First, though:  after all these years, I’ve pretty much gotten used to the fact that I have no mother.  Not to say I don’t miss her.  For the first ten years or so after she died, I’d find myself becoming envious when friends talked about their mothers, even if they were complaining about them.  I’d wish that I could speak with and be with mine, just like they could.  And, I’d get indignant (silently) when they said negative things about their moms.  They should be happy to have a mother at all!  I’m pretty much over those feelings, but I still wish she were here.  I want her to tell me more about our family history, what I was like as a child, and what she thinks of me.  And, there are still times when I long for a hug and words of comfort and understanding that only a mother, who’s known me all my life, can give.  (No offense to Eileen here.)

In lieu of all this, and to honor her memory, my three older brothers and I, along with our spouses, a nephew and a niece, got together recently to reminisce about Mommy.  We convened over bagels and lox (don’t forget, we’re Jewish!) in my oldest brother’s sun-filled living room near Boston.  It must have felt ceremonious in spite of our informality, because Eileen asked if this – this talking about one’s parents on big anniversaries of their passing – was a Jewish tradition.  A good question – as Jews do have a strong sense of family and emphasize the importance of remembrance, and we honor Yahrzeits (the yearly anniversary of someone’s death) by saying the mourner’s Kaddish (prayer) and lighting a candle.  But the answer was no.  This purposeful reuniting of the siblings to reminisce about our parents is something that my brother devised.  Thank you, Nathan, for initiating what could easily become a tradition for others, too.

Our gathering was bittersweet, with many tears shed – even by those who had never met Mommy.  We had a difficult time getting started, not knowing where to begin.  I (and the spouses present) wanted to hear what she was like, how she acted in particular situations, and what her views were on family, life and the world.  But, those stories didn’t come easily.  We spent the first half hour talking about her death and the illnesses leading up to it.  The six-year period – from when she was diagnosed with leukemia, underwent treatments, experienced a healthy remission, and then the last few months of suffering from a variety of complications – was obviously a memorable and worrisome time for us all.  But remembering her demise did not shed much light on who and how she was while alive.

Indeed, my mother was not an easy person to get to know.  She was reserved, quiet in large groups, and didn’t share her stories easily.  I remember her lamenting that, unlike many Americans (she was born and lived in Germany until her early teens), she did not know how to make small talk.  I think only a few of her closest women friends really knew what she was thinking and feeling, at least in their common realms of life and family.  We children, even when grown, were rarely party to her opinions or her concerns.

As a child and then a young adult, I wanted to know what my mother thought of my actions, my choices and my decisions.  But, she was reticent to provide feedback of this sort.  She had domineering parents and knew the negative impacts of that sort of upbringing.   When she was a teenager, her father disapproved of her boyfriends, and (twice) sent her off to America on her own – to get her away from them.  He stifled her independence and creativity.  So, in response to this heavy-hand approach, Mommy did the opposite, withholding her views so that I could blossom in my own way.   While there is merit to that approach, it often left me guessing about what she really wanted.  Hence, my continuing wish to know her better.

Of course, there are many things we know about her.  She had strong opinions about what the world should be like, and she had strongly held values – such as the importance of a close, loving family.  But she did not tout them.  Instead, she was a doer, responding to issues and challenges that she believed in deeply.  Education was one of her primary interests – she taught underprivileged children to read and helped them gain access to a good education.  She also provided emotional and financial support to women in need and to the emerging women’s movement.  And, in the 1970s, as editor and then president of our family’s book publishing company, she pioneered the creation of a line of books on women’s studies, as well as one on early childhood education.  These are just a few examples…

But, to return to our family gathering:  To get us on track after our conversation about Mommy’s last days, my sister-in-law asked us to talk about the mother we knew growing up.  We tried, but still had trouble.  Maybe we all felt we didn’t know her well enough…  Instead, we spoke about the men she chose as husbands (our father and stepfather).  Both had a great sense of humor, clearly a feature that she appreciated, though maybe felt she lacked in herself.   We talked about the individuals she helped by providing educational opportunity.  And, about how her brother in Israel died within a couple of days of her own death, and that neither of them knew about the other’s passing.  Then, in remembering how she woke us for school each morning, a small and telling window opened.  She’d come into our bedrooms, pull up the shades and then, before coming to our beds to gently awaken us, she’d spend a moment looking over whatever she found on our desks, hoping to learn something about us that we hadn’t told her.  Maybe she felt she didn’t know us well enough either…

We turned to some of the letters we dug up from old files, and read them aloud.  Some were letters of condolence sent to our stepfather after she died.  They revealed how others – family friends and work colleagues – viewed her:  strong and silent, compassionate and dignified, appearing aloof at first but always devoted and concerned.  Others were ones that she sent to my oldest brother.  And, for me, they were the most revealing and heart-wrenching.  Finally, some of my questions were to be answered.

In the two letters – the first written two years after our father died (at age 50) and the second for my brother’s 25^th birthday, two years later – she expressed her loneliness and her misgivings, emotions which (I fear) prevailed throughout much of her life.  She regretted not reaching out more to her children for mutual support over our common loss, and for not offering us more of the love and wisdom she kept bottled within.  These two missives, so artfully written, told me a lot.  And, the tears and sniffles heard throughout the room told me that I wasn’t the only one touched by her admissions.  Even now, 30 years later, she continues to teach all of us within her reach.

Postscript:  Our gathering clearly demonstrated that Mommy’s ideal of creating a close and loving family has not been diminished through the passage of generations.  And, it turned out to be a timely moment to reaffirm that fact.  In the room with us, just two weeks away from taking its first breath, was her first great grandchild.  She would have been thrilled, just as the rest of us are.  The prospect of a new generation delights us, even as we hold our sadness.

Eileen and rooster

Aquamarine – the color of the Caribbean.   The waters were beckoning – bright, clear and warm.  Delicious – to swim in, snorkel upon, paddle through and gaze on.

We couldn’t resist.  And, with Eileen’s 50^th birthday just a month earlier, we had reason to celebrate.  Off we went for ten days in the Virgin Islands, where:

• temperatures in winter are consistently between 70 and 80 degrees;
• the water is always blue, never too warm, nor too cold;
• life underwater is more diverse, and dare I say more exciting?, than above the surface;
• roosters roam the beaches, tentatively and cordially visiting with sunbathers;
• at any particular moment everyone you talk to has been on a boat within the past 48 hours;
• people – whether they are locals or imports from the U.S., the Dominican Republic or St. Vincent – are easy-going and friendly;
• you drive on the left side of the road in U.S. territory and where the official currency is the dollar when on British lands;
• everyone is on island time – so, if you’re running late for the 6:00 pm ferry boat, you can call the boat and get it to wait for you;
• you can camp for free on a white sandy beach or you can pay over $1000/night to stay in a cabana on a similar white sandy beach;
• all beaches are open to the public, so you can walk through those fancy-dancy resorts – and even scarf down a rum drink – without trespassing; and
• you can, indeed, successfully apply the sunscreen and return home without a single burned spot.

