The Middle: Speak Slowly, And No Sudden Moves

Posted on January 22, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Jet lag, or re-entry, after a long trip is a bitch. Despite the fact that I had the most amazing time in Israel, by the time I got to North America yesterday— as in Toronto, Canada, and just shy of 30 hours into my travel—I was seriously doubting the intelligence of traveling to the store, let alone 7,000 miles for vacation. I still had another 4.5 hour flight ahead of me, and an hour’s drive home.

Old Jaffa

Old Jaffa

I was feeling pretty optimistic when the day started. I woke up Sunday at 5 am (albeit a teeny bit early) in Jerusalem. I was packed, and ready, and my girl and I took the bus to Tel Aviv (a beautiful trip) to visit an old friend, I knew when I lived in Chicago 20 years ago, as well as to catch my flight later that day. We spent the day seeing Tel Aviv and Old Jaffa, with my friend. It was a gorgeous day; the city of old Jaffa is incredible, and Tel Aviv was a surprisingly beautiful city—modern, and right on the ocean. That night we had a kick ass dinner at a kosher steak house in Tel Aviv, put my girl on a bus back to Jerusalem, and then I went to the airport at midnight, for what should have been a twenty-four hour trip home.

It was one kick in the teeth after another, from that point on. I had stayed awake all day planning to go through security and sleep at the gate, from 12-5:30, when my flight was scheduled to take off. It seemed like such a good plan, until it was so terribly not. I was informed that I wouldn’t be allowed to go through security until 3:30, which meant sitting in a big waiting area, with very little to do or see, and no place to really sleep. I walked, I sat, I walked. I ate an ice cream bar. I walked some more. When I did get to security, it was a breeze— a pleasant surprise, after all of the warnings I’d had about Israeli security. Apparently I don’t look like much of a security risk to Israelis, because all week I breezed through check points, security points and all forms of checks. Don’t get me wrong, they look in your bags… as in empty your carefully packed suitcase and then say “Ok, you’re free to go.” Good thing I’d made sure each item was configured perfectly in that suitcase!

Menorah at the entrance to Ben Gurion Airport

Menorah at the entrance to Ben Gurion Airport

There were several security checks, and they all seemed miles apart, before I made it to the main terminal. It is a huge circular terminal, with food courts and all kinds of shopping. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I kept thinking that I’d be better off waiting for my flight, and then I’d sleep all the way to Frankfurt (my 1st shop) and then some more on the 11 hour flight from Frankfurt to Seattle. None of it turned out the way I figured however. Instead, there was delay after delay, until the incredibly rude and unbelievably disorganized Israeli staff at Lufthansa, told us all that we wouldn’t get off the ground until about noon— yes, noon, as in nearly 7 hours late! In addition, I had checked flights from Frankfurt (where there was a snow storm) on my laptop, and had learned that my connection was already gone, and there were no more until some time late Tuesday. I was not getting on that flight, but Lufthansa was not making it easy to reroute me either.

I’ll spare you the miserable details of just how bad the staff at Lufthansa was… I’m sorry, but it really has everything to do with Israeli customer service (which does not really exist) and little to do with that particular airlines. It was not until I got all Israeli (read: bossy, aggressive and demanding) on them, that I got a seat for me and my wonderful partner in crime (an Argentinian man from Boston) on a flight to Toronto, and then on to Vancouver. I was not willing to go anywhere near Europe and its snow storm, but I figured that from Toronto I had the best chance of eventually getting home. What a trip it all was! By the time I staggered off the plane in Vancouver, I’d been up for 53 hours (except for 2 brief naps on each of my flights) and I’d started out from the airport 35 hours earlier.

When I woke up this morning, I was totally disoriented. I immediately looked for my girl, who I’ve shared a small queen sized bed with, for the last 9 nights. It hit me again, with a lump in my throat, that she is so far away. Each hour that I waited, each mile that I traveled, was a reminder of just how far away from us she is, and that was really hard. It made the travel that much more brutal, as I imagined when I’ll see her next. It made it that much harder, as I tried to hold on to the warm fuzzies I felt all week with her. It was just all around hard.

Today, everything felt jarring. Smart Guy asked me to meet him for lunch and I could barely stand the crowd at the restaurant. Every time someone spoke to me, it felt like they were talking really fast. Sudden moves made my head swim. A sofa has been the only solid place to be, most of the day.

Beautiful Scenery at Capernaum

Beautiful Scenery at Capernaum

I’m missing the incredible scenery, spectacular food, and wonderful people that I experienced each day that I was in Israel. They may not be great at customer service, but the Israeli people are my kind of people in so many other ways. They’re direct, wry, and passionate. They don’t use false pleasantries; what you see is what you get. They live in a land surrounded by threats, but they live a life filled with culture and magic. Everywhere we went, I was reminded of the awe-inspiring history and faith that has been a part of that land and people. The birthplace of Christianity, the Muslim faith and Judaism, I was humbled to stand in the crypt where Christ is believed to be buried (a much debated point, but close by for sure); moved to hear the call to prayer many nights while I was there, and I was surrounded by so many levels of Judaism, it was unreal! It was the first time in the 23 years that I’ve been raising Jewish children, that most of the people around me were Jewish, not just the like minded folks at our synagogue.

Orthodox Jews

Orthodox Jews

That in itself was the biggest eye opener in Israel, the stunning diversity of the Jewish people— and the overall level of open faith, that was everywhere I looked. Here at home, I have raised my children as minorities. They have always known that as Jews, they do not fit in entirely. The other Jews that they know are generally members of our synagogue; meaning: their Jewish role models were from very similar backgrounds as their dad, his family, and me. There hasn’t been much diversity. They have each experienced numerous attacks on their character, based solely on the Judaism. “Dirty Jew,” “Hey Jew,” “You’re the best/worst/funniest/Jew I know,” has been uttered to each of them, in the public schools they’ve attended. More than once. They have had a small pool of Jewish friends to draw from, and again, few examples of what a Jewish community looks like.

In Israel, so many of the people you encounter are Jewish, that it quickly becomes the norm. The man taking my order at the sandwich shop; the woman sitting beside me on the bus, saying her prayers; the strongly Orthodox or Hassidic men in their black hats, long coats, and with their long curls; as well as the store owners, the person working at kosher McDonalds, and most cab drivers, or each laborer and citizen you encounter, is just as likely to be Jewish, in Israel, than anyone else you see. That was a huge thing for me to see, and clearly a major reason that my daughter feels so happy there. She can practice her faith, surrounded by countless others who share that faith, or at least get it.

I wanted to hate Israel. I really did. I resented the entire country for wooing my girl, and keeping her. I resented the fact that she found it such a special place, that she would leave us and everything she loves here, to live there. Instead, I fell in love too. It got under my skin, and I found myself moved each day, each night, with each and every experience I had. My senses, my thoughts, my very being was altered each day— cast under the spell of  a place that has moved so many other people, that it has become a bulls eye for conflict, passion, and meaning, to people of countless faiths and backgrounds. I wanted to see Israel as just another trip, just another vacation, but it was so much bigger than that, so much more astounding, on virtually every level.

