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Soccer Grand Mom

Here I am sitting on the edge of a soccer field outside Dayton Ohio, on the canvas folding chair I brought in my car from Pittsburgh. Weather predictions were for rain but it’s sunny, hot and humid.  Unseen and unnamed bugs are having a good lunch on me, and I’m wishing I had a big umbrella as shelter from the sun like several of the more experienced soccer moms brought.

Soccer_players_chasing_ball_3I’m doing my best to keep up with what’s happening on the field. My granddaughter isn’t playing right now but I recognize several of the girls that have played with her since they were tiny tots, kicking soccer balls on the sidelines at their big brothers’ games. Like many Americans I wasn’t introduced to soccer until relatively recently. It took my grandkids getting involved for me to start taking notice of the sport the rest of the world calls “football.” At the all girls’ high school I attended in Louisville Kentucky we played field hockey, though as a dancer, I was less than enthusiastic about the big wooden sticks we swung at one another while running across the field. The school sponsored a basketball and volleyball team as well, but the notion of having spectators come to watch girls play any sport hadn’t occurred to many people yet.

Times have definitely changed. The World Cup is in progress in Brazil and the television audiences in the U.S. are breaking all records. Watching the U.S. game at a restaurant last night with the team and their parents and coaches, I caught the tremendous sense of excitement as fortunes change quickly and near misses decide fates. These “surprises” may help explain why most of the world’s people are enamored soccer spectators.

girls-soccerThe soccer I’m witnessing is my granddaughter and her team, competing in the national tournament for high school aged girls. They won the state of Nebraska to get here but they’ve run into stuff competition. They weren’t able to score in their first two games and this one’s the final game, so tension is building. Just when I’m thinking the eleven-hour ride home is not going to be pleasant for the team members, or the parents accompanying them, the girls find their grove, and the energy shifts. No longer struggling individually, they connect with one another.  The ball zigzags across the field, from one player to the next. The girls call to one another and respond quickly. They guard their opponents relentlessly, and doggedly move the ball down the field towards their net. I’m on my feet and the sun and heat and bugs are gone. Along with the parents and other spectators, I’m cheering as they score, and score, and score. The finish? 5-2.

Eggs

My focus on eggs started with the picture my daughter-in-law sent of my twenty month-old granddaughter, Kyra Joy. She’s outfitted in a pink princess-like dress and tiny white shoes.

kyraShe’s standing in a park in the high desert of California to participate in her first Easter Egg Hunt and she’s holding an empty basket. My daughter-in-law said the event started at 9 am and by 9:05 the older children had collected all the eggs in the field with help from some of the parents. The look on Kyra Joy’s face tells us she hasn’t yet figured out what the game is, let alone how to play it.

Now here is her grandmother in Pittsburgh, searching for eggs in my backyard, which contains the Allegheny River and its shoreline.  Having lived here for nearly ten years I noted this year the sea gulls were exceptionally numerous. They say it was due to the long winter freeze on Lake Erie. But they’re all gone now, except for one lone gull. We noticed him (or her) splashing in the water and swooping back and forth overhead, sometimes landing to perch on the pole at the entrance to the small harbor beside our home. I wondered what was keeping him here after all his buddies had flown home. gooseflight.images

Canadian Geese return each spring to the place of their birth to begin their new families and for a community of twenty-five or so, our waterfront is that home. Each spring we try to see if we can discern where some of the nests might be. Once we identified a nest in the rubble of an old dock, alerted to its presence by a male goose circling slowly in the water near the shoreline. This year a goose is stationed in an odd spot near the road, not necessary a place to hang out, so it’s clear he’s protecting some eggs nearby.  

egg imagesTwo day ago I went for a walk on the river trail just before dusk. I walked further than people usually do unless they’re intent on fishing. I followed the curving trail around to the harbor and was startled to see in plain sight, a large white egg. It sat not in a nest, but amidst twigs and brush, and seemed to be totally unprotected from predators. There were no papa or mama birds around, no geese or that single gull, though this could have been a reason for him to stay behind.

