A Good Good-Bye

Mac spent the summer as lead horse-wrangler at a ranch in Colorado. 

"I'm glad she's gone." I told myself. "I am happy she left."

This is how I rationalized not having her home during the summer. Our 21-year-old daughter had found herself a job in Colorado as a horse wrangler. She would be home for only three days the entire summer, the rest taken up by a summer job out West, then her usual gig at the Dutchess County Fair as an animal handler for friends in the Fish and Game pavilion. 

But I said, good. I was OK with it. 

After all, she is a senior this upcoming year. Over the course of her college career, she's spent less and less time at home. Spring break that freshman year in Costa Rica. Last year she spent eight weeks at her school's biological field station, required coursework for Environmental Conservation Biology majors. She learned to identify every tree in NYS, the intricate life cycles of mosses, and theorized about how temperature effects snapping turtle eggs. She was in her element. How do you begrudge her that?

I don't. I am happy for her. She most definitely makes the most of her life and the opportunities that arise. When I comment on her perhaps overdoing it, her answer is that she takes after me. OK. I'll give her that.

So, while I am happy for her (if I say it often enough, will it be true? hahaha!) I'm not saying I don't miss her. Don't get me started on the fact that 18 years is not enough time to spend with your kids, especially those of them we really like.

No. I miss her terribly. 

We enjoy each other's company. We finish each other's sentences. We text and like each other's posts on FB and Instagram even when we're sitting in the same room!

For nearly two years, she texted me good morning and good night with only a missed text if she had no cell coverage like at Cranberry Lake. After that, the cycle was broken. She now only texts on occasion. Not nearly as regularly and I was OK with that too.

While she was in Colorado, we PM'd each other much more frequently. Nearly every day, actually. She shared this new life she was living with me. She PM'd me when she got to ride a new horse. When she learned to drive a horse-drawn wagon. When she got tips. That she got food poisoning in Denver and had to keep pulling off the rode to throw up on her three-hour drive back to the ranch. That she was lonely. That she loved Steamboat Springs. And asked if she took this job again after she graduated from school, a full time job where she was paid well and they provided her housing, would that count as having a job upon graduating? "Hell yeah!" I wrote her!

And that's when it struck me.

For the first time in my life, someone left me and it was OK. I wasn't abandoned. She did not abandon me. She was still there for me. And (how many parents can say this?) I know she relied on me being there for her too. She sought me out. Without obligations, she came to me. She wanted me. On that long drive while she was sick to her stomach, she wanted her mommy.

When I had my kids, I felt that. That feeling of being whole, feeling wanted, feeling needed and vice-versa. As they grew up, I wondered how much they really liked me, you know, verses needed their mommy. But, I never really wondered because it was evident in the fact that both kids would plop themselves down on my bed when they got home from school and tell me about their day. It was obvious when Macallan would hang out with her boyfriend on the couch in the living while we all watched TV. It was apparent when my son and his friends would keep me company in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, in my way, as I made them snacks, made dinner or some dessert. "Can I help you with anything, Mrs. Durkin?" one of Markham's friends is known to ask just about every time he comes over. But you still wonder when the bottom will fall out and they go months without seeing you or calling.

I think about how little time I spent with my parents growing up. And how much they must have worried when I went off to college. And they should have worried. God knows I did plenty to make them scared for me...I have no idea how I survived the '80's!

And here I am. With a high school senior and senior in college to show for it.

The Big Aha!
And this summer, when Macallan was 3,000 miles away, I realized something significant. I felt something I had never felt before. Even though she was gone, she never truly left me.

Sounds so simple right? But coming from a place of abandonment, I have never felt that before. Because, unlike with Peter, for most of our life together, I felt like whenever he would go fishing or hunting, he was going because he didn't want to be with me. I thought he did it to get away from me. But I've slowly realized, that's not the case. For Peter, fishing is a very important outlet, something he had to do, like with me and writing. If he didn't do it, he would explode. I didn't get that until recently. I didn't know.

Can you imagine, I'm 50+ years old, Peter and I will celebrate our 30th Wedding Anniversary next month, and it's only starting to sinking in? Maybe one day, on our 50th Wedding Anniversary, maybe then, I'll believe he won't leave me, but for now, the verdict is still out...

But with Macallan this summer, it was clear. It was like a loud resounding bell. She may be away, which is something I think I better get used to, but she loves me and will always love me. I'm her mom, after all and I'd like to think I've earned that. But I also can't tell you how profoundly I felt that love when I realized how much I meant to her.

I believe abandonment issues are the core of my being. A personality trait for me. A quirky accent. A swagger. A signature smirk that makes me, me.

But this summer, with Macallan's help, this abandoned daughter came full circle. With the unwavering conviction of my own daughter's love, I came that much closer to ridding myself of this burden, this abandonment albatross.

I truly never thought I'd be saying this, but I really am so glad she left. It certainly was a good, good-bye.

Black and White and read all over

First Cousins

As a journalist, I try not to express an opinion when I don't know all of the facts. But as a journalist, I am more and more appalled at the bullshit that bombards us to fill news shows, to get ratings, to sell ad space. And that makes me scared. Because I am the aunt of a dark-skinned teenager. And when news like that of the last few days reaches me, I have to say something.

I'm sickened by the fact that none of our lives matter when it comes to news coverage: dead dogs, sobbing sons, aggrieved grandparents. It doesn't seem to matter. There doesn't seem to be any privacy, compassion...or for that matter, actual news.

