As I was proofreading the previous post, I suddenly remembered a (to me) hilarious anecdote that I must share today.
In June of 1996, John and I traveled with the Oratorio Society of Washington/The Washington Chorus to Paris, London, Cirencester, Oxford and Bath on a concert tour where we performed the Fauré Requiem and the Vivaldi Gloria.
A few days before we left, John's department in the Defense Intelligence Agency offices at the Pentagon had installed new computers. He was so excited to have a CD drive on which he could play music while at work. His own personal CD player.
We were gone for ten days. On his first day back at the office, he called me at the law firm in a panic. He had forgotten how to open the CD drive and had inadvertently pushed the CD into the 5.25" floppy drive. He was mortified that he'd have to call the tech support guys and admit his ignorance.
In trying to diagnose the problem and come up with a solution, I asked him, "was it a software CD or a music CD?"
He replied, quizzically, "They put software on CDs?"
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Courage Is . . .
Today I am celebrating John's life. I have a box of cards and photos, the folder I kept of his medical records and my notes through our cancer battle, and copies of e-mails received at the end of his life. I rediscovered this box a couple of nights ago after not seeing it for a year. I'd like to share some of those notes here today.
John was great about buying me cards and writing the most lovely notes to me. I wish now I had dated them. To set the stage for the first note I want to share, let me back up.
John and I lived together from August of 1988 to May of 1990. At that time, he chose to listen to the seductive words of another woman, who didn't really want him but didn't want me to have him. We parted company and I married, a couple of years later, Bob the Mormon with the son who threatened to shoot me. The day John heard Bob and I had separated, around Easter of 1995, he started calling me, sometimes four and five times a day. We went out for our birthdays a couple of months later (June 20th/June 22nd) and just fell back into our wonderful old life together. A couple of months later I received this card from him:
Lucky are we who know that destiny
is guided by the heart alone.
And lucky am I to have found you.
He signed it:
Across the years.
J
Inside was a long, handwritten note that included these words:
Dearest Jan --
Your resilience and astounding ability to overcome adversity, move on, and put your life (back) in order is testimony to both your faith in yourself and your considerable talents.
As one who has been a burden and a challenge . . . it's a bit painful to me to think back on my inability to recognize what we had, and where we could have been had my perception approached yours. But being that as it may, I have a total faith in you . . . .
He always got a kick out of my name being the same as the Susan Sarandon character in "Rocky Horror Picture Show," and he would pronounce it "CHAN-et" as I guess some character in the movie did.
I don't remember the reason for or date of the next card, but it believe it was after our marriage on March 16, 1996, but before his diagnosis in September of 1996.
Courage is . . .
Believing in yourself and fulfilling your potential.
Showing you care and giving unconditionally.
Doing what you want and trusting yourself to make the right decisions.
Sitting in the driver's seat and taking control of your life.
Making your own decisions and being honest with yourself and others.
Accepting changes and flowing with them.
Dealing with your problems and asking for help.
Offering your opinions and communicating your fears and doubts.
Accepting abundance and allowing yourself to succeed.
Trying again and doing new things.
Loving yourself and others unconditionally.
Inside the card, he wrote:
A FAIRLY GOOD DESCRIPTION OF JANET - -
And you get some pretty terrific marks in all 11 categories.
And over time.
J
Now, from my e-mails to friends and to my caregivers' support group:
June 24, 1998
John said to me this afternoon that he was very weak and ready to move. I wasn't sure what he meant, as communication is very difficult for him. I asked, "do you mean you're ready to die?" He said yes.
June 25, 1998
Last night when I gave him his medications, he said, "promise me that these are the last medications." I said I could not promise that — that it was not within my control.
And later that day:
He's much more restless this afternoon — having a very hard time getting to sleep. He stares blankly around the room, looks right at me but doesn't see me. His skin is cooler.
His pain is worse today. I called the nurse and said we must increase the morphine or the Duragesic or both.