One of many great meals, fish in Tiberius

One of many great meals, fish in Tiberius

In the next few posts, I’ll try and share some of the wonders that made this all so fantastic. I could write more than one post on the food alone. That I walked and hiked and was active every single day, and still came back 5 pounds heavier, is a testament to food that rocked my world, each and every meal. I can say honestly, that I had only one bad meal (at a spa of all places), the entire time I was there… and every other meal was sublime. I could write several posts on faith. Mine was challenged, and rocked, and pushed to new limits. Would it be overstating to say that maybe I (re)found God? Probably not, but I’m still figuring that one out. I have never discussed faith with so many people, in such interesting and stimulating venues. I was interviewed by a French documentary team regarding my thoughts on Jesus; I shared countless intellectual discussions with young people about Judaism, and I was challenged to think about God and faith each day I was there. The experience was life changing.

There are so many things I could write about Israel, and my trip there, but my brain is addled, my emotions raw, and the sofa is starting to spin. Ask me about it in a few days, when I’ve settled back in, and re-entry is not so raw. When you do, speak slowly, and no sudden moves.

Do you love to travel? What’s your favorite place? What’s your worst travel story/ airlines headache. Share your thoughts in the comment. Since it’s gray outside, hit the Like and give me some sunshine. (Helps with the jet lag!) Check out Tales From the Motherland on Facebook for more updates, or follow TFTM on Twitter.

Posted in Adventure, Beautiful places, Blogging, Jewish, Judaism, Life, Musings, My world, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, travel, traveling alone, Wonderful Things | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Each day, for nearly a week now, I’ve thought about getting a new post up… Ok, Strike that. I haven’t really. I left the U.S. one week ago tomorrow for a 10 day visit with my daughter, in Israel. Between the 24 hours it took to get here, the exhausting but spectacular adventures each day, and the time change/jet lag, it’s been hard to do anything but crash each day, when we get back to her apartment. (Food: Shakshukah, Sabich, Fish, Halvah and Malabi: Sahlab (orchid pudding) with hybiscus syrup)

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I hit the ground running. Upon arriving just after Shabbat ended last Saturday, I got to eat some kick ass left overs from her dinner earlier; we visited for a while, and then I went to bed. I was wiped out, my luggage had not arrived, and a mattress and pillow felt like a spa day. The first morning, we got up and dashed off to a favorite bookstore cafe for my first Israeli breakfast, assured that my suitcase would be here when we returned. Shakshukah is a traditional Israeli dish of cooked tomato sauce, with eggs poached on top… that’s far too simple for the fabulous goodness it really is. It came served with cheeses, the traditional Israeli salad (cucumbers, tomatoes, carrot, parsley) that is served with everything, as well as tahini (also served with everything) and a killer latte. I figured that if I was going to fall of the wagon and have caffein again, this is the place to do it. For the record, a nice latte has saved me from jet lag, a couple of times this week. (Images from Christ’s tomb, and the Holy Sepechre)

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This week has been a daily assault of the senses. Cultural imagery and things to learn about have come with every place we have gone. My images of the Middle East have been fed to me through the popular media, for my entire life, and I have been forced to look at it all very differently here. The fact that I am so unaccustomed to seeing Arabs when they are not filtered through a notion of violence or ideology… but are simply welcoming me to a market, or offering me a delicious meal, or renting me a car, has been very eye opening. I have had to dig inside, to pull out the unconscious prejudices and ideas that have been allowed to lie hidden, living in my safe world at home where everyone looks mostly the same. White.  (The Dome of the Rock and Western Wall, Prayers at the wall, Orthodox quarter, and signs)

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Having raised three Jewish children, I have been all too aware in the places that we have lived in the U.S. that we are a minority. There have been limited opportunities for my kids to feel anything other than different, in their faith and traditions. The fact that I have only known Jews within my limited world: our synagogue: fairly well off, and well educated…or, as seen very, very occasionally in other settings at home… has been equally eye opening.Talk about falling down the rabbit hole: hello Israel!  Here, Ultra Orthodox Jews are everywhere. They are coming and going to work, school, the market, all around me— it is the norm here, not something that I am surprised to see. And in their world, on their turf, it is me that stands out. I am the one who has to pause and wonder whether I look immodest, or provocative. Strangely, it has been equally shocking to learn that Jews are rich, poor, educated and not here. The man who is wisely explaining a sacred site we visit is as Jewish at the girl taking an order at the Kosher McDonalds. Yes, there are Kosher McDonalds! (For the record, I have not eaten in a McDonalds- Kosher or otherwise- in at least 7 years).  Having raised my kids in a world where they were constantly the odd man out, it is me who is not a member of the tribe… here. (The coast, at the boarder of Lebanon, The mountains of Syria, the town of Tiberius on the Galilee)

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We have walked and walked, and I have found myself face to face each day with places that have been brilliant stories, in my mind, for most of my life. To stand on the site where Jesus was laid after he was taken down from the cross, or enter his tomb, was far more emotional than I ever imagined it might be. Having left my faith behind so long ago, I was surprised to find that my youthful desire to believe in something that big, was stirred, when faced with the places from Bible. To stand at the Wailing Wall, the Western Wall, where Jews have come to pray—Where their faith has been challenged and fought for, for thousands of years, was also stirring. An hour later, my daughter and I sat on the great Wall of the Holy City and listened to the Call To Prayer, over Palestine—just across the street. The sound of countless voices calling out to Muslims to stop and pray, was stunning.

As we sat on the wall, a documentary crew approached us and asked us if we would discuss our feelings about Jesus. They had no idea that they’d found such a mash up of faith and beliefs, in two women sitting silently listening to voices call out the first lines of the Koran. It was a film crew from Spain, and my daughter and I shared our thoughts on having come from such different places on the topic of faith and Jesus. I’m sure they felt they’d hit the lottery when I teared up and could not speak for a moment— So much emotion, in a place that means so many things to so many people.

Our sightseeing has been a constant dose of markets, zipping cars, desert, sea, olive groves, foreign languages, kind people offering blessings to me for coming to the land of Israel, scenery that is completely different from anything at home, and places that have lived only in the news. Yesterday, having visited the Golan Heights (slept on a Kibbutz the night before), and the northern coast of Israel, up to the border with Lebanon, we headed back to Jerusalem. We drove down from the dry crest of the heights, along the Sea of Galilee. We saw where Jesus gave his Sermon on the Mount, visited site of St. Peter’s home, stood at the river Jordan, ate delicious fish from the Sea of Galilee and then drove back to Jerusalem through the fertile valley of the West Bank, along the border with Jordan. Several times, the Jordanian border was literally across the street. In 36 hours, I had been within a hike (or small step in many cases) of the Syrian border, the Lebanese border, and the Jordanian Border!

