Hey it's not like I am unhappy in my marriage. It's just that as things change,  I need my environment to change to reflect it. Karl's nightly snoring/waking me up has got to stop. I may have to make the choice to head back to the shabby chic retreat of my bedroom. No snoring there. Man, I sound like a bitch tonight; it's been a stressful week of insults and anxiety, reminding me the part of academia I despise.  Crab, crab, crab.

I finally picked up the ring that was designed with the stones my father left me, Karl's engagement diamond, and the topaz my parents gave me on my 18th birthday. It's a very special piece. With the rest of the stones earrings will be made to complement the ring. To wear at Carnegie Hall.

My sister's bakery is opening this weekend, and I am taking some personal time (away from school) to fly out there to support and celebrate her. My parents would be beside themselves with pride: the little girl who never wanted to leave home, who called for hours each night just to talk to them...Here she is with her own bakery. Her own dream. And she's left everybody in the dust. Rejects all offers of assistance. It has taken me two weeks to get her to call me back and confirm that someone can come and get me at the airport. My friends who live in the area will be out of town. I was about to reserve a limo at about $200 to get myself to their place. Ah, now, don't question me: Due to the nature of the trip, I couldn't get a rental car, which I've always done.

This trip has more than one item to achieve. I wanted FOR SURE to be with K and TJ on Halloween. My dad loved it so much, and they loved having him,  that I've taken it up for as long as they'll let me. I even have a costume. Pictures will be posted. I am also looking forward to sitting at the bakery (I hope she has coffee), watching the world spin, and grading 300 assignments. Or, maybe I'll blow that of and play with the kids!

On all Saints Day, my wonderful friend Lori will be driving down from VT, picking me up and tooling down to Brooklyn. A girls' night in a nice hotel, good food, probably laughing, and crying--she and I lost our dads only a few months apart--and then she'll come with me to a very special appointment.

I am having a dress designed and built for me by designer Garo Sparo. This is the gown I will wear at Carnegie Hall. I don't feel intimidated or unworthy or anything like that. This has surprised people. My friends are veerrrrrry unsure about this, and they are not taking advantage of Mr. Sparo LOANING them garments for our concert.  Whatever! I don't know if it speaks more to my sense of adventure returning or their midwestern distrust of the edgy east coast.  Would my parents be as proud of this as my sister's bakery? Honestly, no. My grandfather was a butcher, and so my sister having a bakery is a natural-ish evolution for our family. I, however, and despite of a doctorate, am the creative willy-nilly. Not really doing anything for anyone else...that's old stuff creeping up. I know my mom would LOVE to see me have a dress custom made! In good times, she was a fashion plate.  I think my parents would have come to Carnegie Hall, perhaps out of duty, not excitement. The music I sing bored them both silly; especially foreign languages and avant -garde music: ALL of which are represented on this exciting program. In the past, I got lots of eye-rolling after the concert and digs about the "music" I was singing. I won't have that now, because I doubt my sister will be at the concert. Other extended family will be there, and though they may not understand some of the music, they would never speak ill of it, or brush it aside. Or downgrade the importance of a gig at Carnegie Hall.  I remembered my debut at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, DC in 1986. My aunt and uncle had to strong arm my parents to come. And my sister wasn't there. I am blessed to know many people who'll be attending and I will embrace them all. And send a big thank you up in to the ether---for their indifference helped me really take ownership of this craft and dig in to be the best possible singer. Long time coming.

How have I changed throughout all the years of my parents calling me snob, an intellectual, suggested I was "loose" because I was singing on the opera stage?

 I know the discipline it has taken me to get to this place, and I have done nothing about which I have been ashamed. I also know that it is OKAY that musicians perform as much for themselves as the audience. My parents thought that was the most selfish statement I'd ever made. I know if the performers don't love it, the audience will know it, and that would suck. It's not bad to love what one does, to acknowledge one is good at it. Again, their attitudes made me think for myself and form my own, and be firm in that belief, because I wasn't really getting it from them. Looking back, I 'm glad I got that lesson early, I got right on that train to self-discipline, self-soothing after a hard audition, and learning to bounce  back after a mediocre performance. My sister has never had to gain these skills. I feel bad for her. I think she is beginning to own herself now, although how she sustains slow business, the risks of a new business, I don't know.

I hope we both reach our new normal and somewhere, in the middle we have some common ground.

Romantic? It's a type of decor.