On line research ruled out the gull as the parent because their eggs are speckled. But the size and color of the egg is consistent with the photos I found of goose eggs. I learned the mother doesn’t sit on the eggs until she’s laid them all, usually one a day until she has five. I visited the spot again yesterday and the one egg was still there by itself.

goose-eggs-in nest-in-southern-wisconsinToday I found it again, still alone but this time a large goose circled over my head and landed in the water nearby. I got the message. He wanted to be sure my basket remained empty.

The Anatomy of Ecstasy

When my then five-year old nephew, Adam, who was an only child discovered that he had four cousins he said, “I feel so big. I’m bigger than a Giant!”

giantimage  Preparing to return from Atlanta after spending time with a group of amazing women and meeting many others in the larger community, I felt so full of excitement that I told a friend, “I feel like I could fly home without the airplane, though I do know that wouldn’t be a good idea.” 

 My friend and teacher, Cynthia Winton-Henry knows about this. She calls it “Flaps up, Flaps down.”  To demonstrate how to navigate between our Big self and our pedestrian, Little self, she directs her students to raise their arms high and out to the side as though they were a bird or a plane. This is “flaps up.” Then she instructs her students to put their arms down by their sides, “flaps down,” in order to return to their smaller individual selves.

womanspreadingwings Some activities require us to be in our Larger self. When I spoke with a numerologist friend of mine about what I needed to do to promote my book she said, “Last year was your completion year when you finished and published your book but this year is a number one year for you, a time of new beginnings. It isn’t a time to play small.”

  I knew what she meant. This isn’t a time to lead with my insecurities. When I experience that excited/scary feeling in the pit of my stomach just before I step onto a stage – that’s the call to step into my Bigger Self. When I am in this Larger Self, all that I know is available to me, and I am open to inspiration, which in theology is described as a “divine influence. ” I know that I’m likely to be there when I’m centered in myself from deep inside, standing tall without apologies, and fully present to the environment.

Some activities take us to our Larger Self. In Atlanta, when I was with a group of women who were each in their Larger Selves, it seemed easy to be all that I am and to appreciate the wonder and amazement of each of them. During our time together it seemed that magic happened and magic has continued to happen since as the universe seems to be cooperating with our shared goals.

Atlanta group-58 One of the women sent an email to the group members and told of an experience she had while driving home. She heard a voice that didn’t sound like her own. The voice said, “Prepare to be amazed,” and it seemed to her like the matter-of-fact sounding message delivered at Cape Canaveral – “Prepare for lift off.”  Later that same day when she got home she had a chance encounter with a woman who, when she told her a bit about our weekend, offered to partner with her to achieve our desired goals in their community.

In the days since, many of us have been experiencing similarly amazing chance happenings that are likely to help us achieve our individual pieces of the desired group goal. As I reflect on this experience of communal flaps up and its aftermath in my life, I remind myself to take special care of my Little Self. Our bodies aren’t built to live perpetually in flaps up and my bodyspirit need some flaps down time in order to be prepared for more amazement.

 

The Real Men Are Standing Up

My best friend and I were sitting at her kitchen table having coffee. The TV news was probably on in the background because Rose never wanted to be too far away from events in the larger world. It was 1977 and the Equal Rights Amendment to the constitution, which guaranteed women equality of rights under the law, was still lacking the three states necessary for its ratification.

march

Feminists to the core, Rose and I had focused on “women’s issues.” She’d traveled by bus to various marches for the amendment while I had founded a Center for Co-Equal Education consulting with school districts across Nebraska as they implemented Title IX. Through an Educational Equity grant we worked with community colleges in rural areas, as they addressed the needs of women students. Back home in Lincoln NE, we frequently stood up to church and neighborhood organizations intent on turning back the clock to a simpler, more unequal time. 

But in this private moment we were talking about our sons. Mine was in junior high, and hers in high school. They seemed to be floundering.  We had raised them to be feminists; to respect women, to know how to cook a meal, to not be afraid to show love and tenderness toward younger children, and to not think it would challenge their manhood to do dishes or their own laundry. Despite our efforts, we saw our sons being raised by their peer group – the neighborhood boys.

