On Monday, April 15th a bomb went off at the Boston Marathon. The news was stunning; watching it unfold in my home town was surreal. My very first thoughts, instant, when I heard about the explosion, were for a few friends from where I live now who had traveled to Boston to run the race. Both had posted updates about their excitement to run the race, or be there, and I had been waiting to hear how they did. I was excited that they would be seeing my home town, and shared that with them. Suddenly, instead, I was terrified that any one of the folks there might be in danger. I relied on social media for updates, and was infinitely relieved to hear that all of them were safe and accounted for.

image: trendmixer.com

image: trendmixer.com

After that, it began to sink in that something truly horrible had happened in the place I still call home. Like so many people, I have spent much more time this week following the news— more closely than usual. Today, it’s been hard to pull myself away from the live coverage in Boston, as mayhem set in. A police officer where my husband went to school, MIT, was murdered, and a massive manhunt brought the city of Boston to a complete standstill. Inconceivable. Even when I worked late, late shifts, so many years ago and walked out in the middle of the night… Boston was never totally still. Today it was. For those of us who have lived there, the images on TV today were truly unbelievable.

No matter where I live now, and regardless of how happy I am here, Boston will always be my first home.  It’s in my blood, and in my speech, if you know me. I swear too much; I say wicked; I love lobstah. I grew up an hour south of Boston and spent my youth looking to Boston as the place to be.  My first rock concert was with high school friends, at Boston Garden: the Doobie Brothers.  We shopped at the original Filene’s Basement, and thought we were “wicked pissah” when we went into the city for a day of Little Italy and Fanueil Hall.

I then went to college in Cambridge, across the river from the shiny city, and every chance we had, we crossed the bridge, for youthful adventures.  Boston, Cambridge, Somerville, Watertown… these places made up my world, they were my home for a very long time—at a pivotal time in my life.  Back then, I knew all the restaurants, stores, the streets in the places that are all over the news now. There was a time when I lived in an “apartment” in one of those familiar old homes, just like the suspects were hiding in. Seeing the footage of the bombing at the Boston Marathon and the startling violence and manhunt that has come after, has been shocking every day this week. It is inconceivable to imagine Boston all locked up so tight— that city I love, at a stand still.

As I watch the news today, I no longer know all of the landmarks and images that show up on my TV. Like every city, it has been changing constantly since I left, just as I have. Because I have family and very close friends who still live there, because my daughter went to college in Massachusetts, I have been back to Boston fairly frequently since I graduated from college. Watertown, the site of the manhunt today, is very familiar to me. Cambridge is filled with memories and familiar touchstones. It is where I spent my youth, where I fell in love. I spent countless hours on the campus of MIT, where so many of my friends and future husband went to school. The officer that was killed was just being born, about the time I was leaving Boston for Grad school, but his death feels a little personal… murdered in a place that brought me so much joy, and so much fun. It shocks on a level that is hard to intelligently describe.

Boston Marathon bombing Image: hothits957.cbclocal.com

Boston Marathon bombing
Image: hothits957.cbclocal.com

This is the first time in national history that an entire major U.S. city has completely shut down (no transit, every business closed, schools closed, no taxi service, nada!), in response to a terrorist or criminal act… in an effort to apprehend a suspect, who has wreaked havoc, and brought death and trauma onto an entire city—the nation. The Boston Marathon is the oldest and one of the most important marathon in the world. Difficult to qualify for, and drawing elite runners from around the world.  There were 100+ countries represented at Monday’s race. One of the women who died, was from China. Consequently, when the bombing first occurred, the coverage was international. However, throughout today, I wondered if other countries could understand Boston’s approach, it’s steely determination to bring justice.

Throughout the week, I felt mixed emotions. The part of me that is still deeply tied to Boston, anxiously watched the updates and felt the shock that so many others felt. The part of me that is a citizen of a bigger world, was aware that this event was nothing new for so many people in other parts of the world. On the same day of the Boston Marathon bombing occurred, bombings in Iraq killed 42. Today, a bombing at a cafe in Bagdad, crowded with young people, killed 26. The same grief and horror we were feeling about Boston, is felt by parents and people in those places just as profoundly. However, you could barely find those stories amidst the huge Boston headlines. This is nothing new; Americans are no different than citizens anywhere else: we notice what happens in our own back yard, more than we notice that which is happening somewhere else. “There but for the grace…” keeps us all going.

As I wrote in my post for the Outlier Collective this week (read here), many in the U.S. are still shell shocked from 9/11, and probably always will be. We have not lived with frequent acts of terrorism, as some of those other countries have. Despite the lessons of 9/11, many still believe that we are inherently safe from those things. Boston was where two of the four planes, used in 9/11, originated. It is a city that bears deep scars from that day and they faced that, as they did this event, with typical Boston strength, as well as the hindsight to not let it happen again.

image: from internet, no source given

image: from internet, no source given

I have long come to understand that my home city still carries the DNA of the Pilgrims that settled the area. It is a city that is fiercely proud and independent, a melting pot of many cultures and backgrounds. Boston pride could easily be seen as arrogance, cockiness by others; but it stems from a long and tested history.  The personalities are big, some of it  encompasses all of New England, which consists of: Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, for the record. New England is where our nation began, and Bostonians are patriotic to the end; and are bold in displaying that. The Marathon occurs each year on Patriots Day… anything for a parade. We are intense on most levels.

We are loud, we are passionate, we don’t sit quietly and watch.  It is a place where strangers are strangers only until they are friends. Bostonians don’t give that away easily. But, once you’re a friend, it’s for life. Things run very deep there. “Boston Proud” is not just a Facebook status to those who live there. For those who live, or have lived, in Boston, there is a deep pride of place. We have our secret handshakes and wicked pissah secret words, and a fierce and passionate commitment to all things sports. So many years later, I know to only cheer for the Patriots, The Celtics, The Bruins— despite having lived in Chicago, the Detroit area, and now Seattle… it’s hard wired, from a youth suckled on names like Esposito, Orr, Yaz, Collins, Fisk. It is a tight knit community, and once you’re part of it, you’re always part of it. Boston takes care of its own, and that, above all else, came through this week.