Later that evening, and this is so typically JR:
John is carrying on tonight about a set of eight disks he wants me to create and some message that's supposed to be on the disks. He says "copy a: to b:/ and make two sets." Then he wants to know whether I was done and what it was called. Then he said I needed to list the b:/ network.
June 26, 1998
We're very close. When the hospice social worker came this afternoon, John told her he was ready to die. She told him good-bye when she left.
June 27, 1998 (Saturday)
A music thanatologist, or harp therapist, came this morning and played prescriptive music for him for an hour. Sounds very woo-woo, but it wasn't at all. It was quite wonderful and peaceful. He's resting comfortable.
Later that day:
He has not slept much this afternoon. He just stares blankly around the room and has little conversations with all the people inside his head. Finally it dawned on me that he's afraid — if he goes to sleep he might not wake up.
So he's very conflicted. On one hand, his body doesn't work anymore and he wants to be rid of it. On the other, he doesn't want to leave his loved ones behind. What a dilemma.
June 28, 1998
A little earlier this evening, John reached up as if to twist dials and flip switches. Then he said something about getting on board. So I think he's just waiting for the flight crew to come and get him.
Two minutes ago he said, for the second time this evening, "Okay, let's go.
June 29, 1998
The nurse came by an hour ago and said he doesn't think today is the day. He says it should be this week, but not today.
John has not eaten since Thurs., and is now not drinking — everything comes up. So ice chips and little sips of water when it's medication time.
June 30, 1998
10:01:00
John is having great difficulty swallowing, so difficulty in taking his medications. His internal store of morphine is low this morning, so he's in great pain and moaning quite a bit. I continue to pray for his release from this jail of pain.
17:28:20
John has had a day from hell. Right now we're waiting for the ambulance to come and take him to hospice where he will spend some time while we try to get his pain under control. I don't ever want another day like this one has been.
22:52:46
After the worst day we've ever had, I called hospice and asked if they could take John in-unit tonight to try to stabilize the pain. The ambulance arrived at 5 'til 6:00. We arrived at hospice at 6:30 p.m. The staff asked me to wait in the lobby area while they got him settled in bed. In less than five minutes they came out and said, "he's gone."
He was one remarkable person who enriched my life beyond compare. I will miss him forever, but I am so grateful that he is no longer in pain.
From my remarks at his musical memorial service on July 27, 1998:
For the past 10 years, it has been my pleasure to be friends with John Ross. For the past two-and-a-half years, it has been my privilege to be married to him, and for the past 21 months my blessing to be his primary caregiver as he battled the demon cancer.
And I'll close this very long but heartfelt post by sharing with you the note TJ referenced in his poem. This was, again, so typical of John to leave me lighthearted notes when he had left early for the office or had raced out the door for an early tee time. This, a reminder not to set the security system because the cleaning lady would come that day:
Dear One -
Don't arm on Tuesday!
Bless you for caring for me.
Love,
J
John was great about buying me cards and writing the most lovely notes to me. I wish now I had dated them. To set the stage for the first note I want to share, let me back up.
John and I lived together from August of 1988 to May of 1990. At that time, he chose to listen to the seductive words of another woman, who didn't really want him but didn't want me to have him. We parted company and I married, a couple of years later, Bob the Mormon with the son who threatened to shoot me. The day John heard Bob and I had separated, around Easter of 1995, he started calling me, sometimes four and five times a day. We went out for our birthdays a couple of months later (June 20th/June 22nd) and just fell back into our wonderful old life together. A couple of months later I received this card from him:
Lucky are we who know that destiny
is guided by the heart alone.
And lucky am I to have found you.
He signed it:
Across the years.
J
Inside was a long, handwritten note that included these words:
Dearest Jan --
Your resilience and astounding ability to overcome adversity, move on, and put your life (back) in order is testimony to both your faith in yourself and your considerable talents.
As one who has been a burden and a challenge . . . it's a bit painful to me to think back on my inability to recognize what we had, and where we could have been had my perception approached yours. But being that as it may, I have a total faith in you . . . .
