I remember in High School when I first heard David Bowie sing "Changes." I would be embarrassed to write down the lyrics since I am sure that I'd botch them, but the song is an apt one for me. Almost three weeks ago my professional world turned upside down in a feverish pitch, and my head is still reeling.
I helped open a non-profit 4 years and 5 months ago, when a friend of a friend asked me to be the therapist there. After many hours of planning, asking for money, negotiating and so forth, I, along with a very dear and trusted Social Worker friend, opened it up. The first year was very difficult and came with lost sleep, anxiety, therapy and many shouts of "We're the Titanic and we are going down (if we didn't raise more money)!" We weathered the first year, hired another delightful therapist (and now trusted friend and kind-of-daughter-figure) and an Executive Director. We plugged along, began to grow and then seemed to be on some sort of Terra Firma. As often is the case with new folks, there was some conflict with me and the ED, and it would wax and wane over the first year and then it came to a head during a very difficult time in our city. I tried for the next couple of years to live with this tension, and learned how to keep my head down and shut up--no small feat for me if you know me.
What I learned over time is that some people know their strengthts and limitations, and some do not. While I don't pretend to know myself fully, or to be totally honest with myself, I think for the most part I know what I can and cannot do. That, I believe, was not the case with the ED. While I tried hard not to cross over to his side of the line, he jumped, pushed and plowed through mine. And so a few weeks ago I asked for a meeting with the ED, chairman of the Board of Directors and the founding person and learned in about 15 minutes flat that somehow I had been written out of the history of the organization and that my value was, well, less than valuable. The following day the line-crosser sat in my meeting and pushed and pulled his way into my territory, and 4 hours later I handed him my resignation letter.
To my astonishment, they all seemed surprised. Really. And what blew me away almost even more was how when my friend (who opened the doors with me) quit less than 24 hours later, they still seemed to be unable to connect the dots. I think the ED got it, but the others didn't. Oh well.
The next hardest day came after Thanksgiving when I had to tell my staff. They are the greatest bunch of folks ever, and it pained me to tell them I was leaving. All of them being therapists knew that there was more to the story than "I am leaving for both personal and professional reasons" but kept their questions quiet (at least with me) and offered encouragement, tears and support. Three of my staff burst into tears (two on the phone since they had to miss the meeting) and it broke my heart. My earnest prayer is that they all flourish within the organization, or flourish outside of it if need be. I go back and forth with whether I hope it succeeds post-me. The biggest part of me hopes it does (and it's the bigger part of me) since it offers services to so many folks in need and as I said, the therapists there are second to none. The smallest (read how you want--unfortunately I can be small) part of me wants it to fail, not because of bitterness (well, maybe somewhat but still just a tiny bit, I think) but because of missed opportunities and quasi bad management and the inability to see what one is able to do and what one needs help doing. But because I truly love all of those people I hope is shines, I honestly do. But me, I'm gone.
So my friend and I are going into private practice and we are talking about all of the logistics. I am typing on my new MacBook and looking at furniture and locations. Am I scared? Absolutely. I am also exhilarated and trusting that God will take care of me, again, like he always has. I am ready. I am excited and hopeful. I am embracing the ch ch ch ch changes.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
October 28th
This past weekend was the 9 year anniversary of my mother's death. For the past nine years, save for one, my sister and I have gotten together to commemorate her memory by drinking a glass of wine and enjoying a meal together. It's something that we agreed would make her happy, and had we been older and more sophisticated, we would've loved to have done that with her while she was alive and healthy.
It started, really, the day after she died when my brother, sister and I drove around Santa Monica and looked for the place to begin this tradition, not knowing that it would be the beginning of one anyway. We drove to Gladstones, as I recall, and then realized that it was too chilly, too happy or just too something, so we left and ended up on Ocean Blvd at a tony restaurant that was kind enough to let us just sit and drink a toast to our mother. And so it began...
As I was saying, this weekend was year nine. My sister and I agreed that we would make a French meal, and we did what we always do. We had a telepathic moment and came to the same conclusion in different towns, close to the same time; we needed to make Coquille St. Jacques. Our mother had made it when we were in High School and though we didn't have her recipe, we were determined to find it. True to our natures, we thought about it (telepathically) and then she did the actual hunting of it.
On Saturday morning we left my house at 10am and drove downtown to Specs. This particular Specs is a warehouse that sells wine to restaurants, and so the selection is wonderful. But what made it even more exciting this time is a treasure of a find that was discovered a few hours before. While looking for the Coquille recipe, I found a single piece of paper with her handwriting on it. It read,
Very good wines
Chateau de La Chaize
(Beaujolais)
What was amazing about this find was a conversation I had with my sister the night before. She said we needed to have a Beaujolais for the French Onion soup. When I showed her the piece of paper she quietly said, "She is with us" which of course made me tear up.
So in Specs I found the wine guys and asked about the Chateau de La Chaize which they had, and then we bought a wine for the Coquille St Jacques, a Chablis that would not be too buttery for the scallops. This sounds so impressive, doesn't it? Here's the deal: My sister knew that we needed a Chablis that was not too buttery. I didn't have a clue but so wished I did. And, to top off the trip, I happened upon a Brazilian cheese spread for hot bread in the morning. We hit the mother lode!
