...of friends and odysseys, dreams and truth

Things need not have happened to be true.

Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure

when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.

People think dreams aren't real just because they aren't made of matter, of particles.

Dreams are real.

But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.

Neil Gaiman

My friend, Eileen, took this photo a few weeks ago. A complete moment in a silent tableau. She wanted one more shot: "I was gunning for an HDR version, but then the little goober grabbed his bike and cycled off. Definitely a zen moment." 

Eileen's depth and talent would be deplorable if not for her self-depracating humor and love of irony, her great heart and her loyalty. She is, after all, the same one who snapped the following shot, aptly titled "Manhattan Scratchpad".

And this one, of which she said: "This morning in Exchange Place we bump into Frank's co-worker and head toward the WTC. The co-worker says Captain America is on this train and I'm thinking: 'Buddy, there were more than Wheaties in your breakfast this morning.' I turn around and gosh darn."

One afternoon she walked and searched until she found Chaplain Mychal Judge's name on the WTC memorial. I had told her about the impact of watching as the priest's body was carried from the rubble. So she sent me this:

I am one lucky woman to have such a friend. Understand, Eileen and I appear to be quite disparate creatures. I am tall; she, petite. She is of Asian descent. My family tree roots run through Europe with nary a drop of Eastern blood coursing through our veins. [I am, however, the more Zen-nish.] She is brilliant. I am so not. An incredible pianist, she recently finished the third song, "Thelxiepeia's Lament" of a trilogy, Haunted Dreams. [The links to all three pieces can be found at the end of this post.] I sang in the shower yesterday. In a most unlikely setting, we found each other. In the intervening years, we have laughed, cried, and kvetched together and the relationship has grown dearer for all of this.

Like my friend and I, these photos are markedly dissimilar. One is quiet in its stillness. The others shout. NYC overwhelms in volume but speaks volumes through individuals and communities measured in city blocks. Together the pictures tell stories unfettered by facts, rich in Truth.  

Much like a good Cabernet Franc, Truth is distilled. The process involves stomping, crushing, and waiting through long seasons, often harsh and cruel. But the vines survive these periods by sending their roots deep into the earth. Hmmmm. Is there a lesson here?

I've never taken a step in the city, other than to land at JFK and take off again. Hard to believe. The city that never sleeps is high on my bucket list, higher now that Eileen and Frank are there. I remember flying over NYC at night. A late flight out of Boston tracked down the congested northeast corridor. Our pilot gave us an aerial loop around New York, with a running commentary. Lady Liberty shone in the Hudson and, just beyond, the Twin Towers surged above the other rooftops. I would recall that night and weep less than a year later when those buildings fell. 

Now the new World Trade center stands in Manhattan, its spire in place. Fears of isolation due to stringent security measures in the complex are being voiced. Rest assured, this iteration of the WTC, like the rest of us, will have a finite existence. Another child will speed along on training wheels, with brief stops for potty breaks and ice cream. Other grafitti artists will speak on new surfaces. Or, as in the case of "Manhattan Scratchpad", scrawl their messages over earlier ones. We don't need to know the names of the child, of the artists, of those who ferry to work and ascend the towers to know the truth: life goes on. Gaiman is right:  Dreams...are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes. From these dreams, hope is re-born. Every time a baby howls at birth. Every time a weary worker gets up and suits up to feed a family.

Eileen and I have been pruned. We've over-wintered more times than we can count. But our roots run deep in the subtext of our lives. My palimpsest pal, I love you. Go forth and shoot. Play that piano. Tell me more stories and I will tell you mine. 

By the way, Frank and Eileen are now official Humans of New York, as documented in this photo by Brandon Stanton. [NOTE: One day I will document this couple's unofficial photos of "Signs of New York" but I'm fresh out of Depends at the moment. I laugh every time I look at them.]

Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure

when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.

People think dreams aren't real just because they aren't made of matter, of particles.

Dreams are real.

