All posts by admin

WARNING SIGNS of LOVE

WARNING SIGNS

Next month (august 2011), I am expected to sign up for Medicare; I had no warning that I’d feel so young. Despite forgetting my purse at the Laundromat last week, my memory snapped in ten minutes later, just as I arrived home. I called Pete’s, who owns the Laundromat. The girl on the phone said she’d send someone across the street to “see if it’s there,” adding, “Call back in 5 minutes.” I quickly reply, “I’m driving there now.”

I trust my purse is safe. I may be praying. When I arrived, Pete’s had retrieved it! Reassured again, I can trust the Design of the Universe to love me.

I remember back to my lake house, when I’m nigh unto 40 years old, looking for my car keys, finally seeing them in my left hand. That memory consoles me, as does me leaving my wallet on the top of my Camaro, driving off, later finding it along the side of the highway. Another near-forty memory comforts me.

Alzheimer’s media constantly warns of signs of memory loss; yet I am still (should I be?) amazed how sharp my memory is while executing my four-days-a-week job as a psychotherapist. Just the other day I marvel, to feel the touch down of a mosquito on my forearm, without seeing it happen.

Also, I wonder at my easy flow of tears since the early 90s, whereas beforehand I held them back, like a mother refusing to push her baby out, embarrassed, while reassuring myself of my inner strength.

For the past three to four years, a raised brown pigment has grown on my right cheek; two years ago a dermatologist at a nudist camp told me it was not cancerous, “nothing to worry about.” Over one month ago, my granddaughter showed concern, suggesting I see a doctor-type. About a week later, I noticed that the spot had become flat; I had tried to scratch off its layers for many months. It kept rearing its brown head. Now it was flat?
At the next weekly dinner with my daughter and granddaughter, I point out the disappeared spot, now flat, even creamy like the rest of my cheek. She asks, “What did you do?”

“Nothing different, it must be my tears have finally cured it.” They both smile that I know mom smile. Aware they know that tears break open cracks of our hearts, like wildflowers growing out of rock faces, making more room for love. It must BE true; no new diet, no new creams on my face, no new nothing.

My healing feels like this morning; taking a break from reading “The Help” to talk to my kitty of five years, Radiance, lying on the other side of the porch. We live alone. I am feeling a bit guilty as I ask, “You get enough attention from your mama?” when a tear out of nowhere appears and dances down my now smooth cheek.

SAYING TOO MUCH

Last Saturday, 5 days ago, I was driving in Ithaca, NY and stopped for a red light. I was feeling exceedingly pleased with the abundance of green leaves, red bud trees, and various beautiful flowers planted all through my fair city. (May has to be my favorite month of the year!) When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw a couple wiry gray hairs sticking upright from the top of my head, and decided I must pull them out. As 76 year-old Shirley MacLaine writes, I am trying to get over my vanity. As I approach 65, I still muster a brunette head due to my mother’s gift of her genes, she being eighty with maybe a dozen gray hairs. I fool myself into wanting to honor her gift.

I pluck out one of the two 5-6 inch gray hairs and fling it out the window, followed by the second. It must have been a few minutes later, when I look left out my window and see these same gray hairs clinging to the window as I drive along. WOW! I say out loud, thinking the root must BE really sticky to be able to cling to the window as the wind blows it like a wave of the ocean, pounding the window. I am even more amazed when I am driving 40-50 mph toward my country renovated chicken coupe home.

Next to my bed, the window shelf holds 4-5 books that I am alternatingly reading, one being “The Art of Kissing,” picked up from a used book library sale, and that I have periodically opened, months, maybe years in between. That same gray-hair-plucking-Saturday, who knows why I picked it up again, admitting to myself this is a foolish, yet inviting book, as I have not been kissed, really kissed, passionately that is in months, slightly embarrassed to have been by a married man that I do love. This book states, “Kissing Tip…For talking and kissing, try the Chico Marx technique. When replying to his wife, who caught him kissing a chorus girl, he said, I wasn’t kissing her. I was whispering in her mouth.”

