Let the Sunshine In

It was not the rain that woke me tonight, nor was it the usual stirrings of my over-active mind. It was the fact that my 11-year-old son is in a cabin right now at a camp I've never seen, and I'm consumed with thoughts of him. Is he sleeping peacefully? Is he surrounded by nice, new potential friends? Did he get the top bunk that he so desired? Is he excited about this new camp? Is he feeling anxious?

Before we drove him to the bus, my sister Denise called to say good-bye. I heard her asking him if he was excited. He said, "I am very excited and also a little nervous, or anxious, my mom says." Then he asked her what anxious means. With her calmness and patience, she explained the emotion to him -- how it's a combination of being really excited and also a bit nervous. He listened to his aunt with great interest, told her he would write and then this anxious mom made him hang up so we could get to the bus.

But, I've been thinking about that word ... that feeling so many of the campers have ... that feeling that so many of us parents have. I also am reminded of a statement that my brother-in-law Steve said to me 12 years ago, when I was pregnant with Ben. I was nervous about something relating to the pregnancy, and he said, "Welcome to nine months of worry and terror followed by a lifetime of worry and terror!" How true is that statement?

We always think we'll be relaxed when the next milestone is met -- when he knows how to walk -- when he can talk -- when he is in school for a full day -- when he does well on his test that he studied for all night -- when we get all his stuff organized for camp -- when we see his cabin picture and see the smile on his face.

But there's always something else to keep us awake at night. "Did they put the egg crate under his sheet?" Something so trivial. Something so unimportant. Yet we look for that something that would enable us to feel that sense of "all is okay."

And, here we go. For that is why my mind is battling with my body's desire to sleep this evening. When do we ever really get that sense that "all is okay." Can we ever really obtain that? Do we actually believe that it is within our control?

Maybe it's another argument for perspective. For the powers of our minds. For the amazing ability we have to tell ourselves what feels comforting. We all control our reactions to many of our own thoughts incessantly. I did so continuously while at the bus stop.

There was my boy, my firstborn, sitting on the bus, quietly anticipating his seven-hour journey ... the large, tinted window separated us. (Dramatic effect intended.) I could see the outline of him as he waved at me. With his new, short haircut and his skinny frame, I couldn't help but to flash back to an image from the movie Hair: The long-haired, hippy friend known as Berger was heading off to see his friend Claude who was about to enter the Vietnam war. He had his gorgeous locks unexpectedly cut off. And I remember that image of him walking, with that strong fear in his body, with "anxiety" about the unknown. I loved that movie. I loved Berger. I loved they way the characters knew how to "let the sunshine in." And that brings me back to perspective.

We are not sending our sons and daughters off to war. We are sending them off for a summer full of privilege and adventure, canoeing and backpacking, friendship and discovery.

Yet, Ben could have been feeling like Berger yesterday. He was heading into unchartered territory. He wasn't going with any friends. He has never been away for eight weeks. He had never seen the camp to which this large bus was taking him. Everything was foreign. The feelings were foreign. And, even though he is so fortunate as he heads off for what we hope will be a wonderful summer, he must have been filled with that anxiety.

And, that is exactly the feeling that is keeping me awake on this night. I'm not sad, because "perspective" won't allow me to be. My boy is lucky and fortunate and adventurous. He is not going off to Afghanistan. He is at camp! But, I am anxious. Because, I am his mom. Because he is my little guy. Because I want to know if he's on the top bunk, where he so wanted to sleep. Because I miss him already.

I looked up the word anxiety, as I was curious about it's exact definition after hearing Denise's explanation. There were many defining phrases with words such as "uneasy" and "apprehensive." Then, there was that one description of the word, which I choose to recall on this sleepless night:

"eagerly desirous."

That sounds beautiful.

That is my definition.

That is what I hope my boy is feeling ... eagerly desirous.

Once again, it's all perspective. That is what allows us to fall back into a deep, peaceful sleep. It's our rational perspectives. It's our knowledge that we are so fortunate. It's the fact that we can't empathize with mothers of soldiers who have to know less comforting definitions of the word "anxiety." It's the fact that our children are so lucky to have these opportunities. It's our belief that these little beings out there who we call "ours" are going to have joy and excitement and wonder and adventure.

I will go back to sleep now. And, while I still hope that Ben is dreaming of upcoming adventures with a smile on his face, I know that my anxiety is really just my being "eagerly desirous" as I wish for nothing but the simple, innocent, pure feelings of happiness and wonder for my Benny boy. Isn't that what summer is about afterall? Adventure. Exploration. Wonder. Awe. Beauty. Friendship.

So, sing it:

"Let the sunshine it, let the sunshine in ... the sunshine in."

