I've been reading "A New Earth" by Eckhart Tolle and though I read parts of it before, once again, when I am ready, I get the lessons I need to learn. Pema Chodron's book "The Wisdom of No Escape" sat on my shelf for years before I was ready to read it.
This morning I read this paragraph: "Don't seek happiness. If you seek it, you won't find it, because seeking is the antithesis of happiness. Happiness is ever elusive, but freedom from unhappiness is attainable now, by facing what is rather than making up stories about it. Unhappiness covers up your natural state of well-being and inner peace, the source of true happiness."
This past week I have been at the hospital with a dear friend, Emily. I have written about spending time with her and her husband, Len, in the country for years. She is truly one of the most generous and supportive friends I've ever known. Emily is in the ICU at Mt. Sinai Hospital and they don't know what is wrong with her. She's on a breathing tube and for a few days we thought she had no chance, but yesterday, she seemed to be a bit better. The outpouring of concern has been amazing. I don't know if Emily knows how deeply she is loved by so many people all over the world.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Permission to Speak - HUFF POST
A few weeks ago I went to two memorial services within two days of
each other. One was for a remarkable man, my friend Lisa's dad, Michael
Dontzen, who lived to 89 and accomplished more in his lifetime than just
about anyone I've ever met. He was a New York State Supreme Court
judge, an aide to Mayor John Lindsay, a lawyer, a brilliant man with so
much passion for justice, that on his deathbed, just a short time before
he passed away, he married a gay couple. This was his last
"professional" duty and he was determined to accomplish that despite the
fact that he could barely speak.
The second memorial was heartbreaking. It was for a woman named Chris Twomey. She was an artist and a mother of three. Her art and motherhood were intertwined and she was passionate about both. She had breast cancer, which spread throughout her body and after a long, heroic struggle, she finally died, at age 58.
There weren't many people who were as determined to live as Chris. She loved life, she loved making art and she maintained a sense of humor throughout the years of treatments and tremendous pain.
I met Chris at Friends In Deed, a pragmatic, spiritual counseling center in Soho, New York. I have written about it before. FID saved my life when my life was completely falling apart. One of the gifts of Friends was that it put me right smack into a community that understood suffering, so that I was able to feel less alone.
In her eulogy for Chris, the founder of Friends In Deed, Cy O'Neal, spoke about Chris's courage. I just happened to be near the front desk the day that Chris first arrived at FID, announcing "I have breast cancer" as if she were saying "I just arrived from Paris." I sat in big groups with Chris for well over a year, and as Cy said, "She always raised her hand, early in the meeting. She shared whatever was going on with her, which generally included the work she was doing and some difficult aspect of her treatment. She always had a strong spirit and a rich sense of humor and after she spoke, it seemed that she gave everyone else permission to tell whatever they were going through."
Like a lot of people, weathering the storm of Hurricane Sandy meant keeping close to our battery-operated radios. (Actually, I had a crank radio too, the kind you wind up if you don't have batteries, but it just made me cranky. If I had to only use that, my arm would have fallen off by day two, and my only news would be spastic, like "flood waters reaching... evacuated and you should seek....") People were calling in all day with the stories of what was happening, good and bad, giving each other comfort and advice. The radio gave us permission to speak and a means to reach out to one another when we would have been going it alone otherwise.
During those five days of sitting in candlelight and mostly silence, I began to think about community. My neighbors in our building in Soho supported each other emotionally -- one neighbor, Martin, was staying uptown with his girlfriend, but each day he came back to the building and dropped off bags of food for his neighbors, fresh fruit, bagels, peanut butter, The New York Times. On Halloween, our next door neighbor, Louise, came over and gave us Tarot card readings by candlelight.
My upstairs neighbor, Barbara, was sitting shiva (a week long mourning period) for her dad, who passed away a few days before the Hurricane. The first few days there were dozens of people who came to pay their respects, but once the hurricane hit, it was harder for family and friends to get there, so my loftmate, Abigail, and I tried to come up as much as we could.
And then, on one of my uptown bike trips, when I had Internet access, I saw a posting on Facebook written by someone who had been helping out in Rockaway Beach. They were delivering blankets and supplies, cleaning out basements, doing all the heavy lifting that needed to be done. But I read this: "People need emotional support. They are suffering."
And I thought about the woman in Staten Island who lost both her young sons, because a neighbor wouldn't let her into his home, he was too afraid to open his door. I hope that she will give herself permission to speak of her profound loss, when the time is right, and with a caring group of people with her.
We often give lip service to the idea of "it takes a village" but in reality, we so rarely do come together to support each other. One of the reasons 12 Step programs are so effective is because they have learned the power of community. For most of history, family was our community, but now families are spread all over the place. Often people worked in organizations for their entire careers and felt a part of something. That is the exception now, it's rare that anyone stays longer than a few years with any job -- in fact, the "Millennials" don't even expect to stay past three years.
In the aftermath of so much devastation and what has been a divisive election -- and what will surely be many more hurricanes and tornadoes and devastation -- maybe we can try to solve both the physical challenges of dealing with floods and the emotional challenges of how to create a real sense of community so that we truly can "get by with a little help from our friends."
The second memorial was heartbreaking. It was for a woman named Chris Twomey. She was an artist and a mother of three. Her art and motherhood were intertwined and she was passionate about both. She had breast cancer, which spread throughout her body and after a long, heroic struggle, she finally died, at age 58.
There weren't many people who were as determined to live as Chris. She loved life, she loved making art and she maintained a sense of humor throughout the years of treatments and tremendous pain.
I met Chris at Friends In Deed, a pragmatic, spiritual counseling center in Soho, New York. I have written about it before. FID saved my life when my life was completely falling apart. One of the gifts of Friends was that it put me right smack into a community that understood suffering, so that I was able to feel less alone.
In her eulogy for Chris, the founder of Friends In Deed, Cy O'Neal, spoke about Chris's courage. I just happened to be near the front desk the day that Chris first arrived at FID, announcing "I have breast cancer" as if she were saying "I just arrived from Paris." I sat in big groups with Chris for well over a year, and as Cy said, "She always raised her hand, early in the meeting. She shared whatever was going on with her, which generally included the work she was doing and some difficult aspect of her treatment. She always had a strong spirit and a rich sense of humor and after she spoke, it seemed that she gave everyone else permission to tell whatever they were going through."
Like a lot of people, weathering the storm of Hurricane Sandy meant keeping close to our battery-operated radios. (Actually, I had a crank radio too, the kind you wind up if you don't have batteries, but it just made me cranky. If I had to only use that, my arm would have fallen off by day two, and my only news would be spastic, like "flood waters reaching... evacuated and you should seek....") People were calling in all day with the stories of what was happening, good and bad, giving each other comfort and advice. The radio gave us permission to speak and a means to reach out to one another when we would have been going it alone otherwise.
During those five days of sitting in candlelight and mostly silence, I began to think about community. My neighbors in our building in Soho supported each other emotionally -- one neighbor, Martin, was staying uptown with his girlfriend, but each day he came back to the building and dropped off bags of food for his neighbors, fresh fruit, bagels, peanut butter, The New York Times. On Halloween, our next door neighbor, Louise, came over and gave us Tarot card readings by candlelight.
My upstairs neighbor, Barbara, was sitting shiva (a week long mourning period) for her dad, who passed away a few days before the Hurricane. The first few days there were dozens of people who came to pay their respects, but once the hurricane hit, it was harder for family and friends to get there, so my loftmate, Abigail, and I tried to come up as much as we could.