Driving home, as the sun set, the navigation took us on a “short cut” across the west bank and through the dry desert and hills of lands where Bedouin tribes lived in small, poor tents. I could see their cook fires inside the tents, as they brought their goats and sheep in. It was so isolated and barren looking, that it’s hard to believe that people have been living in many of these villages for 8,000 years! We found ourselves on one of the scariest “roads,” twisting and turning up the faces of a sharp cliff— the pavement became cracked dirt and broken asphalt. Rock slides were evident everywhere and at times the road became one lane, as we drove around blind turns, knowing that the Arab drivers coming toward us would not move over. My heart raced and as much as I was terrified, I was exhilarated and thrilled.

And each day has been filled with food and flavors that bring me to my knees. Things that seem so exotic at home, are served in finer restaurants just as easily as “fast food” places that we stop on the run. Grilled meats, fish that was caught in the morning, fresh produce (all local and grown here), cheeses, and fresh breads and pita— I could not walk enough, and we have walked and walked and walked, to work off the foods that I have eaten here. I feel like Anthony Bourdain, on my magical mystery tour of sites and flavors.

Today we go to the Dead Sea to float on its salty waters, and see a place that I have long imagined. My time is zipping by so quickly and soon I will be on another endless flight home. There is far too much to see in 10 days—I knew that when I came, but now it is so real. As I said in my last post, I cam here with no expectations. I came here with an open mind and an open heart, to see the world that my girl has embraced and wants to make her home. I have had all of that openness filled, each day, with color, flavor, sites and sounds that blow me away. I have tried not to see any of it as the “enemy” that will keep my girl far away from me. I have worked to see all of it the way she does, through bright eyes and an open heart. It has been an adventure beyond what I can share here… on deeply personal levels that defy description. It has all been stunning.

Note: Due to incredibly slow or non-existent wifi service, I could not add more photos. I’ll add them later.

Posted on January 16, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau | 30 Comments

Three Pair of Pants, One Long Skirt (for Shabbat)… Israel, Here I Come!

Posted on January 11, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Today I leave on a 10 day adventure to visit my girl, Principessa. She’s been in Israel since early September, but she’s spent nearly two years there in the past three years. It’s where she wants to live. Live. While I’ve hoped she would decide to come back, not settle in Israel, a foreign place half way around the world, I’ve finally agreed to go over and see the place she loves so much.

I made the decision two weeks ago. That may be considered last minute to some, but it took me a while to really opt in.  Then, over-thinker, procrastinator, cautious person that I am not, I just waited until I had to buy the tickets. I knew I’d go eventually, and she has an entire week off right now. I admit to a moment’s hesitation when the military situation became rather unstable in November. Principessa assured me that things were fine, but I didn’t really want to go to a place where missiles were being lobbed. I didn’t want my girl to stay in a place where missiles were being lobbed. But that wasn’t going to turn her thinking around. I wasn’t sure I wanted to travel 24 hours each way either. And an apartment with limited heating? Well, not really my 50 year old cup of tea.

This bags too small...

This bags too small…

However, I am inherently a free spirit and always have been. I love adventure and I love to travel. I love to be on a plane by myself, and I’ll have Seattle to Frankfurt and then Frankfurt to Tel Aviv to just read, listen to books on tape and work on my manuscript. I have writing I’m dying to do, and a book I’d like to finish. I love that no one will be asking me what they should eat for lunch; I’m thrilled that I won’t need to pick up Newman’s Limeade at the store, again, and no one will ask me “what’s for dinner,” for the next 10 days. Call me giddy, but yeehaw!

You can't have too many shoes... unless they don't fit in your bag.

You can’t have too many shoes… unless they don’t fit in your bag.

When I arrive, after 24 hours of no sleep (I don’t sleep on planes, and I’ve been told to try not to) my daughter will be finishing Shabbat and will have dinner for me. And then, if I can stand, I’m invited to a 30 year old’s birthday party. That could be fun. I imagine I will be a party game: pin the yarmulke (Jewish beenie) on the passed out middle aged lady. I may be passed out, but I’ll be smiling.

I’m going on this trip with no expectations. That is a big thing for me. I big step forward. I am going to see my girl without any plans for how it will look or feel to be there. I am excited to see her world, the place she loves. I am open to whatever happens, excited to see what she shows me.

There was a time when going to Israel was something that I wanted very much. For four years of college, I was sure that one day (before I married) I would travel to Israel and live on a kibbutz. It’s something that lots of my peers did back then, and it sounded so exotic and exciting.

What I'll carry in my back pack.. And Twizzlers. Lots of Twizzlers.

What I’ll carry in my back pack.. And Twizzlers. Lots of Twizzlers.

Then the Middle East shifted, Jewish tourists were being selected on planes and shot. Leon Klinghoffer, an elderly Jewish man in a wheelchair, was shoved off of cruise ship. Suddenly a kibbutz in Israel did not seem as appealing. Israel lost it’s appeal for me; lots of years went by, and ironically, my eldest child fell in love with the very place I had dismissed. Interestingly, on the itinerary she sent me, was one night at a kibbutz. Talk about crazy-ass circle of life.

And this bags just right! I'm ready to go...

And this bags just right! I’m ready to go…

So, I’ve been crossing T’s and dotting I’s; running on scavenger hunts to get things that Principessa needs (Hello, if they don’t have sewing kits in a country, don’t move there. Just sayin’), and trying to figure out exactly what clothes and shoes I’ll need to visit ancient lands, float in the Dead Sea, and see the Western Wall… not to mention experiencing the homeland— the epicenter, of so many world religions. I’ve packed and repacked, to make it all fit. I’ve downloaded music and an audio book on meditation. I am minutely nervous, a teeny, tiny bit—But mostly, I am very excited. And I am packed.

Do you like to travel? Are you ok traveling alone? What about long distances… do you do it? What’s the coolest place you’ve been and why? Share your thoughts in the comment section.

Posted in Adventure, Aging, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Jewish, Judaism, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, travel, traveling alone, Women, Women's issues, Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 29 Comments

When Facebook Blows Your Birthday Candles Out… Early.

Posted on January 8, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Damn you Facebook! There I said it; and I mean it. Damn you.

Facebook, you suck!image: guyism.com

Facebook, you suck!
image: guyism.com

It’s not bad enough that I am turning fifty (that looks better than the numbers) January 9th, but Facebook went and told everyone that my birthday was today, the 8th. As the date has creeped up on me… say, over the past 40 years… I thought it wouldn’t matter. Just a number, I’ve blithely said on more than one occasion. I teased Smart Guy, when he had a fairly impressive mid-life crisis, upon reaching his 50th, two years ago. You’re so silly, I told him. I thought I was above all of this fiftieth birthday anxiety stuff. I’m not.

Right around Christmas, I suddenly realized that the end was nigh. My forties were gone. Poof! No book published; chin beginning to sag; eye drooping; knee surgery; and no book published. That’s the biggie. I saw two weeks of my forties left and my heart started to race a little. My hot flashes got a little hotter. Coincidentally, I had to renew my license (they don’t actually require it upon reaching AARP status, it was just time)… And my new picture looked much older. Never mind that it is in fact ten years older than the last one—it looks it!

