My Ghost Sings Haunted Heart

Ghost, you torment me night and day, day and night.  Your dedication to me is overwhelming. Really, you could take a break and it would not hurt.

Everywhere I go, I see you  . . . even in my sleep;

In windows, on streets, through school-yard fences;
I see your face in small children in their mother's arms -a time I did not have;
From the toddler boy in a stroller or playing with their toy car;
To the all-knowing tweens and teens around the city;
And in the young college men who surround me on campus.

Haunting and tormenting me through ways unimagined.  While I am not alone walking through this process.  Ghost, I tell you that I take no comfort that others share the same path.  I want you to know, it just doesn't matter how many others there are who are haunted by ghosts like you.

But I need to find a way through this abyss or you will certainly change me.  I need to find a foothold onto something, anything, that will not haunt me as you are doing.

And then the ah-ha moment arrives.  Lifting narratives and connections from something else can be yours as well.  Because you are always with me, hovering over my body, I am always trying to make sense of our path.

In the October 19th NY Times Magazine, writer Lisa Carver wrote about how she learned to love Yoko Ono that deeply resonated with my struggle.  Go figure.  Carver writes that, "Ono uses the negative positively, similar to the Japanese use of negative space in decorating and the unspoken in conversations."


She goes onto say that, "It’s paradoxical, but it seems that when you accept loss, it loses its tenacity to stay lost. Ono wived by letting husbands go; she mothered her daughter by letting her go. Lennon got the urge to roam, and she told him: Go! Go roam! And he did, and then he called and said he wanted to come home, and she said, No, you’re not ready. Ono believes in the right to drift."  

And then the light bulb went off in my brain and subsequently in my heart.  While I may give my life's work to preventing my ghost from troubles and assisting him when in the eye of the storm, I am thinking that I must learn to embrace the negative positively.  I must find a place to accept loss and begin to be whole in my life.  

If I cannot prevent the wholesale destruction that I can see from my rear-view window, then can I live with my role as the clean-up crew over and over again.  Can, I create a soft landing, such as a discarded mattress on the street for him to lay his head, or do I have to see him flutterr away like a plastic bag in a breeze?

Right now, this is unknown.  It is both a fear and an insight that rests in my heart.  It causes the beats per minute to to be dangerously high and the volume of tears to fill an ocean.  However, it maybe what will be.

In the night

thought we're apart

there's a ghost of you

within my haunted  heart

Jane Monheit, Live at the Rainbow Room, singing, "Hauted Heart" (2002)

10 cups of espresso with a packet of adrenaline

I am sitting here in the light of a laptop awaiting the return of the boy to his school.  This first home visit was one that we were so excited about and filled with much promise.  Coming in at gate 13 (omen or coincidence that is his birthday?) brought the light of my life into view.

Jumping up and down as the airplane landed and starring out the window at the gate filled me with such happiness and excitement.  Plans, schedules, input, hard work, and amazing insights brought us to this point some 409 days or 9,816 hours after this journey began.

I truly believed that we would see the cracks, but that they could be repaired without major structural damage.  I truly believed that I would be right in my insights into the bread-crumbs that were dropped at the last visit and in telephone conversations that followed.  I truly believed that I would be right, but that I was open to being wrong with every inch of my being.

I was right.

As I try to stay awake for what will be the ripping of the child from my arms, I will turn around, walk upstairs, and take a sleeping pill.  This, I hope will counter the enormous amount of caffeine and adrenaline pumping through my body.  I hope the nausea will retreat, that my psyche will be tampered down, and that my bundle of joy arrives safe and sound.

I love him and already miss him more than I could imagine.

The High School Years Begin

Today my son would be entering high school with his friends from many years.  However, he will make this transition in a few weeks in his school out of state.  It is at these rituals where I become a bit of a weepy mess.

Our normal is not one that feels familiar or right.  I want to be able to watch parents and children together, but find that I have zero tolerance for the sight of them and god forbid the sounds of a crying toddler.

I want to be able to watch the back to school commercials that run incessantly at this time, but the thought of not buying supplies, clothes, a backpack and getting it all ready for the first day makes me want to pull the TV out of the wall.

I want to drive the streets behind the yellow school buses and look in the windows during a red light and give a slight smile to the kids on their way to a new grade, a new adventure, but I am happy to be on a train with my dark sunglasses on and reading a newspaper oblivious to the school buses that take up the streets below.

During this time, I will have to come to terms that our firsts are going to be different. While I intellectually know this to be the case, emotionally, the loss is pretty close to the surface. I am certainly grateful for all the excellent work, grades, and growth that has taken place.

But I really just want to pick out his first day of school clothes, put him on a bus, and then hear how his first day of high school is over dinner.  We would then go to sleep and doing it again for 179 other days.  Just like I imagined.

I get so emotional, every time I think of you  . . .

Am I Mother Enough - Hell Yes!

Mother's Day 2012 also coincided with my boy's 14th birthday. The last time the two events landed on the same day was when he turned 3 years old and our first Mother's Day together.

