In the first blog post, I discussed, at length, the events leading up to, and during Rosh Hashanah. As Paul Harvey used to say, “and now, for the rest of the story:…”

Yesterday was a banner day, insofar as I entered my mother’s house for the first time in probably 15 years. But, let me take a step back.

When I was growing up in New York, my mother and I shared a one bedroom apartment. First, on the East Side of 34th street, and for four years, the West side of 34th street. In the West side apartment, and on the East side after my 5th or sixth birthday, my mother gave me the bedroom, and she slept on the couch. She said it was important that I have my own space. However, my mother was not very savvy in the ways of keeping up an apartment. Cut to the chase – my mother is a slob. A slob so bad that she could make a teenage/college aged boy blush at her untidiness. My friends knew, and I rarely had them over because I was so embarrassed.

When I was old enough, I asked some of my friends (and their mothers) about things like: how to clean a toilet and tub, how to get the starch out of the pasta colander, how to clean windows. I had no formal training, and there was no YouTube, or internet for that matter. We basically lived in filth.

When my mother moved to upstate New York, and I to college in Rhode Island, I was so relieved to be free of the filth. Never fond of cleaning, I nevertheless abhorred mess, and did my best with the skills I had, and learned more on the way. I stayed briefly with my mother when she had double knee replacements, and my Uncle and Aunt came up from Staten Island to help me try to dig my way out of the mess she made her home into. I felt the cracks in my psyche begin then.

When my mother sold her home Upstate in 2000 to move to Rhode Island, I nearly died when my friend Marcia came with me to help pack her up and move her. We tried our best, but I wound up paying a cleaning crew $2000 to clean her house before the new people moved in.

My mother hasn’t let me into her home in Rhode Island since my husband and I dated. At least 15 years. She slyly meets me on the stoop, and won’t open the door until I leave. But I know what’s in there. And she knows I know. And we don’t talk about it.

Fast forward to now. Given her hearing issues of the day before, I asked her to call me every day to check in. When she called yesterday, she told me she saw her doctor, and got a referral to see an audiologist for her hearing problem. The issue is that the one she wanted to go to (who was in the same building as her PCP) couldn’t get her in before October. So she was going to use the phone book to find someone now. I offered to look and book for her. I told her to keep checking her phone (she can’t hear it ring) so I could leave her a message regarding an appointment. I found a place that could see her in a few day’s time, booked the appointment, printed the acknowledgement, with directions, and drove to her house to deliver it to her.

When I arrived, the window in the front that is in her living room was open, and the radio was blaring. I grabbed her mail, and stood by her open window, shouting at her. Nothing. So, I went to the side door (can’t use the front door – see my previous post) and banged on the door. Still nothing. So, I knew I would have to enter her home.

I took a big breath, and let myself in, trying to focus on the task at hand (getting her the doctor’s appointment info) and not on the condition of the house. But it was hard not to notice. The house was absolutely filthy. Garbage all over the floor (but not as piled up as I imagined). The kitchen countertops were covered with a layer of sticky grime and littered with stuff. Pots on the stove with ingredients unknown and sitting there for an indeterminate amount of time.

As I rounded the corner to the living room, I could see that she had created a “safe” path to walk from the kitchen to the hallway, through the living room to the chair by the window. This used to be the chair my grandfather sat in. It’s a beast of a wooden mid century chair with a thick, upholstered seat and back cushion. These have long since been covered in garbage bags (back when my mom had “unruly cats”) and had thick blankets draped over that. The chair was always a decent size, but to see my tiny, shriveled mother sitting in it made me gasp. There she sat, the radio cranked up to full volume and cradled in her arms, her head resting on the radio, trying to catch a whisper of sound, a means to feel connected to the outside world.

I called her name, softly at first, then louder. When she didn’t respond, I walked up to her, and gently touched her leg, so as not to startle her. She lifted her head, opened her eyes, and looked at me the way the guest starts on “Touched Like an Angel” looked at Roma Downey and Della Reese, when they reveal who they are, angels sent from God, while a warm halo of light surrounds them and they impart words of biblical proportion. My mother looked up at me with the most wonderful smile. And my heart broke in two.

I told her (through shouting and pantomime – after turning down the radio) that I had found her an appointment for the audiologist in three day’s time, and gave her the paper with the information. I asked her if she could find it, and she said, “can’t you take me?”

Of course I could. My husband and I were supposed to leave for Maine the day before, but that would have to wait. So I told her to be ready for 7:30am to go to the audiologist, and I would pick her up.

I practically keened on my way home afterwards. Keened for the inevitable next chapter. Keened with selfishness that my life was no longer my own, and everything I would now have to give up. Keened for the fear of my marriage suffering from the burden. The money that would need to be spent. The time that would needed to be invested.