I saw this Tweet today, and smiled, knowing it was so true:

Boston is probably the only major city that if you fuck with them, they will shut down the whole city…stop everything.. and find you.

Watching the intense coverage today, I was riveted. It occurred to me more than once, that 24-hour news coverage may not be a good thing, as stories broke and then were taken back. Mis-information was rampant at times. I was deeply moved to see the town of Watertown, the entire Boston area, lock themselves in and do what the police asked without complaint or whining. It was amazing to see so many police officers step up and risk their lives, to bring in two suspects who had proven themselves extremely dangerous and willing to kill anyone in their way. It was a community wide effort that ended with as little violence and loss of life as was possible, given the circumstances. It was compelling to read Facebook updates from friends there, knowing how much more intense it must be for them. Today, I felt so proud of my other home, my first home. I grieve with them as they bury those who lost their lives, and I celebrate with them as they see an end to this horrific event. I cheered the first responders, as they so enthusiastically did as well (gave me chills!).  What a week: what a day; what a city! Today, we’re all Boston Proud.

Check out this spirit! The accents, the Boston pride comes through (Stah Spangled Bannah):

Did you watch the news coverage on Friday? Are you from Boston, lived there, or have you been there? Share your thoughts.

Check out my guest post on the Outlier Collective, addressing the question: What Seminal Event from the past 20 years, has emotionally affected you, and why?  See what I picked:           http://theoutliercollective.wordpress.com/2013/04/18/what-seminal-event-from-the-past-20-years-has-emotionally-affected-you-the-most-and-why-by-tales-from-the-motherland/

Tales From the Motherland on Facebook, hit like and follow along.

Posted on April 19, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 28 Comments

What seminal event from the past 20 years has emotionally affected you the most, and why?

Posted on April 18, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I’m honored to be featured on the Outlier Collective today, addressing an event of the last twenty years that affected me emotionally, and why. It’s a big topic; hope you’ll stop by and check it out on the Outlier Collective. Take a minute to leave a comment or a like and let me know you stopped by.

http://theoutliercollective.wordpress.com/2013/04/18/what-seminal-event-from-the-past-20-years-has-emotionally-affected-you-the-most-and-why-by-tales-from-the-motherland/

Posted in Honest observations on many things | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Everyone Poops

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
Image: creativethorp.com

Image: creativethorp.com

Note: This post was already in the works, nearly done, when the horrific events in Boston occurred. Boston is my home town and my heart goes out to all of the runners and spectators who were impacted by this terrorist act. Boston is a strong town with strong people, but this kind of horror is a lot for any place to bear. My heart is with Boston and the people from around the world, who are there.

Don’t read into the title; don’t expect toilet humor… butt maybe.  On the other hand, if you have a dainty constitution, move on to other reading. When I said on my byline that this is my “twisted” view of the world, here it is. Sometimes my thinking veers left, but in the end, there’s a deeper meaning here. However, it’s not beneath me to use some body humor to make that point.

The other day as I was driving home, I was thinking about peer pressure, self esteem, and conflict. I was thinking about how I had let someone else make me feel bad about myself. The issues were stupid, but I’d let it get under my skin. It’s me; I’m the one who took that on. The situation was a classic booby trap for me. Two points of views, at odds, and I started over-analyzing my input. I started feeling bad about myself and second guessing what I’d said, and done. It’s a vicious spiral down; a no win outcome, because I always judge myself harshest. And there it was, the thought: why do I start thinking that someone else is better than me, that they are more entitled to an opinion? When we get down to it, we’re all human… We all poop.

image: blog.sharcare.com

image: blog.sharcare.com

Pow! The thought just hit me, and as I drove along, it just got funnier and funnier to me. School bully? They poop. International threats aren’t the only stinkies that Kim Jong-un makes. Angelina Jolie may have Brad Pitt, but she still poops. So does Brad. Prettiest, smartest, most popular, least popular, most successful, least successful, leaders of countries— they’re all brought to the same base line when it comes to nature. Suddenly, I could see some humor, in realizing that even the people I find most intimidating, have to deal with the most basic of realities. The most impressive person, the one that shakes your confidence, they’ve all looked back at the bowl to see the outcome. Dr. Oz says that if you’re eating right and taking care of yourself, you  should see an S. Really? I think that my steady diet of Hot Tamales has derailed the alphabet for me.

Everyone poops.  Strangely, this idea is very freeing. Self-esteem issues are not new to me. I’ve certainly heard it said, had it explained; I’ve read about self-esteem, and seen countless talk shows over the years, that spell it out. I get that it starts in me. When I accept my own worth, or when I just observe things and detach from the outcomes, I’m much less likely to start comparing and feeling like I need to back peddle. It’s easy for me to say it to others, but it’s the stuff I have to work on all the time. “Do as I say, not as I do.”  It’s hard wired in me, and I have to really put my mind to it, to not fall in that trap of self doubt and criticism. But suddenly, thinking on the most base level, using my inner Beavis, it all seemed funny— a lot less set in stone. It’s a little harder to compare yourself to someone else, or debate your worth, when you remember that they are ultimately no different than you, in the most basic ways.

image: Taro Gomi, Everyone Poops

image: Taro Gomi, Everyone Poops

When my kids were little they had a book called Everyone Poops, by Taro Gomi. It’s a cute picture book that’s meant to teach kids that bodily functions are normal and healthy, and that they need to take care of their bodies. Gomi uses bold artwork to show that camels poop, fish poop, and humans poop, etc.  My boys, in particular, thought it was the funniest book— the beginning of the whole “potty humor” phase that boys inevitably dive enthusiastically into. I’m not sure that the book was intended to teach self-esteem, but the concept is interesting. Maybe there was more to that book that mommy missed? A teaching moment missed? Yes kids, everyone poops; we’re all the same in the end.

