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.

We All Have It

The pain
The shame
The worry
The guilt
The sorrow
The want
The need
The desire
The joy
The laughter
The wonder
The lust
The regret

If only I had done this 

Or said that

Or been there

Or heard that

Or felt that

If only he or she had said this

Or done that

Or been there

Or heard that 

Or felt that

I wish...

I had said it differently

I believed in myself 

I always had a dog

I would’ve invested more

I prayed more

I doubted less

I knew then what I know now

Doesn’t matter. 

Now is now. 

No one is promised tomorrow

Waiting

 The pandemic gave us a lot of home-time back in 2020. We could paint our walls, learn new recipes, or write the great American novel.  We were home.  We dropped the commute to and from work, and we couldn't go out.

You'd think, at least for me, more would've been accomplished.  But I think the pandemic, at least for me, slowed everything down.  Now, in 2022, where the pandemic is mostly behind us, I'm still stuck, a little bit, in 2020.  Waiting.

Because that's what 2020 was. It was a waiting game.  When will the hospitalizations go down? When will the restaurants open? When will the mask mandate be lifted? When could I get a spa pedicure again? I think many of us thought that it would just automatically end in 2021.  New year, back to the ol' grind, vacation from this alternate reality was over.  But that didn't happen.  The pandemic stretched into 2021.

The waist band of my sweatpants expanded as well.  I blame some of it on the sedentary lifestyle that was imposed - nobody knew if Covid was airborne, or if it could be caught by touching a flower.  We didn't walk as much, at least I didn't, and I spent a lot of time biting my nails, watching the news, and waiting.

Today, after a really long day of work - I've been home since it all started in 2020 - I took my puppy for a walk.  While he sniffed trees and ate goose poop, I looked around.  It was a dreary day - cold & rainy.  No one was outside.  Cars lined up at the curb of the local pizza place, and Door Dashers dropped food off on door steps, but that's it.  No life outside.

As I walked, I wondered if they were all just waiting for something to click to make it all return to how life was before isolation and sedentariness kicked in.  Then I saw buds on the wet tree branches, and noticed the daffodil bulbs sticking up through the ground, and thought: another cycle begins.  The thing is, I don't think I've noticed buds on the trees or daffodil leaves since 2020! That's a shame, isn't it?

I had a slight epiphany and an even slighter understanding of my psyche.  

Life goes on.  

I've been waiting for life to resume and it's been happening all around me.

I'll keep waiting, but with a different perspective.  This time I'll wait to see the buds blossom and the daffodils bloom.  And I'll watch them grow, and try to enjoy their beauty without worrying about anything else, at least for that moment I see them. 

Like a Good Bourbon

 Today is my 50^th birthday.  The 1972 t-shirt I wear calls me an original, and proclaims I’ve aged with perfection.

I can’t argue with that.

I have aged with perfection. The kind of perfection that comes forth after many years of not knowing, and then finally, one day, maybe in your late 40s, like me, you come to understand that all those imperfect moments, those hellish battles, those unbelievable assholes, and those tender moments of sadness are what mold you.

The decade leading up to this one has been the best of my life. I met and married the love of my life.  He was on his own pyramid of awesomeness, and he asked me to join him and his children at the top.  I barely had to climb. And the summit gave me more family - Mom, sisters, brother, brother-in-law, nephews and one of the cutest nieces ever.  

How can I have so many new incredible nieces and nephews, when the ones I already had were incredible?  Magic and mystery, grace and beauty.

My children are everything. Growing human beings with thoughts and fears, wit, wisdom, and greatness all their own. They are each turning into something spectacular. I spin in the same orbit, and pick up speed, and I have aged with them. Magical perfection.

My family growing up: The simple dysfunction of the Fuzzy family (including the amazing brother-in-law and awesome sisters-in-law who didn't run away from the dysfunction) made me who I am; and I am happy to call my sister my best friend, along with my brothers. We’ve shared grief and consolation, laughter and pain. I cannot envision better companions for that journey. How we got through it, how we’re still getting through it used to be perplexing, but the answers are clear. We have each other.

Mom. . . she and Dad have a place in my heart that holds the key to all my happiness. 

