Today is the sixth anniversary of one of the days my life ended and began again. I think of July 23rd as a kind of "birthday." Instead of retelling the story from scratch again, I will allow my words from last year to tell the story. I do so not only as a day of remembrance for myself, but as a silent observance for all women who have experienced violence.
Five years ago today, I stepped off of the subway in Brooklyn and much like today, dove into the city streets through the pouring rain of a gray, steamy day. It always rains on July 23rd in New York City. A half an hour later, my mother picked up the phone in Pennsylvania and received the phone call that every parent dreads. “Your daughter was attacked, but she’s alive…”
Still living outside of Philadelphia, I was excited to be returning to NYC for the following week to cat sit once again for a friend. The energy of the city had enchanted me and my love affair with it was still fresh, new and untainted. As I walked down the empty tree-lined street to my friend’s building, the lyrics to a song by singe/songwriter Charlotte Martin prophetically echoed in my head. “Every time it rains, I know it’s good to be alive / Every time it rains, I know I am trying to survive.”
As I approached the building and began to enter through the double glass doors, a stranger in a bright red t-shirt, who I would later rename “the Monster,” dashed up behind me and nodded to me as if to ask me to hold the door open so that he too could escape the crying sky. I did and that single decision set in motion an almost immediate series of events that forever, irrevocably changed my life.
It was a little after four in the afternoon as he and I quietly stood next to each other and waited for the elevator in the lobby. I glanced over at him, clearly seeing his face—a face soon never to be forgotten—and had no clue, no inkling at all, of the danger he possessed. As we both got on the elevator, I pressed the button for the floor of my friend’s apartment and he pressed the button for somewhere he did not really want to go. As the doors closed, he swiftly moved behind me, grabbed me from behind and with his thick, muscular arm, began to choke me. Stunned, I immediately did everything I could to free myself from his grasp, but to no avail. I tried to bite him; I tried to free my arms that were pinned to my body. I tried to kick him in the groin, but his baggy pants prevented my attempts. I tried to plunge my keys into his flesh, but he knocked them out of my hand. I tried to poke my fingers into his eyes, recalling every possible self defense tip I had ever heard. I grabbed at his head where the feel of his short hair and the curve of his ear became forever etched under my fingertips. With every move, he had a counter-move ready. Almost.
Like a horrific dance he had clearly choreographed before either in practice or in his mind, he pulled us both to the ground. Fortunately, I was still wearing my back-pack and in hindsight, was grateful that I had never adhered to the axiom of “packing light.” I landed on my back, like an upside down ladybug. With strength, flexibility and calmness being the gifts of a regular yoga practice and with no choice, I mentally moved past years of the kind of socialization that teaches that women in our culture not to hurt others no matter what and kicked him in the face repeatedly. He was not expecting the bottom of my sneaker to forcefully hit his nose almost as much as I was never expecting to have to kick someone in the face while he was attacking me. The close confines of the elevator heightened the intensity of those endless moments of the slow, hellish ride.
Angered that I had kicked him, he stood up and began to unbutton his pants. Realizing what he was planning next, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that whatever he did, I had to find a way to survive this. Just survive, I told myself over and over again. But, the burst of adrenaline that came from almost being raped turned my veins inside out and I fought harder and harder. As the elevator approached yet another floor with no one on the other side of the slowly opening and closing doors, my heart sank a little farther. I realized that it was going to be up to me only to get myself out of this. Or, I wouldn’t get out of it alive. I had a sudden flash of my mother finding my dead body in the elevator and had another jolt of energy to fight. I later learned that she was calling me at the very time the attack was happening.
The Monster then grabbed my throat with one strong hand and began to strangle me, while the other hand repeatedly punched my face. I had never been hit in the face by a man before and I found it as emotionally shocking as it was physically. Instead of resisting, my head flowed in the direction of every punch. Beginning to lose consciousness from not breathing and from being hit in the head so many times, I flailed my arms and legs as much as I could. The decisive moment was nearing. At the instant I was almost no longer able to fight, I glanced up at the ceiling of the elevator and thought how profoundly ugly it was and how I hoped it was not the last thing I saw. Miraculously, as the lights I saw were fading into darkness, I hit my hand against the elevator and touched one button without looking: the emergency buzzer. The noise startled him and he could not continue to punch me and strangle me at the same time, so he let go of my throat. I had thought of what I might say to him if I had the chance and uttered: “take my money, take my money…” The elevator doors were reaching another floor as he looked at me and appeared puzzled by my statement as if he had not thought of it before, grabbed my purse and dashed out of the elevator.