Holding on to Happiness

It happened once again. The amazing energy of the world. The irony, the coincidence, the affirmation that all is connected.

I opened up my laptop just now to write about happiness and my thought that we have so much control of this very concept which directs most of our goals and decisions throughout our lives. Isn't that precisely what we all want from our days here? To be happy?

Before I started writing, I read my brother and sister-in-law's blog in which they keep their family and friends updated regarding her battle with cancer. There was a picture of Sara standing there proudly showing off the baby in her tummy. She looked beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of the picture. She looked happy. And maybe, amidst all of this pain and fear that she is enduring daily, she has some powerful moments of true happiness. Maybe she is happy that the chemo didn't leave her feeling as nauseous as she thought it would. Maybe she is happy to have a husband so loving and supportive. Maybe she is happy because her beautiful two-year-old girl made a silly face that made her smile.

I, of course, don't know what moments are joyful for her, but I do know this: There are those moments to be had. And, for many of us, that ability to feel happiness is not only relative, it is also within our control.

Holidays have always been very difficult for me because, as I've previously mentioned, I often think of those who are suffering at a time when we are told to celebrate. My perspective was improved when, on one day before Christmas, I went to my therapist feeling so much sadness. I told her that I felt guilty being happy as I thought about all of the children who were going to wake up so sad on Christmas morning because they were beaten the night before. (Yes, warning to those of you who feel happy because you successfully avoid some of life's most painful realities: this writing is sometimes a bit heavy! But, keep reading -- I'm an optimist, and it will get lighter!) Back to the therapist:

I told her I felt guilty knowing that homeless people were waking up freezing throughout our city. I felt guilty, as I was surrounded by cabinets and refrigerators overflowing with food, that people all over the world have hunger pains so severe that they cannot move. I felt guilty knowing that Americans were off fighting a war for us, away from their loved ones, while I sit comfortably in my home.

How and why, I asked, should I feel joy? So many are suffering, yet, I should smile? I should be happy? And, what kind of person am I? I have this fortunate life, yet I go to my therapist's office to analyze my trivial struggles while others walk around this world hoping to stumble upon a loaf of bread or a hand that won't strike them?

Her response to me has remained with me for years now. She said, "Amy, what makes you happy is not necessarily what makes someone else happy. Do not project your desires and needs onto others. Maybe a man who is homeless is happy today because he found a warm shelter that took him in. Maybe a little girl who is parentless is happy today because she received a little doll from a charity." Our discussion continued as my eyes opened to this reality: Happiness is relative. And, despite horrible suffering in the world, it is also oftentimes within our control, thanks to the power of perspective.

Another monumental night for me philosophically was when I went to see The Diary of Anne Frank at Steppenwolf. There the family sat, hiding in the cold attic. They were scared. Their lives were threatened. They were hungry. Yet, they couldn't feel more blessed to be sitting beside one another. For that is all that mattered. They were together. They were holding on so tightly. And, for that moment, they were happy. I'll never forget how I felt sitting in that theater, reminding myself that I will be more grateful for what I do have, not sad for that which I do not.

It's a challenging concept. Perspective. Happiness. I suppose it's two concepts! And, both fascinate and amaze me.

When my 52-year-old dad died suddenly, my amazing Grandma Flo was crushed to lose her only child. When my Poppy Frank died 12 days later, Mama Flo also lost her husband of 60 years. It was "too much." How could Mama Flo go on and ever experience joy again, many wondered. She just lost her only child and her life mate.

And, now, here is all I probably ever needed to say about happiness and perspective:

Mama Flo felt blessed every remaining day of her life.

This lovely woman, who had lost her only child and husband within days of one another, still radiated such palpable joy and beautiful energy and abundant peacefulness for the following seven years of her life. We spoke every single day. And every single day she hung up the phone telling me this: "Oh, Amy, I am so very blessed to have you three girls." She also would tell me on many occasions how blessed she was to have my mother and my Uncle David in her life, as well. Yes, she was "blessed."

And, she had friends. And she had cousins. And she had wisdom. And she had purpose. And she had her own brilliantly beautiful perspective.

Her words have never left me.

Her attitude, I hope, flows throughout me.

Her perspective, if I may have inherited a sliver of it, is a true gift in life.

It is enough to make me feel truly happy.

The Simple Complexity of a Connection

I just sat down (or I should say "sat up" since I was just sleeping!) to write about one of my favorite concepts in life: the power of connections with people. I had been thinking about the people in my life who motivate me, inspire me and challenge me, and, surprisingly, those individuals are not necessarily the ones who I would call my dear friends. They are just people to whom I am connected. Oftentimes, a connection is synonymous with friendship, but it also can be something so uniquely different ...

