When I was four years old, we moved to the edge of Lake Mälaren in Sweden, a 40-minute car ride west of Stockholm. This was 1965. We arrived at the beginning of one of the hardest winters in popular memory. Though technically it was still autumn when we got there, snow already covered the ground and Lake Mälaren had begun its wintertime freeze. 

For months, the lake simply completed the view for me when I gazed out the picture window. The window was double-paned, and some magical soul had stuffed twigs and lichen between the windows at the base. They’d added small figurines – a deer, a fox – to finalize the miniature woodland scene. From where I stood at the window gazing past this charming scene, our yard stretched toward the lake, a gravel pathway leading to a small landing dock of silvery gray wood. During that winter, the lake remained covered in snow and froze so hard that cars could drive on it. It was rumored that Harald Wiberg – who’d illustrated the famous Tomten books by Astrid Lingren – lived on the island across the way.

After the thaw, we saw sailboats on the lake, their sails small and bright as freshly-washed handkerchiefs in the distance. One spring day, my brother, sister, and I had a harrowing experience with two swans. They were tired of being lured by the older neighbor boys with the promise of food only to be pelted with stones when they got close to shore. My siblings and I ran out of dried bread to feed them, and when they rose out of the water, wings spread, necks outstretched, and mouths hissing, we minced a painful, terrorized retreat up the gravel path in bare feet, screaming for our mother. On a bright sunny day in May, we raised a May pole and had a party in our yard next to the lake. We moved to Stockholm the following year to an enormous apartment complex, but it’s this red house by the lake that shaped my loving memories of Sweden.

This move to Sweden was only one of many moves in my childhood. My own children have not lived by a lake; they never moved from the house they were born in until college beckoned. They have not been in a position to be chased by aggressive swans. They have not experienced a winter so harsh that after 10 minutes in it they begged to be allowed back inside. They have not had to trudge to the local grocers in single file so their mother’s footsteps in the snow would keep them from sinking to their waists in the drifts.

As parents, we try to correct for those things we experienced as hardship. Our parents did this before us. It’s a parenting creed, to try and provide the conditions that will mean our children’s lives will be less hard than ours, that they’ll have fewer obstacles. But all we really know to avoid are the things we found challenging; we don’t know exactly what hardships our kids might benefit from, nor do we know which one might simply be an experience devoid of fulfillment, only to be endured and gotten through.

That first winter on the lake, a neighboring family, the Roths, took a shine to me. One day, they planned to ski beside and on the lake with another couple and with their nine-year-old, Anne-Katrin. I could use her old skis, they thought, and it would be nice for her to have a companion (this was before we all learned that Anne-Katrin wanted nothing less than to have me as a companion). 

I’m curious how all of this was arranged. Did my parents want to say no but couldn’t find a polite way to do so? Did they think what a relief it would be to have one fewer kid to track for an afternoon? Did they think it’d be fun? 

Regardless, I found my four-and-a-half-year-old self at the lake one day with Anne-Katrin’s stubby orange skis strapped to my feet. I was dressed for the cold; the day was gray with low clouds reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest. I had never been on a pair of skis in my life. We set out with me bringing up the rear so as not to slow anyone down. We skied on a path that skirted the lake when we weren’t on the lake itself, and the wintertime deciduous trees had cleared out their leaves to improve the view. But it took almost no time before my view contracted to include little more than the bright-colored tips of my skis following the person ahead of me.

Did I mention that the heel didn’t lift off the ski? Traditionally, cross country skis are designed such that the leg and foot of the skier act a bit as if one is running. To execute the most efficient glide, the heel on the back leg lifts followed by a forward stride. Without that, one is destined to merely shuffle along the snowy track. During this ski trip, a glide only happened on the occasional decline – or if I positioned my poles just right I could give myself a shove toward a brief momentum. 

This afternoon marks my first experience of pushing past what I understood the limits of my endurance to be. Telling this story later in life, I told people we skied around the lake but that would have been impossible: its circumference is over 200 miles. More accurately I might have said it felt like I’d skied around the lake. By the end of the excursion, my senses had narrowed to a pinpoint: the scratchy dampness of condensation on the scarf that covered my panting mouth; the scrape and shush of skis over snow alternately rough and smooth; achey shoulders from overusing my poles in an effort to save my trembling legs; and the broad orange tips of those skis always going on before.