I notice that I feel embarrassed to be admitting these vanities; but then some of my family members tell me I say too much, when I write books about my personal journey, which of course includes them. Being a psychotherapist I value vulnerability like some value a multi-million dollar lottery ticket. Only my ticket is for the evolving-love train I wish to be on. SO, I must practice what I preach. I like to think I am like those gray hairs that continued to stick to my jeep’s window for another few days, even through a thunderstorm.

laughter with love by cheap thrills?

I am late with my March essay. I didn’t know what to write about until today. Soon, you will realize or maybe be thrilled by why.

March 31st, 10pm, I call up my older daughter Erin, to tell her that my apartment was burglarized, my computer and TV snatched. She answers with neutrality, “You have property insurance, yes?” I am a bit disappointed not to hear, I’m sorry, but keep my own neutrality in check, and go on to say something like I’ve always kept my doors open for decades, and this surprises me, out here in the country. Then, I spring, “April Fools!”
Erin annoyingly retorts, “It’s not April Fools day yet!”…of course I am pleased, as I say, “That makes it even more fun; it’s only 2 hours from now”

I have been the prankster on April Fools day for many years, so my daughter’s are especially onto me, so when I call my younger daughter, Megan, the next day and get her voice mail, I say, “Megan, please call me, I have something important to tell you.” Later that day, I receive her voice mail that goes something like, “Mom, you can’t fool me! Don’t even try! I know its April Fool’s day!” So, I don’t, but think to myself, I’ll call tomorrow and play the trick!

That day, I drive five hours to the board meeting of the IPA (International Primal Association), of which I am the secretary, and it is a working-board weekend. When I arrive, I greet everyone, give and receive hugs, and then go out to my car for more preparations. About 10 of the board members are socializing when I return, in a large sunny room of Sandy’s home in the woods. I shout, “I have an announcement!” Everyone turns my way as I say with glee, “I am engaged!” Everyone starts clapping, and I can still see Larry’s huge smile as his large beautiful hands clap vigorously. After enjoying the applause I shout, “April Fool!” They laugh as I feel their love.

When I return home on April 3rd, there is still no SUN magazine in my mailbox and this magazine usually arrives before the first of the month. It is the only magazine I read cover to cover. It moves me to inspiration and connectedness with its personal stories and interviews of people less known that are changing the world. I wait a couple more days before I check my subscription online, and it was renewed in January for 2 years. I wait two more days, still no magazine. This amazing magazine has no advertisements and is not cheap I think to myself…the magazine still has not arrived and today is the 11th…but cyberspace did return my email saying the SUN would arrive in a couple of weeks…no explanation, no sorry, cheap (April) trick!

RUMORS OF LOVE

It is president’s day 2011…and I feel present to the rumor dispelled yesterday. My ex-husband Gregory now lives with his elderly parents in their home in Oxford, NY. Gregory had been angry with me for leaving in 1998, after he dropped out of therapy.
By 2006, Gregory had felt my continued love sent out thru a couple cards or birthday calls each year, finally granting me a divorce, becoming my friend, being very appreciative of me. Still, he told me that his parents did not like me, and I was not welcome to visit them, and he was even afraid to tell them of our renewed loveship. (Isn’t this a kind of relationship? ) Were these rumors or roomers?

I’d like to think that this CRYBABE-license-plate-therapist could have a sense of humor! Even when she caught her dance heel in her partner’s shoelace last Saturday night, and fell on her bum, thumb and sprained her 4th right hand finger…she continued to dance with partner’s who agreed to use her wrist, instead of her right-partner-hand. Even with her two fingers wrapped in white tape, held in the air like a surrender flag.

The next morning, my hand was swollen and sore to the touch, so I knew I would have to leave Sunday’s day of dancing at the Dance Flurry held one-weekend a year in Saratoga Springs, where over a dozen different kinds of dancing happens simultaneously in various huge rooms, each with LIVE music! Although I was disappointed, I left with a rumor in my heart that this sunny day would provide something special, like a spontaneous visit to Gregory who lived only 12 miles off my route home to Ithaca. I left two voice mails without reply; knowing then I might meet up with his parents, whom I had not seen in 15 years, with an uninvited rumor in my head. I keep thinking of a roomer I had in my last home, who left unexpectedly, because I insisted she dump the week’s compost (and other shared-chores) as she had agreed to. Was I going to dump my plans to visit unexpectedly because of Gregory’s rumor? Not a chance!