My mother and I are not close. Far from it. She has spent a lifetime pushing me away. And I am resigned and content in this way of life. But that now has to change. This needs to be a new and different relationship. I just have to decide how much I can handle on my own, and how much I will need to seek help to do for her.

I’ve been very cerebral since September started. While Fall is my favorite season, it also brings with it the promise of change, and, in a way, of death. I was unaware of how profound that feeling would be this year.

As I start my planning for this year’s “on-demand” (from the matriarch) Rosh Hashanah dinner, I decided that I was so grateful for my chosen family that I wanted to show my appreciation in a tangible way. So, I created a little gift bag for everyone in attendance to take home with them. In that bag, I placed, among other things, some symbols of the Jewish New Year – namely honey and apples. Additionally, I created little papers that explained the symbolism behind these objects. I personalized thank you cards for each guest.

I felt inspired to do this after spending a previous evening with a dear old friend from elementary school. My realization that the people we choose to surround ourselves with on a regular basis are whose who have, somehow, taken up residence in our hearts. People by their own choosing, who share a piece of us within their hearts. And, I thought it was high time I started to express that gratefulness to these people. Little did I know how that would be the prelude to a lot more.

On Monday morning, I woke up early to begin the prep for dinner. I left a message on my mother’s voicemail around 10:30am to remind her that I would pick her up around 4pm. When she hadn’t called by 1:00pm to confirm, I called back and left another message.

And another at 3:00pm.

Fearing the worst (well, we rarely fear the best), I left my house at 3:30pm with her house keys in hand. I spent the 15-minute drive to her house talking myself through the procedure. If I should find her lying on the floor: 911 first, then Chris, after the paramedics arrive. Make sure the side door is open, and that they have a “clear” path to where she is lying. Try not to focus on the state of the house. Focus on her.

Then I thought: but, what if I get there and her car isn’t in the driveway? What if she got into an accident somewhere, and I can’t find her? More lists: tell Chris to host the party, don’t let on how panicked you are, keep your cool. It then occurred to me that I don’t even know my mother’s license place number, or the make and model of her car (I know it’s a grey four door sedan. Go me!). I also don’t know the name of her doctor, or what medications she is on.

It was with some (temporary) relief that I found her car was parked in her driveway. I called her again while sitting in her driveway, and again the call went to voicemail. However, I could see movement on the other side of the curtains in her living room, so I knew she was at least mobile. I walked up to the side door (her front door hasn’t worked for years, and she’s made no attempt to fix it, or call anyone to fix it – but neither have I) and as the ire raises in my mind, she opened the door and looked at me, her right eye full of broken blood vessels. Not just bloodshot, but the kind of gore you expect to see in horror films.

I ask her, “what happened?!” and she replied, “WHAT?”. So, I point to her eye and she tells me that she has been having problems with her hearing (since July 4th, I later learn) and she decided to blow her nose as hard as she could. Her grotesque right eye was the result of that attempt. I actually believe her, because I did something similar myself (albeit not to that extreme, and not due to hearing issues).

I then shout, “I’ve tried calling you four times!” to which she replied, “WHAT?!”. So, I make a gesture of a phone with my hand and hold up four fingers with my other hand.

“I think my phone is on silent, can you check?” and thrusts her phone at me. With her phone in one hand, I dial the number with my phone in the other, and the earth shattering ringing from her phone makes me step back. I hold the blaringly loud ringing cell phone up to her ear, and she shrugs and shakes her head.

The rest of the evening was a dysfunctional combination of charades and pad and pen communication between myself, my guests and my mother. One of these “literary exchanges” was when I asked her if she wanted me to go to the doctor with her the next day. She looked at me in disgust and said, “I can drive myself”. So, I wrote a list for her, as follows:

1. Call me every day to tell me how you are doing, until this issue is addressed. It doesn’t matter if you can hear me, I need to hear you.
2. Call me tomorrow when you get back from the doctor with his findings.
3. If you need me to come with you, ask me!
4. Here are the dates I was planning to be in Maine…

The evening for me was one long anxiety attack.

I wanted to run away.

I wanted to fix everything.

I wanted to cry.

The ride home with her was in complete silence. That has never happened. To say it was eerie would have been an understatement. The ride back alone to my house was even stranger. I wanted to cry, but at the same time I was utterly numb.

I suspect this isn’t going to be a “L’Shana Tovah” for either of us.

Stay tuned for part 2, coming out shortly.

Summer is always a lovely time for me. Not because of the warm, sunny days (I am very sun sensitive) or the break from the 9-5 (I still work), but because, every May, my husband and open our seasonal RV in a tranquil spot on a salt marsh in Maine. There are seemingly endless positive things about this place, but that’s for another post.