David had gotten into alcohol and drugs and was exhibiting the irresponsible behavior that that life style brings about. My son Kevin was experimenting with smoking pot with his classmates on the school grounds. In spite of the large cloud of smoke wafting each morning from the low hanging branches of the largest tree in the schoolyard, I couldn’t get anyone in authority to take notice. In the standards of that day, they couldn’t be sure it wasn’t tobacco that the 12 to 14 year old kids were smoking, so they elected to look the other way.

Rose and I finally came to an uncomfortable but undeniable truth. She said it out loud. “We can teach our sons many things but we cannot teach them how to be men. Their fathers and other men have to do that.”

So here we are, some thirty years later, and I am thrilled to meet some grown men in the Pittsburgh community who are taking steps to do just that. Their organization is a chapter of one founded by African American men in Omaha NE in the early 80s. Its full name is Men Against Destruction, Defending Against Drugs and Social Disorder, but their short handle is Mad Dads. http://www.pittsburghmaddads.org/about-maddads.html.

maddads-groupTheir mission is to train and guide men to impact the issue of drugs, gangs and violence. They go unarmed on street patrols as surrogate parents, work with law enforcement and provide support to the women who are raising their children without a father or grandfather in the home. Their aim is to make their neighborhoods safer by becoming the force behind the change they want to see. 

And as often happens, when the time arrives for a truth to be accepted, whole communities begin to take action. This March several organizations in our community that have funded services to deal with domestic violence are calling on the good guys in our community for help. They’re sponsoring Man-Up: A Men’s Leadership Program March 14th at the University Club 9 am – 11:30 am. Call Sue at 412 456-5550 or sue@ficafoundation.org

Home Sweet Home

On the road for ten days, half the time in Dallas/Fort Worth and at a ranch 100 miles north, I spent the remaining time in Atlanta, returning to Pittsburgh and temperatures in the teens. Each place I visited was having unusual weather, mostly colder than expected, but on the ranch we couldn’t visit the rocks because warm weather there had awakened the snakes. A wood fire in one Atlanta house did little to warm the downstairs, and the wind whistled through both houses where I stayed as I slept in borrowed long johns under my pajamas. Now I’m happy to be settling into my well-insulated Pittsburgh townhouse.

fireplace Sitting at home being warmed by the gas fireplace, and noticing the seagulls flying past my riverfront window I wonder, “What is it that makes a house feel like home?” Most people would answer, the people and pets that greet you there. But I’m alone for this homecoming, my husband’s out of town and our nine year-old dog, Clancy had to leave us a month ago. But still there is in me, a dropping down into a comfortable feeling of safety in the familiar surroundings.  

As I look around the room, everything here has a history. Every object contains a story, interwoven with events in my own life. Perhaps that’s what causes me to feel I belong here. The fireplace mantle holds two tall golden candlesticks I’d bought to match the living room lamps in my first home. I presume my first husband still has those lamps in his. Beside the candlesticks is a wooden clock, a gift handmade by him, and given as a gift to my present husband and myself many Christmases ago.  

The framed hand-drawn stock chart on the wall is from Rich’s stockbroker father’s chart book. Finding that remnant of his father’s life after his death, Rich had me take pages from it to the neighborhood framer. Now each of the heirs have their own memento, though I can’t say if the other charts occupy such a prominent place in their homes.

 The stained glass pieces hanging in the windows were removed from our 100 year-old Nebraska house over thirty years ago. They were windows in a closet where no one ever saw them, so at the suggestion of the repairman, we framed them and have carried them with us to live in five houses since.

French-Chairs-Pair-125x125 Looking at the pair of French chairs reminds me of the history of our color schemes and living spaces. I first saw them in the front window of the Goodwill in Detroit when I drove past there on my way to the university. We were renovating a dark 1928 house at the time, nicknamed by our four year old, the “Adam’s Family House.”

