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!