My summer place has always been a destination to recharge my mental batteries. And, while I still work from here 1/2 the time I’m up, the excursions and time with friends always makes this such a positive place to be.

Until this morning.

This morning, my world fell into a million pieces. I witnessed the cruelty of mother nature meets mankind. In short, my bliss got seriously harshed. Let me explain.

After a trip to the local farmer’s market with some of the ladies up here, I headed to the supermarket for some things. I took the back route, down a curvy lane, so as to further enjoy my day. This lane is not extremely rural, but it has its spots untapped by humans. I noticed there was stopped traffic ahead, and was puzzled. While this lane is a busy one, I’ve never seen traffic stopped. There are no lights or busy intersections on this part of the lane. I though maybe someone had been hurt up ahead, and my antennae started buzzing.

Something was wrong.

As I creeped along, it soon became apparent what the issue was. A tiny little fawn was bounding in and out of the road, bleating (I assume crying for its lost mama) and frantically bouncing around. My fellow humans were super considerate; everyone’s eyes were fixed on the little deer and its plight.

This little one, for a moment, jumped off the road, and the traffic crept forward, all of us keeping an eye on the meadow where it was headed. And just as quickly, it cried out again, and jumped into traffic, looking so scared and so small, appearing to be chasing some of the cars, in some delusion that one might be its momma.

As it bounded past my car, I started shaking and chanting, “please don’t get hurt, please find your momma, please be fine, please don’t die.”

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw that someone had pulled over. I thought “OK. Someone who knows what to do is taking charge. Maybe they will scoop it up and take it to a rescue.”

And then I wondered if touching it was the best thing. If someone picks it up, the momma might reject it. But leaving it to scramble among cars and humans was so hard to do.

So, what did I do?

I pulled off at the first available area, sat in my car, and cried. I did nothing. I couldn’t go back and imprint more horrible images in my head, conflicted about what the best course of action would be. I berated myself for being a useless human, for probably causing the baby to get separated from its mother just by my sheer existence. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to drive three hours home and bury this experience.

But I did nothing to help. I even took a different route back to avoid going by there, for fear it would be the same, or worse than before.

When I got home, I did look it up, and apparently, if a baby dear is alone, and in a dangerous location, you should not remove it from the area, but you can help it to a safer place, where it can wait for its mother to return at dusk. The mothers forage during the day and abandon the fawns, not because they don’t care, but in order to keep predators away from their babies. This baby must have wandered a bit too far from home base and gotten scared, and started panicking, looking for its mom.

I have to console myself with the thought that maybe that car who stopped was doing just that. They were going to try to move the fawn to someplace close, but safer than the road. Even a few hundred yards into the meadow would be safer than the road.

But I did nothing.

It’s been hours since this happened, and I’ve been crying on and off the entire time. Crying because I was useless, crying because the fawn was so scared. Crying for the hurt that might befall the mother if the fawn winds up hurt or killed.

And, yes, I understand, it’s the circle of life. We all move forward. Things will return to “normal”. There was nothing I truly could have done, but what I did (unless I tried to move the fawn myself).

But it was difficult to watch, and even harder to walk away from. And yet, that’s exactly what I did. Tried to ignore. Bury my head in the sand. Pretend it wasn’t happening. Divorce myself from the situation.

In the end, I just feel like a coward. Undeserving of these intense feelings because, if it bothered me so much, why was I paralyzed with inaction? Why did I turn my back on the situation? Why didn’t I help? Or call someone else to help?

Why is my first instinct, when anything bad happens, to run away, and then wallow in “woe is me” when, in fact, I’ve done nothing?

We made it! 2021 is in the rear view mirror, and we are eyes-forward, yes? I think there are some important lessons I took away from 2020:

• There is immense power in human connection
• I was given a gift of togetherness with my husband that I may never have again
• Technology is vital to moving forward, but
• Nature and listening to your body are essential

With these lessons, I’m approaching 2021 in a new way. I am not making any “resolutions”, but have decided to really listen and cherish my body and mind in a way that nourishes it and demonstrates loving kindness.

What the heck does that rubbish mean, you ask?

I’ll tell you. I think we mistakenly try on many different “solutions” to better health that are handed to us by our parents, our friends, our society, the media, that are like putting on a dress off the rack and expecting it to hit every curve of our body perfectly. Our bodies all need the same basic things, but the devil is in the details.

Example: we are all told to keep trim, eat right and exercise. All basic concepts. But the details are very different for each person. By the end of 2020, I got to a point when I almost literally became immobile with pain. What happened was, the pandemic, staying at home, moving less, eating to comfort. So I started to hurt, so I slowed down, which made my body hurt more, so I slowed down even more, to the point where I barely walked 1,000 steps a day. And I was eating very high levels of carbohydrates to soothe myself. And I bet you could guess what happened to my weight.