Thank you, Eileen (and Frank, too) for helping to keep my dreams alive.

Now, ya'll, I highly recommend that you take a listen to Eileen's work. 

The songs of the trilogy are named for the Sirens of Greek mythology.

Born of Eileen's own odyssey.

Enjoy.

Piesinoe

Aglaope

Thelxiepeia's Lament

And, as urged by Neil Gaiman, go forth and make some art.

(Thank you, Denise and Martha, for reminding me this morning.)

...happy mother's day, mama

She was almost three when it happened. They had gone to town for a family photograph...my grandparents, Uncle Raymond, my mother, Vancene, and her identical twin sister, Aleene. The happy outing was cut short when Aleene became feverish. A single photograph of the three children was snapped, then they left. Two hours later the doctor rode to the farm in a horse-drawn buggy and stayed until the early morning to pronounce the toddler dead. Diphtheria, fast and furious.

My grandparents had dodged the bullet when both of them became ill with influenza during the deadly pandemic that followed WWI. Uncle Raymond, less than a year old, never got sick as he crawled circles around them. This time they were not so fortunate.

The portrait, in a wide oval frame with convex glass, hung in my grandparents' bedroom when I was young. When I was eleven, my mother carried it to photographer Kimball Thomas' studio. I read a book while they talked, then watched Mother choose another oval frame. Weeks later, she came home with the original photograph and another package. Inside the brown paper wrapping, a hand-tinted portrait of Aleene alone. Kimball had enlarged the original picture and Mrs. Thomas had worked her magic with the tinting. I'd expected a copy of the original, not this haunting portrait of a fragile child, eyes already weakened by a fever that would grow in a firestorm of intensity and ravage her tiny body for hours. Before she died, my grandmother talked to me about the twins. Mother, to my amazement, was characterized as the dare-devil of the two.

Don't get me wrong. Mama had spunk. She was fearless in the face of weeds that threatened to encroach upon her beloved flower beds. Slugs and aphids didn't stand a chance. Once, when our radiator sprung a leak while we drove along country roads, miles away from a gas station, her quick thinking saved the day. She stopped at a farmhouse. Handed me two packs of gum and told me to start chewing while she got water. A large blob of Juicy Fruit plugged the hole and held the well-water she added until we made it back to town.

But Mama was afraid. A senseless, crippling fear. Hidden, sort of. How, I wondered, could a woman - so bright and talented - be riddled with such insecurity? Unable to acknowledge the demons that haunted and isolated her. This year her story became a little clearer through conversations with a cousin. And Aunt Aleene. The mute child in the portrait whispered to me in my dreams. And a friend named Mary translated.

I woke up one morning with a clear image written across the back of my mind. On another morning, almost a century ago, another young girl had awakened, ready to embrace the day. Next to her, an empty spot, where her twin should be. She had gone to sleep with her inseparable playmate nearby, a sister who was her spittin' image. Now she was gone. Forever gone. Mama was too young to understand death. No words could reach that childhood void just as none would fill the gaping hole throughout her life.

But Mary's words in an imagined dialog between my mother and me reached me:

Me: What is the first thing you can remember?

Mother: My sister went away. I was so young I can't really remember us being together. We were twins and she was such a part of me that she was like my arm or elbow, always there to play with, her heartbeat a part of mine. One night I went to bed and the next day she was gone. I never understood it, no matter what they said. Little girls can disappear. I could see her in Momma's eyes when she looked at me. Two reflections of myself. Sometimes I would run through Momma's room past her mirror, real fast, and look over. She always looked over, too. I didn't lose my elbow or arm, but there was a hole in my heart I could never mend. It grew so big when I was young that, when I got older, I never even knew it was there. I sealed it closed because I was afraid to open it up. I was afraid I would disappear into it too. 

Today when I look at the old portrait that now hangs in my son's home, I ache, Mama. A solitary child, siblings removed from the picture...I should have seen this sooner. You saw yourself in that portrait...vulnerable, lonely. You tried to tell us in the only way you knew. Perhaps you didn't really understand yourself.

