Permission to Speak - HUFF POST

A few weeks ago I went to two memorial services within two days of each other. One was for a remarkable man, my friend Lisa's dad, Michael Dontzen, who lived to 89 and accomplished more in his lifetime than just about anyone I've ever met. He was a New York State Supreme Court judge, an aide to Mayor John Lindsay, a lawyer, a brilliant man with so much passion for justice, that on his deathbed, just a short time before he passed away, he married a gay couple. This was his last "professional" duty and he was determined to accomplish that despite the fact that he could barely speak.

The second memorial was heartbreaking. It was for a woman named Chris Twomey. She was an artist and a mother of three. Her art and motherhood were intertwined and she was passionate about both. She had breast cancer, which spread throughout her body and after a long, heroic struggle, she finally died, at age 58.

There weren't many people who were as determined to live as Chris. She loved life, she loved making art and she maintained a sense of humor throughout the years of treatments and tremendous pain.

I met Chris at Friends In Deed, a pragmatic, spiritual counseling center in Soho, New York. I have written about it before. FID saved my life when my life was completely falling apart. One of the gifts of Friends was that it put me right smack into a community that understood suffering, so that I was able to feel less alone.

In her eulogy for Chris, the founder of Friends In Deed, Cy O'Neal, spoke about Chris's courage. I just happened to be near the front desk the day that Chris first arrived at FID, announcing "I have breast cancer" as if she were saying "I just arrived from Paris." I sat in big groups with Chris for well over a year, and as Cy said, "She always raised her hand, early in the meeting. She shared whatever was going on with her, which generally included the work she was doing and some difficult aspect of her treatment. She always had a strong spirit and a rich sense of humor and after she spoke, it seemed that she gave everyone else permission to tell whatever they were going through."

Like a lot of people, weathering the storm of Hurricane Sandy meant keeping close to our battery-operated radios. (Actually, I had a crank radio too, the kind you wind up if you don't have batteries, but it just made me cranky. If I had to only use that, my arm would have fallen off by day two, and my only news would be spastic, like "flood waters reaching... evacuated and you should seek....") People were calling in all day with the stories of what was happening, good and bad, giving each other comfort and advice. The radio gave us permission to speak and a means to reach out to one another when we would have been going it alone otherwise.
During those five days of sitting in candlelight and mostly silence, I began to think about community. My neighbors in our building in Soho supported each other emotionally -- one neighbor, Martin, was staying uptown with his girlfriend, but each day he came back to the building and dropped off bags of food for his neighbors, fresh fruit, bagels, peanut butter, The New York Times. On Halloween, our next door neighbor, Louise, came over and gave us Tarot card readings by candlelight.

My upstairs neighbor, Barbara, was sitting shiva (a week long mourning period) for her dad, who passed away a few days before the Hurricane. The first few days there were dozens of people who came to pay their respects, but once the hurricane hit, it was harder for family and friends to get there, so my loftmate, Abigail, and I tried to come up as much as we could.

And then, on one of my uptown bike trips, when I had Internet access, I saw a posting on Facebook written by someone who had been helping out in Rockaway Beach. They were delivering blankets and supplies, cleaning out basements, doing all the heavy lifting that needed to be done. But I read this: "People need emotional support. They are suffering."

And I thought about the woman in Staten Island who lost both her young sons, because a neighbor wouldn't let her into his home, he was too afraid to open his door. I hope that she will give herself permission to speak of her profound loss, when the time is right, and with a caring group of people with her.

We often give lip service to the idea of "it takes a village" but in reality, we so rarely do come together to support each other. One of the reasons 12 Step programs are so effective is because they have learned the power of community. For most of history, family was our community, but now families are spread all over the place. Often people worked in organizations for their entire careers and felt a part of something. That is the exception now, it's rare that anyone stays longer than a few years with any job -- in fact, the "Millennials" don't even expect to stay past three years.
In the aftermath of so much devastation and what has been a divisive election -- and what will surely be many more hurricanes and tornadoes and devastation -- maybe we can try to solve both the physical challenges of dealing with floods and the emotional challenges of how to create a real sense of community so that we truly can "get by with a little help from our friends."

A Huff Post on caregiving

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/robin-amos-kahn/caregiving_b_1913914.html

Dark Nights of the Soul

I have been writing and reading about spiritual teachings for several years and I always love to share what I am reading. There are several books I'm reading now, one is Brene Brown's new book "Daring Greatly" which is wonderful and the other one is "Dark Nights of the Soul." I love this quote from the beginning of that book and I find that it so relates to my own life and also Pema Chodron's work about happiness and acceptance:

Many people think that the point of life is to solve their problems and be happy.  But happiness is usually a fleeting sensation and you never get rid of your problems.  Your purpose in life may be to become more who you are and more engaged with the people and the life around you, to really live your life.  That may sound obivous, yet many people spend their time avoiding life. They are afraid to let it flow through them, and so their vitality gets channeled into ambitions, addictions, and preoccupations that don't give them anything worth having.  A dark night may appear, paradoxically, as a way to return to living.  It pares life down to its essentials and helps you get a new start.  