And then, on one of my uptown bike trips, when I had Internet access, I saw a posting on Facebook written by someone who had been helping out in Rockaway Beach. They were delivering blankets and supplies, cleaning out basements, doing all the heavy lifting that needed to be done. But I read this: "People need emotional support. They are suffering."
And I thought about the woman in Staten Island who lost both her young sons, because a neighbor wouldn't let her into his home, he was too afraid to open his door. I hope that she will give herself permission to speak of her profound loss, when the time is right, and with a caring group of people with her.
We often give lip service to the idea of "it takes a village" but in reality, we so rarely do come together to support each other. One of the reasons 12 Step programs are so effective is because they have learned the power of community. For most of history, family was our community, but now families are spread all over the place. Often people worked in organizations for their entire careers and felt a part of something. That is the exception now, it's rare that anyone stays longer than a few years with any job -- in fact, the "Millennials" don't even expect to stay past three years.
In the aftermath of so much devastation and what has been a divisive election -- and what will surely be many more hurricanes and tornadoes and devastation -- maybe we can try to solve both the physical challenges of dealing with floods and the emotional challenges of how to create a real sense of community so that we truly can "get by with a little help from our friends."
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The play is the thing
...that is terrifying me. It really seems to be happening. It's called "Scrambled Eggs" - and it's about a woman's journey from childhood, dating, marriage, kid, career, hot flashes, you name it.
So for anyone who's ever dreamt of getting your work out into the world and having a play or being on Huffington Post, or doing public speaking (which is what I am working on next) -- it's scary. IT REALLY IS.
But I just have to take it a day at a time and have faith that it will be fine.
Years ago, when I lived in Los Angeles, I had meetings with studio executives in huge, fancy offices on studio lots and they were effusive about my writing, "You're like a female Barry Levinson, or Woody..." And that terrified me. I didn't want that kind of pressure, so I bailed. I got married and moved back to NYC and had a baby and quietly did my writing and didn't try all that hard. I tried, but being a woman, and being out of LA makes it very difficult.
I wouldn't change a thing, it is all perfect.
I went through hell for a few years, it was one of the most intense and elevated periods of my life - divorce, death (my mother's) and now I can write about it all and watch the play get produced next spring and hopefully inspire other women (and men) to not give up on their dreams. It may not happen in the time you imagine it will, or the way that you imagine, but it can still happen.
Last month, one of my Huff Post blogs landed on the mainpage of AOL. I even heard from my divorce attorney! I heard from people I haven't heard from in years. This is such an adventure and as scary as it feels sometimes, it is exciting and fun - kind of like a roller coaster. Oh, wait, I hate roller coasters.
You can follow this journey, I will post updates and info along the way.
So for anyone who's ever dreamt of getting your work out into the world and having a play or being on Huffington Post, or doing public speaking (which is what I am working on next) -- it's scary. IT REALLY IS.
But I just have to take it a day at a time and have faith that it will be fine.
Years ago, when I lived in Los Angeles, I had meetings with studio executives in huge, fancy offices on studio lots and they were effusive about my writing, "You're like a female Barry Levinson, or Woody..." And that terrified me. I didn't want that kind of pressure, so I bailed. I got married and moved back to NYC and had a baby and quietly did my writing and didn't try all that hard. I tried, but being a woman, and being out of LA makes it very difficult.
I wouldn't change a thing, it is all perfect.
I went through hell for a few years, it was one of the most intense and elevated periods of my life - divorce, death (my mother's) and now I can write about it all and watch the play get produced next spring and hopefully inspire other women (and men) to not give up on their dreams. It may not happen in the time you imagine it will, or the way that you imagine, but it can still happen.
Last month, one of my Huff Post blogs landed on the mainpage of AOL. I even heard from my divorce attorney! I heard from people I haven't heard from in years. This is such an adventure and as scary as it feels sometimes, it is exciting and fun - kind of like a roller coaster. Oh, wait, I hate roller coasters.
You can follow this journey, I will post updates and info along the way.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Tracks of My Tears - Latest Huff Post
Cry baby... It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to... Big girls
don't cry... Tears of a clown... Don't cry for me Argentina.... Crying
over you...
There are so many songs about crying and tears. Country western music has broken hearts by the pickup truck-full. From the laid-flat classic, "I've got tears in my ears from lying on my back in my bed while I cry over you," to the GPS-specific, "Billy broke my heart at Walgreens and I cried all the way to Sears," nothing beats country music for getting it all out there.
But I'm no country western gal. I'm a fairly tough New Yorker -- tears were never high on my profile. Not since my father would send me to my room -- "I can't talk to you when you're crying. Come back when you've stopped" -- and I learned to put a plug in it. My friend Karen told me her mother admonished with the ever popular: "Stop crying or I'll really give you something to cry about." The message was loud and clear: no whimpering.
Even PMS couldn't bring me to tears. I was suicidal, homicidal, many -cidals, but I never cried. On rare occasions, like watching a sad movie or listening to a sad song, they might leak down my cheeks, but not for long. I'd convinced myself I'd never be a weepy person.
If there was a crisis, it was Robin to the rescue, Robin in charge. No tears -- no time, too much to do -- just the facts, decisions, action.
We all know people who fall apart if they lose their favorite pen -- those are the drama queens and kings, who seem to always be in tears about something. Then there are others who are barely affected by the death of a parent. Let's put these groups aside and focus on the rest of us -- the majority of us who, while not emotionally dead, prefer to keep emotions in check, particularly when it comes to sadness.
I lost a lot a few years ago: my marriage, my job, my mother, my daughter moved 3,000 miles away, I had to move, and then I lost my beloved dog, Lola. I've written about it. I was sitting alone in my apartment, minus everyone -- and I started to cry.
Then I couldn't stop. The floodgates opened. And I didn't care.
For many years, on those rare occasions when I cried, I'd get a headache. But when the grief is so intense, the tears wash over and seem to take out all the toxins and pain; at least that's my non-scientific analysis. I felt lighter. No one loves the sound of a baby crying, but once they're done crying, they look so peaceful, so relieved -- or maybe that's the parents that are relieved, but it does seem to be a part of the natural order of things.
So often in caregiving/grief groups I've attended (where my crying looked more like bawling), I've heard many people share, "I don't want to cry" or "I'm afraid to cry." I've also heard, "I don't feel like crying," which is perfectly appropriate, but my experience with crying has led me to love it. When I was younger, if someone cried in my presence I felt awkward. Now I sit with them and just try to be there in the privilege of that moment.
I spent years in therapy NOT crying, talking about antidepressants and wanting whatever new one I'd heard of. "Don't you think I should try Wellbutrin? What about Celexa? That sounds good." My therapist would say, "Okay, if you want to. But I don't think you really need to." Eventually I tried an antidepressant for a year or so, and it helped, but I gained weight, and I couldn't feel much of anything, and I had no sex drive, so I went off the medication and continued to search for a newer, better drug.
I don't think I ever used more than a few tissues in many, many years in my therapist's office.
And then, my life fell apart and I used all the tissues. I sobbed through entire deluges, while my lovely therapist, Mike, nodded and smiled. "This is great, Robin, this is really good."
What?
"This is probably going to turn out to be one of the best periods of your life."
Are you crazy? I'm drowning! I can't stop!
Eventually the river flowed to a stream. Slowly the tears trickled to a stop.
And in their place came:
Relief.
Gratitude.
Aliveness.
Joy.
And most of all: empathy... compassion... for everyone in the world who is suffering. Everyone. I want to go to the Congo and stop the fighting and the rape. I want to go to the Middle East and get people to talk about their anger and their sorrow. I want people to wail their pain and share it and not worry about how they look. I want people to listen to each other instead of screaming and fighting.
