Out to Sea

Tybee Island -

Traded a good internet connection for the ocean. 

Today, I walked on the beach twice, found a perfect conch shell, watched pelicans diving for their breakfast...

went to the pier and took my own picture with my cell phone

and it's not even noon yet.

I'll be back on Sunday...

Savanah III

It's already becoming a blur for me.  Beautiful squares:

Beautiful houses:

And then I reach a point of overload.  Yes, it's all beautiful, and I just can't do anymore.  No more pictures.  No more beautiful rooms with amazing furniture.  No more souvenir shops. 

I hit that point about 4:30 yesterday, and after that I was just driving Julia around, like Driving Miss Daisy.  I'd go straight, turn left, turn right, just following directions, til she'd say - there!  park!

And I would.  She'd jump out and disappear into another square, camera in hand. I'd close my eyes and snooze.  Waiting for the next directions - go straight...

But I've skipped to the end of the story, well, one of the ends, and there's still so much to tell.  Ok, backing up now.

There was Chris and the bus tour, and the 10,000 stories he told, and then the ghost tour that night, which he also led.  That was lots of fun.  He totally sold me on the idea that on a battlefield where 1100 men were killed in 55 minutes, there must be ghosts.  While I haven't been able to find conformation of his exact version of the story, which involved betrayal and great drama, it is apparently true that about that many men died in what is called "the bloodiest hour of the Revolutionary War."

Also interesting were the four prohibitions that Savannah started with:

-  No lawyers
-  No hard alcohol
-  No Catholics  and
-  No slavery

Eventually, of course, all of those prohibitions were lifted.  Slaves in Savannah, however, had a slightly different experience than elsewhere in the country.  I had read this somewhere before, but forgotten it. 

Slaves in Savannah were allowed to travel into town and work at a variety of trades, such as blacksmithing or weaving.  They were allowed to keep the wages they made from these endeavours.  If they purchased their freedom, they were treated pretty much like other citizens (with the exception of the vote, I think.)   So that created a somewhat different atmosphere in Savannah.

Having read "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" before I came to Savannah, I already knew that Savannah locals pride themselves on being a little eccentric, with Southern charm to spare.  For sure, that's true.

Tuesday night, we had dinner at The Pirate's House as part of the ghost tour.  It was fun to see the cellar where the underground tunnel was open for rum-runners coming in - and kidnapped men and boys being "shanghai-ed" to sea.  Of course, Chris gave us graphic details of the cruelty imposed on the kidnapped men - and the men who were injured and left behind to die.

We were encouraged to take pictures in the area, and assured of the likelihood of capturing some ghosts on film.  

Unfortunately, all my pictures look like this.  No, I can't see the ghosts either.  Julia, however, has some on her camera that are pretty impressive, and I'll post them when she sends them to me.

But it was even more fun to listen to our server, Elijah, rave about the ghost pictures he's captured on film.  He was passionate about it, and divided his time pretty evenly between providing impeccable service to our table for dinner and accompanying us to even better areas to catch glimpses of ghosts.

I did cringe a little when he referred to us as "young ladies," but he couldn't have known that we wouldn't have been delighted.  Well, and I wasn't thrilled when he called us "love," as if he were British - "Here you go, luv," as he set a plate down.  But those were minor negatives, and he was friendly and fun.

Here's a picture of the Pirate's House restaurant - that's Chris, our tour guide, back in the corner.  

Ok, so that kind of brings us up to date - well, not really, but it gets us through Tuesday night, pretty much, kind of, and that's something. 

Today, we move to Tybee Island.  It's supposed to go up to 60 degrees and the sun's shining - woohoo!  and I'm excited.  Julia's taken the car and gone to explore more of the city.  When she comes back, we'll go see the couple of more things I want to see, and head out.

Stay tuned...  tomorrow I'll tell you about the one rude person we met...  Oh - here's what I saw from my balcony today: 

Ok, unfortunately, you can't really tell what it is.  However - see the bridge off to the left - then look at the big thing that looks like another building in the background - that's actually a ship.  The little white piece with the red top sticking up?  Part of the ship. 

So my pictures may not be professional quality.  I actually forgot I had a real camera here and the iphone may be a little limited.... 

Savnannah - II

I'm already behind in my story - but that's ok, right?  I can always catch up when I get home.

That first night, after we got here, we headed out for dinner.  A windy, cold walk to the river - fortunately only a couple of blocks long.  The restaurant was warm, thank goodness.    We decided to have a drink to celebrate.

Yep, martinis.  Julia's is the one with the olives - our server, Will, stuffed them with blue cheese himself.  Mine has expresso and a little chocolate and a dash of carmel in it.  It was lovely.

I had to take this picture about 10 times - I kept accidentally doing a video instead.  Very annoying. 

Here's a not-very-good picture of Will, who took really good care of us:

As you can see, it was a dark, elegant restaurant.  He's doing a Ceasar salad tableside, always a treat.  That got us started reminiscing about Willie Bizzle Ceasar salads, which were the best in the world, and then about other restaurant people and places.

Back in our youth, we sampled some great restaurants.  The Brass Rail in Nashville, 1789 in DC, and some fancy restauant that neither of us can remember the name of in Chicago...  And we have great restaurant stories, but I won't go into that here.  Enough to say, we amused ourselves nicely, while feasting on -

Jumbo scallops with asparagus and goronzola cheese for an appetizer, followed, of course, by the Ceasar salads and then we split:

Shrimp Saute, with mushrooms and capellini pasta and a slightly spicy sauce.  Yum.