He always got a kick out of my name being the same as the Susan Sarandon character in "Rocky Horror Picture Show," and he would pronounce it "CHAN-et" as I guess some character in the movie did.
I don't remember the reason for or date of the next card, but it believe it was after our marriage on March 16, 1996, but before his diagnosis in September of 1996.
Courage is . . .
Believing in yourself and fulfilling your potential.
Showing you care and giving unconditionally.
Doing what you want and trusting yourself to make the right decisions.
Sitting in the driver's seat and taking control of your life.
Making your own decisions and being honest with yourself and others.
Accepting changes and flowing with them.
Dealing with your problems and asking for help.
Offering your opinions and communicating your fears and doubts.
Accepting abundance and allowing yourself to succeed.
Trying again and doing new things.
Loving yourself and others unconditionally.
Inside the card, he wrote:
A FAIRLY GOOD DESCRIPTION OF JANET - -
And you get some pretty terrific marks in all 11 categories.
And over time.
J
Now, from my e-mails to friends and to my caregivers' support group:
June 24, 1998
John said to me this afternoon that he was very weak and ready to move. I wasn't sure what he meant, as communication is very difficult for him. I asked, "do you mean you're ready to die?" He said yes.
June 25, 1998
Last night when I gave him his medications, he said, "promise me that these are the last medications." I said I could not promise that — that it was not within my control.
And later that day:
He's much more restless this afternoon — having a very hard time getting to sleep. He stares blankly around the room, looks right at me but doesn't see me. His skin is cooler.
His pain is worse today. I called the nurse and said we must increase the morphine or the Duragesic or both.
Later that evening, and this is so typically JR:
John is carrying on tonight about a set of eight disks he wants me to create and some message that's supposed to be on the disks. He says "copy a: to b:/ and make two sets." Then he wants to know whether I was done and what it was called. Then he said I needed to list the b:/ network.
June 26, 1998
We're very close. When the hospice social worker came this afternoon, John told her he was ready to die. She told him good-bye when she left.
June 27, 1998 (Saturday)
A music thanatologist, or harp therapist, came this morning and played prescriptive music for him for an hour. Sounds very woo-woo, but it wasn't at all. It was quite wonderful and peaceful. He's resting comfortable.
Later that day:
He has not slept much this afternoon. He just stares blankly around the room and has little conversations with all the people inside his head. Finally it dawned on me that he's afraid — if he goes to sleep he might not wake up.
So he's very conflicted. On one hand, his body doesn't work anymore and he wants to be rid of it. On the other, he doesn't want to leave his loved ones behind. What a dilemma.
June 28, 1998
A little earlier this evening, John reached up as if to twist dials and flip switches. Then he said something about getting on board. So I think he's just waiting for the flight crew to come and get him.
Two minutes ago he said, for the second time this evening, "Okay, let's go.
June 29, 1998
The nurse came by an hour ago and said he doesn't think today is the day. He says it should be this week, but not today.
John has not eaten since Thurs., and is now not drinking — everything comes up. So ice chips and little sips of water when it's medication time.
June 30, 1998
10:01:00
John is having great difficulty swallowing, so difficulty in taking his medications. His internal store of morphine is low this morning, so he's in great pain and moaning quite a bit. I continue to pray for his release from this jail of pain.
17:28:20
John has had a day from hell. Right now we're waiting for the ambulance to come and take him to hospice where he will spend some time while we try to get his pain under control. I don't ever want another day like this one has been.
22:52:46
After the worst day we've ever had, I called hospice and asked if they could take John in-unit tonight to try to stabilize the pain. The ambulance arrived at 5 'til 6:00. We arrived at hospice at 6:30 p.m. The staff asked me to wait in the lobby area while they got him settled in bed. In less than five minutes they came out and said, "he's gone."
He was one remarkable person who enriched my life beyond compare. I will miss him forever, but I am so grateful that he is no longer in pain.