Here I want to explore positive contributions of your dark nights, painful thought they may be.  I don't want to romanticize them or deny their dangers.  I don't even want to suggest that you can always get through them.  But I do see opportunities to be transformed from within, in ways you could never imagine.  A dark night is like Dante getting sleepy, wandering from his path, mindlessly slipping into a cave.  It is like Odysseus being tossed by stormy waves and Tristan adrift without an oar.  You don't choose a dark night for yourself. It is given to you. Your job is to get close to it and sift it for its gold."

Thomas Moore

I didn't choose my "dark night" three years ago when everything I believed were the most important parts of my life left me, my family, my home, my job.  Those things defined me for many years and suddenly I had to "re-define" myself - during my dark nights.  It was the greatest gift, the time I spent and continue to spend, sifting for the gold. 

The Age of Grief (or How Loss Transforms You)

It seems like every day I speak to a friend who is either racing off to the hospital to see a parent who’s ill, or a spouse, a friend, or dealing with their own illness, or divorce, or job loss. It’s not that I don’t know people whose lives are great – but the reality is that millions of us are dealing with difficult challenges. 

As Pema Chodron, the Buddhist writer says in When Things Fall Apart:

“Rather than letting our negativity get the better of us, we could acknowledge that right now we feel like a piece of shit and not be squeamish about taking a good look.”

In 2009, I had my own personal “tsunami.” My 23 year marriage ended, I had no job, my mother died, my daughter moved 3,000 miles away, and I had to move, with two dogs. Life dealt me a hand that left me broken.  I felt like I was under water and couldn’t breathe.

A dear friend pointed me in the direction of Eckhart Tolle’s book, The New Earth and I read this:

“Whenever tragic loss occurs you either resist, or you yield.  Some people become bitter or deeply resentful; others become compassionate, wise and loving. Yielding means inner acceptance of what is. You are open to life. Resistance is an inner contraction, a hardening of the shell of the ego.  You are closed.  Whatever action you take in a state of resistance (which we could also call negativity) will create outer resistance and the universe will not be on your side: life will not be helpful. If the shutters are closed, the sunlight cannot come in.  When you yield internally, when you surrender, a new dimension of consciousness opens up. If action is possible or necessary your action will be aligned with the whole and supported by creative intelligence, the unconditioned consciousness, which in a state of inner openness you become one with. Circumstances and people then become helpful, cooperative. Coincidences happen.  If no action is possible, you rest in the inner piece that comes with surrender.  You rest in God.”

This became like a mantra to me. (A long one, I know.)  I typed it up and carried it with me.  And honestly, circumstances and people did become helpful. 

One night at Friends In Deed in New York City, a “pragmatic, spiritual crisis center,” I attended a workshop on grief. I told myself I was willing to go anywhere for help, but it didn’t hurt that Friends In Deed was just up the block.

Here is what I learned:

Grief is the natural response to loss. Loss is a perceived change in circumstances plus a perceived change in personal identity. Grief now becomes a lifelong companion, never leaving you in the beginning, softened over time, but never leaving completely. If the person meant anything to you, the loss of them will visit you, sometimes when you least expect it.

The five stages of grief Elizabeth Kubler-Ross defined—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—are helpful, but perhaps the stages are not linear and maybe there are better models.  And what about relief?  What about guilt?  

Another model for grief is shock, disorganization, reorganization.  

There are three levels to grief – the first level is the loss of the person, the life.  The second level is the practical issues, the loss of income, a home, structure.  The third level, the constant reminders: you pick up the phone to call the person, you cook for two instead of one, you look at the chair he or she sat in.

First comes disintegration, then eventually reintegration..."the new normal."  The spaciousness and the possibilities begin to return.  Grief is natural, like breathing.  Try to let it happen, let it run its own course.  One day you’re on the floor and then surprising yourself, you find you’re going out on a date, something unimaginable just a short time before. 

Here are some myths:  you'll get over it.  You'll transcend it.  There is a right way to grieve.

Truth:  Your loss will transform you.  This is the experience, and it is what it is.  Tell your friends what you need.  Let them know you can use their help.  If they ask, and you don't know what you need, thank them for asking and ask them to maybe ask again.  Soon.