With, of course, a glass of white wine - Chardonnay for Julia, Pinot Grigio for me.  Lovely.

After which, we fought the wind all the way back to our room and slept soundly.

We started late yesterday - Tuesday - didn't get on our trolley bus tour til almost 11:00.  But our timing was good in one way - our first tour guide was Chris, who was knowledgable, which I'm sure all the guides are, but also funny. 

Chris started out with a story about the beautiful bridge to South Carolina we could see from the trolley.  Chris gave us all the facts and figures about it - and that it was named after a governor.  The extra tidbit (in his delightful southern drawl) was that the particular governor had only been in office a short time before he was found to have "sticky fingers."  He was removed from office shortly after that and - Chris shrugged - "we named a bridge after him."

Ninety minutes later, we had a good overview of Savannah's history, and a lot of great stories.  We got off the trolley ready for lunch.

This is where we ate:

It was very fun. 

But I've barely even started on yesterday yet, and in 3 minutes, I've got to wake Julia up so we can start Round II of Seeing Savannah. Yikes.

More to follow....

Savannah - I

You've probably already heard the story about my sister's birthday celebration, but I'll tell it again just in case you missed it.  It started with the book Annie Freeman's Traveling Funeral, which is a wonderful story about a woman (Annie Freeman) who dies.  She's cremated, and she'd left instructions for a group of women friends to take this journey to scatter her ashes.

In the book, she has the trip all set up, with planned adventures and encounters along the way, and then of course, there's always the unexpected.  If you've never read the book, I recommend it, it's very fun.

So Julia reads it, and thinks it's great, but - "why wait til I'm dead?  I wanna have the adventures while I'm still alive."  She turned 50 this year, and once you turn 50, you realize that you really can do anything you want to.  At least, that's my theory.

So that's what she does.  All year long, Julia goes on little trips with different people she loves.  Now, here we are, December, the birthday year's almost over, and our adventure is almost past due.

I wanted to go somewhere warm.  She's always wanted to go to Savannah.  I wanted to see the ocean - don't have to lay out in the sun, just need to see it, smell it, be near it.  She's always wanted to go to Savannah.  It was the perfect plan.

We knew it might not be real warm.  We knew it was a long drive.  When we heard it was supposed to snow the day we were leaving, we even knew it would be smart to leave the evening before we'd originally planned.

We didn't know that we'd pull into Savannah looking like this:

We left about 6:00 Sunday night, and driven through the snow, past Lexington, past Corbin (home of the original KFC, and close to where our grandmother had lived.)  It was snowy, and kind of slick, but we persevered.

We stop at the rest area on the Tennessee border.  Laugh at the sign that says, "Use caution, roads may be slick." 

"Well, no duh," we say.  "The roads are a little slick.  Ya don't have to tell us to use caution!  But it's only 58 miles to Knoxville - let's at least get that far." 

And we blithely head on.

5 miles, and 20 minutes later, Julia says, "Well, it's not so bad as long as there's a truck or something ahead of us.  Their lights give me some depth perception.  But without that, oh, geez, I can't see - well, I can't see much of anything." 

Fortunately, an SUV passes us - we follow him for another 8 or so miles.  Then he picks up some speed - "No!  Don't leave us!"  we say, half laughing, and watch his lights fade away far ahead of us. 

We creep on.

So when we see a billboard that says "Comfort Inn - Exit 141 - 5 miles" we don't even have to discuss it.  It's got our names all over it.

And it's a beautiful sight - as we finally slide onto the exit ramp, we can see it, sitting at the top of a little hill.  Lining the driveway up to it are rows of Christmas lights, arranged to lead us safely in. 

"Yes!" we breathe a sigh of relief.

The woman at the desk is warm and welcoming, even if she might think we're a little strange for being out in this.  The room is cozy and nice.  We're happy.

Julia examines the trip tic - yes, we still have a Triple A trip tic, she loves them.  "I think we want to avoid the mountains as much as we can."

"Ya think?" I say, then add, "Really - do we have a choice?."

"Look," and she holds out the map, pointing, "If we go this way, through Atlanta, see here - I think we avoid most of the real mountains, and it's only about half an hour longer."

I don't even have to put on my glasses, I trust her judgment on this completely.  But I put my glass on anyway, just so it looks like I'm a full partner in the decision making.  "Mmmhmmm," I say, and it does look like there's a lot less elevation, "Sounds good to me.  Let's do it."

Of course, there is some talk about leaving early, then we realize that's foolish.  "If we wait til after rush hour, the roads will be clearer, traffic won't be at a standstill, we won't have to deal with all those other drivers."

Sounds like a plan to me. 

So we start out the next morning, after a good night's sleep.  It's a little slow going at first, but no real problems the rest of the way. 

I stop and get the car washed right before we get to Savannah because the snow is finally all gone, and I don't want my car to be embarrassed in front of all the pretty, clean cars.  For some reason, the GPS on my iphone, which had been guiding us unecessarily, quits talking right when we need her.  I'm driving again, so I can't fix it without drifting off the road, but we manage to find the hotel anyhow.

And at last here we are!  Our hotel is right in the historic district, only about a block from the river.  The desk clerk is delightful, answers most of Julia's questions, and assures her that the concierge will be able to tell her much more in the morning.

At last, checked in, settled in, and freshened up a little, we're ready to head out for dinner...

