We are Here

It's hard to sleep peacefully tonight. I spent the day at a funeral for a 46-year-old man who took his own life. And, as I lay here in my dark, quiet room, the images of his four-year-old boy and six-old girl keep creeping back into my mind. I see them smiling during the funeral, while they gaze around the packed chapel at all of the faces. Then, I see those young, innocent faces full of tears as the rabbi speaks about their daddy, who is now gone. Next, they are sobbing in their mom's arms as their dad's casket is being lowered into the ground. They hold bright flowers in their hands ... beautiful, vibrant flowers that speak of life and color and possibility -- as the awaiting dirt pile sits just feet away.

The young children's emotions vacillate, as they are unable to grasp what has even happened. And, I, someone who hardly knew this man who was said to be funny, charming, witty and good, could not keep my tears from flowing. I cried for the wife who no longer has a partner. I cried for the children whose tears broke my heart, whose fatherless days are stretched out before them. I cried for his mom, his brothers, his friends, my boyfriend -- all of whom lost a treasured man.

Everyone cried. Everyone felt sick. Everyone wondered why. Why would a man, who seemingly has so many reasons to live, take his own life? People speculated all day: Maybe he got into financial trouble. Maybe his wife was leaving him. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he lost his job.

Maybe.

The need to figure it out was understandably all-consuming. But, from where does that need come? Is it the innate detective in us? Is it our overflowing human curiosity? Or, is it simply our need to feel less vulnerable? Wouldn't it make us feel safer to know, "ah, I see. He was caught up in a Ponzi scheme. He would have gone to jail for life. Now I get it."

The truth is, we can never really "get it." There is no reason, no fact, no illness, no scandal, no disaster that can justify a man hanging himself. There is just darkness and sadness and despair. There is the thought to some that tomorrow will not be a better day, that the sun will not shine again, that their pain will only deepen.

And, that makes us terrified and vulnerable and sick.

We always want to know that there was some big reason, a reason that is not present in our lives. Then, we can feel safe. Our son is not part of a Ponzi scheme. My father has a good job. My sister does not battle depression. Ah, yes, I am safe. We are safe. So, we believe ... so we try to believe.

But, we know better. We are all vulnerable to the darkness that exists. It will touch all of our lives. We all will suffer. We all will feel pain. Some of us will bounce right back. Some will wallow in the sadness. Some will see colors more vibrant than ever before. Some will see only grayness. Some will love and laugh and savor each moment more than they ever had. Some will miss the beauty that is right before their eyes.

Our reactions and emotions travel on the pendulum, just like the young children who shockingly lost their daddy. It's what we do with those emotions. It's how we handle our vulnerabilities. It's how we choose to live and breathe and smile and laugh and love. That is what differentiates us ... what makes us strong or weak, happy or sad.

Yes, we are vulnerable. Yes, the world is dark. Yes, there is so much pain.

But, there is also a beauty to be discovered in so many hidden moments. There is a vibrance in flowers to see ... a smile on a child's face to cherish ... a kiss to experience ... a love to explore ...

There is life. And, death reminds us how fragile that is. And, death reminds us of something else I will never forget: Six and a half years ago, when my sweet Sari died suddenly at the age of 32, my poetic friend said to me, "Death is what makes life beautiful."

It was hard for me to grasp that concept at that sorrowful time. But, I remember inhaling those words and letting them seep through my veins. I knew those words were powerfully true. For as much as death makes us feel more vulnerable, it is also a reminder that we are here. We are breathing. We are loving. We are laughing. We are holding flowers. We are planting seeds. We are here. We are present.

We are here.

Summer's Knocking on the Door

Even though the word summer carries images of carefree, ideal, peaceful times, there is an inherent pressure that comes along with that word, with the concept of summer, as well.

This is the time to get stuff done. To enjoy your children. To be free. To read all of those books you have set aside over the cold, winter months. To finally organize your photo albums and closets and lives.

I am excited for summer. But, I do feel the pressure that those three little months subtly put on me, as well. What am I going to accomplish? How many books am I going to devour? What great places am I going to visit?

And, I'm thinking ... What do I want to do this summer?

I want to enjoy the warmth and the lake and the trees. I want to feel free. I want to float on a raft. I want to breathe deeply. I want to read a lot. I want to get letters from my boy who is going away for all eight weeks, and I want the letters to be full of excitement and adventure.

I want my girls to laugh and love camp and enjoy the beach.

