the Light. Starting to see the theme here?

A piece of news, via a cruel text message, just two weeks after my I honorable mention.  A dishonor flung in our faces.  We can see the light now.

So, we're off and running, ready for light and all the beauty that we know is awaiting us.  I'll blog, I promise and we'll keep the lights lit.  A presto!

Monday, December 21, 2015

Mouths of Babes

We had a burst of energy over the weekend and put it to use in re-organizing our spaces in our basement.  We're not sure if we're ever going to join the crowd and get ours "finished" but our basement is sacred space just as it is right now.  We went basement-less for so many years, having chosen some urban habitats over suburban retreats that afforded such amenities as down below, up above and modern appliances such as our own washer and dryer.  I don't take any of this for granted and savor every minute I get to spend in parts of our home that expand the possibilities.  For Joe, it's a rudimentary but highly functional office space and for me, it is my long-awaited "studio" that area that is all my own, the one that allows me to go after my creative pursuits with gusto and to not have to clean up after one of my sessions.  I can walk into and out of my world and my husband who understands all of this better than almost anyone else, contributed to my bliss when he brought home just the right table.  He is THE most thoughtful person I've ever known and he never stops dazzling me.  He's my glitter, the soft edge to my external manifestation which, I must admit, gets taken for crazy more often than not.  If not crazy, then "not-soft", suffice it at that.

So, we have floors and walls, all made of concrete.  What more do we need?  I'm in Heaven and so are my "studio mates", Lucy, Phoebe and Cousin Helen, a frequent visitor.  Oh, and the Hotel Costes station on my Pandora adds to the feeling of euphoria.....or is that the spray adhesive or the metallic spray paint fumes?  I think I need a respirator! Not really.  I'm careful when I'm not flying.

The shift from my side to his side, gives me a view of the wall, the one that Lucy and Phoebe went to town on shortly after we moved in.  "Yes girls, you can write on the walls".....The birth of "Lucy and Phoebe Lounge". Some pretty little drawings but best of all, several good messages from the two people I want most in the world to "get it".





And then the very best of the best:

"Start where you are
  Use what you have
  Do what you can"

I think they've already got it.  How much more creative can they get?  I ask you.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Pop, Fizz, Clink!

I sit at my desk in the early hours of a new day and stare at a blank page here at my blog site.  I know all the while that this sounds trite and over-done, the blank page, the stare, the lack of inspiration.  I can't wait for my Muse much longer.  My need to write something is great and I fear that if I don't, I won't ever again and for me, that would be a huge loss of opportunity.  Because, you see, writing is an opportunity.  It is a license.  It allows us to take what lies within, beneath the surface of our daily lives and to bring it on.  As I write, I remember things.  As I remember things, I remember more.

My memories, they swing and shift like a tree in the breeze.  Family tree.  Distance has made it difficult to keep it fresh,  to pick the fruit after long winters.  My daughter has an apple tree in her backyard.  Together, with my granddaughters, I picked apples from that tree for the first time since they moved in, several years ago.  We thought the apples were not good for eating, that the tree had not been "cultivated".  The new generation proved us wrong.  They picked, we tasted, and we discovered that these are green apples, perfect for baking and making apple sauce. And so we did.

I've weeded out a lot of our Christmas ornaments, discarding, donating, and delivering to children those that they may have wanted to preserve. From now on, each new tree brings new memories. As I was going through the boxes, I found a card from last year.  It was sent by our son and daughter in law and it simply read, "Pop, Fizz, Clink!", glittered on a very Kate Spade pink background. And, easier than I could have dreamed, I dug down to find places in my heart that have been worthy of such words and have pushed aside those that were flat and unworthy of recollection.  There are moments in one's life that are on the Pop and Fizz list and moments that are on the boil and gently simmer for a long time list.  Pops and Fizzes are the marriages, the births,the graduations, the "firsts". Slow Simmers are the magic in between, friendships, great meals, travel, good books, music, art.

My life is filled with Pops, fizzes and clinks, the Slow Simmer of simple memories, the stories that still breathe today as they did when they were first told. As I sit here waiting for my Muse, my arthritic hands remind me that it's harder to get words to the page but still so important to keep trying, if only to wish the world some glitter.

Go do it.

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Love, Unhidden

We've been enjoying some fabulous weather, the kind that we should be during the month of October. It makes me feel renewed, ready for so many of the life experiences the summer, with its humidity, allowed me to ignore.  Days that are bright with sunshine, a tiny chill in the air, beg me to get outside and running around in my car, doing errands without the dreaded return to a sticky seat in an overheated vehicle.

So, this morning, I ticked a few things off my list, made a few stops in between shopping for my father, visiting him for some inane conversation, spending an hour and a half in a class led by the
most irreverent, left-wing liberal, smartest man I've ever met and daydreaming of my great gal-pal, LH, ripping his lungs out after gauging his eyeballs from their sockets. And then on to Whole Foods before returning home.

