Fair Trade

I awoke early again, but was able to accomplish a deep sleep for nearly five hours. That’s triple the hours I slept over a span of forty-eight. Actually, I don't know if it's triple the hours. I tried counting but I suck at math. 

And I'm tired.

I suppose it’s okay to sometimes embrace insomnia. It won’t necessarily kill me to be up before the dawn. I used to do it all the time.

During my adolescence, I spent many nights tossing and turning – thinking about my siblings and my parents. For the most part, my parents got along, but inevitably they argued, sometimes quite vocally. Bickering sometimes erupted into insults that spewed through the air, landing hard on the surfaces around them. It was tough to sleep on the nights they had a blowout. Didn’t every child who heard their parents fighting fret about the marriage’s demise? I guess some people never heard their parents argue so fretting was over something stupid, like a boy. 

My point isn’t about my childhood. It’s about the reasons why we inadvertently lock ourselves inside insomnia’s cage.

In college, my schedule was erratic. In bed by midnight, up by 7 or 8, in classes; and then the power naps where I’d go back to the dorm or the apartment, lay on my back and shove my hands into my arm pits and fall asleep like a chicken tucking its wings. (It’s quite comfortable).

In law school, I spent a few all-nighters with the music blaring while I wrote legal briefs or research papers. I don’t even remember sleeping but I must have done it.

And then maturity and adult decisions. Where to live. Who to love. What to drive. What do for a living. What to do, period. If you marry and have children, the decisions you make include your spouse’s desires or your children’s needs, so consistent sleep is laughable.

Maturity does to sleep what infidelity does to a marriage. 

It fucks it all up.

I wanted to say it destroys or obliterates it but that’s not true. It devastates and damages it, but with help and sleeping pills (necessary for sleep or being crushed by your spouse’s behavior), you can overcome.

And I guess that’s my point. I’m running on about seven hours of sleep over a period of seventy-two hours (again, I suck at math), but for the second day in a row, I watched the sun rise over the waters in front of me. 

Trading some shut eye for that every once in a while is okay.

It’s better than okay. 

It’s dandy.

Insomnia

I’m dealing with the second day of no sleep. Last night I went to bed at 10pm, fell asleep quickly and then woke ten minutes later… wide awake. I took melatonin. Nothing. I took a Benadryl. Nothing. I drank a glass of almond milk which always worked before. Nothing. I tried counting Bruce concerts I’ve attended. I tried thinking about book characters and plot lines. One of these always worked. Nothing.

NOTHING. I was up until 5:45am, tossing and turning. And cursing. And nearly crying.

Second day – very similar. Went to bed at 10pm, slept until 12:35am and I’ve been awake since. It’s now 5am and the coffee is brewing.

It’s been a rough couple of months. I was laid off in June, moved in July, got a new job in July and finally sold my Maryland house last week.  The new job has slowed to a crawl. Telecom (my industry) has had massive lay offs and defunding so I may end up unemployed again soon. Oh, and my husband got laid off. He got a severance package, along with about 750 other people in his company, but still.

The unemployment, the stress of moving. 

Small stuff. 

My windshield got hit by a rock, cracked down the middle. 

Small stuff. 

The mower broke. The boat broke. The faucet shot massive amounts of water. All small stuff.

One of my closest friends died last week. It was unexpected. I’ve known him and adored him for 23 years or so… just saw him in June. We laughed a lot. 

Big stuff. 

Big, big stuff. 

I cried for days, and I’m still shaken by it. 

It's why I’m not sleeping.  Every time I try, I think about him and his son & daughter and their children – his grandchildren, whom he adored. I will dearly miss my good friend. Always.

It’s still dark out and I’m awake. The sun will rise shortly, and I will see it peek over the trees in front of me as I write. It will glisten off the water and light will bob in the lake waves. The insects will fly so low over the water, touching it so lightly that it looks like it is raining.

I moved from bustling Maryland to a sleepy town in Virginia – a small town, and our house is on a cozy lake. My office faces the water. An office that was built from scratch on one side of the basement. An office I absolutely adore. It has my books, my pictures, my plants, my decorations… all mine.  Sometimes I daydream about Reese Witherspoon interviewing me for my bestseller and I will bring her down here and show her around. There’s a lot to take in… inspiration from how-to write and edit books, best sellers, classic authors, poetry. I have it all. And it’s mine.

I lost a job. I lost a couple nights sleep. I lost a good friend and consequently, I lost another little piece of my heart to the ether.

I have my family. My work. My writing. My books and my health. I have a dog superior to all dogs. I have children and a husband I feel very much the same about.