From my remarks at his musical memorial service on July 27, 1998:
For the past 10 years, it has been my pleasure to be friends with John Ross. For the past two-and-a-half years, it has been my privilege to be married to him, and for the past 21 months my blessing to be his primary caregiver as he battled the demon cancer.
And I'll close this very long but heartfelt post by sharing with you the note TJ referenced in his poem. This was, again, so typical of John to leave me lighthearted notes when he had left early for the office or had raced out the door for an early tee time. This, a reminder not to set the security system because the cleaning lady would come that day:
Dear One -
Don't arm on Tuesday!
Bless you for caring for me.
Love,
J
Friday, June 29, 2007
On Intimacy
I'm still mulling over the "why do you blog" question the Chef posed recently.
I have frequently said that what I miss the most, not being in a relationship, is intimacy. When I say intimacy, I don't mean the flesh-to-flesh component of intimacy, although that's also lacking. I mean the ability to lie pillow-to-pillow or sit across a cuppa and pour my heart out, both the happinesses and the sadnesses. And listen; listen as my loved one tells me what he's thinking about current presidential candidates or the price of gas or how he felt when he hit that last golf ball or how much he enjoys our life together. Anything on the spectrum — just the sharing. The sharing of our hearts. I miss that.
So I share my feelings in cyberspace. It doesn't matter to me whether anyone reads or not. But the knowledge that someone may be reading, and that people send me e-mails off-blog commenting on my current happiness or sadness, lets me feel that I'm heard.
The Chef wondered aloud how I could bare my soul the way I do. I think I pride myself on being open — an open book. And part of the reason I put the blog behind lock and key — err, password — after beginning my job hunt, is because I do bare my soul, no holds barred, in a venue that's visible to all eyes, friend or foe. I didn't want some employer Googling me after reading my resumé and choosing a more private person to employ.
As I thought about the lack of intimacy on my drive in this morning, I felt my throat constrict and my eyes well with tears. I'm missing John horribly. I'm missing the ease and comfort and utter compatibility of that relationship, that man, that life.
I fantasize that his last thought before closing his eyes the final time was how much joy he brought me.
I have frequently said that what I miss the most, not being in a relationship, is intimacy. When I say intimacy, I don't mean the flesh-to-flesh component of intimacy, although that's also lacking. I mean the ability to lie pillow-to-pillow or sit across a cuppa and pour my heart out, both the happinesses and the sadnesses. And listen; listen as my loved one tells me what he's thinking about current presidential candidates or the price of gas or how he felt when he hit that last golf ball or how much he enjoys our life together. Anything on the spectrum — just the sharing. The sharing of our hearts. I miss that.
So I share my feelings in cyberspace. It doesn't matter to me whether anyone reads or not. But the knowledge that someone may be reading, and that people send me e-mails off-blog commenting on my current happiness or sadness, lets me feel that I'm heard.
The Chef wondered aloud how I could bare my soul the way I do. I think I pride myself on being open — an open book. And part of the reason I put the blog behind lock and key — err, password — after beginning my job hunt, is because I do bare my soul, no holds barred, in a venue that's visible to all eyes, friend or foe. I didn't want some employer Googling me after reading my resumé and choosing a more private person to employ.
As I thought about the lack of intimacy on my drive in this morning, I felt my throat constrict and my eyes well with tears. I'm missing John horribly. I'm missing the ease and comfort and utter compatibility of that relationship, that man, that life.
I fantasize that his last thought before closing his eyes the final time was how much joy he brought me.
Life's Passages
Sit down, Kiddies, this is going to be a long post. It was rolling around my head for an hour while I laid on the massage table tonight.
Twenty years ago in August. Oh my God, I cannot believe it's been twenty years. Twenty years ago in August I went to my law school orientation. I was in my standard IBM skirted suit, with my badge hanging from the jacket pocket. A woman sat down next to me. She introduced herself and observed that we looked like we were from the same generation. When we compared notes, she was three months older than I and had been married twice — once annulled and once divorced. I was on my second difficult marriage.
