Den Talks

My father gave Den Talks. They were sometimes in the sunroom or on a porch where he could look out at the birds. They could be on a plane, or in an office. They could be in the car or in a hallway alcove in the Senate. I don’t know what they were called in all those other places, but we called them Den Talks.

They happened when report cards came. They happened when mom had it up to here with our behavior. They happened when a major decision needed to be made. One entered these talks a little sweaty or, in my case, a little teary. They were never harsh or angry, really. But you were going to have your rear-end handed back to you, and it was terrifying because leaving there, you had to step up your game. Nothing is more frightening than that.

I am the only girl, the baby, after four boys. We were raised full on by our fiery little mom who dealt with our day-to-day needs, hijinks, problems, and absolute good times. Dad would come home in the evenings, would be in his den or, later, when we took over his den, the sunroom all weekend. He was present, but more of a sideline guy. He spent his days running so much at work that he loved his back up role at home. At least that is my theory. And we were plain chaos, but in a good way. 5 kids, 4 of whom were born within 5 years. My mom would tell us that she was the boss and Dad the giant. He would come in and say, in a hard situation, “What did your mother ask you to do? Why in God’s name have you not done it yet?” All very calm and yet all very, very business; his voice so deep and full. We did what she asked in her name, his name, and God’s name. Whatever name it needed to be done in.

His Giant moments were rare that I can speak of. My brothers may have different stories. His advisory position started out 2-3 times a year. Usually when report cards came out. The report cards would come home, be opened by mom, left by the kitchen TV where she stacked all of Dad’s mail…..and we would wait. From the time we got home until 8pm when he came home. All of us kids lingering around the top of the stairs to be called.

I would walk in the Den with shallow breathing. I was not a star pupil. The minute we would sit down and he looked at me I would always burst into tears. He would lean forward quickly to whip out his handkerchief and start wiping my eyes, chuckling while saying, “Kitty Kat, I haven’t even said a word yet!” I would nod and nod and start to twist the hanky and hiccup. In the earlier years it would be along the lines of: Make sure you study more. Ask questions. Are you giving it your best?

As I got older the questions became deeper: What is it about Math that troubles you? Why aren’t you advocating for yourself? You need to separate out what you are being lazy about and what is making you struggle.

Nodding. Promises. Crying. Embarrassment.

Then I would look up and almost always he would have red-rimmed eyes by the end of the talk, emotional. “I want the best for you. You have to help yourself have that. I love you. Now was that so bad? Was I so terrible a giant?”

I’d always say no, but it was difficult. I never wanted to hear I had to work harder. I wanted an out, an excuse, anything that told me I didn’t need to give more of myself to something I hated so much. Those words would never come when it dealt with our work. We had to do our best. It always came with understanding, though. He always threw in a story about himself that I could relate to so I would know that he went through this struggle as well. And maybe it was just the other day. And maybe it was in childhood. Either way he knew just how I felt and I believed him. His eyes told me so.

As I matured, I understood all the phone calls he took in the den. It made sense to me why my brothers’ college-aged friends or older would ask to come over and speak with my dad. Volunteer for a Den Talk. There was so much wisdom he had to share. No matter whose path, he could envision it well and guide them on it, even if it had nothing to do with his areas of expertise. He knew what it took to present your strongest self to the world, and he would mentor anyone in how to do it. And it didn’t have to be a big talk. It was something as simple as a greeting in the kitchen, “Are you being a good boy?” while getting his cup of tea. It sounds like a throw-away line, but it wasn’t. People checked in with themselves.

3 years ago my father was diagnosed with dementia. Though I saw signs of it before the official word, hearing the diagnosis was a lead weight. All of his very essence was housed in his mind. His brilliance in a crisis, his thoughts in a hard moment, his words that were eloquent in any situation. It most certainly was the biggest slap in the face for a man like my father. It was trapping his advice. It was dampening his words. It was closing off the voice of reason I always needed. The words of comfort. The words of pride. It was just devastating to our family. I was suddenly adrift and could no longer see the lighthouse in the fog.

We would all still talk to Dad about what was going on. I would let him know when I had to make a hard decision and he would ask me about it. I would leave frustrated without any advice really given. I was mainly hearing “What do you think? Is one choice more clearly stronger than the other?” He was putting my questions back on me so I had to sit with them longer. It was a training. It was a weaning. After a little more time, there wasn’t much conversation left and I would sit next to him and lean on him which made him lean back on me. Physically comforting. Supporting.

