The Courage to Express Fully in the Face of Imperfection

Photo courtesy of www.stephanieelizabethimages.com

This weekend, I attended the wedding of my daughter’s good friend. My tears welled up with the joy and beauty of it: the ceremony’s forest chapel setting, the gorgeous sprite of a bride, the handsome and smitten groom. My lovely daughter was one of the resplendent bridesmaids.

After the best man and maid of honor’s speeches, the bride’s father came up to the microphone, pinned his music to the stand and positioned his ukulele. He acknowledged how scary this performance was, and admitted that in grade school he was advised to “fake it” by his choir teacher. He introduced “Where There Is Love” with apologies and deference to composer and performer Noel Paul Stookey of Peter, Paul and Mary fame. He noted that “He” in the song was written with a capital H, thus referring to the Greater Power.

The lyrics were heart stopping. The father of the bride’s voice was rich in timbre, yet atonal. He strummed simple, proficient cords on the uke.

He persisted. He conquered.

He received a heartfelt, resounding standing ovation.

What a feat of courage!

What a testament to love, for it conquered fear and any lack of innate ability. It overcame ego, reticence, and apprehension.

What a testament to the touching love of a father for his daughter, to have risked so much!

I am in awe, and I am inspired, and I will think twice before holding back for any reason, ever again.

Father of the bride, I honor you.  To my mind, you were perfection.

Park Love

Heard from two young women cycling by as I loped around Seward Park this morning:

“This is my first time in Seward”

“Shut-up!”

How extraordinary – her first time!

Of course, there’s a first time for everything, but Seward is such an old friend, walked and run through countless times – worn-in like a super comfy shoe. It seems like I’ve always known the park.

I’d guesstimate I’ve been to Seward several hundred times – maybe even a thousand or two. Amazing! It’s a park that has no auto traffic – of course, you hear motorboats and seaplanes and cars revving in the parking lots, but generally, it is a motor-free zone – and that’s an ear soothing benefit.

I like Alki Beach – the saltwater Sound, the stunning mountain panorama, the delicious restaurants and cafes – but it’s also a motor thoroughfare and it’s busy, boisterous and bustling. I’ve maybe walked or run there a couple of dozen times.

Lincoln Park, also in West Seattle, is more secluded with some stately old growth trees that overlook Puget Sound. I’ve walked and puffed up its cliff-side a handful of times.

The Arboretum is a horticultural delight and especially stunning in the spring and the fall. I’ve been there perhaps three dozen times over the course of my forty or so years in Seattle.

Other parks Magnuson, Madison, Seahurst, Carkeek, I have spent even less time in.

When the kids were growing up, we hung out at Eastside parks close to home – Yarrow, Medina, Bellevue, Kirkland, Bridle Trails.

But Seward is my favorite. I go there to walk, to talk and walk with family and friends, to run, to sunbathe, to romp with my granddaughter, to meditate, to query, to commune, and to find solace. I know it well. I speak to the trees, to the lake, and to the mountain (Mt Rainier.)

And nature responds.

Seward is my soul park, my sanctuary.

What is your soul park? What is your nearby go to place that fills you up, replenishes you, eases your angst, and brings you to a place of accord with nature and with the world? I’d love to hear.

Photo by stephanieelizabethimages.com

Reminiscing and Resonating with Doctor Blake and A Place to Call Home

I am hooked on the Doctor Blake Mysteries and A Place to Call Home. Both series are set in Australia in the 1950s where I grew up.

One of the Doctor Blake episodes is about a murdered Aussie pop icon. There’s a scene where the doc and his housemates are watching Six O’Clock Rock on the telly, hosted by Johnny O’Keefe. Oh, my! That brought back memories, for our family used to watch him every Saturday night at – you guessed it – six o’clock. The show was similar to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. In fact, we had a knock off Australian Bandstand, ours hosted by Brian Henderson who also anchored the local news broadcast.

One of the themes of A Place to Call Home is the relationship and friction between Italian immigrants and the English descendant Australian gentry. The rich daughter falls in love with the neighboring Italian farm boy. The discrimination is overt and startling – the name calling “Whop,” “Dago,” – the belief amongst the privileged that it was okay to beat up and belittle at any opportunity. The bigotry in Australia included not only Italians – it spread to other immigrant populations: Poles, Greeks, and my Hungarian compatriots. The blanket slur was “bloody new Australians,” and I, at a young age, fully felt the impact of that ignominious title.

It occurred in 1955, on my first day of kindergarten when some girls cornered me in the schoolyard lifted my skirts, and taunted, “let’s see if bloody new Australians wear underpants like we do.” The horror of that moment was forever etched into my psyche.

The nationalities didn’t mix. My parents didn’t get invited to Australian homes. On occasion, when they asked Aussies over, they didn’t have their invitation reciprocated. Us kids did go to Aussie classmates houses – mostly later when we were older, and usually to birthday parties.

A Place Called Home also delves into the religious divide: between Jews and Christians, but even more subtly between Church of Englanders and Catholics. The Italian family in the series is, of course, Catholic, and the upper-class family is, of course, Church of England. The jabs and put-downs occur in the series at several levels.