My body was so stiff from lack of any sustainable motion. I was killing myself with food. And I was super depressed. But, rather than signing up for Noom or trying to “maintain cardio 30 minutes every day”, I listened to my body. My body was rigid. My mind was rigid. I needed to loosen both up.

I started meditating daily. It’s not a huge commitment. 10 minutes before you even get out of bed. And again, everyone is different, but I find the app “Calm” to be amazing. I’ve actually been meditating with it for about 6 years now. But the latter half of 2020 I didn’t even have the desire to do that. But I thought, “10 minutes of sitting still? THAT I can do”. And, I restarted my chair yoga routine, just to stretch my body. Right away, my body felt better, as if a silent “thank you” was being spoken.

I next turned to what I was eating. I’ve done every “diet” in the world: Keto, WW, Paleo, South Beach, you name it. And all of them worked, for a time. But they never quite fit. So again, remembering what aspects of all the different diets made my body feel good, I began reducing the frequency of the foods that made my body feel yucky: anything processed, gluten, sugar. In July of 2020 I did give up all beef, pork and poultry, eating only fish and seafood, which has made me feel worlds better (again, this is MY body). And in the two weeks since I started this (yes, I started before 2021) I feel so much better, so much clearer, so much lighter. I’ve even lost 13 pounds. But, more importantly, the aches and pains and sluggishness are gone.

This will be a forever journey, one with many course corrections, I’m sure, but this is the beginning of a year of listening to what feel right to MY body and mind, and celebrating this vessel that has gotten me though 52 years of life.

Next in the series: listening to my body – the first colonoscopy. (Boy do you hear a LOT during that process!)

It’s been ages since I’ve felt the urge to write. And I’ve felt pretty guilty about it. But with the world being what it is, I felt like my thoughts: my woes and realizations, observations, were somehow insignificant compared to the severity of the issues at hand: racism, the media circus of government, the pandemic. Who am I to bleat out my struggles in times as seemingly momentous as now?

Until this one thought slammed me in the face, and I can’t seem to shake it. I wait a few days, and it still lingers, like a drug store perfume that won’t let evaporate.

Last month, we had to do our personal evaluations for work. In the past, this seemed to me to be a “shift from inbox to outbox” activity, and nothing worth any weight in the trajectory of my career. I set stretch goals – I mostly meet them. I challenge myself the next year, and satisfy that challenge. However, this year, I learned that these self-evals are the crux of what sets the trajectory for your career. And you can’t just satisfy your goals, even if you set lofty one. You have to EXCEED ALL OF THEM to even be noticed.

Let me take a step back.

When I was a little kid, about 5 or 6, I was given a test, and sent through a special program in elementary school for “gifted children”. These were children who supposedly were in the top 2%- both intellectually and from an educational potential standpoint. From 1-5 grades, I went through a highly accelerated learning program. By the end, there were a few dozen kids, looking doe-eyed and disheveled, entering a regular 6-grade classroom with a college level education, and no social skills. There was no long-term plan for us: we were just test subjects. Ones who could read Proust, discuss Calculus and the impact of Bach on the social strata of the 18th century, but had no idea how to join a game of dodgeball in the school yard. And a sleepover? What was that?

And so began this state of not fitting in – I was not the brightest of the “gifted” group – in fact, I probably was the slowest of the pack; and I was too smart for the rest of the kids, who found me “oddly adult and weird”. So, I befriended adults until high school.

In 8th grade, I was given another test (this time, with everyone else in the grade) and was told if my score was high enough, I could test out of the last year of middle school, and forego public high school, instead being placed into one of the three elite high schools in New York City: Stuyvesant High, Bronx HS of Science, or Brooklyn Tech.

I wanted to go to Performing Arts High School. I wanted to be like the kids on the “Fame” tv show, and break out into song and dance in the hallways on the way to my next class, and jump off cafeteria tables into elaborate dance numbers with the other kids.

My mother said, “no way”.

So, I took the test, and was hoping for Stuyvesant, because a) that year it was the top school of the three, and b) it was the only one in Manhattan, and I hadn’t ever been outside of Manhattan to go to school.

I got accepted into Bronx Science.

Thus began a new experience. An experience of being completely in the minority. As a highly academic science and math high school, most of the student body was of Asian descent. Also, I was definitely not a popular kid: I didn’t join any clubs, even though the chess club was just as prestigious as the drama club – and I was too shy for either. I floated around my first year in a nebulae of nothingness. I took the bus from my apartment to school and back, and was either ignored by the cool kids, or badgered by the bullies.