I wanted to run after him. I really liked that purse. But, my attempts were futile as I tried to pick myself up off the ground and was surprised to find that I could only crawl into the hallway, a bloody weak mess whose heart was beating out of her chest. But, alive. Still alive. I yelled in a loud whisper, the most sound I was capable of, “he tried to kill me, he tried to kill me.” A blond woman holding her young son who lived on the floor came to my rescue, the angelic antidote to the Monster.
The next several hours were a dizzying mix of a paramedics, police, doctors, x-rays, counseling, looking at mugshots and a journey home to Pennsylvania when my parents came to get me. The next six weeks left me feeling both fragile and invincible. As the physical bruises and scars healed, the emotional wounds were just coming to light. I had a victim’s services counselor who affirmed repeatedly that it was okay to felt bad about what happened, but after weeks of that, I wanted to know how to feel good again, how to even feel human again and how to trust. But, that process would take years.
Like many who experience trauma, I felt like I was on the other side of glass separated from the world by a wall that I could not get through. Over the next year, I grieved the innocence lost and wondered if the parts of who I was would resurrect themselves. They did not, but I grew anew. With descending into numbness the first year after it happened, I found all sorts of methods of self-destruction and people all too willing to participate. I so desperately wanted to feel something, anything other than what I was experiencing. This was only exacerbated by the event that pushed my soul into a new tailspin right when I was finding equilibrium. In December 2004, I saw the Monster again in the same neighborhood and more hauntingly, he saw me. In one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, I decided to cover up the instant recognition and smile at him as I walked by. But, he still got away again and a subsequent police stake out yielded only his evasion.
It wasn’t until the February of the following year when I ran away to Seattle at the invitation of a friend who knew by the sound of my voice after speaking only one word when I answered the phone that I began the healing process. In addition to having intensely spiritual experiences in a city that was as far away from NYC as I could find quickly, I crossed paths with an amazing therapist/life coach/doctor whose work with me transformed everything. It was the beginning of a long healing process that would reveal more about myself than I probably cared to know, but was a journey that had such a sense of delicious forward motion that I could not resist
While I question if I will ever be able to feel completely carefree again or to live with total abandon, I have gained infinitely precious gifts from the journey ignited by the attack. For as resilient as life is, it can disappear just as quickly and knowing this, my focus has become clearer. I am aware of my days and nights and how I spend them. I can no longer muster sincere interest in surface connections with people and revel in the dance of discovering people. I was surprised to find my photography talents right underneath my need to find beauty in the world once again after feeling ugliness around my throat. Every challenge leaves us with something to use to grow.
As I often have done on these anniversaries, I walked by the building where it happened this afternoon. This time, I walked up to the front door to see if my friend who I had lost touch with and the woman who rescued me still lived there. As I stood sheltered momentarily from the rain, a man came from within the building and nodded for me to hold the door for him to exit. I did, but only this time it was much like I now live—from the inside out.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Journey
The journey of life itself travels through the winding mountains that ascend ever higher, through the lush valleys ripe with the fruits of hope and over fierce, stormy seas and in my experience, is rarely more personal than when one is seeking health. It is the most intimate kind of returning--a journey back to something familiar and yet, new and almost always through unchartered territory. A physician or practitioner may be able to direct one to modalities that have helped others to heal, but ultimately the task of healing can only be performed by the person himself or herself. Sometimes, it requires effort and specific change. Other times, it requires active surrender and stepping out of one's own way. The path to the light is only as direct as the willingness to dive into--and through-- the shadow.
It happened without warning. For all of the ways I had strived to be self-aware and in tune with my body, mind and spirit, life has managed to stay a step ahead and keep me surprised by my own life. A year ago at this time, I believed that if I just ate well, did enough yoga, surrounded myself with good people, followed my passion, and attended to my well-being with vigilence and freedom, I would be fine. I had yet to learn how fully and deeply grace plays a role in being and staying healthy. It is a concept that I didn't think much about in terms of my health. Health was something to be gained through effort, a battle to be won, a reward to be achieved, rather than what I now see it as: a blessing to be embraced, a teacher to be learned from and ultimately, a gift that allows the freedom to move through the world as you wish. Interestingly, illness can bear many of these same fruits. Even while longing for the sun, I have been finding ways to discover the silver linings in the dark clouds of illness.