Speculation that falsely names shooters, out-and-out lies to benefit candidates, hashing and rehashing non-stories about emails diverting attention from actual issues.
Please stop.
Stop writing them. Stop publishing them. Stop reading them.
Stop. It has to stop.

The headlines sensationalize actual occurrences to play to their perceived lowest common denominator. Why did I click on an article about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? Why do I have to see insipid pics of media grubbing K-clan in "respectable" news feeds? (You can do better, #NPR!) And with the latest shootings of civilians and police officers, I have to ask why?

Why is this country still so deeply rooted in racism? I know you all know we spent time in Africa. Sorry. But I gotta go there. We saw a racism that I had never experienced before. I knew white women who wanted blacks obliterated from the planet. It was shocking.

But it's not as if I've never seen prejudice. As a female from the Philippines, I can vividly replay and still dredge up feelings from racist, sexist words and actions I've experienced in my life.

My family moved to the United States in 1966. We were called Japs, Chinks, associated with Vietnam and Korea. Most of the people who hurled profanity had no idea where the Philippines were or that Filipinos fought alongside the US in WWII.

There were times where I felt physically threatened, but not because I was someone from Asian descent, but because I was female. A female tourist in Turkey. I had been awoken from a deep sleep as our boat was ready to disembark. I wore a black sleeveless dress to sleep knowing we'd have to get up at some point to leave the ship. Under my dress, I wore bicycle shorts that came to my knees and men, offended by my clothing tried to corral me into a corner, tried to separate me from Peter. I believe they would have beaten me had ship attendants not come to intervene.

Our son had experienced reverse racism in Botswana. A drunk black man harassed him to hand over money. Our son was only 4-years-old. He didn't have any so the man picked him up, shook him and was strangling him when other children tried to get the man to stop. Finally an adult pulled our son free.

I don't know what my nephew has experienced. We don't talk about it. But the news of a young man walking through a neighborhood being shot, makes me stop and think. The many, too many other incidents where young men and women are killed because someone was afraid and overreacted. The man just the other day who had a license to carry his gun but was killed nonetheless. I have to think, what is going on? Why these senseless killings?

Both Snowboard, play video games, are really
into cars, and share countless similarities
because they are first cousins. But out in the
world will they be treated the same?

And the answer is the media. The news markets create fear, hatred, misunderstanding and are responsible for the quick, lethal, defensive actions that cause these unjust killings.
Sure, I agree that there needs to be more screenings of police officers, training, better this, more effective that. There needs to be more diversity on TV, in movies and books so that the bad guys aren't always those of color. There needs to be more empathy, understanding, exposure...yes, yes, yes.

And as a journalist, I say, let it start with the news. Stop glorifying guns. Stop victimizing whites. Stop demonizing blacks. I say, it's all on you, media outlets, it's all you.

As the aunt of a young man of color, I need to do what I can to stop the insecurity that plagues our nation and makes us hate, fear, kill. I need to do it before those headlines become something more than something I read.

I never want to be on the other end of the bi-line. Because while I don't know all of the facts in those other cases, when it comes to my nephew, there will never be a reason for anyone to use deadly force. Never.

What I Learned From Hating My Father

Just before he left for his residency
in New Jersey circa 1966.

I hated my father. Not all of my life, I have to say, I was a bit of a daddy’s girl for a while there. Trying to please him, I often participated in his heavy-handed terms of engagement. Driving to Florida from New Jersey with the entire family in the car, he would have us do math problems. “If the odometer read 25,985 when we left the house and now it reads, 30, 012, how many miles did we travel?” My older brother, Ron would just roll his eyes. Our younger sister, Carolina was too young, she would shrug and continue playing with her doll. Our little brother, Rem Jr, was only a toddler. Besides he could barely hear what was going on since he sat in the way way back. But I would eagerly do the calculations. Pen and paper at the ready, and when I was done, I would shout out the answer. Ron would only participate after I did by correcting me or saying something mean like, “Took you long enough” if I got it right.

From as long as I could remember, my brother and father were at odds. As an adult, I attributed their friction to our abandonment as young children. Our parents had left the three oldest of us in the Philippines while they set up our new home in the United States. Ron was four-years-old, I was three and Carolina was only one. After we were reunited, my brother would continue to mistrusted our father. Because he and I were only 11 months apart, we were always very close. After the year seperation, he acted as my protector. He and I were allies. Our sister was so young, she was watched over and cared for, she was an infant, after all. The youngest of us would be born in the US. He was so much younger, in many ways, he was raised as an only child. But Ron and I, we had to bond. He always had my back. 

One of my favorite pictures of my brother and me.
While he wasn't always nice to me, I thought the
world of him (and I always will.)

So of course, when we came to the US, he still wanted to protect me, but me being the middle child and the oldest daughter, I wanted to make sure our parents never left us again. I took on the role of placating them no matter what. That meant my means-to-an-end was very different from that of my brother’s. As a result, instead of an outward closeness, he showed his love through dominance. As little kids, in his eyes, I had sided with the enemy, our dad. 

That’s the psycho-babble I’ve used to come to terms with our family dynamic. As children, Ron felt betrayed that I would favor our dad. As we got older, the power struggle between father and son worsened. 

