Wendy Karasin – Musings of a Boomer

My birthday is Saturday. It’s a big birthday (isn’t that the silliest statement? people are always asking that).

Hi, what are you doing this weekend?

It’s my birthday Saturday.

Oh, is it a big one?

How do I answer this question? Do I ask them to define big? Is it a new decade or perhaps half or three quarters of the way through one?

It isn’t a new decade, but there does come a time where age becomes significant enough to give consideration to. Even if we don’t want to and feel well enough, the numbers themselves can give a person pause.

After all, there’s only so long, at least until science creates a way for us to live till we are 1000, that the human being can be on this earth, in this body. We age, well or otherwise. Our skin wrinkles, we have more aches and pains, our internal organs agitate, we become more frail and less robust.

On the other hand, for many this time of life is more peaceful, we have less to prove and feel more confident, we have time to do the things we once did not, our kids are grown and on their own, our responsibilities change, as do our choices. Perhaps we are well enough and have the money to travel, write, enjoy our children as adults, pursue new hobbies or rekindle old ones.

Whatever our situation, with all life’s twists and turns – I return to the Desiderata which has been decorating a bathroom wall of mine for most of my life – “With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.” The rest of it is well worth the read. Enjoy your weekend, I certainly plan to.

The human condition is rarely an uncomplicated one, so after my eldest son’s wedding I find myself reverberating with what I assume is unfinished business or the reactive underpinnings of a jangled individual. Possibly both.

To start, let me be clear. I am thrilled that my son has married, and I am thrilled with the woman he chose. I  embrace the forward movement this life event characterizes.

With time as a modifier, I see that I floated (perhaps trudged) through some landmines along the wedding path, the majority of which have to do with my expectations of my ex. Continually disappointed, the insanity is that I have been doing this since 1996. One could wonder about my inability to manage my expectations.

The background static of my failed marriage catapulted me into an unconscious tailspin as divorce threw me back to the three year old child who had viscerally been struck with panic, the need to survive, and grief. I was three when my parents’ separated. But I was not expecting to have this reaction at this event, nor was I prepared for it.

I tell myself I was helpless then, but I am not now. So why am I still behaving like the good girl who overlooks bad behavior and stays non-confrontational? The process was too difficult for a three year old to figure out, yet similar feelings of helplessness cascade over me like rushing water short circuiting my cerebral cortex.

There were moments the night of the wedding that I went on automatic pilot. It is the safest way to deal with ancient issues that surface without warning. Or so my subconscious self decided. If one chooses to stay appropriate, and not dig into the unpredictability of feelings – justified or not – one has a better shot at remaining calm, sane, even aloof.

My dancing was sincere and natural, as was my unbridled joy at watching the child I raised become a man and a husband. I danced with many; my son, my daughter in law, my significant other and his grandchildren, my cousin, one of my ex’s siblings.

Parents, I think, ought to offer their offspring the reasonable expectation of reliance. Not perfection, we humans are far from that. Yet, like sub-aquatic vines wound into a tight knot, life can get messy and complicated and stuck. Our willingness to unwrap layers and shed light on areas of constriction may provide us with expanded perspectives.

Love isn’t just a four letter word. It’s determination, grit and integrity have the power to change us, and with it, our world. See the people in the picture below who are, one person at a time, doing just that.

As though getting married, leaving a career at MTV, and moving to another county are not enough, my newly married son and daughter in law are now opening a business in Greenwich, Connecticut. Hitting the ground running, they will open their doors in September, 2016. What makes the program particularly attractive, other than great musicians and a love of children and communication, is Jesse and Courtney.

Jesse is an MBA graduate who advises emerging businesses with specific suggestions on growth, sustainability, business planning, and where and how to receive monetary assistance. Courtney is a talented and creative producer with a genuine love of people and children, her humanity shining through like warm, bright light. Together they provide a magnetic framework for operational efficiency coupled with fun and friendly interaction. If you are lucky enough to live in or know of anyone who lives in Westchester County or lower Connecticut, call today and sign up for their classes. Your child will thank you.

The name of the business is songs for seeds (lower cases intentional). It is an educational musical program for moms and/or caretakers to share with children.

songs for seeds (Greenwich, CT)

songs for seeds

Classes

242 Sound Beach Ave

Old Greenwich, Connecticut 06870

(646) 820-9916

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Tell everyone you know and call today –  (646) 820-9916.

You will be in for a treat. The most fun you and your child have all week. Tell them Wendy sent you.

Recovering from too much thinking, not enough eating, and adrenaline surges aimed at various and sundry exigencies, the wedding itself, has occurred.