Our day started by waking up together and finding a cinnamon bun breakfast to keep up with the ritual bun birthday treat. I looked at him and gushed over and over again how happy I was and how much I valued our time together. We shopped for birthday gifts at the mall and all the guys in the skate shop told him that he had a really cool mom. Calls to cousins, friends, and family rounded out the day. But the building tsunami was on approach.

As it made landfall we were partially prepared for what was to come. While I will skip the details, the result was moderate damage and a lot of tears and a huge emotional mess to clean up. We were able to board up our broken hearts and try to move forward one moment at at time. We exhaled and got ourselves together. Oh, by the way, Happy Mother's Day and Birthday.

What came from the mess was open communication and shared feelings that have been bottled up for the few years. Crossing the San Andreas Faultline was as deep and dangerous as imagined. However, our emergency kit was not too wells stocked.

As I reflect on on the day and its highs and lows, there is one thing that comes to mind. That the boy is mine and we need each other very much.

I did not birth him. I did not breast feed him. I did not watch him take his first steps or say his first words. But we had our own firsts that I can put in the win column. Mother's Day gave us a few more wins and zero losses.

It is our own high-wire where we are harnessed by safety belts and struggle to find our strength to make it through the day.

I let the past few weeks sit with me, to simmer and to gain some distance.  The distance that is needed to allow him to grow on his own.  To be safe and be confused.  I finally hit a wall that many other parents have already crossed and for some that they never transcend.  I am still struggling with the chasam between us (physically and emotionally) but perhaps my number was finally called.

I meditate each day that I find strength to sustain the quiet and that my intentions pour from me into his consciousness. It is in this silence that I hope he finds his way home . . .

Hold On For One More Day

Writing this blog about stress is really stressing me out.  I wanted to find a way to share how relaxed and easy my visit was with the man-child, but one look in his eyes and I could see a life of worry.  Worry about doing the right thing, worry about being flexible, worry about worry.  It was so evident.

His worry made me worry which made the grandfather worry, which resulted in all of us worrying.  The big eyes, filled with concern, and somewhat frozen face is also a reminder of my mom's last days.  So there was worry enough for both the living and the dead.

While the trip was good, it brought up a lot of issues of how to find ease when anxiety is the fourth member of the family.  We talked, we exercised, we ate, we sat in silence, and still the tension was the elephant in the room.  We worried about personal space, personal values, social justice, global warming, environmental degradation, creating community.  All worries that can keep the most engaged adult awake, not usually the 13-year old.

However, during these moments, what was also present was an outpouring of communication both verbal and non-verbal.  A look, a touch, the face in the rear-view mirror.  It all said something.

After three days, I had hoped that the tightly clenched fists and wide expressive eyes would soften.  That the physical body would melt from rigidity just a bit.  That an exhale would open the lungs.  That he could smile being with me.

And then  . . .

For an interesting read on anxiety, check out this piece in the NY Times Magazine by Daniel Smith.

Parental love on day 4,165 - the brain's anniversary gift

I am very interested in the intersections of science and parenting.  Most specifically, how the brain impacts our relationships.  In a recent NY Times Opinion piece by Diane Ackerman, "The Brain on Love" she notes that "all relationships change the brain, but more important are the intimate bonds that foster or fail us, altering the delicate circuits that shape memories, emotions and that ultimate souvenir, the self."

This got me thinking about neurobiology connections between mother and adopted child.  For far too many years, I always kept in the back of mind the thought, "does my son really see me as his mom?"  We adopted him when he was 2 years old and so many formative aspects of who he was were already developed.  While he knows I love him, in those deep and primal moments of crisis, does he instinctively attach to me as his mother and protector?  I wondered about this from day one, and it plagued me until just recently.

A gift was delivered, similar to his arrival.  Out of the blue, with a boat-load of baggage and pain, and what may be seen as a small moment throw away moment, you would have missed it.  As you know, the connection to my child did not happen in utero with our DNA printed on one another.  However, it has developed with him as we communicated with our eyes, face, and voice once he came into my life.

It never crosses my mind that I need to make up the time we were not in each others lives.  From conception to birth and then along the rocky road until he came into my arms.  For each of the 4,165 days that we have been together, we have worked on establishing new neural wiring.

As any parent of a child will tell you there are genetic influences, and then there is the rest of the stew.  Drs. Daniel J. Siegel and Allan N. Schore Researchers at UCLA have made strong connections to tease out that it is not that care giving that changes genes and the subsequent impact on the child, it actually influences how genes express themselves as the child grows and develops.  At a recent conference at UCLA the researchers spoke about how "feeling felt" influences not only our choices for romantic partners, but that it  also impacts other areas of the child in studies that measure mental health, happiness, longevity, etc.  "Supportive relationships point to the most robust predictor of these positive attributes in our lives across the life span."  The key here is supportive.