In other cultures people weep together -- they believe in the power of a good cry. Why aren't more of us angry about the state of this country and the world? I don't know. I think maybe we're all trying not to feel.
Tears on my pillow... tears in heaven.
Cry me a river. Let it wash me clean.
There are so many songs about crying and tears. Country western music has broken hearts by the pickup truck-full. From the laid-flat classic, "I've got tears in my ears from lying on my back in my bed while I cry over you," to the GPS-specific, "Billy broke my heart at Walgreens and I cried all the way to Sears," nothing beats country music for getting it all out there.
But I'm no country western gal. I'm a fairly tough New Yorker -- tears were never high on my profile. Not since my father would send me to my room -- "I can't talk to you when you're crying. Come back when you've stopped" -- and I learned to put a plug in it. My friend Karen told me her mother admonished with the ever popular: "Stop crying or I'll really give you something to cry about." The message was loud and clear: no whimpering.
Even PMS couldn't bring me to tears. I was suicidal, homicidal, many -cidals, but I never cried. On rare occasions, like watching a sad movie or listening to a sad song, they might leak down my cheeks, but not for long. I'd convinced myself I'd never be a weepy person.
If there was a crisis, it was Robin to the rescue, Robin in charge. No tears -- no time, too much to do -- just the facts, decisions, action.
We all know people who fall apart if they lose their favorite pen -- those are the drama queens and kings, who seem to always be in tears about something. Then there are others who are barely affected by the death of a parent. Let's put these groups aside and focus on the rest of us -- the majority of us who, while not emotionally dead, prefer to keep emotions in check, particularly when it comes to sadness.
I lost a lot a few years ago: my marriage, my job, my mother, my daughter moved 3,000 miles away, I had to move, and then I lost my beloved dog, Lola. I've written about it. I was sitting alone in my apartment, minus everyone -- and I started to cry.
Then I couldn't stop. The floodgates opened. And I didn't care.
For many years, on those rare occasions when I cried, I'd get a headache. But when the grief is so intense, the tears wash over and seem to take out all the toxins and pain; at least that's my non-scientific analysis. I felt lighter. No one loves the sound of a baby crying, but once they're done crying, they look so peaceful, so relieved -- or maybe that's the parents that are relieved, but it does seem to be a part of the natural order of things.
So often in caregiving/grief groups I've attended (where my crying looked more like bawling), I've heard many people share, "I don't want to cry" or "I'm afraid to cry." I've also heard, "I don't feel like crying," which is perfectly appropriate, but my experience with crying has led me to love it. When I was younger, if someone cried in my presence I felt awkward. Now I sit with them and just try to be there in the privilege of that moment.
I spent years in therapy NOT crying, talking about antidepressants and wanting whatever new one I'd heard of. "Don't you think I should try Wellbutrin? What about Celexa? That sounds good." My therapist would say, "Okay, if you want to. But I don't think you really need to." Eventually I tried an antidepressant for a year or so, and it helped, but I gained weight, and I couldn't feel much of anything, and I had no sex drive, so I went off the medication and continued to search for a newer, better drug.
I don't think I ever used more than a few tissues in many, many years in my therapist's office.
And then, my life fell apart and I used all the tissues. I sobbed through entire deluges, while my lovely therapist, Mike, nodded and smiled. "This is great, Robin, this is really good."
What?
"This is probably going to turn out to be one of the best periods of your life."
Are you crazy? I'm drowning! I can't stop!
Eventually the river flowed to a stream. Slowly the tears trickled to a stop.
And in their place came:
Relief.
Gratitude.
Aliveness.
Joy.
And most of all: empathy... compassion... for everyone in the world who is suffering. Everyone. I want to go to the Congo and stop the fighting and the rape. I want to go to the Middle East and get people to talk about their anger and their sorrow. I want people to wail their pain and share it and not worry about how they look. I want people to listen to each other instead of screaming and fighting.
In other cultures people weep together -- they believe in the power of a good cry. Why aren't more of us angry about the state of this country and the world? I don't know. I think maybe we're all trying not to feel.
Tears on my pillow... tears in heaven.
Cry me a river. Let it wash me clean.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Hurricane Sandy
Out of the Depths
It was the lowest point of my life. My 23 year marriage was over. We’d been
talking about it for a long time, but finally he was ready.
I wasn’t. I had
just lost my job.
My daughter, who was 21, decided that she wanted to move to
San Francisco. Three thousand
miles away.
I was thankful that my mother was still alive, having
survived two hospice stays she seemed indestructible. And then she died suddenly.
I never felt worse, or more terrified, or more alone.
One afternoon my cell phone rang. It was an area code I didn’t recognize and normally I would
have let it go to voice mail, but I picked it up.
It was a director, Matt Penn, calling to tell me that he
wanted to do a staged reading of a play I had written with Gary Richards, at
the Berkshire Playwrights Lab in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. And that the
reading would be happening in ten days. If I hadn't been so out of it, I would
have panicked, a big, ugly hyperventilating panic.
The play was to be performed on a Wednesday night and I took
the train up on the Sunday before. I waited at the station and watched as
everyone got picked up or drove away and soon I was all by myself. I tried to call the intern but got her
voice mail instead. I stood there
thinking, what the hell am I doing? It seemed just like my life—I thought I
knew where I was going and why, only to find myself stranded and alone.
Finally the intern called, apologetic. She had picked up the actors, but had
forgotten about me.
She came back and we drove to a little meeting house in the
woods outside of Great Barrington and I met Matt and the rest of the
actors. Everyone was incredibly
friendly and kind. Gary couldn’t come until the night of the reading because he
was teaching. I’d seen readings of this play, Scrambled Eggs (the sub-title is, in my mind is: “The Wisdom of
Insecurity”). It’s a comedy about
an everywoman – Karen – who is overwhelmed by life and she is loosely based on
me and parts of all my friends.
She’s married to Dave, who is not so much based on my ex, but a
fictionalized (funnier) version of him.
We see Karen at various stages of her life – struggling to figure out
how to do it all – and how to maintain her equilibrium.
We were all invited to Matt’s beautiful home for dinner that
night and I got to know the cast members.
At one point, Matt was barbecuing and he asked me to join him. He and two of the other directors of
the Lab were talking about the play and how much they loved it, but thought
that the ending needed some work.
Didn’t they know that I was essentially out of my mind and
couldn’t concentrate enough to write a grocery list, let alone a new ending??
I tried not to look like I was having a nervous breakdown
and when we got back to the inn, I took my cell phone out to the parking lot,
the only place I could get a signal, and I called Gary.
“Gary, they want a new ending!”
“Ah, don’t worry about it. Just write something funny…you can do it.”
“GARY, I don’t know what the f*#k to write!”
“What? I can’t
hear you…”
I lost the signal. Amy Van Nostrand, who was playing Karen,
saw me as I re-entered the inn and offered to go over the script.
YES. Yes! We
went up to my room and read almost the entire play aloud and we bonded when we
discovered we were both getting divorced.
We talked about the ending and we had some good ideas. The next day I raced to type it up as
the actors went into rehearsal. I
ran over at the lunch break and showed Matt what I had. He laughed and said,
“close, but not quite.”
NOT QUITE???
So I kept writing and running over and finally by the end of
the day he was satisfied. Then I
had to race back to Manhattan for a tech rehearsal of a solo show I was
performing at the Midtown International Theater Festival. Nothing to do that entire summer except that one week I had the reading and three performances of a
solo show. In one week. And I
could barely get out of bed and brush my teeth.