 Originally in pristine condition, they were upholstered in pink and green silk plaid, and became the centerpiece of our white-carpeted living room in 1967. They later wore a floral print when we moved to Nebraska and tailored blue wool in Texas where they provided seating for my counseling office in our clinic. A do over in Pittsburgh has them now dressed in a blue and brown plaid. Admiring their flexibility, I’m not sure we’ve held up as well.

A Different Kind of Gypsy

In the musical comedy theaterTravellers_Decorated_Caravan_(6136023633) the dancers are called “gypsies.” I suppose it’s because the nature of their employment involves changing jobs and moving around the country often. The first year I was in New York, I lived in 11 different places around the city, including the times I arranged to sleep on a friend’s couch.

This week I’m falling back on those learned long ago gypsy skills – moving around the world with a spirit of adventure, and practicing the spiritual discipline of extreme flexibility. I’m been in North Texas on what might be termed “a book tour.” With the help of my sister who lives north of Denton, I organized one book event in Fort Worth and two in Dallas. Sandwiched in between I attended a women’s retreat at a ranch an hour and a half northwest of Fort Worth.highways

I lived in this area of the world for over 20 years but having left eight years ago, I’d forgotten the amount of time people here spend in their cars and how carefully they plan their trips to miss the rush hours and the logjams created by road construction projects.  As a visitor it strikes me that most every roadway is being worked on, or expanded to accommodate even more traffic. Toll roads are under construction to swoop people over the top of the current roadways and make money for the state and the construction companies.

I’m now at my next stop, Atlanta GA. doing a home stay with a friend as I prepare for a Warrior Mother Performing the Book event this evening at Charis Books and More,  http://charis.indiebound.com/ the nation’ s oldest independent feminist bookstore. If you’re in the area, please join me as I help Charis celebrate their 43rd year as one of the “must see” places in the Atlanta area.charis

Saying Goodbye to Our Best Friend

There’s a lot of empty, silent space in our house these days. Nobody’s sitting at the front window, guarding the perimeter from potential intruders. There’s no greeting as we return home and open the front door, no heralded announcement that guests we have not yet heard coming, are in fact arriving.  As friends and I I sit on high stools at the kitchen counter, no one begs to be lifted up so they too can become part of our conversation. And sitting on the sofa to watch some television after dinner, no furry ball jumps onto our laps and sits between us, behaving as if he too is watching the screen. 

watchdog Clancy has been an important member of our family and constant companion for nine and a half years. Yet I must admit, things didn’t start out particularly well. Besides the usual challenges in house training a puppy, this one had a propensity for chewing the edges of the dining room rug and, his specialty – chewing through each and every electric lamp chord in our house.

 Our daughter was very ill at the time, and I traveled often to be with her and assist with my three grandchildren. This situation may have contributed to my lack of patience with my incorrigible new charge, but we did start thinking it might be necessary to find a different permanent home for Clancy. We were rescued by one of my dear friends who offered to become his temporary “foster mother.” She had four older small dogs of her own and in a few weeks she, with the help of her dogs, civilized Clancy. We always gave her full credit for what a special companion he became.

tinyclancy Several years ago, Clancy developed a problem with his liver. As his body began retaining fluids we were told that he might not have more than a couple of months. Some adjustments were made in his medication and he rallied. He continued to have symptoms repeatedly, receive treatment, and return to his peppy, happy self. No one ever had any real understanding of why or how this kept occurring. This phase of our life together was difficult at times but, as happened in going through serious illnesses with our children, it caused us to appreciate most every moment we had with him.

sayinggoodby.clancy

 When the end came, it was a surprise. And it wasn’t. I’d taken Clancy to the vet in our neighborhood for one of his treatments and when he came out he seemed his usual peppy self, but he was shaking. By evening he was not doing well. He didn’t eat and lost control of his bowels several times. Suspecting this might be the end, we took him back to the clinic the following morning and left him for observation. We got the call at 10 am. His kidneys were failing. It was time to say goodbye. 