I have about a dozen friends that I can call up at any time – day or night – and they will answer, and we will talk like not one day has passed – laughing, crying, or solving a crisis. I have that in my life.

I have a "Swat" team of cousins, cousins-in-law, 2nd, 3rd, once removed, etc. . . cousins.  Lots and lots of cousins whom I love and adore; and who share the same passion for food and laughter.

I have a network of writer friends that I cherish. Though I only know tidbits of their personal life, I have so much more because through their writing, I know their soul; and I’ve had the pleasure of sharing my soul with them.

This morning, I walked my new puppy, and the happiest dog I have ever known. (I had Gracie for many years, and because we were besties, I swear she brought me Dovi). She knew what I deserved. 

On my walk, I envisioned my dad walking beside me – I shared my thoughts with him about turning 50, still wanting to accomplish so much more – wanting to be a better daughter to Mom, a better sister to my siblings, a better friend, a better companion, a better mother. . .

“Just be.”

That’s what I heard as I looked up to the sky and watched a young hawk fly in circles above me.

And I know you'll take comfort in knowing you've been roundly blessed and cursed

But love is a power greater than death, just like the songs and stories told  

(Springsteen, Terry's Song)

John Milton (Paradise Lost), Bram Stoker (Dracula), Sue Monk Kidd (The Secret Life of Bees), and Anna Sewell (Black Beauty) were all over fifty when they published their first novel. When I turned forty, my wish was to find someone who loved me for me, for who I was and who I would become. Today, my wish is to publish as many books as I can write for the next 50 years.

I’ll end with this. . . Dolores O’Riordan, (who got me through college and law school), died in 2018 and would’ve been fifty in September 2021. She’s the lead singer of The Cranberries and walked with me and Dad today.  She had a lot to say. 

Too young, too proud, too foolish
Too young, too proud, too foolish

You ask a lot of questions
You have too much time on your hands
To hell with conclusions
Why should we make so many plans?

So you should come away with me
You should come away with me
You should have some faith in me

Tomorrow could be too late

I told you at the start – I’ve aged with perfection.

Happy 50^th, Dolores.  Sorry you didn’t make it, but glad you’re still so alive. . .

Yesterday, Tomorrow was Today

     I don't know why the title of this blog post keeps haunting my dreams.  I was speaking with my mother on the phone last week, and we were talking about what day of the week it is, and how, for the past couple of years, the days seem to blur together.  Working from home on a full-time basis for so long, has me wondering what day of the week it is too.  My poor mother has been cooped up in her house, listening to the news, watching re-runs of Andy Griffith, and sharpening colored pencils to use as she works through page after page in an adult coloring book for the past two years.

    "What day is today?"  My mother asked.

    "Sunday."

    "But the Bills played yesterday."

    "They did, it's playoffs, so they had the game on a Saturday.  They kicked the Patriot's ass."

    "Joshy..." My mother giggled.

    I laughed along with her.

    "So, yesterday, tomorrow was today."  My mother said.

    "Uh, yeah. Very philosophical of you, Mom."  We both laughed out loud.

    "So, what's today?" I asked playfully.

    "The day before tomorrow."  I thought she'd say Sunday, but she brilliantly kept it going, and laughed at her own humor.

    I'm not sure if there's a moral to the story or not, but yesterday, tomorrow was today, and now today is the day before tomorrow.  Maybe it's a statement on the now - today is today.  Today is tomorrow.

Go Bills!

That Time I...

 I time traveled on my three and a half mile walk this morning – reacquainted with a few people from my past.  I met a young girl at the University of Dayton, scared and homesick for the first few weeks.  She listened to the newest Bruce album at the time and played Dry Lightning over and over until her neighbors in the apartment next door knew every word.

I felt the fever burning in my soul when the Further on Up the Road was released, and I thought its album was one of Bruce’s yet; and  I walked down Randolph Street with my best friend as he recalled some childhood memories from his time on Broadway.

I saw my childhood home from the back seat of a Lincoln as we crested a hill on Milestrip Road while My Hometown played in the background, returning home after three months in California, and four days of driving across the country.