So what was the gift you ask and how do I think that neurobiology has a role.  I was watching a movie with the boy, when a character said, "Your mother sacrificed everything for you to be safe." I secretly hoped that this line would not a point of interest in my boy, as I walk with the insecurity of our maternal-child bond more than I wish to admit.  Then, my boy turns to me and says, "Just like you, you do that for me."

What I would have given for a fMRI of that moment.  However, while I now know that this connection could be seen in his brain--it came from his heart.  All the more of a gift.

Becoming a man . . . mazel tov

What does that even mean?  Is it the physical appearance when a child morphs into an adult?  Is it by thoughts, deeds, actions, words?  Is it the first time when the peach-fuzz turns to whiskers and are ripe for removal?  It is the confluence of all of these and then some.

Recently, my man-child walked through the door of mechanical exfoliating the child-fuzz that has been part of his face since he was young.  This very banal and commonplace ritual sparks the immediate loss of childhood for me in a way that rattles my bones.

Compared to other first rituals such as losing teeth, a first kiss, losing virginity, it is all weighted the same in my eyes.  They are steps along the road to adulthood that I am so ill prepared for.  I think that this is so hard because he is my only, my one, and also I have struggled with confidence that he feels the same way about me.

However, with the loss of the soft fuzzy hair came an understanding that I have been longing for.  He does see me as his only and his one.

While the stress of separation and homesickness has caused him to feel many emotions, he wrote with clarity about his connection to me--his mother.  He knows and feels the depths of my love and commitment to him; he feels the unconditional love and acceptance; he has a safety net when times get tough; and is secure to make mistakes without rejection and judgement.  It is what we all wish for with our children and mine was able to express it to me.

As we walk along the path from child to man and the bumps punch the air out of our lungs, it is good to  feel the exhale as if it is our first breath of life.


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And which is more; you'll be a Man, my son!
If  . . .  Rudyard Kipling

One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind

Sometimes, the opposite can be true.  These past couple months have been more "one small step for mankind, one giant for [a] man.  My young man.


For many parents, evidence of learning, development, and progress are important benchmarks that are usually tied to their child. Sometimes these are obvious by a grade on a test, a mastery of a sport, but there are times when you are shown success and progress in understated and quiet ways.


Having just spent four days with my young man, he showed me new aspects of his life and his psyche.  When your child grows to look at you in your face and there is no difference between height and weight--we must see them in a new light.  When changes affect hair, face, body, and voice--then we must see them in a new light.  When ideas, thoughts, feelings, and beliefs become more sophisticated--then we must see them in a new light.


I had the light shine on me and it was sublime.  I basked in that light as if I was coming out of a dark and grey hibernation.  I can't say that adolescence is like a walk along the Seine across from the Pont des Arts, however the feeling of truly watching your child blossom into a young adult is pretty illuminating.


There will be tussles, tugs, tears, and turmoil, but as you walk through this time in their life with them (and promise not embarrass at the same time) your relationship deepens.  Hopefully they see you as a resource, a support, a net to fall into.  They know your love for them is deeper than even you imagined.  


And they tell you as such.  
And you know they mean it.


In turn, they give something of themselves to you.  They don't know that they are doing this, and please, don't tell them.  But they give you a glimpse into their future.  They share with you a burgeoning adult who can articulate who they are, what they stand for, who moves them and why.  They begin to articulate this in words, deeds, and gestures.


Shhh. . . .  Be quiet, be still, and don't move quickly.  Or you will miss the quiet moments when the young man lets his guard down and allows you to be part of his world.  Just for those moments--he is still yours.

Finish the sentence, "Never Underestimate the Power of . . ."

I leave you to fill in the blank here.  For each of us, this sentence is wide open.  Right now, for me, it seems to be "a good cry."  During this transitional time, the day is filled with what are pre and post deluge.  I know that I have created a dream team of supportive folks who can carry me along, lifting me up and over the bumps.  But there is something deeply satisfying about balling your eyes out.

Driving while doing this has prompted others who share the road with me both worry and concern.  As my eyes are filled with tears, and the redness around them look like I have advanced liver disease, I shoot them a big smile with two thumbs up and they drive away slightly confused between the tears running down my face and universal indicator of all is good.  A mixed message if ever there was one.

I have learned a lot about the power and strength of the human heart.  I often wonder if the waterworks will ever stop, or if this is just like seasonal allergies, only to repeat when the conditions are ripe to play the heartstrings and then pull them until they snap hard against the skin.

I use the sentence prompt in the title of this blog as a way to understand the psychological assessment, "Sentence Completion Test".  This standard projective test is a telling one to see what individuals are thinking about when prompted.  Sentence completion tests typically provide respondents with beginnings of sentences, referred to as “stems,” and respondents then complete the sentences in ways that are meaningful to them. The responses are believed to provide indications of attitudes, beliefs, motivations, or other mental states.

I know each of us will have answers that vary depending on our situations, however, let me ask you, how different you think your answer would be to somebody struggling in their life?