We started our adventure with two nights on St. John (USVI) at Maho Bay Camps, one of the first eco-resorts in the world.  Opened in 1976, it consists of 114 tent-cabins on a hillside overlooking the beach and linked together by a intricate series of wooden boardwalks and staircases.  Nothing fancy, but comfortable enough, and environmentally-sensitive:  shared water-saving bathrooms, recycling, environmental education, healthy food, etc.  It’s very popular – one of those places that people return to year upon year (it was our second visit).  However, the property was leased for 35 years and the lease is now up.  The landowner doesn’t want to extend it because more money can be made from a luxury development.  Meanwhile, the Trust for Public Land is trying to acquire the property and protect it, but time is growing short.  Go soon, if you’ve ever been considering it!

Eileen is a water hound.  She can’t get enough snorkeling and loves a good paddle.  Hence, her suggestion to go on a 5-day kayak and snorkeling tour of the British Virgin Islands.  Here’s the skinny on that part of our trip:

• seven guests (3 Canadians, 4 from the U.S.) and two guides (20-somethings from North Carolina and Bar Harbor, ME (!);
• two nights of camping on a totally deserted beach on Peter Island, privately-owned with a fancy resort on the other side (which we never saw), and two nights camping at Ivan’s Stress-Free (it really is!!) Bar and Campground on Jost Van Dyke;
• kayaking (in double kayaks) island to island, battling headwinds and waves, necessitating several tows by our guide in his single kayak;
• snorkeling on fine sand beaches – viewing brightly colored fish, a hawksbill turtle and – my highlight – an octopus (amazing creatures, changing color texture and shape within a fraction of a second!)
• getting hooked on Painkillers, invented at the (local) Soggy Dollar Bar:  rum, coconut milk, pineapple juice, orange juice and – the key to its deliciousness – nutmeg;
• getting buffeted about in Bubbly Pool, a funnel shaped rock formation that creates a natural jacuzzi every time a wave comes in; and
• enjoying very fresh spiny lobster casually lassoed by our guide, West Indian rotis, and an amazing barbeque of local dishes at Ivan’s Stress-Free bar.

Afterwards, we spent three days on our own on Virgin Gorda, the British Virgin Island that caters to the rich and famous, and the wannabees, most of whom were island-hopping from their chartered sailboats.  We stayed in a multi-pastel-colored hotel at $125/night, but learned that we could have rented a little house at Richard Branson’s private island resort for a mere $30,000 per week.  Aside from plenty of snorkeling (Eileen just couldn’t get enough), we ogled three other high-end resorts, climbed to the highest point on the island – 1370 feet – and visited the famous Baths, large granite boulders that appear to have been dropped from a

Eileen at the Baths

dump truck on the south side of the island.  Between and around them are grottoes, fun to crawl through and snorkel around.  There are also the remains of a copper mine, worked by Cornish miners in the mid-1800s, where you still find green rocks, pieces of quartz, molybdenite and malachite, as well as a prominent rocky headland reminiscent of the Maine coast.

On our way home, we had four hours on St. Thomas (USVI), in the shopping district of Charlotte Amalie, where tens of thousands of cruise ship passengers arrive daily and weekly.  I wasn’t looking forward to killing time in the tourist-crammed jewelry shops, but as luck – and Eileen’s trust in Yelp’s ill-informed directions to the only camera shop in town – would have it, we came upon the St. Thomas synagogue.  It’s the second oldest synagogue in continuous use in the western hemisphere (Curacao is first) and is one of only four with a sand floor.  Founded (in 1796) by refugees from the Inquisition, it’s Sephardic in style.  We met the cantor, a very animated and enthusiastic woman from Wisconsin who acts as docent, and she told us about the congregation’s history and current day use, and showed us the 7 torah scrolls, chanting operatically from the Moroccan one.  Upon noticing Eileen’s tiny scar on her throat, she announced that she, too, is a cancer survivor, and gave us a special gift, the book that she and her husband wrote about her illness and recovery.  And, when I showed her photos (on my IPhone) of our recent wedding, she got very excited.  She insisted on bringing us up to the bimah (the podium) blessing us (singing loudly in Hebrew and English) in front of the open ark.  Quite an experience!  I think we’ve been married four times now – we’re “super duper married,” to paraphrase our rabbi….

Receiving blessings in St. Thomas

All goes to show that when you travel, you never know what and whom you’re going to come across – an octopus, a spiny lobster on a string, a Painkiller, a slightly-hyper but lovable cantor, or your own bemasked wife with a long yellow tube sticking out of her mouth.  All are good (with one my favorite) and all thrive when surrounded by the azure seas of the Caribbean.

My house and solar panels

Wednesday was a cloudy rainy day, which means that it was an unproductive one.  But not for the reasons you think.  It wasn’t because the weather affected my mood or energy level, but because my house doesn’t function well on cloudy days.  Why not?  Because when it’s overcast, it doesn’t do its job of saving the world, one ray at a time.  Now, if you now my address, you’ll agree that it would make sense that my house is attentive to the rays of the sun.  In fact, every house on Ray Drive should be into capturing the solar energy, don’t you think?

Well, I started the trend just over a year ago (November 2010).  I put solar panels on my roof – twelve of them.  Because I have a small house and a roof that slants every which way, my solar array isn’t sleek and expansive like the ones you see in the ads.  I’ve got two panels mounted on my front porch roof, three near the slope of the main roof, three more wedged in just under the dormer, and four more that you can’t see on a flat top roof in the back.   It’s a patchwork, but I’m proud of it.  And, I think the jumbled look makes it stand out.  I want people to notice and to consider doing the same, if possible, on their own homes and businesses.

Back to my feelings of productivity.  Did you notice that I associate my own sense of productiveness with that of my home?  When the sun shines and my solar panels are making a lot of kilowatt-hours of electricity, I feel virtuous.  I can be sitting on my butt in my living room twiddling my thumbs – or, for those of you who read my blog a couple of weeks ago, playing Words with Friends – but if the sun is shining and my electricity meter is spinning backwards, I feel like I’m helping alleviate the world’s environmental problems.  After all, my house is helping reduce climate change, sea level rise and the extinction of climate sensitive species.  Pretty nice, huh?

Okay, so by installing solar panels on my house, I feel righteous.  And by producing electricity from the sun, instead of having to use electricity produced by mining and burning of coal,* I’ve reduced my usage of fossil fuels and my carbon emissions.  Looks like a good move towards environmental sustainability.  But what about the financial sustainability of my decision?  Does it make economic sense?   I can’t completely answer that question yet, but I can present you with some numbers (not too many, I promise) that might enlighten your thinking.  [Note the pun.  It's actually a double pun; the second reference will become clear below.]