Why do so many of us give our power over to others? Why do we allow ourselves to feel beneath others? There are always going to be people who have more, or have less: whether it’s materially or personally. There will be times when you’re right, and when you’re wrong, when one person is better at something and when you are. In the end, we all need to find our inner comfort zone and self worth. In the end, we all poop.

If this gave you a giggle, or you just like body humor, read these two clever posts. None of us knew the other was writing what we were, but we all just fell into the same zone. Check out some fun reading at:  Carrie at The Write Transition: http://carrierubin.com/2013/04/15/ouch-glad-that-was-nut-me/    AND  Lyssa at Psychobabble (and by the way, this is not about what she sees in clouds): http://psychobabblepants.wordpress.com/2013/04/15/finding-shapes-in-the-clouds/

Share your thoughts. What pushes your buttons? Do you judge yourself harshly? Or are you a confident person? Hit like, if you poop too.

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Sarcasm, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 33 Comments

21

Posted on April 12, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
On his own route- Image: nickgeek.com

On his own route-
Image: nickgeek.com

On April 12th my Middle Man, my boy, is turning 21. Technically, he turned 21 when it was still the 11th where I sit, as the time difference is 15 hrs ahead to my time. He’ll spend it somewhere in southern China, on the final leg of a spring break adventure, which has taken him to the Tibetan border (Shangrila), a two day trek in the mountains, and now exploring the south, before heading back to Beijing. He’s spending five months studying Mandarin in Beijing, and making the most of his experience. The spring break trip was something he organized and paid for without our input, with a few of his buddies at school. I probably won’t get to talk to my boy on his 21st birthday, let alone spend it with him, but that’s all part of the growing game.

I’ve been a little on edge all week. Rationally, I know there’s no rhyme or reason. My two eldest children live far away; it’s just part of the package that I don’t always know where they are, or if they’re ok. However, following the sad news of a local girl’s death, while on spring break abroad, I have just felt a bit more unsettled than usual. I know it’s irrational, but it is what it is. There isn’t always logic, in a mother’s heart, so it was a huge relief to hear his voice yesterday.

3 months old, in the tiny sink of our apartment in Chicago

3 months old, in the tiny sink of our apartment in Chicago

My boy came into the world twenty-one years ago, and our lives have not been the same since. He was the calmest, sweetest baby I could have imagined— rarely crying, and fussing only when he really needed something. After his challenging older sister, who never stopped moving and had a will of her own from day one, he was was a sweet respite. He was strong and alert from the start. Bright and happy. He adored his older sister and Mimi was his first word: his version of his sister’s nick name. Whatever she did, he wanted to be next to her, keeping up with her. That lasted for a long time, until she got tired of a little brother following her around… In the past few years, they have struggled to find that same closeness, but I hold out hope that one day, they will find it again.  He was inquisitive beyond his years, and from an early age his questions challenged me… as often I didn’t really know the answers.

Middle Man is his own guy. No doubt about it; he marches to his own beat. There are times when he rattles my cage in every way imaginable, but more and more his ability to let things go, and his fierce independence, really amazes and impress me. He doesn’t hold onto issues the way I do. He moves on a lot faster, and lets the shit fall away. It’s something that I wish I could master, and admire in him. He’s got an amazing sense of adventure, and is willing to try most things. There isn’t a lot that holds him back!

At Taj Mahal, 2010

At Taj Mahal, 2010

When we traveled to India together in 2010, the spring break of his Senior year in high school, we had the opportunity to forge some new bonds and see each other in new lights. I went with the absolute conviction that we needed to be a team, no Mom-kid authority. There were some very bumpy moments, a few when I wanted to fly home and throw in the towel. But then, there were some moments when we found such joy in our time together, and I got to see a side of my boy that helped me understand him, and respect him in entirely new ways. Riding in a rickshaw together, in Cochin (in the south), late at night: the cool breeze a relief, after the hot humid day, on one of the last nights of our trip, is one of the best memories of my life. We leaned on each other, we had fun together, and we had the adventure of a lifetime.  In the end, it was worth every bump in the road, and I will always be grateful for the time I spent with my boy, in India.

When Middle Man chose to go to college in California, we were totally stumped. He’d been interested in the East Coast for years. The schools he had expressed the most interest in were all there. Instead, he chose a CA school and it’s been the best thing in the world for him. He knew what we didn’t. Always an athlete and outdoors guy, he loves the sun and warm weather there, and is constantly hiking, snowboarding, playing frisbee, bocce, and hanging with the close group of friends he’s made. He’s made a life for himself, that neither his father nor I envisioned.

We would never have imagined that he would love Mandarin so much and pursue it so enthusiastically. He attended a boarding school in Vancouver, BC where a significant percentage of his fellow boarders were from China, but never expressed an interest in learning the language. Now, he is in China in a Mandarin emersion program, majoring in Foreign Relations. His life is filled with great friends who have been supportive, and who have provided him with fantastic sense of community and fun. He loves school and does well, studying things that are, frankly, way over my head.  He’s created a world that is very different than the one we raised him in, and yet includes many of the things we have always felt were very important: friends, an active life, and a community that he loves.

I’m sure every parent feels this way: it’s hard to believe that he’s 21. He’s legal… finally. He’s well on the road to being a true adult— though I have no illusions that the fun and games are over.  Somewhere in China, my boy has turned 21. I can only hope that he is safe, that he is happy, and that his life is headed in the direction he wants it to head. Cheers Middle Man! Gam Bei!

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep…

Posted on April 8, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
When my babies were small, and slept in their own beds.

When my babies were small, and slept in their own beds.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. That’s not totally unusual. I’m a woman of a certain age— there are many things that keep me awake these days. However, last night it was the most horrible of thoughts, the darkest of the dark. Yesterday I read in our local paper that a vibrant young girl, who graduated from the high school that my kids have attended, was killed in a scooter accident overseas, over spring break this week. I knew the girl. Not well, but I knew her face, remembered her personality. She was a baby, just having started college— so much life ahead of her. She was doing something joyful and fun, with her sister and friends. She was having an adventure… All I could think, as I lay in bed last night, the dark pushing in around me, was that her parents were probably on their way to get their baby’s body, and bring her home. They were going to comfort their other daughter, who lost her sister, far far from home. All of the scariest things came in on me, and I could not close my eyes.