The Family Carries On

As our plane finally lifts from the ground in Palm Springs CA. we’re offered a panoramic view of the mountains and red tile rooftops on the valley floor. “Goodbye palm trees. Goodbye warm swimming pools and even warmer hot tubs. Goodbye dear family, till the next time we can arrange to be together from across the continent.” 

family1

It’s said we don’t remember days or years, only moments. The moments that stand out from this year’s family Christmas vacation are:

- the clicking sounds of cue balls, hopefully hitting other balls into the side pockets, mixed with laughter and the lilt of college boys and adult men’s teasing challenges,

-       the sight of ten family members seated in a circle on the front patio, obeying  the unwrapping gift ritual of my long deceased father’s family – carefully opening one gift at a time in rotation from youngest (16) to eldest (85).

-       The stomping feet of sixteen-month-old Krya Joy as she turns her head from side to side saying an emphatic “no” up and down to say ‘yes’, followed by the show of smiling deep dimples when she gets her way.

Kyra.KevinThis was our tenth holiday season without her. Family’s carry on without a pivotal loved one, and we have done that. The first year we met at a water park in Kansas City. It was strange to be swimming indoors in the middle of winter, stranger yet doing it without their mother, his wife, our daughter. The first spring, we met in Fort Worth to take in the Van Cliburn Piano Competition, something promised before she died. Last year, we met in Colorado for a ski vacation. Some years in between we’ve missed getting everyone together during the holidays but most thanksgivings were spent at my son-in-law’s dinner table in Nebraska with his family; father, brothers, nieces, and cousins.

One summer we hosted the family at our house in Pittsburgh, (the U.S. Open Golf Tournament was being held nearby.) Another summer, the year the golf tournament was in Washington D.C. my brother-in-law hosted us in his home as the tournament was held at his home course. Some springs we’ve gathered to celebrate high school graduations, and soon, we’ll meet for a college one.

family2The photographs will show how the kids have grown into fine young adults, how parents, uncles and grandparents have been aging, the joy of new additions, and how fortunate we’ve been to be able to share such fun times together.

 What the images won’t show is what’s been missing at every family gathering throughout the years. There’s always a moment when I’m reminded, and this year’s moment came when we began passing out the ice cream for dessert. Sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Tori said, “What kind of ice cream is this? It says it’s whipped. Does that mean it’s less calories?” She doesn’t know that particular ice cream was selected because it was her mother’s favorite. She doesn’t know it’s her grandparents’ way of remembering.

Towards a Resilient Grief

Like many people around the world, I watched the bereavement rituals for the beloved Nelson Mandela. In my case, I was looking for clues to answer a question that has been on my mind for years. “Can what is done at the time of a death, and immediately afterwards, help survivors to accept it, and be strengthened by the grief experience?

coffinMandela Mandela of course, was an international hero, an elder statesman and founder of a new nation. The mourners experiencing this loss included not only immediate and extended family members, but citizens of an entire nation, and of the larger world. In looking at this instance of public bereavement, important elements seem relevant to us all.

Celebrating a life

Following the announcement of Mandela’s passing, spontaneous dancing and singing broke out all over South Africa. In the city streets and village squares, and in the stadium before his state funeral, people whistled, sang, and danced with one another.  Having danced at my own son’s funeral I was delighted that people were using song and dance to create a joyful celebration of thanksgiving for Mandela’s life. We know that Mandela would approve since, in a video at age 81, he is seen dancing and he states, “Music and dancing make me at peace with the world…and at peace with myself. (to the audience) But I don’t see much movement happening out there, so let’s join in.”   

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/worldviews/wp/2013/12/05/watch-this-delightful-video-of-an-81-year-old-nelson-mandela-dancing-on-stage/

womanwithmandelaimage

Expression of Feelings

As the camera panned the crowd it was not hard to spot people crying openly. When a loved one dies, sorrow and tears help us to recognize our loss.  I was grateful that people were able to have their sorrow in the setting of a supportive community. Some people decorated their bodies to express their admiration for Mandela, sporting his image on their shirts, headgear, or ink-stamped upon their faces. People attending his funeral stood in the rain for hours, and when asked about their willingness to do this, they said this was a small inconvenience given the difficulties Mandela had confronted on their behalf. They considered this a way to express their gratitude.