It's days like this that keep me going.  I love the variety, the challenge of not having to decide exactly who I am or who I will be in the future.  Let it ride, enjoy the view (points), write essays in my head, pat myself on the shoulder for being able to put it all into perspective and to seek more and more information about what makes people keep going.

Oh, did I mention that my morning also included a trip to my beloved thrift shop?  Why, yes it did. And, as I was walking back to my car, I saw the most beautiful sight.  An older man, embracing a younger man as they were parting.  And I heard the words, "I love you.  It was so great just spending some time with you son".  Naturally, I had to but in.  "Is that your father?" "Yes, he's come thirteen hundred miles down the street to meet me for breakfast".  My words of wisdom, "Remember this moment.  You are very lucky because so few fathers say what yours is saying. Treasure this".  I could not help myself from the outburst of pleasure that their behavior induced.  It as such a treat.  A father and a son, neither of them looking particularly well-to-do, the son was a bit scruffy, and looked as if he might have had some personal challenges.  He just had that appearance.  You see it a lot around here. I can't be sure - I'm reading the book by its cover and could be off-target by miles but one thing I did know, they loved and cared for each other and they made me happy.

Hours later, after exiting the Whole Foods market and returning to my car with just a handful of groceries for which I paid a lot of money, I came across another couple.  (was it the weather?).  This time, it was a young man and woman, both dressed in chic black, black and black. They looked "smart" she wore short shorts over her black stockings. They hugged awkwardly and kissed as if they were leaving each going to go their separate ways.  And then I noticed the cause of the awkward hug. She held a lit cigarette in the arm that dangled at her side during the embrace.  This time, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut, my words, I'm sure would not be as appreciated as they were by the pony-tailed son in the tie-dyed shirt earlier in the day. I mentally spoke,hoping that maybe it is possible to read minds.

If you love her so much, why do you let her smoke?  Ugh. Go figure.

Monday, September 28, 2015


Just a brief note here.

I'm all pooped out, or shall I join the millions who probably professed that they were all "Poped" out by last night.

I amazed myself at how much viewing time I invested.  I'm not one to sit and watch CNN for any length of time, ever. But I was very much engaged and I don't know, maybe I was being "vigilant" as if I were part of the Secret Service, watching the crowds, waiting for a gun shot.  What would I do? Call the president?? Anyway, by the time he flew off last night, I was ready for him to leave but also very glad that he had come in the first place.

I was over joyed when he was elected, thrilled to say bye bye to Benedict.  I felt for the new guy, he obviously didn't want the job. But, the decision was not his.  It was HIS and turns out, it was one very good decision.  He's just what the doctor ordered, an incredible driving force for all humanity at a time when forces can't be driven fast enough.  Everybody loves him, evidenced by the millions and millions who turned out to see even the tail end of the tail end of his plane as it flew off into the sky or down onto a tarmac.  Momentous is the word that comes to mind.  Occasion is the other.  Opportunity joins them. So, now comes the bad part.

Where were the women???

Talk about "missed" opportunities. Biggest celebrations of Mass ever.  One million faithful attended in Philadelphia alone.  Could have called it the Final Judgement and saved a lot of angst for anyone who was ever born. Madison Square Garden in New York.  Huge. Lots of room for everyone but....

Not one woman on the altar.  Not one woman acting as Eucharistic Minister, at least not that I was able to find and I did look. The only women I spotted doing anything other than singing in a choir were those who carried the yellow and white umbrellas, accompanying the men who distributed Holy Communion, some three hundred and fifty-strong in Philadelphia.  Why weren't there any "altar women"?  God forbid that there might have been a female priest up there (they do exist....again....the Vatican thought they had killed them off centuries ago when they were important in the Roman Catholic church).  Pope Francis talked about women, alluded to their importance in the family but unless I seriously missed it, I didn't hear him say too much about their importance beyond that. Damn. What amazing statements could have come out of his mouth.  Think of the impact.  Think of how many people would have heard him. This would have been the time but.....

Instead, I honestly was embarrassed about the fact that the bishops all got dressed up in their fancy clothes, told jokes to the Pontiff, and filled the altars with men.  It made me feel as if women did not even exist, affirmed the total lack of acknowledgement that has gone on since the silly Canon Laws were altered to take remove them from any position of power or authority in the church.  In one of the last commentaries, a female journalist finally raised the question.  It could have been me.  She voiced my concerns beautifully, her voice strong with reason and authority, but I don't think she got an answer. Where were the women?  Holding umbrellas.

Missed opportunities, big time.  Come on Francis. Get with the program.  You can do it if anyone can. Just remember that  your namesake had one best friend back there in Assisi. One pretty great friend and she was, indeed, a woman.  Her name was Clare. He loved her and together, well, you know the story. So, Holy Father, when you ask me to pray for you, you better deliver because I'm expecting big things from YOU!!