After a few more stops we drove home and began cooking. My husband got home and smiled at the rich aroma of onions, garlic, wine and broth and patiently waited for the chefs to emerge from their stations. I set the table and then we served the soup, the main course and then topped it off with caramelized pears and creme fraiche over crepes. It was a hit. Even my 16 year old daughter was appropriately reverent. With my husband at a football game, my youngest daughter out with friends, my sister and I ended the evening with a movie; No Reservations. It seemed the perfect weekend.
Before she left, we agreed that next year she and her family, my brother and his family and I with my family, would all go to Ohio and commemorate her 10th year by spreading her ashes in the place she blossomed the most. It would be fitting. It would make her smile that we remembered how much she loved that town, and it would make her giddy to think about how much we all love family, a great glass of wine and a good meal. In that order.
It started, really, the day after she died when my brother, sister and I drove around Santa Monica and looked for the place to begin this tradition, not knowing that it would be the beginning of one anyway. We drove to Gladstones, as I recall, and then realized that it was too chilly, too happy or just too something, so we left and ended up on Ocean Blvd at a tony restaurant that was kind enough to let us just sit and drink a toast to our mother. And so it began...
As I was saying, this weekend was year nine. My sister and I agreed that we would make a French meal, and we did what we always do. We had a telepathic moment and came to the same conclusion in different towns, close to the same time; we needed to make Coquille St. Jacques. Our mother had made it when we were in High School and though we didn't have her recipe, we were determined to find it. True to our natures, we thought about it (telepathically) and then she did the actual hunting of it.
On Saturday morning we left my house at 10am and drove downtown to Specs. This particular Specs is a warehouse that sells wine to restaurants, and so the selection is wonderful. But what made it even more exciting this time is a treasure of a find that was discovered a few hours before. While looking for the Coquille recipe, I found a single piece of paper with her handwriting on it. It read,
Very good wines
Chateau de La Chaize
(Beaujolais)
What was amazing about this find was a conversation I had with my sister the night before. She said we needed to have a Beaujolais for the French Onion soup. When I showed her the piece of paper she quietly said, "She is with us" which of course made me tear up.
So in Specs I found the wine guys and asked about the Chateau de La Chaize which they had, and then we bought a wine for the Coquille St Jacques, a Chablis that would not be too buttery for the scallops. This sounds so impressive, doesn't it? Here's the deal: My sister knew that we needed a Chablis that was not too buttery. I didn't have a clue but so wished I did. And, to top off the trip, I happened upon a Brazilian cheese spread for hot bread in the morning. We hit the mother lode!
After a few more stops we drove home and began cooking. My husband got home and smiled at the rich aroma of onions, garlic, wine and broth and patiently waited for the chefs to emerge from their stations. I set the table and then we served the soup, the main course and then topped it off with caramelized pears and creme fraiche over crepes. It was a hit. Even my 16 year old daughter was appropriately reverent. With my husband at a football game, my youngest daughter out with friends, my sister and I ended the evening with a movie; No Reservations. It seemed the perfect weekend.
Before she left, we agreed that next year she and her family, my brother and his family and I with my family, would all go to Ohio and commemorate her 10th year by spreading her ashes in the place she blossomed the most. It would be fitting. It would make her smile that we remembered how much she loved that town, and it would make her giddy to think about how much we all love family, a great glass of wine and a good meal. In that order.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Tapestry of the Mundane
This past week has been a kind of tapestry of the mundane. Life just keeps coming at me and for some reason I am keenly aware of it. It's not a bad thing at all--it's just that sometimes it seems as though things come at you from all directions and none of them are huge or profound, but you just kind of get hit.
Last weekend my husband and I visited another church where he preached, we met these lovely people, had a good meal and then drove home. I marveled at how small our world is in the faith community. Someone comes in for a short visit and there appears to be an almost instant connection, and then you or they are gone.
On Monday the work week began and I get involved in the messiness of other peoples' lives. I watch a relationship fall apart, hear about past wounds that keep getting opened by others or by their own actions, see faces change when they first come into my office and then something is said and the anger or rage is visceral; it's like they become another person. I hear of addiction, abuse, infidelity, loneliness, fear. The reward comes when someone says yes to really working on healing, of allowing me to come along side them and work towards the hope that brought them in in the first place.
Earlier on in the week I had a diagnostic mammogram and was told I had to have a biopsy. Normally I would've been completely unglued inside. Instead I had a peace about all of it. With my rather odd and somewhat extensive medical history, I cannot remember how many times there has been a seeming reason to fear and then it's either nothing or something to watch that really is just a nuisance.