The transformation is often for the better.  Not always, but usually—especially if we find ways to get out of our own way. I gave myself to the process, and it is a process, and now I’ll avoid the word journey, but it was and continues to be.

The tried and true methods of dealing with grief and anger, though they can be effective in the short term:  drugs, drinking, eating too much, are distractions from the process. 

The good news: human beings are resilient.  We are amazingly strong.

What helps with grief?

Talking helps
Not talking helps
Crying
Screaming
Being silent
Writing (in your own handwriting)

Hitting a punching bag
Reading
Walking
Prayer
Meditation
Animals

Music

Laughter

Nature

Sad movies

Maybe you were grieved last week when NBC cut into Olympic coverage to give a sneak peak of the new show starring Matthew Perry called "Go On." In it, they find the humor and pathos inherent in a grief counseling group. I was lucky enough to find Friends In Deed, but there are many kinds of groups out there, one that will suit you. You may even feel most comfortable in an online community. The main thing is to take your grief seriously, as loss is a necessary part of living. It needs to be respected and not ignored (as Perry's character finds out in the first episode) - and you need to feel that you are not alone.

The tsunami that hit me ultimately has been the greatest gift of my life.  It added depth and understanding to my life and what else would I have to share?  Tips on how to deal with curly hair?  (Not that that isn’t very important information.) 

But I am now a far more empathetic person than I was when frizzy hair was my biggest problem. 

 

Friends In Deed is located at 594 Broadway, Suite 706, New York City, friendsindeed.org

Post Traumatic Growth

Friedrich Nietzshe's quote: "That which does not kill us makes us stronger" used to annoy me.  I have to admit that I do find Kelly Clarkson's song "What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger" quite catchy.

Yesterday, I saw a TED talk by a woman named Jane McGonigal, a game designer who suffered a serious brain injury, which caused her to go through an extremely traumatic year of pain and constant suicidal thoughts.

She came out of it with a game - and research which supports the notion of "what doesn't kill you, etc."  It is exactly the conclusion I, too, have reached after my own difficult journey of divorce, death, and quite a bit of loss, all at once, and all of it traumatic. 

This theory is called "Post Traumatic Growth" - and though it sounds crazy, I believe it's true.

Here is what she discovered and it completely matches my own experience:

My priorities have changed, I'm not afraid to do what makes me happy.
I feel closer to friends and family.
I understand myself better.
I have a new sense of meaning and purpose.
I'm better able to focus on my goals and dreams.

In addition, the idea of resilience in the following areas increases and gives you the chance to live a life of fewer regrets:

Physical resilience
Mental resilience
Emotional resilience
Social resilience




This is not to say that we don't have bad days...we do.  But somehow they feel more manageable then they used to.  I know it sounds crazy and I hope you don't spend the day with the song "What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger" stuck in your head.  You should watch her talk on TED, it's really good.

And if you find yourself singing the song, get up and dance!

Missing

I had a hard time getting out of bed this morning, which hasn't happened to me in a long time.  Today's a great day, too, I'm going to Unity and then we're going to march in the Gay Pride Parade, which couldn't have been planned for a better day.  Aside from the passage of marriage rights in New York State, it's also a beautiful day.  And Carlos Anderson will be speaking at Unity, which always makes me happy.  He speaks extemporaneously and it's thrilling to see him.  

As I was walking Lucy on this glorious morning, I started thinking about all the people I miss.  I thought about Zoe last night and how we always had so many great adventures together.  It's hard to even express how much I miss my daughter.  I miss old friends. In some cases they left me, in other cases, I left them.  The ones I left are really the ones I miss. It was absolutely the right thing to do, but it doesn't mean I don't miss them.  I miss Lola and I always will.  I think about her every day and I feel grateful for those wonderful nine years we had together.  I miss Mike Eigen, my old therapist, who I see on occasion, but no longer regularly.  And I miss our marriage and family therapist, Mildred Moskowitz, who we also saw regularly.  I've spoken to her on the phone a few times and I went to see her last summer.  She is a lovely person and quite a role model, well into her 80's and still working.en

I miss my mother and my father.  This summer is the second anniversary of my mother's death and my dad's been gone for 21 years.  I miss my family, my sister and her son's family, my cousins.  I haven't seen them in a long time.  

I miss having a partner.  I miss the man I married, not the one I'm divorcing.  

But most of all, I am grateful for being able to feel this sadness and to be in touch with the feelings.  For so many years I was shut down and out of touch. 


I read an article about Harrison Ford the other day and when asked what he felt was the most important things in life he said, "People. Work. And...learning."  I like that. 