IdeaFestival

Yesterday, I got to go to a small part of  IdeaFestival.  Daniel Tammet was speaking.  His website describes him as "a writer, a linguist, and an educator."  He's written two very successful, best-selling books.  He has "high functioning autistic savant syndrome," or, as he often says when speaking, "an autism spectrum disorder."

His website says:

"Tammet set a European record March 14th 2004 when he recited the famous mathematical constant Pi (3.141...) to 22,514 decimal places from memory in a time of 5 hours, 9 minutes."

His picture might give you a better sense of who he is:

Or if I tell you that he spent years methodically studying other kids at school, working on learning to interact with them.  That when he went to Lithuania at 18 to teach English, he felt like he fit in for the first time.  "Any oddities of mine," he says, with understated humor, "I was able to attribute to being English." 

Or if I tell you that numbers, for him, have color and shape and personality. That he memorized the numbers of pi because they "made a beautiful landscape."

Now I have a confession to make.  A year ago - maybe two years now - I ran across the idea that "autism is a gift."  I don't remember who said it, or the context, but I scoffed.  
 
When I expressed my scepticism to my friend and co-worker, Laura, she looked at me a little strangely.  "Fausta," she said, "Haven't you ever heard of Temple Grandin?" 

"No," I admitted, "I haven't."

"You haven't seen the movie?"  Um, no, I hadn't.  Laura shook her head, "Oh, you should see it.  Temple Grandin - she's really something - she changed my way of thinking about autism spectrum disorders."

Ok, more confessions.  I kind of shrugged it off.  Not that I didn't believe Laura, I did.  But I didn't pursue it.  I stuck a mental post-it note in my head with a question mark and, "Think about this some day," scrawled on it.   

Yesterday was that "some day."

It's not that I ever thought people with autism spectrum disorders didn't have full value as people, or didn't deserve respect, or didn't have strengths.  I totally believed all that.  I equally didn't believe that autism could be a gift, or that it wasn't a burden to overcome.

The fact that Mr. Tammet can recite the numbers of pi for five hours still doesn't convince me.  It's that he memorized them because they "created a beautiful landscape."  When he recited them, some of the journalists present for the exhibition cried.  Why?  They said it had been "a spiritual experience" to listen to him; they were moved.  

That made me think I might actually be missing something.

Maybe it's because he thinks words have shape and weight and color too - and I can relate to that.  I "know" that words have personalities and texture and the way they look and feel matters.  (Doesn't everyone know that?)

Maybe it's because I can imagine a child in our school system who sees numbers as having color and shape.  Picture it.  The teacher says, "What number is that?" and he says, "Red."

Teacher:  "No!  What number?"

He says, "Triangle,"

They have him tested for expressive language problems, and send him to a language specialist who "fixes" him.  He learns not to say the color he sees or the shape he perceives.  But what would happen if we were open to exploring that idea instead?

If instead of saying, "No," and correcting him, we explored his perspective.  If we followed his lead in how to learn.  Crazy, right? 

But we don't know what might happen - our systems are designed to package people, not unfold them.  If autism is a way of thinking differently that has benefits, we don't even know what gifts it might bring.  There might be a world of knowledge that we're missing, ignoring and supressing.  A world that we could explore too, if we were open to the possibilities.   

************************************************************

So, after listening to Daniel Tammet, and getting my world shaken up a little bit, I was ready to be moved by the next speaker too.  I was surprised to find myself - not much moved.  It was an interesting talk, and I wasn't bored or anything.  It just didn't speak to me in the same way.

I was pondering that idea while I listened, how some ideas snatch us up at one moment and not at others.  And it occurred to me that I was just filing this information away for now.  That, for all I know, I might feel passionately about the topic some day, and find myself saying, "And I saw this speaker at IdeaFestival, but I didn't really appreciate it then..."

Still later, I was sharing this insight with my sister, Julia.  "Well, yeah," she says, "You're just filing it in the attic.  Then you can pull it out when you want to.  A lot of times, people say, 'Nickel knowledge - what use is that?' but...."

And I interupt her - "Nickel knowledge?  What's that?  I don't think I've every heard that phrase before."

"Really?  People say that all the time.  You know, they'll say something about Cortes' siege of the Aztec city in Peru, and I'll say 'Oh, right, Tenochtitlán.'  And they're like - 'Nickel knowledge.'"

(Just as an aside - I don't have any friends who talk about Cortes' siege of an Aztec city.  Or use the phrase "nickel knowledge."  I just don't.  One of the things I appreciate about my sister is that she does.)  

Anyhow.  Julia went on to say, "But you know, in one of the presentations this morning, they were talking about creativity.  And he said, 'In order to have creativity and innovation, you have to have ideas stored in the attic.  Ideas you can bring out when you need them, when you find a use for them.'"

"Ideas stored in the attic" - I love that idea!  So if this post doesn't speak to you now, that's ok.  It's still an idea to store in your attic, waiting for another day.             

Jubilee

I went on a whim. 

Of course, I know Sue.  And I've always felt a special bond with her - I'm not even sure why.  She's spent many years working in Peru and she carries that aura of - I don't know - that special aura people get when they work with poor people, with people who know what suffering is and can still find joy in the day.  It sets her apart, that ability to see things from a different world. 

And it was her Jubilee celebration.  Fifty years of being a nun.  That's a big deal.  But that might not have been enough to get me to a church on a Sunday afternoon. 

My daughter, Julia, was going to be there.  That's always a pleasure.  But Julia was going to be helping babysit the kids, so it wasn't like we'd be hanging out.  And, really, I see her all the time anyhow.