I am interurrupted of my subconscious anxiety about it nonetheless when my eldest daughter and I have an argument over skype 6000 miles apart from each other. She asks with tears in her eyes, "Why do you do this? Why are you picking a fight with me across the world?" I am momentarily stung by the rebuke but then I remind myself silently that that is not what I did, but since it is her perspective I have to repair that. I apologize, she says she has to go, I write her an email, she responds and all is well. But you see, she is even farther away this weekend on an expedition and I long to make sure she really is OK. I offer up a prayer and hope for the best.
I go in for the biopsy yesterday and remember the familiar "pop" when a sample is taken. The memory leaves me momentarily queasy. A botched bone marrow biospy with my sister holding my hand, nearly faint as she empathically registers my pain and fear. But thankfully, this time it wasn't so bad and an ultrasound tech, Donna, holds my hand. My husband drives me to work and I watch another relationship teeter on demise--but she heroically hangs on and agrees to do some serious trauma work. Good for her, I think to myself. Afterward I go home, watch a little TV with my husband and an ice-pack, our youngest daughter leaves to babysit and we go to the mall and browse. We come home and watch a movie (Red Eye. It was OK).
This morning I woke up to my dog Max wagging his tail, sneezing on me as he tries to lift the covers off my face. I love when he does this though am puzzled that he seems to get excited and sneeze just on me. Why not the rest of the family?
And so this is it. The mundane of life, the passing of hours and days and years. As my husband says, "it's a beautiful thing."
Last weekend my husband and I visited another church where he preached, we met these lovely people, had a good meal and then drove home. I marveled at how small our world is in the faith community. Someone comes in for a short visit and there appears to be an almost instant connection, and then you or they are gone.
On Monday the work week began and I get involved in the messiness of other peoples' lives. I watch a relationship fall apart, hear about past wounds that keep getting opened by others or by their own actions, see faces change when they first come into my office and then something is said and the anger or rage is visceral; it's like they become another person. I hear of addiction, abuse, infidelity, loneliness, fear. The reward comes when someone says yes to really working on healing, of allowing me to come along side them and work towards the hope that brought them in in the first place.
Earlier on in the week I had a diagnostic mammogram and was told I had to have a biopsy. Normally I would've been completely unglued inside. Instead I had a peace about all of it. With my rather odd and somewhat extensive medical history, I cannot remember how many times there has been a seeming reason to fear and then it's either nothing or something to watch that really is just a nuisance.
I am interurrupted of my subconscious anxiety about it nonetheless when my eldest daughter and I have an argument over skype 6000 miles apart from each other. She asks with tears in her eyes, "Why do you do this? Why are you picking a fight with me across the world?" I am momentarily stung by the rebuke but then I remind myself silently that that is not what I did, but since it is her perspective I have to repair that. I apologize, she says she has to go, I write her an email, she responds and all is well. But you see, she is even farther away this weekend on an expedition and I long to make sure she really is OK. I offer up a prayer and hope for the best.
I go in for the biopsy yesterday and remember the familiar "pop" when a sample is taken. The memory leaves me momentarily queasy. A botched bone marrow biospy with my sister holding my hand, nearly faint as she empathically registers my pain and fear. But thankfully, this time it wasn't so bad and an ultrasound tech, Donna, holds my hand. My husband drives me to work and I watch another relationship teeter on demise--but she heroically hangs on and agrees to do some serious trauma work. Good for her, I think to myself. Afterward I go home, watch a little TV with my husband and an ice-pack, our youngest daughter leaves to babysit and we go to the mall and browse. We come home and watch a movie (Red Eye. It was OK).
This morning I woke up to my dog Max wagging his tail, sneezing on me as he tries to lift the covers off my face. I love when he does this though am puzzled that he seems to get excited and sneeze just on me. Why not the rest of the family?
And so this is it. The mundane of life, the passing of hours and days and years. As my husband says, "it's a beautiful thing."
Monday, October 4, 2010
It's official: I'm my mother.
For the last nineteen years I have seen her creeping in my psyche. It started out small and more universal, like making my kids eat their vegetables and wash their hands before dinner. Then, it progressed to sayings. My favorite was "You made your bed now you lie in it." Back then, I was like, what?? And don't get me started on how many sayings she messed up ("A bird in the hand is worth a penny saved!") to which my siblings and I would laugh and call her a "foreigner." The irony here is that I am not a foreigner, but I too mess up expressions and my husband smiles and says, "Ok, Cecilia" (my mother's name).
My mother used to get so mad at was me gossiping on the phone. She would initially walk by and give me a knowing look, a cross between a smirk and a scowl. It would bug me to no end because I thought she was budding into my business (I'm middle-aged remember--no cell phones then and less privacy). Part of me thought she was being curious but then the admonition would come to either quit gossiping or get off the phone. Like, what nerve! Fast forward and I have told my daughters the same thing. If you are talking about someone behind their back to someone else, rest assured they are doing the same thing behind yours.
I remember her driving us to school if it rained. We usually walked but if it rained, we got to be chauffered. Trust me, we would've rather gotten wet because she would drive us in her pajamas, housecoat and slippers and we would slink back in the car. We would plead with her to drop us off at the driveway to the school, but no, she insisted on dropping us off right in front of the commons filled with hundreds of cooler kids. I confess, I am cooler than she was but I too have driven my kids to school in my pj's.