Any parent reading that news post would have felt something. How could we not? The cliché: It is the worst thing I could imagine, is so true. What parent doesn’t feel that way? But as I lay there, all I could think of was my son. He is on spring break in China. He’s in some adventurous place, and there is no way to reach him. All I could think of was my daughter, living so far away, each day away from our care.  It scared the hell out of me, as images of those other parents raged in my head. Their pain was palpable as I lay there worrying about my boy, my girl, both of whom are so far away. I am in NO way comparing my anxiety to their pain, their loss— but I could not stop thinking about them, their horror and grief, and I could not help but send up a fervent plea that my own children are safe.

I have written plenty about missing my kids, wishing they were living closer (until they are actually living here)… but ultimately I am proud of their choices and excited for their adventures and journeys. But does that always make for peaceful nights on my pillow? No. In a logical mind space, I understand that anything could happen right here at home. I know that bad things can happen when they are near me, at their colleges, or far away; I have lived my entire life knowing that loss lives right around the corner. However, every time I shut my eyes last night, I could only imagine those parents: facing this enormous, catastrophic loss— so far from their girls.

Any parent who doesn’t say that losing a child is their greatest fear, the worst of the worst, is missing a chip. They may not all lose sleep over other parents’ losses, but we all have our demons. As another mother, how can I not read that story and look to my own children— count their toes and fingers, make sure they are sleeping soundly. Though all three are nearly grown up now, there is still no sweeter thing than seeing them asleep in their beds, chests rising and falling, that familiar smell of each of them around me. That is when I sleep soundly. In moments like last night, the fact that their beds are thousands of miles away keeps me awake. It makes my heart race and my brain skip. It makes me touch wood and try to think of of positive things to push the monsters away. Last night, I couldn’t sleep thinking of another mother’s loss. I stayed awake far too late, saying silent prayers for her, for her family, and for my own kids… so far away.

Other posts: Ode To Girl Interrupted, This Mother’s Heart Stretches and Grows, Ode To The Middle Man, Sirens In Israel Make Me Grind My Teeth

What keeps you awake at night? Do you worry about your kids, or are you good at managing those demons? Leave a comment, hit the Like—I’ll sleep better.  Join me on Tales From the Motherland on Facebook.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Can't sleep, Courage, Daily Observations, Death, High School, Honest observations on many things, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, News, Parenting, Tales From the Motherland, travel, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 32 Comments

When God Spoke To Me, On The Banzai Pipeline… (Or, A Fall Down the Rabbit Hole)

Posted on April 5, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:   If know me, or have followed this blog, then you may know that I am not a religious person, that our family is Jewish, and that I am neither Christian nor Jewish. You should also know that I am not prone to religious experiences, or singing praise in the name of any God. I am moved by beauty; by deep, real emotions; by things that touch me. This story requires that you think a little differently because this is a different king of story.

If you’ve never been touched by the hand of providence, or stumbled into an experience that is so touched by magic and mystery that you can only wonder about God, or the power of the mystic, then this tale will sound like coincidence, or just a surprising day, on vacation. It will sound like the effect of sun and sea and paradise, because that is where it took place. But as I sat awake all night, dissecting in my mind the nuances and details of our day, the sense that something far beyond the usual had happened has filled me with a deep sense that the universe is filled with moments that illuminate a path, and if you’re not open to the mystery you will miss them. Personally, I believe in magic. I believe in signs and mystical meanings. This week, on a very special day, it was as if it all came together to shake a finger at me and yell: Open your eyes! Take this in and use it. 

photoThe day began  wonderfully, if not a bit unusually, in that my husband- Smart Guy, my son- Little Man, and I had set out from our hotel, on the west side of Oahu, to try and see some surfing on the north shore. Winds were high for two days, and there were rumors that we might see some of the surfing magic that our entire family loves in documentaries and sports channels. I am generally the more spontaneous spirit, the one who prefers to just “free fall” and explore as we go. Smart Guy prefers to have a plan. He likes to know where we’re going. He studies the maps and the recommendations and likes to go where the plan dictates. I like to drive, with a general direction in mind, and then follow my impulses. Instead, Smart Guy seemed to just be meandering, just following the road, while I found myself feeling more attached to finding the surfers, impulses be damned.

As we drove, the small town of Haleiwa (Hah-lei-eva) seemed to come out of nowhere. We didn’t see it on the map, and it was not in the plan. But we took an unexpected turn, and as we drove through we spotted the shrimp truck we were hoping to find. We decided we’d go explore the Banzai Pipeline, world famous destination for surfers around the globe, and come back to eat later in the day. The town was a classic preserved old Hawaiian town, with beautiful architecture and character. But we weren’t really in the mood for shopping and figured we’d just come back for food, and be done with it.

Best shrimp! Ever.

Best shrimp! Ever.

We drove along the coast, taking in the wild surf and the lush landscape, but weren’t finding any of the surfers we’d come for. We pulled into Waimea valley and hiked to the falls. The 5,000 varieties of plants, the peacocks and the various birds were stunning. We didn’t swim in the falls, but the journey there was gorgeous. When we were done, we jumped in the car and headed back to get a late lunch in Haleiwa.  A local guy had told us that we “had to stop at Giovanni’s Shrimp truck, on the north shore.” For the record, it was some of the best food advice I’ve ever gotten. Without a doubt, the garlic shrimp we got from that crazy looking truck, was perhaps the best shrimp I’ve ever eaten in my life. That’s saying a lot, coming from a girl who loves her shrimp and crustacean. Hail to “off the beaten path.”