Her name was Tracy Nadel. We became close friends. We spoke on the phone daily. She formed a study group and I was invited to join. We studied together, ate together, shared milestones together. After my second marriage fell apart, after I got custody of Tyler and was working a full-time and two part-time jobs while going to law school at night, it was Tracy I would call and ask, "can I please quit?" And she would answer "no," and I would dig deep inside and find the strength to endure another day, another week, another semester.
She passed the Pennsylvania bar on her first try and went to work as a resource analyst for the Joint Committee on Taxation on the Hill. I didn't pass the Pennsylvania bar, then I didn't pass the Virginia bar four times. Tracy was always there encouraging me. She stood by me through my ill-advised third marriage, and rejoiced with me when John and I found each other again.
She had a limited variety of male friends, but no one she deemed good enough. And she was sad, as her biological clock kept ticking, that she had not had children and probably never would. She started thinking about adoption.
Tracy was one of about thirty guests at John's and my wedding on March 16, 1996. She had just started the paperwork to be approved as an adoptive parent for a Chinese adoption. Unbeknownst to her, her daughter had been born a month earlier. In February of 1997, Tracy and her sister flew to Beijing and went out in the country to the orphanage where her daughter, Jennie Rebecca, was waiting for her.
Shortly after Jennie arrived, Tracy was diagnosed with a malignant tumor on her kidney. The surgeon said he got it all and she'd be fine. A year later, John died. His death changed my life. Motherhood and her health scare changed Tracy's life. I moved to Tucson with Steve and all contact between Tracy and me ceased.
A year ago I Googled her to see what was happening with her these days, whether she was still on the Hill, whether I could find photos of her and Jennie. To my horror I found her obituary. Renal cell carcinoma. And a seven-year-old adopted Chinese daughter. Her sister and brother-in-law adopted Jennie, who became a little Manhattan Jewish-Chinese Princess.
Today I Googled Jennie to see if I could see a photo, could see how she was growing up. To my astonishment, I found an article telling how Tracy's sister had inadvertently discovered that Jennie was a twin and had been able to find her fraternal twin sister and reunite them.
All of this thrust me into a river of melancholy. I remembered Tracy's impeccable townhouse in Georgetown, original works of art on the wall, an interior designer's touch on every room. It made me wonder why we, certain single women of a certain age, put so much effort and attention into our homes, when all we want is to make a home with someone else, some right man who will help us find the center of our lives. We tread water and jog in place while we try to put all the pieces of the puzzle together to find him.
I remembered how many hours Tracy and I talked about finding the right man, and how thrilled for me she was when John and I reunited. I remembered how discouraged she was that she could never find her ultimate partner. I remembered how she sat next to me, emotionally holding me up, through John's memorial services.
I felt part of the reason our friendship fell apart was because she was jealous of my having found Steve, someone (the token Jewish man?) who appeared to love me and bought me the big diamond and the big house. She said I wasn't being a good friend. Was I not a good friend because I found my man before she found hers, which she never did? She would have said a loud but loving "I told you so" had she known how miserable I was with Steve. But she didn't get that chance. I tried a couple of times to reestablish contact, but she would have no part of it. And then she was gone.
I've said a number of times here that I would love to have a crystal ball to see where I'm going to be six months from now, or a magic wand to make the housing and job situations straighten themselves out. But those don't work.
Would Tracy have adopted Jennie had she known she wouldn't live to see her past first grade? I like to think so.
Should I open my heart to someone when I don't know if he'll want to see me again in a week or six weeks or six months? I like to think so.
I've often said that, as hard as my life has been (in my opinion), it has all worked together the way it should. I wish I hadn't married Terry, but that marriage got me my boys. My moving to Washington to marry Dick and my job at IBM got me my B.S. My finding myself in therapy gave me the courage to attempt and accomplish law school. My volunteerism with The Washington Chorus got me John, once and again. John gave me happiness.