The past several days have opened a new chapter in my life. Is it new or newly re-discovered? Don't know, and don't really care. Through force of her spirit, my friend D drew me into this group of women for a fundraising project. One and done, I thought. I don't go out, not anymore, and need cave time to save up energy for a week of teaching. LOOOOOONG photo shoot for a terrific cause. Ups and downs, it comes to fruition. A preview party; (I missed it, had grading); launch party, big deal. Missed it; on vacation. These women somehow value me and I 'm confused. All I did was show up at this shoot and help out. They called me tonight after the event, and each one wanted to talk to me, they missed me. And I them.

What is this? People I normally wouldn't hang out with in my previous life--musicians, professors. I am finding personal comfort with these women after meeting them once. There's a dynamic that creates happy, positive, energy. LIFE. What I've been missing for so long. All busy professionals in their fields, all with complicated personal lives...making time for each other. It's beautiful. And they want me to be part of it, too. Again, I ask myself, why?

I missed the big launch party because my husband had planned a long weekend up north at a resort on Lake Superior. Planned it long before I'd gotten involved with this group of happymakers.  And so we're here. First we were in one bedroom, together: Karl watching sports (gah) talking to the television , humming to himself, and generally providing a one man show while I was trying to read. I left into the other bedroom where I could read in peace. The other room became quiet. The women called from the event, and I was suddenly energized and happy--my annoyance instantly abated.  Since our original bedroom seemed quieter, I came in with my book, and then the channel surfing started again, baseball, baseball, college football I, college football II...then some random old movie with awful 1940 american screen accents, and he was back to the filterless drivel he with which he has driven me crazy for 20 years. "Oh I have a cramp. Damn I should go back to the gym. Oh! Go Brewers! Hey did you konw michigan state is playing Michigan tomorrow? And on and on. And the television was on this dreadful old movie. The channel we agreed we wouldn't watch if I also had to watch sports.

So now we have switched bedrooms again; he is in the room without the television, but he is watching stuff on his computer.

This all speaks to the changes in how I see life, what "means" life.  I am too tired by life to do it all the time. I don't want a "romantic weekend that involves Karl watching sports or old movies all weekend. There is nothing else to do here. We're in a little tiny box of  two bedrooms. This is not romantic. I don't know what romantic means to me anymore. Thank god for that second bedroom. Life doesn't include romance for me any more, or at least not now. Not interested. I need alone time more than I ever knew. Trapped in a hotel room does not count. I don't want constant humming, filterless yammering, sports on television, whistling.  STOP. Be quiet. If this is supposed to be relaxing for me, let me relax! See what that looks like NOW, after everything we've experienced. I have changed. And it's not a phase, it is the new normal writers talk about in their books on grief. This idea of romantic weekend, at the moment, sounds like a 24-7 entanglement with very little silence. Romance to me is personal --giving myself the time I need to feel rested, enough solitude to spend time in my head, or with my journals, or on a bike ride. I am much, much quieter than I ever knew.  Drivel exhausts me. Annoys me. Repels me. It does not serve me. In my new normal, I cut out things that no longer serve the highest good. Unfettered sleep. A bed to myself. Romantic means a style of decoration, colors that soothe me, or make me happy.


Hope tomorrow's a more peaceful day. And flows as we each decide. Not stuck together at the hip. It's not like that anymore for me. I'm too busy in my head, making sure my root chakra needs are being met. I feel like only I can do that.

A string of good days

My week has been a succession of good days. I have given up trying to solve the fatigue issue. I think it is with me to stay; it's either the last part of depression that meds can't fix, or it's the fibromyalgia that always saps my energy. The week, though, has been relatively stress-free, and in fact, somewhat exciting. I will share more plans later as they become concrete, but I am making the trip to CT to see my sister's bakery open, and then spend Halloween with my niece and nephew. I've no idea if they are, at 10 and 8, even still INTO Halloween; for me it is a sacred holiday: my mother was first found, near death, on Oct 31st. My grandparents were married in Italy October 31st. The last three Halloween's of my dad's life I was there, and we took the Peepsters trick or treating. That was a big deal for Poppi, who was much sicker than we knew. I feel like I want to take that mantel and wrap it around me. A super Auntie that can try to fill Poppi's shoes....at least a little, as well as I can. If it's an annual trip to spend Halloween with them, I'll do it.  Their lives will grow up so fast, and I 'd like to try and be there for them as much as I can. They have neither their Mimi nor Poppi but they do have Auntie Catherine. Maybe I need a superhero cape or something like that. I write them letters, about what I am doing in school, asking them questions about how their sports are going, or their friendships, and what their favorite classes are. My Kassie writes me often; TJ never does, but that's okay. It's that *I* do it that makes me so happy.