From there we stopped and got killer coffee (heavenly coffee with vanilla ice cream for me) and decided to walk the main street to check things out. That’s when something along the lines of divine intervened and we fell down a wild and twisty hole, and we all lost our bearings completely. The sign on the gallery said Art…is, and it didn’t interest me at all. It was a colorful building, with painted surfboards all around the front. I later learned that the surf boards were donated by famous and not so famous surfers, when damaged, and Ron Artis made art of them. I could see CDs on display inside; but, I wasn’t interested in another gallery or music right then. Frankly, I was frustrated when Smart Guy walked through the door, knowing his tendency to get sucked into gallery spiel, and my desire to keep walking. It was a cool enough looking place, set under a giant banyan tree, with murals and painted surfboards everywhere.  Little Man and I waited outside as long as we could, and then headed in to drag Smart Guy out.

Instead, upon entering I came face to face with a striking woman who reminded me of Alice Walker, a few years ago: her braids pulled up in a bundle on her head, sharp pale caramel colored eyes that looked right into me, and a bright pink sweater emblazoned with the hand painted words: Art…is. “My name is Victoria Artis, welcome to our gallery.” The play on words confused me for a minute. Was her name artist, artis, art…is? Was she saying that her name was Victoria and she was the artist? Had I missed something? I was off balance from the start.

Image: Painting by Ron Artis, from internet searchArtis Family portrait, from gallery

Image: Painting by Ron Artis, from internet search
Artis Family portrait, from gallery

It was as if the minute our hands clasped, we spun into each other, and the next hour, two hours, three— none of us were sure— melted into an experience that turned everything else upside down and around. No sooner had we exchanged names, and she pointed to a painting and said: “Those are my 11 children.” Before I could really look at the painting, a handsome young man stepped forward and introduced himself, adding “I’m one of the 11.” Like his mother, his energy was an instant jolt. I could hardly look away from either of them.

Another half beat and she was asking me what I do: I write.  Another son materialized, and they all enthusiastically asked me about my writing.  The energy was so positive, their interest intense and focused on my answers to their questions. And if I’d thought things were normal up until then (and let me be clear: I was already feeling more than a wee bit unsure of my bearings), Victoria then  began to ask very specific questions about my goals, my direction, what I want from my writing. “Are you going to publish it?” She asked pointedly.  Smart Guy and Little Man laughed with me, knowing that my answer to that question tends to get muddy, these days.  I’m trying to figure out which direction to go in. Our eyes locked. I’m holding myself back though; I’m stuck, I admitted. She smiled again, with so much love and acceptance that I nearly cried.  I felt completely exposed, vulnerable, and yet so utterly safe and supported. Writing it down, can’t possibly convey the utterly surreal atmosphere of the experience.

Both of her boys sat and listened, intensely focused, as our conversation took off—Victoria asking more questions and adding her insights. She spoke with confidence and authority about all the reasons she felt I should go home and self publish my novel: cost of paper, cover options, title issues, traditional publishing drawbacks and pros… She seemed to know so much about it; I forgot that we’d just met, and that we knew very little about each other. It felt like getting advice from a wise old friend, who only has my best intentions in mind.  The boys shook their heads in agreement, smiling their wide, warm smiles and it felt like my life was taking form, that answers were being clarified. In the moment, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else: I was totally focused on moving forward with the novel and seeing it published. It all felt settled and right.

A large portion of the “gallery” consists of a full  recording studio. All of the children apparently play or sing music, or both. The Ron Artis Family Band is well known on the island of Oahu. On a small stage at the back of the room was a drum set, bongos, a keyboard, guitars, bass and several mic stands. A row of stools with a counter faces the stage, and we found ourselves sitting down there, as Victoria talked.

The entire time we were there, one conversation rolled into another— Victoria’s stories flowed from one to another, as we discussed: mindfulness; the galaxy; old growth trees; puppies and babies; her husband, Ron Artis’ career in music (with Michael Jackson, Led Zeppelin, etc); their decision to move to Oahu and raise their children with an eye toward creativity and exploration; Ron’s murals all around the island; the ministry they started, founded on music, art and a deep belief in the teachings of the bible— I don’t remember what we were talking about when Thunder Storm, the younger boy, stepped up to the mic and began to strum his guitar. I felt light and pinned to the moment, under the spell of the place. Then Thunder Storm began to sing, and we were all stunned into silence.

The voice that came out of the 16 year-old boy was unbelievable. Little Man and I kept glancing at each other incredulously, both of us finding it difficult that this much talent was singing to us, impromptu in a small gallery in the tiny town of Haleiwa. His voice was rich and soulful, the lyrics powerful and deep. He sang for a long time, eyes closed and voice holding us to our stools. It was a long song, mesmerizing—but again, our perspective of time felt foggy. Listening to Thunder Storm sing cast an even deeper spell on us all.

But my brain raced, trying to make sense of it all and the cynic in me, the skeptic, began to doubt much of what was happening—began to question their intentions, the sincerity they conveyed; it all seemed too much to believe, as my mind spun it round.  Now’s when they’ll ask us to buy a CD or something, I thought. What’s the angle? I wondered.  What’s the hitch?  I began to see possible sales pitches; I started to question it all. How could something this simple and good, be just as it appeared? Several times while we were there, these thought interfered and I felt an anxious sense that I was missing a piece or being sucked in to something else, and then I would come back to Thunder Storm’s singing and feel that everything was just as it should be.

Surfboards, painted by Ron Artis, outside the Ron Artis Family GalleryImage: flckr.com from internet search

Surfboards, painted by Ron Artis, outside the Ron Artis Family Gallery
Image: flckr.com from internet search

When he finished singing, Thunder Storm looked to us and Little Man exclaimed, “Wow! That was really great!” That was unbelievable! I added.  He nodded and smiled, humbly— “Thank you.”  He was watching me and without considering or thinking, I added: You are so talented! Your voice just touches people, but you need to open your eyes and look at your audience. “Amen!” His mother echoed behind me. I stumbled a second, afraid I might be too forward, not sure why I felt so compelled to tell him this. When you sing like that, when you can touch people so deeply, they want to connect back with you. When your eyes are closed, then we don’t connect with you. I know you keep them closed because you’re really feeling the music, I could see that—but, you have a special gift, and when you share it, you need to open your eyes.  He watched me intensely, smiled, nodded and said: “Yes Mam,” and it struck me again how young he was. So young and so talented!