I didn’t really know the Roths. I didn’t have the sort of easy interaction with them that would have enabled me to say, “Excuse me, but I’m hungry / tired / finished.”  At the close of our afternoon, the Roths praised my endurance, my stoicism and athleticism. What a trooper I was!

Was this a useful childhood experience? We know it’s good for us to not always stay in our comfort zone. That’s how we find out what we’re capable of. But what about when we’re too far outside of our comfort zone? Do those moments offer us anything? Did this experience truly teach me that I was stronger than I thought, more capable? Or did that lesson come from other more satisfying experiences later in life where I felt a little more choice, more agency? I don’t know the answer to that. It’s hard not to try and shape this tale as one where I overcame adversity, but all I really felt at the end of that experience was miserable and tired. 

What is my children’s equivalent to this? In what ways would they say they’ve pushed themselves and found they could do more than they suspected they were capable of?  I keep encountering articles on Facebook and elsewhere that are intent on sounding the alarm that our kids aren’t as tough as my generation was and that this presages some tragic outcome. Maybe that’s true; I don’t know. The very concern implies that we believe it’s possible as parents to have some control over the sorts of hardships our children have but that hasn’t been my experience. Oh, I may have tried to not put them in a position as four-year-olds where they were required to ski around a lake with people they didn’t know well enough to complain to; I may have succeeded somewhat in protecting them from that.

But growing up in this human form is inherently full of hardship. I don’t actually know everything my kids have endured, but I’d be crazy to assume therefore that they’ve not had to endure much. For starters, they’ve had to tolerate the adults of today who think their modern hardships don’t even qualify as such. It’s our current equivalent of having to hear how your grandfather walked five miles to school every day in the snow, uphill both ways. Some of today’s youth haven’t suffered the specific hardships experienced by their parents, but do we really think what they have suffered somehow counts for less?

I’ve not been back to Sweden. I hope to return someday. It will have changed. When I think of Lake Mälaren, I think of how, when we stood looking out from our house, it filled my vision. More than that afternoon with the Roths, I remember a cerulean sky with a smattering of white clouds, both features mirrored in the blue water of the lake, the sailing boats’ billowy white sails looking like reflected clouds.

It’s a Wonderful Life. You know the story: George Bailey, a young boy, then a man with an adventuresome spirit, time and again sets aside his dreams to care for the people in his community. And when it all starts to unravel (absentminded Uncle Billy, mislaid money, opportunistic Old Man Potter), he learns that his years of sacrifice and generosity have amounted to something. He longed to see Tahiti and travel the world, and he felt the loss of that keenly at times. In the meantime, he built the very life he’d wanted to escape, and discovered it contained riches he hadn’t anticipated.

I especially want to understand that part of the movie, the part where George Bailey sets aside his dreams, over and over. What did the director, Frank Capra, mean for us to make of this? In a more do-your-dreams, you-can-have-it-all, American-type movie, George would have made it to Tahiti in the end. The reward for his kindness and selflessness would have been everything that happens in the movie, plus somehow he’d wind up in Tahiti.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, we’re given to believe that he can live with his lost dreams as he learns to cherish what’s in front of him.

As teenagers, didn’t we all believe that to become an adult meant giving up one’s dreams? Most of us knew or heard about the things our parents had longed for and given up on. Flavored with a little contempt, didn’t our adolescent selves wonder how grownups could so easily give up on themselves? And didn’t we believe that we weren’t going to give up on our passions the way our parents had? We’d stay true to ourselves. 

Rather than hearing about our parents’ lost dreams, perhaps it would have been helpful to hear how they made peace with that loss. It would be like George Bailey saying to his kids, “I thought to live a good life I needed to travel, but it turned out by doing what I was good at, I built a rich life. I thought I was living a life that amounted to less than what I’d dreamt of, but it turns out it was more.”

What would George Bailey need to do before he could think of his lost dreams this way?

