Wendy Karasin – Musings of a Boomer

Shortly before she died my mom said, “Our lives are a blip on the radar, Wendy. You will go on living as though I never existed.”

How can such a statement be so true and so false simultaneously?

Time has taught me:

Not to call her when I’m upset, or happy, or have a question to ask, or need advice, or want to visit her – just because, no longer do I have the opportunity to giggle incessantly with her, or fight about our differing political views, or expect to see her smiling face and bouncy personality on holidays.

But memories have taught me the opposite.

I expect her to answer the phone, because she always had, and I want to hear her voice as I did for most of my life, I remember giggling with her so clearly that it hurts my heart not to, and although someone else sits in her seat on holidays, no one will ever take her place.

My mother was a force to be reckoned with, how such a petite woman garnered the gravitational power she did is a mystery.

She wasn’t always fun, or easy. She would withdraw from me when angry, which I found frightening as a child and teenager. She had a lot of opinions, and she was stubborn as a goat when she grabbed on to something.

But then she was as loyal as they came, she showered me with a singular love, she was steadfastly there for my heartaches and successes, and she was smart, well read, and genuine. She had a big heart, was the best grandma (ask my kids), and sang with the angelic voice she inherited from my grandmother, and my daughter then inherited from her.

Mom was a no bullshit individual, but she was also a softie. She had friends for 70 years, was the glue that held our family, dispersed over many states, together, and was a devoted daughter.

I miss her every day, and that’s a privilege because that can only occur when the love you shared outweighs the loss you suffered.

I came to writing groups late in life because, although I’d written since my early teens, I never considered myself a writer. I was instead a person who wrote.

I shared frustration and joy, heartsickness and love, estrangement and a sense of belonging.

I wrote poems about people who died to give to their surviving loved ones. I wrote letters to friends about friendship, I wrote songs of political dissent and expressions of confusion.

I began novels and memoirs that I never finished. I didn’t know why then, but I do now. I hadn’t gone far enough into the situation to see the other side or even the present moment clearly. I got stuck on the face of it, and stayed there, with the same frames repeating.

Until life and death touched me in the same second, and I lived with opposites, side by side. Tears and laughter, jokes and serious discourse, pleasure and pain. I knew what was happening before I was able to admit it. And I struggled to coordinate and assimilate what I knew with what I did not want to know.

Moments were surreal.

I recently finished reading the beautiful and brutal memoir, When Breathe Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi. The story of a brilliant man looking for meaning in literature, life, death, and medicine. He became a neurosurgeon and a neuroscientist, with a BA and MA in English Literature and a BA in Human Biology from Stanford. An MPhil in history and philosophy of science from Cambridge, and finally a graduation from the Yale School of Medicine. He was a surgeon with a conscience and a penchant for integrity. He wanted to understand his patients as people (what mattered to them), their brains (what was happening to them), and the science behind their conditions (how to heal them). He looked diligently for links connecting meaning with humanity and medicine.

This endeavor he faced with benevolence and curiosity. As I read, I became invested in this doctor who cared for his patients and exhibited an easy bedside manner. One must appreciate the difficulty inherent in dealing with major surgical concerns and disease and the willingness to remain open to these same patients who had as good a chance of death and disability as they did of recovery or survival.

In a cruel twist of fate, doctor became patient when diagnosed in his final year of residency with stage 4 lung cancer.

His ability to withstand pain, stay present, and choose what was important to him month by month, then week by week, and eventually minute by minute was a lesson in humility. Of course as his disease progressed, his goals and decisions had to change along with it.

If I have a year to live…..a month…..a day…..an hour. What matters? His honesty, vulnerability, reality, crashed in waves that washed him to the frothy surface that was his life and away from the one he had expected. Little can cleanse as quickly and thoroughly. Little can awaken us to the realm of what matters like the possibility of no longer existing.