I parked next door to the Race’s home, walked to the front door, rang the doorbell, not knowing what to expect. I was surprised my heart was calm, the roomer of fear leaving because I wanted love to move back in. Gregory had told me that his mother was experiencing some dementia these days. Yet, when she opened the door, she redily said, “Come in.” In the entrance hallway is a table with framed photos and a dozen red roses; they had just celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary. Mrs. Race showed me their wedding photo, adding stories of their beginnings and her own mother and aunt. I asked about her three other children. Mr. Race finally shuffled down the hallway to talk with me, saying he was putting a family history together for generations to come. He had given me away at our wedding, so I was more than pleased (does that mean enthusiastic?) that I felt welcome, in my coat, standing in the hallway for close to a half hour, Mom Race hugging me goodbye, adding “I’ll tell Gregory you were here.”

BEing awARE is the key to LOVE

PAYING ATTENTION

It is 1/11/11, so I leave a voicemail to remind my new ‘guyfriend’ Briant of our ONEness. Later, I am reflecting back on my voicemail, where I tell him about my visit to see my near thirty-year friend Tanya and her 11 year old son Lukie after I had left Briant’s place on Sunday.

Before Briant left for work at 9am, he brought me a glass of aloe-fruit juice, and told me there was some buckwheat hot cereal on the stove for me when I chose to get up. He kissed me good bye as I lay snuggled in his bed sheets, as he says, “You can stay if you want.” We had slept together, gently touching during sleep, a making love. No sex.
After dozing, and reading for a while, I notice that I feel the energy to leave, to drive the near 5 hour distance home. I am paying attention to a new calmness in my body. I want to stay and BE with Briant….yet want to hear, “I’d like you to stay.” He had driven us to Rockefeller Center the night before, and then to dancing ballroom, salsa and hustle, not laying our tired bodies down until near 3am. I knew Briant would be tired when he arrived home this evening after work, it would be hard to be present for me. For us.

I wouldn’t see or talk much with Briant for the next two weeks…we are not phone-people. Still, the energy felt right to leave, quietly happy that I’m not needing/depending on a man like I used to, yet felt love for him.

Leaving provided an opportunity to stop at Tanya’s on my way home; it was beginning to snow when I approached her exit off route 17, the car driving it self right on by. I kept thinking I need to visit; it has been too long since we have connected by phone or visit, as Tanya isolates herself, feeling depressed and overwhelmed by her responsibilities of full-time job, her son, and an unhappy marriage.

The snow stops flying and my car drives an extra 8 mile detour to Tanya’s over snow-laden back country hills and valleys, where 30-40mph speed is necessary. I pray not to slide off the road. I had left a voicemail about a half hour earlier that I was stopping by to visit. When I stepped on the porch, and had barely opened the door, Lukie springs his arms around me with the force of an excited dog, happy to see its master. “I am so glad to see you Didi!!” he exclaimed with ecstatic joy I had not felt in months. I was very surprised, soaking his words in like a well-rubbed Velveteen Rabbit.

Lukie shares his planetary project for school with me, as well as his catalog of antique light globes; he is a big collector of antique signs like those from old gas stations. His enthusiasm brims over me like melting chocolate-nut ice cream, my favorite. Luke also articulates his mother’s “exhaustion” out loud as Tanya expresses, “I feel like a victim, at work.” I can’t help but notice Luke’s lips purposely speaking greater than his 11 years, seeing his worry and desire to help his mother.

I suggest that Luke stay with me some weekend, hearing loudly, “I’d love that Didi!”
Tanya replies, “Chuck (his dad) won’t allow that.”