Then she got bigger than just a part of my psyche. Take tonight for example. A bunch of kids at my house (for Bible study no less) and all is well. I'm doing my thing downstairs, watching "House" and minding my own business. The Bible study ends, the kids are leaving and all of a sudden I hear the deep "boom-boom" of rap music blaring outside my suburban window. I take a deep breath. Not my cup of tea (see, she is so in my psyche) but I can deal with it. But then I hear tires screeching and the music blaring and the tires screeching again and I've had it! I march myself out of my house, walk past the other kids who are looking at me as if I'm wearing polyester and I tell those boys to knock it off and go home as I watch a few neighbors coming out of their homes looking at us like we're in the middle of a gang war. To my daughter's credit, she only once told me that she would handle it as I walked across the street to the cars with the "boom-boom" bass and the burnt rubber. She didn't say a thing afterward as I told her that I am sure she was embarrassed but they were being very disrespectful and rude. And as I walked into my front door, it was official. I am now my mother. Without the polyester.
My mother used to get so mad at was me gossiping on the phone. She would initially walk by and give me a knowing look, a cross between a smirk and a scowl. It would bug me to no end because I thought she was budding into my business (I'm middle-aged remember--no cell phones then and less privacy). Part of me thought she was being curious but then the admonition would come to either quit gossiping or get off the phone. Like, what nerve! Fast forward and I have told my daughters the same thing. If you are talking about someone behind their back to someone else, rest assured they are doing the same thing behind yours.
I remember her driving us to school if it rained. We usually walked but if it rained, we got to be chauffered. Trust me, we would've rather gotten wet because she would drive us in her pajamas, housecoat and slippers and we would slink back in the car. We would plead with her to drop us off at the driveway to the school, but no, she insisted on dropping us off right in front of the commons filled with hundreds of cooler kids. I confess, I am cooler than she was but I too have driven my kids to school in my pj's.
Then she got bigger than just a part of my psyche. Take tonight for example. A bunch of kids at my house (for Bible study no less) and all is well. I'm doing my thing downstairs, watching "House" and minding my own business. The Bible study ends, the kids are leaving and all of a sudden I hear the deep "boom-boom" of rap music blaring outside my suburban window. I take a deep breath. Not my cup of tea (see, she is so in my psyche) but I can deal with it. But then I hear tires screeching and the music blaring and the tires screeching again and I've had it! I march myself out of my house, walk past the other kids who are looking at me as if I'm wearing polyester and I tell those boys to knock it off and go home as I watch a few neighbors coming out of their homes looking at us like we're in the middle of a gang war. To my daughter's credit, she only once told me that she would handle it as I walked across the street to the cars with the "boom-boom" bass and the burnt rubber. She didn't say a thing afterward as I told her that I am sure she was embarrassed but they were being very disrespectful and rude. And as I walked into my front door, it was official. I am now my mother. Without the polyester.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Reeee-lax!
I'm usually pretty good at saying no when I should, of not over-booking myself and trying to be fairly balanced. Maybe this is just an excuse but I think that's why I was never a star student in graduate school. I need to sleep (ask anyone in my family), I need to have fun and I need to have time to wind down and relax. I did well in grad-school, but having straight A's was not for me. I was too busy getting engaged, planning a wedding and having fun to bother with all-nighters and a GPA that sparkled.
My best friend in California used to say, smiling as she poured a glass of Port, "Reeee-lax!" She was soooo very good at relaxing. She never got frazzled even with little kids running in and out of her house. She just seemed able to take it all in stride. Me, I would be twisted up inside with all of the noise, wondering if the kids were safe as they ran from house to house without a care in the world. Reee-lax. Relax...
It is kind of interesting to me that the "boundary queen" as my sister so fondly calls me is not that relaxed and currently not so balanced. I have gone from one project to another and have one looming ahead like a dark cloud in the distance. It seems as though each day is filled with busyness and that the thought of going to the gym is just one more thing on my over-flowing plate. I cannot remember for the life of me when I got off-kilter but I think it was when I volunteered to bring a big-name therapist to our city and then had to bring in the people to watch him work and to be worked on. It was impossible to relax for several weeks. It was so worth it, but then there was another project and then more obligations. Relax?
In our Life Group on Sunday we talked about silence and the scripture about God not being in the earthquake or wind but in the silence. It is one of my favorite Bible verses in Isaiah and actually in all of the Bible except for 11Corinthians chapter 4 (all of it). The first is about the bigness of God and the second is about our frailty. We are "treasures in jars of clay." Breakable but still a treasure.
Balance, Silence, Frailty. Treasure. Humm. I wonder if I am out of balance because I am not sitting in the silence with my Maker. I wonder if I am off-kilter because I am not seeing myself as more frail than I am and in need of the Potter. I wonder if when I am stressed out it may be because I have forgotten where my treasure lies, and then when I don't produce the way I think I should, I don't see that I am a treasure to the Invisible God. Perhaps this is why silence is so important.