My Dad passed away more quickly than expected, though he never was one much for lingering places. At his wake I saw grown men crying at the loss of him. I realized that they lost a man who helped bring them to power, through a crossroads, into a life with someone with whom they were meant to be. My family was surrounded by people who were changed by their knowing my father, thanking us for his time, and were so moved by his loss of presence in the world. It was a gift to know how much he had given, and, because he gave so much, the loss of him was so much greater.

Soon after he passed I had a decision to make; one that I certainly would have talked about with him. I had to go sit on my sun porch, instead, and rock in one of his rocking chairs. My head was clouding up in sorrow at wanting to hear his voice. As I let some tears fall and breathed through it, I realized that though his voice was missing, his words were present. I stared at the birds flying around outside and knew every question he would have asked me. As I thought of the answers I could see the direction he would have lead me in. His formula wasn’t top secret at all. It was just intelligent truths: show up, work hard, be good. The question he posed for me so many times that it is now one of my own go to reflection questions is, “Is it that you can’t do it or that you are afraid to do it?” His point being, if you can’t do it, then leave it to someone who can until you have gathered the skill. If you are frightened, well, life is frightening. It is hard. If it were easy, anyone would do it. It being hard is what makes it worthy of one’s attention and time.

I am saying these words to myself. I am saying these words to my children, to my friends. Though he is gone, he left with me his guidance and his wisdom. Every rock on my sun porch chair  is a Den Talk. He is with me.

How do others savasana, I wonder

I hear of wonderful yoga and meditative retreats one can go on. I wonder what I would get out of them? I truly have to feel completely at home in order to feel I have had a deep workout and have gotten out of my mind and into the breath. Will they, say, let me shout out a list of chores for the kids to do who are ignoring me while I'm planking? Would they excuse me for just a sec while I take something out of the oven? Do they allow cats? I don't know if I will know I have completed corpse pose without a face full of fur and a lung full of fancy feast breath.

Yes, and

Picture it.
New York City.
1999.
Upright Citizen Brigade Theater.

My brother had told me to come to the Thursday night show called Survivor where people from the audience could try their hand at improv... and get voted off the island. I had never done improv officially in any way other than maybe in staff meetings, playing off my friend's humor, or during my acting days between scenes.

Owen told me, "All you need to remember is 'Yes, and...' and you will be fine." He explained that the rule in improv is that you don't say no to what someone else on stage has put out there. It will kill the scene and it will throw off the other people in that scene. It is also a trust thing.

I was a finalist.
I came back a few weeks later to be in the final battle and- alas- I heard something along the lines of bros before hos as I was the last female standing. I knew when I stood for a scene with the other two male finalists that I was cooked! And it was a blast.

I have had "yes, and" stuck in my head ever since. I didn't always use it. I didn't use it a lot, in fact, during a time it would have been so beneficial- while hunkered down at home, gestating and raising little ones. For a while,  I took on the very familiar child-like phrase, "no, but".

As I came out of the little kids fog and embraced more the knowledge that I cannot control the world, "yes, and" has been ringing in my ears and pouring from my mouth. It has a rather Buddhist quality. It offers acceptance- something that can be seen as weak- and also power hidden within the "and".

I see what is happening and I am going to work with it this way.

I see the scene that has been set; it is what is. I will add my part to the scene with this action, reaction, or word.

I know you would like to slam every locker to make as much noise as possible, and you can slap this cement wall instead.

I was in a  meeting a few weeks ago where some very minor changes were being put into place. I am a people watcher and was busy watching people's reactions to what was being said. Many were quietly taking the notes. Others were nodding while taking the notes. Then there were the few that were fighting the change by sighing loudly while taking notes. Then the one, questioning it angrily. Why? We never had to? Who said? And then taking the notes, head shaking "No" to be sure the world knew that it was a "No". No. No. No.

I was fascinated. This small change actually would have no effect on anyone or anything, really. It just made sense to who this person is that the response would be so negative. I found it sad to choose to receive life in such a cloud of negativity, and I became even more aware of my own "no" moments, vowing to really think before reacting.

My world has opened up with "yes, and". I do things I never would have considered before and am happy doing them. I work with an age group I had always shook my head at, and I can't believe it took me so long to experience it again. I had forgotten all about my time working in a great 6th grade classroom while getting my Masters because I had strictly thought of where I should be once I graduated.

I have found that things more easily "go my way" only because I am going the way of things. I reserve "no" for only that which would go against my gut instinct and for when I have said "yes, and" too much and am exhausted.

I am not simply saying "yes" and being lead about. I am saying "yes, and" which is the balance of letting myself be guided while still holding the reigns loosely in my open palm.