I found my “tribe” my sophomore year, with a group of boys (and their girlfriends), who called themselves (unofficially) “The Scoundrels”. They weren’t any specific stereotype: they weren’t goth, nor stoners (well, maybe a bit), they were definitely not jocks, nor were they overly cerebral. Just a bunch of teens that, for whatever reason, would have me. Sort of.

In those years, I felt like more of the mascot, than a group member. I didn’t date any of them, but I also wasn’t cool enough to be one of the ring leaders. I was just a hanger-on. But it was somewhere to fit, even it it felt false and sad.

I remember when we took the SATs. I had the biggest anxiety attack the night before. My mother took pity on me, and gave me 10mg of Valium. Didn’t work. I was groggy and exhausted at the testing. And when the test scores were released, I was called to the Guidance Counselors office to discuss my score. I had the third lowest score in my grade. How would I make anything of myself? What could I possibly hope to accomplish with that terrible grade.

I got a 1400 out of 1600.

Fast-forward to college. I won’t get into the details here (I’ll save that for another post) but it was the act of stumbling into the theater department that finally made me feel like I belonged. Because the theater was a group of smart kids who didn’t fit anywhere else. Kids that could wax philosophical, and also enjoy walking around in paper mache clothing. And I blossomed.

Going from school to a career was another speed bump: I didn’t feel talented enough to make a go of acting as a profession. There were surely thousands of people more talented than me. Certainly ones who could get the the truth of the character better than me, and without over-intellectualizing the process (see elementary school “experiment” above). So, I decided to enter the regular work force. But I had no training, no classes, and no idea what I could do.

Again, I’ll save it for another post, but I managed to stumble blindly into marketing, and again, that seemed a good fit. A great combination of analytical thinking and creativity to satisfy both sides of the brain. But now, I have no education, nor experience to compete with people my age in the field. By the time I figured it out, I am in my late 20’s, and my contemporaries were mid-level managers. So, I started on the bottom, and did a lot of “fake it ’til I make it”.

Which leads us, dear readers, to where I am today. And to the beginning of this post.

For the past 26 years, I have worked in many many companies, doing many many marketing endeavors. I have grown and learned and specialized and moved up in terms of responsibilities. And, when I felt there was no way to grown in a position, I would go somewhere else, get a raise from the change of company, and continue to learn and grow. Rinse and repeat.

The consequence is this: I have never, ever been promoted. I’ve had salary increases, for sure. But I have no skills on how to advance your career within an organization. I honestly have no clue. When I wanted to change my “career trajectory” I just got another job at another company. And while I definitely feel that I am smarter than many people in my profession on certain aspects of my job, I am completely illiterate on the basic acts of socialization, and development. And I have no formal education on even the very basics of marketing as a foundation. An impostor, if you will.

So, I ask you: what am I doing? Where am I going? How do I impact my company, my field, humanity, when I am walking around stuck in the middle, with no destination that feels like solid ground? With no route to the endpoint, or even an idea of what the endpoint should be?

And, does it even matter? Does the nihilistic part of me believe that none of this has any true purpose, or meaning, in the end?

“We all change, when you think about it. We’re all different people all through our lives. And that’s OK, that’s good, you gotta keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be.”

The Doctor

Sunday morning started as it does every week: I wake up, let the dog out, meditate, boil water, and start arranging my tea tray. Tea pot and cup, honey, scoop of Earl Grey into the pot, spoon. I come downstairs and set up my first cup of tea, dipping the tip of the spoon into the honey, then into the dark and aromatic brew, stirring and smiling. I bring the cup to my lips and inhale the bergamot fragrance and sigh. Then, at 9am, I turn on CBS Sunday morning.

Here’s the interesting part: within this scenario lies a ritual wrapped in a routine. So, what is the difference between ritual and routine?

I believe that routines are those actions we do out of a sense of need. Brushing our teeth, going to work, washing the dishes we do with an absence of emotional investment. We do these things because we have either been told they are necessary, or because we know they will be beneficial to our well-being. But we are mentally unattached.

Rituals are actions we do mindfully, and with a sense of presence. They are things that give us joy. That we do because it is an expression of love: love for ourselves, for others. They are the things that carry a sense of peace in us throughout the day

What I have learned, though, is that many of my routines can be transformed into rituals, simply with intention and presence. For example. I couldn’t specifically say that letting my dog out is a ritual. It is done with a sense of need. But, what if you stop for a moment and consider it from the perspective of my dog. She is so excited to be let out. Aside from fulfilling bodily functions, she is able to explore the sights and smells of her domain – who has been in her territory, what the temperature is, and a myriad of other actions. This excursion gives my dog immense pleasure. I know this, because I’ve seen her, rolling around in the grass, on her back, laughing (yes, my dog laughs). I’ve seen her sit on the steps and squint her eyes and lift her nose to the sky, sniffing, seemingly with a sense of serenity.