No, I think I just knew.  Some part of me just knew that it was going to be an experience to hold on to. 

And now that I've started this, I don't know how I'm going to describe it so you'll understand.  I can tell you this -

It was in the church next to Casa Latina.

St Phillip Neri

I couldn't find any pictures of the inside.  It's dark, and still has pews, and the huge altar up in the front.  Chairs are arranged in a large circle on the altar. 

There are wall hangings by Penny Sisto .  A year ago, I'd never heard of Penny Sisto - now I run into her work and her name all the time. 

Divine with Birds
You can see how beautiful
her quilts are...

But telling you that still doesn't give you the atmosphere.  Let me tell you this  -

Sue is in the back of church. Her skirt is bright red and blue, with maybe some splashes of green.  She greets me and hugs me.  I get a program and a piece of cloth, maybe three inches wide and a couple of feet long. Mine is green with a white pattern; everyone's is different. They invite me and the other guests to stay in the back of church and "process" in with Sue.  (Do you spell that differently when it's "process" like a procession?  You should!)

There are elderly nuns arriving in small groups - no, not in habits or veils, really, nuns don't wear those anymore. But you can just tell.  A few little girls in fancy dresses are in the front, near the altar and the musicians, the girls are sitting on the steps practicing gestures for a song.  The musicians have drums, maybe a keyboard.  I hear a maraca.

Women from Casa Latina are bringing stacks of purple, green and blue plates and cloth napkins to the couple of long tables in the back of church, getting ready to feed us later on.  A few small children are wandering around quite happily while the nearest adult keeps an eye on them. 

Some folks are already seated in the chairs, arranged in a large circle on what would have been the altar area.  Everyone is a little dressed up, often in colorful summery skirts and tops.  In the middle of the circle are four pieces of red cloth, laid out on the floor.

And see, I can tell you all that, but I don't know if you can feel it.  There are preparations going on here, a nice mixture of excitement and calm.  No one is frantic, no one seems worried, but there is work being done.  Each step is taken with care.  Each guest is welcomed.  Each item is attended to.

And then it is time, and the guests are invited once again to come to the back of church, those who have already sat down, invited to come to the back of church for the procession.   The music begins, a simple rhythm, and we walk up the aisle, waving our cloths enthusiastically, like little flags in front of us.   

And then we are all seated, maybe 50 of us, in the chairs in a circle.  And another group of children, with the babysitters, Julia and Fiona, settle down in the pews so they can play and move around when they need to.  Then the entrance song begins. 

But I can't play it for you!  It is Song at the Center, the song that is the prayer to the four directions.  The chorus goes like this:

From the corners of creation to the center where we stand,
Let all things be blessed and holy, all is fashioned by your hand;
Brother Wind and Sister Water, Mother Earth and Father Sky,
Sacred plants and sacred creatures, sacred people of the land.

And I won't do all the words here now, but it goes on to call on the East and the West, the North and the South.  For each direction, there was a symbol, presented simply to each of us in the circle, gently laid on the cloth on the floor.  

And I know you can't quite feel it, the stillness.  The - the significance.  It was not for show, the dancers weren't demonstrating their art, they were the carriers of the symbols.  It was an ancient prayer, and it called on ancient elemental symbols.  It moved us, it moved me into some deeper place, where I could connect with the earth and the water around us and in us and the sky and all of nature... 

And then Sue welcomed us, first in English, then in Spanish.  And read from the Bible, Ruth 1:16.

"Do not press me to leave you and to turn back from your company, for wherever you go, I will go, wherever you live, I will live.  Your people shall be my people, and your God my God."

And then in Spanish, because it was all carefully in Spanish and in English, so no one was left out.

I wish I could make you see the rest of it.  Six little girls in fancy dresses, ribbons in their hair, and two little boys, sang their song beautifully.  The smallest little boy kept inching up closer to the microphone so it picked up his voice and he could hear himself over the other children.  Grinning half-shyly, he stopped when the oldest girl put her hand on his shoulder and loudly hissed at him, but in a minute he was back up there, and so cute, we all had to laugh.

We all learned a song, a prayer, with gestures, and we sang together, in English, in Spanish, and at last all together in whatever language we chose.

We joined our pieces of cloth, tied them all together in a huge circle and layed them around the symbols on the floor, in the middle of our circle.  I wish you could have seen it, and of course, you know, each piece was different, unique, and yet they were all connected.  Yes, just like us.

And Sue's brother spoke, about Sue and his pride in her and his feelings, and Karina, who translated, had tears in her eyes, and of course Sue did.  And I did too, and so would you have, if you'd been there.

People got to say a few words about Sue and what she meant to them, and it wasn't - it was just simple, nobody said too much and it was all very real.  I wanted to say something, I even thought about what I'd say, but I didn't say it then.

And then, when it had been just long enough, but not long enough for people to get restless, they read the song "I Hope You Dance," that has the lines I love:

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance
I hope you dance

And I think Sue would have been satisfied if we'd continued straight to the closing music, but there was a gift for her.   As an expression of love and appreciation for her, and fifty years of service, she was given a quilt.  Yes, a Penny Sisto quilt. 

Denny had gone up in the choir loft and hung it over the edge, so when Sue turned around she could see it.  And I wish you could have seen the look on Sue's face - surprise and shock and disbelief, and then of course appreciation. 

Madonna of New Beginnings

And then we sang the last song, while we danced our way to the back of church, where they were setting up the feast. 