My older sister went to a public grade school, and the after-school religious instruction for the Church of Englanders took place in a lovely classroom. My sister, along with the handful of other Catholics slinked to a rundown shack in the corner of the schoolyard.

These are just a smattering of the issues that resonate with my experiences growing up.

I honor how the series deal honestly and sensitively with issues of Asian and Aboriginal racism, sexism, socialism, fascism, homosexuality, and war traumatization.

I am appreciating the beautifully created, produced, directed and acted series.

I am delighting in the nostalgia of the fifties and all things Aussie.

At the same time, I am integrating what I experienced growing up in that complex society. I have confirmation that the discrimination and isolation that I experienced and wrote about in my memoir Lonely Refugee did actually happen. 

It wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

                                 Hungarian roots. Folk dancing in Sydney at age 8.

Still Jogging After All These Years

I’m still jogging after all these years. Am I still crazy after all these years?

It came to me on my latest lope around Seward Park that I have been jogging on and off for well over forty years. Over forty years!

Most recently, I’ve been doing the three-mile jaunt around the park on an occasional Sunday when my gym is closed.

I don’t consider myself an athlete, and I certainly don’t have an athlete’s body. I marvel at runners that whiz by me with their sinewy gastrocs, hams, and quads tightening and tensing with glorious anatomic precision. I have none of that.

Years ago, I met a woman in her fifties who reported that she was an avid jogger and that she ran regular 10Ks. Her legs were flabby, without definition, and I thought – a jogger, really?

O ye of little faith, for that is how my body is today, despite regular gym workouts – and despite having a long running history. Five years ago I ran a half marathon, for heaven’s sake!

Anymore, my goals are tempered and conditional. I begin a run by telling myself I’ll only go as far as I feel comfortable. I reassure myself that I can stop whenever I want to.

I marvel at the half-mile point that I don’t feel winded and that my legs and back are holding up without major aches, throbs, stings or twinges. So far, so good.

I’m astonished when I hit the two-mile mark that I’m still going strong. I am plodding, but I feel no dismay that I am the slowest jogger in the park. Every other runner sprints by me. I pass no one – except for walkers, and that doesn’t count, right?

At three miles, I pump my fist in the air and chuckle at my achievement. Yes!!!

I am 67 years old and I am still jogging after all these years – and it feels crazy good!

                                            1985, with my kids after a 10K run

           2012, with my daughter, Stephanie, after finishing a half marathon

Whoa Sangria!

I like to take part in cultural festivals. Every March 17^th I celebrate St. Patrick’s day at an Irish pub. I drink a pint of Guinness and eat corned beef and cabbage – my best yet was at McGilvras in Madison Park (Seattle) this past March. Scrumptious!

And every year I celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Last night was no exception. I feasted on some delicious sopas with chorizo and a heady glass of sangria at Fonda La Catrina in Georgetown (also in Seattle.)

I came home with a slight, pleasant buzz, and I had to – I just had to party. I’ve been thinking about dancing for some time, and now was the time. I loaded my Jango station and kicked up my heels with abandon first to Maroon Five, then to Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder and to rock songs from the fifties and sixties about which most of you will have no clue – way before your time!

Images of Hugh Grant cavorting in Love Actually, and Kirstie Alley dancing by the refrigerator in Look Who’s Talking swirled in my mind as I bounced and gyrated around my kitchen.

I turned up the music – sorry neighbors! Your usually sedate and perennially quiet next-door resident was having a delicious fit of craziness. I was rocking and stomping, shaking and twisting to the blaring beat. My, but it felt grand!

I hope I’ll never get too old to jiggle my booty!

The photo shows a more sedate version of me as a thirteen-year-old dancing the twist with my younger brother, Tom, at my older brother Paul’s 21^st birthday party. The year was 1963. I write about the party in my memoir, Lonely Refugee.

Discernment: Getting Through a Rough Patch

It began with questioning a decision I had made. I knew right away that it was a big one for over the space of a few hours my body came down with the jitters. My pulse pounded. My ears buzzed. My brain filled with cotton wool. My bowels slithered. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts tumbled over each other. I felt raw fear.

I have experienced all this before. Sympathetic or adrenalin overload is not new to me. This was a persistent episode. This was a doozy.

I struggled with how to proceed. First I put the decision on hold. Then I reached out to Suzanne who listened and said she would see me through this. I felt the adrenalin stricture loosen a tad. I wasn’t alone. I had a friend and the start of a plan.

My body was still shaking, sweating, my heart thumping. I wasn’t able to settle. I yanked on my running shoes and sped off on a three-mile jog outside my house, up and down hills. Afterwards, I took a shower, soaking, oscillating back and forth in the hot stream for a long time. In neuroscience parlance I was self-regulating, soothing. It helped. My body settled some, but I still felt the adrenalin surge every time the decision popped into my head.

I talked to my kids. They were supportive, intelligent, and ever so wise. My heart expanded with the heat of love. Tears trickled after I hung up from our call.