Fillers! Fillers! I screamed! Botox! Get me Botox! I wailed. Rio! I’m going to Rio… they know how to do anything there!  I searched Kayak in earnest for deals. There were none. In my magnifying mirror— necessary for the failing eyes, but less and less appealing visually— I pulled my chin back, and looked for my 30, 40 year old self.  She was holding on by a thread… if the chin was pulled tight enough.

That's a lot of fire!image: www.squidoo.com

That’s a lot of fire!
image: http://www.squidoo.com

All of this is bad enough. All of this is enough to make a pulse race and fill my dreams with falling elevators, dense forests, and spilled ice cream (don’t ask)… but then Facebook sucks had to go and make it worse. Somehow one person got my birthday wrong. They posted a Happy Birthday message today, on the 8th, because of a misguided Facebook sucks prompt, no doubt, and everyone else got a newsfeed item that implied it was my birthday, and… It’s not!  As it does in the world of Facebook sucks, however, things snowballed, and day-early-birthday-greetings rolled in.  I am still 49 as I write this. Forty-nine (the hyphen looks worse)! Damn you Facebook sucks!

Admittedly, I won’t mind them blasting my birthday news to everyone, tomorrow—or, today, as you read this— But they went and blew out my candles, before I was officially ready for the cake. I wanted one last day of pre-AARP’ness. I had my last 40’s haircut today; I was in my forties all day… until Facebook sucks, with it’s busybody, misinformed, blabber mouthing ways, went poking everyone with stuff that isn’t their business… until the 9th.

This is 50 too.image: www.autoblog.com

This is 50 too.
image: http://www.autoblog.com

For the record, I was born on January 9, 1963. I had my first baby portrait taken the day Kennedy was assassinated; my Mom heard the news in a department store.  I got married when I was 24, which seemed old at the time. I had my first baby at 27. She’ll be 23 next month—way too young to meet someone and get married! I had my last baby when I was 33. That seemed old to be having a baby, but it wasn’t. When I turned 40, I vowed to write a novel and get it published. I read that Maya Angelou published her first novel when she was 40. I had no expectations of being anything close to the amazing Ms. Angelou in talent or success, but her story gave me hope. Here it is, the eve of my 50th birthday and I need to find a new inspiration. If you know one, share it in the comments. I was busy PTSA’ing, baking, carpooling and saying I wanted to write, in much of my 40s, and I’ve been too scared looking at options since.

So Facebook, you suck! I had one more night to still be in my 40s, and think I might do it. Or, not feel like I’m in my 50’s and haven’t done it.  My birthday is tomorrow, and after waiting 50 years for it, I think a certain social media mega-jerk, could have waited 12 more hours before blabbing it all over.  Just because they’re in every country of the world, and it’s technically my birthday lots of other places, doesn’t mean my friends needed to hear about it a day early.

I have my cake, and I'll eat it too... with a single candle.

I have my cake, and I’ll eat it too… with a single candle.

I’m going upstairs to put candles on the amazing chocolate cake, that a friend baked and delivered to me tonight (not because of FB sucks, but because she wanted me to have it early). I’m going to blow those candles out, myself, thank you. Just because Facebook (who sucks) blew out my cyber candles a day early, doesn’t mean I have to play along!

I’ll sink this low:  If you want to wish me a happy birthday: hit Like. If you think this was funny: hit Like. If you think Facebook sucks too:  hit Like. Or, just hit Like because I’m 50 and I deserve to be humored.  And for icing on the cake: stop by the TFTM Facebook page, and hit Like. Like, like, like!

My cake! MY Cake!

My cake! MY Cake!

Final, final note: When I went upstairs to put candles on MY birthday cake… Little Man had cut a big, fat slice and had eaten it. He “forgot” it was my birthday cake. Seriously folks! There is no respect for seniors, or mothers, in this society. Hit Like if you agree.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Ego, getting published, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Tales From the Motherland, Women, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 34 Comments

What’s in a Name?

Posted on January 7, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I have been doing mental somersaults for months, trying to decide on a name for my novel. The title I originally chose, the “working title,” just doesn’t suit the work. I’ve known this for a while, and both of my editors and my writing group members have said pretty much (or very much) the same thing. The current title just falls flat for me, when I think of the story, but I haven’t been able to come up with any other solid options.

It seems like it should be relatively easy. Not. I pick titles for my blog posts three times a week, and frankly I think I do a good job. Blog titles pop into my head every day. Some nights as I’m drifting off to sleep, titles pop into my head and help me decide what I’m going to write about. While most of the time the topic drives the title, some days the title is just waiting for the post. It’s pretty easy. Yet, I have been spinning this damned book title around and around for months… and months! I’ve tried things out on my writing posse, but nothing has made it’s way to the title page. It’s got me chasing my tale (yes, I spelled it that way on purpose) in crazy circles.

The clock is ticking!image: www.percederberg.com

The clock is ticking!
image: http://www.percederberg.com

Yesterday I spent several hours at a writer’s workshop, with several different topics and focuses. One of the authors talked about making your book a true priority—making your writing a true priority. Blogging has become such a big part of my writing world, but it definitely distracts me from moving forward with my novel, and I need to start being more mindful of that, and working on my book priorities… If I really want to be published. And I do. I really do.

In two days I turn 50. Man, when I turned 40 I was so determined to write a novel and get it published! But here I am a decade later and I’m still wishing and hoping and planning… I did write the book, but I need to take that next step. I do not want to see the next decade and still be stuck in this spot.

The title is critical. It’s a few words, linked together, that announce my work. People will notice my novel based on how well I string those words together, and that is feels huge. Blog titles are easy, but this has me totally stumped. I think of title that I think works, and then do some research and it’s already out there. Or, a title that sounds right on Monday, isn’t good by Friday. Something that I think might work, is a thumbs down with the people who have read the manuscript. It’s crazy making. And all of this title stuff feels like more delays in taking the next step for publishing.

Is that it? Am I making the title an unconscious barrier to publishing… and ultimately, avoiding finding out if my novel is good? Some days I feel like I might just toss the whole thing on a big bonfire, and just be done with it. Other days I’m so ready to grab the prize. Keeping my eye on the prize is a constant, personal challenge… convincing myself that I have something of value to put out there, convincing myself that I can do this, taking in the positive feedback I’ve gotten (and it has been mostly positive) and really embracing it… These are things that I don’t do easily. As many of you have noticed and commented on, I am quick to find my flaws, or create ones that no one else sees. I throw my self-doubts out there like they are facts, when they are more often mirages that only I see. Thank you friends (cyber and “real”) for that reminder, especially on some key posts, and on some harder days.

I do not believe in resolutions; they don’t work for me. I embrace intentions. I aspire to meet those. Some are easier than others; some are bigger and grander. I really hope to clean that office. I would like to work out more and get my knee back to a healthy place. I want to work on relationships that deserve my nurturing, and let go of ones that don’t. And I want to see my novel published, whether I self-publish or go the traditional route. These intentions are all biggies on some level, but that last one represents so many things for me. Back to picking a title… ’cause, it’s all in the name.