This question is not academic to me. Every holiday vacation, or on unexpected days off, my plan is to write, to make good on a dream I first had when I was 8 years old. Most times, I manage barely a toe-dip in that lake, and certainly nothing like the full immersion I long for. Nearly every time, a tension is created between the writing plans I make and what I’m able to actualize.

This vacation, I find myself wondering if it’s time to give up on this writing dream? It’s unpleasant and painful, the tension between longing and reality. Maybe that’s what all the adults were doing when they “gave up.” Maybe they needed to drop their dream because it seemed the only way to resolve that tension: Maybe I won’t feel so bad if I stop wanting what I want. 

But even while I feel discouraged, I also wonder if there’s a way to resolve the tension without dropping the dream?

I’m a student of Buddhism, and a foundational Buddhist concept speaks to the tension I’m describing by suggesting that we cultivate a stance where we neither cling to our dreams nor push them away. 

Doing this is hard.

Of course I’m thinking of giving up. Because it’s one thing to know the stance I need to cultivate and it’s another to actually mange to do it. How do you want something, and yet not want it so much that it causes distress, that it makes you wish for a life other than the one you lead?

This kind of suffering – called dukkha in the original language of the Buddha – is like any other suffering.  Dukkha describes how life is like a wagon wheel that’s out of true, and so it wobbles, one moment achieving balance, the next falling out of balance, and so on and so on. If it feels like just when things are going our way something  happens to mess it up – well, that’s just life being life. It doesn’t mean something’s wrong, though we will suffer doubly if we think it should be otherwise.

Maybe George Bailey was secretly a Zen master. At every moment in the film when he wants life to be other than it is, he remembers that life is a wobbly wagon wheel, so if it wobbles – if he thinks he’ll finally be able to leave Bedford Falls and travel around the world – he understands it’s life being itself when that’s suddenly snatched away by his father’s death, by his brother’s out-of-state job opportunity, by love.

If I were such a Zen master, I’d remember that if it didn’t work out for me to write quite as much as I’d hoped, or if I sat down to write but felt everything I wrote was crap – well, that wagon wheel is wobbling. It doesn’t mean it’s time to let go of my dream. It means our dreams are also part of life, and so they’re subject to being like life is.

It is a wonderful life, but wonderful doesn’t mean perfect or without trials. Wonderful might be possible only if we also notice what exactly is wonderful in our lives. When George Bailey gets his life back, as his friends and neighbors pile into his home to add their money to the overflowing basket, no part of his brain in that moment is wishing he had been able to travel more. He is simply present to the life he has.


One potato, two potato

This kid Danny in 2nd grade had the thinnest, straightest dishwater blonde hair, and possibly eczema because frequently there were flakes and red patches on his face.  We didn’t know what to do with him. One day, in line for school lunch, he started to sing. I wish I could remember the song; I can’t remember the song. He crooned, actually.  Some song he loved that had the word “love” in it, numerous times. I got the same feeling listening to him as I got listening to my brother three years later singing his favorite Carpenters song: “Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby.” The feeling was – complicated.  It was about boys, boys being vulnerable. What boy sings about love, what boy sings, “Baby”? Thank goodness there are boys that sing this way.

We didn’t know what to do with Danny.  He wore a blue plaid shirt from Lechmere’s.  He was so overcome by his song he stepped out of the lunch line for a moment.  The line couldn’t contain him. We tittered, me and the other girls in line around him, vaguely repulsed and drawn to him.  Weeks later, one of those girls had a boy-girl party I was invited to but not allowed to attend. After the party, I learned Danny was “going with” Lisa. I wondered if he’d sung at the party.

3rd grade, working on a project about dinosaurs, my mind blown by “66 million years ago”, and “brontosaurus, 33 tons.” I responded, “Gosh,” and when the number was unfathomable, “God!” David Goldstein said I sure said “God” a lot in a manner implying that it was boring that I did so. In my mind, I was swearing: “God damn that’s a big number!” That same year, Barb and I pretended we were Archie and Veronica, Reggie and Betty, kissing with our lips tight and thin, wondering what was so great about this?