I smile, “I will put out loving energy, anyway Chuck talks to me friendlier lately.”
“I love the environment and antiques where you live Didi. I’d love to come.”
As I put my coat on to leave, my heart leaps again as I hear, “I will stay in touch Didi, even if my mom doesn’t.” Luke wraps his arms around me again with the firmness of a bear hug, repeating “I’m so glad to see you Didi!”

As I voicemail Briant, “There’s nothing like the love of a child,” tears choke (cloak) my words with more clear love.

NEW YEARS FIGHT FOR LOVE

I fought my way into this world, as I am a child of rape; my mother not wanting me. She went to a doctor for an abortion, but the doctor refused as she was 5 months pregnant. Then, she went to Tarrytown, ny to an adoption agency; but was convinced to keep me by the man she fell in love with, a patient she took care of on the ship returning from WWII. I cannot be greatfull enough for my daddy-dad fighting to keep me. This IS amazing grace! Not of my mother’s kind.

I fought my mother (all growing up) about the bible’s validity that only “born again” christians would go to heaven, or else go to hell. What kind of love is that?
I fought thru an F in calculus at Cornell University, being put on probation, then one year at a christian college, (to please my mother, and sadden my dad) to return and graduate from Cornell’s Nursing school with a BSN (Best Soul Nurture)

I fought the minister’s and church community’s advice not to permit my coming-out husband to have access to our 2 daughter’s because homosexuality is a “sin.”
I fought against my mother’s belief that Negroes were inferior, having fallen from god’s grace due to the curse of Ham. I hammed it up with black men in the seventies.

I fought my ‘christian’ in-laws dismissal of Tobi, our brown (mulatto) foster baby to the basement of their home; their anger at me for not respecting my Mississppi mother-in-laws belief to be separate from blacks (Negroes can be your friends, but don’t mix with them). I brought Tobi to their home every weekend we visited: my mother-in-law apologized to me 7 years later.

I fought off the guilt I’d learned about dancing being a worldly (ungodly) pursuit, hustling Saturday nights, (like John Travolta) attending church on Sundays, embracing the good fight of my hypocrisy. Now, I dance 4-5 nights a week! With joy!

I fought for natural childbirth; having to cross a state line to a small hospital in Susquehanna, Pa. where my husband would be allowed in the delivery room. Erin was born there, and now has a daughter named Hannah…becoming more aware of the synchronicity of everything, everyONE being connected.

I fought for three amicable divorces, my fourth husband not so willing, fighting with angry lies about me. In this marriage to Gregory, I learned not to fight with anger; I could no longer fight back my many tears, SOBs, (Shortness Of Breath? and/or Son Of Bitch?)
My tears help me fight off my fears of rejection, of not being loved.

I surprisingly rallied from my 65 in Cornell’s freshman English to my bewilderment of writing five books, so far, that fight for acceptance of tears as OPENing hearts (hear hear) to LOVE! (keep crying John BoehnEr! And I am not republican)

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.” – Thoreau
then LOVE will EVOLve…dianea

Rites of passage to LOVE

There is one rite of passage that I wonder if I will ever pass through….maybe I am not supposed to. But, I was meant to be married four times; each one a right that I will treasure.

Of course, I wished to have one long happy marriage, as a “born again” christian, married as a virgin at age 22. I bore two magnificent daughters by this husband, who is kind and supportive throughout natural childbirth. But, it was unnatural for Chuck to be married to a woman, so he left us for his gay partner now of thirty years, Kimber.

Unconsciously, I had wished to experience other men sexually, so during the grief of losing an intact family, I was having sex with boyfriends, along with my guilt. I would sit on the toilet the next morning, asking god not to punish me. I was also dancing (god forbid, my mother’s voice) during this time of questioning my “faith” that I had been brain-washed into since a toddler.

Seven years later, I married Reid, a space sciences Phd. Candidate at Cornell, where my dad had been a research associate analyzing the first moon dust, as I was challenging and analyzing my need for religion. Although we went to a few sessions of marriage counseling, my spirit would not let me stay married more than two years; I was finally liberated from religion through arguments with Reid; my spirit had to be free to be ME. We parted amicably, and a few years later he was diagnosed with a virulent form of cancer, and died at age 44. I attended his memorial, tears thanking him for being a rite of passage out of religious abuse, as Matthew Fox, ex-catholic priest and well-known author has put it.