“Amen! Give praise.” His mother called. “We have all been telling him this since he started singing solos. Ron and I have always told the children this: you need to look at the people you sing to! So, we’ve all been telling him this for a while,” Victoria shared. “But, I think it’s clear now: God sent you here, brought us together, so that I could tell you what to do with your book, and so that you could open his eyes. He needed to hear it from you.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I got a chill up my spine, sure that she was right, and yet unsure of what I really believe in.  Everything Victoria said sounded true; sounded right—regardless of beliefs.

When we’d finished talking about performing and connecting, I gathered my things and thought we’d leave, but Victoria said to Thunder Storm, “Sing one more for them, but with your eyes open now.”  He smiled again, began to strum the guitar again, and then began to sing a song—about me, and him, and meeting each other. A fully fleshed out, beautiful song about the ways we hide in life, and what we give to others when we open our eyes. As he sang, his older brother silently stepped up to the keyboard and began playing with him, harmonizing on vocals. Then another man materialized and took up the drums, with only a nod and a smile in our direction. No one missed a note, not a beat, as the two men joined Thunder Storm, singing and performing.

It was so powerful that we all remained held to the spot, continuing to listen to this beautiful boy sing, as he opened his eyes and sang right to me— willing himself to look into my eyes, I reached out to him with mine, to encourage and celebrate his journey. As he sang “Open your eyes, open your eyes,” I cried. Victoria grabbed a mic and her voice provided lush harmonies. Each person took a turn at improvising the song, contributing to what Thunder Storm was creating right before our eyes. The entire world stopped while that boy sang, and we all shared in it. It’s hard not to believe in God, in moments that sublime.

When he was done, he and I hugged. We all hugged. It was like being with people I’ve known all my life: totally safe and good, infused with a surreal magic. Before we could leave, Victoria began talking again. She looked at me and began to tell a story about Satan— how there are these moments when we are filled with doubt, and we don’t trust the good that it is before us— Satan messing with good.  Had she read my mind? Did she know that I was doubting things, while they unfolded?  She said “creative people, like I know you all are, need to see past those doubts and just accept the good that we have. We have to believe in the good.”  I felt a moment of shame, that I had doubted any bit of this experience.  I can’t say that I believe in Satan, but the fact that she touched on this, sent a chill through me again… as I reflected on the doubts and negative thoughts that had run through my head, in the midst of such a positive and good experience. It gave me pause.

It was hard to leave. Each time we headed for the door, we were drawn back in by another story, another interesting thing. While her older son was telling us about his dad and the lessons he’s taught his children, Thunder Storm made a CD for us.  He gave it to us as we were leaving, refusing to let us pay for it. We all exchanged contact information, in the hope that we might see each other again one day, and said goodbye.

Big, beautiful trees abound on Oahu

Big, beautiful trees abound on Oahu

As we left the gallery and headed down the street, it was like waking from a nap, when you can’t figure out the time and your mind is searching for clarity. Everything felt enhanced and brightened. Little Man broke the silence: “Well, that was totally unexpected!” I looked at him and we all laughed. What just happened in there? I managed to ask. “I have no idea!” Little Man replied. Smart Guy remained quiet for a long time, but as we walked a half hour later, Little Man turned to me again: “Did that feel like some kind of religious experience to you? Like something spiritual just happened to us? I mean, I wasn’t totally comfortable with some of the Jesus stuff, but do you feel like we just…” He drifted off again. I feel like something very special definitely happened, and I don’t know how to explain it, I finally answered. “I think we got to spend time with deeply grounded, spiritual people, that made themselves very open to us,” Smart Guy finally weighed in. “It just felt so good being there,”  my son added. “It was so positive and happy there!” For hours we remained under a spell. Even as we drifted off to sleep that night, one or the other of us would say something along the lines of: “Was that real?”

If you’ve never been touched by the hand of providence, if you’ve never experienced something that is so wondrous that you are left spell bound, then you might think this was all just a quirky day, with some musical people. However, in the small town of Haleiwa, on the island of Oahu, I felt moved beyond any normal explanation. I felt touched by something special, something we can’t entirely explain.  I choose to surrender to the unknown.

Final note: While we were there, Victoria Artis and her sons spoke with such love and reverence for Ron Artis. We kept thinking he’d come in and join them any minute, and we’d get to meet this great man. Their stories of his musical talent, his love of his family and commitment to being a good father, touched us all. Ron’s sons spoke with such respect and love of their dad: “My father taught me…,  My father told me…, I learned from my father…”  They told us of the many murals he created around the island of Oahu on schools and public sites, to improve the conditions of so many island locations. Later, as we drove, we noticed his work in numerous places. When we got back to our hotel, I looked up the Artis family, on line, in an effort to find some clarity around what we had experienced. It was then that I learned that Ron Artis, sadly, died in 2010 of an apparent heart attack. The three of us were sad to read this, as he seemed bigger than life while we were in his gallery. He left an amazing legacy in his musical career as well has in the remarkable family who still love him deeply, and who keep his memory alive in all that they do.

Please hit Like if you enjoyed this post. Check out Tales From the Motherland on Facebook and hit like. to follow updates.

Posted in Adventure, Awareness, Beautiful places, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, My world, Natural beauty, Parenting, road trip, Tales From the Motherland, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 31 Comments

The Proof Is Not Always In the Pudding….

Posted on March 29, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I had a great conversation this week with some sharp and articulate moms. It was not the first time I’d had this particular conversation, and not the first time I’d seen other parents raise their eyebrows and look doubtful, as I told them that anti-semitism was alive and well, right here in our practically perfect little town. It is practically perfect, as I’ve noted in numerous posts (here, here, and here, from the archives). However, you will never hear me interviewed on the news saying: “things like that (Insert various heinous things) don’t happen here…” Never. Things happen, everywhere. Even here.