I don't think I am wondering anymore. It all seems to be crystal clear, at least for the moment. Relax, indeed.
My best friend in California used to say, smiling as she poured a glass of Port, "Reeee-lax!" She was soooo very good at relaxing. She never got frazzled even with little kids running in and out of her house. She just seemed able to take it all in stride. Me, I would be twisted up inside with all of the noise, wondering if the kids were safe as they ran from house to house without a care in the world. Reee-lax. Relax...
It is kind of interesting to me that the "boundary queen" as my sister so fondly calls me is not that relaxed and currently not so balanced. I have gone from one project to another and have one looming ahead like a dark cloud in the distance. It seems as though each day is filled with busyness and that the thought of going to the gym is just one more thing on my over-flowing plate. I cannot remember for the life of me when I got off-kilter but I think it was when I volunteered to bring a big-name therapist to our city and then had to bring in the people to watch him work and to be worked on. It was impossible to relax for several weeks. It was so worth it, but then there was another project and then more obligations. Relax?
In our Life Group on Sunday we talked about silence and the scripture about God not being in the earthquake or wind but in the silence. It is one of my favorite Bible verses in Isaiah and actually in all of the Bible except for 11Corinthians chapter 4 (all of it). The first is about the bigness of God and the second is about our frailty. We are "treasures in jars of clay." Breakable but still a treasure.
Balance, Silence, Frailty. Treasure. Humm. I wonder if I am out of balance because I am not sitting in the silence with my Maker. I wonder if I am off-kilter because I am not seeing myself as more frail than I am and in need of the Potter. I wonder if when I am stressed out it may be because I have forgotten where my treasure lies, and then when I don't produce the way I think I should, I don't see that I am a treasure to the Invisible God. Perhaps this is why silence is so important.
I don't think I am wondering anymore. It all seems to be crystal clear, at least for the moment. Relax, indeed.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Growing Up with Tiss
I cannot remember when I started calling my sister "Tissy." I vaguely remember getting that term from a friend in High School, but we weren't close then, and I can't imagine using a term of endearment for her when I was a teenager. We fought all the time. All the time. She was neat, I was messy, she was disciplined, I was too busy socializing. I remember her going off to college, having my first boyfriend and subsequent kiss and wishing I could share it with her. In those days, long distance phone calls were expensive and a post-Great Depression dad made it impossible to use the phone for a chat.
She got married when I was in college and it's too long of a story to talk about the conflict of that. Suffice it to say that even though we were not quite close yet, I was jealous of her husband because I knew that he would be the one whom she shared stories with and he would come first, and rightly so. She didn't know any of that because she was having to deal with me on another level; that and she had fever of 102 as she walked down the aisle. In pictures we all look happy and she does too, but you can see it in her eyes that she didn't feel up to par.
Over the years we have gotten very close and for the life of me I cannot remember when she became my best friend. Now I know that her husband is her BFF and my husband is my BFF, but she and I are best friends in a way that can't be described. We got our hair cut short in different states and described it over the phone and laughed because it was the same style. We couldn't remember a song to buy a CD for our children and found the right song using the same stanza, again in other states. We have done these "twin things" for years and we laugh at how other-worldly it is. And when our mother died, she was the one on the phone with me when I was looking into an abyss wondering if I could ever get out. She pulled me out. We have buried our parents together, a child of hers together, and shared countless highs and lows over the phone or in person.
Last summer we had a major bump in our relationship and it threw me so much that I couldn't sleep for weeks. Such is the depth of our relationship.
So here I am using her computer while she is off at work and I'm getting ready to go to a university to hopefully find some grad-student interns, and I am thinking about what a good time we had last night. She and her husband made a wonderful meal and shared a bottle of wine from their extensive wine collection (and yes, I am fairly jealous of that collection but that's for another blog) and it was so good to be with them. It was relaxing and fun to just sit around the table and talk, and then watch an episode of "Mad Men." We are going to get together again next month to spend the anniversary date of our mother's death. We don't do that for our dad's. We do it for our mom because she would've loved the wine, the cooking and the friendship that we have, and she would've so enjoyed the way we have come full circle enjoying what she enjoyed. Sometimes I marvel at how blessed I am and how great it is to be growing up with Tiss.
She got married when I was in college and it's too long of a story to talk about the conflict of that. Suffice it to say that even though we were not quite close yet, I was jealous of her husband because I knew that he would be the one whom she shared stories with and he would come first, and rightly so. She didn't know any of that because she was having to deal with me on another level; that and she had fever of 102 as she walked down the aisle. In pictures we all look happy and she does too, but you can see it in her eyes that she didn't feel up to par.
Over the years we have gotten very close and for the life of me I cannot remember when she became my best friend. Now I know that her husband is her BFF and my husband is my BFF, but she and I are best friends in a way that can't be described. We got our hair cut short in different states and described it over the phone and laughed because it was the same style. We couldn't remember a song to buy a CD for our children and found the right song using the same stanza, again in other states. We have done these "twin things" for years and we laugh at how other-worldly it is. And when our mother died, she was the one on the phone with me when I was looking into an abyss wondering if I could ever get out. She pulled me out. We have buried our parents together, a child of hers together, and shared countless highs and lows over the phone or in person.
