9-11-2011 Reflection

Today is a day of quiet reflection. Ten years ago, I received a call from my husband moments after the first tower was hit; I knew he was safe. But, then, silence. I will never forget the hours of waiting; of the uncertainty. I didn't know where he was, only that he was unable to leave New York City. I will also never forget the kindness of his co-worker who gave him and seven others a safe place to spend the night and begin to process what was happening. Ten years later, I remain deeply grateful to her for her kindness. She is one of the unnamed and unknown heroes of that day. Her name is Ellen and she remains my 9/11 hero. Thank you.

Just for Fun (and something more . . . )

The text I send my family reads "I am exhausted. Painted rivers and marshes and rocky rocks today . . . fluffy clouds tomorrow." The only response I receive is from my husband, the master of one word replies: "Wow."

My family is a bit mystified why, of all things, I am at a five day watercolor painting workshop at OMEGA Institute in Rhinebeck, NY. I've always wanted to try watercolor painting. And it is on my list. I've joined a social movement with thousands of people from across the globe and created my own list of "101 Things to do in 1001 Days" (dayzeroproject.com). Lists of 101 goals that are specific, measurable/clearly defined, realistic yet make one stretch are created, many posted on online, people blog about their accomplishments and challenges, often creating photo records and commenting on each others journeys.

My list is not posted online, but my 1001 day journey began on July 25th (my birthday). I have a bit over 2 3/4 years (1001 days) to complete an expansive array of goals that I want to accomplish in my second act. Some of my goals include: shoot a gun at a gun range, read the entire body of work of one writer (Ernest Hemingway), and take and post one photo, every Monday, to document an ordinary moment in my day (143 weeks).

The daily demands of raising my three children has given way to a new phase of parenting - long distance - as my children are currently in Santiago, Chile, Dallas, Texas and Manhattan. For the first time in almost 30 years, I have stretches of time to focus on me.

Goal #36 - take a Watercolor painting workshop - is complete.

Closing a Door

Firmly closing a door is difficult for me. I like the idea of a circle - a loose, flexible ring that allows for a return to the beginning, that keeps me in "the loop" of an event. I may step out for a while but I know that I can step back in. This provides a sense of control. I understand what is happening and how to remain safely connected.

Last week I closed a door. I knew that I was done. I don't want the safety. I don't want the ease of stepping back in. I don't want to "stay in the loop" any longer.

When, and if, I return, I will be different. Although there will always be a connection to the beginning, a connection that I cherish, I want the door that I open next time to reveal something new, something unexpected, something unique.

Memories

The last few weeks have just been passing by and I haven't been paying attention . . . it seems that is when something happens to stop me in my tracks - forcing me to pay attention. And, again, it happened. Last Wednesday, I noticed a woman walking toward me, along the sidewalk. to my left. She was young, her hair pulled back into a loose pony tail and she was very pregnant. Talking on her cell phone, I caught the end of her conversation just as we both reached the store door. "Gotta go, Mom. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

Those nine words were like a sucker punch. I struggled to catch my breath.

Over the past seven weeks, I have experienced my own personal trifecta: Mother's Day, my mother's birthday and the anniversary of her death 18 years ago. 18 years and yet, sometimes, for a few moments, the pain is as searing as it was on June 20, 1993. What I wouldn't give to have one more conversation with my mother. I never spoke to my mother on a cell phone. My mother would be 79 this year and I can't 'see' her at that age; she remains frozen in time for me. I can't move her, in my mind, to being an older woman. This realization makes me sad.

I held the door for the young woman; she smiled at me and said thanks. I hope she has decades to share her child with her mother. I hope they will share a lifetime of moments that will become precious memories in the years to come.

I miss my mother. But by way of memories she remains with me, ever day, in different and often unexpected ways.

Memorial Day: A Moment of Reflection

In 6th grade, I recited In Flanders Fields as part of a student program of words, song, and dance titled "Hands Across the Sea." Major John McCrae's poem remains one of the few poems I can recite without hesitation.


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset blow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

My recent genealogy research has focused on my Irish grandfather. Daniel B. O'Connor and his brothers were part of the wave of Fitchburg (MA) men who enlisted to fight in the 'war to end all wars.' Every day, a city's pride in her "sons" - recruitment, departure, stories of the 'boys' and too often, the sad details when one paid the ultimate price - was shared in the local newspaper. For decades, my grandfather placed small flags at the graves of American servicemen to honor their service and dedication. My grandfather's faith in our country and his pride as he raised the American flag at his home are two of the strongest memories I have of him.

Seeking Balance

Mother's Day. For the past 18 years, I try to seek balance on the second Sunday in May between the joy of being a mother and the sadness of missing my own mother.

I remember my first one -- the newness of being someone's mommy and the awe of cuddling my four-month-old son as our family of three walked amidst the beauty of pink and white blooms at the Dogwood Festival - a tradition in our new hometown of Fairfield. Last year, twenty-five years later, I spent the day in Lesotho, in Africa, with my daughter.

Just a few minutes ago, I realized that this is the first year that I do not have at least one of my children with me on Mother's Day. Today, they are located on three different continents - that is 'kind of cool' as one of them said to me earlier. I had a wonderful conversation with each of them, sharing details of our lives. And, yet . . .

Yet, once again, a parenting transition caught me off-guard, unprepared and seeking balance. I didn't realize that I would be without any of my children: here, sharing stories, a meal, laughter and hugs. Sometimes, upon reflection of moments like this, I think, what if I had known the transition was going to happen . . . what would I have done differently? How could I have prepared? I seldom find answers that satisfy me; perhaps it is best that I just go through the transition as it unfolds. Without warning, without planning -- allowing me to fully experience the sense of unbalance, just to be in the moment.

This, after all, is motherhood.

Vessel

Vessel

Seeking escape, I am promiscuous

enduring the man’s hand, touch, tongue -- never uttering a sound.

For him, my body is flawless, my skin incandescent

flushed, warm, alive – as if painted by the master, Rembrandt.

Or perhaps, fashioned by Van Gogh, his vivid colors show

his madness and torment – pummeled upon my torso.

Men, haunted, berserk, dark, without scruples

Devotees of women -- round, soft and supple.

Closing my eyes, opening my being,

like a vessel -- deep, hollow, empty

to hold our shame.