When nonsense, even if we do not know it as such at the time, is stripped away, we are left with a core need, an essence, a purity that is hard to see in our big worlds, but which becomes exceedingly clear as that world shrinks.

That happened to me with my parents’ deaths. In the midst of excruciating emotional pain, I became a kinder, wiser person. The wrenching was also a morphing.

Why then, how then, are we a culture phobic about aging and death? Perhaps because we do not see the gratitude, compassion, and love that rest in the balance.

These are the words I read in an Omega magazine that arrived in a pile of mail on my doorstep.  Just Breathe. It struck me how often I find myself doing the opposite.

Let me count the times I hold my breath or stop breathing:

Reading the news, listening to the candidates, watching a television show or movie that becomes tense and dramatic, exercising, putting on mascara, avoiding a possible accident on the highway, hearing a favorite song, opening an important piece of mail, listening to a friend tell an intriguing story – I can go on.

Just breathe – it’s a large just. An involuntary action of the body to receive oxygen should need no reminding. Just breathe also requires volition to calm down, slow mind activity and body movement, reduce stressors, notice one’s breathing, intentionally take stock and take care of ourselves.

When I feel sad, or anxious, I remind myself to breathe deeply because it calms the initial fight or flight feeling that jangles my insides. And in yoga and Pilates classes, the instructors remind us to breathe. Sometimes they take it a step further and tell us when to inhale and when to exhale – but the reminder helps – not just with the exercise, but with total bodily coordination and awareness.

Maybe just breathe is all about awareness. So elemental a function, so primitive, so necessary for life. To breathe in a zen way, however, raises the stakes. Can I use my breath properly to hold a note, to enjoy a sink load of dishes, to walk a bit further, to dance for long periods to a great band? Can I inhale deeply the scent of a flower in bloom or a newborn baby, and exhale just as deeply the bus exhaust that burns my nose and the remainder of a long day? Can I calm or invigorate myself with my breaths?

Breathing is a Big Just.

I was discussing with a friend the fact that I’m, sort of, between projects. I say ‘sort of’ because the duties toward the primary aspects of my life: children, enduring relationships, household, are never finished exactly. Instead they morph. I’m learning, albeit slowly, to morph with them. I say ‘between’ because my book is published, and that was a tremendous endeavor requiring substantive commitment for the past 7 years.

There is a hole to fill. However, with 4 children, a serious relationship, and homes to care for, I don’t sit idle. If any one of these fronts should burst into activity, for example – my first born son getting married, and my daughter returning from overseas – life can get busy, quickly.

Yet, I long for an endeavor that pulls on my time and creativity.

My friend says: “Write another book, you’re a writer and writers write.”

He is, of course, correct. But do I have a story compelling enough to fill another book? I am proud of writing and publishing a memoir, even though it did not get the reception I dreamed of, even though I have stopped doing serious promotion.

I heard the book (and eventual movie) Help got rejected sixty times before someone picked it up. And The Beatles demo tape was rejected unmercifully, at first even by George Martin, who luckily thought better of it and ultimately signed and mentored the group.

My skin is too thin for rejection of this magnitude.

I have, however,  gotten wonderful reviews on Amazon, people call and tell me the book changed their lives and the way they view loss, strangers contact my Facebook author page (https://www.facebook.com/TheMoonToPlayWith/) to tell me they wish they’d read this book before loved ones died; they may have handled the experience better, or differently, Hospice Times has asked me to write for their online magazine, a friend who continues to endure old losses, has pleaded with me to instruct a master class on death, dying and presence, and my children have learned more about me and feel great pride in my authorship.

The road to success never did come easy, or was it, the course of true love never did run smooth? Both ring true.

Which still leaves me open to possibility, not a bad thing, and inquiry, sprinkled with uncertainty, held within the base of living.

I like things neat, placed on a closet shelf where they sit still. But that would beg the question – What’s the point? And even if there were a point, life would not cooperate because it’s messy, besides which, it would be exceedingly boring. Life pushes and stretches us beyond what is comfortable, sometimes beyond what we think we can stand, perhaps with the intention of showing us our capabilities, perhaps with the intention of molding us into our best selves.