*Truth be told, I still use the same electricity – mostly generated by coal – that my utility company, Pepco, sells.  That is, I get my power from the same grid that serves everyone in my region.  However, the solar power that my panels produce is returned to the grid and I get credited for it.  I – my house with its solar panels, that is (you see how I closely associate the two of us as one and the same!) – am contributing to Pepco’s renewable energy quota.  Sounds so altruistic, doesn’t it?  But, I get paid for this.  You’ll see.

The financials:  first, there’s the upfront cost of installing solar panels.  It is pretty high, but in my case, I’m getting two thirds of my initial investment back in the form of cash or credits from the Federal government, State (Maryland) government and my county.  The first two incentives – a tax credit on my federal income taxes and a grant from the state – I received within six months of paying for my solar system.  The county tax credit will be a few years in coming.  (County officials had no idea that their renewable energy incentive would prove so popular, causing a delay in payments to those of us who took advantage of the incentive before it was suspended altogether.)  In addition, for the next five years I will be paid for the Solar Renewable Energy Credits (SRECs) that my system produces.  Because Maryland has a Renewable Energy Portfolio standard, the utilities in the state must purchase a certain percentage of their energy from renewable sources.  They do so, in part, by buying SRECs from producers such as me.  There goes the altruism….

What about my electricity bills?  How much do I save?  Considering that my 12 panels, the maximum number that would fit on my roof, weren’t designed to cover our entire electricity requirement, I’m doing pretty well.  Check out this table, which shows the number of kilowatt-hours (kwh) of electricity we bought from Pepco and the total cost for the first eleven months of the year for the past four years.  (I can’t give you the 12-month figure because I haven’t yet received my final Pepco bill for 2011).  Remember that only in 2011, were we generating our own electricity.

January – November, 2008:                        2850 kwh            $537

January – November, 2009:                        2820 kwh            $515

January – November, 2010:                        2800 kwh            $476

January – November, 2011:                          450 kwh              $100

All in all, I’m told that with the tax credits, grants, SREC payments and the reduction in my electricity bill, I should make back my investment within five years.  I’m more than satisfied with that, especially since I also get the incalculable benefit of feeling productive, even when I’m just sitting around on a sunny afternoon making up words to stump my Scrabble-playing friends.

P.S.  I don’t blame you if you feel you’ve read enough already.  I’ve made my point.  But if you like cool, fun features (bells and whistles), and you marvel at the untold benefits of technology, read on.  Ditto if you want to know why my pun was a double one.

Enlighten reporting and monitoring system

Attached to each panel is a microinverter, a little gadget that converts the DC solar power to grid-compliant AC power.  The microinverter technology comes with a nifty webpage, customized for my house, that shows me how much energy my panels are producing at any given moment, or per today, week, month or year.  It also tells me which panels are making the most electricity and when they are most active.  The monitoring system is called Enlighten (aha!), and it also serves to detect problems if one of the panels isn’t functioning correctly.  (It works.  Every time I turn off our Internet – to save electricity, no less! – I get an email alert telling me that the system isn’t recording.)

I love looking at my Enlighten webpage.  Sometimes I check it for a sunshine report.  When I looked on Wednesday evening, I saw that two of the last seven days were drab and dreary, while the rest were sunny.  I can even ferret out unnecessary detail, such as the fact that there was half an hour of cloud cover at about 1:00 pm last Friday.  But the best part of Enlighten is that I’ve learned that I – the panels on my house, that is – have produced 3480 kilowatt hours of energy since they were installed.  That, it tells me, is enough electricity to power 115 houses for one day.  I’ve offset 2.4 tons of carbon, equivalent to 62 trees.  Wow.  I’ve saved 62 trees just sitting under my sunny roof, catching rays on Ray Drive.

So, they say.  If I weren’t such a skeptic about this kind of number crunching, I’d really be basking in the sun…..  Speaking of which, there’ll be no blog next week because I will – indeed! –  be basking in the sun.  Stay tuned to find out where.

Last weekend Eileen and I decided to partake one of our favorite activities:  spending a couple of nights in a Bed and Breakfast.  Normally, we choose our destination based on what we can do there – hiking, biking, swimming, siteseeing, etc. – but often the major attraction turns out to be the accommodation itself.  Our New Year’s weekend in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia had its draws – hot springs, spas, good restaurants, hiking and birding – but afterwards we decided that our B&B experience was what made it most memorable. 

Specifically, we enjoyed the long conversations we had with our hosts and other guests over our breakfasts.  Topics ranged from how to care for cyclamens and favorite IPad apps to the Republican’s race for the presidential nomination and Colombia as a place to travel.  But inevitably, the conversation turned to B&B’s, and to stories about some of the unusual places that we had stayed in, in the past.  We told our tale of the one in Virginia which was so well furnished that there wasn’t a space for guests to put their stuff.  It turned out that one of the owners was an antique collector and just couldn’t stop patronizing yard sales, estate sales, antique dealers, etc.  In fact, he and his partner bought the house and started the B&B just so that he could indulge in his passion.

The story we didn’t tell, though, is one that’s better read than heard.  I wrote it up a few years ago – about a B&B we stayed in August of 2004.  I know it’s a bit long (for a blog), but I think you’ll find it purrfectly amusing, if not a bit catty….   Enjoy!  [Note:  the misspellings, emphases, etc. are not mine.  Rather, they're the B&B owner's.  I have photos to prove it...]

‘It’s the Cat’s Meow,’ said the sign on the street.  “I sure hope so,” I commented to Eileen, as we traipsed up the driveway to what was to be the seventh Bed and Breakfast we had entered within the past 45 minutes.  “It’s time to make a decision and get settled for the evening. I’m getting hungry.”  We were in St. Andrews, New Brunswick on the last night of an adventurous outdoors vacation, touring the coastline, biking, hiking and kayaking.  While we had camped throughout our ten-day visit, we decided to luxuriate our last night, staying in a comfortable and relaxing bed and breakfast in this seaside resort.  It was mid-August, the height of the tourist season, and several of the promising inns we had visited were already full or too pricey for us.  The most affordable one, painted bright lilac on the outside, was crammed with sunken, overstuffed couches and bookshelves of musty paperbacks.  It looked and smelled too much like a fraternity house for our tastes, so we continued our search.

While we regarded our tour of the town’s B & Bs as a way to learn about the community and meet some local folks, it was getting late, and we were ready to rest our weary bodies.  If true to its name, the Cat’s Meow would be a easy-going place to hang out, so we approached with hope and high expectations.  The house was attractive, a large, white Victorian home artfully landscaped with native shrubs, flowers and a small lawn.  It was a classic upper crust New England turn-of-the-century home, even though it was just over the U.S. border in Canada.  The sign on the front door said:

TO INQUIRE ABOUT OUR B AND B

PLEASE RING THE DOOR BELL

ENTER

NOW PRESS THE SERVICE BUTTON

ON THE FRONT DESK

AND WAITE TO BE WELCOMED

                                    THANK-YOU

I pressed the bell and looked around, noting another sign on the adjacent window:

PLEASE BE CAREFUL NOT

TO LET THE CAT OUTSIDE

Considering the name of the establishment, I would have expected the an ‘s’ at the end of cats, but I was quickly learning not to trust my first impressions of this St. Andrew’s inn.