I recently self-published this blog to send to my aunt, the one who gets me and I her. I wonder if it will drag her back to the moments of our greatest pain. I wanted to see it in book form--what could a book of mine look like? It is pretty cool. I recently showed some of my introduction to another writer friend. She said to me, "Oh, you're a memoirist." This never occurred to me. I never write about the history of aprons in County B, or about the history of a building. While I like reading about these things, I could never conjure a scrap of writing to do the subject justice. I need to write for me. About me in the world, and how the world effects me. Some would call that "indulgent' (someone already has); I think of it as writing about something I know. I can't claim to know much, and really, researching the history of a church clock does not move me to write. 

What I have experienced this week is a feeling of calm; it's unusual, but I know I have been taking very good care of myself. No extra nonsense; no things that don't involve me; no interactions with people who aren't good for me. And then the excitement of rehearsing toward a big concert in New York in March. On a whim, I contacted a designer whose work I admire, and asked about an appointment; I'm interested in having a concert dress designed for me for this big concert coming up. Garo Sparo, the designer I contacted (via Facebook, mind you!) he was lovely and excitedly accepted. I've spent the week in email conversations with one of his assistants who gathers information and sets up appointments,  I am beyond words. It is a price I can afford, and it will be made FOR ME. My pianist friend, also joining the Trio in concert, is considering the same thing. Hope she does it.  These good days string out, and I find myself asking to visit my sister on the opening of her bakery and to hang with the kids on Halloween. All of this is wonderful.And then I told a friend my plan, and asked her if she was interested in taking  a girly road trip. She said YES! and she as hotel points for a very nice hotel in NY. Suddenly this trip has taken shape, all through kindness, friendship, and love. I will be wearing a couture gown in March. And my friend will be there at the beginning with me. No one I'd rather be with for this experience.  

This trip has one foot in nostalgia and the other in the future.  I think it's okay. I hope it will be okay. It seems like things feel into place Veeeeeeeeery easily. but I haven't yet made the flight reservations!!!

Wish me well as I take another step forward into My Life.

We are Slowly Approaching the Holidays, and I want them GONE.

Been a while, or at least it feels like it. Today would have been my mother's birthday. Today is also the birthday of a close friend, which brings present happiness in to the equation of past sadness. I can't imagine what my mother would be like, look like, if she had lived....probably not good. It is well she has passed on to peace, contentment, and health. She deserves that after such a hard life.

I went to my first writer's group meeting last week. It was interesting, and sadly, was exactly what I thought it would be like. I hope the dynamic changes at the next meeting and the next. Otherwise it won't be for me. Very nice people that write in a variety of styles, but I don't know how much criticism they'll offer. I want to be better, to entice a publisher.

I've recently went through one of the worst bouts of depression: two weeks of it. Called my doctor, my therapist, and they told me to ride it out unless I felt suicidal, which I did not.

Karl and I are thinking about our fathers a lot lately. This brings him down. His dad's birthday was early in September, and has gotten Karl thinking, and then me thinking about my dad. Let's just say it's been a little sombre around here of late.

My sister is moving like crazy to get her bakery opened, and I am so impressed with her--her spirit, her stick-to-it-iveness, her skill. I hope Karl and I can fly out for the opening. I also have another trip to New Work coming up that should be very exciting; I contacted a clothing designer I really admire and may go out to discuss him creating something for me for the Carnegie Hall gig.  I am hearing my father saying: what the hell do you need that for? Too extravagant! I feel like, after looking at the past seven years of my life, that this may represent the new normal; and what better way than through clothes? God knows the cost...figure it out.