We humans can survive almost anything life hurls at us if we know that we were wanted. Love - even love that seems far from perfect - sows seeds that take root. You were always loved, Mama. Across deep chasms. I sense your presence whenever I see a beautiful flower. [Except for African violets. That's a story for another day.] You taught me to say "please" and "thank you". To identify silver patterns from twenty paces. To appreciate beauty, if not imperfection. Acceptance of imperfection came through you, though. Your pain pointed me there. I'm glad that you awoke from the fog of Alzheimer's long enough to answer me when I asked you if you needed anything: "No," you said, smiling, eyes closed. "God's right here, taking care of me." Peace, blessed peace.

The dialog continues. Granted, it's a little one-sided, word-wise. But I hear you, more clearly than ever before.

Me: I'm sixty-two now. I think on good things for the most part. I don't want to give the darkness permission to steal another ounce of joy. And I hope I honor the great gift I received because of you, one you found hard to accept. You made me afraid of just one thing: living in fear. A weird road to faith, perhaps. Daddy gave me the words. You gave me the push. Here's to forever spring, Mama. I love you.

The Rose

...thoughts (and tips from wiser folks) on parenthood

Disclaimer: I did not  - do not - qualify for Parent of the Century...wouldn't with another go-round. If you request, I will provide my kids' contact info and you can hear their rebuttals comments first-hand. But these observations stolen from based on a conversation between Andy and Sandra Stanley struck me as too practical to ignore. They are a legacy from ones who've run that good race of parenthood and learned a few things along the way.

As a young mother, I appreciated practical tips. My friend, Marsha, passed this along: "Don't say, 'My child won't do such-and-such.' Of course, said child will. At the worst possible, most public moment. Just decide how many times you're going to let them get away with the crime it."

From wise Kay: "Give them two choices." Two. Not the whole smorgasbord. Offer them a couple of well-thought-out choices - whether clothes, food, play activities or chores - and let them choose between these. We mirror good choices for them this way. And the kids are empowered, not overwhelmed. Kids want boundaries even when they don't know it because, at some level, they know they don't know. They are small and the world is awfully large. Without limits, they can easily become little tyrants as they try to establish control in what seems to them an out-of-control environment. Or they will, in their fear, make the same choice over and over again. After all, it worked once. Why take a chance and try something new?

So here's the good stuff I heard this morning. First a general break-down of the parenting years along these lines. When followed, they are guaranteed to mininize break-downs:

I.   Discipline Years (1-5)
II.  Training Years (5-12)
III. Coaching Years (12-18)
IV. Friendship Years (18+)

Main point: delayed gratification is not just for kids. We can love on our babies, revel in them, enjoy every second. But don't worry about the friendship thing early on. This too shall happen. Later. Remember this about disciplining offspring: when kids get too big to pick up and and put in bed, it's too late to start. When they can get in a car and drive off, discipline is pretty much not an option. You can love, tolerate, pray for, and be proud of your seventh-grader. But you can't "just be friends" with your middle-schooler. If you write to me and tell me that you are/were, I will respond. There is help available for delusional thinking.

In the early years when you wonder if every moment of your life is going to be spent as Corrector-in Chief, remind yourself that this is only a season. What happens in years one through five is an investment in growth that can't be easily or fully accomplished in later years. Just in case the previous paragraph didn't sink in, START EARLY. If you have a child just short of a fifth birthday and have never tried this approach, don't roll over. Get to work. Now. Just do it. Take the pain first. Enjoy the gravy later.

No parent can cope with correcting every single infraction. There would be no time for joy. Or showers. But we can choose the Non-Negotiable Biggies - Disobedience / Dishonesty / Disrespect - and be consistent.