All of that would be wonderful and idyllic, but what would I have "done?" All of these thoughts of floating and smiling and laughing, and I haven't even organized a closet in my mind yet?

How do we measure a successful summer? How do we decipher accomplishments? What does it take to have a great summer? What are the goals therein? Do we want to be altruistic while we finally have a chunk of free time? Or is this the season for a little selfishness?

I know I want to find some part-time work, and I want to write and read and know my children are happy. And, as much as I am eager to organize, I don't want to waste the few weeks of nice weather we Chicagoans enjoy by sitting on my closet floor.

A few nights ago, Emily wanted to read with me, and I jokingly said, "not now, I have something else really important to do. I want to organize my sock drawer." She nervously laughed and said, "You're kidding, right?" Of course, I tickled her and told her I was joking. But, the truth is, I do figuratively get caught up in cleaning out my sock drawer. I spend so much time organizing the house, the backpacks, the lunches, the homework, the shopping lists, the photo albums, the closets.

With summer lurking just around the corner, it's that time to evaluate what we want to accomplish. But, now I'm realizing that we often get so lost in these accomplishments that we forget to take the time to just be. We are so consumed with all that we want to get done, we forget the importance of doing nothing.

To just breathe.

To just float.

Modest Mouse sings it perfectly, "Don't worry, we'll all float on. Even if things get heavy, we'll all float on."

I think my goal this summer is simply to forget the heaviness of winter and simply float on this summer ... On a raft, in my mind, with my kids.

Even if my socks are all disorganized.

Just 26 Letters

"Mommy, how many letters are there in the world," my six-year-old daughter asked me.

"There are 26 letters in the English alphabet," I answered.

Danielle's big blue eyes grew larger. "Only 26 letters?!! But, Mommy, how many words are there? How can that be that there are only 26 letters?" She giggled with awe.

Her questions were intoxicating, not only because they were interesting, but because they were full of such excitement and wonder.

We continued to discuss the immeasurable amount of words as she also compared the number of letters to the number of actual numbers. She pointed out how numbers are infinite, so how, she wondered, can there just be 26 letters. I took a deep breath. Rather than just emitting a quick answer, I let these questions swarm and fester and grow.

As I thought about my Kindergartner's uncertainties, I realized this is one of those pure, beautiful moments in life. One of those opportunities in which we adults can still learn and challenge our thoughts and question the familiarity of our ideas. And, my subsequent reflections were all initiated by Danielle's simple, yet complex, question. Isn't that the beauty of innocent minds? The way they think so freely. So creatively. So courageously.

As an adult capable of more abstract thoughts, I let my mind venture on a creative journey. It is amazing to think of the thousands of words that exist in the English language ... all comprised of a various amount of just 26 letters. And words are just words. But, their power is one of the most overwhelming concepts to absorb. Think about this: It is a word that can let a man know that his beloved will accept his proposal. It is a word that is spoken that tells another to exit from the room, from someone's life. It is a word that starts a war. A word. Series of words.

"Yes."

"Leave."

"Good bye."

"Now."

"Never."

"I'm sorry."

Twenty six powerful letters. Jumble them, move them, rearrange them. Pick three of them. Say, "I love you." Choose a different set of words, this time four, "I am leaving you." Change your life. Change your destiny. Change the world. Take a sharp turn on your path. Each step is taken with a word. And they all come from a mere 26 letters.

What a fascinating concept.

There was a wonderful, eclectic little book I once read called "Ella Minnow Pea." It was about an imaginary island, in which the residents all cared passionately about language. One day, a monument with letters on it lost the letter "z." The city's council decided this was a sign and that the letter "z" must be immediately struck from their language. People were punished severely if they used the said letter while writing or speaking. Slowly, more and more letters were abolished.

The book wasn't about letters though, it was about authoritarianism. But, the concept of our alphabet therein made me realize how much we have come to rely on each and every letter. Of course, being one who believes that we are on this earth to love and be loved, I immediately imagined a world wherein we weren't allowed to use the letter "l" -- how would I bestow my favorite phrase on my loved ones?

I love books that get our minds rolling and spinning and playing.

I love the word "love" and am grateful that we have the four letters therein to use freely.

And, I love my sweet Danielle and the fact that she brought her wonderment and awe to me and let it seep into my my thoughts ... into my world.