Ah, insomnia. If I’d been sleeping, I wouldn’t have written this.  

Ah, gratitude. I needed it. I found it.

It brought me back to me.

Desensitized?

No! We cannot be desensitized by these school shootings. Nine year olds, teachers, custodians… our friends, our family members, our officers…

Sadness, love, grief, memories…

Let us not be desensitized by the latest school shooting… the latest mass shooting … the latest heartbreaking death. 

Dear God, never let me be desensitized.  

Another Year

 I took the day off today as a gift to myself for my birthday. Everyone should do the same. I awoke to Tony touching my shoulder, whispering "happy birthday" before he got in the shower to get ready for school. He placed my gifts next to me and waited for me to open them - sleepy-eyed and still remembering a vivid dream about my dad - which is a really great gift to get on your birthday.

After a hearty cup of coffee, and a conversation with my mom (who was the first to call me today) and a whole lot of pestering from Dovi, I laced up my sneakers and we headed to the trails for a walk.

.I had the music playing in my ears, shuffling my favorites - Springsteen, the Stones, Sofi Tukker, Houndmouth, Cage the Elephant and a little Tom Petty to make it more of a sing-a-walk-along. The trails were empty. We walked among fallen trees, bushes, briar and vines. Dovi was off leash and jumping in the pond every chance he got. Filthy Animal. 

After about two miles, we ran into a father and son on their bicycles. Actually they weren't on their bicycles. The father was splayed out on the wooden stairs that lead from one trail to another. He fell and cracked his tailbone and was still moaning in pain when we happened upon them. I asked if he needed help, if I could call someone, but he refused and said he just needed to rest a moment. They wished us a great day, and the adventure continued.

Then I saw a patch of blooming Daffodils situated in a circle amidst the leaves, vines, mud and dead branches. Very beautiful indeed. After that, I noticed all the beauty around me. Rather than the brown and gray of the winter trees, I saw birds marked with white or blue, heard the barup barup  of the bullfrogs, and watched Dovi go dizzy chasing the squirrels around the trees. And two raised hands waving at me - the father and son were back to riding on the trails.

It was the first time in about two months that I didn't feel a heaviness inside. January, February and a little bit of March are tough months for me - tough for my family too. The darkness creeps inside my bones and it's tough to shake. The sun hides behind the dark clouds and it takes quite a bit of effort to feel it on my face.

Then, my birthday comes and I feel okay. I made it another year. I have my gorgeous children, the LOML to spoil me, and a whole lot of family and friends wishing me a great day. 

And I have Dovi. He is nothing but a source of joy in our lives. Always happy.  Love pours out of him with every movement, every look he gives and every sound he makes.

Unless he's exhausted. Like he was last night, and will be tonight. I walked 4.5 miles today. He ran, jumped, splashed and zoomed the entire time. This is what I can expect from my source of joy this evening: 

He was snoring and snorting... my baby boy. 

Take a walk on your birthday this year, and make sure you don't go to work either. Love.

Songwriters: Lan O'kun / Irwin Stan: That's What God Looks Like

 I took a long walk this morning, letting Dovi sniff his way around the pond behind the house, and into a smaller neighborhood.  It was cold and I made a fist and pulled down my sleeves to hide my fingers from the frigid air.

The sky was cloudy, but as it is nearly every day, it was beautiful.

How high is the sky, what makes it so blue? And tell me Dad, what does God look like to you?

There are days when I look up to the sky and these are the questions that roll through my brain. It's from a song Sinatra sang, "That's What God Looks Like". It's quite beautiful and credit for it goes to the Subject of this post.  

Sinatra's buttery voice answers his son.

He looks like a rainbow, just after the rain
He's as golden as wheat dancing over the plain
He looks like a star when the night's crystal clear
He looks like a baby when mother is near 

As the tears start to form from that last line, Sinatra continues:

His face is the moonlight reflected on snow
His hair like a garden where all flowers grow
His heavenly eyes are as true as the sea
My son, that's what God really looks like

Sometimes I just need to hear that voice, to hear my father singing it and telling us, "Just listen." Sometimes I hear it when I don't even know I need it, and thinking about it makes me nostalgic for the past.

His heart like a mountain so vast and so strong

That's why all his children have room to belong

His smile is the morning we waken to see

Since Paige and Tony were little, I'd play this and watch them across the room, or in my rearview mirror to see their faces change with the last line. To this day, I'm not sure if it's the way Sinatra ends the song - holding the note until it touches your heart; if it's the sentiment in the last sentence; or if it's my tears that change the look on their faces, but their faces are seared into my memory.