Eventually, a large, jolly-faced woman, dressed in a summery calico dress, appeared at the door and welcomed us in.  After making introductions, she showed us the two available rooms, apologizing that she didn’t have one with twin beds available (no matter to us).  During our survey of local B&Bs, Eileen had made it a point to test each bed to ensure it wouldn’t aggravate her achy back.  She moving aside the two plasticized sheets of instructions lying on the quilted queen-sized bed, lay down on the mattress, and declared her approval.  After choosing the larger room with the sloped ceilings, the proprietor led us downstairs to register at the front desk.  While waiting for her to locate her glasses, I looked around for the cat, but there was no evidence in sight.  Instead, I noted the signs on the desk saying:

WHEN PAYING BY CHECK

BE SURE TO WRITE DOWN PHONE NUMBER

AND DRIVER’S LICENSE NUMBER

IF USING A CREDIT CARD

INCLUDE PHONE NUMBER ON MERCHANT COPY OF RECEIPT

All right, I can manage.

With the business transaction completed, we retrieved our luggage from the car, and headed upstairs to relax before dinner.  It was to be the last carefree evening of our vacation.  Closing the door of our room, I noticed two large notices on the back:

FOR YOUR SECURITY

KEEP YOUR ROOM

LOCKED

AT ALL TIMES

DON’T’ FORGET TO LEAVE YOUR

“IN FOR THE NIGHT” CARD

ON THE FRONT DESK

BEFORE RETIREING

Okay, I thought to myself, signs on the back of the door are pretty standard for hotels.  I put down my backpack, and flopped myself on the bed for a brief rest before dinner.   The plasticized 8½ x 11” pages poked into my leg, so I pulled them aside and started reading:

ATTENTION GUESTS

YOUR KEYS ARE FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION

WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE WHEN ROOMS LEFT

UNLOCKED

COMING FROM THE USA YOU HAVE ENTERED

INTO THE…ATLANTIC TIME ZONE…PLEASE

SET YOUR WATCHES AHEAD BY…ONE HOUR…

BREAKFAST IS ONLY SERVED AT 8:45 PROMPTLY

IN THE MORNING

COFFEE IS IN THE DINING-ROOM AT 8:00 AM

CHECK-OUT TIME IS 10:00 AM

AN HOURLY CHARGE WILL BE APPLIED

TO REMAIN LONGER..$10.00/HR

WE ASK THAT YOU BE CONSIDERATE

AND NOT LEAVE LIGHTS ON

WHILE OUT OF YOUR ROOM

THANK-YOU

DURING THE DAY WE WILL ENTER YOUR ROOM

TO CHECK WINDOWS DURING STORMS..BUT

PLEASE BE RESPONSIBLE FOR CLSOING THEM

DURING THE NIGHT

THANKING YOU FOR YOUR KIND ATTENTION

I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but for some reason I wasn’t finding it restful.  So, I got up to use the bathroom, bracing myself for what was becoming an emerging pattern.  Sure enough, next to the sink was a note asking me not to waste water and to hang up my towels on the towel rods.  Above the toilet, a message advised me not to put extraneous items in the toilet.  And by the bathtub, a message reminded me to keep the shower curtain inside the tub.  I had never taken a class in basic manners.  In fact, I don’t believe one was offered at either of the two institutions of higher learning that I attended.  I asked Eileen if she had taken a course in household civics, and she, like me, responded in the negative.  I guess it was time we got educated.

We decided to take a break from our lessons and go out to dinner.   While Eileen locked the door of our room, I glanced at a small table in the hallway.  It held a lamp with a note asking visitors not to turn off the light.  I wouldn’t dream of it.  As we exited the house, a sticker on the inside reminded us not to forget our front door key and to return quietly to the B&B before midnight.  I’m not much of a drinker, but I found myself in need of some alcohol.  So much for a carefree time in St. Andrews by the Sea….

After a tasty, low key dinner of Bay of Fundy halibut and Caesar salad, we returned to the B&B (quietly and well before midnight, of course) and immediately went to sleep.  I figured that as long as I kept my eyes closed, I could avoid feeling like I was in Etiquette 101.   I slept well, dreaming that I was in a workshop full of literate cats working intently at drafting tables producing hand-written instructional materials.  The next morning Eileen laughed at my dream, and told me that she had imagined a classroom full of cats reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.   We quickly decided that the best way to rid ourselves of feline fantasies and fears of additional didacticism was to head out as soon as we could.  But we weren’t going to forego the promised gourmet breakfast.

As instructed, we went to the dining room promptly at 8:45 am.  All four walls of the chandeliered room had two rows of wainscoting lined with small wooden blocks depicting famous buildings and monuments across America.  We were impressed by the variety and accuracy of images portrayed and the sheer size of the innkeeper’s collection.  When we asked where she got them, she looked at us incredulously.  “Haven’t you ever heard of the Cat’s Meow?” she asked.  Not in this context, I thought.  It turns out that the Cat’s Meow is a company that has produces and sells these two dimensional miniatures, each with a small seated black cat hidden somewhere in the picture.  Millions of such replicas are sold each year as ‘purr-fect gifts which preserve history and add a special touch to any décor,’ according to their promotional material.  I wondered if our hostess had created rules and accompanying signs for how each icon in the room should behave.

Hesitant to ask, and ready to let go of instructions, I headed for coffee.  A cup of Joe would clear the mind for our final day of leisurely vacationing.  And, it was bound to be strong, as our hostess had asked me beforehand how I like my morning drink.  I turned to the thermos and found:

SPECIAL REQUEST

EXTRA EXTRA

STRONG

COFFEE

XXX

For some reason, I wasn’t ready for that, nor for the note next to it on the table:

TO DISPENSE COFFEE

UNSCREW LID SLIGHTLY

 BE CAREFUL NOT TO OVERPOUR

I resigned myself to my evident need for constant schooling on domestic issues, and gradually became catatonic.  In spite of the XXX coffee….

Seasons Greetings cards

I’d like to have a word with you.  Actually, I’d like to share several words with you.  Given my choice of phrase, I’ll reassure you that you’re not in trouble.  Not at all, my friend.    If anyone is in trouble, it’s me.  You see, I’ve become an addict.  I’m hoping that it’s just a seasonal thing since my obsession involves connecting with friends and family, and this is the time of year for that.  If temporary, my mania should diminish in a couple of months and I can return to communicating in more meaningful ways.  Otherwise, cross words will persist.  Please don’t take offense.