The Dissolution of Mother's Day and Father's Day

I am a mom. I have a beautiful mom. I have wonderful friends who are moms. But, I am not one who believes that we should continue to celebrate Mother's Day. As a matter of fact, I feel strongly that the Hallmark holidays (Mother's Day and Father's Day), which were created with intentions of making moms and dads feel special and celebrated, should be abolished. It's one of those things we seem to just blindly do -- the calendar tells us the holiday is coming up and we immediately fall into the roll of shopping for gifts, sending flowers and planning brunches. These days have been celebrated for as long as we can remember, so why not continue the tradition?

I'll tell you why.

More people seem sad and lonely on these days than on most other holidays. These days specifically tell us to celebrate a specific person -- our mom or our dad. But, there are so many people out there without a mom or a dad. And, then there are the people who have a parent who has neglected them or abused them or abandoned them, and on this day, we simply tell that person to remember the agony, the torment, the despair. Remember, we say, you have dealt with the sadness of your negligent parent for years, but today you should feel an extra deep sense of sorrow.

The concept of the light-hearted holiday has failed. Yet, we have failed to acknowledge that.

If you're an adult and you've experienced the loss of a parent, than you know the feeling -- the dreaded anticipation of this day. My dear friend who lost her mom a few months ago told me that "tomorrow is going to be brutal," as we spoke the night before Mother's Day. I thought that this is ridiculous. She has had so many brutal days as she's gone through the grieving process. Now she has yet another opportunity to answer the door to find grief waiting there ... looking her right in the eye.

Then, there are the little ones. The children. The innocent kids who are just learning how to grapple with various emotions. If they have lost a parent, they have likely spent much time learning how to handle and manage that loss. Death is a concept that they may have trouble understanding. But fitting in is one concept they grasp at an early age. The motherless child, for example, has to now add "not fitting in" to the pot of emotions, which may already include loss, sadness and void. The child has to face the gloom and sorrow at home on Mother's Day, but now, the child also has the opportunity to experience those emotions in the Kindergarten classroom as the class is making special Mother's Day projects. The motherless child is surrounded by peers who excitedly create, eager to bestow their art upon their moms. I can only imagine the feelings that are streaming through that child. On top of the pain, that child has to stand out as the Kindergartner without a mom?

It seems to me that more gloom is experienced than joy on these holidays.

And I didn't even mention the words "pressure" or "obligation," words that wrap themselves around these days, as well. If you have a parent, then you feel the need to make that parent feel special and loved, specifically so on this day. If you are a parent, you feel as if your children owe it to you to be extra kind and helpful, for it is your "special day," of course. And, if you are a child whose parent has passed, then you feel obliged to honor that parent's memory on that day, maybe by visiting the cemetery.

Pressure. Obligation. Sadness. Pain. Loss. Void. Alone. Lonely.

This seems like a lot to endure ... all in exchange for a beautiful bouquet of flowers, or for the acknowledgement that mom is really special. Aren't we living our lives in the moment? Aren't our loved ones supposed to know how we feel about them every day? I know that I'm not waiting until Mother's Day of 2011 for the next opportunity to let my mom know how special she is to me. And, I know that my dad, with whom I've not celebrated a Father's Day in 18 years, always knew how much I adored him. He knew on Father's Day, because I was taught to tell him then. But, he knew, on the other 364 days of the year, that I respected, loved and cherished him. All it took was a big cuddle or a competitive game of Horse in the driveway, and he knew. He knew he was celebrated.

No visit to the cemetery today will make me more certain of that.

There I was, a 39-year-old mom of three, standing alone in the lobby of the very crowded La Quinta hotel in Palm Springs, surrounded by excited twenty somethings who had traveled to the desert for the same reason as I -- to go to the Coachella music festival. Immediately, I felt out of place, alone and unsure about my decision to travel 2,000 miles to experience a weekend of music. But, it wasn't going to just be a weekend of music: My very favorite artist was going to be there - Thom Yorke. Additionally, my favorite new band, Muse, was headlining on Saturday night. It seemed like a no-brainer. I love music festivals, I revere Thom Yorke, Muse was headlining, I had no one who wanted to go with me, and so I was off! Wait, why did I skip that one detail, that one aspect of this plan, the fact that I was going to travel solo? It wasn't as if that was something I had done frequently or in the last decade. As a matter of fact, I had inadvertently trained myself over the past ten years to dote on others ... to be a mom ... to be a friend ... to be a girlfriend. To make sure that "they" were all happy and that I was doing things that "they" want to do. I don't even know how to do this anymore -- to do something that is purely and selfishly for ME. I am terrified!