Sample questions are:
1) If only I could only...
2) People I know....
3) I can always...
4) I think guys....
5) What makes me sad is...
6) I think girls...
7) Compared with my father...
8) Where I live....
9. My mother was the type....
10) My health is...
11) I am scared to...
12) People would like me better if I...
13) It is hard to resist the temptation to...
14) It's a shame that parents...
15) It feels like punishment when...

So when you feel like you just need to have a good cry, maybe ask yourself some open-ended questions and see where it takes you.  I can tell you, "What makes me sad is  . . ." is not the question I would like to start with.  

Lastly, let me give you a test.  Which image below is a piece of art, and which is a projective test? Sometimes reality and fantasy are very close cousins.

Images:
Kara Walker "Cut", (1998)
Kara Walker "You Do" (1993/94)
Rorschach Test Blog No. 3 (1921)

Dia de los Muertos - My Virtual Altar

This past week was a mixed one.  I had immense joy in seeing the boy's face on our Skype call.  We got caught up on what has been going on with school, activities, and some new challenges.  Halloween was just around the corner at the time of the call and it has always been a big event for us.  We would decorate the house and buy a few costumes (school, home, trick-or-treating, etc.)  The evening was like a Vegas variety show with the number of costume changes.  I would make a special Halloween dinner of eyeballs (meatballs) and blood & guts (twice-baked potatoes with fresh mozzarella and ketchup).

In addition to Halloween, we also celebrate Dia del los Muertos (Day of the Dead) and remember those family members who we have lost.

The interesting thing at this time, is that while we remember those who have left us, we also are grateful for births and deliveries.  Just after Day of the Dead is my mom's birthday, and on that same day in 2000 the stork brought us our boy.  During this week, I live the book-ends.  Birth, death, delivery, taking away, and just away.

I am missing both mother and son at the same time.  Sad to recognize they are both not with me on November 3rd, but grateful for their love and how they touch my life.

Tonight, as I spoke with the boy on the phone, I listened to him with amazement at how good he sounds and yet felt deep love, loss, and sadness of our distance.  I heard happiness, accomplishment, and insight.

What a gift that awaited me on November 3, 2000 as this boy was given to me and now he lives through me.  On the eve of our first night together and on his grandmother's birthday, I honor them both and our tremendous luck.  My wish tonight is to be thankful that my mother, who at the time needed to see the future with her own eyes, got to see it in him.

Clear as a Bell

So how are you doing?  Oh that is a loaded question!  Granted, it is a simple sentence of just 4 words.  However, it is also so complicated.  To answer it with complete candor, I am barely keeping it together.  Yes, I walk the dog, clean the house, go to work, put on events, enjoy a flea market, but  . . .  I am rarely o.k.  I think about my boy 24/7, and when I say 24/7, I mean it.  I have not seen much sleep in quite a few weeks.  I am up all night thinking about him; I am at work thinking about him; I am driving in the car thinking about him.

I miss him deeply and the daily connection that we don't have at this time.  However, tonight we had a great call and I heard a strong and clear voice on the other side of the phone.

He is adjusting to the new school and environment well and even getting himself on the school's honor roll.  He is taking new subjects such as Spanish and piano, and enjoying the "The Cask of Amontillado" by Poe, after working on a paper based on Beowulf.  Dark work for the Halloween season?

I am deeply moved by how comfortable he feels at his new school and while there will be bumps along the way, I am thrilled that tonight he was confident and happy.

Part of this process for me is to find comfort and meaning during this time for him and for myself.  I am on that path, but I have just stepped across the starting line.  It is a long race--and I have nothing but time.

"Awareness leads to honesty," no truer words have been said.

The Blue Skies of Skype and the Mountain Ranges of Utah

Today we had our first Skype conversation with our son, some 14 days of saying goodbye at his new school.  Seeing that beautiful face, nice new haircut, and familiar smile was great.  It was also hard as all I wanted to do was reach through the screen and kiss that face.

He's enjoying school, in geometry (glad he doesn't need my help!),  learning piano, and having just completed a report on Beuwolf.  He has been playing on the flag-football team and even smiled when I asked if he liked his weekly collages I have been creating by cutting up is anime magazines.

Fries are being made and connections are being tested.  As with any new group dynamic.  He can see the mountains with their fresh snow and looks forward to winter activities such as snowboarding.

This all sounds great, and it is.  However, I wish to be part of it, rather than hear about it.  I will take what I get and I wonder if he has the same conviction of our family being so far away.  I can only hope so.


What was telling, was that he started doing some similar behaviors at his new school as previous schools.  What is very important and impressive, is that they are aware of this quickly and have put into place a plan right away.  This leaves me hopeful that the school is a right fit.

At least until I disagree with something -- which will happen.  I have been fortunate to meet other parents of kids at this school in Los Angeles and they have been a great resource.  The saying, "it takes a village" is quite trite - however very true. 

The saying, "it takes a village to raise a child" is frequently attributed to being an African proverb, but there are many African societies with proverbs which translate to 'It takes a village...':

• In Lunyoro (Banyoro) there is a proverb that says 'Omwana takulila nju emoi,' whose literal translation is 'A child does not grow up only in a single home.' 
• In the Nigerian (Igbo) culture and proverb "Ora na azu nwa" which means it takes the community/village to raise a child. The Igbo's also name their children "Nwa ora" which means child of the community.
• In Kihaya (Bahaya) there is a saying, 'Omwana taba womoi,' which translates as 'A child belongs not to one parent or home.' 
• In Kijita (Wajita) there is a proverb which says 'Omwana ni wa bhone,' meaning regardless of a child's biological parent(s) its upbringing belongs to the community. 
• In Swahili, the proverb 'Asiyefunzwa na mamae hufunzwa na ulimwengu' approximates to the same.

From my pied-à-terre, the proverb has a deep meaning as well. 

My son's room with this view.

Altered States: California & Utah

It has been 8 days since we enrolled our son in a new school out of state.   When you lose a parent as an adult you mourn your past.  You mourn your own childhood, your foundational memories, and from when you came.  When you are separated from your child earlier than planned, you mourn your future.  By no means is my son's attendance at a school in another state equal to the loss of a child, however, an unplanned separation has similar elements.

My son is a very social child, making friends wherever he goes and easily adapting to new environments.  It is the sustaining these environments that are a challenge.  I hear that all is going well, friends are being made, football is being played, and there has even been a visit to the nurse.  All very normal behaviors.  That is great!

However, seeing that face every day and watching that boy asleep is a large adjustment.  Hearing about the mundane, the everyday, the small and minute facial changes are now lost to me.  Watching him morph from a child to a young man won't happen on my watch.  It will be done from afar and I miss the immediacy of our relationship.

Saying good-bye to him was gut wrenching.  I tried my best to keep a "stiff upper lip" but that was futile.  Hugging him and not wanting to let go was a bit overwhelming to him.  I just couldn't stop holding him.  He pulled away and told said to me, "it is o.k., it is just like college."

Coming back and being in my home the last eight days, I feel lost, unmoored, as if I have lost a limb.  I miss his voice, his smell, his looming body.  I miss watching him sleep, dance, his ideas and thoughts.  I miss the metamorphosis into a young man and I miss the successes at school and with friends.  I just miss a lot.

Just like old times

I have been quiet.  It certainly has not been because of lack of things to say, but those things are too heavy on my heart to share.

My boy has found solace and comfort in the arms of his father and my time with him is few and far between.  This emotional and physical gap has proved to be more than a little difficult.  When we are together is feels like a strained relationship on its last days, with little to say and a lot of silence.

I know that this is not permanent - please don't tell me that.  I know that things will change - please don't tell me that.  I know that he feels safe to reject me - please don't tell me that.

However, the stages of loss and independence with your only child are natural and painful at the same time.  As I have shared, I have had my fill of loss, but to feel loss while the person is still in your life is another thing entirely.

Hormones, emotions, and a changing psychic landscape are all aspects of this time for us.  To quote Nietzsche (and for those younger, Kayne West) "what does not kill me, makes me stronger" is my mantra.  However, the implied strength is hard to see.

While I am missing and longing for the child who is missing 24/7, last night a gift arrived.  He was with me, we fell asleep holding hands, and the broken heart I have healed every so slightly.

 Bill Viola, Four Hands (2001)

We survived!

Well, 7th grade has finally ended and needless to say all that remains are the battle wounds.  We have packed up every piece of paper, assignment, and binder and put it away where you would never find them again.  This past year, in fact 180 (ish) days have been our war.  We have had the most amazing resources at the school from the magnet coordinator, school counselor, Assistant Principals, and teachers.  However, life was not too cooperative.

Each year I learn more about what kind of student my son is and what he isn't.  What is too bad, is that fitting his square peg into the LAUSD round hole is challenging to say the least.  From procedural problems, to parental hopes, the 180 days of instruction and homework have left deep battle scars on all involved.

The collateral damage from the year has wounded us emotionally, psychically, and physically.  What remains are three empty shells of individuals who are left wondering what will come next.  While this may sound very dramatic, the year was just that.  There is no sugar coating on what we faced, but the fact that we are still in one piece is a testament to the inner-strength, perseverance, and hope for a better 8th grade.

Let me close by saying that unless the parents of public school children don't show some rage at the inept and bureaucratic LAUSD with the over-paid administrators, inappropriate teachers, and lack of funding to educate our children, then we will continue to place in the lowest numbers of per-student spending and educational ranking.  We are a third world country when it comes to educating our kids.  This rage needs to rear its ugly head or we can count this generation out -- and there is nobody to blame but ourselves.  I have been on many a parent groups, focus meetings, and numerous committees and know this first hand. This rage has to come from across the city, in all the communities, all the parents.  It is no longer acceptable to have some parents speak for all.  It is no longer acceptable to have some voices at the table.

According to the Silicon Valley Educational Foundation,

"This year, California ranked 43^rd among the states and Washington, D.C.; last year it was 46th.   The $8,852 spent per pupil in 2008 – before the full impact of the recession hit California’s schools – was $2,371 below the national average of $11, 223. It will probably be headed lower once 2009 and 2010 figures are out. California is  squeezed between #42 Washington, just ahead of Arizona, and a freefall behind top-spending, low-cost Wyoming’s adjusted figure of $17,114.  California spends 3.5 percent on K-12 schools as a percentage of state taxable resources, 10 percent below the national average; it ranks 36th."

For the full report on California's ranking, please click here.

We're Not Gonna Take It
 

Courtesy of the Glee Project

Papa Don't Preach

The first modern celebration of a "Father's Day" was held on July 5, 1908, in Fairmont, West Virginia, in the Williams Memorial Methodist Episcopal Church South.  Grace Golden Clayton was mourning the loss of her father who died in a mining disaster along with 361 men, 250 of them fathers, leaving around a thousand fatherless children.  Clayton suggested her pastor honor all those fathers and was thought to be influenced by the first Mother's Day just two months prior.

On this day, I would like to celebrate all the men who "father".  Whether by biology or adoption, being the father, grandfather, uncle, stepfather, or dear family friend.

The bond between a child and the men in their life is sometimes made less important to the mother-child relationship, but it is just as essential.

My son has an amazing father who dedicated himself to being the dad he did not have.  While one can wax on about marriage difficulties, I have watched my husband open his heart to our son when that was non-existent for him.  My husband has frequently noted that he has said, "I love you" to our son more times in 11 years than he ever heard in his entire life from his father.

At this juncture in my man-child's life, being with his dad is preferred.  I have to put my faith in something as the two of them find their way through this emotional time.  I have to trust that they will continue to enrich each others life; that they keep sharing the deepest parts of themselves with one other, and through the inarticulated male-code, that they will deepen the bonds of love and respect.

I, in turn, will celebrate my father today as well.  I can sum it up in one sentence, he is the best father a girl can have.

 

FATHER WILLIAM

by: Lewis Carroll

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head--

Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,

"I feared it might injure the brain;

But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--

Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,

"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --

Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--

Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw

Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--

What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"

Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!" 

 

The Hunting of the Snark and Other Poems and Verses. (1903)

 

 

Happy Father's Day!

Tears of a Clown

Somehow, endings, no matter if simple, benign, or the life-changing kind bring a watershed of tears.  This week culminated in a two-year endeavor with playing violin in the school orchestra.  I started crying 30 minutes before the show and completely through it.

When we started the violin, he practiced it at home frequently.  For those who ask, "was he good?"  My reply is that it was a sound only his mother could love.  As the bow scratched across the strings, stopping and starting in his attempt of perfection, the sound filled my heart in a way that surprised me.  I felt so full of love, pride, and moved that he was creating something.  There were a few times where the practice would go beyond the mandatory twenty minutes and slowly approaching the forty-five minute mark.

On Tuesday I received a call from him during school.  Could I come to get him. He was having a very hard day, he could not stop crying, and was too emotional to pull himself together to go back to class.  I picked him up and immediately he told me that while practicing for the concert and listening to the music in the room, he was overcome with emotions.  It brought up all the things that have been weighing on us for the last six months.  The fact that the music he was creating and experiencing moved him to tears made me so happy inside.  That experiences of emotionalism is hard fought and we are currently fighting for our lives.

I could not possibly stop crying and was reminded of how this door shall too close.  So to consider how the tears flow and then bring sweet and satisfying results, I would like share a recipe for soupe a l'oignon. 

INGREDIENTS
4-6 servings

• 1/2 cup unsalted butter
• 4-6 onions, sliced
• 2 garlic cloves, chopped
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 fresh thyme sprigs
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1 cup red wine, about 1/2 bottle
• 3 heaping tablespoons all-purpose flour
• 2 quarts beef broth
• 1 baguette, sliced
• 1/2 pound grated Gruyere

Melt the stick of butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, and salt and pepper and cook until the onions are very soft and caramelized, about 25 minutes. Add the wine, bring to a boil, reduce the heat and simmer until the wine has evaporated and the onions are dry, about 5 minutes. Discard the bay leaves and thyme sprigs. 

Dust the onions with the flour and give them a stir. Turn the heat down to medium low so the flour doesn't burn, and cook for 10 minutes to cook out the raw flour taste. 

Now add the beef broth, bring the soup back to a simmer, and cook for 10 minutes. Season, to taste, with salt and pepper.

When you're ready to eat, preheat the broiler. Arrange the baguette slices on a baking sheet in a single layer.  Sprinkle the slices with the Gruyere and broil until bubbly and golden brown, 3 to 5 minutes.

Ladle the soup in bowls and float several of the Gruyere croutons on top.  An alternative method: Ladle the soup into bowls, top each with 2 slices of bread and top with cheese. Put the bowls into the oven to toast the bread and melt the cheese.

To close, he played Eleanor Rigby on Wednesday night.  While I don't have audio or video of his concert, this is exactly what they sounded like.

For those who prefer the musical reference of the blog title, this is for you.

The mother's view

L'episode de la Madeleine

Duh!!!!!!!!!

The bell went off in my simplistic brain and the connections and patterns revealed themselves.  I just love when this happens in the therapeutic environment.  It is deeply satisfying.

For years I talked and thought of my father as handicapped as an adult because his mother died when he was four.  There was no mommy, no person to teach him how to be in the world, how to be a friend, how to express yourself, nor how to have relationships that can transcend small and large problems.  This continues to plague him even now when the emotional book-ends of birth, marriage and death come calling between June 17-July 4-July 8th every year.

It was only when I was talking about the man-child and how mother's day and his birthday (birth and birth) causes much shpilkes (Yiddish for "nervous energy") that I saw the connection.

The recent celebration into teenagerville came 5 days after Mother's Day.  The celebration of his birth is bittersweet as a major element was missing, mythologized, absent.  Can you celebrate a birthday if you don't know how you came to be? 

My man-child was conflicted because while he was thrilled to celebrate with his family, his first 30 months of life is as good as a piece of fiction.

His moment de la madeleine is crafted from desire, hope, similarity, continuity, and other cues he encounters in everyday life that he hopes are recollections. We have created them for him, and in turn he has added episodes and experiences into the filing cabinet of his memories.

Were this embellishments the "involuntary memory" described by Proust in his moment de la madeleine?  Involuntary memory is a conception of human memory in which cues encountered in everyday life evoke recollections of the past without conscious effort.

Proust contrasts involuntary memory with voluntary memory. The latter designates memories retrieved by putting conscious effort into remembering events, people, and places. According to Proust's narrator in the text, he laments that such memories are inevitably partial, and do not bear the "essence" of the past.  So in the creation of early memories provided to the man-child, by wanting to fill in the holes and gaps, have we created a falsehood of knowing or being?

Whether patterns and themes come into life through chance, divine intervention, or coincidence--does it matter how they arrive?  The butter in the Madeleine will remove the bitterness that may exist when those memories are less than sweet.

So for those who are walking the streets of Paris, seeking inspiration from a pastry - please find your way to Blé Sucré for the most amazing Madeleines in the city.



Blé Sucré
Square Trousseau
7, rue Antoine Vollon (12th)
Tél: 01 43 40 77 73
Métro: Ledru-Rollin


For 24 Madeleines:
300 g of sugar
6 whole eggs
110 g of cold milk
375 g of flour
15 g of baking powder
410 g of hot melted butter
metal madeleine mold/tray

Orange Citrus Glaze:
200 g of sugar
57 g of freshly squeezed orange juice

Click here for conversion calculator.

One Step at a Time:
In a deep bowl, beat the eggs with a whisk, then slowly add the rest of the ingredients making sure to whisk in-between each new addition:

Sugar...

Whisk and "don't be afraid to put your body weight into it."

Flour, baking powder and whisk...

Hot butter and whisk...

Cold milk and ...

Whisk until smooth.

Butter the madeleine mold(s) only lightly, too much butter in the crevice grooves will keep the dough batter from seeping into the crevices to give the back of the madeleine that wonderful scallop shape.
Cover both and refrigerate overnight.
In the morning, should there be too much butter in the mold crevices, simply wet a paper towel with warm water and gently wipe out the excess butter from the grooves.

Generously flour the entire mold, and then slam it sideways onto a counter surface to remove excess.

Place the batter into a pastry bag/pipe and fill each place, starting in the middle to fill the mold yet not completely to the edges - ending with a quick flip of the wrist to completely cut the flow of batter before starting the next one.


Place the molds on a baking sheet and then into a 230° hot oven for six minutes, before taking the tray out to reinsert it backwards to ensure even baking for an additional six minutes.


As soon as they are done, take them out and immediately slam the mold sideways to remove the madeleines...

and place them individually on a cooling rack.

Use a mixer to blend the orange juice and sugar.

Once the madeleines are at room temperature, dip the top of the madeleine surface into the orange glaze mixture ...


and set aside each on a rack sitting on a baking sheet to catch the drips.

Place the rack and baking sheet of glazed madeleines into the oven for about 45 seconds to 1 minute, watching for the glaze “bubbling” on the edges - indicating they are ready to remove and cool.



A golden box of gorgeous light madeleines - fluffy and moist on the inside, firm and kissed by a touch of orange sweetness on the outside.



Recipe courtesy of Blé Sucré.

Motherless and Child

Yesterday we celebrated and honored the "mothers" in our lives.  Around these parts, it is a bittersweet day as it is tied to grief, loss, and abandonment.

My son, whom we adopted at 2-1/2 years old, has both a mother (me) and is motherless (birth mother).  I can't help but think that for all the love and adoration he gave me today, there is not a moment of imagining the woman who gave him life and who he left 11 months later.