But you, my child, you are what God really looks like to me....

Songwriters: Lan O'kun / Irwin Stan 

January Blues

 This time of year is always rough. The weather is still unpredictable - even more so this year; the layers of clothes go on and then come off, and then go back on again; the new television series haven't started up yet; the anticipation for the holidays is gone; and since 2009, there's a recycling of the bad memories from the day my brother went into the hospital (January 27th) to the day he died (March 4th).  Even fourteen years later, the body and mind remember.  

Then you add teenage drama (grades, back to college, dating), and it's wearisome. The fact that I haven't written since Sunday makes it even tougher.

Last year, I got one of those light therapy lamps for seasonal affective disorder (SAD). I woke cranky with a stiff neck (my pillow sucks) and even the double-dose of strong coffee didn't help my mood, so I thought, what have I got to lose?

I started it up this morning and it seemed to have worked for a short time. Rather than bitch about the work I had to get done, I did it without complaint. I spend much of my day deciphering laws (zoning, building, contracts) and creating documents that make sense of it all. Usually, I love it. Like, where some people roll their eyes and grunt about this kind of work, I geek out and get so excited. The kids have gotten used to it, and will stare at me as I go on and on about, say, a law in NYC that protects air rights.  They stare at me, not in fascination, but in wonder over whether I'll ever shut up. When I pause for a breath, they turn around and the elation deflates. 

Anyway, the lamp. It's very bright, blinding almost, and I keep it on my right side as I stare at the computer monitors and read. I don't know if it actually changes anything chemically in my brain,. I sometimes think it's just one of those mind-game kind of things. Use the lamp, see the light, feel better. 

Maybe it does work. Maybe it takes a couple months to really kick in. Maybe, on March 5th, I'll wake up and think, "Wow, that lamp is something else."

I spent eight hours in front of the computer today - the lamp stayed on for four of them - and once, again, I'm weary.  It's not the lamp's fault though. Sitting for eight hours and reading, thinking, deciphering - that's the issue.

Time for the elliptical. . .

Forty minutes later. . .

And yes, exercise has won again! 

January blues blown away by light and exercise. 

All is fine until tomorrow morning.

This morning, the birds were quieter. A couple of crows argued overhead and a lone goose paddled the swim of shame, calling out to his buddies who were still sleeping it off.

In the distance, a neighbor was hammering and I thought it was odd to be hammering something at 6:30 in the morning. My mind went down a path where I suspected they were nailing a tomb shut before putting it into the dirt beneath the floor of their basement, covering the hole back up with concrete once the deed was done.

Then I realized it was one of two woodpeckers. The first sounded like a woodpecker – peck, peck, peck – soft and dainty-like, and the other one, well, sounded like the psychopathic basement killer I described above.

Then I thought about my dad.

“Did you know chickens are the dirtiest of all the animals?”

“Really? Why?”

“Because they eat with their peckers.”

Badum bum.

Memories. A smile. Now coffee.

Good morning.

Quietude

The scene: early morning on a Saturday, standing on the deck and watching the dog chase squirrels in the yard, listening to the birds squawk, tweet and chirp, as a gaggle of geese swim by silently on the placid lake, the sun rising behind me. 

This is where I belong - not on a four lane highway, hoping a semi truck or a speeding BMW doesn't take me out; not sitting in front of the tv, watching the massive storms sweep through California, or the plains or in my other comfort zone, Buffalo; not considering the size of Putin's drone; not contemplating another booster shot to fight yet another Covid variant; and not even sitting in front of the computer, putting words down on paper.

I am most at ease observing nature at its best. My shoulders relax, my breastplate pops and my neck releases some of its tension.

It's all temporary. This ease. This gratitude. I'll go back to tossing and turning all night as random, worrisome thoughts appear in my mind - what if I lose my job? What if Paige's car breaks down on her way back to college? What if ... what if... what if.  And for what? Am I able to answer any of these questions while in my pajamas at three in the morning?  And do I even have to try resolving them? 

The human mind is amazing. It solves puzzles while you sleep, it thinks up and answers equations that seem unsolvable, it enlightens and filters and breathes creativity. But left unmanaged, without a heart check, it can ruin you, leaving you lost in a myriad of random thoughts that cannot and will not benefit your life.

The key, at least for me, is to take the worry, stress and randomness and tie it to something tangible - something beautiful like the placid lake or the falling snow or a child's giggle or even a memory. These things promote clarity and with clarity comes gratitude and ease. 