Our father was an excellent provider. A little too good. We were spoiled rotten and acted that way toward him (and our mom). Our father was a doctor and worked his way up through the ranks to finally become head of the laboratory. He had a definite “God” complex. And why not? On top of and because of being an MD, he made far more than anyone else I knew. Yet, he rarely spent his earnings on himself. He bought a large house with an in-ground pool and a pool table so that we could entertain our extended family and friends. 

When my brother was still in High School, our dad bought him a brand new Trans Am for no apparent reason. I was such a brat that when I was old enough to drive, I actually complained about inheriting our dad’s Limited Edition Mercury Marquis. My boyfriend at the time reminded me that there were plenty of kids who had to buy their own cars. My dad said "This way if you hit something, I know you’ll survive.“ Hrumph! I folded my arms across my chest and stormed out of the room.

At some point, our father bought a van and later an RV in the hopes we would all take trips together. But as happens even in families who enjoy each other’s company, unlike mine, the kids grow up and don’t want to do anything with their parents, much less travel in a Suped-Up van with shag carpeting and bucket seats. 

Ron spent his life not giving our father his due. In college, he went from pre-med to business. According to Ron, being a doctor was not his dream, but our dad’s dream for him. I personally thought he would have made a great doctor, but no, he claims that’s not something he ever wanted. 

He graduated from business school and tried to find ways to make the money our father seemed to make so easily. It was tough to do. But Ron did find a job with a large brokerage firm. He handled the accounts of several large portfolio clients. A group of brothers had an inheritance that he managed. He literally would go and hand them their “allowance”. The relationship with those men became friendships; one invited my brother and his wife to Vermont to stay at his Inn, the other would call with every little problem associated with his small lawn mower repair business. I thought it was a good gig. 

At the same time, our father was extending his generosity, something he did often, where it wasn’t wanted. He had petitioned for his youngest brother and his family to come to the USA. As had been the case with our mother’s family, they were staying with us for the time being. Thinking he’d want to retire to be a businessman, our father bought a 7-11 for his brother to manage. It didn’t take long for our uncle to realize this isn’t for him. He and his family relocated to California, leaving our father with no one to run the store. Ron stepped in. “I’m doing this shit job to protect our future.” He said to me once after he complained about how much he hated managing minimum wage workers, the stream of drunks and drug addicts particularly in the late and early parts of the day, the thievery, and then there was our dad. He’d bring his friends in acting like a big shot. “Go, take what you want. It’s on the house.” He would say. My brother would grumble that it wasn’t free, but my dad’s generosity overrode Ron’s authority time and again. 

For nearly a year, Ron was struggling with a particular employee. This guy Ron thought of as a friend, turned out to be dealing drugs from the store. My brother fired him as soon as he found out. The guy was indignant. He would show up and make trouble. After a few altercations where police had to get involved, the guy resorted to threats. “I know where your son goes to pre-school.” A note said. And a message on their home answering machine said, “I know where you live.” It was scary. It got scarier. That’s when Ron bought a gun for protection. “You should thank me.” He said. I did. I also said for him to quit. For my dad to get someone else. For my dad to sell the fucking store. 

First day as a dad and he had no idea what
to do. The smile on his face said it all. 

My brother said, no. In some ways it was good, he reassured me, because he could spend more time with his family. Get home at a reasonable hour to play with his then 3-year-old son. Have dinner with them, bragging that his high school sweetheart of a wife was an excellent cook. And he was able to play golf, go skiing and spend time with their friends. He was always a homebody, feeling happier in the town we grew up than working in Manhattan.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of Poughkeepsie. My husband, Peter and I were living in NYC, and I was working my dream job as Associate Editor at Scholastic. I was also 7 months pregnant with our first child. Peter and Ron were not just brother-in-laws, they were good friends. A few weeks prior, Peter had gone snowboarding with Ron and they talked about being dads. The last time I saw him with Anne, Ron had encouraged her to give me some of her pregnancy clothes. Unlike when we were growing up, we now had a very good relationship. As adults we wound up vacationing together, seeing each other on weekends and sharing a lot of our lives together. He still tried to take care of me. He still had my back. 

Then, on December 18, 1994, all that would change. As we learned the course of events, rage welled up inside me. In the early morning hours, Ron had let all of his employees go home. For a short window, he was alone. Our father was first alerted by the fire department that the store was on fire. As our dad, mom and Anne rushed over, they wondered where was Ron? They insisted he must be inside, so the fire department went back in. 

Their biggest fear was realized. The thief or thieves had used Ron's gun to kill him and then set the shop ablaze. There was money missing from the vault. The footage from the security cameras were worthless. Eventually, the 7-11 would revoked the franchise. Our parents lost their oldest son AND the reason he was working there in the first place. 

I found it difficult to be in the same room as my father. I blamed him, in my mind, in my heart and to his fucking face, I blamed him for the death of my brother. 

And he blamed himself, in his mind, in his heart until the day he died. It would be five years after Ron’s murder and still no resolution. Our father was on life support, in a coma, and I continued to hate him. 

While my sister and I said our final good byes, I looked at him and raged. “We only wanted to love you!” I shouted at him.  “Why didn’t you let us love you?” In my mind, my brother wouldn't have agreed to manage the 7-11 if our father had shown him some love. In my state of mind, I believed my brother would still be alive if my father only showed him the approval that Ron so desperately wanted.