Since we can be lazy, and tend not to bother, I have decided to include herein the death meditation that I mentioned in last week’s blog – https://wendykarasin.com/.

That moment was a reset for me. I had been leveled on a track of loss and darkness. Without available energy, and with parts of me wanting to remain where I was as a way to honor and remember my parents, I was stuck in my predicament.

This meditation, along with the passing of time, pulled me into a level of life where new air filled my lungs.

I could appreciate what felt good, as it sat side by side, with my pain and sorrow. My body, squarely centered on sitz bones and a purple mat, became a living vessel that could hold the entirety of me.

From the Epilogue of my memoir – The Moon To Play With, A Daughter’s Journey:

‘Recently, I attended a class in a newly built yoga studio with antigravity U-shaped swings that hung from the ceiling. The instructor, who was also the owner, was in her late twenties, loud as a Chinese gong, and carried a vente Starbucks caffeinated coffee to class. I wasn’t sure about this woman – young, loud, coffee to yoga – but she was a respectable teacher who provided substantive discussion and postures. 

The best class was the one I took in March of 2014, almost four years to the day after my mother’s death. The class progressed in its usual way until shavasana, which was, literally, a killer. Shavasana is the time in a yogic practice when students rest, take in what they’ve accomplished, lie on their yoga mats, and meditate. The shavasana she took us through was an improvised rendition of the Buddhist Death Meditation. 

Death meditations are supreme meditations, according to Buddha, and I now understand why. Ostensibly, a death meditation is performed to fear death less and appreciate life more. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I lay quietly, and contemplated my end. Vanessa took us on a journey as we moved further and further from the bodies we knew, imaging skin, tendon, and muscle that hung loosely from our bones. Vitality was siphoned as we slipped into a dull, listless, nothingness. Our breath slowed, our organs quieted, and our consciousness faded. The premise worked. As we gradually returned to inhabit our bodies, the vigorous rush of energy that whooshed in when we owned it, were there with it, remained present, was mammoth. 

One was reminded in those ten minutes that life ends, so play your living card robustly and extensively. Set your boundaries and rules. Stay in touch with the people you love. Decide what living life, not simply existing, means. Remember and keep alive those who have left us, and make the mark you choose to leave on the world daily, in small ways, because the timing of our deaths is unknown.’

Imagine the power and pride in becoming the person you want to be.

Perspective.

Today I went back to my old-haunt yoga studio to take a class with a yoga instructor who is unorthodox and life changing in small but substantial ways. I have a history with her, but hadn’t been there in so long that I recognized not one individual taking the class. When I was going regularly, people tended to come on the same day so it was a social event as well as a physical workout. The environment provided the perfect distance between fun banter and personal space. Her schedule hadn’t changed, mine had.

Vanessa is a young, no-nonsense, old soul. I connect with her on a multitude of levels which might seem odd considering our age difference. She intersperses humor with serious conversation – always to some end – as we stand in poses longer than we think we can, but repeatedly manage to do. She doesn’t judge, she simply reminds us that we are capable of holding a posture for 90 seconds, to relax our jaws (mine is continually baring down), and to remove our ‘active (as opposed to resting) bitch faces’.

I sway to her ipod’s music choices which are eclectic, some from back in the day, some new age, some in Sanskrit, the result of which makes the time I hold difficult poses, less difficult.

She speaks about being present to our lives, the challenges and the opportunities. She focuses and relaxes us with Pranayama breathing. She brings attention to the moment with demanding stances and controlled inhales and exhales. As she does so, she shares life stories that are universal connectors. We are reminded that while we cannot always control external circumstances, we can control/alter our perspectives on them.

