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.