On the verge of another Father’s Day, here’s what I learned from hating my dad:

1.) Hating him didn’t make me stronger, hating him made me weaker. By hating him, I thought I was standing up for my brother, but in reality, I was just keeping love away, making sure I couldn’t get hurt again.

2.) He didn’t hate me or my siblings. He loved us so much that he worked hard, made money, and worried constantly about supporting us at the expense of being absent or being distract and irritable when he was home.
3.) He loved us more than he loved himself, which he proved over and again when he earned money to buy us things he thought we needed; when he surrounded us in a home that was welcoming, drawing loved ones around us.
4.) Hating him, didn’t bring my brother back, what it did was remind me of my vulnerability, made me missing Ron that much more.
5.) Something I wouldn’t know until I had kids of my own, nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing is more devastating than losing your child. And I’m so sorry I didn’t understand that at the time. Instead of rejecting my father, I should have been there for him. My brother, his oldest son, killed largely due to a decision he made. How much more heart wrenching could his life be?

I only wish all of the grandkids could
have experienced his love. 

6.) Even though he wasn't the father I wanted, he made a really good grandfather. He was able to show his love to his grandkids, his way of directing his love toward us.

7.) After finally accepting that he loved me, I am reassured daily that he still takes care of me, even from beyond.

 8.) And because I know he is near, I know there is someone watching over us, caring for us and loving us. With that faith, I can be strong, take risks, give fully and live with abandon.
9.) The greatest, most important thing I’ve learned after hating my dad, is how much I love and miss him. That’s a gift in and of itself, and one only I can give myself.
10.) If I could tell anyone who would listen, 
I would say, don’t live in the hate, in the anger, in the resentment, or the regret. Live in the laughter, understanding, empathy and the love.

11.) And after hating my dad, I can fully understand how really hard it is to be a good one. I learned the hard way what truly makes a great parent.

12.) And with that said, I can appreciate how great a dad my husband is. I can't imagine our kids ever having cause to hate him.

Our son need never try to
measure up to expectations.

We make choices: to emigrate to the United States, to leave children behind, to work long hours, to buy a 7-11, to buy a 7-11 for a brother who has not asked for it, to guilt a son into running it…we all make choices. We hope they are the right ones. Our father did not buy that 7-11 in the hopes my brother would be killed. It happened. It could have just as logically happened in the Philippines. 

Choices. We make them all day, every day. After years of hating my dad, me, I'm choosing a different sentiment. On this Father’s Day, I choose to think of him with love and understanding. I could choose to hate him all of my life, but 15 years after his death, I choose love. 

Maverick, Writing, Fear and the Undeniability of Beautiful Days

It’s a beautiful day. I know because I’ve gotten up out of my upholstered chair, out from behind my laptop, and actually stood underneath the front porch of my house. I didn’t go out to enjoy the day, however. No, I’m too busy writing my memoir to spend time outdoors.

I went out to coax our English Setter, Maverick out. For some reason, he fears crossing the threshold of our front door, but he needs to go outside to “do his business”. Unless I drag him out there, he won’t go on his own. Well, no, that’s not true. If I go outside, he’ll follow me, but once I step back inside, in he comes right beside me. He’s too fast for me, ugh!

But I digress. It’s a beautiful day and I know, because I went outside today. I’m not so unlike Maverick. I too have to be coaxed outdoors. Not sure why, it’s lovely out there. Today, in particular, the sky is blue with billowy clouds and the sun is out for all of us to see. Even the air temperature is lovely. I was glad to be able to experience the day, all-be-it briefly.

I say this because I worked on my book all day. Well, most of the day. I have been trying to limit my FB time and the time I spend on emails. I need to be more diligent, but I’m making progress. I didn’t do the laundry, sweep the hall, decide suddenly that I needed to sort my sock drawer.

My concentration paid off. I came up with a rough table of contents. If Peter were to look at it at this stage, he’d say, “Looks the same.” But it’s not. What people (substitute Peter for people) don’t realize, I think, is that books, “even” memoirs, are crafted. It’s not just putting to paper a list of events that occurred. While there is a lot to write, not every detail needs to be included. I’m actually tempted to write “essence” pieces where a stand-alone story will represent an editorial commentary. But I think that wouldn’t suffice. I have a lot to say. To tell one story to encapsulate a broad insight would be cheap and easy. I am not that.

I think readers (again, substitute Peter) think a chronological way of presenting a story is the most effective. I think it depends on what message you’d like to give. If the impact of the book is not at the end of the story, maybe the story shouldn’t be told that way. I think I need to jump around and even put in flashbacks because some pretty powerful realizations come well after the initial action takes place.

Like, it would take me until I was 32 year old before our father very casually would say, “But we didn’t mean to leave you there for a year.” My older brother, younger sister and I literally wheeled around to glare at him. This was the first time he had ever responded to me blaming my shortcoming to my life-long abandonment syndrome. On this day, he explained, “After all these years, you should get over it already. We only planned to leave you in the Philippines for two weeks. Your Lolo Ador wouldn’t bring you to us in the States. We called. Your mom cried. Finally, she said she was coming for you. That’s the only reason your Lolo agreed.” That’s a pretty significant piece of information our parents never shared with us. For me to have known that earlier in life, would surely have saved me several friendships, boyfriends, and some failing grades. By this time, I had been married nearly ten years and this information would have made all the difference in our relationship, not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars in psychotherapy. It serves quite an impact as a flashback in the book.

