Wendy Karasin – Musings of a Boomer

Deep loss is a journey that involves living on with what we thought we could not. When I allowed myself (as though I had a choice) to feel that pain, which was at first unimaginable, I was taken to places I could not have conceived. With widened feelings and perspectives, my life opened.

So it’s a smaller surprise that these were the last words my mother spoke, after she died. She chose to deliver them in a vehicle she respected, the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. On the day of her funeral, her name, Blossom, was the clue for number 68 across.

The answer she shared with me, and that I found after I buried her, was: Open up.

Losing my mother and father in a three month period knocked any sense of equilibrium from me, sending me into a tailspin of tornado impact emotions. I was in territory beyond my ability to cope, even though I showed up, in full, for both of them. In crumbling and rebuilding, I found myself more careful, and more intentional. For some reason, this year, it is my mother’s story that comes to mind the day before Father’s Day.

Funny thing with me, I get into a routine of say, writing a blog post weekly, and then – boom – in comes life and switches stuff up.

I was doing well. For a while. But I have many (good) excuses:

My son is getting married (lots of details to address), My daughter returned from New Zealand last week, I have friends to visit, Family to love, People I know going though tough times.

Why does this get in the way of my commitment to write? I don’t know the answer, I simply know that it does. Routines are upended, which messes with my efficiency. But the people in my life need to come first. I want them to come first, even as I struggle with the loss of my well plodded, familiar, and yes, efficient, routines. My time management skills go (somewhat) out the proverbial window as I work to fit additional and sometimes unexpected happenings into my schedule – both the human and situational variety.

But then when I must write, I do. I wrote a book, after all.

I don’t zig zag well, going with the flow has its challenges. I do it, but not without discomfort if doing so affects something else in the plan. I find it a rock versus a hard kind of place.

On the other hand, I don’t want to miss out on the spontaneity and inclusion that pops up.

At a gala last night at Long Wharf, a prestigious local theater in New Haven honoring Kelli O’Hara, I ran into a friend who is a psychologist. She took the time to remind me that I do indeed have balance in my writing life. It may not always look the way I think it should, but it’s there.

I am reminded to feel grateful for my inefficiency (it means I am human), for my distractions (it means I have friends, family and situations to consider), and for my writing (because it has gotten me this far).

I’m one of the lucky ones.

My son is getting married in July. To a wonderful woman.

How then is it possible, after this many decades on the earth, I never (REALLY) noticed how little time and attention a groom gets?

I made a decision (my significant other suggested it, I dismissed it, then luckily reconsidered) to invite my son for a special dinner, ostensibly to discuss the mother/son song we would dance to at his wedding.

But the evening was so much more.

I picked him up at his apartment and we drove to Manhattan together. We found a parking garage near the restaurant where we are having our rehearsal dinner.

The atmosphere was relaxed and the staff managed to balance the ability to be attentive without being annoying. After a glass (or two) of a delicious Sauvignon Blanc we got down to the business of food tasting. Appetizers, main courses, desserts. Unbelievable desserts. We also, as the evening wore on, talked about topics ranging from silly and funny to serious and real.

My son is a skilled and honest assessor of people and situations. He thinks things through, unwilling to buy into what others conclude. He doesn’t (I don’t know how) take it personally – even when it comes too close to the vest (for me).

I’m proud of him and the relationship we’ve cemented, and I look forward to changes even as I fear them. These changes are good.

Sons (at least mine) are not big talkers. It takes them a moment, and the moment has to feel right. When we are able to hit upon those moments though, they are heavenly. I enjoy their perspectives, both as male children and as adults.

There is a closeness that comes from sharing. Women have long known this and engage more easily. But women can also gossip and small talk. They can get overly involved with situations and people that don’t deserve the energy they pull. Men don’t want to waste the words, or the time, on topics and people they don’t see a direct benefit to sharing with. Most are more rationally, less emotionally, driven in their decision-making and responses.

One never knows what the future holds, but one can be aware that the experiences along the way can build a bridge of stepping stones that lead toward or away from the relationships we care to develop. Choose with care. And love.