On the path to healing, I have been fortunate to have crossed paths in recent months with three practitioners who are gifted in their crafts. All are intelligent, knowledgeable and strikingly kind, but there is something more that each possesses: energetic integrity. After appointments my inner resources to mobilize healing within have been recharged, my desire to live my highest purpose, to bring forth love and beauty into the world is strengthened and I am reminded that true healing is so much more vast than what we often believe it to be. By being in the presence of such gifted healers, I am able to call forth my own powers of healing and I am left not merely wanting to be healthy, but accepting of the moment as it is, open to change for the better and hungry to be an even stronger conduit of love in the world.
When I was thirteen, my eighth grade teacher assigned our first term paper. I chose a topic that had not yet even been included in books very much. I vividly remember going to my local library and browsing through the card catalog and coming up empty. My fervent search for information about psychoneuroimmunology only yielded a handful of magazine articles. It was a field that was just emerging and I'm not sure why I chose it, as it was months before my journey into "the stillness," the years of illness had begun. But, the connection between the mind, body and spirit has always captured my attention.
Even as a child, I was aware of my spirit, aware that there was more to life than just the physical. Sensitive to animals and the rhythms of nature and the emotions of others, I moved through the world distinctly engaged in a rich inner life and at times, a puzzling external one. Years later, a level of "exquisite sensitivity," as my doctor called it, remains with me and has manifested in different physical ways that make being in the world quite challenging at times. But, on the way home from an appointment this past week, I began to wonder if this level of reacting to the physical world on a physical level could have offered gifts that I may not have received otherwise. As the highway rapidly passed before me, I noticed the green trees off to the side. And, what I saw was not just the edge of a forest, but about ten different shades of lush green, each different from the next. The colors of the leaves varied from the grass and the small plants and it all was vividly vibrant to me.
When I'm photographing flowers in nature, the hues are bold and inviting. I'm drawn to colors, shapes, images and to the way light falls upon a scene and for a moment, changes it. And, in these moments, much like when I am writing, I am reminded that medicine comes in many forms and from many sources.
It happened without warning. For all of the ways I had strived to be self-aware and in tune with my body, mind and spirit, life has managed to stay a step ahead and keep me surprised by my own life. A year ago at this time, I believed that if I just ate well, did enough yoga, surrounded myself with good people, followed my passion, and attended to my well-being with vigilence and freedom, I would be fine. I had yet to learn how fully and deeply grace plays a role in being and staying healthy. It is a concept that I didn't think much about in terms of my health. Health was something to be gained through effort, a battle to be won, a reward to be achieved, rather than what I now see it as: a blessing to be embraced, a teacher to be learned from and ultimately, a gift that allows the freedom to move through the world as you wish. Interestingly, illness can bear many of these same fruits. Even while longing for the sun, I have been finding ways to discover the silver linings in the dark clouds of illness.
On the path to healing, I have been fortunate to have crossed paths in recent months with three practitioners who are gifted in their crafts. All are intelligent, knowledgeable and strikingly kind, but there is something more that each possesses: energetic integrity. After appointments my inner resources to mobilize healing within have been recharged, my desire to live my highest purpose, to bring forth love and beauty into the world is strengthened and I am reminded that true healing is so much more vast than what we often believe it to be. By being in the presence of such gifted healers, I am able to call forth my own powers of healing and I am left not merely wanting to be healthy, but accepting of the moment as it is, open to change for the better and hungry to be an even stronger conduit of love in the world.
When I was thirteen, my eighth grade teacher assigned our first term paper. I chose a topic that had not yet even been included in books very much. I vividly remember going to my local library and browsing through the card catalog and coming up empty. My fervent search for information about psychoneuroimmunology only yielded a handful of magazine articles. It was a field that was just emerging and I'm not sure why I chose it, as it was months before my journey into "the stillness," the years of illness had begun. But, the connection between the mind, body and spirit has always captured my attention.
Even as a child, I was aware of my spirit, aware that there was more to life than just the physical. Sensitive to animals and the rhythms of nature and the emotions of others, I moved through the world distinctly engaged in a rich inner life and at times, a puzzling external one. Years later, a level of "exquisite sensitivity," as my doctor called it, remains with me and has manifested in different physical ways that make being in the world quite challenging at times. But, on the way home from an appointment this past week, I began to wonder if this level of reacting to the physical world on a physical level could have offered gifts that I may not have received otherwise. As the highway rapidly passed before me, I noticed the green trees off to the side. And, what I saw was not just the edge of a forest, but about ten different shades of lush green, each different from the next. The colors of the leaves varied from the grass and the small plants and it all was vividly vibrant to me.