But what to leave in, elaborate on and what to leave out, now, that’s tricky? How much do you slant your story to prove your point? And if you leave out too much, will that border on falsehood? I grapple with this as well.

But my biggest problem, I have to say, is the message. Our family’s story can be told several ways and with very different outcomes. I keep a journal of just the kinds of meanings I’d like the readers to walk away with. You’ve read the book, finished the last line, closed the book and now what? What ‘aha’ moment did you have? What feeling stirred within you? What question about yourself will you now explore?

Every other day, I have a new perspective. I discuss these ideas with Peter. He nods. He thinks I’m saying the same thing over and again. I think I spent the day and have a nuance that’s brand new. He doesn’t see it.

I feel this need to have him understand what I’m trying to say and concur that it’s a good message, a new theme, a genuine outcome knowing the series of events I’m sharing with my readers.

I vacillate between making the story about me, after all it is my memoir, and about our family’s experience. I had asked my friend Caitlyn, a famous and well-respected book editor what she thought of a He said/She said type of book. Trite and hokey, is what I recall her saying. Then, I thought, I’d interview each one of us and from the interviews, using each person’s own words, I’d tell an excerpt of our life through the eyes of my family members. Another day I thought, I would start it as a young girl in the Philippines. Or, I planned, I’d have it read like we were telling stores over drinks in a bar. Recently, I started to write that each chapter would start with an excerpt from Peter’s letters to me while he was in the Peace Corps.

But today, today, I decided to write a storyline that formed organically. And because it took it’s own voice, flowed, and easily went down on “paper” I will go with it. In actuality, I’ve already written the stories. The book is bound and ready sitting right next to me at this very moment. It is written. It’s how I want it to be published, that needs work.

I realized today that it’s been here all along. Kind of like the happiness I feel when I think of where our life had been, how it progressed, and where we are now. Like Maverick, I’m a little wary crossing that threshold. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of or why I’m afraid. But with a little coaxing, I’ll step out into the sunshine. Yesterday, it took me a text to Peter at work. “Tell me you love me and everything will be OK.” He called me right away, “What’s up?” And all was better. Yesterday, Macallan texted me while she was out in Colorado. “I think I got food poisoning. I’m driving back to the ranch from Denver and I’ve had to pull over to throw up and my head hurts and I want my mommado.” Then, nothing. I felt like she was fine, just didn’t have cell service, but I couldn’t be sure until I’d hear from her. The next day she called. Relief washed over me. All was good in the world. And then, just now, my son texted me to say he’d lost his wallet. No sooner had he told me, when a stranger rang our doorbell and presented me my son’s lost billfold. “Thank you!” I said after the man told me he’d found it on the ground at a garage sale. He looked inside for an address and used GPS to find our home. He brought it right over before we could cancel the card. What a nice person! As suddenly as he appeared, he disappeared, before I could thank him properly and give him a reward.

What a day, I can say as I stand in the front door of my life looking out. What a beautiful day!

Juno, Goddess of Action

Robin eggs awaited at the Juno Cottage.

I have been having a frustrating time of it. Trying to define my job prospects after I pulled out of the Underwear Factory. I've been trying to find a group of underserved women with whom to work, with no luck thus far. I've also been looking for another space to serve as a creativity center or a writing studio.

My house is a zoo, quite literally, with two dogs, a coatimundi, patagonian cavy and up until recently, a pig and a chicken. I love being with the animals, but they're huge distractions keeping me from work and most especially, keeping me from writing.

Push comes to shove, I miss writing.

On particularly down days, I cry because I can't.

Recently, as I poured my frustration out to Peter, I was overwhelmed by the futility of my life. I didn't seem to be able to focus. I was bombarded by demands from everyone I knew including every animal left in our charge. I wished for some peace.

Then, I quite literally saw a post on FB. There were still some spaces left for the Omega Women's Leadership Center Juno Residency. Apply now, it said. And so I did. And so I got it, and now I couldn't be more grateful.

Juno is a one bedroom, one and one half bath charming
cottage with kitchenette, WiFi, patio and no responsibilities.

The Juno Cottage is Omega Institute's Luxury Accommodations and is only available for use by the OWLC. It is a refuge for women who are working to better the world. A place to recharge. The Residency is self-guided with complimentary use of the Juno Cottage as well as open workshops in yoga, meditation, and QiGong. Residents can go to the lake, sauna, play tennis, hike. Three meals of organic, live and mostly vegan foods are served. And for a fee, there are treatments at the Wellness Center to enhance your stay. Deep tissue massage for me tomorrow right after breakfast. Mmmm...

I made sure to join the beginning QiGong in the movement studio this morning, getting up earlier than I usually do at home in order to participate. It was my first time to try QiGong. And while the practice was gentle, meditative and soothing, I do hurt a little. There is a slight twinge of exercised muscles. Imagine that!

Luxuriating in the Omega Institute's
hammock by the lake. 

Or could it have been the hour-long guided meditation? I hadn't sat in Lotus position for years. Could that be the reason my butt hurts just a little bit?

Or maybe it's climbing the hills from the cafeteria to my cottage? No matter. I feel revitalized. I needed this.

But mostly, quite honestly, I needed the solitude. I had tried going to my father-in-law's house for some writing time, but I didn't like that I was so alone. I would stay at our cabin in the Catskills by myself, but bears, crazy neighbors, mice are all too much for me to handle without Peter. Besides, I hate staying anywhere without my dog, but man, having him with me would be like being in my own house, who am I kidding?