I first met Vanessa some years ago, after my parents’ passed away. She was a knowledgeable and mindful instructor, but it wasn’t until she performed, and I yielded to, a ‘death meditation’ shavasana, that my perspective changed. I had never done one before. In the years I’ve known her, and the classes I’ve attended, she did it only that one time.

The meditation lifted me from my head and dropped me, heart pounding, into my body. The experience was as liberating as it was painful. I was brought to a deeply visceral sense, from this side of life, of how death could feel, and more personally what it could have been like for my parents’ as they exited the world.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, unimpeded by inhibition or thought or fellow yogis to my left and right. I was fully engaged yet I cannot adequately put the experience into words. Something within broke open – in the best possible sense. I felt an aliveness that had been dulled by the sadness of losing and missing my mom and dad.

The experience of returning to life was so compelling that I wrote about it in my memoir, The Moon To Play With – A Daughter’s Journey (http://tinyurl.com/oazqzug). If you’ve never experienced a ‘death meditation’ or even if you have, I recommend reading the paragraph that describes it in the epilogue of my book.

It sounds horrifying, something you’d prefer to run from than toward. But there is a reason the Buddha considered it the supreme meditation. Because in a safe place, at the right time, its power to transform is tremendous.

My oldest son and daughter-in-law to be are marrying in July. This means, after the outfits for the bride and groom are chosen, the most important thing are the clothes of everyone else in the wedding party. Am I really saying that? My sons are groomsmen and best men and my daughter is a bridesmaid. My non-groom sons’ girlfriends are in the wedding party too, and have picked out beautiful dresses. The mother of the bride and the mother of the groom have not. Not yet. Why?

This is no joke. Certainly not to us. Mothers can be picky in general and when an event is significant, in particular. What makes a dress a success? The color, shape, cost, how you feel in it, if others’ like it? I’m not sure and it can be all of the above, but what I can say with confidence is – how pretty and appropriate you feel in what you wear, matters.

Oy.

The bride’s mom and I had planned to head into Manhattan to search together for the dress that works for each of us. The weather report predicted torrential rains with winds gusting at 50 mph. The possibility of these winds sliding us off the bridge on our way there, along with the need to wade through pond-sized puddles on the sidewalk, has stalled the endeavor.

But we will not rest easy until all the players in the cast are clothed, and clothed well. When and why clothing has taken center stage in our lives is not apparent, but it has. Ask Zac Posen and Vera Wang.

I am a jeans/tank top, sweatpants/sweatshirt kind of woman. I value comfort and look good in casual. This does not mean I don’t dress up nicely, I can, and do, but I prefer soft, giving fabrics, ones that I can wash easily, and restock in my drawer to wear again. Practical. Mom called these outfits my uniforms, referring to what I liked most and wore most often.

casual

dressy

I don’t need enormous variety, I stick to what I know and what I like.

I dressed for work when I owned and operated a Diet Center in Manhattan decades ago. I enjoyed buying classic suits and pretty blouses. Colorful shoes and out of the box handbags. I liked having variety but I liked what I liked. I wasn’t great at giving my outfits equal time. If I liked you (as in said clothing or accessory) I wore you. I was painfully aware of not wearing the same article too often (duh) but if I had been less concerned with what others’ thought, I just might have.

Back to the dress. I want to feel beautiful (isn’t that an inside job?), I want others’ to think I look beautiful (how can I not, I will be beaming with joy). I tend to be safe on style, wear black, stand out while blending in. I also want – in this case – to be adventurous, wear a bright summer color, and let the world know I am the mom of one of the two people being celebrated.

Bride’s mom and I will make another attempt.

More importantly, we will remember the sanctity and the import of the day, dresses aside, that our children choose to spend their lives together. How awe-inspiring it will be to take that metaphorical step over and through the threshold that will alter what was into what is. For our children and ourselves, and all the relationships to be affected. Lovely dresses though they’ll be, nothing can be as meaningful as being there, participating in a matrimonial ceremony and celebration that starts new memories, friendships, and the continuation of a love begun.