Brick upon brick, life is built and we move from room to room in that life. Right now I feel like I'm in a keeping room and I'd like to move out, but evidently the time isn't right. Maybe it's a time for remembering how to open my heart, how to trust someone, however tentatively, with my heart.
Twenty years ago in August. Oh my God, I cannot believe it's been twenty years. Twenty years ago in August I went to my law school orientation. I was in my standard IBM skirted suit, with my badge hanging from the jacket pocket. A woman sat down next to me. She introduced herself and observed that we looked like we were from the same generation. When we compared notes, she was three months older than I and had been married twice — once annulled and once divorced. I was on my second difficult marriage.
Her name was Tracy Nadel. We became close friends. We spoke on the phone daily. She formed a study group and I was invited to join. We studied together, ate together, shared milestones together. After my second marriage fell apart, after I got custody of Tyler and was working a full-time and two part-time jobs while going to law school at night, it was Tracy I would call and ask, "can I please quit?" And she would answer "no," and I would dig deep inside and find the strength to endure another day, another week, another semester.
She passed the Pennsylvania bar on her first try and went to work as a resource analyst for the Joint Committee on Taxation on the Hill. I didn't pass the Pennsylvania bar, then I didn't pass the Virginia bar four times. Tracy was always there encouraging me. She stood by me through my ill-advised third marriage, and rejoiced with me when John and I found each other again.
She had a limited variety of male friends, but no one she deemed good enough. And she was sad, as her biological clock kept ticking, that she had not had children and probably never would. She started thinking about adoption.
Tracy was one of about thirty guests at John's and my wedding on March 16, 1996. She had just started the paperwork to be approved as an adoptive parent for a Chinese adoption. Unbeknownst to her, her daughter had been born a month earlier. In February of 1997, Tracy and her sister flew to Beijing and went out in the country to the orphanage where her daughter, Jennie Rebecca, was waiting for her.
Shortly after Jennie arrived, Tracy was diagnosed with a malignant tumor on her kidney. The surgeon said he got it all and she'd be fine. A year later, John died. His death changed my life. Motherhood and her health scare changed Tracy's life. I moved to Tucson with Steve and all contact between Tracy and me ceased.
A year ago I Googled her to see what was happening with her these days, whether she was still on the Hill, whether I could find photos of her and Jennie. To my horror I found her obituary. Renal cell carcinoma. And a seven-year-old adopted Chinese daughter. Her sister and brother-in-law adopted Jennie, who became a little Manhattan Jewish-Chinese Princess.
Today I Googled Jennie to see if I could see a photo, could see how she was growing up. To my astonishment, I found an article telling how Tracy's sister had inadvertently discovered that Jennie was a twin and had been able to find her fraternal twin sister and reunite them.
All of this thrust me into a river of melancholy. I remembered Tracy's impeccable townhouse in Georgetown, original works of art on the wall, an interior designer's touch on every room. It made me wonder why we, certain single women of a certain age, put so much effort and attention into our homes, when all we want is to make a home with someone else, some right man who will help us find the center of our lives. We tread water and jog in place while we try to put all the pieces of the puzzle together to find him.
I remembered how many hours Tracy and I talked about finding the right man, and how thrilled for me she was when John and I reunited. I remembered how discouraged she was that she could never find her ultimate partner. I remembered how she sat next to me, emotionally holding me up, through John's memorial services.
I felt part of the reason our friendship fell apart was because she was jealous of my having found Steve, someone (the token Jewish man?) who appeared to love me and bought me the big diamond and the big house. She said I wasn't being a good friend. Was I not a good friend because I found my man before she found hers, which she never did? She would have said a loud but loving "I told you so" had she known how miserable I was with Steve. But she didn't get that chance. I tried a couple of times to reestablish contact, but she would have no part of it. And then she was gone.
I've said a number of times here that I would love to have a crystal ball to see where I'm going to be six months from now, or a magic wand to make the housing and job situations straighten themselves out. But those don't work.
Would Tracy have adopted Jennie had she known she wouldn't live to see her past first grade? I like to think so.
