Start with Myself?

“Start with yourself” was the secondhand advice a friend gave me, more years ago than I can accurately say, when I talked about writing again, writing anything. A mentor of hers had advised as much when the friend was trying to get back to her photography work. (She is an awesome photographer, my friend.) I am going with 12 years ago.

Many of us creative types lose track of actually doing what we love, are not as productive as we wish, or stop producing altogether for some period of time, maybe years (um, decades). Not all of us. Some are breathtakingly productive. I applaud you.

I want to write again, but I think I don’t know how to, think I can’t, tell myself writing a blog post is pointless anyway. I also feel like I can’t be an “open book,” can’t be honest, bare.

Start with myself? I know nothing anymore. I am not sure how I ended up where I am. I don’t have grand goals. I have isolated myself, on purpose, because I trust so few people. I don’t feel safe. Being with friends can be like writing: you have to be open. To be open, you need to feel connected and trust. I am resistant to opening up in any real-real way whatsoever.

Wow. That’s cheerful, for my 47^th birthday (yeah, today). I am such a healthy human being.

Let me try that again, on a lighter take. On Instagram, a random Doctor Who fan account posted a photo of the Doctor captioned, “My whole life can be summed up in one sentence: It didn’t go as planned and that is ok.” (Side note: as a writer/copyeditor type, I had to fix the original caption. Notice the lack of punctuation after “sentence” and “ok,” plus the division of the so-called one sentence, making it two. I had to fix it because my brain cringed.)

This is likely a familiar feeling, for better or worse, that many of us share.

The statement might be more accurate if I had ever planned more than a year or so ahead. Well, I suppose had my planning moments:

1) I was going to be a medievalist. I determined to study the middle ages in high school, and that plan lasted through college and later was picked up again in grad school (a master’s degree—I couldn’t plan far enough ahead for a PhD).

2) I was going to be a teacher, and I was, in two chunks: two years out of college and three after grad school.

Thus, the caption proves itself true: I loved studying the middle ages, pursued my studies with rare focus and determination. Am I a scholar now? Nope. (I still love the middle ages and keep up with some scholarly stuff, if it is accessible and well-written.) I saw myself as a teacher, and that plan was abandoned, by choice, for so many reasons. I didn’t hate it, and I wasn't even bad at it. But that is a story for another time.

The earliest life plan: From a very young age, the single digits, I was going to be a writer. I wrote stories in those marble composition books as a child, filled them with made-up stories of groups of friends with wonderful names, fantastical events, talking animals. 

I can thank my mother that I still have some of these. (Not really a side note: My mother was a writer of some renown and amazing talent. She encouraged any and all writing.) I wrote in high school, short stories, beginnings of maybe-novels, and lots of poetry. I continued a bit in college. But then I stopped writing fiction and poetry. 

I was a budding medieval scholar. Scholarly writing examining aspects of the middle ages for undergraduate and graduate school took creative writing’s place. Even my scholarly writing was creative, however. It took on a life of its own, relied on my instinct to move bits about to make an essay or paper just the right shape, structure.

After that, my writing didn’t stop dead: I still write in journals. I love my journals of different sizes, some lined, some unlined. Oh, and the graph paper ones! I have one in my bag, one on my workshop/desk, another by my bed, mini ones tucked places just in case one is needed in an emergency. I may also have half a small bookshelf filled with journals yet to be used. Don’t judge.

Once, I even kept a blog, this one, When Time Meets Eternity, somewhat regularly, after my first child was born in 2004. Today it is a very lonely blog, desolate even. I am going back to it. Determined.

This post is my start, in 2018, on my birthday, so many years later.

PS: If you made it this far, I must say I am frustrated that so many of my photos disappeared from my blog. That is going to take some time to fix. Or I can simply look forward and not worry about the "broken photo" icons.

my mother's brooches

I am going through my jewelry drawer to find broken, orphaned, boring costume jewelry for a workshop on upcycling such things, offered by Tanglewood Works.

I opened the box holding my mother's brooches and began to cry. The week has started on a rocky note and unearthing one of the many, many collections of things I have of my mother's pushed me over the edge, yet comforted, hence the tears.

My mother loved brooches: on a blazer lapel, to hold a scarf in place, on her hand-knitted wool coats.