I’ll tell you about my addiction, but first I want to play with words to tell you about my predilections for the holiday season.   For me, this time of year is all about making connections with friends and family, especially those with whom I’ve not been in touch for a while.  Of course, I have other associations, too.  They include the typical:  Christmas (which, since I am Jewish, have only started celebrating recently, upon meeting Eileen); Hanukah (lighting candles every night now because Eileen insists upon it – vs. lighting them only when convenient or when with other Jews); gifts (yes, I do enjoy a few well-selected ones).  And, the more recent traditions of Kwanzaa (which I’ll admit to knowing pitifully little about) and the Pastafarians, who ascribe to the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  I just learned about the latter this year.  It’s a hoot.  Check out this link to learn more about the origins and foundations of this iconoclastic creed.

This part of the year is distinctive because it’s a time of conversing with others – often with words carefully chosen.   For instance, there’s the dilemma of whether to say Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah or ?? to strangers.   But, more importantly it includes attending office parties, holiday open houses, New Year’s Eve bashes, holiday happy hours – most of which I don’t take part in these days (especially as my office party would be a party of one) – as well as family get-togethers to give and receive gifts, decorate trees and homes, light candles, and (of course) eat and overeat.  The gatherings that I appreciate most are with a small group of friends or family.   We get together for a meal, go for a wintertime walk, or just touch base when everyone else around us seems to be running in circles of social and material commitments.

It’s also a time of reading words relevant to year’s end.  If we’re lucky, they’re imbued with heartfelt meaning.  If not they’ve at least been chosen to match the season.  I’m referring to the holiday cards we get in the mail.  I love them – especially the ones that come in the real mail, the one still operated by the U.S. Postal Service.  There’s something nostalgic about getting a hand-written envelope with my name on it – in the realization that it conveys a personal thought from someone I know, rather than a cold hard bill or a donation plea from yet another cash-strapped non-profit.  Sometimes the cards come with photos of kids who (miraculously!) are transforming themselves into adults; other times they’re mini-history books, highlighting the accomplishments, travels and penchants of each family member (including the dog).   They offer tiny windows into the daily lives of friends who’ve I not seen for years, and whose routines and interests may have changed since last we spent time together.  And, they bring back memories of former exploits together, whether silly or sad, enlightening or glad.

This year, I’ve been connecting with friends and family many miles away in a new way.  Like the holiday e-cards that Eileen and I send out (sorry, no hand-written envelopes, but our emailed greeting is easier to send, able to reach more people, and more environmentally sound), it takes advantage of the Internet.  It’s much more interactive than the usual mail blitz, and unlike our card (replete with photos of our year’s adventures but short on words), it’s chock full of words.  And, the words are carefully selected and strategically placed.  They have meanings, but I’ll admit that when linked together, there is no particular message conveyed.   Yes, I’ve become absorbed by a meaningless addiction.  But, it does have its benefits – keeping me sharp to ward off potential Alzheimer’s and connecting me to people whom I might otherwise not spend much time with.

Words with Friends game

So, what is my obsession?  It’s Words with Friends – or WwF, as it’s referred to in text talk.  Not to be confused with the World Wildlife Fund, Wrestling Federation (which changed its name to World Wrestling Entertainment, or WWE, as a result of a law suit filed by the wildlife conservation organization), Widowed White Female, or Welded Wire Fabric – to name a few other claimants of the acronym.   In case, you’re App-challenged, Words with Friends is a game that you can download to a smart phone or tablet.  It’s like Scrabble but with the double and triple word/letter score boxes in different places (to avoid copyright challenges).

Addicted, you say?  If you know me, you know that I’m not one for addictions.  Rather, I abide by the “Everything in moderation” (well… just about everything…) philosophy.  But, I’m a game player and I do love words (hence my penchant for blogging).  I don’t get to play Scrabble often enough because traditional Scrabble – over a real board with wooden letters – takes a willing partner and concentrated, focused time.  Eileen, my closest prospect, isn’t into games (especially those which I’m good at!), so a pick-up game with her is unlikely.   And, the typical occasions for playing – while on vacation or at designated game nights – don’t come ’round often enough either.  So, I’ve come to rely on Words with Friends, which I can play anytime, and with as many different players as I want.

As a result, I’ve taken to checking my iPhone every hour – or often every 20 minutes – throughout the day and night to see if my opponent has played a word.  If so, it’s my turn to wring 75, 86 or even 91 points out of my jumble of letters.  If I succeed, I’ve satisfied my addiction.  I can get back to accomplishing something worthwhile, or having a meaningful conversation with friends.  That is, until I hear another ping on my iPhone, indicating that it’s my turn again.  Aaach!  What can I do with S-A-U-E-U-S-U??

Life magazine - December 8, 1961

With the end of the year approaching, most of us look back over our year to assess what we’ve done, learned, accomplished, lost and gained.  This year I’ve been looking at 2011 from a different perspective – from that of 50 years ago.  What prompted me to do this was a copy of Life magazine, dated December 8, 1961 (the day that my wife Eileen was born) that her sister gave her on her birthday.  In flipping through the musty pages, I was struck by how different the world looked then, how our values and styles have changed, and how carefree and innocent we were.

The images and the writing seemed, on the one hand, so familiar.  After all, they were what I was raised on, representing the style of media that I encountered when I first started reading.  On the other hand, the messages – especially those in the advertisements – seemed dissonant from those offered today.  Rather than telling you, I’m going to show you some examples of the differences (one of the first lessons of writing well is “show, don’t tell”).  You may draw your own conclusions, but no matter what they are, I think you’ll find that this peek into American life as it was1961 quite amusing.

First, there’s the cover, looking quintessentially anachronistic.  It’s a photo of a Plum Pudding Flambé – dark and gooey, with yellow flames rising off the top.  The cake sits on a stemmed silver platter, next to two white candles set into shining silver candlesticks.  That was when there were maids to polish the silver every week…   Above the flaming candles is the teaser:  “Season to Forget Your Diet.”  Of course, that is what usually happens this time of year, but in this time of rampant obesity, it’s not a message that either the media nor other responsible businesses are eager to endorse.

Fleischmann's Distillery advertisement

One of my favorite pages is the ad for Fleischmann’s Distillery, producer of whiskey, gin and vodka.  (The company has been bought up many times since 1961, but the Fleischmann name is still on the bottles.)  The photo is classic:  three nicely-dressed couples sitting and standing in a formal living room, complete with chandelier and brocade couch.  They are paired off, happily and politely engaging each other in conversation.  I wonder what they’re talking about, how much flirting is going on, and/or whether they are married to the person they’re each conversing with or whether they’ve mixed up the couples.  Some of the conversations appear to be getting rather intimate….   The catchphrase for the liquor is “So smart to serve… So smart to buy!”  After such a smart evening, who will be doing the driving?