Are you a writer? Did you jump into publishing, or did anything hold you back? Was the title a tough thing, or easy. If you’re not a writer, what attracts you to a book?

Share your thoughts; share my post, and if you liked this post, tell me by hitting the Like button.

 

 

 

Posted in Aging, Blog, Can't sleep, Daily Observations, getting published, Life, Musings, My world, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Women, Women's issues, Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

A Broken System…

Posted on January 5, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Today I met once again with the powers that be at my son’s school. I can’t tell you how many of these meetings we’ve been called to or requested, but somewhere in the vicinity of 7 in three years. They all blend together after awhile: a blur of words intended to give hope, promises and suggestions that haven’t worked or come to fruition, and a lot of people taking notes… that I assume get filed away. The paper trail of a broken system that has failed my child, and let us down—over and over again.

Image: internet

Image: internet

At this meeting, there were: all of his teachers— good educators who do care and come in with hopeful faces; the Principal, Assistant Principal, the school psychologist, my son’s guidance counselor, me and my son—looking wary and anxious. “I guess we’ll need more chairs,” says the Asst. Principal, who called this meeting. Weren’t we all expected to attend? Is it a surprise to see so many, around a table the requires squeezing close together? I notice that my son has taken a seat at the head of the table and for a brief second I think that maybe he has called upon some small reserve of self-esteem: this is about me; I’ll sit at the head. It is a bold move, with so many adults in the room and I quietly hope that he has done it consciously, with a bit of confidence regarding his own role in all of this. However, a teacher who is a good teacher, but does not believe this meeting is necessary, comes in and asks Little Man to move. I watch my boy slide around closer to me… and is it my imagination, or my mother’s heart, that sees his face drop just a little? More.

The Principal’s office looks out on a main courtyard where students rush to and from the places they need to get to. The blinds are wide open— no privacy here. I watch a few kids I know walk by and look at us all, seated around the conference table, and I know that my kid is cringing inside. They will all know. They will ask what I did wrong. They will wonder what’s wrong with me. I think the same things, wishing I could just go close the blinds and open this meeting to real dialogue. Get to the heart. My bleeding heart, that can not bear another meeting that ends in empty promises for my kid. The window remains open, and a friend walks by and waves.

The Assistant Principal runs the meeting, while the Principal- who does not usually attend, but has opted in this time- sits back a bit. I watch her face as the meeting gets underway. I like that she generally gets to the point and she hears what is said with fresh ears. Fresh to our situation at least— she has years of experience; those ears are not new on this block. We all hear the same old, same old: “Little Man, is such a good kid… all of his teachers love having him in class… He is one of the nicest kids we’ve ever met, and I mean that!… Everyone agrees that Little Man is a great kid… very smart…”  His teachers all smile; some nod, and some try to encourage him across the table. Some of them have heard this too often, like us, and know that it is fluff. If his education was built on the number of times he or I has been told what a “nice” kid he is, or how smart he is, we wouldn’t be having meetings. The fact is: nice doesn’t help his grades and his intelligence isn’t being represented by those grades either.

image: adhd-mindbydesign.com

image: adhd-mindbydesign.com

He is a nice kid… unusually nice. He’s perceptive, funny, kind and compassionate. He is smart, very smart… but ADHD turns his thoughts into a swirl of ideas, intentions, efforts, that all spin and sputter and cough out a small fraction of what he can actually do. He is bored; he is frustrated; he is beaten down— by a system that is so broken that it really doesn’t know what to do to help him reach his true potential, or feel as successful and capable as he could and should be. It is a system that strains under the weight of the kids who are too smart for, the kids who struggle with, the kids who digest and move on easily through, and the kids who spin with inside-  a curriculum that has been determined to be best. Best for which of those kids? Not mine. Not a friends. Not many of the teachers who are required to follow it. There is no real wiggle room for teachers, who want to be more creative, or challenging, or passionate. There is no wiggle room for kids who struggle (in whatever context that might be) without IEPs and 504s and Special Ed and HCL and a slew of other letters, attached to their names.

And so we meet again. We meet, and the same nice kid comments are made and the same questions are asked of a 16 year old boy (a year young for his grade— oh to go back to kindergarten and not make that mistake again!), who sits there listening to us talk about him, and answers “I don’t know… I guess so… Uh, I… well… I don’t know” to nearly every question he’s asked. “What do you think we can do differently Little Man? What do you think we should do?” Enormous questions for a kid to be asked, when the adults are all stumbling over the very same questions!  Does he need the help? Hell yes! Does he want help? For sure! Does he want to accept a label that will follow him, and that he and his peers see as a stigma, but which comes with a possible solution that might actually help? “No,” he answers.

I see the frustration on the administrators and teacher’s faces. The Principal steps in:  “What would be the mature decision here?” She asks. All of the adults sit and wait. They watch Little Man. We all know which answer the power that be is looking for. Little Man stares… a deer in a road full of rushing cars. “I… well… I guess… I don’t know.” One of the teachers, a kind person and well meaning, tries to explain to Little Man that this is not a punishment—that the class he’d be offered and the assistance he might get, would help him and is not because he is not smart enough. My boys eyes stare down; he nods obligingly; I touch his knee under the table, and try to convey my support and love. He looks up and thanks her, but I know he is disappointed. He is disappointed in himself, and there is nothing we will all say that will change that.

Questions are thrown around; all of the teachers state that they believe Little Man should get the help he needs, which I have pleaded for for FOUR YEARS and been denied. Each year we have been told that he doesn’t “qualify,” that other things will be tried… things that have never come to fruition: Sorry, there are no resources- we thought we’d be able to but can’t- we’re working on it- sorry. As I sit there something has happened and as each of his teachers stick their necks out and urge the system to do the right thing, I see that we will probably be told that we don’t qualify… still. And so I jump in.

Why don’t we qualify? What has to happen here? He is a junior and there are few chances left. Nothing that we’ve been told would happen has happened and we just keep returning to this table with the same issues.  I say all of this carefully. Tread lightly but with determination. I can’t let my kids down one more time, but I need these people to want to help us. “Unfortunately, your son has to fail—fail completely, to qualify.” What!  Could this be true? Like the broken criminal system: someone has to shoot up a movie theater, or kill his wife, or do something equally shocking to get the help or legal intervention that was asked for over and over again?  Do not misread that logic. My son is not in any way comparable to a violent or unstable person… the situation is comparable. Things have to break all the way down: he would have to fail a year and be held back, to get the help he needs.

The school psychologist speaks up. She has been a wonderful help, but she has not gotten us anywhere up until now. “Actually, we really have enough data to support giving Little Man these ‘services;’ we would not necessarily need to go the usual route… and we might be able to get it in place before the next semester starts.”  The assistant Principal has been watching the clock throughout the meeting, intermittently reminding us all that we don’t have much time— 25 minutes to be exact. Twenty-five minutes to fight for my kids life, as he speeds toward graduation and more missed opportunities, and in minute 23 the psychologist has said what I never would be said: we might be able to finally do something tangible and solid. I get that too: They are all taking time from other things; their schedules are packed, conceivably with other kids who need their help, and this is all they have to offer. That is the reality: there is 25 minutes for this topic. My son.