In her honor, like an OCD meditation, I sorted the little collection. Five distinct categories are clear.

1. The ceramic, usually obtained from local Sydney artists, such as Vickie Grima:

2. The museum shop pieces:

3. The travel souvenirs:


4. The family heirlooms:

5. Her Sydney roots:

One question: what is that delicate little chain on the antique/vintage brooches for? I have yet to grasp its use. Extra security in case the main clasp gives? A way to attach two sides of, say, a scarf? I could use the Internet, I suppose, but I prefer to simply pose the question and ponder possibilities.

Time to re-box the brooches. Must remember I can take them out and wear them myself.

kick-ass running mix

I found myself less motivated to run this winter, but not because of the cold. I like cold-weather running. I still don't quite know why I didn't often want to run, though I have theories, such as a reclusive mood.

NYC Marathon 2014

I still worked out every day (because I am crazy), got into high intensity interval training, kept up with my spinning bike, and I ran now and then. I soon forced myself back into the every-other-day schedule to make sure I was prepped for my first race in five months, the Cherry Blossom 10-Miler (which turned into a 9.39 miles due to a last-minute course issue). A perfect day: 45-50 degrees, a light breeze, sunshine. I chose to run a little slower than usual; amazing that running a race pace :30 to :45 seconds slower per mile makes a world of difference.

My next regular-old-run two days later, yesterday, was a mere hour, 6.5 miles. The old iPod Nano gave me a random but kick-ass mix, which is just what I needed on a very tough day (another story). This run in the 50-degree temperature and light rain was just perfect. 

On Tapely, I have shared the mix for posterity, however long that is.

kick ass running mix

• ¡Viva La Gloria! - Green Day
• It's Tricky - RUN-DMC
• Standing On My Own Again - Graham Coxon
• Just Like A Pill - P!nk
• Second Chance - Peter Bjorn and John
• The All for Swinging You Around - New Pornographers
• Invincible - OK Go
• Bury Our Friends - Sleater-Kinney
• Pumpin' Blood - NONONO
• Underdog - Butthole Surfers
• Dangerous - Big Data feat. Joywave
• Bad Reputation - Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
• Joan of Arc - Arcade Fire
• Won't Back Down - Eminem feat. P!nk
• Godzilla - Blue Oyster Cult
• 
  

(Yes, I still run with a Nano. Why would I choose to run with a bulky smartphone?)

the smell of epoxy

I love the smell of epoxy glue. Nostalgia?

I remember my mother taking out the two tubes, folding up a piece of tinfoil to make a disposable plate of sorts, using a wooden chopstick, saved from Chinese takeout, and mixing equal parts of the gooey substances. I remember one clearer, one more yellow.

The chemical smell was strong but soothing, warm even. Some people like the smell of gasoline (I don't), so I cannot be completely alone here.

I have rediscovered a range of epoxys, say, one to fix a broken cement gargoyle. That one combined a light grey goo with a black one, but it smelled just the same.

I am looking for more things to repair now, with what seems like the ultimate in household glues, or at least which was such when I was a kid.

Good on you, epoxy.

I'll be sure not to sniff too much.

on a run in DC

On May 29, I had to drive the kids to school, across DC, from Prince George’s County, which is to the east of the District, to the far NW of it, in the damned rush hour traffic. (Their dad usually drives them because he works there.)  I decided I wanted, needed to cover 13.1 miles, my private half marathon, in downtown DC, for kicks. Actually, I was due for a long run, and the area is blessedly flat compared to my hilly suburb. I parked on Ohio Drive in West Potomac Park. The weather was cooler than usual for late May in this swampy region. I was grateful.

Over the course my two-hour run, the city offered sights and sounds that struck me and have stuck with me.

1. I was maybe a mere mile into the run, which had wrapped under the Memorial Bridge and climbed up to the Lincoln Memorial. I was on the wide shaded path between the Reflecting Pool and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. On my right, a bunch of adorable, heart-melting ducklings, maybe six or seven, waddled off the path, toward the pool. Their mother herded them. As I approached and passed, she hurried them, then turned on me, beak open, and lunged toward me. I knew I was faster and would escape unscathed. Really, how much damage could she do to my lower leg? I confess, however, that I was a bit scared of mama duck in protective-threatening mode.