Last summer we had a major bump in our relationship and it threw me so much that I couldn't sleep for weeks. Such is the depth of our relationship.
So here I am using her computer while she is off at work and I'm getting ready to go to a university to hopefully find some grad-student interns, and I am thinking about what a good time we had last night. She and her husband made a wonderful meal and shared a bottle of wine from their extensive wine collection (and yes, I am fairly jealous of that collection but that's for another blog) and it was so good to be with them. It was relaxing and fun to just sit around the table and talk, and then watch an episode of "Mad Men." We are going to get together again next month to spend the anniversary date of our mother's death. We don't do that for our dad's. We do it for our mom because she would've loved the wine, the cooking and the friendship that we have, and she would've so enjoyed the way we have come full circle enjoying what she enjoyed. Sometimes I marvel at how blessed I am and how great it is to be growing up with Tiss.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Rewind
It is not altogether infrequent that when I do a collaborative law case I see a couple who could make it and skip the whole divorce process if only they had a good therapist or just the will to work hard for a while. Don't misunderstand, you have to work at your marriage forever. What I mean is that each marriage goes through stages of what Terry Real calls "harmony, disharmony and repair." I have been married 21 years to date and we have probably gone through this process 21 thousand times and counting. We sometimes look at each other and experience what Real says is "normal marital hatred." I love that term because it's true. We just can't stand each other. But then we remember that we once loved each other, and we remember these pesky things called vows, and so we work at going back into harmony.
Honestly, we have a good thing going, we really do. I married "up." He is a good man, funny, smart, really good looking and full of integrity, and so it's not too hard to remember my vows or that I once loved him (currently I do love him--ask me in a week and it may change for a few hours or a day). We made a commitment before we married that we would go to therapy if either of us saw the need and we've pulled that trigger once or twice. It was good and it helped. We also made vows to God and to our family and friends that we would stick with it for better or worse, richer or poorer and all of that, and we take those seriously. And then there are these beautiful daughters that we have and they count on us staying married, and even want for themselves what we have, which is humbling and motivating all at once.
Clearly, however, there are marriages that need to end. They are just like fire and gas--destructive to the core and everyone becomes collateral damage, especially the children. I think of people with untreated addictions or folks who are abusive or lead double lives. I get that. I've sat with these people and watched them bleed out as they are actually encouraged to stay by well-intentioned dragons. If someone's not going to change, the other person should leave.
Then there are those couples that I sit with in a collaborative law case and they look at each other with a gentle, knowing look. Or they are quick to defend or acquiesce because they believe it's better for the other person and I think, "Gosh! Can't you just stick it out? Don't you want to sit on this for a while and wait--because those feelings will probably change in an hour, a week or even longer--but you can see the spark--it's still there!" I want to sit with them and talk about how they got twisted up and see if they can just rewind. That's not my job in collaborative law. The attorneys actually do ask them if they want to see if they can work it out and they have told me that sometimes the couple learns to talk as they work through the divorce process (is that ironic or what?) and then decide to reconcile. I'm still sitting on some unfinished cases and I sure hope that's what's happened though I may never know. And then sometimes couples just fall apart and they go through with the divorce and I know it's heartbreaking for them--it always is no matter the cause.
So here I sit being a couple's therapist and a neutral mental health professional in collaborative law and I juggle the two hats as best I can. It reminds me that life is hard and that relationships are very, very complex and that no one really knows what's going on behind closed doors. It reminds me that long-term relationships are made up of daily, purposeful acts of kindness and forgiveness when you just don't feel like being nice or particularly forgiving. And it reminds me that without a loving God who helps me remember who I am supposed to be and how I should live, I might very well be on the other side of the table. On days when I am experiencing "normal marital hatred" (and thankfully today is not one of those days) it sure helps to rewind.
Honestly, we have a good thing going, we really do. I married "up." He is a good man, funny, smart, really good looking and full of integrity, and so it's not too hard to remember my vows or that I once loved him (currently I do love him--ask me in a week and it may change for a few hours or a day). We made a commitment before we married that we would go to therapy if either of us saw the need and we've pulled that trigger once or twice. It was good and it helped. We also made vows to God and to our family and friends that we would stick with it for better or worse, richer or poorer and all of that, and we take those seriously. And then there are these beautiful daughters that we have and they count on us staying married, and even want for themselves what we have, which is humbling and motivating all at once.
Clearly, however, there are marriages that need to end. They are just like fire and gas--destructive to the core and everyone becomes collateral damage, especially the children. I think of people with untreated addictions or folks who are abusive or lead double lives. I get that. I've sat with these people and watched them bleed out as they are actually encouraged to stay by well-intentioned dragons. If someone's not going to change, the other person should leave.