My third rite of passage-marriage was-to-be another seven years later to Alain, an owner of an auto repair business. We met roller skating; I’ve always been attracted to the physically fit muscular guys, which he was except he smoked and drank more than was healthy. I thought I could help him. By being a Marriage and Family therapist by then, I learned to pay more attention to my own needs for emotional intimacy. We participated in marital therapy for about 6 months, when Alain, said, ‘If you can’t accept me as I am, then we are done.” Another amicable parting, as I listened more to my heart-spirit.

On to Gregory, only three years later, my soul mate. After 2 months together we were committed in a spiritual marriage, then legally three years later. During this time, he became very depressed over losing his house, and his job, unemployed for 2 years, as I tried to help this sensitive father-worthy man. I gained a stepdaughter, Sara when she was 10, and advocated for father’s rights by writing to newspapers. Gregory’s weekly therapy and medications were not enough as our marriage was suffering from his verbal abuse and great distrust, Gregory thinking I was having affairs. I was crying and stomping like a toddler. Mostly, helpless. Mostly, the greatest rite of passage to my true Being.

A last ditch effort to save our marriage was to travel to the Primal Center in California where I would train and both of us be in intensive therapy. Gregory dropped out of therapy saying, “I am too afraid to feel my pain, I will have to come back another lifetime.” I had shut down my successful therapy practice, moved across the country, and cried like a river, a waterfall of shut-down pain I had buried. I have always loved waterfalls, and at present live as a single chick, (still looking for the rooster) between two gorges where many powerful waterfalls symbolize me as I cry at ‘the drop of a hat? Or is it ‘at the drop of love’….being happy that this rite of passage feels like forever-love.

“Love is eternal; its character may change, but not its essence.” – Van Gogh

SHOES…can you walk in others, as well as your own?

SHOES

I have been on a budget for many years, mirroring my financial situation changes. So, when I began running, I put on my K-mart tennis shoes. I am 5’9” and believed that size 71/2 fit me well until I began to acquire black great-toe nails. I did not want to buy the next size larger, an 8. I valued my smaller more feminine size at the time. As I grew emotionally, I gave up this insecurity of appearances for REAL running shoes, Adidas size 8…still from a discount store. Running marathons up and down hills continued to blacken my great toes, until I gave up that long-distant need for recognition.

I have substituted running with my love to dance, which was not permitted while growing up due to mom’s strict religious beliefs, until I could become more secure in my own beliefs that dancing is good despite its part in “worldliness.” Then, I provided dance lessons for my daughters, as well as tap dancing for me. Tap shoes were my first REAL dance shoes, but those you do not wear in public. I wanted to dance socially, so began swing dancing in 1992, using saddle shoes from PayLess. And, wore whatever regular street-shoe that I thought was cute.

After 2000, I branched out to salsa and ballroom, and in 2003 met the challenge of argentine tango. I was still wearing street shoes, and couldn’t imagine myself wearing the 3-4” heels that is expected in true Argentian style. After all I would be 6 feet tall…and would my partners want to dance with me? Besides, REAL argentine tango shoes cost over $100 dollars. Yikes! But, as with any love, you breakdown and do what is best for your partner, my feet. I learned of an online store where tango shoes are made special for Tangueros, and credit-carded over $100 to buy 1½ inch tango shoes, black of course. They have served my dancing feet well…but the beautiful look of the higher heels kept calling to me. In 2006, I traveled to Buenos Aires, for the REAL tango milongas, and could not avoid the handmade tango shoes sold there. Still, I was not above a 3” heel.

2010 took me to a higher place, and a higher price, a turquoise and royal blue Gretaflora design with a leather flower attached, 3 and ¾ inch black heel, (I just went upstairs to measure it) near $200 dollars, I am embarrassed to admit. Yet, I have lost my embarrassment while dancing with all heights of men partners, while in our tango embrace with the love of the dance.