2. (Preamble: When I was in eighth grader at Bank Street in New York City, the whole grade visited DC in May.) The month of May seems to be the “school visit to DC” month. Damn: Hoards of school groups covered the Mall area. They were in my way, with their matching T-shirts or caps (a modern paranoia of losing kids; my eighth grade didn’t wear matching neon tees). I noticed that one spot on the far side of the Capitol Reflecting Pool seems to be the preferred class photo stage. A group in white tees was arranged on the few steps there. At least two other groups waited for their chance. Who knew?

I made my way up Capitol Hill. At the top, I dodged school groups waiting in line for the underground Capitol Building Visitor Center. When I was 14, I wondered why DC was so interesting. Still do. I know, I know, American history, the federal government, blah, bah, blah. 

As I returned along the south side of the Mall on the gravel, one group of kids showed off by making fun of the local runners, me included. The boys tried to outpace me and each other, pointed, laughed, “There’s another one!”  Dude, you all are, like, 14, and I have already run at least seven miles. Are there no runners where you come from? Shut up, youngsters, no one is impressed. Yes, I know you are bored. Come up with something else.

3. Taking into account at least 24 hours of heavy rain the previous week combined with high tide on the tidal Potomac River, the cement walk around Haines Point was mostly flooded. Park benches were standing in at least a foot of water, the base of many cherry trees were engulfed as well. The asphalt of Ohio Drive was fine until I nearly reached the point. I now know the lowest point of the road around Haines Point. Even as tried to avoid the many inches of standing water by veering into the interior grass, my sneakers were soaked.

4. Realizing that I needed to run the 14^th Street Bridge into Virginia to the Mount Vernon Trail to make my distance goal without having to drag myself past my parked car, which is demoralizing, I ran up the steps up at the end of the Haines Point portion of my run, and turned onto the bridge’s footpath. A cyclist passed in the opposite direction. He said either “congratulations” or “evacuations” to me. Hm. I was wearing a Marine Corps Marathon tee, and the Pentagon was in sight. No one has ever congratulated me when I wear a race tee. I remember cycling to the Mount Vernon trail on September 11, 2001, and seeing the smoke rising. Evacuations did and still do happen in this town. Damn. I didn’t bring my smart phone with me to check. Was he warning me? I looked for smoke, listened for sirens. Nothing. Perhaps he just said “salutations,” but that’s just silly. I have to assume “congratulations.” Thanks!

dialogue with my mother's journal

So often, I want to call my mother and commiserate about having a different, outlying kid. This is not just about Iz, but also a selfish desire to know my own history through her eyes. I remember being so unhappy in elementary and middle school. Those eight years helped shape who I am now and reveal things about me that are both interesting and uncomfortable. But I do not know how my mother saw my unhappiness (and she saw it, for sure) or how it affected her.

My Iz, now 10, is more social than I was, though he can be deeply both anxious and sad. He is as quirky, awkward and as much in his own head as I was (am?), but he attends the Lab School of Washington, which is for "bright students with ADHD, dyslexia, and other learning differences." He has friends of equal and ranging quirk. (I love it.)

But I cannot call my mother; I have not been able to for almost seven years. Again, I turn to her journals, those journals she wanted me to burn and never read. I find I need them. Her real, personal voice is still accessible, there to reassure.

Her journal pages from 1982 are typed on pages of lined, yellow legal paper. These pads were a staple in our house, in her office, by the phone, on the kitchen table. I turned 11 that May, near Iz’s age.

She does not write tons about me, which I respect because I cannot stand the thought of my own life revolving around my children, and I wouldn't want hers to have, though I know she loved me more than anything (no exaggeration). I do, however, pop up here and there. On May 2, she writes:

“Today is one of the most wonderful days of recent years. I feel alive again, as if I can indeed realize what it is my mind. It’s a funny, powerful feeling of utter satisfaction and possibility. So that this apartment, this life, which I see as never changing, sometimes confined and imprisoning, seem trembling with newness. First of all, it is well and truly spring. Lovely, lovely. Campus is beautiful, instead of being this dreary place along whose walk I carve a furrow with my footsteps. Classes will be over Wednesday, and I have practically four months to myself. There’s the MacDowell Colony, and I think I shall go to Ireland in August, if I finish The Woman Who Said Mouse. Caity has had a splendid school report, Lisa telling me Friday that she is particularly bright and has become one of the class, a person to whose birthday party children want to go. (Sometimes strikes me as a strange criterion for adjustment and success, but Caity is very happy.) Her summer arrangements seem good.”