On a more serious note is an article, punctuated with black and white photos and quotes from those involved, about discrimination against African diplomats at roadside restaurants on Route 40 in Maryland and Delaware, the highway that linked embassies in Washington, DC and the United Nations in New York City.  One of the quotes says it all.  After the Ambassador of Chad stopped for a meal along the route, Mrs. Leroy Merritt (note the use of Mrs. Leroy) of the Bonnie Brae Diner said, “He looked like just an ordinary run of the mill nigger to me.  I couldn’t tell he was an ambassador.  We serve them if they don’t get noisy, but only out of the goodness of our hearts. I said, ‘There’s no table service here.’  We’ve got our life savings in this place, and the main part of our trade is southern truck drivers.”

It was a time when numerous Africans and Negro Americans (as referred to in the article) faced many similar types of discrimination, and a time when three bills requiring desegregation of restaurants, motels and hotels had died in the Maryland legislature.  Eventually, the problem was resolved, but not without the intervention of President Kennedy, the U.S. State Department, the Maryland Commission on Interracial Relations, and threat of a Freedom Riders action in which 1000 blacks would seek service at businesses along Rte. 40 and risk arrest.   When you visit rest stops along the Interstate today, can you imagine them without people of color?

Back to the ads of 1961.  It’s Christmastime and the Eastman Kodak Company is promoting the new Brownie Starmite Camera, with built-in flash.  It costs less than $12, or $13 if you add in batteries and film.  What a bargain!  The ad says, “Open me first!” and the picture, taken from above, shows a classic family of the time:  five pajama-clad children, their parents, and a coiled up kitten, clustered around a recently-unwrapped Brownie camera.  Everyone is clamoring to pull it out of the box, to be the first to try it out.  What we don’t see is the kids pulling and tugging to get their hands on the newest of inventions, the crying, the mother pulling out her hair because the kids – who all appear to be the same age – won’t stop fighting.  Instead, we innocently view the perfect family, the product of the American Dream.

Then, there’s the ad for “the remarkable Parker 61 – the pen that makes its own ink!”  Again the photo is black and white – a white-haired man (also shot from above) holding a long rectangular box opened to expose a pen, silver on top and black on the bottom.  The man holds his chin and gazes at the pen, as if he’s trying to figure out when and where to use it.  The text says, “To the man who has a very good friend with $15.  Don’t expect him to invest in a gift you want, unless you give him a few hints…  Tell him how long it’s been since you’ve held a fountain pen in hand that didn’t leave you with ink-stained fingers….”  If I had to respond to that prompt, I’d say it’s been since I was a toddler.  However, most people around today would be bewildered by the question.  They’d likely respond with a question, “What is a fountain pen?”  Let alone the fact that we hardly use pens at all, anymore.

F-85 Cutlass advertisement

Finally, there’s the plug for the F-85 Cutlass, made by Oldsmobile.  We see a young couple seated inside (of course, it’s the man behind the wheel) a light blue coupe as another young couple skips out their snow-covered house towards the car.  A woman, presumably the mother of the young woman, peers out and wishes them well as she closes the front door.   The two couples are off to go skating, looking “sharp” in the shiny sedan with V-8 performance.  The description tells us that the car is “Exciting… agile…action-packed.”  And, it’s “pure excitement on wheels, with rakish body lines that sparkle with sportiness!”  If only teens (or were they called co-eds then??) went on such tame double dates.  And, more to the point, do we want our young drivers to be aspiring for pure excitement on wheels?  That could end up being a little too much…

Life of 1961 – as well as (real) life in 1961 – is full of many such anachronisms, and I’d love to entertain you with more examples, but I’m guessing that you’re growing short on time and attention span.  You probably need to run out and by some vodka for the holiday cocktail party, a new camera for the family (since when did you buy one camera for the entire family?!), or possibly a new car to impress your friends.  Just make sure that whatever you get is rakish!        Happy holidays.

Abi, with wrinkles and thinning hair

I recently got a glimpse of the inevitable, and I didn’t like what I saw.  I tried to turn my back and run away, but my body wouldn’t let me.  And that was just the point, the big scary point.  My body was sore and achy.  I had pulled a muscle in the back of my hip and as a result, I couldn’t move rapidly or easily without feeling pain.  Now that, in itself, isn’t so uncommon, but it got me thinking about age.  Old age, that is.  After all, I had just turned 55, and two weeks later my wife Eileen joined the over-50 club.  As they say, we aren’t getting any younger…

In spite of the recent complaints from my hip, I don’t really feel old.  My mind hasn’t told me that I’m old.  I think of the elderly as folks with white hair who hobble down the street and take their time sitting down, pulling out their glasses or buttoning their coats.  Personally, I don’t identify with how they move; rather, I see their slowed tempos as something particular to them.  At least I did until now.  Which got me worried.

Are aches and pains and slow-to-work muscles a sign of what’s to come?   Was this senior moment, manifesting itself in my body rather than my mind, a foreshadowing of a more permanent condition?  Might I really become slower and less steady on my feet?  I was astounded.  How could this happen to me?  I’ve always been healthy and active, with a nimble and flexible body.  In fact, I consider my agility as one of my defining characteristics.  How could I become otherwise?

Now, you’re probably thinking, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.  Aging is unavoidable and one of its downsides is a slow deterioration of the body’s ability to function efficiently.  Now I know this as well as the next gal, but I also know that it’s not supposed to happen to me.  Never to me… As I say this, I flashback to my youth, to that feeling of invincibility and the sense that I can go anywhere, do anything.  You know that positivism.  You probably see it in the teens and twenty-somethings of today.  But, I’m not that young, so I should know better.  The problem is that my rational mind knows this, but my wishful thinking mind does not.

A new question surfaces:  can wishful thinking win over what’s rational, over the hard and fast reality that the longer we live, the older and frailer our bodies get?   I want to say yes, as I believe that one’s attitude determines one’s level of happiness in life.  That is, if you choose to have a good attitude, you will be more content and appreciative, no matter what happens.  No matter if your hair turns grey, your skin wrinkles, your back gets cranky, or your knees wobble when you walk.  The challenge, of course, is to accept the inevitable realities of time on our bodies and to embrace them in a positive manner.

Can I face that challenge gracefully?  It’s a good question, one to be answered in the years to come…

Postscript:  I labored for almost a week on this blog entry, unable to arrive at a satisfactory resolution.  I don’t feel as if I’ve finished what I need to say on the topic of aging.  On the one hand, maybe that’s a good sign:  maybe I haven’t yet reached the point in my life where I can realistically consider old age.  That would be the optimistic view.  On the other hand, all of this thinking about aging has depressed me.  So, to take the weight off my shoulders, I’m sending these words off, into the blogosphere.  If you’ve read this far, I’m guessing that you can relate to some of what I’ve said.  And if so, I’d love to hear your take on age-old old age feelings.  After all, we’re all moving in the same direction.