When I'm photographing flowers in nature, the hues are bold and inviting. I'm drawn to colors, shapes, images and to the way light falls upon a scene and for a moment, changes it. And, in these moments, much like when I am writing, I am reminded that medicine comes in many forms and from many sources.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Courage
I've been thinking about the concept of courage a lot in recent days. Last week, another medical-related experience required me to dig deep into my well-spring of courage, gather it up and inhale its breath into me. I embarked upon a test that could either yield helpful knowledge or push me into another potentially dangerous situation. In the end, all went pretty smoothly, but the echo of travelling down those long halls within-- the ones with a thousand doors I don't enter, remains with me. Life consistently brings new opportunities not to test the existence of one's strength, but to remind of its constant presence.
In recent months, there have been times with the distance between my life and my health seemed so infinite that I wondered if it were even possible to traverse it. But, often our most worthy travels begin without the knowledge of how or if we will reach our destination and with only the willingness to take one step forward at a time-- just one step and then, the next and the next. For the first time in a long time, I have allowed-- and needed-- other people to help me. Only being cast into utter vulnerability would allow me to receive what I now realize are huge gifts.
When I was three years old, my preschool teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that they didn't know what to do with me (if only they had known they were merely at the start of a very long line of people who would feel that way...). Apparently, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I would go around teaching and mothering the other children. It seemed like a better use of my time than doing something stupid like taking a nap. Even when I was sick as a teenager, I devoted my time to helping other people, to running support groups for people with chronic illnesses, to teaching people what I had learned about how to heal. With the exception of the help of my mother, whose ability to give selflessly is infinitely greater than anyone I have ever known, I haven't always allowed others to help me as much as I have needed.
But when I got very sick very unexpectedly at the end of last summer, I suddenly needed more help than before. And, my friends stepped up to the plate without missing a beat. Some who lived close to me did things like go to the grocery store for me when I was unable or have helped me with my home in other ways, like getting my mail when I haven't been there. Those who lived far offered to help me find information about my condition, to find doctors, to connect me with others who have experienced similiar ailments. Many people offered their good thoughts and prayers. Some have been my ever-present cheerleaders. Others consistently have reminded that out of sight isn't always out of mind, a huge gift to me that has allowed me to feel connected to a home and group of friends I haven't seen in person in over six too long months.
During a particularly dark time at the end of January before I had been given a concrete diagnosis that made sense, a friend sent me one word, literally: courage. On a single piece of paper was written the word-- beautifully. It had been passed on to her and then, was passed on to me. I look forward to the day when I can pass it along to whomever I cross paths with who will need it more than I do at the time, but for now I keep it close at hand and remember that true courage is not only knowing how to be strong and to endure, sometimes, it is allowing others to be strong for you.
In recent months, there have been times with the distance between my life and my health seemed so infinite that I wondered if it were even possible to traverse it. But, often our most worthy travels begin without the knowledge of how or if we will reach our destination and with only the willingness to take one step forward at a time-- just one step and then, the next and the next. For the first time in a long time, I have allowed-- and needed-- other people to help me. Only being cast into utter vulnerability would allow me to receive what I now realize are huge gifts.
When I was three years old, my preschool teacher sent a note home to my parents stating that they didn't know what to do with me (if only they had known they were merely at the start of a very long line of people who would feel that way...). Apparently, instead of doing whatever I was supposed to be doing, I would go around teaching and mothering the other children. It seemed like a better use of my time than doing something stupid like taking a nap. Even when I was sick as a teenager, I devoted my time to helping other people, to running support groups for people with chronic illnesses, to teaching people what I had learned about how to heal. With the exception of the help of my mother, whose ability to give selflessly is infinitely greater than anyone I have ever known, I haven't always allowed others to help me as much as I have needed.
But when I got very sick very unexpectedly at the end of last summer, I suddenly needed more help than before. And, my friends stepped up to the plate without missing a beat. Some who lived close to me did things like go to the grocery store for me when I was unable or have helped me with my home in other ways, like getting my mail when I haven't been there. Those who lived far offered to help me find information about my condition, to find doctors, to connect me with others who have experienced similiar ailments. Many people offered their good thoughts and prayers. Some have been my ever-present cheerleaders. Others consistently have reminded that out of sight isn't always out of mind, a huge gift to me that has allowed me to feel connected to a home and group of friends I haven't seen in person in over six too long months.
During a particularly dark time at the end of January before I had been given a concrete diagnosis that made sense, a friend sent me one word, literally: courage. On a single piece of paper was written the word-- beautifully. It had been passed on to her and then, was passed on to me. I look forward to the day when I can pass it along to whomever I cross paths with who will need it more than I do at the time, but for now I keep it close at hand and remember that true courage is not only knowing how to be strong and to endure, sometimes, it is allowing others to be strong for you.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Making Space
It was a question that first began hounding my consciousness during an English class last year. The class was beautifully intense and more lovely than words could describe. I wanted to be in the kind of learning environment that made me feel like my head was going to explore from the sheer weight of my own thoughts blending with what we were learning and my wish was fulfilled. At last. So, as the semester progressed, I realized yet again something that I had learned from my own writing endeavors over the years: that the Muses come when they wish. I knew they were a particular lot, only appearing at the party when they wanted to-- and usually fashionably late at that.
Lightning doesn't usually strike twice, but I was fortunate to take another English class this Spring that built on the foundation of last year's inspiration. The reading selections were some of the most engaging I've had and the weekly writing assignments tempted the Muses to reveal their new talents. But, about five weeks into the semester, the Muses performed their parlor trick: a disappearing act. I had a dialogue with my professor about how to entice the Muses to show up to the dance not just on occasion, but every single time. I've always possessed the kind of personality that lends itself to home runs or nothing at all. I would rather hit my target or just hang out in the grass meandering around, exploring what's around me. My professor offered wise insight-- that is may be impossible to create from that deep space of inspiration every single time, but it is our task to create the space, to create the kind of life that the Muses want to visit. Since then, in every way possible I have been seeking to make my spirit, my body, my home, my life the kind of space where inspiration wants to be. I've always thought that as creative beings we are vessels anyway. It is never really fully just about us-- that's narcissism. True creation is taking part of the world, some energy from somewhere else, allowing it to blend with you whether through intellect or emotion and letting it flow forward through you through the expression of choice-- art, writing, music, dance. . .
My life has had a plentiful dose of irony for a long time, but it's interesting to me that while my health has been at a particularly stubbornly low point, my creative drive and willingness to bring my talents forth into the world has never been stronger. Perhaps, I just got close enough to the point where I had lost so much-- my life as I knew it, my health, my financial stability-- that I no longer had anything to lose by doing what I came here to do.
I don't know if the Muses will forever honor my request of their presence in my life, but I know that I've set the table and I'm keeping a light on inside for them. And if there's a heaven, I'm pretty sure it has a lot of books and maybe even an English class or two.
Lightning doesn't usually strike twice, but I was fortunate to take another English class this Spring that built on the foundation of last year's inspiration. The reading selections were some of the most engaging I've had and the weekly writing assignments tempted the Muses to reveal their new talents. But, about five weeks into the semester, the Muses performed their parlor trick: a disappearing act. I had a dialogue with my professor about how to entice the Muses to show up to the dance not just on occasion, but every single time. I've always possessed the kind of personality that lends itself to home runs or nothing at all. I would rather hit my target or just hang out in the grass meandering around, exploring what's around me. My professor offered wise insight-- that is may be impossible to create from that deep space of inspiration every single time, but it is our task to create the space, to create the kind of life that the Muses want to visit. Since then, in every way possible I have been seeking to make my spirit, my body, my home, my life the kind of space where inspiration wants to be. I've always thought that as creative beings we are vessels anyway. It is never really fully just about us-- that's narcissism. True creation is taking part of the world, some energy from somewhere else, allowing it to blend with you whether through intellect or emotion and letting it flow forward through you through the expression of choice-- art, writing, music, dance. . .
My life has had a plentiful dose of irony for a long time, but it's interesting to me that while my health has been at a particularly stubbornly low point, my creative drive and willingness to bring my talents forth into the world has never been stronger. Perhaps, I just got close enough to the point where I had lost so much-- my life as I knew it, my health, my financial stability-- that I no longer had anything to lose by doing what I came here to do.
I don't know if the Muses will forever honor my request of their presence in my life, but I know that I've set the table and I'm keeping a light on inside for them. And if there's a heaven, I'm pretty sure it has a lot of books and maybe even an English class or two.
Friday, May 28, 2010
That Was Then... The Best Is Yet To Be
Last year, I spent Memorial Day in the small trattoria near the train station in Venezia, the very same place where I had a meal on Thanksgiving Day in 2007. The trip was filled with so much joy, it spilled forth from me freely (as evidenced by the photos taken there). My mind easily drifts back and forth between the days past and those to come. I struggle to remind myself to come back into the present moment, to be strong through this, to be weak, to be whatever I am right here and now because in the end, this, this, this moment is all I have. The journey through unexpected serious illness is charting the unknown where every step is now one carefully placed. I miss running through the night with others who felt the same creative drive and passion I did. I miss seeing the dawn through sleepy eyes, happy for a million and ten reasons and none at all. I miss having too much to do and not enough time. I miss being a sweaty, relaxed, hot mess after yoga, running home, turning around like Clark Kent and putting on my metaphorical Superwoman cape, grabbing my camera and being at a concert to shoot my little heart out an hour or two later. But, for as deeply as I immersed myself in the life I created, it disappeared just as quickly. And for now, my journey is different yet again-- and nothing that I expected. I had another epiphany the other day. No matter whether I am sick or well, rich or poor, my task in this life is to create and add beauty and love to the world. For a long time, I felt that my ability to do so was held by the leash of conditions. I was shy about having something to say, quiet about the fullness of my abilities. Being smart as a kid, too smart for those around me to handle, left me lonely and restless, forever waiting to find my "people." I knew they had to be out there somewhere. Now, I seem to find those I connect with easily. I just wasn't ready for it before I started finding them.
I catch myself saying "I want my life back." But, with each passing sunset, I know there is really no going "back." I will never be able to reclaim or redo these months. I don't get to fix or amend what has been or relive the days as I wish they had been. But, I do get to carry the inner gifts this intense challenge has provided forward into my future, into my art, into my life. There is a kind of beauty in surrender when it is without giving up.
So, when my mind drifts to what has been, I know that was then and this is now. And, just as I think that sentence is complete, a tiny, determined voice from my heart says, "But, wait, the best is yet to be." Yes, the best, the very best is yet to be.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Letters To Eva
I met my best friend by accident. One afternoon on the way home from school, my mom, my brother and I stopped at a local drugstore to drop off photos to be developed. Still wearing our school uniforms, the lady behind the counter recognized my brown jumper and mentioned that her daughter had just begun attending the same school. A single mother, she needed someone to pick up her daughter on the upcoming half days we would be having and called my mom later that evening to ask if she could help.
It was 1989 and in a Philadelphia suburb that had the feel of a small town, the world was still a place safe enough for kids to play outside on their own, go trick or treating and actually eat their sweet spoils and for a mother to call a stranger and ask for help. It was through that initial connection that Leese and I became fast friends. While many of the classmates I had grown up with had either left to attend other schools or who turned into the most temporarily evil of creatures-- insecure, preteen girl, I was left to my own devices. The boys didn't know what to make of me because I was the first in the class to "develop." The girls didn't like me because I was smart, far too shy for my own good and not superficial enough to fit into cliques. I cared more about writing, wandering around in nature, listening to music and daydreaming of my future than owning a pair of Tretorn sneakers or the latest Swatch watch. But Leese was different. Creative, witty and kind--she had three of the qualities I still value most in a friend.
Over twenty years later, Leese and I have saved each other a thousand times over, despite our very different life paths. She's been married for over a decade, has two of the most well-behaved, exquisite children I've ever met and with her husband, runs a family business in the suburbs. I moved to New York City to chase my own destiny of words, music, images and adventure. Distance has never been much of an issue. Our friendship easily stretched to conform to our lives-- the opposite of what happens to many relationships in life.
Last summer, Leese, her husband and kids came to NYC for the day to visit. It was a magical time for all of us. Seeing the kids discover the city was a joy. Walking down the street with seven-year old Eva's hand in mine was one of the most special moments of my summer.
A few months ago, I sent Eva a fluffy pink scarf that I had. It just reminded me of her and when I can, I like to give gifts for no reason. From this, Eva and I ended up becoming "pen pals." When I recently sent her a birthday present for her 8th birthday, she wouldn't let her mother read my letter to her. And, when she was in the office with her mother a few days later, she promptly told her mother that she wanted to "write to Aunt Lauren." Leese provided her with a piece of paper and an envelope and Eva wrote me a beautifully composted letter that could rival some I've gotten from adults. Our correspondence has continued and it's become part of Eva's secret-garden-world, the kind of world I believe that every little girl needs-- where a trusted adult who is not a member of the immediate family shows them their worth, their beauty and unconditional love. Having a strong role model, having a role model of kindness for any child of that age can be life-changing. I remember as a kid receiving letters from my grandmother's good friend. She didn't have a grand-daughter and so I filled that void. For me, she offered not only the joy of receiving mail that made me feel cared about, but she gave me the beginnings of my vocation and avocation: writing.
With the stresses of adulthood entering childhood earlier and earlier, it seems vital to fill up children as much as possible with all of the tools to navigate it, including an unshakable sense of self. While Eva's letters make me smile, I know that there is something more significant about the connection and as I watch her grow from afar, I can only hope that she will be as lucky as I have been with finding friends who add so very much to her life.
It was 1989 and in a Philadelphia suburb that had the feel of a small town, the world was still a place safe enough for kids to play outside on their own, go trick or treating and actually eat their sweet spoils and for a mother to call a stranger and ask for help. It was through that initial connection that Leese and I became fast friends. While many of the classmates I had grown up with had either left to attend other schools or who turned into the most temporarily evil of creatures-- insecure, preteen girl, I was left to my own devices. The boys didn't know what to make of me because I was the first in the class to "develop." The girls didn't like me because I was smart, far too shy for my own good and not superficial enough to fit into cliques. I cared more about writing, wandering around in nature, listening to music and daydreaming of my future than owning a pair of Tretorn sneakers or the latest Swatch watch. But Leese was different. Creative, witty and kind--she had three of the qualities I still value most in a friend.
Over twenty years later, Leese and I have saved each other a thousand times over, despite our very different life paths. She's been married for over a decade, has two of the most well-behaved, exquisite children I've ever met and with her husband, runs a family business in the suburbs. I moved to New York City to chase my own destiny of words, music, images and adventure. Distance has never been much of an issue. Our friendship easily stretched to conform to our lives-- the opposite of what happens to many relationships in life.
Last summer, Leese, her husband and kids came to NYC for the day to visit. It was a magical time for all of us. Seeing the kids discover the city was a joy. Walking down the street with seven-year old Eva's hand in mine was one of the most special moments of my summer.
A few months ago, I sent Eva a fluffy pink scarf that I had. It just reminded me of her and when I can, I like to give gifts for no reason. From this, Eva and I ended up becoming "pen pals." When I recently sent her a birthday present for her 8th birthday, she wouldn't let her mother read my letter to her. And, when she was in the office with her mother a few days later, she promptly told her mother that she wanted to "write to Aunt Lauren." Leese provided her with a piece of paper and an envelope and Eva wrote me a beautifully composted letter that could rival some I've gotten from adults. Our correspondence has continued and it's become part of Eva's secret-garden-world, the kind of world I believe that every little girl needs-- where a trusted adult who is not a member of the immediate family shows them their worth, their beauty and unconditional love. Having a strong role model, having a role model of kindness for any child of that age can be life-changing. I remember as a kid receiving letters from my grandmother's good friend. She didn't have a grand-daughter and so I filled that void. For me, she offered not only the joy of receiving mail that made me feel cared about, but she gave me the beginnings of my vocation and avocation: writing.
With the stresses of adulthood entering childhood earlier and earlier, it seems vital to fill up children as much as possible with all of the tools to navigate it, including an unshakable sense of self. While Eva's letters make me smile, I know that there is something more significant about the connection and as I watch her grow from afar, I can only hope that she will be as lucky as I have been with finding friends who add so very much to her life.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The Art of Thin Ice
I'm always writing in my mind and soul even if my fingers aren't bonding with my computer-- the one with the keys that have partially faded letters from having been touched so many times-- sometimes joyously, sometimes painfully, but always by necessity. I did not choose to be a writer as much as it chose me, but I am slowly learning the art of choosing the gifts one has been given.
For nine months and thirteen days, my life has been a source of great anguish, hope, frustration and well, the visible unknown. Without the foundation of good health, every surface is slippery, unweildy and fragile. Every step reminds me of the time my childhood best friend and I decided to try walking on a frozen creek in the middle of winter. She fell through the ice; I did not. I merely covered for her when she stealthily entered her home in order to change out of her wet, freezing clothes before her mother found out what had happened. We were ten years old. It remains a mystery why some of us fall through the metaphorical ice and some can skate beautifully on top of it. I've never been able to be much of a skater in that respect, but I would like to learn.
Perhaps because my life has been so atypical in for all of my adult life and much of my childhood, I never acquired a habit of comparing myself to others. While there have been times in the heat of a moment, I have wanted to have a certain quality or ability of someone else, in the grand scheme of things, I've always felt that everyone gets his or her own path. Apples and oranges. That's just how it works.
I have spent so many moments trying to trace back my footsteps, my trail of breadcrumbs, to figure out where things went so very wrong. I don't have very many regrets at all in my life, but I still carry the weight of profound regret for going on the trip to California last August. I wish with all my pointless might that I had never gone to the desert, never eaten that meal at that restaurant, never been over-medicated (though necessarily though), never ended up with a life that feels like it is no longer within me, but circling around somewhere in the ether while I plead for it to return to me, to merge back within my body. I dream of things that I have done and remember long-forgotten memories as they arise in my mind, in that state between sleep and wakefulness. For an instant, they are real and I am aware that all that separates us is time.
I miss the music and my friends most of all, but I carry both within me and in some ways, now that so many illusions that come simply from being immersed in a life have been driven away, there is a purity that remains and it feels strong. I feel the love of the people in my world who care about me. And, for the first time in a long time, I don't care about trying to acquire the love of those who don't freely offer it. This feels like one of the greatest lessons-- the art of letting go of what is not.
And so, while I am not able to indulge in so many of the things I would like to right now and my body feels so very fragile and like I could fall through that ice at any moment, instead of being in the sea, I'm alternating between floating on my back and fighting every wave. Sometimes, the art of swimming is not just in the way you move water with each stroke, but how you allow water to move you. Right now, I'm learning how to swim through life all over again and seeking the warmth that comes only from knowing that while you can't always stay off of thin ice, you can climb out from under it and have a friend watch your back while you get dry clothes.
For nine months and thirteen days, my life has been a source of great anguish, hope, frustration and well, the visible unknown. Without the foundation of good health, every surface is slippery, unweildy and fragile. Every step reminds me of the time my childhood best friend and I decided to try walking on a frozen creek in the middle of winter. She fell through the ice; I did not. I merely covered for her when she stealthily entered her home in order to change out of her wet, freezing clothes before her mother found out what had happened. We were ten years old. It remains a mystery why some of us fall through the metaphorical ice and some can skate beautifully on top of it. I've never been able to be much of a skater in that respect, but I would like to learn.
Perhaps because my life has been so atypical in for all of my adult life and much of my childhood, I never acquired a habit of comparing myself to others. While there have been times in the heat of a moment, I have wanted to have a certain quality or ability of someone else, in the grand scheme of things, I've always felt that everyone gets his or her own path. Apples and oranges. That's just how it works.
I have spent so many moments trying to trace back my footsteps, my trail of breadcrumbs, to figure out where things went so very wrong. I don't have very many regrets at all in my life, but I still carry the weight of profound regret for going on the trip to California last August. I wish with all my pointless might that I had never gone to the desert, never eaten that meal at that restaurant, never been over-medicated (though necessarily though), never ended up with a life that feels like it is no longer within me, but circling around somewhere in the ether while I plead for it to return to me, to merge back within my body. I dream of things that I have done and remember long-forgotten memories as they arise in my mind, in that state between sleep and wakefulness. For an instant, they are real and I am aware that all that separates us is time.
I miss the music and my friends most of all, but I carry both within me and in some ways, now that so many illusions that come simply from being immersed in a life have been driven away, there is a purity that remains and it feels strong. I feel the love of the people in my world who care about me. And, for the first time in a long time, I don't care about trying to acquire the love of those who don't freely offer it. This feels like one of the greatest lessons-- the art of letting go of what is not.
And so, while I am not able to indulge in so many of the things I would like to right now and my body feels so very fragile and like I could fall through that ice at any moment, instead of being in the sea, I'm alternating between floating on my back and fighting every wave. Sometimes, the art of swimming is not just in the way you move water with each stroke, but how you allow water to move you. Right now, I'm learning how to swim through life all over again and seeking the warmth that comes only from knowing that while you can't always stay off of thin ice, you can climb out from under it and have a friend watch your back while you get dry clothes.
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