My favorite phrase: “along whose walk I carve a furrow with my footsteps.” That woman could write, even when the words were to be private. I love that image of the furrow along the Columbia Campus walk; I close my eyes and can imagine a surreal image of the walk and a dark figure walking an actual furrow. I recall that real walk in an instant. I made my own furrows, walking to Bank Street every morning for five years, then to the 116^th Street subway station when I went to high school in Brooklyn, to St. Ann’s, then again as a 20-something, returned to my city after college, for various jobs and grad school on that very campus.

But, oh, my poor young Caity self. (I will still answer to that name.) How I hated elementary and middle school. I do remember the year with Lisa (teachers went by their first names at Bank Street), and it was one of the better ones. But it sounds as if it took me a while to “become one of the class,” implies that I was an awkward outsider for at least the beginning of the year. I am not at all surprised. How my mother worried. I would have, too.

(Aside: my summer plans “good”? Was that the summer of that disastrous, hated first year of camp? I certainly was not “part of the cabin” that year. I pretended to be sick all the time to be in the nurse’s cabin. I begged my mother to take me home, but she was obviously booked. Was I also doing something with my father? I cannot exactly recall.)

On my 11^th birthday, May 8, my mother’s mood was dampened by an uneasy last class (she taught fiction writing at Columbia) and the arrival of the author copies of Games of the Strong: “An ugly little book. Tiny print, out of proportion acknowledgements, and ugly red printing on that beautiful blue photograph. It looks crude, amateurish…So there is something of a letdown.” I did not know she disliked the cover and layout. Hm.

Maybe it wasn’t the class or the book, but rather her worries about me. She writes:

“And perhaps it is Caity’s birthday. Today. I am glad that Gordon is giving her her birthday picnic. I couldn’t have done it alone. But I am worried that the children won’t turn up, and that she won’t have friends there for the sleepover. At least Katarina and Christina are sleeping over. Sarah and Lola refused the invitation at the last minute. Lola said she had something else to do. Sarah said she had a friend coming over after all. Caity said that meant Lola was going to Sarah’s. She said Sarah hasn’t been all that nice to her recently. I asked her if her feelings were hurt, and she said they were. She really doesn’t talk about that kind of thing. And I can’t bear her to be hurt by other children. Am I uneasy because I have given her so many presents, and it isn’t the presents that make her happy? She loves the little unicorn and Pegasus best, and the $1.00 headband from Woolworths. The bike, well, the enthusiasm has waned, but that’s because I have frightened her about safety, about getting mugged.”

Where was I going to ride my bike nearby West 116^th Street in Manhattan without at least some threat in those New York days? Anyway...

I do not remember Sarah or Lola fondly, so I now don’t care that they rejected me. They were run-of-the-mill mean girls. For example, the next school year, in a moment of wildly misplaced trust, I told Sarah I was “in love” with Adam, and she promptly told him, and he avoided me from then on. That sucked and further cemented my outsider status.

I marvel at how aware of the social dynamics I was. I was sensitive but not savvy enough to fit in or navigate. I have frequently used the same phrasing to describe Iz: “sensitive but not savvy.” He is a darling, but he has had some social issues over the years, been hurt or confused. He does not navigate easily in large groups. At least he does not face the constant social challenges at school that I did. I do, however, recall that something went on earlier this school year when his declared “best friend” was being cruel to him for a few weeks. Iz was so confused by the turn of events, but they are buddies again.

My mother was sensitive. I am the apple to her tree in that and other ways, and I can imagine my hard times, my quirkiness, my sadness, affected her deeply. Iz’s do me. Now I know a little more; I am not alone. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. I want to be tuned into my children, but the connectedness is also very hard sometimes. Like my mother, I also want to be caught up in my own life, have my own things going on, and not just be focused on my offspring. I do my best. Like my mother, I need my own space, and I do not write only about my children. That would be dull.