Three potato, Four

Fifth grade, Bobbie Simon belted out “We’re on the upward trail” from inside a large cardboard box that the class decorated with construction paper to look like a large jack-o-lantern. We were returning from music class – finger cymbals and singing – and Bobbie ran ahead to get in the pumpkin and sing to make us laugh. Which we did. I think the teacher did, too, and so maybe this time he didn’t get in trouble. Later in the year, he said he’d give me a pony. He wrote this to me in a letter with many misspellings. I didn’t know there were people who couldn’t spell. He enclosed a polaroid picture of a piebald pony that I yearned for.

T_ was boy-crazy in 7th grade. She was music-crazy, too. We called the radio station to vote for “Piano Man” to win best song of the day because she loved it so. She also wanted to see “Jaws” and kiss boys. Sometimes, I wanted to be her.  Other times, not. Seven years later, when she seemed in danger of marrying a man – a perfectly nice man who bought me clams when I visited and let me sleep on their couch – I hoped she wouldn’t. How do we name the bright star we see in each other at 11, 12, 13? How do we say, “Stay true to her. She’s crazy about music and science.  She won’t steer you wrong”?

Five potato, six potato

New York, Mark Shepard, 9th grade, clammy hands (mine), minor piano virtuosity (his). Pale blue eyes and paler skin and a disconnected smile that, if I saw it now on a 15-year-old boy, I’d think trauma, or maybe just run-of-the-mill detachment and entitlement. The magazines I’d read at T_’s house two years earlier instructed girls to “ask questions about him,” “do things that interest him.” Which found me grumpy, biking through forest-lined streets outside our suburban community, resenting the fact that I found myself here, on a bike, which I didn’t enjoy, sweating so my corduroys stuck to my thighs.

10th grade. Albany, Oregon, West Albany High, hiding out in the library at lunchtime, reading Animal Liberation by Peter Singer after bolting my sack lunch.  It was an incomprehensible book to me though I agreed with the politics – and what the hell small-town high school librarian is putting freaking Animal Liberation on the shelves of the West Albany High School library, and why couldn’t she be my friend?

Seven potato, more.

My daughter told me last night that Percy Bysshe Shelley’s heart was found to be calcified when he died. This happens in some cases to our organs. I understand this as a Dorian Gray phenomenon played out in Shelley’s own body. He made babies indiscriminately with various women, most of whom died (the babies, and eventually, the women), yet on he plunged. When finally it was his time to die, and after a grandiose Viking funeral pyre was set beneath his body, his calcified heart remained. The fire could not consume it.  None of his kin wanted it. “We hoped he’d burn and that’d be the end of him. We can’t bear the irony of this so-called heart persisting, impervious to the flame that destroyed every other part of him.”

“Shelley had a hot potato heart,” my daughter said. Garth and I fell upon that phrase.  What a great title for a story! “Whoever writes something first can lay claim to the title,” Garth said.  You see how that went down.

When I die, my heart will burn. It will turn to ash, like my other organs. I have used it. Not as well as I might have; it shied away from some moments that would have grown it. I have loved no better or worse than anyone else, and enough to call this part of me tinder for the flames, ash-to-be that will be as adherent as any ash, and as soft and light as it needs to be to drift on the air. Tenacious and forgettable.


I’ve been awash in grief for nearly a month. Why is not the topic of this writing, and Why in some sense doesn’t really matter.  Rather, along with feeling the grief, I’ve been considering the idea of learning how to grieve.  It seems distinct from simply experiencing grief, and it’s an aspiration that seems simultaneously worthy and confounding.

What’s the difference between learning how to grieve, and simply experiencing grief ? The latter has felt like this: if I were drowning, say, it’s the equivalent of telling myself, “Sure, I’m drowning, but what can I do about it? Best to just pretend I’m not drowning when that’s possible, and notice it when it’s impossible to do otherwise.”

Several days ago, something shifted. Slowly. Cumulatively. I said to someone, “I’m having a hard time,” and they said, “Tell me more.” I said to someone else, “I’ve lost something,” and they asked, “What did you lose?” Little by little, the story of this grief came out, countless people hearing a paragraph here, a chapter there, just a sentence sometimes.

With each facet named, each piece invited or joined by another person, I’ve been learning how to grieve. This is how to grieve: by claiming it, naming it, letting it matter that we feel it, and offering it up. Doing this is initially a selfish act: it helps me to say out loud that it’s there. But it also, I believe, makes more of a world where a person’s grief matters. Today, it’s my grief. Tomorrow, it might be yours.

Yesterday, my 16-year-old son was hurting. Today, we took a walk, had some tea. “Tell me about it,” I said.  And he did.

I told him I was sorry; I told him what I knew about hearts breaking, that a broken heart shows we’re brave enough to care, that sometimes we know we’re living a deep life by the depth of our grief, that the way to embrace living in this open-hearted, broken-hearted, joyful, grief-filled way is by leaning on each other. As I leaned on others. As my son then leaned on me.

That’s how it works.

I haven’t seen a thigh gap in almost 40 years.  I have stretch marks, cellulite, bat-wing arms, saggy jowls, a double chin, an ever-growing belly – and yet…

And yet, today, my body woke up with few aches and pains.  My brain sifted through the contents of the fridge and, with the help of my hands and arms, assembled sandwiches, apple slices, homemade trail mix, and ice water for a hike. We drove to the trailhead and I set my feet on the dusty trail.


Today, my body carried me up that trail. It sweated to cool me.  It took in the sights.  It found the scents on the air which are so familiar to me from this terrain.  It carried me down to the lake and in.  It felt the silty bottom and found an old rhythm it knows from swimming in the lakes of my past.  It felt the watery cradle, and saw the blue, blue sky, the silvery spires of dead trees still standing, and the luminous green of manzanita still sprouting new growth.


With a body that can do all this for me, how is it that I am ever tricked by the other list?


A neighbor’s black and white cat thinks of our yard as its own. I call him the Hitler cat for the rectangular black patch beneath his nose. He appears to have killed a mouse. The smallest mouse ever. It was under the picnic table where I’m sitting to write, and I only discovered it when I moved the table out of the sun.  There it was, near where my bare feet had been.  I could write at length about What if my feet touched that mouse as I sat writing, my undiscerning toes thinking its tiny claws were simply dried grass? but I prefer not to go down that road.  Instead, I’d like you to know that the small dead mouse looks like a comma.  I never noticed that before, how rodents (all mammals?) curl in on themselves at death.  I don’t plan to touch the mouse.  I’ll warn others away, too, and perhaps Hitler cat will eventually take it and present it to his true owner.


A man walked by a few moments ago, pushing a bike and muttering, “Read the Bible, read the Bible.”  I wonder if he’s the same man who yesterday morning stood at the Bench in front of our house and yelled, “Abortion is murder, abortion is murder,” and who, when Garth asked him to keep it down because some people were likely still sleeping, said, “Eff them, I don’t care if they’re still sleeping.  You’re probably one of those liberal Portland baby killers. Abortion is murder, abortion is murder”?  When Garth took his phone out, the guy said, “If you call the police on me, I’ll come back here and kill you.”  Maybe just now this was the same guy coming back looking for Garth, or just looking for the Bench.  He could rest in the shade it offers in this heat, but his illness pushes him forward, pushes words out of him, “Read the Bible…” so he keeps walking.


There are birds the size of the smallest of mouses flitting between our aspen and hawthorn and apple trees, chittering to each other. Our  apple tree is lopsided, a dwarf gala  – at least I think it’s a gala – these kinds of particulars escape my mind.  I am surrounded by flora, the names of which I don’t know. How bounteous our gala crop promises to be depends on where I look.  On this branch are clusters of tight-skinned, shiny green apples the size of racquet balls. Apples on another cluster are already mealy-looking, they’re the size of kumquats, the blossom ends dusty and cobwebby.


Today, I complained gently to the cashier at Trader Joe’s about the heat.  He said, “Oh, it’s not hot.”

Let’s set aside for a moment the fact that we humans don’t get to decide for each other what does or doesn’t constitute discomfort for another.  I can say that this morning, I took a cooling shower to start things off right, and broke a sweat minutes later putting on my clothes for the day. I rest my case.

Both of my kids were born at home.  Kami was the first. For her birth, Garth and I decided to bring our  bed downstairs and set it up on the main floor.  That way, after the birth, I’d have easy access to the kitchen and bathroom rather than having to walk downstairs to use them.

As it turned out, having such a manageable space after Kami was born was ideal. In fact, if I could have turned my home into a one-room cabin where I could see everything and everyone it contained -see it from one place -I would have done it. In the aftermath of my daughter’s birth, the world was suddenly frighteningly vast.  And in giving birth downstairs, we’d sort of cast a spell on that floor of the house; it had become the contained space I longed for.

What did I think would happen if we “broke the spell” and moved the bed back upstairs? Whatever I thought would happen, I didn’t want to find out. At my one-week check-up, my midwife gently asked when I thought we’d move the bed upstairs. I answered vaguely. Really, was there a compelling reason to move upstairs again? The current set-up was so perfect.

I also found it hard to go outside with my new baby. The big-ness of the world was a problem, a threat. Our yard was safe enough, but the rest of the city? Forget it. Too much.

I think of this now as my deeper understanding of my own vulnerability, the kind of understanding that having a child often confers upon us.  And if I was vulnerable, my baby was that a hundredfold.  All that stood between her and disaster was me – flesh and blood and bones.  How could I ever keep her safe when my own intactness could so easily be breached?

Every step back toward normalcy – pushing her in the stroller to the store or to pick Chris up from school or simply to take a walk – was figuratively accompanied by the sound of my whimpering. When the midwife returned for her last visit, the bed was still downstairs. She got firm with me.  “You have to move the bed upstairs.”  I began to cry. “That’s where the bed belongs. Who can help you move it? Can you do that today?”

Kami just turned 18, and today she goes to college. Garth and his brother, Banks, brought the bed back upstairs 17 years and 355 days ago. I don’t want to go back to that time, but it was so comforting having my entire world where I could see it. Now we’re moving through another transition. There’s nothing like having kids to stretch a person, and the world sure is a big place.

Tonight, I hear crickets, or possibly peepers, through a screen window.  There is a memory I always go back to when it is undeniably summer.

When I was eight, we lived in Massachusetts.  In the summertime, it was not unusual for the temperature and humidity to hang out in the 90’s for days, weeks. We lived across the street from the murky town lake in a down-on-its-heels house (valiantly spruced up by my mom).  The house was nothing fancy, but it had a breakfast nook with lots of windows, and thus lots of screens. The breakfast nook was the coolest place to be on a hot summer night.

I’m thinking of this particular night because, though it’s nowhere near as hot now as it was on that summer night 47 years ago, I am up well past my bedtime as I write this.  That was also true of the night I’m remembering.  During the school year, my parents reliably got their children to bed at a decent hour, and even when summertime loosened those rules, we tended not to stay up much past dark.  But on this night, we pushed the bounds further than usual.

It was so hot no one could imagine heading to bed.  It was so hot my normally modest father sat at the breakfast nook table (formica top, vinyl chairs) in his t-shirt and maybe even boxer shorts.  I cannot impress upon you enough how hot it would have needed to be for my dad to be so – under-dressed.  We milled around, restless with the heat, four children ages 3-9, and our parents.  At least while we were upright, the air – such as it was – had a chance to touch most of our surface area.  Once we went to bed, however, any part of us that touched the mattress couldn’t benefit from the measly coolness of night.

The memory is set here, in the breakfast nook.  It is thoroughly dark outside. We have a light on and we hear the smack of moths throwing themselves at the screens in an effort to reach the light.  My mom decides since we are all awake she should cut open a cantaloupe that has been in the refrigerator.  I trail after her into the kitchen.  She cuts open the cantaloupe.  It’s the first time I’ve seen a cantaloupe at this stage of preparation.  I am stunned to see it has a slimy nest of seeds at its center.  How did I not know this before?

My mom neatly spoons out the seeds and cuts the orange flesh into crescents.  She cuts the rind from the fruit, eventually slicing the fruit into smaller edible pieces that still rest on their respective crescent rinds.  In these days, we salt the cantaloupe before we eat it.  We each have our own; we eat the pieces with a fork.  It is the Platonic ideal of refreshing.

That is all.  It is summertime.  The night is hot. There is sweetness and salt.  We are a family.

tribal-lotus-tattoo-design-2.jpg (184×200)

Once when I was 13, and another time when I was 26, I had a spiritual experience.  Both times, I was alone and, as the Pentacosts say, I was filled with the spirit.  My senses were alive, and I loved everything they lit upon: at 13, colorful autumn leaves outside my window, the soaring music on my record player (Sweet Surrender by John Denver, if you must know), the feel of my journal and the inky slide of my pen tip, the scratch of my mohair shawl; at 26, the luminous late spring fields north of Corvallis, Oregon, the air blowing through my rolled-down car window, the music on my tape deck, the sound of my own voice singing. My body felt almost too small to contain the beauty of the world.

I think of these times whenever someone asks if I’ve ever felt transported by an experience, or awed, or if I’ve felt a joy that stopped time.

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I thought of these earlier incidents a couple weeks ago while attending a two-day training.  The training was offered by an internationally recognized couples therapist.  At these trainings, six couples sit in a circle with the therapist over the course of two days. Sitting in an outer circle in the same room are therapist observers.  We come to watch the therapist work and to learn more about his approach so we might be of greater service to the couples we see in our own practices.  Quite often, the situation for these couples is dire; they are here as a last-ditch effort to save their relationships.

This was my fourth such training.  In the past, these weekends have exhausted me.  I was buffeted about by the intense feelings in the room: the anger, the anguish, the weariness, the hope. In truth, I think I felt proud of those feelings, as if riding the roller coaster with the clients was proof that I was a caring person, a good therapist.

That’s not what happened this time.  This time, I felt calm.  I felt grounded. As each agonizing drama unfolded in front of me, I thought, I wish the best for them.  Maybe things will change; maybe they won’t.  That’s for them to decide. I wish them well.

This feeling was so unprecedented that at one point I wondered if perhaps I was becoming jaded.  Maybe this feeling signaled the end of my career as a therapist. I still cared, though.  These people were suffering. We have all suffered like this in matters of love. I wished for them less suffering; I wished for this experience to show a clear path toward their suffering less.

Meanwhile, this remarkable, deep equanimity persisted.

It lasted through both days of the training.

I was aware while feeling it that at some point it would end. I tried not to care too much about that; I wanted to savor it and be grateful for its presence now.

It did eventually shift back to my more ordinary way of being in the world. I was curious why it had arrived at all.  The best answer I had was that likely it had something to do with all the yoga I’ve been doing. I wasn’t exactly sure why this might be so, but somehow the yoga explanation made sense to me. Things occur in life when certain conditions come together; doing yoga a lot more was the one obvious condition I’d changed in my life.

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Last Sunday, I woke up early with an anxiety dream.  The plot details were mundane enough, but I woke up feeling guilty and anxious and worthless. I didn’t want to go back to sleep for fear of slipping into the dream again, and I let Garth know I was getting up. He said, Hey, I just had a flying dream. He told me about his dream where, in the midst of great turmoil and violent upheaval all around, he and a group of people were seated in a circle, cross-legged, doing yoga. After awhile, he realized he was able to float above the ground, as high as ten feet. No one else was able to do it and before long he was giving everyone rides.  Someone asked him how we was able to do it, and he said, I don’t know; the Universe is buoying me up.

As the morning wore on, I realized I felt cheated, as if Garth had actually had the experience his dream described, while I was left with the tedium and monotony of common life concerns. I talked about it with him; I shared it with another training group I met with later that day. I brought it up at the dinner table. I hoped if I talked about it with others, I’d overcome it; I’d get on the other side of being jealous of all the flashy ways other people’s spirituality seems to manifest and ultimately I’d embrace my own way. Except “my own way” seemed to entail a smattering of bright moments of equanimity and love separated by years – decades sometimes -of regular life. Honestly, I’d rather be buoyed, I’d rather fly.

I spoke with my wise therapist.  I told her I longed for that calm and equanimity to return. I felt almost ill with not knowing when or if I’d ever experience it again. She asked did it at least make it more bearable to know this feeling existed for me, even when I wasn’t experiencing it in the moment? Her question revealed to me something I hadn’t realized before: I don’t; I don’t know that this experience exists for me whether I am feeling it or not. I am like the child who only knows her blanket is there when it’s in her grasp. If it’s in the drier, it might as well have been wiped from the face of the earth, and reassurances that it still exists somewhere don’t have the desired effect.

Friends of mine might say these moments I’ve described are moments of touching god, of being one with the energy, the chi, of the universe. Dream Garth – who in his waking life would never use language like this – would say I was “buoyed by the Universe.” And they would say I’m not only buoyed at these notable moments, but all through life as well, even when I don’t notice it. Their words cut both ways. It suggests hope for me, but it also highlights a confidence I don’t feel.

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I’ve made several passes at bringing this post to an end. I’m not sure how to – probably because I’m not at the end of this experience. I felt such despair when my equanimity left, and greater despair still when I realized I had no framework that guaranteed its return. Still, as I’ve written several aborted endings to this post, it has brought me into closer contact with the details of my life and the details of the world. And what I find there is this: my life has been enormously blessed; it would not be an exaggeration to say I should be on my knees in gratitude for the rest of my life in thanks for the good that is here. I’d like to be able to say with certainty that my life has been blessed because of some divine river that always flows on my behalf, but I can’t say that right now.

In the meantime, the best image I could find for what equanimity felt like is the one below. It comforts me that even if I never step into that divine stream again, I can step into forests, oceans, and actual streams; I can rest in the expanse of the sky; I can commune with my dear children and husband, with my soulful family and friends. That is the divine stream I can count on, every day.

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Our family first met Izzy McT when she was assigned to be Kami’s locker partner in 5th grade.  I immediately thought, I like this girl. She’d be a good friend for Kami. 

Two years later, Izzy’s dad rented our studio apartment for awhile, and on the days he had Izzy, she slept upstairs among us Goulashes (Goulds+Upshaws), firmly establishing her as Family.

There are countless Izzy tales, but here’s one of my favorites.

Two years ago, a few months after our niece Simone died, Izzy stopped by our house one lazy weekend day.  We were all home and ended up hanging out at the dining room table, talking.  Then out of the blue Izzy said, “Oh my god, have you seen Ukulele Anthem?!”  We said we hadn’t and she grabbed our laptop and before you know it we were watching Amanda Palmer singing Ukulele Anthem atop the Sydney Opera House.

Uke2.jpg (1366×768) Garth showed the Youtube video to Simone’s mom, Lauren. Lauren was seized by the carpe diem message of the whole song (“…remember we’re all gonna die/So play your ukulele”).  She went out and bought a ukulele – and so the Goulashes decided we should all get ukuleles. Lauren and I in particular started practicing together a couple days a week to work on songs together. Always, we would play Ukulele Anthem. I was so grateful to have something to do with Lauren that was connecting, and that also that gave some shape to her days: practice ukulele during the day so she could kick my butt when we played together in the evenings.   

My dad dug out the ukulele he’d bought for himself at the age of 14, over 55 years before.  We had it restrung and it became Kami’s ukulele. Before long, my parents got the bug and started playing, revisiting their days playing duets (on the recorder in the ’70’s).  In fact, pretty soon, the Goulashes had a couple songs we’d practiced together and had a little house concert at my parents’ 54th wedding anniversary.  We practiced a song to play for a friend’s wedding (didn’t happen – another story).

We spread the Ukulele Anthem far and wide.  My dear friend, Tanja, rehearsed it to play for my 52nd birthday (along with giving me a model of the Sydney Opera House, a flask of Jack, and an Etch-a-Sketch – which I naturally took to work).
The list of cause and effect goes on and on. Likely I have forgotten a twist or turn somewhere. What I love is that it all started with Izzy and her enthusiasm – and her knowing we would also love this video she thought was great.
Izzy has set so many wonderful things into motion in the world.  I’m glad to have benefited so much from her heart, her enthusiasm and her Izzy Energy.  Happy birthday, dear one.
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