I was at Jeff’s wedding again, softly singing along to My Wish as he danced with my mother and her rustling skirt.

The trail broke and I walked on This Hard Land and was hoping I could make it, but if I couldn’t, I would stay hungry and stay alive.

I felt my cheeks hurt again as I thought of the laughter my roommate Heather and I shared during that first year of college, where I made her listen to Human Touch until she could sing it along with me – wishing both Jon Bon Jovi (in my mind) and Bruce goodnight.  The Waltons were never a part of my life, so who could blame me?

It was a Long Walk Home until I recalled the memory of Jeff walking toward me with an armful of Styrofoam cups filled with Bud Light at a concert in Buffalo.  The limit was two per customer, and I never asked how he got away with six because I already knew the answer – he just had a way.  American Land played that night, the first time I had ever heard it and I recall being so enamored by the lyrics as they played on the big screen while Bruce belted the lyrics.  It is Jeff’s favorite, and it’s one of those that I never turn off when I hear it because for a moment I’m back in that concert hall, and his arm is around my shoulder, the biggest smiles on our faces.

But alas, my walk had to end, and I entered the Land of Hope and Dreams and opened this computer.

The sun that shined on me this morning through the scattering clouds shadowed the path back to home. In as little as forty-five minutes, I found my center again.  Thanks Bruce.

The Wind

Maybe I am like a cloud – heavy and saturated, waiting to let go and rain upon something.  A cloud that meets other clouds, pushed by the wind to grow bigger until the weight pulls it down to land on everything it hovers.  

I am not like the wind anymore - sure and strong for the beauty it possesses, everything and nothing all at once.

I never want to disappoint you.  I spend time inside myself, pushing back the bad and growing heavier with each passing year.  Holding in all the good for fear of it not being enough for anyone. Tense and worn, tight muscles and active cells fighting to survive, to get over some random fear of ill health or disease, frightening but real.

I can’t do it anymore. I can’t hide inside myself, waiting for the day when the winds will blow it all away, waiting for the day when I will collide with hope or faith and my fear of disappointing anyone will be abated, obliterated, non-existent.

I take deep breaths to calm my heartbeat – to empty my lungs so I can hear if it’s irregular, if I am going to die of a heart attack or a stroke, or if my demise is simply suffering  like this until my physical body just gives up, like an old horse.  Take care of your wellness before your illness forces you to do it.  Something like that keeps going through my head.  Take care of yourself.

The mind does strange things. It confuses things and makes you think that laying on the sofa, drinking or eating, and mindlessly playing games is comforting.  It makes you feel as though the less ambitious your body is, the safer you are.  But it’s essentially killing the you that you’re trying to keep safe.  So, what is the choice?  Exert the effort despite the fear of disappointing anyone.  I see that as the solution.

What have I been doing lately?  Holding back on my intuition, my wants, my desires, the truth that taking care of myself physically will allow me to take care of myself mentally.  It’s not the other way around! 

Or maybe it is.  

I don’t know.

I do know. 

Sleeping well helps, eating healthy foods helps, walking helps, lifting weights and sweating helps, painting the walls of every fucking room helps, listening to music and dancing helps, laughing helps – all these beautiful things help.  How is sitting on the sofa, growing larger a benefit in any way?  What am I trying to protect by doing it?  Protect the predictability of status quo? Protect the little voice that says, “but this time you might do something that isn’t good enough; you might not get the approval of every important person in your life; you might lose their love, and wouldn’t that be a shame?”

That voice that plays at being my best friend when it’s simply scared.  I thought I banished the negative insults that came with it – I screamed and yelled and told that voice never to return.  It's been hidden, only coming out at night when I’m asleep, or lurking in my head when it comes to decide what I should do with my evening… “just relax, you deserve it, so what you’re getting bigger, you can take care of it tomorrow… and tomorrow… and tomorrow…”. Every day I look forward until tomorrow. Another day without disappointing anyone passes and I’m happy. 

But I’m not. 

I’m just growing heavier and heavier until one day my entirety will fall freely into the ruts, the mud, the puddles, the unknown and all I'll be left with is the wind to push what’s left of me into something else.