(For another time: I wonder about how being the only child of a single mother has shaped me, and how her caution affected me. My mother was always very aware of the possibilities, dangers, of New York City living in the 1970s and 1980s. Hell, the car battery was stolen from her Dodge Dart twice when she risked parking on Morningside Drive. She pulled the curtains of the street-facing windows in our fifth floor apartment at night, so no one could see in. But she didn’t hover; she was not a helicopter parent. I don’t find myself overly fearful, perhaps that is my reaction. I often don’t pull the curtains or drop the blinds, and I live in a house. Something to think about.)

being bullied

I spent many years of my life being bullied. I have not recently dwelled upon it, but I have not forgotten. (I know I am not alone or special here.)

Listening to the TEDRadio Hour from January 3, 2014, I was caught up by the theme of “overcoming.” But I was especially struck by Shane Koyczan'stalk about being bullied as a child.

On any old day, I will remember that, yes, I was teased and criticized, felt pretty much a total outcast in elementary school. I don’t often use the word “bullied,” but, yes, I was. From 1^st grade through 8^th grade, I faced all sorts of bullying: having my baseball cap taken off my head and tossed around the school bus as the horde laughed in 1^st grade; being called freckle faced and fat in 3^rd grade by a boy who himself was freckled and actually chubby (I had not yet hit my chubby phase and was still lean); being challenged to a fight in 4^th grade by a boy who thought I was not enough of a girl to be covered by the social prohibition against hitting girls; having my secret crush revealed to the boy by a popular girl I mistakenly trusted in 6^th grade; being ridiculed by the “mean girls” in 8^th grade for wearing a vintage 1950s pink satin ball gown with an Army surplus green pullover and grey slouchy boots. (“Did you make that dress?” *Sneer.*)

I was safe and even outgoing and social in nursery school and kindergarten. And I was fine and found my own way in high school. I was not always happy during these earlier and later phases, but I was not bullied. High school actually offered me relief, which is not true for many.

But eight years of all sorts of bullying left their mark. I, like Shane Koyczan, remember begging to stay home, crying about going to school, faking being sick to avoid school. Like him, I still always take the side of the underdog because I relate.

I have strengths and weaknesses influenced by my experiences: I embrace being myself, whether I fit in or not (which does not always mean I am confident, but I am myself); I am open minded and don’t tend to judge others (I have not been kind every moment of my life, but I have not bullied); I can react with unintended anger when teased by a loved one; I have some social anxiety and do better one on one or in small groups; I am sensitive to criticism.

I think being bullied has shaped me more that I have recognized. Yes, it seemed part of my past, but listening to this TED talk opened the memory gates up. I can see how I was shaped and damaged, but also how I recovered, for better and worse.

Bullying is clearly powerful and damaging. It is not "nothing," "only words" or "just how kids are."

PS: If you are interested in following Shane Koyczan on Twitter, here he is. 

Boston: finishing a marathon

I have not actively aspired to run Boston, though I have run five marathons and am an avid runner and racer of shorter distances, for 15 or 16 years now. The only time I came close to qualifying was in 1999, during my first marathon, the NYC one, in my hometown. And the BAA has gone and made the times even harder to reach. Now that I am in my 40s, I can aim for the old time of 3:50; the newer one of 3:45 is a much iffier. I am aware of the possibility, but I am not scrambling to make it reality, and I am shy about trying to raise thousands of dollars from friends and family for an alternative charity entry.

So I was not running in Boston yesterday, April 15, 2013, tax day, Patriots’ Day, mere days before the 18^th anniversary of the Oklahoma City Bombing, the day gun control legislation was reaching some sort of milestone in Congress. I don’t think I know anyone who was running, either.

If I were running Boston, I would likely have finished a tad before the explosions, in around 3:55. The finish clock read 4:09 and change. I probably would have been in the post-finish area, walking, sweaty, relieved, even euphoric, wrapped in a mylar blanket, drinking water, eating a banana. I would have heard the booms and the screams. Seeing the videos over and over, I can put myself there all too easily.