And now that I've written this the best I could, it occurs to me that maybe I didn't really write it for you after all.  Maybe I wrote it for Sue.  Because here's what I would have said if I'd spoken up in the church that day:

"I haven't know Sue as long as most of you, or as well as most of you have.  But I've known her long enough, and well enough, to know I wanted to be at her jubilee celebration.  I knew that her ceremony would create sacred space.  That there would be community, and sharing, and an uplifting sense of joy and peace.  I knew that I would be glad I came.  And I wanted to be here to thank her - for being the kind of person who brings together people who make this happen."  And then, if I wasn't too overwhelmed with feeling already, I would have put my hands together and brought them to my lips, bowed just the least bit, and said, "Namaste."

Unspoken Truth

Last night, I stood in a roomful of people, my arm around a friend, and cried.  I wasn't alone.  The seven young women and two men dancing had truly captured the postures of sexual abuse and the healing journey.  Their physical expression of the experience had many of us in tears - sorrow at first, but then of relief.  A collaborative effort of the Va Va dancers and Spirit Dance, it was even more beautiful and moving than I'd imagined it could be.

So, thank you, Amelia and Christianne, Kenn, Stephanie, and Jacqueline, Beate, Olivia, Jasminh, and Alan.  For all the work and practice you put into the dance, of course, but for all the feeling too.

Beyond that, the whole day was amazing.  I think I'm still too close to it to describe it well - it's all superlatives in my mind.  And maybe a little blurred.  So many people came.  People I know, people I care about.  Lots of people I didn't know.  Some folks I got to know.

New artwork in the art room speaks to their experience of the exhibit.  People wrote their feelings, drew their feelings, spoke their feelings.  Themes of sadness, hope, strength, courage, wisdom... pain.  

I had a conversation with someone - I don't remember her name.  "It has to go together,  doesn't it?" she said. "It's only through that struggle, through facing the really horrible things, that you develop compassion."

And I had to agree.  

Last night, the dancers created healing through connection.  Two dancers joined hands and began to dance together.  They connected with a third.  Moving as a circle, they surrounded each of the other dancers, one by one.  Slowly, tentatively, each dancer arose and joined the circle. 

As the circle grew, I could feel the strength of the connection, and it mirrored the feeling of connection in the room.  Brought together by art, united by shared understanding of loss and pain, we were a circle of dancers too.  Encircled by paintings and drawings that reflected lifetimes of sorrow and healing and wisdom, we were supporting and uplifting each other.

The performers leaned on each other, moved together as one, joined in closest community.  And then - one by one - they began to move away.  Joyfully now, moving with freedom, dancing apart and together and apart again.

I think we left the exhibit in the same way - stronger, more hopeful, dancing joyfully into the night. 

Sometimes I'm a dumbass...

I went to Abbey Road on the River yesterday, with my sister, Julia, and our friends, Anita and Kerri.  The weather was perfect and we were just hanging out on the Belvedere, watching all the Beatles tribute bands.  There were early Beatles, with their original Beatles haircuts and dark suits and ties - so adorable.  And Sgt. Peppers Lonely Heart's Club Beatles, with their colorful clothes and long hair.  Naturally, the bands play - yes, Beatles music.  I get real annoyed when they don't - after all, I love Neil Young and Jimi Hendrix as much as anybody, but there's a time and a place for everything. 

Because we go to Abbey Road every year, we have traditions. Routines.  Possibly even rituals.  We set up our chairs and blanket on the same lawn area of the Belvedere, trying to maximize shade, and just leave them there when we wander.  We always have a smoked turkey leg.  Usually, I share one with somebody.  If I eat a whole one, I get full and can't eat the other festival food I want.  Like roasted corn on the cob, which we also always get.  Soft-serve ice cream.  Although, this year, I had the apple dumpling ala mode, which was fabulous.

We don't use the Port-o-pots; we walk up to the Galt House instead.  You can go in through the patio bar area and use a real bathroom, get ice and fill the water bottles, and cool off in the air conditioning.  It's well worth the walk.

Musically, there's one band on our "must see" list - The Rigbys.  Julia went to high school with Mark, who plays keyboard, so they get to say hello and I get to act like I know someone in the band.  They usually play around 4:00, at an area up near the Galt House.  They are absolutely one of the best bands there, and we'd go hear them even if we didn't know Mark.

So this year we walked up early to hit the bathrooms at the Galt House before we went to see The Rigbys.   There wasn't actually a line in the bathroom, but there were quite a few people, some women with children, so there was a lot of activity.  I'd finished washing my hands when I heard someone say, "Fausta."  

It took me a second to figure out who said it, in fact she said it again, "Fausta," before I turned and saw her.  She was a young woman, maybe early twenties, with dark hair pulled back in a cute ponytail.  She was standing in the doorway of a stall, getting ready to go in, looking at me expectantly.  I tilted my head, raised my eyebrows a tad - you know, that "I'm sure I know you, just can't place you this second" look.

"Amber," she said, and waited.  

I said, "Amber...?" sorting through Ambers in my brain as quickly as I could.  I really couldn't even think of any, except for a woman I work with now. 

"Amber," she said again, more firmly.  "You may not remember me, but I remember you.  I recognized you when I saw you walk by."  

Now I was trying to mentally sort through places I might know her from - escorting?  no.  work?  no.  client?  oh, who knows, could be.  mentoring?  maybe...  omigod, I have no idea.

"Amber.  I'm Amber."  She said it a third time, as if it should be completely clear to me by now.  And waited.  She had a little triangular face, and a half-smile.  She was standing there in the doorway of the bathroom stall, waiting for me to recognize her.