I went back to Great Barrington Wednesday afternoon in time
for a run-through and then Gary arrived right before the show. At every other reading of my work, I’d
generally felt the need to be sedated, but this time I felt pretty calm. I didn’t know a soul in the audience. Maybe no one would show up?
The Mahaiwe is an incredibly beautiful theater that opened
in 1905 and was newly renovated.
Gary and I sat up in the balcony and watched as the theater filled
up. We didn’t know this at the
time, but Matt had done a local NPR interview about the play and said, “this
play is headed to New York.” So
the theater was packed, there were at least 450 people. We could watch people laughing
hysterically, slapping their knees
and elbowing the person next to them.
I started to laugh and I laughed for ninety minutes and watched the
actors bring the play to life and the audience eat it up.
At the end of the reading, I felt something I had forgotten
was possible. I felt happy. I
could breathe… for the first time in months. I could feel the power of laughter, to bring you out of
despair and to make you feel alive again.
I also realized that I if I truly
had a purpose, making people laugh is not such a bad purpose to have in life.
Three and a half years later…life is so much better. Divorce didn’t kill me, it made me
stronger. Amy is stronger
too. And she will be starring in a
production of the play next April, at the Beckett Theater in New York City,
just as Matt predicted.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A little bit of muck
I was talking to a friend earlier, who was feeling down.
I was glad I called, it's good to be able to listen when someone is feeling blue. I suggested that she might want to go for a walk to feel better, as I was doing and then I remembered that the truth is, this is life and we aren't supposed to always feel great.
I'm sitting in the muck right now, feeling worried about the election, the economy, my own future, my daughter, my poor old dog, Lucy, who isn't doing all that well.
I am sitting in some sadness and worry and it's perfectly okay.
I saw a story on Rock Center about the Daily Show and how there are several dogs who come to work with their owners. They said it really helps everyone to cheer up when they can pet the dogs.
So here's my dog, Lucy, from several years ago, wearing a $6,000 sapphire, emerald and 24 carat gold necklace. She looks very royal, doesn't she? (The necklace does not belong to me!)
Please let President Obama do a good job at tonight's debate...please.
I saw a story on Rock Center about the Daily Show and how there are several dogs who come to work with their owners. They said it really helps everyone to cheer up when they can pet the dogs.
Please let President Obama do a good job at tonight's debate...please.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Falling Upward
I have been reading a new book called "Falling Upward" by Richard Rohr and essentially it's about, as the book jacket describes:
"In the first half of life, we are naturally and rightly preoccupied with establishing our identity -- climbing, achieving, and performing. But those concerns will not serve us as we grow older and begin to embark on a further journey. One that involves challenges, mistakes, loss of control, broader horizons, and necessary suffering that actually shocks us out of our prior comfort zone. Eventually, we need to see ourselves in a different and more life-giving way. This message of "falling down" -- that is in fact moving upward -- is the most resisted and counterintuitive of messages in the world's religions, including and most especially Christianity."If I've experienced anything in the past three years, it has been this. Reading the book affirms so much of what I've been learning. And though it may sound bad in some ways, actually it is good! It actually is great. The years of pain and sadness have given way to wanting to share in the deeper truths that I have been learning. This morning, in a chapter called "A Bright Sadness" from the book, I read this:
At this stage, I no longer have to prove that I or my group is the best, that my ethnicity is superior, that my religion is the only one God loves, or that my role and place in society deserve superior treatment. I am not preoccupied with collecting more goods and services, quite simply, my desire and effort -- every day -- is to pay back, to give back to the world a bit of what I have received. I now realize that I have been gratuitously given to -- from the universe, from society, and from God. I try now, as Elizabeth Seton said, 'to live simply so that others can simply live.'"This is a big shift in my consciousness because for so many years I craved "specialness" and recognition. And I wanted stuff. I bought "stuff" and though it brought me very little satisfaction or joy, I still wanted it. (This is not to say that I would turn down any presents that anyone wants to give me. Ever.) But "stuff" isn't a priority. I love being curious about life now. I love the life I'm living and much of the thanks go to all the spiritual teachers I've encountered along the way. It started with Mike Eigen (a therapist who writes a lot about spirituality) and continued with Pema Chodron, who I believe saved my life, and Eckhart Tolle, and Regena Thomashauer, and Friends In Deed, and then my dance teachers and too many others to name. I'm not quite sure where it's all leading, but it definitely feels like a move upward - and outward. It feels that it is about paying back and giving to the world a bit of what I've received.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Sitting with it
Lately, it seems as if I have heard of a number of friends and acquaintances who are dealing with some difficult situations. I think that the economy and the struggles that so many people are having financially, is often at the root of it, but it also goes much deeper. It is a struggle with aging parents, illness, young people searching for jobs, opportunities. A very difficult election.
I am at another crossroads and I'm not sure where it is leading, but if I've learned one thing in the past few years of studying Buddhism and spirituality it is to stay in this very moment. It's one of the hardest lessons, since we human beings are always looking towards the future and worrying about what is coming, rather than appreciating and staying in the present.
I went to help out a friend this morning who is about to give birth and is in a difficult situation with her new husband. I can only imagine how hard it is for her to stay in this moment, when in six weeks she will be giving birth to her baby and life will get even more challenging.
One of the greatest gifts we can give each other is to show up - so that was what I did. I listened and helped her unpack and just sat with her. And now I am sitting with my own anxieties, as I have many days over the last few years.
I love what I have been learning lately from August Gold, a spiritual teacher. She says: "Life is a conversation. We need to stop asking 'why is this happening to me' and start asking 'why is this happening for me?'"
In reading about the Kaballah it says: "This challenge is an indication that there is a great amount of Light to be revealed here! I may not understand how yet, but I can make the effort to see why this opportunity has been given to me. I can choose, instead of reacting or worry, to continue the development of my soul. I can choose to not allow negativity in, and as I do this more and more, I will grow my certainty in the Light.
Negativity has power over us only when we allow it to.
So my choice now is to put on my shoes and go for a walk and get out of my head and my apartment. And stay in this very moment, which is a rainy autumn afternoon, and be grateful for all the blessings in my life. Starting with the fact that my daughter lives in Brooklyn and last year on this day I was visiting her in San Francisco.
Enough sitting, it's time to move my feet.
I am at another crossroads and I'm not sure where it is leading, but if I've learned one thing in the past few years of studying Buddhism and spirituality it is to stay in this very moment. It's one of the hardest lessons, since we human beings are always looking towards the future and worrying about what is coming, rather than appreciating and staying in the present.
I went to help out a friend this morning who is about to give birth and is in a difficult situation with her new husband. I can only imagine how hard it is for her to stay in this moment, when in six weeks she will be giving birth to her baby and life will get even more challenging.
One of the greatest gifts we can give each other is to show up - so that was what I did. I listened and helped her unpack and just sat with her. And now I am sitting with my own anxieties, as I have many days over the last few years.
I love what I have been learning lately from August Gold, a spiritual teacher. She says: "Life is a conversation. We need to stop asking 'why is this happening to me' and start asking 'why is this happening for me?'"
In reading about the Kaballah it says: "This challenge is an indication that there is a great amount of Light to be revealed here! I may not understand how yet, but I can make the effort to see why this opportunity has been given to me. I can choose, instead of reacting or worry, to continue the development of my soul. I can choose to not allow negativity in, and as I do this more and more, I will grow my certainty in the Light.
Negativity has power over us only when we allow it to.
So my choice now is to put on my shoes and go for a walk and get out of my head and my apartment. And stay in this very moment, which is a rainy autumn afternoon, and be grateful for all the blessings in my life. Starting with the fact that my daughter lives in Brooklyn and last year on this day I was visiting her in San Francisco.