But here, I have peace. I get to stay in a beautiful, spacious, tranquil cottage. I have a community of fellow serenity seekers. I have access to all I need. I don't even have to worry about feeding myself (which if you knew me, you'd know, I absolutely loathe!)

This Juno Residency was exactly what I needed. And you know what, exactly what I asked for just days before I was scheduled to arrive? I asked for it and got it. At the time, while I knew I was coming here, I didn't know what was expected of me. I didn't know how to utilize the facilities. I didn't know that this would be just what I was longing for. I just didn't know.

On Sunday, upon arriving at my cottage, I noticed bird poop all over one of the patio chairs. Then, I noticed the nest situated in the back of another chair. How sweet, I thought and slowly walked over to take a closer look. And wouldn't you know it, this perfectly built nest cradled four beautiful blue eggs. I noticed mama robin watching me from a branch nearby. The other robin could be heard cawing from a short distance away. Eggs. They were a good sign.

But no sooner had I unpacked when my phone rang. My husband started with the good news. He had found ramps in our backyard. Yay! Then the bad news, my dog, Westley had cut himself and needed stitches. Oh no! The Emergency Vet had to put him under but he was fine, all-be-it a bit groggy. Should I come home? I wondered aloud. "No, he's fine." Peter insisted. But now, he had to be walked on a leash, something I was worried my mom wouldn't be able to do while I was away for the next couple of days. "Don't worry about it. We'll take care of it." my husband reassured me. But how odd, that I wanted to be free from the burden of letting the dogs out and one of our dogs, my dog, actually gets hurt? OK, not so hurt he would have died, but still...what was this telling me?

I guess, that things still happen. When I was lamenting my "woeful" life, Peter very gently said, "Well, you can't be absolved of all of your responsibilites. You'll have to let the dogs out and on occassion go grocery shopping." I don't know, I thought to myself. "Did Jane Austen have to attend to her dogs? Does Toni Morrison grocery shop?" But I know. I know. And now I do know. I wouldn't want to live so that I was totally reclusive. What I needed was a little time to regroup and regenerate my spirit so that I can be an understanding mom, an attentive dog owner, an interesting and interested wife, a caring daughter, and most of all, a writer.

The biggest thing to come out of these three days is that I allowed myself to be defined by the one title I have always wanted but feared. In Juno, according to OWLC, the goddess inspires us to maintain our integrity as we claim a leadership that is fair and protective in spirit and creative, bold and wise in action. Juno helped me to embrace being a writer. Sure, I've written things, published books, magazine and newspaper articles, but I was an editor, not a writer. I wrote what was assigned to me, not what I came up with on my own. I have put fear behind me. I have committed to my fate. I am not a waitress, which is what I was doing when I met Pete. I am not Women's Work, which is what I have been doing for the past 13 years. I am a writer, which is all I had wanted to do since I was in Second Grade.

Nick Lyons correcting one of the papers I wrote in his
Essay Writing Class. (I got an A in his class, by the way.)

Just before I left for this Residency, I found an essay I wrote my senior year in college entitled, "Why I write." My professor, the very gentle, kind and talented editor/publisher, Nick Lyons tore it apart. It as sloppy, with corrections I made with pen atop my typewritten pages. It was general when it should have been specific. It was not my best work, Nick said. He was disappointed, he continued, because he knew I could do better. I remember working on that assignment. I was afraid. I'm not afraid anymore.

This is what I have longed for. This is what I was born to do.

Thanks to my husband for his continued support at home and for the OWLC for believing I had the strength to bring out the Juno in me.

Mother's Day Blog (rant over)

This is the blog that incited a flurry of kind words, strong support, shared prom mishaps, and the acknowledgment of one or two prom dates who offered their apologies. It served it's purpose. It started discussions, realizations and change. 

Rant over. 

My sweet boy (picture taken in Namibia in 2003)

Previously Entitled: Dear mom of my son's prom date.

Dear Girl's Mom,
     First off, I'd like to tell you that I know, "momming" of girls or boys is hard. I know, because I have "mommed" both. I feel ya.
     But I'm writing as the mom of a boy, your daughter's "date" for the prom.
     I take full responsibility for him thinking he had to have a date. That's my fault. I wanted him to experience the night with someone, as a right of passage that I thought every student as a Junior should go through. I knew my son didn't have anyone special to take, but I also knew there were lots of girls out there who liked him. Maybe not liked-him liked-him, or maybe they did, who knows... So, I started asking about prom a couple of months back. With a boy, you have to ask, 'coz most of the time, they don't offer up any information. You also have to be proactive, because for the most part, it's all last minute. So, I started asking, when it was, who was going, did so and so have a date? Then, I pressed on, "How about you?" "Do you want to go?" You know, most boys go with the flow. Much easier to let things happen rather than stick their necks out there, at least that's the way it is with my son. Totally different from my daughter. He's pretty happy to be in the thick of things, but not the center of attention (another way he's different from his sister).
     I think I must have pressed him too hard and made him feel like he had to go even if he didn't want to. I just wanted him to experience it, like life in general, just be a part of it.
     And so, he found a "date" while he was with his friends on spring break in Florida. She lived in New York, "Yay!" But 5 hours away, "Boo!" That didn't really work out.
     Then, a few days before the prom, I ask him again. "How come he has a date but not you?" "Wouldn't you like to go with a friend?" And so, one day, he is telling his friend's girlfriend, your older daughter, who offers up her younger sister. The plot thickens...I get a text from him at 10:30pm (mind you, he's in his bedroom and I'm in mine right across the hall), would I drive him to Starbucks in the morning before school so that he could get an iced coffee? "Why?" I ask. "I'm going to write, "Prom?" on it and that's how I'm going to 'Prompose'.
     So, here's the thing. They don't know each other. He's a bit, how should I say, shy, awkward, genuine? Within minutes of pre-prom picture taking, your daughter has ditched him and is hanging out with people she knows. You don't even give him a ride to the next picture taking spot, he has to find his own.
     As his mom, I think you're a pretty lame one. If that were my daughter, I would have taken her aside and told her the right way to act. But hey, she's not my daughter. But he is my son and here's what I have to say about what happened.