It’s Sunday. May 8th, 2016. Mother’s Day. Can that help us figure out where we are metaphorically, emotionally, mentally, philosophically?

My mom has been gone for six long years, yet she remains with me as she formed me, taught me, loved me, and is now part of me.

I read a quote this morning: “Contact your soul and your purpose and ask the defining question: “Am I being my biggest heart self, allowing my soul to guide my actions? Or am I living a limited, noisy, constantly busy life that consigns my soul to a corner of the room, where it waits my awakening?” Therese Tappouni

As the logically driven human being that I thought I was, it has taken heartbreak and heart-work for me to access my heart self, and then more time to be comfortable enough to act from that space. It’s not a question of my ability to love, I love deeply, it is more about my perception of vulnerability. Since I am naturally emotional and judged that to be a bad quality, I spent decades hiding that part of myself. I thought others would view my reactions as weak, uncontrolled, child-like. I’m sure my suppression exacerbated the problem.

I wanted to look strong, mostly because I didn’t feel strong.

What I learned over time is that I am strong.

I’ve said this before, and I believe it still – vulnerability (not weakness or victim-hood) requires bravery, belief in one’s power of resilience, and acute awareness. It is not easy and often kind. I am immediately aware of vulnerability because it touches me in the chest and solar plexus, and my brain (for a moment) freezes.

Think about your mothers today. What did they give you, take away, leave as a legacy? And what can you – as a mother, father, sibling, human – offer others that can make a difference?

Then my friends, make those differences, because they offer multiple and massive benefits toward making our world a better place.  

Happy Mother’s Day.

I unlock the door downstairs with the given code, and bound up the stairs to my newly found Pilates studio in New Haven, Ct. Sarah is calling my name as she taps on the pane of glass that separates us. She is the owner of the Sarah Aldrich Pilates Studio.

“I bought your book,” she says.

“That’s great, thank you. May I autograph it?”

“It’s on my bedstand at home. I’ll bring it in. I love reading about your early days in Brooklyn.”

My smile widens, I like Sarah. I tell her that she will really enjoy, although enjoy would be the wrong word, the later chapters. They are difficult but affecting. Life changing, really.

The first time I meet Sarah, we enter into a substantive conversation about aging parents, illness, and being present to tough circumstances that surround us. Not the usual first time conversation one has with a stranger. I tell her about The Moon To Play With, A Daughter’s Journey…because the conversation parallels the book too closely to simulate coincidence.

I had been looking for a Pilates studio in New Haven for over a year. I tried as many classes and privates as I could locate, each with an open mind and an eager desire for it to be the one. Sadly, none measured up to the class I was used to attending on Long Island.

Then a fitness person told me about this place, and in it, I found my niche. A noon mat class with an instructor who has a quirky personality, a substantial knowledge base and the ability to target deep muscles that works for me. She works us hard. I don’t get injured. She’s funny and cute and capable.

I miss the reformer aspect of Pilates, however. Sarah is re-creating class types and schedules that work for the instructors and clientele, so I’m hopeful a reformer class will appear in my near future. At eleven a.m. Or twelve noon. On Tuesday.

With a busy schedule, and new and exciting happenings in the works, having a place to workout that is comfortable, satisfying and convenient – feels like a blessing. And blessings are experiences I’m particularly open to having.

An article appears in my inbox from a woman I don’t know but who belongs to a group to which I am a member.

The article is titled: Brevity, Sharing the AWP Love: Accumulated Wisdom Posts. Content – Memoir.

Wisdom and Memoir. They had me with those two words.

The link to the article is listed below in case you want to read it straight from the author’s key strokes. https://brevity.wordpress.com/2016/04/07/sharing-the-awp-love-accumulated-wisdom-posts/

Janice Gary sounds like a good writer, and I am particularly interested in her list of ‘accumulated wisdom,’ in relation to ‘memoir, personal narrative, and poetry’. She lists 19 wisdoms. The point of such posts is for us to choose what resonates, and then work on making ourselves prolific. I feel inspired by some, but none border on turning me into a Hemingway. Shame. I am listing the five posts that speak most intimately to me:

“Be vulnerable on the page…” This affects both in the words I read and the life I lead, vulnerability being that blessing and curse paradox. I find the feeling confusing, although I clearly get its power on paper and in life.