I am so melancholy at the change of seasons. When my dad was alive, I was out there for three Halloweens with him, my sister, and the kidlets. i made shirts for everyone with puffy paint.  POPPI was over his chest.  That was his connection to the holiday. The real connection was with the little ones running around, yelling, 'trick or treat!' Seeing us all there, wrapped in the swaddle of love, to pull out every bit of happiness there was to find. Living through those Halloweens has ruined them for me, for now. I don't want to deal with Halloween anymore. Thanksgiving either. The story of my father, one handed, trying to lift a 20lb turkey into the oven (because his other arm had a huge tumor on it, and he couldn't use it). He put the whole dinner together, with my sister bringing some of the side dishes. I wanted to be there. How could I known? Maybe I was in denial. And then there was Christmas. We all tried to focus our energies on the kids showering them with love, especially my father, because HE KNEW how close he was. After Christmas Day, the kids left, but my sister stayed, I think because she knew, too. So we all kept watch, trying to be humorous but tip-toeing around the breakthrough pain, trying to manage it, and seeing how carefully he kept records. He made the decision to go to the hospital, and as you know, we made the silent drive, thirty minutes to the hospital, where he ended up in the hospice wing. The rest of this is all documented at the beginning of this blog in March 2010. But what I say is that Christmas means only painful memories right now, and I've no interest in it. I don't know if I'll always be like this, needing to let holidays flow by me, without me, but still wanting to see my remaining family. I need to get a sense of what my sister is doing; with the bakery she may not be going anywhere; in that case, we'd go to CT, against my husband's wishes. I'd love to have Christmas with my RoRo. And Karl wants to spend it with his family; his mom recently widowed. How thin can we spread our sadness to "celebrate" the holidays? I just run to run off again, where Christmas isn't so important. Starting with Halloween, until my dad's death on January 13, is the darkest time of the year for me. Decline, pain, oxygen tanks, pain meds that don't help, visible bone tumors with no pain relief, his fear that things are coming to an end. It gives a preciousness to everything we did, and more worthy of remembering. But today, the sadness is overwhelming, and just want to run away. I am not ready to join the holidays yet.

Mumbo JUmbo

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to have my blog printed, a copy for myself and a copy for my Ro-Ro.Worlds moving, changing, and through a photo shoot for a Breast Cancer Fundraiser, I learned of a writing group who might be interested in having me. I went, and, it was very low key. I don't know if it will end up being the place that works for me. I bring my writing forward for criticism, not kudos for how great my writing already is .   I want to explore the place writing will occupy; it's a natural as breathing to me. My blog is taking a new diversion on the path. After so much purging, I am feeling a little dried up. Perahps what will happen is crafting the blog in to a book. And beg some people to publish it.

I am feeling able to talk about my parents' passings with more detachment...they are people I loved, but my memories are ar now truly mine. This makes me said. Tears come and go as they wish; I have given myself over to tears when they come, and my newest friends are comfortable with my newer, vulnerable self. That is very cool. My old friends seem very uncomfortable with the last few years of my life. If I am waxingpoetic, perhaps their time in my life is done, as we continue moving on our own separate journeys.

Very, very tired after this week. Still tired, will be hitting bed early, so I can get a headstart in this busy week. Mondays are the roughest of the week.  Wish me luck with treating former friends as acquaintence but still monotorig myself/

Beautiful day, Lauren. You're somone I hope to get to know you better.
Must sign off to tryin disconnecting

Namaste.

And Now, Meet My Mom

This blog has centered around me and my dad. And how much I miss him. And how I have reclaimed living after he passed away. Throughout the process of the last year and a half, I've written a great deal about him, and me. There are obviously others, too, that have come into this picture, like my sister and her family, my husband, friends, and my mother. She has been lost in this blog, and I think I know why.

I had to get through one death before I could start dealing with another.

Granted, my mom died (the word "died" is hard to write...) before my father; in fact, three years before, to the month. Everything about my mom was complicated: anything that related to a relationship was tied up, balled up, big and sad. Her relationships with people were complicated, but even more so was the one she had with herself.

Grieving my father's death has been a devastating process, but in a way it has been UNcomplicated. It's been raw, overwhelming, life changing, heart breaking. I cannot say it is a SIMPLE process; when I think of my mom, her death, and my grief over losing her I feel conflicted, confused, confounded. This is called complicated grief. "AND HOW!" my maternal grandfather used to say.

Lots can be said about my mother and the circumstances that surrounded her death. If I scrolled back over this blog, I am sure I've said quite a bit. She and I did not speak the last year and a half of her life.  You think that was an easy decision, or quickly reached? It was the culmination of therapy, support groups for families of alcoholics, frank discussions with my husband, and lots of soul-searching.  She'd become toxic in body, mind and spirit, and I could not help her.  She would not be helped, and this speaks to the depth of her disease and the relationship she had within her own soul.

But my father loved her until the day she died, and this is no overstatement. Sure, he was angry, too, but it hurt him deeply to talk about her after she died. He actually wouldn't. Except this once, during the semester I lived with him, about a year after she died. There was a silly, romantic movie on, where a young protagonist did outrageous things to be with his sweet beloved. "I used to walk nine miles each way, just to spend a little time with your mom while we were dating."   That was my father speaking. About her, out of the blue. I was stunned. I wanted to ask questions, a million of them, but all I dared was a casual "No kidding? That's true love."  His reply was curt but so full of emotion. And that was the end of that conversation.