Should I open my heart to someone when I don't know if he'll want to see me again in a week or six weeks or six months? I like to think so.
I've often said that, as hard as my life has been (in my opinion), it has all worked together the way it should. I wish I hadn't married Terry, but that marriage got me my boys. My moving to Washington to marry Dick and my job at IBM got me my B.S. My finding myself in therapy gave me the courage to attempt and accomplish law school. My volunteerism with The Washington Chorus got me John, once and again. John gave me happiness.
Brick upon brick, life is built and we move from room to room in that life. Right now I feel like I'm in a keeping room and I'd like to move out, but evidently the time isn't right. Maybe it's a time for remembering how to open my heart, how to trust someone, however tentatively, with my heart.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Words for the Wise
I'm very pleased with how my fragmented and "broad-based" career experience has developed into my current position as a wordsmith. (For any reader who doesn't know, I serve as editor-in-chief of ibm.com/storage. I take technical marketing information and turn it into compelling Web copy.) And it follows that I'm thrilled that both my sons are drawn to words.
Tyler has developed wonderful critical-thinking skills (with a tip of my hat to his teachers at Interlochen Arts Academy) and writes insightfully about a number of topics on his Ignorance is Piss blog (see link on the left column of this page) and his new Youngstown Renaissance blog. He also writes program notes for the Tucson Symphony Orchestra program book, and is highly complimented for his way with words.
TJ is a poet. I love reading his words and want to continually encourage him to pursue that avocation. He wrote some lovely verse about John that I posted on my Website. These words are especially poignant to me now, as we're two days away from the 9th anniversary of John's death. Here are those words.
I've mentioned that he has a new lady in his life. I sense a new lightness and brightness in him and that makes me happy. This morning he shared with me a poem he wrote recently about his new lady and, with his permission, I post it here.
At This Moment (She Is)
She is form and she is function
She is style and she is substance
She is prose and poetry
Fact and fantasy
She is truth and beauty
Wit and wisdom
She is an explosion of all five senses
(And then some)
She is a phoenix goddess
Worlds destroyed and empires built
In deep devotion to her
She is purple ink and orange-dyed eggs
She is springtime love
And sex in the afternoon
She is the calm and the storm
And, best of all
She is mine
Not for ever
Maybe not even for tomorrow
But for now, at this moment
And at this moment
Holds the promise of a
Thousand thousand moments to come
Each one sweeter and more magical
than the one before it
And maybe tomorrow
Maybe at some moment before forever
That promise will turn out to be a lie
But if so, it will have been
The most beautiful lie I have ever heard
(4/15/07)
Tyler has developed wonderful critical-thinking skills (with a tip of my hat to his teachers at Interlochen Arts Academy) and writes insightfully about a number of topics on his Ignorance is Piss blog (see link on the left column of this page) and his new Youngstown Renaissance blog. He also writes program notes for the Tucson Symphony Orchestra program book, and is highly complimented for his way with words.
TJ is a poet. I love reading his words and want to continually encourage him to pursue that avocation. He wrote some lovely verse about John that I posted on my Website. These words are especially poignant to me now, as we're two days away from the 9th anniversary of John's death. Here are those words.
I've mentioned that he has a new lady in his life. I sense a new lightness and brightness in him and that makes me happy. This morning he shared with me a poem he wrote recently about his new lady and, with his permission, I post it here.
At This Moment (She Is)
She is form and she is function
She is style and she is substance
She is prose and poetry
Fact and fantasy
She is truth and beauty
Wit and wisdom
She is an explosion of all five senses
(And then some)
She is a phoenix goddess
Worlds destroyed and empires built
In deep devotion to her
She is purple ink and orange-dyed eggs
She is springtime love
And sex in the afternoon
She is the calm and the storm
And, best of all
She is mine
Not for ever
Maybe not even for tomorrow
But for now, at this moment
And at this moment
Holds the promise of a
Thousand thousand moments to come
Each one sweeter and more magical
than the one before it
And maybe tomorrow
Maybe at some moment before forever
That promise will turn out to be a lie
But if so, it will have been
The most beautiful lie I have ever heard
(4/15/07)
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Celebration of Life
My colleague Rajendran Subramaniam lost his father a month ago. He had to take almost a month off from work to return to India as there is a three week process for them to bury their dead.