“Say one bold thing.” Indeed. While what is bold may be subjective, what is bold for the writer is not. Which matters because at least one person will respond to that bold expression. We make a difference one bold expression and one individual at a time.

“My story matters more than what anyone thinks of it.” A powerful and courageous statement about the worth of one’s work (maybe oneself) without the trappings of outward approval we artists crave. Though success can be viewed by the sheer number of people who like something, talk about it, buy it, ultimately we know artists who are ahead of their time, or behind it, or whose genius does not jive with societal norms and is therefore undervalued and underpromoted, if not condemned. Perhaps it is these artists we have the most to learn from.

“Be your full self unapologetically. A bold, complicated, and eminently special concept. Be your full self unapologetically. I see this as a mantra for working on who we want to be and how we choose to present ourselves, never about hurting or changing others. We humans are a judgmental group, and if what I read in the newspaper about people who are different is any indication of our tolerance level, we are in need of improvement. I have been working on ‘being my full self unapologetically’ my whole life, and I’m getting better.

“It’s just that hard every time. You have to start over and over again.” A definite true-ism. It’s just that hard. Every time. Unbelievable that we keep taking a go at it. The other side of this coin is that the call to write is that powerful, and enticing, that us writers cannot not take heed.Sometimes our writing is a reality check between our sensibilities and what we observe, and sometimes it is the pure desire to express, to feel unthwarted and free, honest and real.

A smart person once said: “If it were easy, everyone could do it.”

A mere month ago I wrote a blog about being caught up in and thrilled about getting a dress for my daughter-in-law to be and my son’s wedding.

After long hours of sweat and toil, and driving to an absurd number of clothing stores, I have put a deposit down on the dress I will be wearing.

The story is long, and convoluted, but – of course – I am happy to share.

If you read the blog posted on February 22, 2016, titled Let The Shopping Begin (https://wendykarasin.com/2016/02/22/let-the-shopping-begin/) you will remember that I was to dress shop with the bride’s mom. We rescheduled due to a tsumani-esque rain storm that ran sideways in sheets of biting wind.

The day of our reschedule was nice but the dress situation was abominable. We found either prom dresses or (what is referred to in the fashion world as) ‘Mother of the Bride’ dresses. Each is ridiculous for different reasons. Prom dresses are for teens, and Mother of the Bride dresses (apparently this is a generic term inclusive of all mothers of anyone and everyone) are for centenarians. We were looking at glitter and glam and lots of skin or every part of us covered except for the knee down, and the neck up, in loose and unflattering materials and styles.

It was a dilemma I’ve heard discussed many times. Why has the fashion world not addressed this?

Then I found a missed call and a text from mother of the bride.

“I found my dress, it’s black. I love it!”

I was thrilled for her and a bit surprised. When we shopped, we were dead set against black. Our reasoning was this:

It’s a summer wedding. We want to set ourselves apart from our guests (who will undoubtedly wear black). We should blend with the bridesmaids in lavender-grey.

When we shopped together we looked at dresses in gold, silver, blush and magenta.

I love black and I show my loyalty by wearing it whether in workout attire, casual dress, or evening wear. Some part of me is always in black.

When I got the picture of her black dress with a sloping back, I felt a sigh-able liberation. Yeah, black, now I’ll find something.

And I did. My text to my new family will be: “I found my dress, it’s black. I love it!”

I tortured myself with colors like raspberry, orchid, plum and grape. Silver,sage and gold made me fade, nothing could be remotely like white (duh).

I admit to spending a few anxious hours and not fully restful nights picturing myself in bright (summer) colors. When black returned into the mix, my anxiety shrank, the world righted, and my comfort level returned in spades.

So what if we look like our guests (we won’t), or are not in bright summer colors (we are classy), or are wearing the same non-color? Who cares?

We are relieved, and onto the next big thing – shoes and bag. We are queens marrying our prince and princess. Queens are very busy people. Lesser issues like elections, terrorists, and Zika viruses will have to wait for another day.