He's fine. He's way more fine about what transpired than I am. He didn't even "like" her so he's cool with it. But I'm not, and here's why:
1.) He's 17. I have spent his entire life making him a kind, thoughtful, respectful man. To be ditched at the prom, could undo all of that because your daughter said yes but then didn't have the decency to be a kind, thoughtful, respectful woman.

2.)  It says a lot about your daughter that she couldn't make the day about him, after all, it was his prom, not hers. One day, she'll be dating and wonder why every guy she goes out with only thinks of himself. Maybe that guy took a self-centered girl to prom and after that decided he was out for number one. Consideration is a two-way street.

3.) He went out on a limb and asked your daughter to be his date. Sure she said yes, but why say yes and then not follow through? Your daughter was supposed to be his date. Does she not know what that means? If not, maybe you should fill her in. No one said to do anything more than show up and hang around him for this one night. Hell, he's one of the good guys! He didn't objectify her. He was humble. He tried to be engaging...As the mother of a girl, there is no way I would condone forcing someone to do anything they didn't want to do, but if your daughter didn't want to escort him to the dance, she should have said no. Because quite honestly, what did he do in the 20 minutes they were together that made it Ok for her to ignore him and go off on her own?

His tender ways is evidenced
in the way he cares for others. 

So, here's the thing:

• - For all the women out there disgruntled about the way men treat them
• - For the population of the world that is bewildered and disheartened that women today get paid far less than men and have little power in business, law, politics and households
• - For the horrible injustices waged upon women around the world by their overbearing fathers, abusive husbands, misogynist culture

 The way this prom transpired is where all of these wrongs have come to breed. Women play a major role in tearing down nice boys and making them mean men. 
 

Trick-or-Treating in Botswana - That smile on his
face says it all. I never want to see anyone
wipe that smile from his soul. 

As a boy's mom, it is my job to raise him to be a good person. I make sure he understands his role in the world. I embrace his daredevil nature, foster his unique sense of self, and celebrate his tireless tenacity to do the right thing. It's too bad your daughter didn't give him a chance that night. She would have had a great time if only she would have let him get his footing and felt safe enough to be himself. I don't think she'll get that chance again, at least I hope not. I do know that I hope the next time he asks someone out, it will be for his own reasons and not because his well-meaning-all-be-it-meddlesome-mom pushed him into doing it, and I hope he has a better sense than to go out with someone like your daughter again.
   
So, Dear mom of my son's Prom date, 
    The weight of the world rests on your shoulders. It's up to you teach your daughter to be a caring, responsible, and patient young woman who doesn't squelch the kindness, vulnerability, and respect out of my son so that he can grow up to be one of the good guys - the kind of guy who dates smart, accomplished, and loving women, and perhaps  one day, raises a strong, brilliant, and compassionate girl.

Legacy of Jim Harrison

Fly-Fishing is a passion, the wilderness is his home. 

I didn't know him. I had never met him. Peter recommended him to me when we were first married. I think Peter is his biggest fan.

This morning, I got a text from Peter. Jim Harrison died. And throughout the day we mourned as the news sunk in.


I wasn't really sure why a stranger's death affected me so greatly. Throughout the years, I'd have to say, Jim Harrison's writing was always a favorite of Peter's. Come birthday or Christmas, Peter was happy, and quite honestly, expected Harrison's latest book as one of his presents. 


We were tickled that he appeared on Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations" because this amazing writer who shared Peter's love for the outdoors, for hunting and fishing and was a rare guy's guy, also, like Peter, loved to cook. "There will be no more like him." is what Anthony Bourdain said after learning of his passing. He called Harrison a friend, but the episode was an awkward one where Bourdain, a somewhat cocky, certainly self-confident chef turned TV personality, was humbled in the old man's presence. Rightly so. Unfortunately, Harrison came off as odd and gruff. What, you couldn't find a clip where he said something clever or you got a decent shot of him? I guess not. 


Hey, but he can't write like that and not be cool, am I right? A true man's man, he rebuked being called macho. According to Harrison, he was born that way. A writer's writer, he died while penning a poem, pen still in hand. Harrison had published more than 35 books of poetry, essays, a cookbook, novels and novellas, plus wine reviews, articles and essays. But he had to be best known for adapting several of his books into screenplays, although none translated on-screen as powerfully as they did as written word. Even he would agree to that. The Obituaries written about him credit "Legends of the Fall" with making Brad Pitt. He was so chummy with Jack Nicholson that Jack, apparently gave him $15,000 so that Harrison could finish the book. 'No more like him indeed.' There are few men with his talent for verbiage, his passion for the wilds and his brutally honest, achingly insightful view of flawed, haunted men, and the women who love them...and no one who lived, drank, nor ate so well.