Enough sitting, it's time to move my feet.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Joy of Divorce
This piece came to me a few weeks ago and I held off sharing it for awhile. It's challenging to write about divorce when I know that there was very little joy in it for my daughter - but I do think that ultimately, it's been good for all of us.
Here is the link:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/robin-amos-kahn/the-joy-of-divorce_b_1831076.html
Here is the link:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/robin-amos-kahn/the-joy-of-divorce_b_1831076.html
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Two good Buddhist teachings
I just finished re-reading the Tao Te Ching (translation by Stephen Mitchell) and in reading the notes at the end, there were two good stories I wanted to share.
Honoring the Tao means respecting the way things are. There is a wonderful Japanese story (adapted here from Zenkei Shibayama Roshi's A Flower Does Not Talk) which portrays this attitude:
A hundred and fifty years ago there lived a woman named Sono, whose devotion and purity of heart were respected far and wide. One day a fellow Buddhist, having made a long trip to see her asked, "What can I do to put my heart at rest?" She said, "Every morning and every evening, and whenever anything happens to you, keep on saying, 'Thanks for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.'" The man did as he was instructed, for a whole year, but his heart was still not at peace. He returned to Sono, crestfallen. "I've said your prayer over and over, and yet nothing in my life has changed; I'm still the same selfish person as before. What should I do now? Sono immediately said, " 'Thanks for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.'" On hearing these words, the man was able to open his spiritual eye, and returned home with great joy.
And the second story:
A poor farmer's horse ran off into the country of the barbarians. All his neighbors offered their condolences, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't good fortune?" After a few months the horse returned with a barbarian horse of excellent stock. All his neighbors offered their congratulations, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't a disaster?" The two horses bred, and the family became rich in fine horses. The farmer's son spent much of his time riding them; one day he fell off and broke his hipbone. All his neighbors offered their condolences, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't good fortune?" Another year passed, and the barbarians invaded the frontier. All the able-bodied young men were conscripted, and nine-tenths of them died in the war. Who can tell how events will be transformed?
Honoring the Tao means respecting the way things are. There is a wonderful Japanese story (adapted here from Zenkei Shibayama Roshi's A Flower Does Not Talk) which portrays this attitude:
A hundred and fifty years ago there lived a woman named Sono, whose devotion and purity of heart were respected far and wide. One day a fellow Buddhist, having made a long trip to see her asked, "What can I do to put my heart at rest?" She said, "Every morning and every evening, and whenever anything happens to you, keep on saying, 'Thanks for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.'" The man did as he was instructed, for a whole year, but his heart was still not at peace. He returned to Sono, crestfallen. "I've said your prayer over and over, and yet nothing in my life has changed; I'm still the same selfish person as before. What should I do now? Sono immediately said, " 'Thanks for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.'" On hearing these words, the man was able to open his spiritual eye, and returned home with great joy.
And the second story:
A poor farmer's horse ran off into the country of the barbarians. All his neighbors offered their condolences, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't good fortune?" After a few months the horse returned with a barbarian horse of excellent stock. All his neighbors offered their congratulations, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't a disaster?" The two horses bred, and the family became rich in fine horses. The farmer's son spent much of his time riding them; one day he fell off and broke his hipbone. All his neighbors offered their condolences, but his father said, "How do you know that this isn't good fortune?" Another year passed, and the barbarians invaded the frontier. All the able-bodied young men were conscripted, and nine-tenths of them died in the war. Who can tell how events will be transformed?
Sunday, September 23, 2012
You Should Be Dancing
Another Huff Post piece:
There are certain moments in your life that you remember forever.
This is one of mine: I'm pregnant and it's 1987. Dirty Dancing has just opened. I see it alone, during the day, at the Paris Theater in Manhattan. I'm unemployed, nauseous and my hormones are all over the place. From the moment I see Patrick Swayze teaching Jennifer Grey to dance, practicing the lift with Grey in the water, to the scene at the end of the movie when she flies off the stage into his arms, it practically gives me an orgasm. I dance out of the theater, I feel so alive, so ecstatic, the combination of Swayze's dancing, and beauty, and my hormones are almost too much to contain. I'm sure I saw it at least three more times before I gave birth to my daughter, Zoe. And probably a hundred times since.
Ten years earlier, in 1977, I was living in Los Angeles, working in television, and it was one of those LA winters when it never stopped raining. Ever. I was just about ready to kill myself. I'm from New York, where we have actual seasons and real weather that changes. So I went to see the movie everyone was talking about, totally depressed, and as soon as the music started to play and Travolta was seen strutting down that Brooklyn street, holding that can of paint, I was mesmerized. I fell in love, with John, with Brooklyn, with dancing, with the music. I bought the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. I danced in my living room. One weekend, I went to the mall in Century City and the choreographer who'd supposedly taught Travolta to dance for the film was there giving a demonstration. He picked me out of the crowd to dance with! It was my big moment! I danced and I could follow and it was thrilling! I was no longer even remotely depressed.
As the Don Henley song says: "All she wants to do is dance."
I started dancing when I was 5. First tap, then ballet, I was enthusiastic, but never fantastic. I loved Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, and I adored Gene Kelly. I studied jazz, modern, African dance, I was up for anything. I loved going to dances, concerts, any opportunity to dance and I was there. After college, I moved out to LA and focused on work and found other physical outlets, first running and then yoga. I loved the endorphin high running gave me, and I loved the discipline of yoga. I missed dancing, but somehow it got lost.
When I got married and had Zoe, we danced together when she was little. But then real life took over, raising a teenager, working, being a member of the sandwich generation, dealing with my parents' illnesses -- there was no thought of dancing, there was just survival, the couch, and television and books to escape into.
In 2009, after 23 years of marriage, my husband and I split up, my mother died and I went into a deep hole. It was a time of intense grief and I just had to work my way out of it, slowly.
And then, in the summer of 2010, I was invited to dance in a flash mob in Washington Square Park. I love flash mobs! As I learned the dance (we danced to Nina Simone's song "Feeling Good"), I began to feel... good. Really good. Alive. I enjoyed learning the dance, being part of something, connecting to the music. We danced in Washington Square Park in honor of Gay Pride Day, and we staged a mock lesbian wedding at the end of the dance. We were a motley crew, not one of those big professional flash mobs, but we all had fun.
A month later, in August, I met a man on Match.com who, among other things, taught tango. He was going to go to a milonga (tango dance) on the pier one Sunday afternoon, so we met for coffee nearby, before the dance. I was curious, so I went along to the milonga and watched as he danced with a few of his students. I was wearing my sneakers, and was hardly dressed for the tango, but he insisted on showing me the basic steps.
After we danced, he said to me, "You picked the steps up immediately. You are a dancer."
Wow! "I am a dancer." That was all I needed to hear! I raced out the next day and bought practice dance shoes. I showed them to my neighbor who said, "Those are kind of ugly." I was thrown off -- I thought they were great, but maybe it was the dancing itself I was thinking of. Even so, I stuffed them in the closet and forgot about dancing. It felt like too much effort. Then November came and I thought, "What can I do this winter to keep myself from having the winter blues?"
A little voice said, "dance." So I called Dance Manhattan, a dance studio that has been around for 20 years, and I found out about beginning classes. They suggested I try swing dancing first. I took one class in November and then kept dancing in December, taking two classes, then three, all winter, all spring, all summer and I am now completely hooked on dancing. The music alone is joyous and upbeat, and I've met so many people who are as obsessed with dancing as I am. I have a new community, new friends, and my passion for dance has absolutely changed my life. It's opened my chakras, my feelings, made me love men again, and given me ridiculous amounts of pleasure.