My mother was in the hospital for the sixth or seventh time. Karl and I had not been there for Christmas; it was the year to be with his family. My father encouraged us to see Karl's family. I was torn but relieved. And Karl deserved it, too, after a couple of hellish years, flying out to my mom in a moment's notice, missing holidays with his family. But still, my mom was in the hospital.

New Year's Eve, Karl and I were with friends. I was planning to do my usual midnight call to my parents, but my father called much earlier in the evening, telling us she was failing, getting worse. Should we come? He said, no--we'd been at this precipice so many times-- but we would keep in close touch. When she died, a few days later, Karl and I flew out, helped as my dad would let us, and began my first real journey of grief. No map, no guide, but an example provided by my father. A few days later  my father left for Sri Lanka and I left for Chile. Life, you know. It seemed the grown up thing to do, right? I was in my early forties, had a husband, a house, a career. I hadn't lost many people, and didn't see people grieving, either, anywhere. So I went on, thinking I was doing the responsible thing, by "keeping on." My father was my role model and I followed his lead. And my fragile mom was gone.

Fragile is a perfect description of her, in all ways, except for her stubbornness. That was world class, hard core. But if I had to pick something that could represent her, it would be a hibiscus (sp). Beautiful, big flower, brightly colored, but paper thin. Must be in perfect environment to thrive. I think of her when I see them. They are big and colorful but not garish. My mom always wanted to be a big personality to match my dad's but it cost her so much. It was work, and it wasn't authentic. The soil wasn't right, or the light.

Fragility is something I inherited from her. I guard my heart like she did. The shyness I hide was her shyness. My ability to breakdown a recipe by tasting it is from my mother. For many years, my mother was Well Put Together--she dressed beautifully, did her make up and hair every day, and cared how she looked. I think my desire to be stylish is from her, although our styles are very different. Karl says that he had many great conversations in her kitchen over the years, and that she loved talking to him. Well, we have that in common, too.

In some ways, I have brought to fruition in my life some of the things she dreamed about doing: finishing college, a master's degree and a doctorate. I have peace within me, and in general, a joy about being alive. I am fairly free, not having kids, so we up and go places. And I don't drink. At all. This is not to sting her memory, but to highlight it. She couldn't stop, and we lost her. I would not let this happen to me. And so the grieving for my mother has begun, four years after she's died. I feel prepared for this journey, the one put off four years ago as I boarded that plane to Chile. After grieving simply and completely for my father. I know how to grieve now. And it's time to untie the knots, wash away the acid, throw away the nasty letters, and start bathing those last terrible memories with love. And see what my heart does next.

His Watch, A Talisman

My dad's watch stopped ticking August 11, 2011 at 7.40 am. I have been dreading this moment since I received the watch at the funeral home. For some reason, at the time, I expected it to stop ticking when he died. Childish, I know.  Time did stop for him, and it sure did for me. For over a year, I checked it every day, to make sure it was still working. I needed to know it was still working. There was something comforting about it still working. I feared how I'd feel when it stopped. Afraid of the finality--this watch, that was on my father's wrist every day for years, the last time on December 27, 2009 as he went into the hospital--as long as the watch was ticking, I was still somehow connected to him. It is really hard to give this the right words. He was alive--the watch was working. There's an obvious representation there that I cannot see clearly, meaning I can't forge the words to really talk about it with anyone. As long as the watch worked, I had some working, pulsing, thing that worked while he was alive.  I checked it every day for over a year. Over a year and a half.

Very recently, I decided it would work forever (yet another Childish moment), so I brought it to the jeweler to take some links off the bracelet so I could wear it. I wore it for a few days, but it distracted me. It reminded me of all the times I'd seen him wear it, and too, when I saw it on my wrist was reminded why I had it. I took it off that afternoon, and put it in my jewelry box.  But it still worked, so that was something, right?

Yesterday I picked up the watch after the realization a few weeks ago. I was so convinced it would be working.  I had to double check the time. I didn't think it was 7.40 am.  My heart believed the watch knew better. For a split second, I was ready to believe it was 7.40.  Why not?  It *was* morning. It *was* a Thursday. Why not?

Silly girl. It's 11.30, near noon. You woke up at 7.40.

A sign? Was that a sign? I've had a few, and this wasn't one. Or, at least the universe was a week late. To the day, to the hour.

Why brush it off? Okay, it was a sign. But of what? I know my father's watching over me, is with me. Maybe some signs take time to reach us.