And I was still completely lost.  Blank.  So I did what I've done before in similar situations.  I faked it.  

"Amber!"  I said.  "Hey - it's good to see you!  Really.  Cool.  Oh my god."  Or some such shit.

And she smiled, and went into the stall.  I left, still wracking my brain for who she could be.

Of course, twenty minutes later, while I was listening to the Rigbys, I got a glimmer.  "Amber?" I thought.  "OMG, could that have been little Amber who lived down the street from us in Germantown a hundred years ago when my kids were little?  OMG."  I pictured little Amber, slender, all bones and angles, with wispy bangs and - yes, that little triangular face.  Little Amber.  Could it have been? 

We knew Amber from when she was maybe 4 or 5 til she was, I don't know, maybe 7 or 8.  Maybe 9.  She was younger than my kids, in fact, Julia, my younger daughter, used to "babysit" for her and her younger brother and sister at our house - what were their names?  Brian.  Little Brian, he was the kind of kid who might take a screwdriver and have the door off the hinges if you weren't watching him real close.   OMG.  Julia used to sell them her left-over Halloween candy - in January.   

Could that really have been Amber?  What was the other kid's name - Amber and Brian and ???  I don't know.   

Little Amber was so cute.  And smart.  So sharp.  She was always watching, and asking questions.  God, I loved that kid.  And competent.  She was like a mother hen with Brian and - and - Tiffany!!  Yes.  Amber and Brian and Tiffany. 

I am a dumbass.  If I'd known that was Amber - that Amber - I'd have hugged her and asked her what she was doing now and - omg.  I am a dumbass.  Now I'm not even sure it was her.  But, oh, I really think it was...

So of course I went back, walked back through to the bathroom, wandered around some of the indoor band areas, looking for Amber.  And of course I didn't find her. 

And I didn't run into her later either, even though I kept looking.

AND I can't even remember her last name.  If I could, I could look for her on facebook.  Dave was her Dad's name, her Mom was Angie, Dave and Angie What?  That's ok, I know some people who might remember.  I'll check around and see if I can't find out, then - surely she's on facebook.

But I promised myself last night, seriously promised, I'll never do that fake, "Oh, yeah, hey, how are you?" thing again when I don't really know who someone is.  Never.  I don't care if it takes me a week to remember, I'll just stand there til I do.

It's funny, there's so many things I could have asked that would have clued me in to who she was - I don't know why I didn't.  And of course there's a bunch of things she could have said.   Her parent's names.  Germantown.  Lots of things.

Instead - I keep hearing her say "Amber.  I'm Amber."   It reminds me of - you know how, when little kids dress up for Halloween, sometimes we pretend we don't know who they are, or that we're scared of them?  And when they're real little, they think we really don't know who they are, and they'll say, "It's me, I'm Davey," or "Susie" or whoever they are.  Then they wait, with just a touch of anxiety, for you to recognize them.  

OHHH!" we say, in fake surprise, "I almost didn't recognize you with that clown mask - scary face - makeup - whatever.  It is you!"  And they're relieved.  Even with their costume on, we still know them.  They are still who they are.

"I'm Amber."  Damn it.  Sometimes I am a dumbass.



   












  

Renovating the self

My last client of the day came in tonight and settled into her chair.  "So," I said, as I always do, "What are we working on tonight?"  I didn't know what to expect.  She had missed her last two appointments, so it had probably been 6 weeks since I'd seen her.  

"Well," she said, and she shifted a little in her chair, "I think I might need to get a new therapist or something.  I don't know.  Maybe it's me.  It's probably me.  But I just don't feel like I'm making much progress."

I thought a moment, nodded.  "Well, you're right, of course.  We're not making a lot of progress."  She looked surprised that I'd agreed, and maybe a little offended, which amused me. 

But we went on to talk about why that might be, without me even mentioning the fact that she'd missed her last two appointments.  We talked about change, and she was quick to say that she thought change was scary and she didn't much like the idea of it, even though she knew she needed to change. 

We talked about the cycle of change, and agreed that she was in the contemplation stage - thinking about changing, not ready to do it.  I talked about therapy.  I said there were three paths to change.  The first one was the quickest and it involved doing new things - going to group, trying new things at home.  I said, "But when I suggest those things..."

She shook her head, "No, I'm not gonna do that."  

I agreed, "Right.  You're not ready to do that." 

The second path, I said, involved thinking about things differently, talking about using wise mind, identifying automatic thoughts.  I said, "But when I suggest those things..."

She shook her head, "No, it don't seem like those things apply to me."

"Right," I said.

"The third path," I said, "involves you coming in and just talking to me about whatever you want to talk about.  Then I listen.  I tell you what I hear you saying.  You talk some more, I listen.  That's old school therapy, and it takes a long time.  We can do that, but you won't make a lot of progress real fast."

So we went on talking, and she began to be able to describe what she thought she might want to change about herself, and really did some good work in the session.  And she felt better about therapy, and I told her how helpful it was that she could come in and say she didn't think she was making any progress.

But I was thinking about it while I was driving home.  I thought, you know, it's like if you decided to renovate your house, and you hired an interior decorator or a contractor or something.  And if the contractor came in talking about tearing out walls and ripping up carpet, it would make you a little nervous.  And if you agreed in theory that it might be a good idea, but then he came back with sledge hammers and saws and ladders and buckets of paint, you might not want to let him in. 