People can feel a strong connection to someone they never met, to a composer of a classical piece, to a brilliant writer. Isn't that part of our fascination with celebrities? We feel that we know them, that they would be our friends if they only knew us. I feel "connected" to Charlie Kaufman because his writing has kept me up at night. His movies have turned my thoughts upside down and inside out. He has motivated me to analyze and ponder -- to think and to wonder. Yet, I'll likely never be within a mile of this man, but, still, I am connected.

Then there is that sense of being connected to someone with whom you shared a cup of coffee or a train ride or a long wait in line somewhere. You may never see that individual again, but maybe something was said that resonated within you, that got you thinking, that motivated you, that inspired you, that made you laugh. And, how beautiful is that? If you travel around the world, then you know this feeling on a larger scale. You know how without even speaking the same language, you connected with another being through your eye contact or laughter or just by experiencing the same majestic view from a mountaintop.

Connection. What a concept. What an awe-inspiring concept that is endless in its possibilities.

Irony is another concept I enjoy, and as I sat down to write this post, irony beautifully seeped into my space. When I signed on line, I noticed there was a new comment on a previous post. Upon reading it, I felt grateful, having learned that this person had been moved by me! He (she?) wrote that my words were full of emotion, while also adding his/her thoughts and reactions to mine. It was a great feeling, knowing that I sparked someone's thoughts about a topic -- knowing that this person took the time to encourage me and support me. The irony is that the post was by "Don," and I'm not sure who Don is ... it's likely a friend of my mom's, I assume (since she's been doing what moms do best -- sharing my posts proudly with her friends), and it may be someone I am already knowingly connected to -- I may just not recognize the screen name. But, the point is this: That person's comments had an immediate affect on me. And, how cool is that, especially if it's someone with whom I'm not that familiar?

Well, that is precisely what I had "sat up" to write about on this sleepless night. The way in which we can move one another. It's especially fascinating to me when the two connected people are not connected by years of friendship or geography or social groups or any of the more traditional styles of close relationships.

There is a man who I hardly know with whom I can say I have a unique connection. Many years ago, we were at a party where we found ourselves dancing freely side by side, both completely lost in the music. Surrounded by all of our friends and even our spouses, we were oblivious to their conversations, their glances, their thoughts. They had filtered off of the dance floor, to eat and talk and enjoy the night. No one else remained but the two of us, and we were jumping and grooving and laughing alone ... together. The dance tunes were pumping through the house and through our veins. And we both allowed ourselves to get completely lost in the music. I only said "goodnight" to him -- no other words were spoken -- as my sweaty, exhausted and invigorated body headed home.

Years later, he has stumbled upon my blog. And, he has commented on it in such a supportive, encouraging way -- a way in which a good friend would. I still have never had a conversation with him, yet I feel connected to this person for he has given me that feeling ... that feeling of knowing that someone else maybe gets you, identifies with you, appreciates you, or maybe even just simply knows how to wildly dance and let go as you do. Of course, we experience that feeling with many close people in our lives, but there's something intrinsically cool about experiencing that with a "stranger."

It reminds me of the beauty in life. The beauty of a connection. The inherent power therein. The knowledge that we are all so different, but the reality that we are, at the same time, all quite alike.

It also gets me thinking. Something so simple. Something so complex. What does it take to feel connected? And what does it really mean? Well, it's important to know that some of the richest connections are so special because of their unique nature. Maybe you're connected to someone because you share a love of music. Or of gardening. Or of tacos. It doesn't have to be anything heavy to be meaningful. But you know it when you feel it. And to feel it and to acknowledge it is one of the more inspiring facets of our days on this planet.

I'm so grateful that I feel all of these uniquely wonderful connections swarming around me, beside me.

So, to those of you who have given me that feeling in my soul -- that knowledge that we are alike -- that realization that we are connected -- that notion that life IS beautiful ... I thank you. And, while I'm aware that connections are not always flowing both ways, I humbly hope that I can give you at least a sliver of the priceless joy you have bestowed upon me.

A Midsummer Night's Dream ... Recalled

I was just watching the news when the weatherman said that tonight was a good night to sleep with the windows open. I immediately thought back to the many hot, summer nights of my childhood in which we would sleep out on our screened porch. We would bring cot beds out there (what happened to cot beds? Aero beds came along, I suppose), and we would fall asleep to the sounds of summer. I loved those sounds. I loved the smells of the plants and trees and flowers and humid air. I loved the peacefulness. I loved the thrill, for sleeping outside was simply different, and different is often synonymous with adventure.