You can't buy joy. You just have to feel it. You may have work that gives you great pleasure, but feeling it in your body -- whether it's dancing, playing a musical instrument, running, biking, hiking, rock climbing, whatever it is (obviously sex is great, too). I believe that dancing saved me from antidepressants, got me out of the hole and literally changed my life. Even if all you do is put on music in your living room and take a dance break, I promise you, you'll feel better.
Lately, I've also started doing a new form of movement called Qoya, which combines yoga and dance. My fabulous Qoya teacher read this beautiful poem by Rumi to us at the end of our last class:
There are certain moments in your life that you remember forever.
This is one of mine: I'm pregnant and it's 1987. Dirty Dancing has just opened. I see it alone, during the day, at the Paris Theater in Manhattan. I'm unemployed, nauseous and my hormones are all over the place. From the moment I see Patrick Swayze teaching Jennifer Grey to dance, practicing the lift with Grey in the water, to the scene at the end of the movie when she flies off the stage into his arms, it practically gives me an orgasm. I dance out of the theater, I feel so alive, so ecstatic, the combination of Swayze's dancing, and beauty, and my hormones are almost too much to contain. I'm sure I saw it at least three more times before I gave birth to my daughter, Zoe. And probably a hundred times since.
Ten years earlier, in 1977, I was living in Los Angeles, working in television, and it was one of those LA winters when it never stopped raining. Ever. I was just about ready to kill myself. I'm from New York, where we have actual seasons and real weather that changes. So I went to see the movie everyone was talking about, totally depressed, and as soon as the music started to play and Travolta was seen strutting down that Brooklyn street, holding that can of paint, I was mesmerized. I fell in love, with John, with Brooklyn, with dancing, with the music. I bought the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. I danced in my living room. One weekend, I went to the mall in Century City and the choreographer who'd supposedly taught Travolta to dance for the film was there giving a demonstration. He picked me out of the crowd to dance with! It was my big moment! I danced and I could follow and it was thrilling! I was no longer even remotely depressed.
As the Don Henley song says: "All she wants to do is dance."
I started dancing when I was 5. First tap, then ballet, I was enthusiastic, but never fantastic. I loved Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, and I adored Gene Kelly. I studied jazz, modern, African dance, I was up for anything. I loved going to dances, concerts, any opportunity to dance and I was there. After college, I moved out to LA and focused on work and found other physical outlets, first running and then yoga. I loved the endorphin high running gave me, and I loved the discipline of yoga. I missed dancing, but somehow it got lost.
When I got married and had Zoe, we danced together when she was little. But then real life took over, raising a teenager, working, being a member of the sandwich generation, dealing with my parents' illnesses -- there was no thought of dancing, there was just survival, the couch, and television and books to escape into.
In 2009, after 23 years of marriage, my husband and I split up, my mother died and I went into a deep hole. It was a time of intense grief and I just had to work my way out of it, slowly.
And then, in the summer of 2010, I was invited to dance in a flash mob in Washington Square Park. I love flash mobs! As I learned the dance (we danced to Nina Simone's song "Feeling Good"), I began to feel... good. Really good. Alive. I enjoyed learning the dance, being part of something, connecting to the music. We danced in Washington Square Park in honor of Gay Pride Day, and we staged a mock lesbian wedding at the end of the dance. We were a motley crew, not one of those big professional flash mobs, but we all had fun.
A month later, in August, I met a man on Match.com who, among other things, taught tango. He was going to go to a milonga (tango dance) on the pier one Sunday afternoon, so we met for coffee nearby, before the dance. I was curious, so I went along to the milonga and watched as he danced with a few of his students. I was wearing my sneakers, and was hardly dressed for the tango, but he insisted on showing me the basic steps.
After we danced, he said to me, "You picked the steps up immediately. You are a dancer."
Wow! "I am a dancer." That was all I needed to hear! I raced out the next day and bought practice dance shoes. I showed them to my neighbor who said, "Those are kind of ugly." I was thrown off -- I thought they were great, but maybe it was the dancing itself I was thinking of. Even so, I stuffed them in the closet and forgot about dancing. It felt like too much effort. Then November came and I thought, "What can I do this winter to keep myself from having the winter blues?"
A little voice said, "dance." So I called Dance Manhattan, a dance studio that has been around for 20 years, and I found out about beginning classes. They suggested I try swing dancing first. I took one class in November and then kept dancing in December, taking two classes, then three, all winter, all spring, all summer and I am now completely hooked on dancing. The music alone is joyous and upbeat, and I've met so many people who are as obsessed with dancing as I am. I have a new community, new friends, and my passion for dance has absolutely changed my life. It's opened my chakras, my feelings, made me love men again, and given me ridiculous amounts of pleasure.
You can't buy joy. You just have to feel it. You may have work that gives you great pleasure, but feeling it in your body -- whether it's dancing, playing a musical instrument, running, biking, hiking, rock climbing, whatever it is (obviously sex is great, too). I believe that dancing saved me from antidepressants, got me out of the hole and literally changed my life. Even if all you do is put on music in your living room and take a dance break, I promise you, you'll feel better.
Lately, I've also started doing a new form of movement called Qoya, which combines yoga and dance. My fabulous Qoya teacher read this beautiful poem by Rumi to us at the end of our last class:
Dance when you're broken open.
Dance when you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you're perfectly free.
Struck, the dancer hears a tambourine inside her,
like a wave that crests into foam at the very top,
Begins.
Maybe you don't hear that tambourine,
or the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head,
that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to see, and hear.
Music. Dance.
A brilliant city inside your soul!
Friday, September 14, 2012
Dark Nights of the Soul
I have been writing and reading about spiritual teachings for several years and I always love to share what I am reading. There are several books I'm reading now, one is Brene Brown's new book "Daring Greatly" which is wonderful and the other one is "Dark Nights of the Soul." I love this quote from the beginning of that book and I find that it so relates to my own life and also Pema Chodron's work about happiness and acceptance:
Many people think that the point of life is to solve their problems and be happy. But happiness is usually a fleeting sensation and you never get rid of your problems. Your purpose in life may be to become more who you are and more engaged with the people and the life around you, to really live your life. That may sound obivous, yet many people spend their time avoiding life. They are afraid to let it flow through them, and so their vitality gets channeled into ambitions, addictions, and preoccupations that don't give them anything worth having. A dark night may appear, paradoxically, as a way to return to living. It pares life down to its essentials and helps you get a new start.
Here I want to explore positive contributions of your dark nights, painful thought they may be. I don't want to romanticize them or deny their dangers. I don't even want to suggest that you can always get through them. But I do see opportunities to be transformed from within, in ways you could never imagine. A dark night is like Dante getting sleepy, wandering from his path, mindlessly slipping into a cave. It is like Odysseus being tossed by stormy waves and Tristan adrift without an oar. You don't choose a dark night for yourself. It is given to you. Your job is to get close to it and sift it for its gold."
Thomas Moore
I didn't choose my "dark night" three years ago when everything I believed were the most important parts of my life left me, my family, my home, my job. Those things defined me for many years and suddenly I had to "re-define" myself - during my dark nights. It was the greatest gift, the time I spent and continue to spend, sifting for the gold.
Many people think that the point of life is to solve their problems and be happy. But happiness is usually a fleeting sensation and you never get rid of your problems. Your purpose in life may be to become more who you are and more engaged with the people and the life around you, to really live your life. That may sound obivous, yet many people spend their time avoiding life. They are afraid to let it flow through them, and so their vitality gets channeled into ambitions, addictions, and preoccupations that don't give them anything worth having. A dark night may appear, paradoxically, as a way to return to living. It pares life down to its essentials and helps you get a new start.