I jump in, and I’m told that we “are really out of time.” But I am not going to sit there. I push on and try to plead my boy’s case. All of these teachers have just told you what I’ve been saying for three years at this school. They are the ones teaching my child and they all see that he needs this. He may not fail the year, but he hangs on by a very thin thread all year—it is exhausting for him, for me, for his teachers. They can all tell you, if they speak honestly, that Little Man squeaks by with grades that in no way reflect what he knows or is capable of— The teachers are all nodding now. The clock is being watched and I’m told that the staff needs to go, that we can come back to this… No! I understand that you all need to go, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that you all came here and that you have shared your thoughts, but I know that if we get up right now, we’re going to stay on this same path.

And then a miracle happens. The school psychologist takes out a piece of paper and says: “If we sign this right now, we could try and get this in place by second semester. I think everyone here as agreed that it would be real help for Little Man. I brought it along because I think there’s more than enough data to make this happen.” The teachers have to leave, but now that there is a golden ticket on the table, they don’t need to stay. They all try to encourage Little Man and reassure him that this is for the best. He’s not buying it. But he’s not old enough or wise enough to know that the system is broken and this is the bandaid that really might help. The teachers and my boy leave, but I am not moving. The assistant Principal collects her papers and says again, that we all need to get going, but I am not done.

I sign the paper, and wait as the others leave and I’m left with the guidance counselor and the Principal. It’s her office. I tell them this that this needs to happen; it can’t fall away like all the other plans that have not worked out. And the Principal sits back and digs deeper; she asks more questions; she fills in some blanks from the meetings and efforts that she was not involved in. She listens. The counselor backs me up, and soon they are telling me that we can really make this happen. That time is short, but we can make it happen. “We are making Little Man top drawer,” the P-r-i-n-c-i-PAL says.  I know that she says this to reassure me, but my mind rushes briefly: wouldn’t he be better off ON the desk than in a drawer? I’ll take top drawer; it’s better than filing cabinet.

As I walk to my car it’s raining. The campus is empty now; the kids are all in class. I feel hopeful, much better than when I arrived an hour before. As I’m walking, a man pushing a large garbage can and a broom walks toward me. As we get closer I see that he is very young; he hardly looks older than the seniors at this school.  I smile as our paths cross, but his face is so flat. His eyes look empty and he looks so unhappy to me. It flashes through my head: who is he? Is this what he wants to be doing? Was the system broken for him too? Or does he just hate the rain?

It is a broken system. Our schools, which have many good things to offer, also withhold so many other things. Teachers are not payed enough or supported enough. The good ones struggle on and keep trying to bring something positive to the kids they teach, and the bad ones still get tenure and our kids have to navigate around, over and through them. The services that my son will now hopefully get (it’s not done until it’s done, I’ve learned) are something that our kids see as a stigma. Sadly it is, within this system—though it should not be.

A few famous people with ADHDimage: encwor.blogspot.com

A few famous people with ADHD
image: encwor.blogspot.com

It doesn’t matter how many lists of famous, intelligent, creative people he sees- who had ADHD. He feels different amongst his peers, and having to take a class that confirms that is one more tough thing to swallow. The very same class (as in virtually identical) and service is offered in the private school that my older son attended (Little Man refuses a boarding school) and there is no stigma there. It is offered to all of the students. It is taken by the majority of the students there, and you are no more or less capable if you are in that class. In the public schools, the label Special Ed has come to mean something other than what it really is and what it should be. And you have to bleed to get.

As a final note:  This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life: helping raise each of my three kids to be the people they are destined to be. Figuring out what each of them needs as the individuals they are, and making that happen is a rough trail, and my knees are bad. For each success and proud moment, I also feel- every day- that I have let one or more of them down… in some way or another. The burden is huge, the guilt bottomless— that we didn’t know sooner that failure was the key, that we didn’t push for other schools, that we didn’t know to go a step up and bang on other doors, that we could have-should have done other things, and more. I’m intelligent and capable enough to know that I was doing my best with what I knew at each step, but that doesn’t always help me feel better when I look in my son’s eyes.

How do parents who work full time, or don’t have the financial resources, or don’t speak English, or don’t understand the system at all, or don’t care (they do exist)— how do they navigate this system? What happens to their kids? For all the balls I’ve dropped, there are so many I’ve kept in the air. What about all those other kids, who have no one to juggle with? My boy struggles with the low self-esteem and self-doubt that a broken system has helped feed, every day. And no, I am not putting all of the responsibility on the system. If you read Black and Blue, or many of my other posts, you know that I struggle with this on a personal level, on a regular basis. Right now, I am so grateful for a possible step in the right direction, but can’t help but look at the path we’ve taken and wish we’d had a few better options.

Share your thoughts. Have you struggled within or with the educational system? What worked and what did not?

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Posted in Activist, Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Education, High School, Honest observations on many things, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Tales From the Motherland, Teens, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 32 Comments

Life and Death in the Blogosphere

Posted on January 2, 2013 by Dawn Quyle Landau

DSC_0005In 2012 one of the biggest changes and influences in my life was writing, and more specifically: blogging. As the year began, blogging was still pretty new for me. While I had begun to find my groove, it was all still a steep learning curve.  There were a few blogs I followed, but mostly I was doing my thing.  I think that’s how a lot of bloggers start out. Some jump right in and make the round of liking other blogs, “following” (or subscribing) a bunch, and making connections that way.  Others, like me, are focused on writing. I was grateful to find other bloggers who are like minded, or the bring something new and interesting to the table, and was more surprised when they found me.

When I first started it was about figuring out how to make my own posts more interesting, establishing my “voice,” and keeping up with only a few other bloggers. In 2012, however, I explored more and started to feel more connected to the broader blogging world. I took the time to leave more comments, and enjoyed getting to know the writers who responded, as we expanded the dialogues. I was surprised that blogging brought total strangers into my life, who I looked forward to sharing ideas with, and who I got to know and care about.

As I followed a few blogs and got to know their authors, I found myself connecting more deeply with them. There are bloggers who have followed my work closely and have gotten to know me through the things I’ve shared in my posts, and visa versa. The parameters of those blog relationships are often blurry and unclear on many levels however. I’ve come to know these talented writers, but only in words, only on the page, which makes it strange when life happens.

When a writer I began following almost as soon as I started writing, went from blogging about her unexpected divorce and the aftermath, to finding love, I felt her joy, and celebrated in her Me 2.0 evolution. As I followed along I rooted for her newfound happiness. Comments and emails were exchanged, and we got to know each other a little better. Life happens in blogs, and she found another life and announced her engagement a few months ago. That was her last post to date, and I’ve missed her witty updates and her hilarious take on life— as well as the fine thread we shared behind the scenes.

Life is not always funny, witty or entertaining. Within a very short period of time recently, some very serious events impacted a few very talented bloggers, who I’ve followed and have come to care about.  I think about these writers even when I’m not reading their posts; yet our relationship exists within the limited boundaries of our writing. Like me, these bloggers write because that is how they express themselves. They are writers, living their lives and putting it out there. The connections that develop amongst us are built within the surreal framework of the writing. So I’ve found myself stunned and confused— unsure of what to do when tragedy strikes “strangers,” who feel like cyber friends. These are not just posts, not just stories, floating around the blogosphere, but real life losses, blows,  that have happened to people— and I care.  It’s hard to know how to really feel, what to do with what I read.

Over the holidays, I thought often of an incredibly compassionate woman who found out that her twenty-five year marriage was over, when her husband called on Thanksgiving and said he wouldn’t be home for dinner. They were all set to move for his job— their house tentatively sold, new plans in place, and just like that it was all over. We have shared countless emails and comments, but have never met. It was hard not to think about her over the holidays.  Another mom I follow, who has struggled with her child’s ADHD and family issues, had to face Christmas day in the wake of her mother’s suicide on Christmas Eve. What do you say to such a loss? I hear you; I’m sorry.

One blogging friend, shared her grief over the death from cancer of a close friend and mentor. The post was Freshly Pressed.a We met at a writing conference and I have long appreciated her writing. It is sharp, intelligent and beautiful. Yet even as I celebrated the  well deserved accolades for her writing, I also knew that she was grieving a real loss—not just plucking out a story.  And in a blog that I have read several times, a post that truly took my breath away, a talented writer and woman I follow shared a shattering loss—the death of her seven year old son. Loss that is inconceivable to anyone with a heart beat, written with such heart breaking grace and eloquence, that I wanted to climb through my computer screen and wrap her up in compassion and support. All I could do was leave a comment. I hear you; I am so very sorry for your loss. Words escape me. 

Participating and sharing in the blogosphere has changed my life. I have found an outlet for the things I need to express. I have found a world of talented writers who make me think; writers who make me feel, who encourage and feed me. I have also had my feelings bruised at times, in a world of clever wordsmiths. I’ve been challenged to look at how I can experience so many thoughts and emotions via people who I only know through the world of writing and blogging.

I have shared things in my own blog, that I never imagined putting out there, often forgetting that some of the people who read these posts live in my grocery shopping-dog park-PTSA-going about my life in real time-world. While I may feel naked some days, when I run into someone who knows that I’ve been sitting at hospice for days, or I’ve been depressed or lost, or that I eat ridiculous numbers of Cheez Its, I am also sustained and blessed to have stumbled into such an amazing world. Life and death and everything in- between happens in the blogosphere, and I live in two worlds now.

Checking out this powerful writing, by amazing writers living life:  Goodbye Boyfriend Brett;  My Thanksgiving; This Post Has No Title;  She’s Finally at Peace;  Echoes; When A Person Dies; and Today I Cry

** I wish love, healing and peace, to my blogging friends who have experienced pain.**

Posted in Awareness, Beauty, Blog, Blogging, blogs, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Dying, Freshly Pressed, Holidays, Honest observations on many things, Life, Musings, My world, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 40 Comments

Mother, May I…

Posted on December 31, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

To my mother, with love.

For those of you who have been following my blog for a while, you know that New Year’s Eve is the anniversary of my mother’s death. For those of you who haven’t, it is one year today. In that year, I have moved through a broad range of thoughts and feelings and actions. Today, I want to reflect. I will not be letting go, but moving forward.

Final days. Warm, quiet moments.

Final days. Warm, quiet moments.

A year ago, there was so much going on in our home that I could barely catch my breath, let alone process the fact that my mother had just died. We had two exchange students living with us; my husband, Smart Guy, had to have emergency surgery the very same night my Mom actually was about to die (she died at 4:30am on New Year’s Eve day; he had surgery the evening of the 30th); I had two other people who are close to me, in crisis; and I hadn’t left her room, at Hospice, in nearly days.

They called me at 2am on the 27th, my brother’s birthday, to tell me that I’d better “come right away. We think this is it.” Funny how different those words sound in movies, than when are spoken to you, about someone you will lose.  I raced out of my house in the middle of the night, with nothing but my fear of facing her end and a coat.

Mom did not die that night. She held on for four more days, and I was completely unable to leave the building during that time. Plenty of people encouraged me to; many friends offered to come sit, or to help, but I could barely leave her room, let alone the building. My sister came up early on the 27th, and stayed for the four days too. It was four of the closest days we’ve ever spent together. During that time, her husband (Sweet Guy) came up and kept us company. He took my sister out to get some air and something to eat. He tried nudging me to come along. I couldn’t do it. I felt paralyzed by the fear that if I left, Mom would die without us, and so I stayed there. My daughter eventually brought me some clean clothes and my laptop.

At the time I was trying to finish the manuscript for my first novel, in time to submit it to a small publisher in Massachusetts, who was taking submissions from unknown female writer’s, for a two month window. The opportunity was set to end at midnight on the 31st, and I was determined to send mine in. I “finished” and sent my manuscript to the publisher at about 8pm on the 30th. My Mom, lying in the bed beside me, was the first person I told. She smiled, but her eyes were becoming glassy and I knew that she was leaving us. Leaving me. I told her about my book and held her hand. Her smile meant so much at that point. I felt that she’d heard something very important from me, and I needed to know she was still there.

I wrote a post that night (read here), before I realized how close the end really was. Not only hadn’t she died on the night they first called, but she seemed to be holding on for reasons that none us could fully understand. She didn’t want us to go, but she lingered and lingered and my head began to swim within the closed world of the Hospice House. It is a calm, peaceful place, but not somewhere you really want to sit for days on end, waiting for something you can’t bear to face. I could not move beyond the doors of the building, but I was feeling so closed in and scared… waiting. Wishing for peace, and end to her suffering, and dreading the moment when she would actually stop breathing. My body hurt from sitting and sleeping on a hard bench beside her bed. It hurt from lack of exercise and poor diet. By the 30th, I hadn’t slept in more than 24 hours. Nothing felt normal or right.

Mom died at 4:25. In her final hour, she was terrified, and then she found calm. I played music she loves. I held a picture of my sister’s dog, who she adored. I told her that we were all there (I knew we were, in spirit), I told her that I loved her, that we all loved her. I told her that her beloved pugs were waiting for her; that her mother and father were there too.  I said “I know that you love us… I know that you love me, and I’m so grateful for that.” That, that very moment, she smiled faintly, but it was a smile— and then she exhaled her last breath. The room became utterly silent and I knew she was gone.

What I’ve really come to see, in the year since, is that her physical presence was gone. Only that.

After I left Hospice that morning, exiting the building and driving back to my home for the first time in three full days, I wrote a post in my car. I had to. I needed to say something, to absorb the finality of it, in just a little way (read here). The processing, I knew would take much longer, and it has.  There are several posts from November-December 2011 about Mom’s final days.

It has been a full year, 365 days. I have not thought of it every day; I have not grieved every day either—consciously. But I have felt the left over feelings, every day. I have felt her presence in ways I didn’t expect. I have felt her love and acceptance. I have felt her missed opportunities. I have reflected on her sadness and losses as well as the playful, witty, warm relationships that defined her just as much as the strained ones. I have sat in her seat, before my Christmas tree, and felt her thoughts… as my own. I have missed her.

Mother, may I continue to remember who you were: the bold and bright colors and the muted and dark ones as well. May I continue to work on myself, and understand that I can be like you, in ways that shine, but not be you. May I continue to help your grandchildren know that you were not the symptoms and horrors that Huntington’s Disease painted across you. May I remember as many good days as bad. You danced, you joked, you laughed, you argued, fought, you lived. In the end, you kissed and hugged us more than anything else; may I remember that. Mother, may I move forward free and peacefully, knowing that you loved me the best way you could, just as I loved you equally well.

May we all find the peace, the sparkle, the playful joy, the grace, the strength, the wit and the wonder, to face whatever is there in 2013. A very happy New Year to us all!

Images of my Mom, through the years:  My wedding, with my sister and I, at Principessa’s high school graduations, dancing at Little Man’s Bar Mitzvah, loving my sister’s pug Lottie.

sc03e2d48e  sc0862bb14  IMG_5582_2   lun0475  DSC_0009_3

Posted in Awareness, Courage, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Dying, Honest observations on many things, Huntington's Disease, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Personal change, Tales From the Motherland, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Black and Blue

Posted on December 28, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau
Sweet solitude.Image: Paul Anderson, photographer extraordinair.

Sweet solitude.
Image: Paul Anderson, photographer extraordinair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I woke to the hangover— of sadness, anxiety, dark feelings that pulled me into sleep last night… after hours of sitting alone watching the bay. The reasons are personal, they don’t matter in the big picture. What matters is how easily I fall into a hole when the world starts to pile too high for me. When I work so hard to smile and be funny, to fix it and figure it out, and make it all look ok, when it’s not—it’s no wonder I crash. And burn. I drive off in my car, me and Peter Gabriel. Where is the resolution? Where are the thousand churches? I sit and watch the full moon shine in our crystal night. The rainbow glow around it gives me hope, for a while.

I woke to puffy eyes and a worn expression. Avoiding mirrors. I woke too early, having gone to bed too late. I tried to sleep some more, but the same thoughts that drove me off to solitude last night assault me in bed as well. I curl up tighter and push the thoughts away, but they are stronger than me—at times like this. I am lost in the confusion of what to do. What to do with big things. I turn it all on myself and go from blue to black and back to blue again. Turning every slight, every insensitive word, each turn of a meaningless phrase, each misunderstanding and slip of a tongue— into a lash of self loathing, regret, remorse, longing. It sucks me down like quicksand, suffocating.  Blinding flashes that leave me frozen and staring at the bay, long into the night.

My car is always the place I go first. My music is there. My solitude. The lights of the dash and the warm seats bring comfort. It is a cocoon that is all mine. If I could, I would drive and drive, and drive some more, with my music blaring and the windows down. But it would not be safe, when I am black and blue. So I sit in my car; always the first place I go. Last night, I went to the movies next. Foolish me; I never read Tolstoy. I went to see Anna Karenina. The theater was mostly empty, perfect. The movie was beautiful, stunning even. The cinematography swept me away from my dark thoughts. The magic of the production and the rich imagery helped me forget for a while. I was transfixed by everything on the screen, and began to think that perhaps I would go home and read this great book., finally. It suited me, helping me escape for a while, but I didn’t know the ending. I won’t ruin it for others, but it is not an ending for someone in the black, or the blue. I left and drove back to the bay.

The water at night is always so mesmerizing. Lights from the city and across the islands twinkle and reflect. The full moon shimmers across the surface. The added holiday lights are so beautiful this time of year. If not for the lights of the passing cars, it would be perfect. Scared to death by two stupid slasher films, in my youth, I am not one to park in isolated lonely places. I park where someone can hear me, if I need them to. The drawback are the cars. My twisty turny brain can only think: will they see me here, crying? Will they recognize me? Then they’ll know.

Eventually I go home. I always do. I slink back in, unwilling, unwanting, resenting the inevitable questions… words, words, words. Words are my friend when I write them; words slash me, spoken by others. “Where have you been? Are you ok? I’m sorry. You misunderstood…” You got it wrong, again. I only want silence. I lay in my bed and try to quiet my battering thoughts. I wake hungover; still black and blue today.

Posted in Honest observations on many things | Tagged , , , , , , | 57 Comments

The Middle: Leftovers

Posted on December 26, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This Christmas I realized something… there are a lot of leftover feelings and memories that cloud the holidays for me. Melancholy falls on me as Christmas approaches and shift my experience, as hard as I try to surround myself with merriment and new memories.

As a child and well into my twenties, Christmas was the big day— a day when my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my mother and my siblings all gathered together to share a beautiful holiday. There were personalities abounding, wonderful food, great times and difficult times, but we all loved each other and Christmas was filled with joy.

Over the years we have moved in different directions, emotionally and geographically. The reasons are many and complex, as is the case in so many families. Several of the people who were a part of my Christmases past have died, my mother last December. This was my first Christmas without her—the first Christmas ever without any of my biological family here.  It was particularly difficult on many levels, even though I had a wonderful time with good friends, who have become much like family.

It was impossible not to think of Mom most of the weekend and all day Christmas. She loved Christmas. Yet this Christmas as I sat alone in my living room, carols on the stereo and the lights giving a beautiful glow to the room, I felt more like my mother than I’ve ever felt. I listened to the music and thought of her. I thought of the family I don’t see (much) of anymore, the family who I don’t see enough of, the friends who fill the whole. And the melancholy descended. I sat quietly in the room, surrounded by the beautiful tree and I missed what is gone; I missed what used to be; I missed what should or might be—what isn’t. As I did this, I suddenly felt like I understood something about my mother that I’d never got at the time.

When I saw her sit alone by the tree each year, staring off at the lights, I believed that she was just enjoying the music, spending a moment of holiday quiet. As I sat there the other day however, I realized that she too felt melancholy. I now recognize the look that escaped me then. She was thinking of her past, perhaps remembering us when we were little, just as I now reflect on my own (mostly) grown children. She was hoping to understand her children better as they got older, and wishing to forge good relationships with them. She was wondering how to fix things with her siblings. She was remembering things that are gone, and hoping for new and positive ways to move past the things she regretted.

I think that Christmas is a mixed bag for a lot of people, and I am one of them. The lights, the smells, the food, the music, the music, the music all around—all of these things are what make Christmas so special each year. These things are also the very things that take me back through time and turn my thoughts inside out. So I go to the refrigerator and I dig around amongst the piles of ham, and scalloped potatoes, and pies and I begin to move through the leftovers.

What comes up for you at Christmas? Is it always cheery and bright, or do you feel a little melancholy too? Share your thoughts; share this post, and if it touched you, please take a minute to hit Like.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Beauty, Blog, Christmas, Daily Observations, Death of parent, Holidays, Honest observations on many things, Life, Music, Musings, Parenting, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 21 Comments