When I finish a marathon, I may be in some pain, but I am elated. I love seeing that finish line. I feel tough, and I feel safe. The bombing in Boston has shaken me more deeply than I can express; it is tapping bits in my subconscious that I cannot extract.

Of course I can imagine myself or spectating loved-ones being in that very kind of spot. What really panics me is I know how those runners felt--safe and happy.

This is terrorism, whether domestic or international. (I lean toward domestic, though I have little evidence to back up that gut feeling.) This was an attack directed at innocents, targeted to gain media attention, determined to make us scared.

I am out of words for now, though there is so much more to learn, sort out, feel, say, write. I am thinking of all those who were there. 

how my atheism works

My essay, "The Atheist and Her Soul," is up on Pavarti K. Tyler's blog in her Roots of Faith series. I may work it into something longer and more detailed. 

dream (combining a toilet and a washing machine?)

Last night, I dreamed about traveling to Sydney, Australia, with my sons, to see my mother. The travel was, as it usually is for me in dreams, confusing, last-minute, fraught with mix ups.

My mother’s apartment was dark, with rooms off of a long hall (but it was not my childhood New York City apartment on 116^th Street, which had a super-long hall). My mother was there the whole time, but, as usual, I cannot remember anything she said (if anything).

I tried to have dinner with my stepbrother’s partner (a step-sister not-in-law?) the night before I was to return home to the States, but we could not find each other in the city. Mobile phones and texting failed us. I ran through unfamiliar and dark parks, feeling like I was always going to long or wrong way.

After the failed dinner, I returned to my mother’s apartment and the boys were asleep. When I had to do a load of laundry in the toilet, I questioned the wisdom of combining the two appliances (if you can call a toilet an appliance).

We were to leave first thing in the morning. My bags were not packed, and I was trying to dye my hair fire-engine red (which I have actually been wanting to do for a while). I worried as the flight time approached, my clothes were still in the toilet, the boys were still asleep, and I was running out of hair dye.

my mother's ski sweater

In honor of what would have been my mother's 72nd birthday, today, I wanted to write something thoughtful to honor her. I wrote some notes about what she called the "clothing museum." It included clothes of hers and mine that were special in some way. I have not finished this piece for many reasons. I will get to it, soon. For today, I will post one photo of one item from that museum: my mother's ski sweater from the 1950s. It was handmade, tiny and wool.

I would never have worn it--even if it would fit me--because wool makes me itch. And I never saw my mother wear this sweater. But I picture her in it when I read her short story, "The Circle," in The Hottest Night of the Century, which revolves around a skiing trip.

yet another...

As I wrote in my last post, I rarely see things that are my style in the NY Times, though everything presented is usually in fabulous taste of some sort or another. But today I again saw a dress I would wear. I am shocked. Am I getting old? Or is style NY Times style finally catching up with me? (I will fess up that I don't know who Zoe Saldana is.)

ads, airbrushing and clothes I want

(Was it more than a month ago that I collected these photos? Damn. At least the topics—advertising and fashion—are not especially time-sensitive.)

I was reading The New York Times Magazine (or is it actually, really T Magazine now?), probably not on the Sunday (April 17) it came out, rather during the week following. A few photos caught my attention.

The first set of photos fall under the “ads and airbrushing” category. As I flipped through the mago, I immediately noticed a contrast between two ads featuring “older” women and how they employed airbrushing. Sure, Lauren Hutton (67) has more than 10 years on Kim Cattrall (54), if I have my math right, so Hutton should look older. But I am also sure the Cattrall has some wrinkles, or at least pores. Need I say, I like the Hutton ad better. Of course, both women are lovely, I just wish Kim was not so willing to submit herself to such heavy, obvious airbrushing. Should Alexis Bittar be credited and Olay not? Both have chosen not-young women as centerpieces for their campaigns. I suppose that is a start. But I love that we can see Hutton’s cleavage wrinkle.

The second set of photos accompanied fairly vapid articles on Charlotte Dellal (“Footprints”) and Cate Blanchett (“Vanishing Act”). I love the latter, but I don’t really know who the former is. Here, I saw clothes I actually admired, coveted for myself, and I usually see little of my own style in the NY Times.

I WANT these clothes (putting any possible airbrushing aside).