Here I want to explore positive contributions of your dark nights, painful thought they may be. I don't want to romanticize them or deny their dangers. I don't even want to suggest that you can always get through them. But I do see opportunities to be transformed from within, in ways you could never imagine. A dark night is like Dante getting sleepy, wandering from his path, mindlessly slipping into a cave. It is like Odysseus being tossed by stormy waves and Tristan adrift without an oar. You don't choose a dark night for yourself. It is given to you. Your job is to get close to it and sift it for its gold."
Thomas Moore
I didn't choose my "dark night" three years ago when everything I believed were the most important parts of my life left me, my family, my home, my job. Those things defined me for many years and suddenly I had to "re-define" myself - during my dark nights. It was the greatest gift, the time I spent and continue to spend, sifting for the gold.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Three years
One year ago, I signed my divorce papers and it was the beginning of a new life and an entirely new chapter.
In November of 2011 I found dance. I'd started dancing (as I wrote here) in a couple of flash mobs, but then I decided to sign up for dance classes and ever since then my life has changed in many profound ways. First of all I found something really joyous that I love to do. I've met many people who love it too and many really great men. Men to dance with - not necessarily the love of my life, but men I really enjoy.
My morning practice of reading, writing and meditating has changed a bit. I've been chanting in the morning, which is very peaceful.
In August, my daughter Zoe moved back to New York after three years of living in San Francisco.
She arrived the first week in August, which is when my first piece appeared on the Huffington Post.
I've now had five pieces published and yesterday Zoe and I did a Huff Post Live on adult children moving home with their parents. She did find a great apartment with a roommate and they are happily living in their own place now.
http://live.huffingtonpost.com/r/archive
If you're new to this blog and you or anyone you know anyone who's going through a difficult time, go back three years to April 2009 and start reading. There is a great deal of information about how to get through loss and grief a day at a time.
And the present feels very exciting! So stay tuned. I never expected any of this, so it will be interesting to see what unfolds next. If you've had any interesting surprises lately, I'd love to hear about them.
In November of 2011 I found dance. I'd started dancing (as I wrote here) in a couple of flash mobs, but then I decided to sign up for dance classes and ever since then my life has changed in many profound ways. First of all I found something really joyous that I love to do. I've met many people who love it too and many really great men. Men to dance with - not necessarily the love of my life, but men I really enjoy.
My morning practice of reading, writing and meditating has changed a bit. I've been chanting in the morning, which is very peaceful.
In August, my daughter Zoe moved back to New York after three years of living in San Francisco.
She arrived the first week in August, which is when my first piece appeared on the Huffington Post.
I've now had five pieces published and yesterday Zoe and I did a Huff Post Live on adult children moving home with their parents. She did find a great apartment with a roommate and they are happily living in their own place now.
http://live.huffingtonpost.com/r/archive
If you're new to this blog and you or anyone you know anyone who's going through a difficult time, go back three years to April 2009 and start reading. There is a great deal of information about how to get through loss and grief a day at a time.
And the present feels very exciting! So stay tuned. I never expected any of this, so it will be interesting to see what unfolds next. If you've had any interesting surprises lately, I'd love to hear about them.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
A husband, a house, a mortgage, a baby, a lightbulb moment
My latest HuffPost:
I had it all. I had the American dream. I lived in a beautiful loft in the heart of SoHo (okay, I know some of you want the house and the picket fence, I wanted a loft in New York City).
And I had the baby, the most wonderful daughter. And two dogs. I had everything I'd ever dreamed of and I was deeply, deeply grateful.
I had the wedding, with a beautiful dress from Paris with lace, made in the 1920's -- very much my style. I had a honeymoon at a lovely resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.
We moved to New York City a few months after we got married to pursue our dreams. I was 34, not that young, but old enough to know what I was looking for. It had taken hundreds of dates, blind dates, fix-ups -- there was no internet dating in those days. I'd lived with other men. It had taken hard work, but I was determined to find the love of my life and have it all. My career was in television writing and I was about to break into films. I could hear the biological clock ticking and I desperately wanted to have a baby. I had dated men in my business and I finally found someone who was an artist -- intelligent, talented, articulate -- and he made a living. He was a bit lonely and depressed, but I was going to rescue him and make him happy with a family and a home and everything that would answer all of his prayers -- and mine -- and we would live happily ever after.
And we did, for a time. It was great.
It lasted until about a week after the wedding. And then, subtly, I sensed a shift. He had been attentive and available before, and within a few months after the wedding, I felt the door close. It wasn't obvious, but in the first year of our marriage I wrote an essay that was never published called "The Myths of Marriage." And the funny part was, I had taken a course years before about dating and marriage and one of the main points was that we present ourselves one way when we are trying to "get" someone and then once we "have" them; we let our guard down and we show who we really are.
I knew that and yet, I acted like I really enjoyed cooking though I hated cooking. And he acted like he really enjoyed spending weekends with me, when he really wanted to work seven days a week. But we made a commitment and we worked at it and we became a family.
There are few things in life more rewarding than finding someone you love, who loves you, who knows you and over the years, through all the difficult life experiences, is your ally and your friend and your sounding board and your lover. Those kind of relationships are hard to find.
But after 23 years of marriage, we got divorced. I deserved more and he deserved to be who he was (turns out he didn't really want to be rescued). And my beautiful lace dress from Paris? I had rented it from a costume house in Hollywood. Maybe even then I knew that you can't hold on to some things forever, no matter how beautiful they seem at one time in your life.
Here is my suggestion: Be you. Don't try to be anyone else.
Also, live your life with pleasure and do what you love and what is important to you. Work hard, play hard, don't be waiting for someone to complete you. Complete yourself.
A great marriage is really a dream for most. It takes honesty -- knowing and presenting who you really are. It isn't for everyone; it takes effort and a great deal of compromise and patience. It is not the Nobel Prize of life. It is no longer even the American dream, or any dream. Perhaps you saw Eric Klinenberg's piece in The New York Times about living alone in which he reports, "More people live alone now than at any other time in history... In Manhattan and in Washington, nearly one in two households are occupied by a single person... In Paris, the city of lovers, more than half of all households contain single people." Even in Paris -- my beloved city of lights -- even they had a light bulb moment: living alone, or at least unmarried, need not be stigmatized or pathetic or necessarily lonely.
I don't know if I will ever get married again. Divorce was one of the worst experiences of my life, which led me to one of the best and most productive periods of my life. I am not waiting to meet the next man to love; I am busy, working hard, grateful for my life, dating, dancing, enjoying my daughter, my friends and a rent-stabilized loft in SoHo, which I share with a good friend. Not a man. With men, I dance. And right now, that's working really well for me.
Dreams are for when you are asleep. Life is what happens when you are awake. It's never what you expect. Enjoy it.
I had it all. I had the American dream. I lived in a beautiful loft in the heart of SoHo (okay, I know some of you want the house and the picket fence, I wanted a loft in New York City).
And I had the baby, the most wonderful daughter. And two dogs. I had everything I'd ever dreamed of and I was deeply, deeply grateful.
I had the wedding, with a beautiful dress from Paris with lace, made in the 1920's -- very much my style. I had a honeymoon at a lovely resort in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.
We moved to New York City a few months after we got married to pursue our dreams. I was 34, not that young, but old enough to know what I was looking for. It had taken hundreds of dates, blind dates, fix-ups -- there was no internet dating in those days. I'd lived with other men. It had taken hard work, but I was determined to find the love of my life and have it all. My career was in television writing and I was about to break into films. I could hear the biological clock ticking and I desperately wanted to have a baby. I had dated men in my business and I finally found someone who was an artist -- intelligent, talented, articulate -- and he made a living. He was a bit lonely and depressed, but I was going to rescue him and make him happy with a family and a home and everything that would answer all of his prayers -- and mine -- and we would live happily ever after.