A Brick

Around and around in my head keeps floating the sentence:

It is just a brick, one single brick.

I want to say it to the student who is punching the desk yelling, "I don't know!"
I want to say it to my friend when her face lights up.
I want to say it to the girl whose eyes are starting to get that far away look as she slips into her cluttered mind.
I want to say it to my daughter when she feels afraid.
I want to say it to my husband when we look at each other as we say goodnight.
I want to say it to a co-worker who doesn't know what to do.
I want to say it to my son when he is contentedly staring at the stars.
I want to say it to my Mom when her words expressing her sorrow get caught in her throat.


I want to say it when the sun begins to rise earlier in the morning.
I want to say it when my approach was the right one.
I want to say it when nothing else can be said.
I want to say it when my brothers are laughing.
I want to say it when my Dad walks into a dream.
I want to say it when my head is hitting the wall.
I want to say it when my kitchen is filled with people.
I want to say it when the sun sets and knows it has put on a show.

It is just one brick.
One single brick in the life we are building.
Our house is never finished.
Every brick matters.
It saves a place for what is next.
It is the future's foundation.
It is just one brick
and soon another one will come.
This brick will be placed,
and a new one will come.

Finding Your Mirror

Loss doesn't end. I am not saying that to be pessimistic nor do I mean that it is always a horrific struggle. What I mean is this: When someone is in your life, they are a constant presence. So how can they not be a constant loss when they leave us? It just makes sense that they would be.

I have had a sad week. I am not saying that to gain sympathy nor do I mean that I haven't had some wonderful moments. But the past few days were some in which I was in the whirl of missing my Dad and it covered most things with a layer of grey soot.

However, the reason I entered this sadness came from something warm and moving. A photo my Mom had given to my daughter had been altered at some point. She added a heart to it and the heart reads: I miss you.

It made my heart stop when I came across it because she said my words. She said my feelings so simply. I knelt on her rug with my hands filled with her toys and scraps and crayons, trying to clean her always messy room, and I let the tears slide down my cheeks as I stared. I let the mess fall a bit, from my hands, from my lungs, from my heart, because really. What is the use of trying to pick it all up? Some just has to fall and stay down all around us. We don't have to carry every bit of loss with us.

I had been avoiding my mom as I always do when I am feeling sad. Always certain that the thing to do is not share it with her. And when I call her, kicking and screaming, and I hear her voice, I know I just have to tell her. And I know she just has to hear it. We both feel better after. Someone to mirror your grief.

Realizing the loss extends past me seems obvious, but I think we can get wrapped up in it, trying to contain it and layer it away in our own selves. Seeing the photo in Evie's room- her simple announcement to whoever should hear it- brought me back to the day I told her that her Da was dying. All my children had their significant reactions. Brendan just laid down on the floor when I told him I was on my way to say goodbye to Da. Colleen kept her quiet presence, afraid to move, afraid to cry. 

But Evie. She rounded on me with all the anger and sadness I felt in me screeching out of her. She was the mirror of the little girl losing her Dad with all the rage I would have never shown. When she pointed at me and said, her diaphragm shaking her words out, "You don't go say 'Goodbye' to him. You go there and tell him that I say 'Hello'. You tell him 'Hello!'" I wanted to scream and kick the stuffing out of my bed. I wanted to let my face get chapped and my hair get knotted and my sorrow to send me into a fitful sleep from which I would rise out of later, confused.

Thankfully, she did that for me, too, when I got home and told her that he was gone.

A friend wrote me last night about how she misses her mom. I was grateful for her words so I could share my sadness, too. She wrote how she thought that by now it would have lessened. We all hear that the pain of loss will get better with time, but I find that inaccurate having barely got my feet wet in this. The pain and the missing will happen always as the person we have lost will always be lost. It just learns to visit you at certain times. And in those times I am learning to poke my nose out of my hole to find someone else who is feeling it, too.

I miss him. I will miss my Dad for my forever.

Et tu, Undies?

Y'alls. My undies are too tight.

Yes, we know when the jeans are too tight and get up in our nethers. Or the shirt is too tight and reveals the muffin tops and bra squishouts. But when the underwear is too tight... it is like a girlfriend saying to you, while at a chocolate buffet or something, "are you sure you want to eat that?"
Complete.
Total.
All encompassing.
Betrayal.

Undies are your closest clothings ever. They are literally alllll up in your business. To have them leave a mark upon thy upper thigh/side butt fat pillows is a slap on the cheek, indeed. Or you bend and they just leave you hanging...
Crack is wack, people. Why would my underwear do this to me?