I am slowly awakening from the maze of happenings. The rehearsal dinner, the wedding, clothing and accessorizes that took on a life of their own. Weddings are indeed ‘a box of chocolates’. The joy of my son and daughter in law in love and publically pronouncing such; the processional walk, arm in arm, with my son as we meandered purposefully down the aisle, each of us turning our heads from side to side, smiling at the sea of faces surrounding us like a safety net; the background reminder of my failed marriage but the enormous counterweight of my four children and our relationships, the support of a new partnership, the passing of so much time.

It is mind numbing emotional fodder. The better to grow with, however. I realized a lot. I realized I fell into a well oiled groove (without feeling any gear shift). I allowed people who don’t matter to affect my evening, therefore not having as much room for those that do. It made me fantastically painstakingly aware not to give away my time, thoughts or power indiscriminately (almost unconsciously – like muscle memory). I am a smarter woman today.

The other side is I enjoyed the day tremendously. I danced with abandon, felt surrounded by those I love best in the world, and loved my dress (except that one of my son’s friends stepped on the bustle – which fell slightly longer in the back – before the wedding, and it needed to be sewed on by hand by a bridesmaid with very little thread). Best not to discuss it further. Suffice it to say, I kept people at bay (so as not to rip it more) but did not allow the ripped dress experience to unduly influence my evening.

I did not drink a lot. There was some drama. I was there as a major participant in the most important day of two people, to date. The honor and privilege was a universal reminder of what matters. The rest, my friends, is piffle.

Yesterday, three days before the wedding, I went to get a mani/pedi and ran into someone I haven’t seen in a long time. The reason she turned around was because the manicurist called my name, which happens to also be hers.

When she saw me she asked what’s new. I mentioned that my son Jesse is getting married in three days. Her eyes widened and she popped out of her seat. She was so excited, and gave me a piece of advice that I – of anyone – should already have been in possession of. But, in my haste and concern not to forget anything for the wedding, I wasn’t.

“It goes by so fast,” she said. Take a moment to take everything in, look into the eyes of the people you pass when you walk your son down the aisle, be thrilled and proud to stand under the chuppah with your family. Be present. Now this is a lesson I learned in spades when my parents died within three months of each other. There was no other option I could manage and still live with myself.

But this feels different, it’s a happy time, a beginning, something that will continue. There is no urgency. And therein lies my faulty logic. Where did I learn that tragedy requires full presence, when joy does not?

Her words hit me. My concern about my dress and shoes and handbag are small potatoes next to my child marrying, my new relationship with my daughter-in-law, the experience of witnessing love and marriage, being surrounded by those I care about most. Why would I, why would anybody, chose to be anything less than fully present?

With the awareness, I don’t think anyone would. Yet, taking in every second consciously without the metaphysical awareness of doing so, falls short. It’s too easy to get sidetracked. So, it is now my intention to take the weekend in slow-mo, starting with the rehearsal dinner on Friday. Frame by frame, step by step, one beautiful face at a time. This way the memories etched in my brain, my muscles, and my heart will forever remain. Just like when each of my children were born. It will be achingly magnificent and impossible to forget.

I shall report on the experience in the aftermath. I am curious about the guests, the music, the hora, the blessings. How can the same three days (two now) feel like a breath and an eternity away?

Had my father lived beyond his 84th birthday, he would have been 91 on July 18th. The day was warm, sunny, and long.

As I sat next to my computer that morning, going over calendar and emails, I whispered a birthday wish to him, and silently told him all that was going on. My son’s impending nuptials is making my parents’ absence palpable. I miss them. I want them involved. I want them here, on this earth, in this plane, to share the experience with me. It makes no sense that people who loved my son the way they did would not be at his wedding. But of course, it does make sense, I just don’t like it.

A part of me believes they know. A part of me pictures them sitting beside one another in throne-like wing chairs, nimble fingers holding glasses of champagne to celebrate the occasion, ready to watch a private screening of the wedding of their first grandson. I envision tears of joy, and wide toothy smiles. They are holding hands. The contentious divorce they had gone through ages ago hardly a distant memory.

Leaving the computer and thoughts of my mom and dad, I headed to the dentist for my 10:20 a.m. appointment. Only two cavities after umpteen years of cleanings, I am pretty proud of myself. While I sat in the examining room, alone, waiting for the Novocaine to kick in, my father’s favorite song came on the radio. “Blue Moon”. Call it a coincidence but I took it as a sign that he was with me and that he heard everything I said that morning.

My breath slowed, reflecting the calming effect he had on me, and somehow I believed that everything was going to be alright, whatever that might mean.

When my daughter-in-law to be called to ask what kind of music I’d like to hear at the wedding, I named the usual: Beatles, Motown, Van Morrison, James Taylor. But I also considered “Blue Moon” (for dad) and “Blossom” (for mom).

At this particular moment however, I do not believe I need a song to feel my parents’ inclusion, I believe they will already be there, comfortably seated in white wing chairs with lavender pillows, surrounded by a supernatural peace and love emanating so ubiquitously that it would be impossible for us not to feel their company.