Yet, the week holds more than just a Saturday morning before the dawn of day. The sun will rise, the geese will fly, the squirrels will rest, and the daily news will spin another horrific story. 

But right now, I'll breathe deeply and take it all in again - filling the tank with beauty. 

I wish the same for you.

A Beauty in the Neighborhood

 I left early this morning for a trip to Virginia which takes about 3 hours. The sun hadn't quite risen, and the air was brisk. I listened to a playlist I hadn't heard in quite some time. It included songs from many years ago, including the Working on a Dream LP that Springsteen released on the day my brother, Jeff, had a hemorrhagic stroke. 98% of the time I skip ahead. There are too many memories associated with the songs on that album - starting from the first night he was admitted to the ICU and ending on the day of his funeral.

But today, I let it play, and tried to control the emotions and just think about that time in my family's life, and in my own, and how it has changed since - how nearly all the children are adults now (in age, not necessarily maturity), and how the memories play differently than during that painful time.

I didn't crack until Bruce sang this line: "Then a million sighs cresting where you stood, a beauty in the neighborhood, this lonely planet never looked so good."

Gets me every time.

It's been nearly fourteen years. The pain is different now - the sadness has been replaced by a bittersweet longing for what used to be. The kids were young, we got together and played games, we laughed, we drank, we shared our day-to-day and our frustrations.  And maybe we would have done things differently had we known it would change so quickly. But I'm glad we did it the way we did. 

The hospitalization of Damar Hamlin brought back a lot of memories of that time too. Intubated and struggling to breathe on his own. I remember the prayers and love that poured in. It was a miraculous time in a strange way, filled with so much love; and I sense the same for Damar and his family - his kin and the Bills. 

It's quite beautiful.

The drive took me there but I didn't break. I just grieved for a little while and then with that shadow behind me, I moved forward into right now.

Pray for number 3.  

Go Bills!

Rainbows and Goofy

 I saw this on my walk today:

I see this goofiness every day: 

And he's cute until he almost pulls my arm off chasing a squirrel while I'm trying to take pictures of rainbows.

Tired and Cranky

Another night of restless sleep. Fitbit yelled at me this morning to tell me I only got a sleep score of 60, which amounts to a fair score, which literally translates to “you suck!”  When I get a score of 85 or above, it's a mere whisper of praise. You know how it goes - people praise you and you barely hear it; people say something negative and it's as though they have a megaphone pressed against your ear.

Anyway, as I was saying, raising teenagers is not fun especially on a score of 60 (I may have forgotten to mention that in my first paragraph. I don't know. I'm tired). Or maybe it’s because they’re not fun that I get a score of 60. 

They're messy, they're mouthy and they're smarmy. And so quick-witted that even when I want to be annoyed with them, I can’t because they’re funny!

Tony is a Senior in High School now and he has the worst case of Senioritis that I’ve ever seen. He goes because I make him go. He puts in as little effort as he can, and his grades are like a musical scale – a, d, b, e, b, c, d, a, e. He’s a great kid with a great personality.

Paige is in her 2nd year at Appalachian State. She hates it there – too far up in the mountains and away from home. Yet, she also loves it there. She has friends and classes she loves. She wants to be a researcher – how the chemistry of the brain affects actions and idiosyncrasies of a person. I’m sure I got that 99% wrong and she’ll correct me if she reads this. She’s an RA and works hard to get her grades. Also, with a great personality.

I see these things about both my children, yet I woke at 1:30 a.m. thinking about them; then again at 3:30 a.m., still thinking about them. When the clock read 5:30 a.m., I said, “eff it” and got up, gritting my teeth and mad at both of them. As I brushed my teeth, I thought, I’m going to talk to them. Tony needs to put in more effort and Paige needs to clean her room when she’s home on break… blah, blah, blah, gaaah.

I just need more sleep.

And I need to talk to them.

How's Damar?

I never loved football.  I watched the Bills lose four Super Bowls in a row.  For one of them, I watched my brother throw a chair at a TV we'd rented for a Super Bowl party at the American Legion in North Collins.  He's since curbed his anger, I think. Maybe not in golf though.

For a while, I just stopped watching unless the Bills were on.  I recall the Bills playing Dallas one year when I was in my first marriage, and the game was on.  I promptly fell asleep, but woke to watch the Bills make a play and take the game. "Go Bills", I said.  My ex-husband was so mad - "They were losing the whole game!"

It's just what Bills fans do. Go Bills!  