And we did, for a time. It was great.
It lasted until about a week after the wedding. And then, subtly, I sensed a shift. He had been attentive and available before, and within a few months after the wedding, I felt the door close. It wasn't obvious, but in the first year of our marriage I wrote an essay that was never published called "The Myths of Marriage." And the funny part was, I had taken a course years before about dating and marriage and one of the main points was that we present ourselves one way when we are trying to "get" someone and then once we "have" them; we let our guard down and we show who we really are.
I knew that and yet, I acted like I really enjoyed cooking though I hated cooking. And he acted like he really enjoyed spending weekends with me, when he really wanted to work seven days a week. But we made a commitment and we worked at it and we became a family.
There are few things in life more rewarding than finding someone you love, who loves you, who knows you and over the years, through all the difficult life experiences, is your ally and your friend and your sounding board and your lover. Those kind of relationships are hard to find.
But after 23 years of marriage, we got divorced. I deserved more and he deserved to be who he was (turns out he didn't really want to be rescued). And my beautiful lace dress from Paris? I had rented it from a costume house in Hollywood. Maybe even then I knew that you can't hold on to some things forever, no matter how beautiful they seem at one time in your life.
Here is my suggestion: Be you. Don't try to be anyone else.
Also, live your life with pleasure and do what you love and what is important to you. Work hard, play hard, don't be waiting for someone to complete you. Complete yourself.
A great marriage is really a dream for most. It takes honesty -- knowing and presenting who you really are. It isn't for everyone; it takes effort and a great deal of compromise and patience. It is not the Nobel Prize of life. It is no longer even the American dream, or any dream. Perhaps you saw Eric Klinenberg's piece in The New York Times about living alone in which he reports, "More people live alone now than at any other time in history... In Manhattan and in Washington, nearly one in two households are occupied by a single person... In Paris, the city of lovers, more than half of all households contain single people." Even in Paris -- my beloved city of lights -- even they had a light bulb moment: living alone, or at least unmarried, need not be stigmatized or pathetic or necessarily lonely.
I don't know if I will ever get married again. Divorce was one of the worst experiences of my life, which led me to one of the best and most productive periods of my life. I am not waiting to meet the next man to love; I am busy, working hard, grateful for my life, dating, dancing, enjoying my daughter, my friends and a rent-stabilized loft in SoHo, which I share with a good friend. Not a man. With men, I dance. And right now, that's working really well for me.
Dreams are for when you are asleep. Life is what happens when you are awake. It's never what you expect. Enjoy it.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
The Age of Grief (or How Loss Transforms You)
It seems like every day I speak to a friend who is either
racing off to the hospital to see a parent who’s ill, or a spouse, a friend, or
dealing with their own illness, or divorce, or job loss. It’s not that I don’t
know people whose lives are great – but the reality is that millions of us are dealing
with difficult challenges.
As Pema Chodron, the Buddhist writer says in When Things Fall Apart:
“Rather than letting our
negativity get the better of us, we could acknowledge that right now we feel
like a piece of shit and not be squeamish about taking a good look.”
In 2009, I had my own personal “tsunami.” My 23 year
marriage ended, I had no job, my mother died, my daughter moved 3,000 miles away,
and I had to move, with two dogs. Life dealt me a hand that left me
broken. I felt like I was under water
and couldn’t breathe.
A dear friend pointed me in the direction of Eckhart Tolle’s
book, The New Earth and I read this:
“Whenever tragic loss
occurs you either resist, or you yield.
Some people become bitter or deeply resentful; others become
compassionate, wise and loving. Yielding means inner acceptance of what is. You
are open to life. Resistance is an inner contraction, a hardening of the shell
of the ego. You are closed. Whatever action you take in a state of
resistance (which we could also call negativity) will create outer resistance
and the universe will not be on your side: life will not be helpful. If the
shutters are closed, the sunlight cannot come in. When you yield internally, when you surrender, a new
dimension of consciousness opens up. If action is possible or necessary your
action will be aligned with the whole and supported by creative intelligence,
the unconditioned consciousness, which in a state of inner openness you become
one with. Circumstances and people then become helpful, cooperative.
Coincidences happen. If no action
is possible, you rest in the inner piece that comes with surrender. You rest in God.”
This became like a mantra to me.
(A long one, I know.) I typed it
up and carried it with me. And
honestly, circumstances and people did
become helpful.
One night at Friends In Deed in
New York City, a “pragmatic, spiritual crisis center,” I attended a workshop on
grief. I told myself I was willing to go anywhere for help, but it didn’t hurt
that Friends In Deed was just up the block.
Here is what I learned:
Grief is the natural response to loss. Loss is a perceived change in circumstances plus a perceived change in personal identity. Grief now becomes a lifelong companion, never leaving you in the beginning, softened over time, but never leaving completely. If the person meant anything to you, the loss of them will visit you, sometimes when you least expect it.
The five stages of grief Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
defined—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—are helpful, but
perhaps the stages are not linear and maybe there are better models. And
what about relief? What about guilt?
Another model for grief is shock, disorganization, reorganization.
There are three levels to grief – the first level is the
loss of the person, the life. The second level is the practical issues, the
loss of income, a home, structure. The third level, the constant
reminders: you pick up the phone to call the person, you cook for two instead
of one, you look at the chair he or she sat in.
First comes disintegration, then eventually reintegration..."the new normal." The spaciousness and the possibilities begin to return. Grief is natural, like breathing. Try to let it happen, let it run its own course. One day you’re on the floor and then surprising yourself, you find you’re going out on a date, something unimaginable just a short time before.
Here are some myths: you'll get over it. You'll transcend it. There is a right way to grieve.
Truth: Your loss will transform you. This is the
experience, and it is what it is. Tell your friends what you need.
Let them know you can use their help. If they ask, and you don't know
what you need, thank them for asking and ask them to maybe ask again.
Soon.
The transformation is often for the better. Not always, but usually—especially if we find ways to get out of our own way. I gave myself to the process, and it is a process, and now I’ll avoid the word journey, but it was and continues to be.
The tried and true methods of dealing with grief and anger, though they can be effective in the short term: drugs, drinking, eating too much, are distractions from the process.
The good news: human beings are resilient. We are
amazingly strong.
What helps with grief?
Talking helps
Not talking helps
Crying
Screaming
Being silent
Writing (in your own handwriting)
Hitting a punching bag
Reading
Walking
Prayer
Meditation
Animals
Reading
Walking
Prayer
Meditation
Animals
Music
Laughter
Nature
Sad movies
Maybe you were grieved last week when NBC cut into Olympic
coverage to give a sneak peak of the new show starring Matthew Perry called
"Go On." In it, they find the humor and pathos inherent in a grief
counseling group. I was lucky enough to find Friends In Deed, but there are
many kinds of groups out there, one that will suit you. You may even feel most
comfortable in an online community. The main thing is to take your grief
seriously, as loss is a necessary part of living. It needs to be respected and
not ignored (as Perry's character finds out in the first episode) - and you
need to feel that you are not alone.
The tsunami that hit me ultimately has been the greatest
gift of my life. It added depth and
understanding to my life and what else would I have to share? Tips on how to deal with curly
hair? (Not that that isn’t very important information.)
But I am now a far more empathetic person than I was when
frizzy hair was my biggest problem.
Friends In Deed is located at 594 Broadway, Suite 706, New York City,
friendsindeed.org
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