Image: tech.sc

Image: tech.sc

So as we we discussed the recent arrest of two students,  14 and 15 year old, on charges of vandalism and some other charge that equaled “hate crime,” at one of the newest and shiniest elementary schools in town (a school that one of the alleged vandals attended), and the desecration of the new synagogue, which is still under construction, conversation landed on the fact that these kids carved or painted swastikas at the school and all over the synagogue. The other mothers were shocked, and someone stated that these kids “must have gotten that at home.” Another adult I was talking to, earlier in the week, had gone so far as to say “their parents should be prosecuted as well!” Um, frankly, I don’t think so. While it is possible that these kids live in homes where they are exposed to prejudice and hate, I don’t assume that to be true. I’ve learned over many years of parenting Jewish children, that anti-semitism, racism, big bold hate rhetoric, is alive and well… with kids who we all see as “very nice.” These things don’t just come from kids who are in any particular kind of home, or come from any specific background.  And more importantly, I’ve learned that often their parents have no idea that their kids talk or act this way.

I have no idea who these particular kids are, who committed these acts. I don’t know their families, and don’t presume to know what kind of homes they come from. It’s sad that they are so young, and acting out in such destructive and mean ways, but beyond that, I know very little about where that comes from. My three children have all had swastikas drawn on their binders, and even carved on their desk (once). They have all been called: “stupid Jew, funny Jew, cheap Jew, dirty Jew, best Jew I know,” or numerous accolades followed by “for a Jew.” I can’t say honestly, that it doesn’t still burn me on the deepest levels, as a mother. However, my kids have assured me that “this is just the way it is.” They have repeatedly urged me not to get involved or “make a big deal,” as it will only cause more issues for them. “He/she was only kidding,” I’ve heard way too many times. Ha. Ha. I fail to see the humor.

On three occasions when I did get involved, when parents were called and conversations were had, I found distraught parents, who were as shocked as me that their child would launch such foul language at anyone. One father, stood at my door (with his son and wife) and became tearful, explaining that he had grown up being persecuted, and was mortified that his child would ever call my son a “stupid Jew.” That boy, was a really good kid; he still is. They are still friends. His parents are true blue, good to the bone. I believed that father when he told me this, because I have come to understand that our kids are exposed to so many things that we are often unaware of. That they say things when they often have no idea about what the words they use mean.

I’m not excusing it. Not in any way. Hate is hate, and if you don’t know what you’re kids are saying or carving, you’d better wake up and figure it out. The boys who damaged the elementary school may have thought they were being funny:  tough guys, who weren’t really doing anything “that bad,” but they committed an act of violence upon every young child who attends that school. Those children now know that strangers can come into their school, the place where they learn and socialize and grow, and destroy their things. Those boys destroyed computers, furniture, and art work that children took pride in; they defiled walls and desks with swastikas and inappropriate images. The children at that school had to wonder: Who would do that, and will they come back?

The new synagogue, still incomplete, is a source of pride to Jewish residents of my town. We have worked hard to build it—to raise the funds, and see the first new synagogue in more than 100 years, to accommodate our growing congregation, and have a place for our Jewish kids to learn about their faith, and heritage. Swastikas—all over the site. What were these boys thinking? Did they intend to instill fear and a sense of hatred toward Jews, in both locations… or did they just think this was a kind of graffiti that they’d seen other places? And most importantly, Where did they learn this?

As the clever group of women that I was with expressed their shock that my kids have experienced such blatant anti-semitism throughout their childhoods in this town we love so much, another Jewish parent assured them that her children had experienced the same things. It is not that often that I have that kind of back up. There are not a lot of Jewish parents where we live, so I’m not usually having this conversation with another parent who can say “us too.”  More than once, I’ve sensed that someone thinks that somehow my kids exaggerated, or that maybe they did something that provoked that kind of rhetoric. As someone who did not grow up Jewish, I continue to be shocked at how easily anti-semitism slips from lips, how it is excused and tolerated, even by very intelligent, compassionate people, who would not tolerate the N word, or blatant racial prejudice.

Sometimes I wonder whether it is that there is still a subtle and intrinsic belief, on the part of some people, that Jews don’t really count as a persecuted group— as people who are singled out for prejudice. The Holocaust, while taught in schools and viewed as a horrific event (by most intelligent people), is also seen as an isolated event, carried out by a maniacal man… who somehow bullied an entire nation into committing atrocities on the most horrific of scales. It is often overlooked that other nations did not do much to stop it, or to call it out, until things were very clearly beyond question. At the time, and through much of history, Jews were already viewed as many of the names and labels that Hitler used to bring his country on board. Those names and stereotypes were openly used in the US and many other places around the world.  The subject of Israel today, a predominantly Jewish nation, often includes a subtext that suggests that the Israelis are difficult or unreasonable.  Ok, I am fully aware that there are enormous complexities to that discussion… Been there, seen that, and only in the smallest of ways… but enough to make me think differently, and look at that picture through a little wider lens. But still, when discussing the issues in the Middle East, I often find myself uneasy, when I sense that some of the counter arguments stem from a passive anti-semitism, wrapped in political rhetoric.