By taking a moment to be present, and to watch her interactions due to my action, it’s very easy to get pleasure from my simple act of opening a slider. And that creates a ritual.

I’m not saying every moment of the day must be a ritual. Brushing my teeth is still a routine. But how lovely to think that, simply by being present, the act of brushing my teeth, by knowing that this action is improving my health, by considering all the people who make that action possible (the people who manufacture my toothbrush, the person who packed it, the driver who brought it to the store, the delivery man who left the package at my doorstep) this routine, in some ways, makes me grateful for all the people who were part of maintaining my health. A moment to be grateful for others, for something as mundane as my toothbrush.

Finding these moments of presence and gratitude have the ability to not only improve my mood, but make a world that seems so scattered and isolated, a little more intimate and in harmony.

Now go brush your teeth!

The 1979 movie adaptation of the musical “Hair” may be, in my opinion, one of the most profound and amazing movies ever made. It has left a lasting impression on me, and never fails to trigger joy and heartbreak every time I see it or hear songs from it.

I was ten years old when this movie came out. My mother took me to see this “grown up” movie when it played in the theaters, because we would go see Broadway shows, and this was an opportunity to see one that was no longer playing.

I don’t think my mother had any clue how much this movie would affect me emotionally for the rest of my life.

First, it was a chance to see “movie stars” playing hippies, and SINGING! I always thought broadway actors were one thing, movie stars another, and never the twain shall meet.

Second, it was my first movie star crush. I was hugely, crazily, devastatingly gobsmacked by Treat Williams. He was everything: a leader, a rebel, and a poet. AND THAT HAIR! Oh, and Hello bare tushy! (Remember, I was ten). Treat would quickly be replaced by Sting later that year with the release of Outlandos d’Amour, but for a few solid months, Treat was my entire world.

Thirdly, this was a story about love and freedom, but also about war and racism and conflict and poverty. These were big concepts for a ten year old to grasp.

Fourth, other than Disney movies, which loved to rip children’s hearts out in the first 20 minutes of every movie, this was the first movie to make me cry over and over again. The first big cry was when Cheryl Barnes sang “Easy to Be Hard” in the park, with her little boy looking after his Daddy, Lafayette, while his mom pours her heart at in song. And, towards the end, when the little boy gazes up concerned at his mother. Movie legend has it that when Barnes came to audition for the role, she sang, and a hush of awe fell on the casting team.

Also, NELL CARTER. Hello?! She opened her mouth and my jaw dropped. She just amazed me with her pipes with her diminutive stature. I remember later, when the TV show “Gimme a Break” aired, I couldn’t wait to watch her, and kept hoping she would sing again. And I smiled while I cried every time she did sing.

But the big sob for me was the end, with “Flesh Failures” and the noble and brave Berger stepping in as Claude, so the lovers could have one last day together. Inevitably, his unit is called to war, and Claude cannot get back in time to switch back, leaving the untrained, anti-war, beautiful hero of our story, (who, by the way, at any time could/should have revealed he was not who he was), bravely stayed in character, and walked the long and devastating march from into the air carrier, and, ultimately, his death. (gasp)

Fun Fact: During the closing number “Flesh Failures”, when Berger sings the third verse, background singers are singing lines from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. “Eyes, Look your Last, Arms take your last embrace” and “The lips, oh you the doors, of breath, sealed with a righteous kiss” are all from Romeo’s final monologue. It’s followed by “The rest is silence,” the last line in Hamlet.

As if that isn’t enough of a devastation, the next cut is a dolly shot of the gang looking at a sea of gravestones, huddled together. Cut to a close up of one gravestone, where we see George Berger’s name, birth and death date.

Imagine this whole scenario in the eyes of a ten-year-old, seeing a grown up movie for the first time. I openly wept in the theater, and no amount of coddling would console me. He died, all because he was protecting his friend, for love.

Then imagine my heart soaring to thousands and thousands of people singing “Let The Sunshine In”, peacefully protesting the war, all in sublime solidarity. Again, I sobbed, but this time with hope.

This movie has stayed with me. It has created an imprint on me; so much so, that every time I see a production of the musical, I instantly have an almost Pavlovian reaction to the bass guitar beats of “Flesh Failures” and pop with sobs. And yet, this show is so dear to me, and so precious, because it opened my eyes to “big girl” issues, and showed me a universe I was sheltered from until that day.

It is a story that is full of anger, and sadness and hope. Some say it’s dated. I say it’s timely. And, while many of the songs would be hugely controversial in today’s climate, I think the message is still relevant: people taking sides, people not being treated fairly, government insertion into cultural and human issues.