Lola and Arlo

My beloved dog, Lola, (the beagle on the right) isn't doing too well these days.  We're getting close to the end.  I haven't been writing much because I've been dealing with so many ups and downs, but Lola is, by far, the hardest part of these cold winter days.  The lump on the side of her head, which started out like a small golf ball, is now like an orange.  She isn't eating her food, but will eat chicken, ham and liverwurst.  She can hardly walk, but she still wags her tail and she is still there.  Inside.  Lola is still Lola.  But with a brain tumor, it's only a matter of time before she's not and I have to make this decision before she is suffering.

One of my best friends, Julie, has made that decision about her beloved Arlo.  Today is the day.  We spoke on the phone yesterday and had a good cry. Arlo is truly one of the sweetest dogs I've ever known, a big hound/mutt. 

These creatures have been there for us through every life event for the past 13 (Arlo) and 9 (Lola) years.  They have given us unconditional love.  We have been their mommies and they have been our "kids."  

I can feel the grief beginning to come to the surface, but one of the greatest blessings in all of this sadness, is how much support and love we have around us.  Once again, my deepest gratitude is to my friends and neighbors, especially Abigail.  Lola has had a very good life and so has Arlo.  I'm lucky I still have my older dog, Lucy, but her time will have to come soon, too.  

I'm reminded of the phrase from Friends In Deed, the Sally Fisher quote: "The quality of our lives is not determined by the circumstances." The divorce goes on, my little dog is dying, my friend Julie is losing her beloved dog, it's one of the coldest Januaries I can recall, I'm filled with sadness, and yet, I appreciate so much in life, too.  The sun is shining.  We had friends over last night for delicious homemade Mexican food.  I'm living in my city, the one I love and I live in my wonderful neighborhood, surrounded by people I've known for over twenty years.  I work for an incredibly lovely person, in an office filled with great people.  My play is having a reading this spring.  And for today, Lola is curled up on the rug nearby and I can go over and rub her neck and her belly.  And tell her how much I love her.  

I just heard from Julie that Arlo is gone.  She said it was painless and swift. They raised a glass to Arlo afterward and I do too.  Rest in peace, Arlo.  

Reality Bites

The reality of winter and cold, really cold weather.  And two dogs that need to be walked, separately now, because Lola can hardly walk, so I have to carry her out and Lucy, who needs a good, long walk.  Six times a day we walk, in the early morning, in the late afternoon, and then at night.  So between working and walking and going to the gym and trying to stay warm myself, my life is full.  And amazingly, happy.  Today would have been our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  I celebrated by going to lunch with the people I'm working with and we had a fantastic lunch at Balthazar.  I love working again, I finally feel like the last year and a half of grief and loss are mostly behind me and though there's still plenty to be sad about, and worry about, and angry about -- it all basically feels pretty much like life.

I'm happy to wake up each morning, do my meditation, have my coffee, sit quietly and then walk the dogs and go to the gym, if I have time.  Simple things that feel just perfect.  These simple things I am so grateful for.  

They always say it's through the most adversity that we grow - I believe it's true.  I'm so grateful for the past year and a half.  I probably wouldn't appreciate these simple things now, if I hadn't lost so much and found myself in the process.

Hot and bike-less

I'm not talking about hot, as in sexy, although I like to think I'm hot.  It's very warm here in NYC this summer and I am so ready to leave.  But, unfortunately, this summer isn't turning out to be a summer of travel, not with two dogs to care for.  

And last night my beloved Trek bicycle, which I've had for at least twelve years (in NYC that may be a record) was stolen.  It was parked in front of a church on 5th Avenue and 12th Street, with plenty of people walking nearby.  Someone must have driven up in a van, cut the lock and grabbed it.  I had that same sinking feeling a few years ago when my car was towed, but at least I knew I'd get the car back.  

I actually had the thought the night before when I was riding with a friend (who warned me that my tires could be easily stolen because they had quick releases on them) that the bike was going to be stolen soon.  I never had that thought with such certainty, but I just knew it.  I can't stand living in NYC without a bike and I know I cannot replace that one (it had just had a complete "tune-up," new tires, brakes checked, etc.)  The bike was a part of my old life and I guess it was time to move on.  

I'm on the hunt for an inexpensive, but fantastic used bike.  It's a priority, like having a car is for some people in the rest of the country, my bike is absolutely essential!  I love riding, especially in the summer.  I'll keep you posted!

A new thanksgiving

For the first time in many many years I will not be having Thanksgiving with any member of my family.  We used to go to my mother's ... and I have to admit after a few hours, I couldn't wait to get back on the Long Island Railroad and go home.  But I also looked forward to the gathering every year and the conversations and even the arguing.  

This is the first Thanksgiving that my mother is gone and I miss her and I really miss my daughter, Zoe, but I am so proud that she found a job in San Francisco.  
I am so grateful that I can cry now, after so many years of keeping a lid on all my feelings,  because there was too much to deal with.


Right now though, there is so much to be grateful for, so I'm going to list my top ten:

1. My daughter
2. My health
3. Our newly re-decorated home (which looks amazing)
4. Abigail (my wonderful loft mate)
5. All my wonderful friends and family
6. Michael Eigen
7. Friends in Deed
8. Pema Chodron and meditation

9. My spiritual practice

10. My writing

Here's a quote from "The Wisdom of No Escape" by Pema Chodron:


"The first noble truth says that if you are alive, if you have a heart, if you can love, if you can be compassionate, if you can realize the life energy that makes everything change, and move and grow and die, then you won't have any resentment or resistance.  The first noble truth says simply that it's part of being human to feel discomfort."


Thanksgiving can be a very discomforting day.  It's rarely the perfect family photo op we all imagine it will be.  But I think if we focus on the gratitude for what we have, it usually works out pretty well.  At Friends in Deed I love the idea they talk about that the glass is neither half full or half empty, it is both.  And that the quality of our lives is not determined by the circumstances. 


So I hope you have a good Thanksgiving, wherever you go or whatever you do.  And I do suggest pants that stretch.

The slowest move

Every day I try to pack for at least an hour to prepare for this move out of a loft I lived I've lived in for two years with my husband, my daughter and our two dogs.   I should be pretty good at this by now, we moved three times in the past six years.  We moved out of a loft we owned in Soho that we had to sell because we needed the money.  We moved to a lovely rental, an upper duplex in a beautiful brownstone in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, and then again, after a year, to the lower duplex in the same house.  You would think that just moving downstairs would be easy, but it required about the same amount of work - boxes, movers, disruption.  And the only thing different about this move is that I am not keeping much, and rather than just throwing everything into boxes (as one of my friends suggested and dealing with it another time, when I'm not so emotionally raw) -  I am trying to discard many of the things I've carried with me over the years, that I no longer need. 

And that is not an easy task.  I find that I am dealing with more emotions in the last six months than I probably have in most of my life.  And as painful as that is, it's also healthy, to feel so much and to let it just move through me. 

Yesterday, my little dog Lola was sick and she could hardly move, she was vomiting most of the day.  Also it was Yom Kippur, so I fasted from sundown to sundown and lit candles for both my parents.  By the end of the day I was so worried about Lola (I did call the vet and listened to their advice - watch her, give her Pepcid - she vomited that - no more food.)  This morning she seems a little better, at least so far.  I missed talking to Steve about her, since he adores Lola, but I know calling him wouldn't have helped anything.  So I called a few friends and got through a difficult day that was filled with anxiety and hunger. 

And I continue packing and grieving.  Occasionally, I do have good memories of the past and I'm proud of all the work I've done to get ready for the move.  I'm also excited about my new life.  But change is always difficult and it's the first time in my life that I haven't had a mom to talk about it with.  And also the first time in twenty-five years that I haven't had a partner to help. 

But I'm pretty strong and the phrase "this too shall pass" reminds me to just keep packing and doing the work, and the rest of it will all sort itself out. 

And I do have to say that I've had two wonderful gifts this week.  I got to see "Wishful Drinking" with Carrie Fisher on Sunday, which I enjoyed.  My friend had to go out of town and she gave me her ticket. And tomorrow night, I have a free ticket to "God of Carnage" with James Gandolfini, Hope Davis, Jeff Daniels and Marcia Gay Harden.  Thank you Karen and Barbara.  I love you both.  And Barbara, I hope you feel better soon.

Goodbye to my family

This is a difficult post for me to write. But maybe it will help me to deal with the feelings I have and will continue to have for probably quite some time. I can't help but cry as I type because today, Zoe and Steve packed up the car and set off on their trip to California. Zoe came back from San Francisco to go through her belongings and Steve has been busy selling equipment and also packing. He will be spending part of his time at the property in Laytonville and also part of his time in Spain.

And I will remain in NYC, my home. And my dogs are here with me. So the family that we worked so hard to create and to nurture has not survived and as with many families we are all moving on to our own lives. I have no idea how all of this is going to eventually turn out. I know that tonight, I feel very sad and alone. And I also miss my mother. She was there for me all my life and now suddenly, in just the past eight weeks, she is gone. It's almost too much in some ways and it's also probably exactly the way it was meant to be. A clean slate, a new beginning, a letting go of the past and an acceptance that there will be a completely new life coming up in the future.

Living in the present sometimes doesn't feel so good though. I wish I could skip this part. Over the years I have watched so many friends go through divorces and seen their pain and tried to empathize, but I think it's just something you can't understand until you are actually going through it. The loss of a parent, no matter how old that parent, no matter how prepared you thought you were, still hurts.

I do know that I am not alone with these feelings. There are so many people who have more stress than they've ever had. People losing jobs, homes, marriages, friends, fighting for their lives, trying to keep their health insurance. I guess the gift in all of this is knowing that we are simply part of humanity and life can be challenging and also beautiful.

Today is a good day for the two journalists who left North Korea with Bill Clinton. I am happy for them and so relieved for their families.

And I will make myself something to eat and watch a movie and sit with Lucy and Lola, my somewhat smaller, but still beloved family.

Fire Island and some other thoughts

I just finished packing a few things to take with me to Fire Island for my annual Women's Group retreat/talkathon. I wrote about it last year on this blog. I met these women in a workshop a few years ago run by Nancy Samalin, who wrote several books on raising kids. ("Loving Your Child is Not Enough" is one of them.) Actually, three of the women met in the workshop when their kids were very young and then I met one of them when our kids were teens.

Anyway, we like to say that we all have interesting kids who have given us some challenges, but we love them and they are doing well now. I think that when kids are between the ages of 12-19 they really should live on a kibbutz somewhere. (Sorry, Zoe, if you're reading this. Fortunately, I don't think she ever does.) They could come home for holidays, or maybe we could switch kids - but those are difficult years and although I miss Zoe now that she's living in San Francisco, I don't miss those years. I miss her though.

I'm reading a book about Carole King, Joni Mitchell and Carly Simon called "Girls Like Us." Julie loaned it to me earlier in the week. I'm having a tough time getting into it, but I'm interested enough in those women and the times they have lived in, to continue with it. I think between them they've been married and in serious relationships with several hundred different men (although they shared a few too.) James Taylor is one that comes to mind, but I'm sure as I read further I'll discover some others they dated or married.

All I know is that tomorrow, when I'm walking on the beach and swimming in the pool, and talking with my friends and wishing that Mia was there making rhubarb, I imagine that I will be quite content. I love Fire Island and discovered it only a few years ago, even though I grew up on Long Island, not that far from it. I love that there are no cars and the beaches are so beautiful. I love riding a bike there and having barbecues. Summer in the city isn't ideal, but it's better than winter. And when I get a chance to escape the city and spend time in nature, especially around water, I feel so grateful.

Sometimes I think about my mother and I miss her. It's easy to say, "Well, she lived to be 96, what more could you ask for?" And these past seven or eight years have been quite difficult. But it's still hard to believe that her very strong presence in my life is over (in the a physcial way) and I can't help but feel sad that I'll never have another conversation, or sit by her side, or hear her laugh, or curse.

I know that many of my friends have lost parents when they were young or have parents that they have very mixed feelings about. When I lost my dad nineteen years ago I had a lot of ambivalence. He loved me I know, but he really didn't put a great deal of effort into our relationship so I can't say that I missed him that much. I loved him too and I am grateful that he lived as long as he did. He had a fantastic sense of humor and he loved food. Often that was the topic of our conversations, what we had for lunch, what we wanted for dinner, what restaurant he was going to. I wish that he had been able to pursue a career that he was more suited to - comedy writing or food critic. In those days people rarely had those kinds of opportunities. He made me laugh and my friends liked him. I have heard that they liked my mother too and she did have a strong life force.

I hope if there is such a thing as reincarnation that my father comes back as a chef and my mother comes back as a gardener. Or if I were really mean, she could come back as the chef and he as a gardener.

The summer of grief, part II

The first time I read "The Wisdom of No Escape" I remember being relieved about the concept that no matter how you are feeling, it's important to honor those feelings. So if you're angry, or sad, or feeling hopeless, it's quite all right to sit with those uncomfortable, annoying emotions and let them live inside you. You don't have to feed them, but you don't have to work on getting happy, or upbeat, or cheerful either. It isn't about wallowing as much as it's about feeling the feelings and sitting with them in your meditation, or your daily life for as long as they last. And knowing that eventually, they pass, just as everything life changes.

I was so accustomed to trying to numb those feelings by a) eating b) shopping c) watching television d) exercising and whatever worked at the time. I hear lots of people talking these days about wasting time on computer games or on Facebook. But when you're feeling grief over deeper losses, I find that nothing really works to alleviate the feelings. Certain things help - but unfortunately, this is what grief feels like.

And believe me - I know it could be far worse. It's just that pain is pain and so I'm not going to minimize mine.

The problem is that right now I don't enjoy eating, although I try to give myself healthy meals and sometimes a little treat. Actually, often a treat. (But nothing tastes good except fruit.) Last week when I was in Connecticut, in the woods taking a fantastic hike with my dear friend Julie, I kept thinking, "Wow, this is the most beautiful forest. Look at this, look at the sunlight as it shines through the trees. Look at this lovely, peaceful pond and the birds." Honestly, I couldn't take any of it in. The fourth of July party was really fun and I enjoyed talking to people, but I felt outside of myself sometimes, thinking, this is nice, I'm having a good time, wow, look at those fireworks!

Sometimes I feel like I'm just going through my day feeling disconnected, unable to take a deep breath, feeling like there's a bowling ball sitting on my chest, or in my chest. Sometimes I have a good cry and feel better and sometimes it doesn't help at all. I have to say that the times I've felt best in the last few weeks were when I did have some good cathartic cries, when I heard from someone who really cares about me, and particularly when I performed the opening of my show on the retreat, making people laugh. And for that five minutes, I was out of my body and my mind, just having fun and moving through the fear.

If I could skip all of this I would. But since I can't, I'm going to allow myself to sit with it and write about it and share it and just keep moving my feet, except when I can't. Then you'll probably find me somewhere in Central Park or Fort Greene Park, sitting under a tree. I have watched enough friends deal with really catastrophic challenges and I know how strong we all can be. It's just a matter of allowing oneself to sit with the pain and practice acceptance, I believe.

Moving through the pain

I keep recalling when I gave birth and thinking that what I'm going through now feels incredibly painful, but also in the end, I think it will be worth it. I remember when I gave birth it hurt so much and I didn't have an epidural (not because I didn't want one, but because by the time we got to the hospital I was already eight centimeters dilated, so it was too late.) In the middle of the pain, as the contractions intensified, I had a few moments of thinking, never mind. Let's not do this, keep the baby inside me, skip the birth, let me just stay pregnant forever.

If you've never had a baby, I'm sure you've worked on some major project, or work effort, or some health issue, or care-giving, or something just felt too difficult. And it's not like once you've finished, or had the baby, or recovered, or whatever, that it's easy. There are always struggles and in the middle of the pain are glimpses of what will be and hanging onto that keeps me breathing and moving through the pain. And I haven't even mentioned the grief I'm experiencing about the death of my mother.

Maybe I could get an epidural now?

Going to the hardware store for oranges

I've heard this expression over the years and it can relate to all kinds of things, but in this case I'll just be cryptic and leave it at that. Let's just say I'm alone now and it's not an easy time. I miss my mom, I miss Zoe, I feel lonely, it's been raining for something like the past 160 days, the sky is gray and I'm sad. But as Pema Chodron says and my therapist too, feel it. I just talked to my friend Helene and she recommended eggplant parmigiana, which I think is an excellent idea. There's a great Italian restaurant not far from here, so I ordered myself some and I'll call Helene later and we'll compare our eggplant parmigianas. (Is that the plural?)

Anyway, what else? Iran is a pretty terrible place right now. I hope they overthrow everyone and that's probably not going to happen, but it's amazing how many people are turning out and protesting. And they're not sitting around feeling sorry for themselves that they keep going to the hardware store for oranges, they're actually doing something significant..trying to get rid of those horrible disgusting leaders whose names I can't spell.

Blah. That's how I feel. This morning I was thinking how I haven't really been crying that much. And on NPR, on the show Speaking of Faith they were playing spirituals, talking about a singer who had recently died, and they played "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child" and that did it. Lots of tears. The tears feel good really, I feel worse when I am just depressed and sad or angry, or whatever and I don't cry.

Zoe's in California and Steve is too. I'm so hopeful that she will get an apartment and a job in San Francisco and things will go well for her. I know that they're having a good time, because they are at the land, the beautiful piece of property Steve owns with our friends Loren and Libbe and I'm sure they are having a wonderful time. It's hard to be sad when you're sitting in that gorgeous place, surrounded by nature.

I guess even though I feel sad, I do feel alive and I have support and friends who are there for me. And my beloved dogs, Lucy and Lola are here with me. Lucy is always sitting beside me or near me and she is my best friend.

And eggplant parmigiana is on the way. At least you can always call an Italian restaurant and get Italian food.

Goodbye to Mom

One of the important lessons I learned from my mom's passing is to ask for help (which I'm not good at) and listen to advice from people you respect. My friend Judith suggested that I write something about my mother to read, some remembrances. So I wrote the following, which described Helen pretty well, I think:

What can I say about my mother that I haven’t already said?