I reviewed the decision over and over again: the pros, the cons, the issues, the risks.

Then I took a time out and attended an opera recital – yet another way to self-regulate. It worked. For a time I was lost in the beauty of Mozart and Verdi, soaring with young voices exploding with passion. These young singers had found their calling and embraced it fully. Had I, in my sixties, done the same? Adrenalin coursed through my body anew.

Another restless night. The mind touring the battleground of my life, putting out skirmishes here and there. The struggle to stay grounded, centered, resourced – it was agonizing but I had partial success.

The next morning I ran around Seward, my nearby and most favorite park. It has been my ally and resource for years. After my jog, despite the rain and gloom, I sat on a wet bench and communed with the grand mountain (Rainier.) It wasn’t visible that day, but it is an old friend and I knew it was there – for me. I breathed in the smell of rain and pungent soggy soil, and felt the water seep through my already sweat-soaked pants. I smiled to see a clamshell by the bench that had, no doubt, been dropped by a passing gull. The ocean, another ally, was also with me. I settled and opened to what was. My tears flowed, my heart loosened its fetters as the mountain responded to my call. I received insights about trauma, exposure, and pain.

My friend called just as I arose from my mountain meditation. She had some more suggestions to share about my dilemma. She was forthcoming and drew me out just a little more. I sat in my car and listened with gratitude.

I went home and showered – another long, hot one. I sat and worked over some more of what had to be worked through, with the added pearls, and ways of seeing with which my friend and Seward Park had gifted me.

I contacted two other friends. Adrienne and Alexandra were quick to respond with their support. They gave me more perspectives, ways of looking at the problem that I hadn’t thought of before. They furthered my understanding.

I contacted yet another dear friend. Jack knew of my dilemma, has his own, and I have journeyed with him. He invited me to a fancy Oscar celebration. On the spur of the moment, I decided to join him. I wore a smart cocktail dress and let loose with the party’s pageantry and the glitz. The shadow – the negative, less that flattering side of life – was glossed over or made fun of at this gala event. I recoiled again – why was I spotlighting my pain?

Late that night, I read an article about shadow in the movie industry. I was finally able to reconcile my pain and my shadowy journey.

I had reached a decision.

After four days of discernment, I was at peace. My body hummed with the knowing. Even when I brought to mind the pain and the possible repercussions, there was no flush of heat, no palpitations, no shaking. The thrum persisted and remained smooth. I slept soundly.

I am grateful for how I unfolded and worked through the dilemma. I had the tools to do it all. I could diffuse the stress with the jogs, the hot showers, the music recital, and the Oscar party. Using neuroscience terminology I was able to self-regulate and to self-soothe. I had community: my friends Suzanne, Adrienne, Jack and Alexandra. I had my children – their love, their unfailing support and their wisdom. I had nature allies: mountain, lake and ocean. I had my own centered-self. I sensed all as being enfolded in, and infused with the sacred.

I did not have these resources when I was younger – and I tell that story in my just published memoir titled Lonely Refugee.

I Am Not Much Of A Gardener

I am not much of a gardener. I don’t have a great desire to dig in the good earth, to compost, to plant, or to landscape. I have a few, rather sad looking houseplants. I had a hibiscus that bloomed for two years but then inexplicably began to wilt and died. The same happened to my anthurium, and my orchid is about to go as well.

I buy flowerpots every summer – I don’t plant them, just buy whatever arrangements are available. They look lovely for a month and then get leggy. By the time fall comes they are gangly and forlorn.

Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers and plants and trees. I love cavorting in nature. I delight in watching new shoots emerge, seeing buds unfold, admiring full blooms in their splendor, and I always have fresh flowers in my home. I’m just not into planting them myself.

Last December I helped a friend with a nursery errand: she wanted to buy some bulbs to plant as gifts. I felt a stirring when I saw the vibrant photos of the bulbs in bloom, and ended up buying a bunch of tulips, hyacinths, and paperwhites.

Good grief! How was I going to plant them?

My garage used to be a graveyard for dead potted plants. Recently I emptied several containers into the nearby pea patch compost and recycled the plastic pots. Fortunately I was able to scrounge enough soil and two remaining pots for the bulbs. The paperwhites I placed in the kitchen, the hyacinths and tulips by my front door.

Wait, wait. I hardly had to wait at all.

Within a day or two or three, tiny shoots emerged, growing several millimeters every day. How on earth does that tiny bulb have the resources and nutrients to do such marvels? What drive, what fierce intention! The paperwhites bloomed in a couple of weeks – long, leggy, and oh such fragrant beauties. The outside pot is coming along at a slower pace in the frosty cold, but nicely enough. The leaves are fully formed. The tight baby buds are emerging. I delight in checking out the new growth every day.

I am in awe of these bulbs: their resilience, single mindedness, and their persistence. They are fully present to their purpose. They don’t bitch or moan about less than optimal conditions – and I’m sure my planting technique was far from ideal.  

Paperwhites, hyacinths and tulips are my teachers. I am grateful for my tiny foray into gardening.