It’s also a testament to the power of the arts; in how it presents these issues, in how it makes people think and feel, and how we ultimately act upon those thoughts and feelings.

It is, quite simply, a masterpiece.

Don’t believe me, watch and weep. I will, again.

(yep, still crying)

I recently had a conversation with a few of my friends, and we realized that we all had something in common that we previously didn’t know of: we all felt that music was one of the most important facets of ours lives; in its power to lift our mood, create a sense of focus or purpose, and to connect us to other humans.

Our parents, even before we were born, shared music by humming or singing to us, in-utero. At birth, babies are constantly having songs wallpaper their existence. As children, cartoons had a soundtrack that would seep into our subconscious, and, for some (like me) influence their genre preferences for a lifetime.

I’ve always had a personal connection to music, as do most humans. I seem to have had an internal soundtrack to my life, some of which I wrote about in a previous post. But music is so much more that background noise. It also has the power to influence moods.

One of my friends told me that, when she was feeling a bit down, she will pop on whatever soundtrack has become her current favorite, face a bank of windows in her house, and dance literally like no one is watching. Except, that is, for herself. She enjoys watching herself in the reflection of the windows, or in the mirrors in the furniture across the room. I find that image lovely, and also relatable.

With the quarantine going into its fourth month, there is very little opportunity for cardiovascular activity, and I am feeling the pounds (and age) creep on. And, while I have made great strides in establishing a daily meditation and chair yoga practice, I also believe it is important to get the heart pumping as well. So, I have been trying to maintain a certain number of steps every day, simply by going up and down my stairs in my house, and literally pacing in my office. But what’s so heart-pumping about that?

So, I started adding a few high intensity “dance sessions” by asking Alexa to play certain joyful songs, such as Bobby McFerrin’s cover of the Beatles song “From Me To You”, and do an old lady shuffle dance around the room, swing my arms and singing. (A full playlist of these “shuffle songs” can be found at the bottom of this post.)

Another friend told me about how he has carefully crafted a playlist for his daily bike rides, which provide both escape and motivation to continue just a little bit longer. I use to do something similar on my bike rides (although my playlist was much more serene that his choices) and a completely different one for swimming laps in the pool at the gym (which, sadly, is still closed).

In all cases, it’s amazing how just the act of listening to a song can not only lighten your mood, but physically feel better.

Music is also a great human connection. I remember attending a Sting concert with some friends, and at one point, the entire venue was on their feet, clapping and swaying and singing and smiling. I remember feeling my heart so full, and, looking around, understanding that I was part of a collective experience of love and happiness and, connection with thousands of other people, and how one person and his music was able to create that connection.

And, in a time when we all are still so physically far apart, and with so much illness still looming in our lives, how marvelous to have a gift of music to connect us, but also to heal our psyches.

Quarantine Dance Playlist:

• From Me To You – Bobby McFerrin
• Shake and Fingerpop – Junoir Walker and the All Stars
• Boom Boom Pow– Black Eyed Peas
• Imposteur– Cirque du Soleil
• Should I Stay or Should I Go– The Clash
• Death By Blonde – Devotchka
• September – Earth, Wind and Fire
• Mr. Blue Sky – ELO
• This Ain’t a Scene It’s An Arms Race – Fall Out Boy
• Low – Flo Rida
• Start Wearing Purple – Gorgol Bordello
• No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature – The Guess Who
• Run To The Hills – Iron Maiden
• Uptown Funk – Bruno Mars
• La Gallina – Ozomatli
• Donde Estas Yolanda – Pink Martini
• So Lonely – The Police
• Give It Away – Red Hot Chili Peppers
• Don’t Stop Me Now – Queen
• Feeling Good – Michael Buble

If you have been following this blog, you know that, for the past few years, I have felt myself slowly shifting. In an attempt to honor this shift, while not fully understanding it, I’ve made tiny micro-changes to my daily rituals, changes that feel right, while not feeling overwhelming.

It started with meditation. I have been on-again, off-again meditating for over a decade. I got interested in it when, on a whim, I signed up for a 21-day meditation challenge with The Chopra Center over a decade ago. The Dean of Meditation, at the time, was a man named davidji. His voice and manner were so inviting that I was hooked. (Note: he has since parted ways with the Center and started his own gig- link on his name).

And then, without the accountability of a daily email as a prod, I strayed from a daily practice. I found and lost it again over the years (a future blog post?) and then decided, with this “shifting” that this could be a manageable daily practice, as long as I didn’t come out of the gate with an intention of meditating for an hour a day. So, I set a goal of ten minutes a day, as soon as I wake up (and had let the dog out).

That’s it.

Because what, really, is ten minutes a day? It is nothing in the grand scheme of things. But would ten minutes be effective? Would I feel any benefit?