Then there was the true inherent joy of sleeping outside. It was together time in the truest sense. Unlike time where the family watches TV or plays a game, this was that peaceful kind of time -- the kind where you talk about your dreams and fears amidst the moon's watchful beams, where you feel like you are far away from your daily responsibilities, and where you hear one another's deep breathing as one drifts into sleep.

Usually just two or three of us would sleep out there on a given night, my dad most oftentimes being one of the regulars. We all had so much respect for my dad, and with that respect came a certain distance ... there was an element of him being untouchable. Times were just different. It was before it was common for parents to be friends with their children. He was our dad. He was powerful. He was strong. He was a combination of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne and Sean Connery (did he say that or did we?!!). Yet, beside him on a cot, I felt those walls of power didn't exist. He was just someone with whom I was enjoying a beautiful summer night. We all were slightly vulnerable beside Nature's most powerful arms.

They were some of my favorite nights -- some of my favorite experiences. Even if it was hot and sleep wasn't part of my night's plan, I always woke up so rested and happy and peaceful.

I love those memories. I wish they were more tangible. How did we fit out there? What did the porch look like exactly? I have so few pictures of my childhood experiences and of my dad who has not been with us for 18 years. Again, another drastic change compared with today's high-tech ways. Now, if I were to sleep outside with my kids, we would have digital pictures downloaded on Facebook for all of our friends to see. We would have a Flip video of us laughing and being silly. We would have in writing, maybe from mom's blog, memories of "the evening on the porch."

Sometimes I grasp for those memories from my past and come up empty handed. My children will have pictures and videos and writings to detail and re-create those events for them. But, does that make their experiences any more valuable? Does the ability to clearly remember, to recall, make the memory more meaningful? Or is there something extra special about being able to conjure up a small, foggy slice of a childhood memory ... thanks to the words of the evening's weatherman?

The Subtle Strength of a Moment

When a long, holiday weekend approaches, many of us start making plans. We arrange barbecues, plan parties, book trips. We anticipate the days and the fun and the time with family and friends. And, then, it comes and it goes, quite quickly, for that seems to be time's plan. Afterwards, when asked how we enjoyed the weekend, we then get to reminisce as we try to express what was special and memorable about the days.

As I reflect on the past Memorial Day weekend, I am surprised by the image that stands out in my head -- the image that pushes its way to the front of my mind, leaving all of the memories of time with out-of-town guests and friends in the shadows. Yes, I went to the Cub's game, I spent time with my sister and her family from San Francisco, I went to parties, and I even danced all night. But, none of those great experiences are the images on which my mind's spotlight shines.

That memorable snapshot was taken on Monday evening on the Edens expressway, en route from Glencoe to Deerfield.

My three kids were in the car, and we were driving to my mom's house to spend time with the family. I had the windows down and my music playing. We were all tired after a lot of running around all weekend, and we all were eagerly anticipating some more family time. And, then, a song by Muse came on the radio.

"Mom! It's your favorite band," Emily joyfully exclaimed, with her shining face smiling at me in my rear-view mirror.

Danielle immediately started dancing as the beat gave her no other choice. She looked free and happy and adorable, as she bounced and smiled and danced in her carseat.

And, Ben ... he started playing the air drums. Perfectly. I tried air drumming, too (nothing wrong with some extra percussion!). Ben tried to instruct me (as I'm clearly a novice air drummer), explaining that my right hand should now hit the cymbal while my left hand hits the drum. Different beats. Various timing. I was banging both hands at the same time, to the same beat. I was doing it all wrong. Yet I was so proud of his rhythm and his interest in being a part of our little Partridge family moment. He actually put his iTouch down for this, instinctively!

Emily, of course, reminded me to put both hands on the wheel, and, thus saved me from my flawed attempt at drumming. So, I stuck to smiling and singing. Fortunately, none of the three little ones have yet established an ear that can detect one who sings off-key. I am still spared ... I get to sing frequently and loudly as I let the music flow through me.

My eyes watched the road, but they magnetically flickered continuously to my rear-view mirror. They bounced from the image of Emily's glowing smile to Danielle's dancing body to Ben's drumming. And this was my moment.

This was our moment.

I don't know if they enjoyed it or absorbed it as much as I did. Maybe their moment of the weekend would have been sliding into the water at the water park. Maybe it would have been swimming in the pool with all of their cousins. Or, maybe, it would have been this moment -- this moment when they were being driven down the Edens ... singing, dancing, air drumming, smiling.

The music filled the air, it filled the car, it filled all of us. We all were lost in it. It was such a simple moment. And, those, I continue to learn, are often the most beautiful.

So, when I think about my Memorial Day Weekend, it is that most simple and most beautiful moment that I will continue to cherish. And, I will be grateful, once again, for this spectacular glance at life's subtle beauty.

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.