I thought, if I'm going to make major changes in my house, I want to walk around with the contractor for a while first.  I want him to admire the things that are nice about my house.  I want to feel confident that he won't ruin anything that's good now.  Then I want to think about it some more.  Try to imagine it.  Look at paint chips.  Spend time at Lowe's. 

I wondered how it seems to our clients - is it like we're rushing into their heads with our little psyche sledge hammers poised, ready to wipe out all the thinking errors?  Yikes.  No wonder so many of them don't come back, just quietly disappear.  On the discharge summary, we say, "No longer seeking services..."  and code it "2."  I wonder what stories lie behind all the "2's" I've used to terminate my charts.  

"But wait -" you may be thinking, "Your client wasn't complaining about you moving too fast, she was complaining about moving too slow."  And you're right.

When all the ways I'd tried to move her didn't work, then we didn't begin to move at all until she complained that our progress was too slow. 

That's what I love about therapy. 

More on my Mama

My Mom used to say, "It's a great life if you don't weaken."

I think that approach was probably more helpful before she got Alzheimers. Now, she doesn't want anyone to help her with anything, and that doesn't work so well in nursing homes and hospitals. 

When Mom was a teenager, about 14, we think, her family went back to Italy.  She used to tell this story:  "We hadn't been back in Barga (the small town where they lived) very long when word went out that we were all suppposed to gather on the piazza one night to hear a radio broadcast from Mussolini.  So of course we all gathered in the square; you didn't disobey orders like that very often back then.  And first there was music and singing of course, and then Mussolini's voice over the radio. He announced that Italy was entering the war on the side of Germany." 

Her voice would drop, "And everyone fell silent.  No one cheered.  No one clapped.  Then one woman began to clap.  And the people around her moved away from her, and nudged each other.  'Sure,' they said, 'she can clap.  She doesn't have a husband, or sons, or any brothers.  She has no one to lose.'"  

Mom would laugh, "Italians are not big on war.   Some people say it's because we're cowards, but I don't think so.  I think it's because we've fought so many wars over the centuries that we know there's no winning, that we always lose more than we gain."

I used to be particularly proud of that back in the '70's, when the Vietnam war was raging.  I liked the idea of being descendants of people who didn't cheer for war.

Mama had lots of other war stories.  After that night, her father and brother had to get out of Italy quickly.  They had dual citizenship and could have been drafted into the Italian army.  Fortunately, they were able to get passage back to the states in a matter of days.  Someone at the Amerian Embassy in a nearby town was supposed to be working on getting my mother, her sister, Clara, and her mother, my Nonna, out of the country too.

"Days went by," Mom would say when she told the story.  "And pretty soon it was a couple of weeks.  It wasn't so easy to travel back then, but we finally found someone who was going to Lucca and would take Mama and me up to see what was happening.  By then, it was probably a month after Eugene and Daddy had left.  So, we get up there and go to the embassy, we have the man's name, and we ask for him."  She would shake her head, "But he was gone.  He had hightailed it back to America, and no one there knew anything about passage for us." 

So they were there for the duration of the war, my mother and her younger sister, with their mamma.   She had hundreds of stories about those years; many of them were about food. 

There was the time they had just made a big bowl of pasta for dinner when the sirens went off warning of bombs.  My aunt Clara grabbed the bowl of pasta and they were racing to the shelter when Clara slipped and fell - and they all cried, "The pasta, the pasta!  Is the pasta ok???"  Clara was highly indignant that they were all more worried about the food than about her well being.  

There was the loaf of bread that they were sending to the ovens to be baked when some bombs hit.  The bread hit the ground along with the woman carrying it, but it was too precious to be wasted, so she brushed it off and took it on to the bakery.  When they cut into it that night, you can imagine how surprised they were to discover tiny stones in it... and she had to confess what had happened.  "But we ate it anyhow," Mama would say, "And enjoyed it too.  There wasn't any complaining about food back then."  

In the nursing home, she hides food in her drawers. Although she rarely has leftovers - cleaning your plate is an important virtue - when she does, she insists on taking them home.  We were forever removing pieces of bread, abandoned sandwiches, carefully wrapped in a napkin, from her underwear drawer. 

But back to her stories - it's funny, I've read articles about women in families where the men tell the stories and the women don't have a voice.  I could never imagine that.  We are a family of storytellers, thank goodness.

So there was the story about when her mother decided that they needed meat, and tried to kill her pet rabbits.  That one used to make Mom cry. 

There was the story about how Barga was liberated by the American army, my Uncle Gene among them.  He snuck into Barga and brought them supplies one night before the army had taken the town, and, the story goes, was appalled at the way my mother and aunt devoured the chocolate bars.  "We were cramming them into our mouths," Mom would say, "I guess it was disgusting to him, he'd probably never seen anything like it.  But you have to remember, we wouldn't have had real chocolate for - well, for years, I guess." 

And of course there were lots of non-food stories.  They have titles in my mind:  Hiding Daddy's Gun; The Night the Soldiers Came; The Time We Went to a Party and Left Nonna at Home with a Flooded Bathroom; Little Mariucha, and so many more.

"It's a great life if you don't weaken."  When she'd say that, I always thought of their years during the war. 

And maybe the story about little Mariucha describes it best,what I think of as my mama's attitude.  At some point when the Americans - including the  Bufffalo soldiers -  were getting ready to move into Barga, word came that the people needed to evacuate.  So they gathered together what belongings they could carry, my grandmother, my mother, and my aunt, and started walking out of Barga.  Along with countless other people from the village, they started a trek toward the next big town.  Among them was a family with a little girl named Mariucia.  She was only five years old.  The people walked all day, carrying what they could bring with them, and little Mariucia walked right with them. When they finally stopped to camp for the night, and Mariucia took off her shoes, her feet were blistered and bleeding. 