You bet.

Ten minutes of meditation at the beginning of the day, EVERY DAY (with a few- 4 – exceptions) in six months, has completely shaped how I face the day. How I face every day. It’s an opportunity to say, “This is a new day. Yesterday is done, tomorrow hasn’t yet come. Today is what’s in front of me. How will I face this day?”

And, do you know something?

Ten minutes of meditation, every day, first thing in the morning has, quite organically, and without force, turned into more than one ten-minute meditation a day, on some days. Some days, it’s an additional 15, 30 or even an hour. And not sitting cross-legged on a mat (I would consider it a miracle to be able to get into that position any more). And not always sitting. Sometimes walking, sometimes, lying down. It’s creeped into multiple places in my day.

And I feel calmer. I feel more focused. I feel less wound up.

And then, I thought, one manageable ritual deserved another. How about yoga?

YOGA?!!!!

Now, if you know me, you know I have very, very bad arthritis in my knee. So bad, sometimes, that I need injections. So bad, sometimes, that my body started to freeze and become rigid.

So, yeah, yoga,

But, again, I’m not getting down on the floor and bending into a pretzel. But, I had heard about chair yoga, and of course, thought it was for very very old and sick people. But, I did my research, tried out a bunch of yogis on YouTube, and came to find a woman by the name of Sarah Starr, who had lots of little 10-15 minute chair yoga videos.

I can do 10 minutes, right? In fact, let’s make that the next ritual. After meditation (and feeding the dog), but before the first cup of tea in the morning. Just 10 minutes.

So, I started. And 10 minutes became 15, and then 20, and, as of this writing, 30 minutes. A day.

EVERY DAY.

That’s right.

Here’s the truth. I didn’t intend to do it every day. At most, every other day. But, what I found was, when I skip chair yoga in the morning, by midday I become stiff and distracted. If I do it every morning, whether I want to or not, I never regret it. I’m less sleepy mid-afternoon.

So, two new rituals. Should be enough, right?

Nope.

The next challenge to myself was: well, yoga and meditation are fine, but I sit for eight hours a day in a chair. At best, I can get 2,000 steps in per day. What if I try to increase that a little, to say, 200 steps? So, again, I did my research, and found an app that works with my Apple watch, which encourages you to meet a certain step goal by the end of the day. If you don’t make the goal, it keeps the same goal for the next day. But, if you do meet that goal, it adds a few hundred steps to the next day.

OK. I’ll bite. Not a lot of places to walk near me, but I can pace around my office, which sits in 600 sq feet of space.

So, I start: 2,000 steps by the end of the day:

First day, I beat the goal by 352 steps.
The next day over by 200.
200 more the next day. (Now I want to get to 1/2 of the goal by noon.)
170 extra the next.
1000 over the next. (surely I can get to the whole step goal by 3pm)

This morning, I wanted to get a jump start on my steps. So, donning my face mask and earbuds. I decided to walk to the end of my street and back. I had no idea what the distance would be, but it couldn’t be too bad.

2,118 steps in 15 minutes. Just under a mile.

And the weird thing is: the more I move, the more I want to get up from my desk chair and move. Me! The piece of veal that could barely move 2,000 steps a day.

Is 5,000 steps/day a lot? Not by a long shot. But, increasing in increments of 200-300 steps a day, in a month I could be at 10,000 steps/day. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that is the recommended steps from some propaganda machine. That’s 5 miles/day.

I’m not racing. I’m not even walking determinedly. I’m walking in such a way so my knee doesn’t complain. And that’s enough for me.

Meditation, yoga, walking. Three rituals I actually enjoy. And hopefully will continue.

And, I predict, more rituals will be added to my day. The important bit is these were manageable – both in terms of time commitment, and in terms of level of difficulty. I’ve heard so many people say you need to push your body. Maybe they do. I find I need to nuzzle and cajole my body. I need to lull it into a sense of seemingly imperceptible shifts that, over time, amount to quite significant changes and, more importantly, benefits to my mind and body.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still fat. I still eat like crap. For now.

Maybe future shifts will address those parts of my ritual. I feel it coming. But, until I figure out how to do it manageably, it’s not a challenge for today.

I thought, once I had my “video legs” beneath me on this gratitude series, I would avoid an ugly cry on video.

Not my luck.

For some of us, we are lucky enough to have a person come into our lives who would, literally, give the shirt off his back. In this case, this guy have given me kindness, and security, and assurance, time after time. He is a true superhero, in my eyes, without benefit of cape. And, even though we rarely see each other, I always feel his energy, and his presence. I give you: Dan Sulger.

Do you have someone you would like to express your gratitude to? Send me a message, and let’s talk!