Then there are those couples that I sit with in a collaborative law case and they look at each other with a gentle, knowing look. Or they are quick to defend or acquiesce because they believe it's better for the other person and I think, "Gosh! Can't you just stick it out? Don't you want to sit on this for a while and wait--because those feelings will probably change in an hour, a week or even longer--but you can see the spark--it's still there!" I want to sit with them and talk about how they got twisted up and see if they can just rewind. That's not my job in collaborative law. The attorneys actually do ask them if they want to see if they can work it out and they have told me that sometimes the couple learns to talk as they work through the divorce process (is that ironic or what?) and then decide to reconcile. I'm still sitting on some unfinished cases and I sure hope that's what's happened though I may never know. And then sometimes couples just fall apart and they go through with the divorce and I know it's heartbreaking for them--it always is no matter the cause.
So here I sit being a couple's therapist and a neutral mental health professional in collaborative law and I juggle the two hats as best I can. It reminds me that life is hard and that relationships are very, very complex and that no one really knows what's going on behind closed doors. It reminds me that long-term relationships are made up of daily, purposeful acts of kindness and forgiveness when you just don't feel like being nice or particularly forgiving. And it reminds me that without a loving God who helps me remember who I am supposed to be and how I should live, I might very well be on the other side of the table. On days when I am experiencing "normal marital hatred" (and thankfully today is not one of those days) it sure helps to rewind.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Birthdays
Today is my youngest daughter's 16th Birthday. Last night we fed 16 hungry teens fajitas, enchiladas, chips and queso at a friend's house who has a pool and celebrated this important birthday. I noticed how truly uninhibited they were--running around in bikinis and swim trunks, laughing in the pool or jacuzzi. Before we left for the party, I told her that maybe I would swim too, that perhaps I should get my bathing suit out and join in on the fun. Her eyes practically fell out of its sockets and then we both started laughing. I made the sound of the music in the shower scene of "Psycho" and then moved to the music of "Jaws," right before the shark takes someone under. I told her that I imagined me gliding into the party, smiling and nodding and that as soon as I dropped my towel the above music would play, kids would start screaming and the pool and house would empty in seconds. By this time we both were nearly in tears laughing. Maybe it was because we had too much frosting on the red velvet cupcakes (Paula Dean, by the way--really delicious) or maybe it was just one of those silly mother-daughter moments that are priceless because they are relatively fleeting. What I also believe is that it was really how I felt on some level, since that 16 year old me is so in the past. The me who wore bikinis and wondered if I looked OK (get real, of course I did! Who doesn't at 16?) but did anyway and then forgot all about it because I was flirting with someone already or working on my golden tan. But the me now knows that me in a bikini or tankini or one piece (shoot, or burka) does not look like the kids I saw last night.
When my dad turned 65, I remember asking him if he felt old (how sensitive I was!). His answer moved me deeply because it was truth. He said, "You know, I still feel like I am 18. I look in the mirror and know I'm not, but I sure feel like I am." And even at 25 I got it and at 49 I get it still. I tease my friends about being cool but my kids don't know it because I feel like I am 18 (or 16) inside but on the outside I am in the middle of middle age--or have I already passed that, too?
Today she is 16, back at a friend's house in a bikini pool side. I spent the day doing laundry, getting her car cleaned and sparkly, and eating leftover fajitas. And even though there is a feeling of nostalgia in the air, I wouldn't go back if my life depended on it. There is an easiness in being my age. I am not worried about who will or will not like me, and I have a wonderful husband, two beautiful daughters, a sweet dog, great friends and a fulfilling career. There's no way I'd go back to being 16, but it's nice to be reminded twice in a lifetime of how sweet it was.
When my dad turned 65, I remember asking him if he felt old (how sensitive I was!). His answer moved me deeply because it was truth. He said, "You know, I still feel like I am 18. I look in the mirror and know I'm not, but I sure feel like I am." And even at 25 I got it and at 49 I get it still. I tease my friends about being cool but my kids don't know it because I feel like I am 18 (or 16) inside but on the outside I am in the middle of middle age--or have I already passed that, too?
Today she is 16, back at a friend's house in a bikini pool side. I spent the day doing laundry, getting her car cleaned and sparkly, and eating leftover fajitas. And even though there is a feeling of nostalgia in the air, I wouldn't go back if my life depended on it. There is an easiness in being my age. I am not worried about who will or will not like me, and I have a wonderful husband, two beautiful daughters, a sweet dog, great friends and a fulfilling career. There's no way I'd go back to being 16, but it's nice to be reminded twice in a lifetime of how sweet it was.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Weddings
Last night we went to a friend's son's wedding. Two things struck me: when did it get to be my friends kids who are getting married? and two: when did I start paying attention to the mother of the bride's/groom's dress instead of the bride's?
The first answer is indelibly printed in my mind. My youngest daughter was just an infant and I was wearing a very cute and fitted red dress that had previously been stained with breast milk at the store. My sweet husband had mentioned her as we shopped and that was that. Thankfully it was a dress I liked and wanted. So here I was at the beautiful wedding of our new friends' daughter, and all I could think of was that would be my husband conducting our daughters' weddings in 20 plus years and it was all I could do to remain composed. The mother of the bride was composed, the father of the bride was composed even as he did the service, and I marveled at how they were doing it. Pharmaceuticals?