Preaching, restrictions, payback don't work. Kids will tune out the sermons because they KNOW we don't get it right and are smart enough to shift the spotlight onto our shortcomings. Restrictions tend to put the whole family on restriction. Payback is vengeance in a pretty dress. Discipline is about re-establishing broken relationships, not about who has the power. Just as you hold your little one in your arms to console them when you've had to say "no", for as long as your children live in your home, stand with them as you stand firm. We side WITH our children AGAINST their disobedience. Instead of "How could you", "You promised me", "I told You", go first to "Oh, no." Not as a declarative scolding. Think "Oh, dear." Commiseration. "I want to side WITH you." Again, with loving consistency.

Examples:

"There's gonna be consequences for this. Oh, no."

"Now you're going to have to apologize. Oh, no." 

"You'll have to repay...oh, no."

Translation:
You broke a rule, a law, and I don't want this behavior to hurt you. I'm not mad with you. Oh, no, I'm    

upset and I grieve with you.

Stick to the plan, no matter how real those immediate alligator tears seem. [NOTE: I remember crying some of my own and KNEW I was being manipulative at the time. Even before I knew what "manipulative" meant, I knew I was conning. So did my parents.] 

Start early to keep the lines of communication open. Start, in fact, at the dinner table. A hallowed time. As the kids get older, sports and extra-curricular activities intervene. Be intentional. Make plans ahead of time and set aside inviolable family dinner time a couple of times a week. Let the conversation be all-inclusive...of those at the table, of subject-matter. Substantive, not heavy. This is a time for the kids to air their thoughts. Without being preachy or holy, we can channel discussions to incorporate values: how to be stewards of money and time; how to treat others, etc. 

Best not to freak out when the kiddoes drop a revelation. Good or bad. Even if your insides are going "You've got to be kidding", put on a poker face and keep the flow of conversation going. These are teachable moments for everybody. [NOTE: I have all too often jumped in with "suggestions" that backfired. Refer to the kids' contact info, first paragraph. They will - with insidious delight - provide copious examples, alphabetically or chronologically.]

"Don't bail. Let 'em fail." A good general rule. Sometimes intervention is necessary but most times issues work themselves out IF kids are taught to be respectful of others. The stakes are much lower when children are younger, much higher in later years. Don't steal from your children the opportunity to learn from mistakes while they are young. When middle-schoolers bemoan that a teacher hates them, use this as an opportunity to coach them how to work out situations. "What DO you do when an authority makes an unjust decision and you have no recourse?" After all, this will happen throughout life. Not everyone likes us. This isn't even a worthy goal. Again, common sense guides us to know when intervention is necessary. If we're intervening more than a couple of times a year, we probably need an intervention.

I like these suggestions from the Stanleys. Thank you, Andy and Sandra. Now I'll add a few of my own observations: 

You won't get it all right. Welcome to the club.

Unless you're the most unobservant human ever born or just don't care, you probably won't make the same mistakes your parents made. We humans are very creative. You'll make some doozies of your own.

Remember that, if you lay down the ground work for a respectful, teachable (not perfect) child, somewhere down the road, they will be your friend. For life. 

Remember to treat your adult progeny with respect. Don't try to make them in your image. Revel in their individuality and resourcefulness. Even when they feel sorry for you in your obvious ignorant state. This seems to pass with maturity. They can only blame you for everything until their peers get tired of the broken record.

When you're tired, remember what Sandra said: "The days are long but the years are short." A contribution from Andy in another message also comes in handy: "Love. Forgiveness. All else is negotiable." Give thanks in all circumstances. Life is precious.

Have a listen to Andy and Sandra's dialogue. Forty-eight minutes and thirty-two seconds that you'll get back over and over again with MUCH more than can be found in this post. Just click HERE and follow these directions: select "Watch Messages" in the upper right corner, then choose Episode 5. You might find this so illuminating and entertaining you'll want to try the whole series. Covers a slew of family issues.

P.S. Feel free to comment and pass on your wisdom in the comments. Exception to this invitation: perfect parents and parents of perfect children need not bother. You are delusional and annoying.