(Tomorrow is Halloween, and I am wearing ballet shoes along with a tutu, being the child dancer I was not allowed to BE.)

the beauty of trust

THE BACK DOOR

I have wondered why my house where I grew up, on a long main road, was the only one where the driveway wound around the back of three houses, ours being in the middle. Therefore the family car was parked by the back door. It was a very rare occasion that our front door was used, as was true of our neighbors.

And, I do not recall our back door ever being locked either. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, where a neighborhood trust was taken for granted, a gift I highly prize especially now as I reside in a renovated chicken coupe, next door to a farm house, where an apartment has been created on its second floor. In this 21st century, people have locks on everything: cars, bikes, helmets, purses, office doors.

I refuse to lock my doors, even when on vacations, loving the freedom to come and go without having to search for my keys. Now, Heavenly Blue Morning Glories grace my back door, arching and stretching, swinging as I open and close. I have planted my favorite flower for 9 years, and they have climbed to the second story roof, but never before over my back door.

I honor them with my attention, counting 22 in full bloom during one September day; then, I recall being in Trumansburg, NY court room last week. I did not stand up when the judge entered from the back door of the court room, because I did not see him enter, my nose being in my journal. When it was my turn to defend my case, the judge gave me instructions, and when he asked if I understood, I answered, “yes sir.” Not, ‘your honor’. I had not planned to avoid “your honor,” although I have thought often that judges should not be addressed with this unequal title. I defended the injustice of my $10 parking ticket that came with a $100 tow of my jeep liberty. I had attended the Grassroots Festival; parking being a premium I ended up with one wheel on the pavement; I turned to see that it was not obstructing traffic on this rural road. My parking ticket was for having wheel(s) on the pavement, a law I had no prior knowledge of. I pointed out that my car had been parked for 9 hours before it was towed, and the officer on the day shift had not chosen to ticket it, but the evening one did. And, that the tow fee is usually $54-$65 for a five mile tow. (I had researched 3 different rural towing companies, even the one who towed me that July night)

The judge said he chose to deliberate and send out the verdict. I said, “thank you sir for hearing me.” Two days later I received the judge’s letter that said, “Not guilty.” I felt the truth was honored with equality, noticing a bloom of a smile on my face.

Then, as I write this I realize that once again I live on a circular driveway that serves three families (homes), only the driveway is in front of the back doors, instead of in back, like it had been in childhood. As I walk to my back door, or drive by, my heart opens to happiness with each look into the center-circle of the Heavenly Blue Morning Glories, speaking “your honor” with each entry and exit.

best birthday gift

Out of the mouth of babes….
do we see that we are all connected…
like 6-year-old Emily does spontaneously in this essay…

SINGING

Riley, my granddaughter, was three years old, when she sang “Since You’ve Been Gone,” by Kelly Clarkson, as if she was performing on stage. Riley opened her mouth big as a balloon, and wiggled like a worm. No, like a rock star.

Everyone laughed, and loved how much she mimicked Kelly Clarkson, being miniature-sized. I wanted to videotape her, and send it into America’s Funniest Home Videos…but I forgot to bring my video camera from Ithaca to Boston where Riley lives with her younger sister, Emily. By the time I returned to Boston with my video-camera, Riley no longer wanted to sing for me or her family. I was disappointed, and now wonder why I hadn’t remembered earlier, and why it meant so much to me to record my grand-child’s amazing singing.

“EMILY IS DIDI”
Didi (my name as gramma) is very excited that Emily wrote what is above in bold on her own. Emily is sitting on my lap as I type, and she is working the space key. She is 6 years old. She likes to sing Put your hands in the air, “because I know it a lot,” she tells me when I ask why she likes that song. Emily just typed her name and is giggling. I help Emily type mostly her words:

And green is the color of Love. Cats and dogs and bunnies are love.
Riley and Emily are LOVE.

I love didi and mommy and Riley I am dun.

My heart is singing, and not just because it is my birthday, where I sing today with my 2 daughters and 3 granddaughters, “When I’m 64” by the Beatles.