Mothering this boy is complicated.  Alongside revering the mother who gives him his daily does of love, but he also lives with the loss of the mythic mother whose body he shared.  The warm and fuzzy bonds of mother-child intimacy never established and always the elephant in the room.

However, he is not the only one who lives with loss.  I had a mother - she is gone.  I carried a child - she is gone too.  Both have embodied me and me with them.

All the women in my family have a short shelf life.  Men have been left motherless and women have left these men due to the ravages of disease.  I can't see how Mother's Day can be anything but morose at best.

I think about this cycle of loss-grief-mother-child as I am also grieving the son I had and facing the teenager he has become.  It feels like a second losing of a child.  First the one that was in my body and now the one that come into my life when that ship sailed.

 (Thank you Bill Viola)


Watching this child shift from child to teenager is like traveling on the overland routes of the Silk Road.  Extending 4,000 miles, the routes enabled people to transport goods, luxuries such as silk, satin, hemp and other fine fabrics, musk, other perfumes, spices, medicines, jewels, glassware and even rhubarb, as well as serving as a conduit for the spread of knowledge, ideas, and cultures, between Ancient China, Ancient India (Indus valley, now Pakistan), Asia Minor and the Mediterranean. 

While there are spices, jewels and other goods to be found on the journey.  The road to get there can be rough.

Promises, Promises

So I tried to keep the promise of blogging more often in 2011.  However, that was better in concept then in practice. 

I am following a new to me credo for 2011.  If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.  Given that - the missive of raising a tween who is about to cross the bridge into a teenager is taking everything out of me.  I don't mean to bitch and moan about how difficult it is, any parent of a teenager knows this.  All I am saying is that it takes every bit of energy, compassion, and discretion to make it through a 24-hour period with this man-child.

Because of this, I have turned to an more internal life and have found silence to be the most enjoyable moments of the day.  To be alone, still, and breathing are the only desired things I wish to do.  It is a craving that I have never had and nothing else will do.

I am not a Buddhist, but Suzuki Roshi talks about finding your composure and being settled. He spoke of it as "being settled on the self." Being settled on your self means never losing your composure. This is more than just having some false way of holding yourself. It means not being pulled off your place by anything. Not reacting to someone’s anger, not reacting to someone’s emotions, or feelings, or ideas, in a way that pulls you off your place. It also means taking good care of things, not just of yourself, not just of the people around you, but of your whole environment.

I have found that I must find ways to incorporate this into my daily life in order to keep sane and secure.  For now, I will look to find purpose and being settled.  The discomfort that must co-exist is something I must endure.  The sadness, pain, fear, and uncertainty will have to ride shotgun as if it is my co-joined twin.

To celebrate the rites of Spring and to enjoy some traditional French food, I have chosen to make a braised of lamb shoulder with the "caviar" of beans, flageolets, which I found at a special foodie store in Culver City.

Epaule d'Agneau Confite aux Herbes de Provence
- One shoulder of lamb, central bone still in, about 1.5 kg (3 1/3 pounds)
- Olive oil
- 2 to 3 tablespoons herbes de Provence (a mix of dried thyme, rosemary, basil, and marjoram)
- Half a head of garlic
- 1/2 cup dry white wine
- Salt, pepperServes 4 to 6.

Coat the meat lightly with olive oil and rub it with the herbs to cover all sides. Wrap tightly in plastic (or return to the butcher's paper wrapper), and refrigerate for at least an hour, or overnight.

Remove the meat from the fridge half an hour before cooking. Preheat the oven to 250°F. Separate the garlic into individual cloves, but leave each clove in its own skin.

Place the meat in a heavy pot with a tight-fitting lid -- cast-iron is ideal.  Sprinkle the meat with salt and pepper, place the garlic around it, and pour the wine into the pot. Cover and slip into the oven.

Cook for 4 hours, flipping the meat and basting it with its juices every hour or so. If the juices run a bit low -- this may happen if the lid of your pot is not perfectly tight -- pour in a little more wine or water. The meat is ready when it is dark brown and very tender. Serve with flageolet beans (recipe below).

Flageolets
- 300 grams (10.5 ounces) dried flageolets beans (substitute the smallest dried white beans you can find)
- Olive oil
- 2 onions, peeled and sliced
- Stock or 1 bouillon cube- Salt, pepper

Serves 4 to 6

You don't have to soak the beans overnight.  Just cover with 4" of water, bring to a boil and cook until done. Rinse and drain.

Heat a little olive oil in a medium heavy-bottomed pot. Add the beans and onions and cook for 15 minutes, stirring regularly, until the onions are soft.

Pour in cold stock (or cold water plus one bouillon cube) to cover, bring to a simmer, and cook for 40 to 50 minutes, or until the beans are tender but still holding their shape. Season with salt 30 minutes into the cooking, and sprinkle with freshly ground pepper just before serving.