But, for some reason, my fear and anxiety were repressed and I had booked my tickets without giving it much thought.

So here I am, standing in line of the lobby. Nice time for those repressed emotions to creep up to the surface! I should have put in more thought! What am I doing here?!! I'm the old mom traveling alone. I can't believe my boyfriend didn't accompany me on this trip to share in my passion. How am I going to get back to the hotel late at night? Ugh. I really need to be less spontaneous.

Then, there was that voice of my sister and of a dear friend, "Do this for YOU ... it's time you do things that YOU want to do ... YOU don't need anybody ... You should embrace this experience. Step outside of your comfort zone." And, further, my spiritual cousin reminded me of this, "Aimless, this is a gift from the universe. Embrace it, and don't worry right now about how you will return the favor. You will one day."

They all were right. So right.

And, Universe, I do owe you one.

The music. Yes, that's what I had come to experience. And, on the first night, as I stood outside listening to Jay-Z belt out "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one," I began to revel in the dichotomy of the weekend. There was going to be a lot of solitude and serenity and beautiful music. But, there was also going to be my first experience of a Techno band (wow!) and rap (go Jay Z!) and great rock 'n roll (first song into the set, and I was instantly a fan of Them Crooked Vultures.).

And, there was going to be Thom Yorke with his new band, Atoms for Peace.

Yorke is worthy of his own paragraph. Of course, he's worthy of much more, but I do have to get back to those mothering responsibilities soon! So, I'll try not to be too verbose. He stood up there with the very colorful and energetic man known as Flee (Red Hot Chili Peppers), and they performed a 90-minute set that blew me away. They went through the whole album "The Eraser," and then they treated the massive crowd to some classic Radiohead tunes, including "Everything in its Right Place," for which people went nuts!

To illustrate how this one fan was feeling, I will simply say this: When Yorke got out there on stage and started singing, I had tears in my eyes and an enormous smile stretched across my face. It wasn't just because I was experiencing the music of my favorite artist live and in the middle of the desert, but it was also because I was THERE. I went for me. Sure, I went for Yorke, too, but, the gift was that I did it for me, and I was smiling and peaceful and free. Those moments in life, the ones wherein you truly feel present, are so rare. So, I embraced it and held on tightly to that inherent beauty. It made me a bit empathetic to the scores of women (who I previously thought were mildly insane) who would faint and cry hysterically when Elvis would come on stage.

But, maybe, like me, their tears weren't just about Elvis and his music. Maybe their tears were about their journey, as well. About independence. About their freedom. About their own truth. About the moment. A moment I am so grateful to have experienced.

I love to write, I don't need a ton of sleep, and I just created a blog ... sounds like a recipe for written expression! And, as I type in my quiet house, I am thinking about how I savor these sleep-deprived moments -- times wherein it seems as if the world is asleep, as if my thoughts can actually be my own, unfiltered and untouched by the literal daily noise we all encounter.

In about an hour, my three little ones will wake up (as will have the sun), and the transition from serenity to chaos will not be a smooth one. It will be welcomed, however. For as much as I tend to get overwhelmed by all of the noise, I do embrace the energy and action that abounds in my house as the kids get ready for school. First, Ben leaves the house, walking to his Junior High school. Then, that bus comes down the street to pick up Emily and Danielle, who have rushed through their breakfast and sat not-so-patiently for me to style their hair. When they get on the bus, I close the door and happily sigh ... happy that they're all off to experience their day ... happy that I did it -- that I fed and dressed them all ... that I made the lunches ... that I didn't forget anything. Or did I? Did I ever find Danielle's library book? Did I remember Emily's water bottle? What about Ben's reading log?

That's when I remind myself to let it go -- to be in the now. It is time for me. It is time to be. And, in just a moment, it will be time for "them." It will be time to be in the "later." For I will have to run to the grocery store to get food for tomorrow's lunches, and I do have to work on Emily's goodie bags. Oh, and Ben desperately needs some new pants as he is growing so quickly and looking as if he is preparing for very heavy rains.

And, now it is all cyclical. Speaking of the rain ... that is what woke me up at 3 a.m. today. Or, rather, that is what I woke up and spent several minutes listening to ... several minutes that led me to grab my computer and start this blog that I've been writing in my head for several months. I'm looking forward to sharing my thoughts with you. With me. With those dark, quiet hours that beg us to think, to be and to write.