Lessons Learned

During Mandela’s eulogy, world leaders and well-known celebrities, through storytelling and personal reflection, spelled out the lessons of his life. They pointed out events, such as the years of his imprisonment; and lauded him for how he handled his challenges; his ability to forgive and make allies of his former enemies. In President Obama’s comments he asked himself, “How well have I applied his lessons in my own life? “ I’ve noticed that, when friends and family are given the opportunity to share stories with one another, formally as part of a eulogy, or informally at a wake or visitation, a fuller picture of the deceased emerges. It’s as though each person’s life were a puzzle, and each story, a piece. When placed along side one another, the picture becomes complete.  

Relating to what is unfinished in a life

South Africa Mandela Mourning

Mandela lived an unusually long life, yet as his ex-wife Winnie stated it, “Even though he was 95 and had done so much, there was so much that was still undone.” Those of us watching and reading about the rituals of Mandela’s crossing; the full military honors, the 21-gun salute, the 95 candles, one for each year of his life, the slaughter of an ox in his home village, know that the true tribute to his life will consist of what we, the mourners choose to do in the years remaining in our own lives.

The Anatomy of a Massage

They say you never forget your first, and that’s held true for me. I can still remember in much detail my first massage. Part of its memorable nature involved the striking beauty of the place where it occurred, a hot springs along the shores of the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur California. 

 hotsprings3I had dragged my luggable computer to Esalen Institute, to assist one of my teachers, Ilana Rubenfeld, with a writing project. Ilana was on the Esalen Institute faculty, having invented a hands-on therapy, integrating psychotherapy, intuition, and bodywork. While on the retreat center campus I was able to participate not only in Ilana’s classes but I was able to experience my first massage. 

hotsprings5An Esalen massage begins at the edge of the Pacific, with a soak in several tubs fed by water from the underground hot mineral springs. And yes, people did not wear bathing suits, but there was no need to feel self-conscious. The scenery the wildflower-filled cliffside, in one direction and a spectacular seascape of rocky coastline and navy blue sky in the other, commanded all the attention. The massage rooms sit along side the ocean, so that although there’s music, the predominant sounds are of waves lapping against the rocky shore and wind soothing the pine trees.

As I go back to that place now in memory, what stands out is the effort I kept making to stay aware and awake for each delicious bodily sensation initiated by the therapist’s touch. I remember thinking I didn’t know my body could be this relaxed. At some point the relaxation became so deep that it took my mind to a space I’d never visited, even in my dreams.   

 During my most recent massage at a spa in Desert Hot Springs, California, my body taught me something else I didn’t know. In the thirty years since my first massage, I’ve become a better collaborator – bringing my breath and my full awareness to the point of contact between my body and the therapist’s hands. The aroma of the lotions, the music, the faint light, all conspire to encourage a letting go of excess tension in the muscles but the state of relaxation depends on the communication between the practitioner’s hands and my breath and intention. Together we give each of body part permission to let go of whatever is in excess, whatever is no longer needed.

 massage.spaAs the massage begins I notice the temperature of the room, a bit cooler than I’m used to. I notice the music, its repetitious rhythm and non-descript phrases, purposely arranged so as not to call attention to itself. I notice the feel of the lotion on my skin and that, in the desert air, my skin seems especially thirsty and grateful for the moisture it’s receiving.

As the massage progressed, some muscles relaxed easily, others with a surprisingly spastic jerk, and occasionally a sharp reflected pain accompanied some releases, subsiding as quickly as it came. While my muscles were engaged in these various releases, my mind surprised me by recreating some violent scenes from a movie I’d seen recently, “Ten Years a Slave.”  As this internal visualization occurred I noticed it and then brought my attention back to the point of contact with the therapist’s hands. After this continued for some time I had the realization, (or the sensation) that these images were being released from my body, as though they had been stored in my muscles since I first saw them.