Raj has a beautiful little daughter who turns one today. I mentioned it when I saw him this morning and asked if they were having a little party tonight. I know in his religion there is a ritual at one year of age where they shave the child's head, but I didn't know whether they also have birthday parties.
He said he is not supposed to celebrate anything for a year following the death of his father. They will have a small children's party on Saturday, but nothing major, and nothing major for his son's 6th birthday in August.
His statement of the year of mourning made me start thinking about the passages of life.
I've told my kids repeatedly that all anyone needs to say after I die is "she was kind." That's how I want to be remembered. I don't want mourning. Sure, I know my kids and grandkids and friends will miss me, but don't mourn. Celebrate. Celebrate the fact that we had such fun together and made beautiful music or dyed beautiful silk or watched a beautiful sunset together. Don't put your life on hold for a predetermined period of time, determined by some holy person ten centuries ago.
I'm all for ritual and tradition, but life is to be lived, not mourned.
Raj has a beautiful little daughter who turns one today. I mentioned it when I saw him this morning and asked if they were having a little party tonight. I know in his religion there is a ritual at one year of age where they shave the child's head, but I didn't know whether they also have birthday parties.
He said he is not supposed to celebrate anything for a year following the death of his father. They will have a small children's party on Saturday, but nothing major, and nothing major for his son's 6th birthday in August.
His statement of the year of mourning made me start thinking about the passages of life.
I've told my kids repeatedly that all anyone needs to say after I die is "she was kind." That's how I want to be remembered. I don't want mourning. Sure, I know my kids and grandkids and friends will miss me, but don't mourn. Celebrate. Celebrate the fact that we had such fun together and made beautiful music or dyed beautiful silk or watched a beautiful sunset together. Don't put your life on hold for a predetermined period of time, determined by some holy person ten centuries ago.
I'm all for ritual and tradition, but life is to be lived, not mourned.
The Midas Touch
When Tyler was virtually living with me in high school and college, I frequently said that everything he touched turned to gold. He is such a gifted conductor, and did a fabulous job perfecting his technique, building musical groups, and developing his musical network.
I feel a bit of that magic has rubbed off on me and has manifested itself a bit in the past few weeks.
About six weeks ago I saw a notice in the Tucson Citizen about the Tucson Business Edge and their "40 Under 40" annual award. I suggested to my fellow Tucson Chamber Artists board members that we nominate our conductor and music director, Eric Holtan. Last week we were notified that he is one of the 60 finalists.
Then last week I e-mailed Bonnie Henry, who writes a local personalities column in the Arizona Daily Star, about the Traveler's coast-to-coast ride in the Run for the Wall. (See my earlier post.) The Traveler called me this morning to tell me he has been interviewed by Bonnie Henry and participated in a photo shoot with his bike yesterday. I was thrilled.
If good things come in threes, I wonder what else I can turn to gold with my touch.
I feel a bit of that magic has rubbed off on me and has manifested itself a bit in the past few weeks.
About six weeks ago I saw a notice in the Tucson Citizen about the Tucson Business Edge and their "40 Under 40" annual award. I suggested to my fellow Tucson Chamber Artists board members that we nominate our conductor and music director, Eric Holtan. Last week we were notified that he is one of the 60 finalists.
Then last week I e-mailed Bonnie Henry, who writes a local personalities column in the Arizona Daily Star, about the Traveler's coast-to-coast ride in the Run for the Wall. (See my earlier post.) The Traveler called me this morning to tell me he has been interviewed by Bonnie Henry and participated in a photo shoot with his bike yesterday. I was thrilled.
If good things come in threes, I wonder what else I can turn to gold with my touch.
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