Chuppah made with Eileen's mother's tablecloth

Weddings are one of those occasions when you really want your loved ones to be there.  You want them to witness your happiness and (hopefully) share theirs with you.  You may also want them to participate, to demonstrate their support for your decision to commit yourself to someone you plan to spend the rest of your life with.  I certainly did.  But when Eileen and I got married in May, we knew that most of our most loved ones – our parents – would not be with us.  Four of the five of them had died, and none were going to take part in our wedding ceremony.  There’d be no parents to walk us down the aisle, nor to perform toasts in our honor.

Now I’m quite used to not having parents around.  Mine died long ago:  my father, in 1965 at age 50; my mother, in 1982 at 65; and my stepfather, in 1986 at 70.  While I think about them often and miss them a lot, I’ve learned not to expect anything from them anymore.  Which doesn’t mean that I don’t want to know what they’d be thinking, saying or doing now.  Rather, it’s that I’ve grown accustomed to considering them as part of my past.  Occasionally, however, I imagine what their responses to me and to today’s world would be.

For instance, I know that they would have been happy – really happy – to see me get married.  They had always encouraged me to explore life and to find my own path.  And because they raised me to be independent and make my own choices, they were happy when I was happy.   Entering into a committed relationship with someone I loved certainly fit this bill.  Sure, I wasn’t marrying the nice Jewish man that they had expected or hoped for.  And sure, I was already over 50 and unlikely to have children.  But they would have seen how much joy there is when Eileen and I are together.  And, I have no doubts that my parents would have liked Eileen.  They would have easily realized that she is the perfect spouse for me.

Back to the wedding.  While it was clear that none of my parents were going to be there in person, I still wanted them to participate, and to witness the event.  Eileen was of similar mind, so we decided to include our parents symbolically, by incorporating objects that had been theirs into our traditional Jewish wedding ceremony.  We would bring them closer to us by using their belongings.  And, in doing so, our memories and our gratitude would be reactivated.  By letting our guests know the provenance and history of these objects, they, too, would feel a bit of our parents’ presence.

Of course, every wedding has two sets of parents to consider.  I’ve spoken only of my own, but right from the start, Eileen and I agreed that we would invite all of our parents to participate symbolically in our wedding ceremony.  In fact, Eileen’s father could not be with us either – he died in late 2005 – so including a coveted object of his would also bring him closer to us and to our joy.   It would be equally important to do the same for Eileen’s mother, the only parent who would be attending.  While she was physically at the wedding, she wasn’t there in spirit.  (See my blog entitled “Flora’s Elegant Wedding Rebuff” to learn of her mixed emotions about her daughter’s marriage to another woman).  She didn’t want to be part of the processional or to participate in other public ways, so we incorporated an object of hers into one of the most obvious symbols of home and family life.

So, what were these icons – reminders of our parents – that we integrated into the wedding ceremony?  The most visible one one was a tablecloth, hand-crocheted by Eileen’s mother, that we used as the covering of the chuppah (Jewish wedding canopy).  We attached each corner to a bamboo pole, decorated with rainbow-colored streamers.  Bamboo is an Asian plant common in the Philippines (where Eileen’s parents are from), and represents friendship and longevity.  I like to think that even if she wasn’t entirely pleased with what was going on under the chuppah, Eileen’s mom was proud to have her handiwork displayed so prominently.  To me, it was her blessing over us – in disguise.

Kiddush cups belonging to my fathers

Jewish weddings include two cups of wine, each with its own blessings.  The first is at the beginning of the ceremony, the betrothal or kiddushin.  Two blessings are recited:  one over the wine itself and the other over the sanctification of the marriage.  The second is cup is used when reciting the seven blessings (sheva brakhot), which complete the marriage ceremony.  Most Jewish boys and men have their own kiddush cups (often given to them at their Bar Mitzvahs) and since I had two fathers, we used one of each of their silver cups for the two wine blessings.  (My father’s was given to him when he was born.  It is inscribed with the date of his birth, but since he had not yet been named, it says, “Baby Rome, December 28, 1914″).

Finally, Eileen and I each wore jewelry of the remaining (i.e., not yet represented) parents.  She put on a gold necklace made of interlocking rings.  It was one of my mother’s favorite pieces of jewelry, and she wore it often on Friday nights and other festive occasions.  I have strong and loving associations of my mother with that necklace, and it warmed my heart to see it on Eileen’s chest.  (If you looked carefully under the necklace, you could also make out a sign of Eileen’s fortitude, the scar left from her successful battle with thyroid cancer.)

My mother's necklace and Eileen's father's tie clip

I save the best for last.  It’s not that the object from Eileen’s father was the most valuable, the most touching, or the most representative of who he was.  Rather that it was that it was a funny and ironic choice.  I got to wear one of her dad’s most coveted ornaments.  It was his Richard Nixon tie clip!  (He had worked in the White House kitchen for many Presidents – from Johnson to Reagan – and though he was a tried and true Democrat, he said that Tricky Dick was his favorite boss, always friendly and warm to the staff.)   The irony of it is that, like the owner of the tie clip, Richard Nixon was reputed to be opposed to same-sex marriage.

The truth is that our parents are always with us in our hearts and our memories, no matter what they may think of us and of our decisions.  While they can’t always be with us when we want them, the physical reminders that we used at our wedding helped us feel that they were accompanying us on our journey into marriage.  And, they served as a way to honor our fathers and mothers, just as we’re wont – and wanted – to do.

Abi doing Utthita Hasta Padangustasana in Guatemala

Poolsisia… Silioposa…  Liopoasis…  Ever heard of these words?  Nor I, but they sound pretty cool.  I made them up in order to distract myself from what’s bothering me.  They’re anagrams of a word I just learned (I’ll give you a minute to see if you can figure it out).  It’s a word I discovered the hard way four days ago.  And, I’m still feeling it.  When I get out of bed in the morning or start to sit down, I feel a sharp biting pain above my butt.  It’s on the right side (though I don’t think either side would be the right side for such an obstreperous attack) at the back of my hip.  It’s the revenge of the iliopsoas (pronounced ilio-so-as), the three muscles that join together in your hips to help it flex.

How did I get myself into such a pickle (a sour situation, to be sure)?   Yoga.  I pushed myself too far without realizing it.  I had decided to attend a weekend workshop offered by John Friend, the founder of Anusara yoga, the type of yoga that I practice.   I wanted to meet “the man” himself.  My teachers often refer to him glowingly, telling of his compelling and charismatic nature.  He travels the world stretching minds, hearts and bodies, so it’s not easy to catch up with him.  But this weekend he was coming to Maryland (to nearby College Park), so it would be easy to participate.  I signed up for the intermediate-advanced class, which I knew would be a bit of a challenge, but I was up for it.  I’ve been practicing yoga for 12 years and can finally do Adho Mukha Vrksana, Urdhva Dhanurasana and an approximate version of Eka Pada Rajakapotasana.