The second is sketchier. It happened, really, without noticing until I did and then it just hit me like a slap. Here comes the processional, here are the grandparents and then here comes the mother and I'm thinking, "Great dress! Where did she get that? Who did her make-up? She looks great! Love the shoes!" Oh my gosh I'm no longer interested in the couple, I'm interested in the couple's parents and more specifically, what the mother is wearing. I'm thinking of shopping with my daughers and picking out flowers and praying to God that I will not be a blithering idiot when their daddy walks them down the aisle and preaches their wedding ceremonies! I'm thinking, how will I wear my hair considering it's short and spikey now? Since then, the aforementioned parents (with me in that cute red dress?) have just seen another child married and the first photo I noticed was how stunning my friend looked and what a great dress she had on (very stylish and a beautiful purpley color). And that is when I knew that time goes at warp speed and I am clearly, squarely in middle-age. I can't go back. Even with coloring my hair to hide those pesky grays, it never dawned on me that I would be pushing 50 someday, but here I am.
The wedding last night? The bride was radiant, the groom was handsome and I loved the mothers' dresses. We missed the reception, though. Too late, way past my bedtime.
The first answer is indelibly printed in my mind. My youngest daughter was just an infant and I was wearing a very cute and fitted red dress that had previously been stained with breast milk at the store. My sweet husband had mentioned her as we shopped and that was that. Thankfully it was a dress I liked and wanted. So here I was at the beautiful wedding of our new friends' daughter, and all I could think of was that would be my husband conducting our daughters' weddings in 20 plus years and it was all I could do to remain composed. The mother of the bride was composed, the father of the bride was composed even as he did the service, and I marveled at how they were doing it. Pharmaceuticals?
The second is sketchier. It happened, really, without noticing until I did and then it just hit me like a slap. Here comes the processional, here are the grandparents and then here comes the mother and I'm thinking, "Great dress! Where did she get that? Who did her make-up? She looks great! Love the shoes!" Oh my gosh I'm no longer interested in the couple, I'm interested in the couple's parents and more specifically, what the mother is wearing. I'm thinking of shopping with my daughers and picking out flowers and praying to God that I will not be a blithering idiot when their daddy walks them down the aisle and preaches their wedding ceremonies! I'm thinking, how will I wear my hair considering it's short and spikey now? Since then, the aforementioned parents (with me in that cute red dress?) have just seen another child married and the first photo I noticed was how stunning my friend looked and what a great dress she had on (very stylish and a beautiful purpley color). And that is when I knew that time goes at warp speed and I am clearly, squarely in middle-age. I can't go back. Even with coloring my hair to hide those pesky grays, it never dawned on me that I would be pushing 50 someday, but here I am.
The wedding last night? The bride was radiant, the groom was handsome and I loved the mothers' dresses. We missed the reception, though. Too late, way past my bedtime.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 11th
Nine years ago I was woken up by my mother's phone call, something she was prone to do. It seemed like she had never gotten used to the 2 hour time difference--that or she just was too excited to wait. And so when my husband answered the phone and sounded exasperated, it was understandable. But then his tone changed and I knew something was wrong. She had just come to live with us in Culver City, CA and was in the hospital. My first thought was that she was even sicker, but then he turned the TV on and the world changed forever. Less than 2 months later, it changed again when she died.
So here I am, starting a blog since the world keeps changing. My oldest daughter is now in Argentina going to school, and I have lost my bearings. I know I will get used to this, but for now it just seems like an impossibility. She skyped last night and I knew she was going out later that night. Though she has a good head on her shoulders and is very responsible, the Social Worker in me kicked in and all of a sudden endless dark possibilities set in. By the grace of God I slept anyway and awoke to an email saying she got home safely. Phew.
A week from today my youngest daughter turns 16 which means she will be driving without me or her dad in the car. Like her sister, she too is responsible, but the world keeps changing...
What hasn't changed is knowing that God is in control and I am not, which is still not what I am totally comfortable with since I am a control-freak. The good news (pun intended) is that it's always better with Him at the wheel. That and knowing that whenever I am home blogging, Max the dog is right by my side.
So here I am, starting a blog since the world keeps changing. My oldest daughter is now in Argentina going to school, and I have lost my bearings. I know I will get used to this, but for now it just seems like an impossibility. She skyped last night and I knew she was going out later that night. Though she has a good head on her shoulders and is very responsible, the Social Worker in me kicked in and all of a sudden endless dark possibilities set in. By the grace of God I slept anyway and awoke to an email saying she got home safely. Phew.
A week from today my youngest daughter turns 16 which means she will be driving without me or her dad in the car. Like her sister, she too is responsible, but the world keeps changing...
What hasn't changed is knowing that God is in control and I am not, which is still not what I am totally comfortable with since I am a control-freak. The good news (pun intended) is that it's always better with Him at the wheel. That and knowing that whenever I am home blogging, Max the dog is right by my side.
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