Mom would pause at this point in the story, and there would be tears in her eyes.  "She had walked all day," Mom would say, "And she hadn't complained once.  She knew that no one could carry her, and she just kept walking."

Mom was a lot like Mariucia, she just kept going.  And she raised us, my sister and me, to be like that too.  We don't believe in giving up, and we don't complain much. 

But I wish she'd ease up a little bit now.  Relax, and let them help her get up, help her walk, help her get dressed instead of trying to do it all herself.  I wish she'd quit fighting and go with the flow a little bit more.  But if there's one thing I know, it's that I can't change my Mama.  So I expect she'll go down kicking and screaming, still convinced that "it's a great life if you don't weaken."

         

My Mama

I've been thinking about quotes from my Mama lately, all the ones that stuck with me, that I passed on to my kids, that I still say. When times were tough, she used to say, "That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger." When even that wasn't working, there was always, "And this, too, shall pass."

So my Mama's in the hospital for being "combative and homicidal." She's 87 years old. 

She used to say, "We spend the first two years of our life learning that the world revolves around us, and the rest of our lives learning that it doesn't." 

When she was 70, she went to India to volunteer with Mother Teresa's nuns.  She lived in a room in Calcutta, in a boarding house, and went out every morning to work.  She pulled sick people off the street and helped push them in a wheelbarrow to the hospital.  She worked in the clinic where the lepers lined up in the morning for medication.  She held crying babies in the orphanage.  She stayed there for six months, and came home with a cough that never quite went away, no matter what the doctors prescribed.

Mama used to say, "The world does not revolve around you.  It revolves around little old women picking up sticks in vacant lots."  My sister, Julia, and I agreed that we never quite got it.  Why little old women? What were they picking up sticks for?  Firewood?  And why vacant lots?  Somehow, I always pictured a parking lot.  We agreed, it was weird.  A couple of years ago, we discovered that she was paraphrasing TS Eliot, which at least makes a little sense.  But the message had always been clear.  We were not the center of the universe.

Mom traveled whenever she had a chance.  Sometimes, she taught English in foreign countries during part of the summer.  One year, it was China, another year in Poland.  She made friends wherever she went, and exchanged letters with them for years afterwards - up until the year she lost her mind, the year I became her guardian.  Julia and I found letters all over the house, letters to her, and scribbled on the back of scrap paper, rough drafts of letters Mama had started.  

Her Polish friend wrote in one letter, "You were always honest, and sometimes more blunt than most people in correcting our grammar and our accents, but we did not mind because we knew it came from love."  That was my Mama.

She's in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, where, they tell me, she's still being aggressive from time to time, mostly when they try to get her to do something.  I'm not surprised.  It was always important to her to understand why she had to do things, and since she doesn't understand much of anything anymore, the world has become a frightening place.  Resistance is her natural inclination.  And since most of the things they want her to do turn out not to be so pleasant anyhow, it's hard to blame her.

Mom taught Spanish in high school for twenty years.   For another twenty years after she retired, she'd run into old students of hers.  "Senora Inman!" they'd cry, many years ago, when they were still sure it was her.  Later, they were more tentative.  "Excuse me, did you used to teach Spanish?  Yes?  Mrs. Inman???  You probably don't remember me, but..."  And she'd say, "Oh, yes, I do remember you."  And she would.  She might not remember their real name, but she'd remember the Spanish name they'd used in class.  

Maybe I'll write more about her teaching style.  For now - one of the things she taught her students was a poem.  They used to have to memorize it, don't ask me how she worked it into the curriculum, but I'm sure she had a rationale for it.  The poem went like this:

"If of thou mortal goods thou art bereft
and from thy slender store
two loaves alone to thee are left,
sell one, and with the dole,
buy hyacinths to feed thy soul."*

That was my Mama.



*According to the internet, this was written by MOSLIH EDDIN (MUSLIH-UN-DIN) SAADI (SADI), who was a major Persian poet of the medieval times.

Starting over - again

It would be redundant to say "starting over - again," if it weren't so true, and true on so many levels.  Starting this blog over, not for the first time.  Starting over in relationships - not for the first time.  Starting over in trying to focus on accomplishing something, instead of acting like life is one big facebook page and I can just scroll through and click on whatever I want to look at for the moment.  Ok, maybe my life has been like that lately, but I was reading something somewhere the other day that suggested that might not be the most productive way to go through life.  And I know that's true.  Fun maybe, but not so productive.

And I've got plenty to focus on!  Escorting (at the abortion clinic, not the other kind of escorting!) trying to pull together a book about escorting, my own book that I've been neglecting for way too long, helping plan for the art exhibit in July focused on promoting advocacy and healing for abuse survivors, the mentoring program for the lay counselors in Rwanda, my own work - the work I get paid to do, that is, developing some training for cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT,) further developing my skills in dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), and that's just a beginning.

There's exercise and reading and finding time to meditate.  There's church and my nephew's basketball games and spending time with The Julias and Megan and Kayla. There's no end to the fun. 

So why would I think this is the time to add blogging to my to-do list?  I'm hoping that it will help me capture and let go of some thoughts and ideas.  That way I could move on to other ideas without feeling like I'll lose what I'm thinking already.  If that makes any sense at all.  We'll see.