When I was growing up, I often longed for a different kind of mother. I wanted the television mother, Donna Reed, the mother on Father Knows Best, the kind of mother who wore nice dresses and aprons and baked cookies. That wasn’t my mother.

My mother couldn’t wait to get back to work and work she did, full time, bookkeeper, accounts receivable. I can just imagine the phone calls my mother made to people who hadn’t paid their bills on time. And I would re-enact them except that there’s a rabbi present.

You can imagine them: “Where the blank is your blanking payment?” She was very good at her job. She should have worked for the mob. She learned a lot of vocabulary words from her oldest brother Abie, who worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

My mother had two very handsome older brothers, Abie and Jack, which made her very popular with her girlfriends and she had a beloved younger brother David. David died when he was 13 or 14 – he got into a fight. I’m sure that absolutely shattered their family. And then ten or fifteen years later she lost her beloved mother, our grandmother Rose, whose greatest joy, besides her children, was to go to the movies.

My mother often complained (loudly) about my dad, Lew, who was as eccentric in his own way as my mother. They truly were both characters (and great material for me as a writer.) They are now immortalized in two plays.


I think in their own way they loved each other. I know he adored her.


On the weekends, all the fathers on our block would get out their lawnmowers and mow the lawns and my mother would mow ours. One summer she dug up the entire front lawn to put down sod. New lawn in squares. She did it by herself. My father knew where the car keys were and where the couch was, he had no interest in getting his hands dirty.

She had a full time job, she did the gardening, the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry and she had very little help. Dale and I had enough to do with studying for school (this is me being sarcastic).

My mother hated to travel – she always said there was no place like home - and then when I moved to California and she finally came to visit, she fell in love with it and always wanted to come for a couple of weeks. That’s when I moved back to NY.

When my father died nineteen years ago, we all thought, “Oh, no, how’s she going to live alone?” It took her a year to adjust and then at 77 she entered one of the happiest periods of her life. She became a volunteer at the hospital, drove her 1987 silver Honda Accord all over town, had Sunday brunch with her friends, Maddie and Lenore, did crossword puzzles, watched Judge Judy religiously and continued gardening.

She did really well for a long time, until she started to get sick a few years ago. And then she fought for life with an amazing ferocity, through countless illnesses and two hospices stays.

My mother had certain beliefs that were fairly unshakable. She hated people from the Bronx, they were too fancy, she said. My father’s family was from the Bronx. She was Brooklyn all the way. She was a solid Democrat, but felt sorry for Richard Nixon when he resigned. She believed that it was important to always look your best no matter how bad you felt. Lipstick and red cowboy boots were essentials. She believed that you can judge a book by its cover.

She loved men but not OLD men and once, about six months ago, she informed me that she and a twenty something year-old very handsome aide at the nursing home were engaged to be married. She wondered should they announce it in the NY Times? And would I mind? And she didn’t even really have dementia. Maybe they were engaged? Maybe he thought she was rich?

My mother taught me to be myself. To not care about what people think of you. To do what you love, and do it with passion and enthusiasm. To be honest (except when you play solitaire, then you can cheat). To work hard. Harder than anyone else.

And to never never never give up. They attribute those words to Winston Churchill, but I think it was really my mother who said them first.

Mom, it’s time to rest. It’s okay. You’ve earned it.


At the end, the Rabbi reminded us that my mother had lived almost a century. And that was an amazing accomplishment.

Second day as an orphan

I am filled with so much gratitude this morning, for all the love and support I received yesterday. My friend Jodi said, "don't be alone." So, Barbara came over and spent the entire day with me. We talked and worked on a proposal I'm doing (with lots of help) and we sat in the park with the dogs, had lunch and talked with Zoe. Jodi also sent out an email to a group of friends about my mother's death and I got phone calls all day from everyone expressing love and support.

I posted the news on Facebook, since I have so many old friends who did know my mother and I got many kind words there too. People are coming to the funeral - when my dad died we had hardly anyone there. I know that the numbers don't matter, it's who is there and how they felt about the person who's died, but my friends are coming to support me and I am so grateful.

I have found, in my semi-old age, that pretty much nothing is as important to me as feeling part of a community of friends. No amount of money, no job, no success, all of it is great and I would love abundance and recognition and a beautiful home and travel - and I am so deeply thankful for my life and the connections I feel with friends I've known for forty years and friends I've know for six months.

Loss is always sad, but as my friend Bella says, challenges come in three's and I hope that is true. I could use a little rest for awhile. I did just think about next week and what I have to do and for a moment I said to myself, "Maybe on Monday I'll go see my mother..." And then I remembered that I no longer have a mother to see...except in photos and in my mind and in my heart. And on the stage, when she inhabits me.