For the past four years, I can't get enough of watching them and texting my friends "Woot! Woot!" when they make an unbelievable play.  Did you see the touchdown where Josh Allen basically jumped over a guy to get in the end zone?  Freaking awesome.

Last night's game was much different. I made Buffalo wings for dinner, and waited impatiently for the game to start, texting my friends to see if they were as psyched as I was.  They were.

Then Damar Hamlin got hit and went down. Everything stopped.  For me, for my friends - "This is scary and so sad."  Then we see Josh Allen's face, and the rest of the Bills players' faces; and the Bengals players' faces... "This is bad." Social media blew up. The announcers sat stunned. I cried.

Of course, millions of others cried and worried along with me.  The game was suspended. Okay. How's Damar? Time went by. "How's Damar?" The game was postponed. Good. How's Damar?  How many people am I echoing?

Then to watch the spirits soar, the goodness of mankind go at it and tackle it.  Prayers. Donations. Bengals fans and Bills fans holding hands and praying. Together.  Every NFL team commenting and sending goodness.

Politics wasn't part of the playing field. How's Damar?

Racism and hatred was thrown out.  How's Damar?

Please be well.

Bandits and Baiters

 

The thieves stole my mojo. It was here, inside me, for many years.  I’d call it up and it would sit on my shoulder and whisper words in my ear – words I could use to form sentences and thoughts that made sense. Sometimes it lay dormant, like, when the world was ending in 2020, and all I wanted to do was sit on the sofa and chew my fingernails down to the quick, panicking in a quiet kind of desperation.  But it came back for a short time. Enough for me to finish yet another draft of the book and send it out for editing, and produce yet another draft, and then another, and now I think I have a polished manuscript to send out. And send it out, I did.   But it wasn’t mojo pushing me to keep fixing it – it was my characters. They threw little hissy-fits every time I’d ignore them.

A mojo clone provided mumbo jumbo every once in a while on a Tuesday when I had my fiction writing class and needed a good scene to add to my dog story.  Then it went away, and I only had thoughts that produced dung-like quality.

The thieves stole my comfort too.  They stole my confidence. And my motivation. And my love for walking. Oh, and my collagen. They stole a lot of my collagen in exchange for a heat that boils me from the inside in a flash. 

“Youth and beauty are gone one day, no matter what you dream or do or say…” Heck of a line from Bob Seger.  His mojo was on that day, as was his pessimism.  But hey, you need pessimism to find sanguinity.

I suppose I write today because I woke before the dawn and walked the dog under the bright stars, the crescent moon shining a light on my path and thought, “Boy, do I love this time of day.” The morning, the quiet, the anticipation of experiencing something joyful. The hope, the gratitude, the promise.

The thieves may have stolen my mojo but I’m on a quest to get it back – today, I started looking on the hiking trails behind my house, tomorrow I’ll find another path, and maybe, if I’m lucky, it will jump in front of me, giggling, and then hop back on my shoulder so the thieves can look elsewhere. 

What a Gift

 It happens every time I make sauce.  I chop the onions and garlic, and the second I scrape them into the pot with the olive oil, I think of my dad.  He stands behind me as I stir them around and says "wait until the onions are clear, then you can add the tomatoes."  

It happens every time I roll the meatballs. I think of my Aunt Carolyn, and her telling me not to make them sinkers.

Today was the same. But today, I had another voice - a laugh actually, echoing in my head.  The laugh of my cousin Maryann.  I think it was last year, I posted on Facebook that I was making a pot of sauce with thirty meatballs.  She immediately texted me, and said, "oh, can I get some of your sauce and meatballs?"  The pot went from four cans of tomatoes to eight, and the meatballs doubled to sixty.  When it was done, she showed up with tupperware and took it home.  I got texts that entire evening thanking me.

I wish I could've done it again today, but Maryann died this summer.  A crushing loss for the family.

 I took Dovi to the dog park today, and there was a woman there, calling her dog. "Gracie, Gracie, come here."  I thought about my Gracie and how she would've hated the dog park.  She would've growled at every dog, and she wouldn't have left my side.

On the way home, I thought about Gracie, then about my sauce bubbling on the stove, and then saw my brother's face, then my dad's, then Maryann's, while the live version of Racing in the Street played in the background, and I cried. It was one of those hiccup-kind-of-cries where it comes out of nowhere, like a sneeze.  I wondered how many times it happens during the week, and how many times I stop immediately. Today, I didn't. I let the tears fall.

How amazing that a song, a pot of sauce, or a simple name can evoke such sharp images and memories. So sharp that they open your heart up, and you just feel it, you taste it, you smell it - you live it all over again.

What a gift.