Look, I can see my fault in it. I don't use woolite. 
Admitted. 
Out there.
My "lingerie" drying rack holds....nothing since it is folded and wedged under some shelves. I throw everything in the dryer. (And before you try to help me, seeing me flailing out here in the wind- they didn't shrink. I pretended that already.) So it isn't like I am completely kind to my little tighties.

So, looking out the window at the soft cascading snow, I gave myself the little pep talk we all have. The one when we 

aren't in a disgusted mood with ourselves. A touch of 
reprimand. A touch of understanding. I took the animal instinct approach. We are like bears. We are fattening to keep warm. Of course I don't want to exercise, it is against my nature in Winter. Tucking in to warmth and food to survive the long winter....Less daylight to ensure resting up.


But, do you have to hide the chocolates from the kids so you don't have to share? No. That is wrong. Let the kids eat some. And it is time to buy the kids the treats you don't like so you will stop sneaking them. 
Yes. Yes. Yes. True.
And only ONE more Little Debbie Heart cakes. One. Then move on!
(or opt for commando)

Separation Anxiety

I remember the first time Evie walked away from me to do a gymnastics end-of-the-year performance. She was 3 or 4 and I was wringing my hands. I couldn't believe that she was going to do something in a big arena, separate from me, with a lot of people she didn't know.
Wasn't she amazing?
Wasn't she something else?
Wasn't she howling in tears?
Howling.
Sobbing.
I think there may have been some muted screaming...



But she wouldn't stop.

My husband was sweating and Colleen was in distress. I handed over Brendan and went to the edge of the mat and said, "Evie, come here."
She kept doing donkey kicks while crying.
"Evie! Ev, come here!"
She shook her head no and kept on kicking.
"Ev. Ev. Ev. Evelyn get off the mat."

She wouldn't. She finished the whole routine she was supposed to do while sobbing.
I couldn't believe it.
I was amazed.
I was embarrassed.
I was flustered.
Mainly, though, I was amazed.

We went out for pizza after, her color back to normal and my husband breathing again, and I said, "Evie, why didn't you stop? If you were so upset, why would you stay?"

I don't remember her response. I know she shrugged. And I figure her answer was somewhere along the lines of, "because it was what I was supposed to do". Which is a shocker because she won't do things just because she is supposed to or has been asked to.

Well, maybe she will when asked by others, other than me or her siblings.
Maybe she will when it is hers and she wants to go through it. When she has put it to herself.

Five years later, I have had this girl leave my side repeatedly to compete in gymnastics meets. She can't be stopped. Our time together in general is limited. I leave her at 7:45am when I go to work. I leave her at 4pm when she goes into the gym for 3-4 hour practices, 4 days a week. We are quite good at being separated, but there is something about when she walks across some foreign gym's mats, away from me, that makes her seem small. Makes me feel small.

Makes me miss her.



All the time now she is encountering new skills she must practice and master in order to excel and strengthen her routines. Things that I call, "nuts", and some of which she calls, "easy".
Lately, she has encountered new skills that have frightened her.
And she just can't shake it.

And when she cries at practice out of frustration, I don't go to her, though I feel the wind of my heart's rush to meet her.
And when she cries at the meets from a missed chance, I'm not allowed to go to her.
Which is good, I suppose.
But very, very hard.
Very hard.
And when she is struggling, she won't ask for help.
She won't really talk about it unless she is fit to burst with the stress of it all.
Then she howls it.



I can't tell if she hears my advice- I know little of gymnastics, but I am pretty good at stress and fear in general. I don't know if she hears the dharma talks on the way to the gym, though I know she is listening, and I know she knows I put them on for her as much as me.

Anything my husband and I say to her she responds with, "I know."
Hm.
Well.
Does she REALLY know?
Did her saying she knew dismiss what I said?
Should I just shut the hell up?
I probably should shut the hell up.

Do I reach her?
Does she feel me with her when in distress?
Does she know I would spot her and buoy her all through her practices and meets if I could?
Does she know that I well up when she wells up?
That I cry when she beams?
That I am speechless with her every success because they are hers?
Just hers.
So separate from me.

I am now waiting to hear if she mastered a skill tonight. If she recaptured another skill that she lost in all her fear and worry.
I'm in this moment before my husband brings her home and she can fill me in.
I'm in this moment of wondering how her meet will go in a few days with all these flusters and flips and frustrations.
I keep repeating the word that I left her with today: Yatha-bhuta. Reality as it is.
I hug her when I say it.
She shrugs when she says it back.
It is what it is.
But it is so big because it is hers
and it is separate from me.
As it should be.