One of his friends attributes his death to perhaps Harrison missing his wife of 55 years who had died in the Fall. While the news articles spoke of his death, none had given a cause, yet all stated his wife's death several months ago as an important fact in Harrison's life's story.


I love that. Particularly since his characters never seemed to be able to keep their wives. As a result, Peter and I thought he must be like his characters, divorced, alone, bitter, and abusive to himself and those around him. Seems not to be the case.

Peter wondering what the hell he was doing married to me
as he looked out at the vineyards at Chateauneuf du Pape


What struck me as I read the obituaries and found articles written by him, as well as, those written about him, were the many similarities, no, not between him and Hemingway, or him and Faulkner, but him and Peter and me. On our honeymoon, Peter and I had one hell of a blow-out, drag-out fight at the vineyards of the Pope. I have long forgotten what it was about, but I remember the gorgeous setting and even through my rage and tears, I managed to take a poignant photo of Peter thinking about our long life ahead, red wine in hand. We tell this story minus the bit about our fighting because the vineyards were closed, it was late October. We disembarked from a train from Paris and wandered around this quaint village until we found a small bar that happened to be open. There were only a few other people, all locals, sitting indoors. Because we were in the middle of a fight that I would not let go, we sat ourselves in the back patio overlooking the vines and in the distance the mound where the Pope's castle had been. The bartender had to open a trap door and go into the cellar to fetch the wine. With each pitcher we finished, he'd have to disappear for a few minutes in order to draw from the cask. The wine, something we didn't drink much of at the time, was amazing. We've been hooked on Chateau Neuf du Pape ever since. Afterward, we would notice it in books and movies, including the mention of this particular wine in Jim Harrison's obits. (His review of wines for a wine merchant )

Our beloved English Setter, Oz

Jim Harrison was a man Peter would have loved to have met, had a drink with while listening and sharing hunting and fishing stories. Harrison's love of the outdoors, need to be surrounded by nature, and his insights on the fragility of the male ego resonates with Peter. Always the dreamer, Peter thought of an idea for a TV show where he would travel the world fly fishing and hunting with men like Jim Harrison. Now that would have made a great show!


 I pointed out to Peter that Harrison had a beloved English Setter. Peter said he knew he was a bird hunter, of course he had a Setter. But he didn't just have hunting dogs, another commonality, the man who wrote, "Wolf" that he later adapted into a screenplay starring Jack Nicholson (don't bother, it's awful) would most certainly not just own dogs, but be really into them. In one interview he did for Outside magazinehttp://www.outsideonline.com/1893296/last-lion, he said how he was content killing off rattle snakes one by one as they intruded on his life. But after a snake bit his English Setter, it was war. I waged a war of sorts against the guy who killed our English Setter as well. I know the feeling. Gotta love a guy who says, "Every day of the year, the first thing I do after breakfast is take the dogs for a walk. They absolutely depend on it. But it’s also what’s best for me.” Our pets are distractions for me and yet, I can't really go a day without them.


He and I were compared to Hemingway. As a college senior majoring in English Lit., I was flattered, Jim Harrison was not. Peter, who is better read than I am, admired the understanding of nature's draw that writers like Jim Harrison, Thomas McGuane, and Peter Mathiessen brought to their pieces. You knew they understood fly fishing, hunting, and their connection to nature. All the rest of us were lucky that they were able to express their wilderness experiences in words. As Harrison put it, he knew his place, knew with his writing that he could preserve and share this intimate knowledge. He had a niche and he took his calling very seriously.


Several obits quote him as saying that “My characters aren’t from the urban dream-coasts,” he told the Paris Review in 1986. “A man is not a foreman on a dam project because he wants to be macho. That’s his job, a job he’s evolved into." I often think that about Peter. All the things he does and does well, he's evolved to do. 

 And that's how Jim Harrison would have told it. Many writers, men and women, grew up reading male wordsmiths, mainly because they are the ones published most often. I tend to think that most male writers can't write as women. But after reading Harrison's "Dalva" and "The Woman Lit By Fireflies" I see that isn't true. 


Accompanying Peter, I get to natural wonders few ever get see.

I aspire to capture my genre as effortlessly, willingly, and with such intrinsic insight that you are catapulted into the world I've created. I want to be a writer so adept that I can share every aspect with you. After exploring how profoundly sad I feel at the loss of this exquisite writer, I understand that I too have a calling. I am lucky enough to have a glimpse into the world of this type of man and I'm charged with the task of sharing him with you. 


If I wondered what I should write, what my expertise is, it is that I've evolved to do this. Over the course of my seemingly many past lives, as a bushman, as a medieval servant, a gypsy and a Victorian woman, I'm convinced my place today is here behind this computer, conveying exploits of a man with a rare and precious gift. I am here to document a life well-lived, not that of Jim Harrison, of course, but of a man like him. Like his character in "Woman Lit by Fireflies" I'm certain that is what sets my soul on fire and will set my writing free. 


We lost a writer of exception, a man of the wilderness, a gourmand, a wine enthusiast, and a devoted husband, father, grandfather and I'm sure a most loyal friend. RIP Jim Harrison. May your words, spirit, and passion for the outdoors live on in your many fans, like Peter and me, who admire you.