Pardon me for speaking another language.  I do love the Sanskrit names of yoga poses.  They remain in my head and on the tip of my consciousness for weeks, kind of like the songs that people (not me, as I’m tone deaf) can’t get out of their heads.  The …asana ending, preceded by any number of prefixes, rolls off my tongue when I’m least suspecting it.  My language receptors must be posed for yoga….  In any case, for you curious but non-yogic types, those funny looking and sounding names I’ve spelled out do have English translations and literal Sanskrit ones:  hand stand (downward-facing tree pose); wheel (upward bow pose); and pigeon (one-legged king pigeon pose).

Back to my story, which, while not that thrilling, turned out to be rather spine-tingling.  After four hours of pretty intense stretching on Saturday, I got up on Sunday morning and did my usual 20 minutes of yoga, preparing myself for another tough session.  It’s kind of like people cleaning their house in preparation for the cleaning lady…  As I reached for my toes in Paschimottanasana (seated forward bend – sorry, I just can’t resist using those melodic names), I marveled to myself that I felt good and limber.  But seconds later, I did something – who knows what – that made me want to retract my declaration.   Soon my lower back, underneath the ilium – the lobed hip bone on both sides of the sacrum – was shrieking at me.

Not wanting to admit defeat, nor miss any of John’s wisdom, I took an Ibuprofen and headed off to the workshop.  I was annoyed at myself and my injury, especially since this day in particular – a rare opportunity to practice yoga with a master teacher – I wanted my body to be able to move and stretch in infinite directions.  But, in a rare moment of maturity, I also realized that this could be a test for myself.  Would I be able to see beyond my own pain and annoyance to capture what might be a yogic moment, a retuning of my thoughts and attitudes?

I can’t say that I passed the exam with flying colors, nor within my self-determined time frame – while on my mat that Sunday morning.  Instead, I struggled to keep my whining to myself as 200 other yogis advanced into Dwi Pada Viparita Dandasana (upward facing two-foot staff pose), and I lay resting on my back.  I tried rationalizing away my frustration – at least I had a valid excuse for not mastering a pose that I’m not yet ready for anyway…   But gradually, as time passed, bits and pieces of John’s discourses – which wandered from the dark rift in the Milky Way to the meaning of karma, and then to gratitude – began to seep into my consciousness.

Now, as I move about, painfully (yes, still…) aware of those previously unacknowledged muscles, I have come to realize that my experience of being injured can have a positive outcome.  I am embracing the idea that as we develop awareness, or sensation, of what’s around us and (in my case) in us, we begin to appreciate.  After all, without those hip flexor muscles, we wouldn’t be able to maintain an upright position.  And, as we appreciate, we develop a sense of gratitude – as in, I’m so glad that I’m not hurt more often, or it’s a good thing that I’ve only pulled a few muscles and I’ll recover within a few weeks.

My gratitude is timely, even if the injury is not.  Thanksgiving is upon us.  May your gratitude, and your yoga, be realized more easily than mine.  And, may your turkey be tasty, too.

Mayan women and girl - Pujijil, Guatemala

There’s a moment, when you come home from a trip to another country, that you’re not quite sure where you are.  You look around and you see familiar sights – the green couch in the living room, the Giant supermarket with its huge parking lot, or your desk at work – but they all feel a bit foreign.  You don’t feel comfortable in familiar surroundings because your mind is still focused on the landscapes and culture of where you’ve been.  In my case, it was in Guatemala, where I had recently participated in a medical brigade, offering health care to campesinos in rural highland communities.

I got home on a Tuesday night, unpacked my bag, and showed my wife the colorful placemats and scarves I had purchased in handicrafts markets.  The next morning, alone in the house, I found that I couldn’t adapt to my surroundings, to my own life in Maryland.  Instead, I recreated the smells of the street market in Quetzaltenango, the sounds of fireworks going off at night while I tried to sleep, and the sights of women in traditional Mayan dress and highways covered with dirt from recent landslides.  I threw my used toilet paper into the wastebasket instead of the toilet.  And, when the phone rang I answered Buenos dias, because I was used to speaking Spanish to strangers.

I sat down with the stack of unopened mail that had arrived while I was gone, and started to go through it.  Even though my name was on the envelopes, I couldn’t relate to a world in which I would be receiving invitations to fundraising dinners ($150 for a seat or $750 for a table) featuring famous movie stars, or offers of 30,000 frequent flyer miles for signing up for a credit card.  What did these appeals have to do with the struggles of Mayan campesinos to get health care, or my own concerns of traveling from place to place in rickety vans on roads ravaged by storms and insufficient maintenance?

I thought about my family and our friends, the ones I might have talked to or seen had I not been away.  I could imagine what the last ten days had been like for them – work, evening meetings, a concert or movie, a hike on the weekend, dinner with friends, etc.  I felt distant from these ordinary experiences – ones that would have been my own, albeit with slight variations between us.  And I noted that I hadn’t been able to attend Steve’s birthday party; I’d missed witnessing the cement mixer pave a new driveway next door; and I didn’t get to experience the freaky October snowstorm.  I felt impoverished by having missed out, by not sharing these activities and occurrences with my people, those I feel closest to.

But then I remembered what I had experienced – the fireworks exploding in the bleachers of the football game I attended; the ring of perfectly conical volcanoes surrounding the deep blue waters of Lake Atitlan; a Mayan woman slowly unwinding a hand woven strap

Lake Atitlan

from her around her waist to loosen her thick skirt and show the doctor her bloated belly; and the three year old who had an epileptic seizure as I gazed at her.   Maybe it was my friends and wife at home who were impoverished.  Unlike me, their understanding of how Guatemalans amuse themselves, dress, or feed their families had not been enriched.  Their hearts and minds not been stretched in new directions, nor their senses stimulated by dazzling scenery.  At least not during those ten days.  Who was I to feel left out?  There was no way I could reasonably claim that I had been deprived.

But, as time progressed, my perspective began to change.  Soon, my concerns about the 30-year old Mayan woman – still unmarried – with a striking heart murmur, or the friendly man who let me bargain him down to a mere $3 for a woven purse, seemed distant and inconsequential.  Our interactions faded into the past, moments relinquished to history.  And, I found myself to throwing my toilet paper into the toilet bowl again.

That sense of being tugged between two worlds is short-lived.  As soon as you get caught up in the whirlwind of everyday life – the doctor’s appointment that you scheduled months ago, shopping for groceries, and responding to the buildup of emails – your recent adventure slips from your consciousness.  The sights and the sounds take on a dreamlike quality, as if they were only imagined.  But somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you know that your world has been expanded, and you are more cognizant than ever.