I suppose I’ve digressed here; it’s a slippery slope. Parenting is tough. It is the hardest and best job that I’ve done in life, no doubt. It’s filled with the highest of highs and some of the lowest of lows. I’ve learned that it is a very short while that our babes are truly living entirely in our orbit. From the time we drop them at kindergarten, until the time they are truly “on their own” (as if we ever truly accept that “truly”), they begin to see the world through so many other eyes. They have teachers, religious leaders, media and friends, helping them determine what they think and how they will behave out in this big world. Each day they are gone from us for at least 6 long hours, where they are being impacted and informed on all kinds of things that may or may not gel with what we’ve taught them at home. They may or may not be exposed to all kinds of small injustices and  unkind words, that are slipped in out of our sight. Our kids do not always bring those things home for discussion, but they filter them and figure out on their own what to do with the material.

image: joeyheadset.com

image: joeyheadset.com

So, whenever I hear people saying” that we should look at his/her home,” or “we ought to hold his/her parents accountable,” in response to something a young person has done, I stop and remember the instances when I have seen all kinds of kids say and do things that I find entirely reprehensible, and their parents were equally hurt and mystified. I see why it is easy to look at it that way; I once assumed similar reasoning. We all want to compartmentalize bad things, and find the ways that it can’t happen to us. The boys in the Steubenville rape case must come from horrible homes, right? The whole town somehow breeds that, or so it has been widely suggested. Kids who say racist things must have heard those things at home, yes? If all of that is true, we can safely assess that our own kids will never be the guilty party, because we are good parents, who don’t teach those things… right? However, again, I have learned that many apples do fall far from their trees, and the proof is not always in the pudding. Sometimes the pudding tastes nothing like the  original recipe, and we are left to ask… then why?

Share your thoughts in the comment section. Weigh in. Then hit Like. Just do it. Thanks. Feel free to visit the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page, and hit like.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, bullying, Daily Observations, Education, Honest observations on many things, Israel, Jewish, Judaism, Life, Mothers, Musings, News, Tales From the Motherland, Teens | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 25 Comments

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I’m reblogging… again. Lesely Carter, over at Bucket List Publications is neck and neck in the running for a trip around the world and $50,000!! Forget that her adventures already blow my mind and keep me coming back again and again. Forget that I’ve posted a few of my own adventures on her site. She is the person we will all want to read about, hands down! As a side kicker, mention in the comments section that I’d be the perfect, perfect, nanny and companion. I am not kidding. Dead serious, in fact. If her current side kick falls through, I am the woman for this job. Read this post, then Vote for Lesley, and Vote for me!!

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 4 Comments

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

On this day, when I am not writing, I was lucky to read Sara’s latest post. I’ve followed Sara for a while and I love what she writes. We live very different lives, a long, long way from each other. Me in the Pacific NW and Sara in a beautiful spot in Australia. But we have chatted and shared, and this post really hit the spot today. Wise, well written, and touching. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

sara's avatarThe Practical Mystic

‎One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do…in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I was talking to my uncle the other day – my mother’s brother. This side of my family are oddly isolated. Each family member and their little family operates much like a satellite – spinning around in the atmosphere, occasionally bumping into each other and then bouncing off again on their solo journey. Even more oddly, many of us live in the same neighbourhood. I am no different – I love to bump satellites with them, but rarely go to the trouble of organising a proper get together. A shame really, because I really like them, this eclectic bunch of healers and artists.

So, anyway, here I am at this function and my uncle and…

View original post 759 more words

Posted in Honest observations on many things | Leave a comment

Moments of Magnificence…

Posted on March 20, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau
Bald Eagle as I walk...

Bald Eagle as I walk…

Every day I have a moment of magnificence, that stops my mind from spinning— stops the what if’s; the why didn’t I’s; the I’ve got to’s. Quiets the the he said/she said’s, and the what I wish I’d said’s. The lists, and the agendas and the inner critic is silenced: when I come around the bend and the sun is illuminating the tops of the trees, and all of the world outside my car is aglow. When I look to the sky and a bald eagle is peacefully gliding on the wind. Every day, when I look out at the constantly changing Bay: the colors of the water, the whitecaps or the glassy peace, the islands changing from green to gray to purple, and back again; the boats coming in, the boats going out— my heart beats easily and I breath deeply. When diamonds play on the water and the brilliance is almost too much to look at, tears spring to my eyes and I walk with a little more spring.

IMG_1555 DSC_0277 IMG_1642 boat header IMG_1555 photo

When I walk my dogs along the Interurban trail, and the mossy trees are lush and vibrant green, I sing stop worrying about who will hear.  When the waterfalls are rushing past me, and the gushing, bouncing, splashing sound  is all around— I forget for a moment that I’m tired of rain, and I embrace the water. When Mount Baker slips past the clouds and reminds me that we are always in her shadow, even when the sun doesn’t shine, I smile and feel safer. The white mountains, the blue sky— is there anything grander?

The most enthusiastic of affections

The most enthusiastic of affections

On those days when my head is filled with issues, nothing clears the cobwebs like my boy smiling. Nothing. The way his whole face becomes the smile, and his incredible blue eyes sparkle. When the phone rings and it’s my girl, calling to tell me of daisies and spring green deserts in far away places, it’s hard to feel anything but joy. When I turn on my computer and my other boy appears on Skype, telling me about an exciting day in the city on the other side of the globe— of the crazy, and the funny, and the foreign mysteries he’s discovering, I’m filled with the thrill of his adventure, his wonder. I’m there beside him, for a few splendid moment. Each morning, I am greeted by two overjoyed pups, who seem to think that I walk on water. So I fumble into the kitchen, still waking up, and they do summersaults and bow; they spin and celebrate my arrival. Every single morning. Impossible to resist; they start my day with smiles and optimism. If they love me so much, in those early hours, how can any of my own self doubts be true?

IMG_1614 IMG_1597 DSC_0204DSC_0981 DSC_0141DSC_0080 DSC_0731 boat header

 

The dark, lush forests surrounding me; the tulips in bloom each year; the passing of time on a canvas of salt marsh and tidal flats; the swans that come, and then go again each year; the flitting and the rustling of small birds at my feeder and the whirr of the humming birds that stop me at the window— all bring me a moment of pause, a moment of wonder, outside my thoughts. Clocks stop and issues dissolve, for a little while. These moments of magnificence, right under my nose, bring me back… from wherever I’ve strayed. My head may stir and grinds and pushes my buttons, but these moments… of magnificent beauty, of unbridled love, of perfect peace, of joy— fill me up. And for a little while, there is no room for all the rest.

What are your Moments of Magnificence? What draws you back to a calm, sweet spot? Leave a comment and share your thoughts.

Posted in Awareness, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments