Gratitude – Page 39 – *the gratitude-a-thon

gratitude-a-thon day 93: obituaries

April 25, 2013April 30, 2013Uncategorized2 Comments

I have an odd hobby. I share it with my husband. We’re not morbid folk, but we love ourselves a good obituary.

Its origins date back 22 years, when my otherwise healthy mom died at 73 of lung cancer. I was 32, just found out I was infertile, and was as close to her as a shoelace is to a sneaker. My grief was the size of the galaxy (and then some). I trudged around for a year, my only aim each day, not to break into tears while grocery shopping. Anyway, that was when I started to read obituaries. The people who got to die at 95 made me mad. My mother had so much less time. Oh, the unfairness. The people who died prematurely, and way too early, made me feel better that my mom had at least had a somewhat long run. Anyway, my husband got into the act, too. And pretty soon, we obituary surfed for laughs. We tried to ourfunny each other.

For instance, take this New York Times obit for Selma Koch:

“Famed brassiere maven: Selma Koch, a Manhattan store owner who earned a national reputation by helping women find the right bra size, mostly through a discerning glance and never with a tape measure, died Thursday at Mount Sinai Medical Center. She was 95 and a 34B.” http://www.oddee.com/item_96879.aspx#Him1jT4gtZiGwyI3.99

Or how about this one:

“Louis J. Casimir Jr. bought the farm Thursday, Feb. 5, 2004, having lived more than twice as long as he had expected and probably three or four times as long as he deserved. Although he was born into an impecunious family, in a backward and benighted part of the country at the beginning of the Great Depression, he never in his life suffered any real hardships. Many of his childhood friends who weren’t killed or maimed in various wars became petty criminals, prostitutes, and/or Republicans. Lou was a daredevil: his last words were “Watch this!”
http://mentalfloss.com/article/18838/grave-ly-funny-hilarious-obituaries#ixzz2RTVtvEfK

C’mon, they’re funny, right?

Anyway, I worry about my own obituary when the time comes. I went to a funeral a few years ago, and the deceased was so accomplished, I started to panic, feeling like a Junior in high school, who suddenly realizes they better do some volunteer work, learn to play the ukele while water skiing, try to break the world’s record in shoe tying, and create an organization for homelss rodents, in order to beef up their college applications. What would my obit read? “Toni Lansbury, She wrapped a nice gift. She could really make a poster.”

As bizarre as it sounds, I am grateful for the solace, giggles, and most of all for the perspective that obituary reading has given me. They always remind me that yours can be written at any time, so you’d better take a big bite out of the world each and every day. Because hey, nobody knows when exactly your life will be summed up in a paragraph.

gratitude-a-thon day 92: spring

April 24, 2013UncategorizedLeave a Comment

I am always like a child tasting candy for the first time, when, after a brutal New England winter, the trees start turning a verdant shade of green, tiny crocuses start to show themselves, deep yellow daffodils, and tulips follow, and magnolia trees, magnificent in their white and pink and maroon clothes, begin their fashion show. I’ve been doing this thing for a lot of years now. It never fails to happen. It’s as reliable as Drano. And yet, I am shocked to see the world go from the dullest black and white to a full on box of Crayolas. Shocked, like I’ve never seen such a thing. Shocked like when I watch a magic show and I know there is a trick to it, but I just can’t figure out what it is.

There’s such a feeling of hope in Spring. In New England, of course, we are mostly hoping it’s really here. Spring can be a coquettish young girl, flirting and playing hard to get. Just when you think it’s safe to put away your monolithic coats and fur lined boots, Spring decides to drop back, and you wind up looking silly in your short sleeved shirt, not wearing any socks, and worse than that, cold. “I hate you, Spring,” you shout, with chattering teeth. But you don’t. You don’t hate Spring.

Because you can’t hate Spring. You can’t hate what it offers, what its agenda holds. You can’t hate the fever it brings on, or the days when it’s in the mood to show off. You can’t hate the girls in their new dresses, or the guys busting out their shorts, or the faces looking skyward dotting park benches, in hopes that the sun will brown them and warm away all of winter’s harsh treatment until it’s a faded and forgotten photo in a drawer.

I am always stunned, mystified, grateful for Spring. I wait for it all winter long, with the same fervor and anticipation that kids wait for the last day of school. I battle with allergies, and worry about spring cleaning, but the newness, the hope that Spring brings, like a gift at the feet of a king–it’s perfect. It’s one of the best parts of life. A gussied up package of hope, with a big fat beautiful bow of all that can be.

gratitude-a-thon day 91: finding gratitude

April 23, 2013April 23, 2013UncategorizedLeave a Comment

images-1 — Mike Hughes. He has taught me a lot about advertising. Now he’s teaching me something about life.

I just found out that a truly brilliant creative director that I revered when I was learning about advertising, is battling with a potent foe and is in the last stages of living with lung cancer. He is only 64. He is not someone I ever met in real life, just in award show books. His work was beautiful and smart and it taught me a lot when I was trying to understand what good work was. I have dealt with lung cancer before. My mom had it. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.

But what I was clued into today, at the same time I learned that Mike Hughes of the Martin Agency was dying, was that he is very much alive on a beautifully written blog that is called unfinishedthinking. I have been reading it all morning. There in black and white are the words of a man who is at the end, and has some very interesting stuff to say. It’s a sort of gratitude-a-thon all by itself. He’s cool. I wish he were hanging around. He is one of the guys in the white hats who work in this loco business.

strong — The city is singing Kumbaya right now. But how long can we sustain it? It’d be great to think it could last forever.

I also read an article in yesterday’s Boston Globe called Disaster brings us together by Ty Burr. that resonated with me in my deepest parts. It’s about the marathon and the feeling of loss and sadness and how we are all more connected when we experience a tragedy together. I have always known this to be true. That a death, or horrific event brings out the very nicest parts of people. Every time I’ve had a health scare, or sick parent, or been in the middle of an awful circumstance, I become more acutely aware of life’s smallest moments of beauty. I have been at my clearest after loss and grief, understanding fully the simplicity of living. Your eyesight is clearer, your appreciation of the sun making its way to the center of the sky is bigger, your taste buds are pressed to the “on” button. And people are nicer. There is a camaraderie that only a soul searing tragedy creates that mimics a shooting star, amazing and short-lived. In the “post-anything-that-rocks-your-world” state, you are able to open an invisible door that allows you the cliff notes of what is really important and special in your world. And how very simple all of it really is.

But it only lasts for a minute. Or at least for me, I have never been able to sustain, what really amounts to living a 24/7 life with gratitude, for very long. Pretty soon the annoyance of grocery shopping merges with the need for Tide, and the 12 soccer games that will require you to sit in a wildly uncomfortable chair, pair up with the unseasonably cold weather, and you’re once again right back in the minutiae of the day to day. We have a short memory, it seems. In the time it takes to turn from MSNB to HBO, we are back to our old ways.

Anyway, I’m grateful to have found Mike Hughes blog, and Ty Burr’s article. They exemplify what I’m always after. Living with gratitude all the time, every moment, instead of just when times are tough. I really do believe that’s where the magic is. And while I’m getting better at it, I’ve still got plenty of work to do.

gratitude-a-thon day 90: we’re home

April 22, 2013April 23, 2013Uncategorized7 Comments

The view from Joni’s living room. It was beautiful to see the sunrise every morning, right before we got the computers, tv and phones going.

I need a 12 step program to stop watching the news.

I flew out of Boston with Ally last Monday to see my sister in Miami and cheer her up about her move there. We arrived and as if on cue, Ally got a terrible stomach ache that went from a “Mom, my stomach hurts,” to a “Moooooooom, I’m going to die,” in 10 short minutes. Joan and I were trying to remain calm, as Ally howled in the back seat. Good with pain, and not a crier, I knew, in the words of Miss Clavel, “Something was not right.” And yes, I know that is not exactly how Miss Clavel said it, but it’s close enough and how I felt, so stop with your preciseness. Meanwhile, we get some Advil, but it has no effect and I call Peter, who was back in Brookline working, and ask him to google the best hospital to go to, because the writing is on the wall, Ally is telling me she is dying and she cannot move. “I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO GO,” he screams into the phone at me, while we are in a questionable part of Hollywood, with Ally in the back seat sweating, and bent over in pain. “What? Can you just google it?” I ask. Again, with the “I don’t know where to go.” Furious, I hang up, give into Ally’s escalating pleas of pain and call an ambulance FROM THE ROAD. Peter calls back a few minutes later and tells me he’s sorry, but that there has been a bombing at the marathon, and he didn’t know where Jake was, but he has found him. Relieved for a second that he has not completely lost his mind, I then let the words “bomb” settle in. But only for a moment, because I am flagging down the ambulance, and watching my daughter get carried away on a gurney. I am not allowed to sit with her, instead I must sit in the front. We are close to the Joe Dimaggio Children’s Hopsital. Oh, did I tell you that my sister’s GPS, which we initially tried to use to locate a hosptial on our own, was giving us the wrong directions. It had us in an entirely different place, so when it would advise us, there was no streets around that remotely resembled their directives. PART OF THE BOMBING PLOT TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD, PERHAPS?

At the hospital, a really beautiful place, we are immediately given a room, and several nurses. Ally is on an IV of fluids. I am giving the nurse all her vital statistics. They give her some pain medicine and she begins to sleep. Everybody who comes into the room tells us about the bombings because we are from Boston. Ally is still in severe pain. The nurse Helene is incredibly nice and predicts that Ally is about to vomit, but she is too late with little pink plastic catch-all and it appears that she throws up everything she has ever eaten since Kindergarten. She gets some nausea medicine and 10 minutes later, like someone flipped a switch on her head, she is totally fine. Perky, even. The pain is gone. And we are just left with the pain of the fact that a bomb has ripped through our city.

Here’s how Ally looked for most of the trip. She was always looking at her phone.

The five days we spent in Miami, were surreal. On the one hand, we were in a beautiful, sunny place with my sister, WHO I MISS AND LOVE, experiencing her new life. On the other, we were glued to the tv, the computer and our phones, hungry for any news of the bombing. Ally was terrified and couldn’t be away from media for more than the time it took her to take a shower. I tried to limit her media consumption, but at 15, there’s only so much you can do. She wanted to go home from the moment she heard about the bombs. She wanted to be with her dad and brother. She was utterly terrified, and one night was convinced that an innocent guy was following us (he was not). I told her she could hop a plane and go home, because what was the point of her being there, if she couldn’t even have fun, but she said no, and just stuck to the Boston Police twitter feed, giving us news while we shopped, swam, ate. It didn’t help that Jessie, Jake’s girlfriend was at the finish line and had seen some horrific stuff. She was safe, but had stories to tell and both Ally and I were worried about her.

Although it was weird circumstances, Joni and I always have fun, and laugh. Here we are at a terrible dinner (raw meatballs and calamari that looked like a tick).

On Friday, our day of departure, our flight seemed to be on time. Of course, Boston was on lockdown, so we weren’t quite sure if we got to Logan, we could get home, but Jake and Peter said they would come and get us. Our 7:30 flight, was full and everyone had their tv tuned to the news. The police seemed to have cornered him in Watertown. I was glued to the set, flipping channels, and praying. Ten minutes before we landed, Dzhokar Tsarnaev was captured, and the streets of Boston and surrounding communities erupted in relief and raucous joy.

We’d been away for the entirety of the ordeal, but not really. Our hearts and souls remained in Boston.

gratitude-a-thon day 89: neil diamond

April 21, 2013UncategorizedLeave a Comment

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yje4uDzo62M

So much of the past week has made me cry, and this clip of Neil Diamond singing Fenway’s unofficial national anthem, Sweet Caroline, at yesterday’s game, was a perfect ending to a week of waterworks. For anybody who’s not a Sox fan, this is a part of every home game. It’s played during the 8th inning, and the audience sings along, and adds a very loud, and often very drunk, “Ba, Ba, Ba” and “So good, so good, so good.”

Thanks, Neil. This was so great, so great, so great.

gratitude-a-thon day 88: dave szeto

April 20, 2013April 20, 2013Uncategorized4 Comments

Dave Szeto is worth a gratitude-a-thon even if he wasn’t a Cambridge police officer. He is kind. He is easy going. And I have always said, if I woke up in the middle of the night, and had a crisis, as stupid as a need to have my living room painted, or as serious as a medical emergency, Dave would be at my house in one minute flat. Well, I just wanted to say thanks to Dave. I know he puts his life on the line every time he goes to work, but let’s face it, here in Boston, it became really obvious how super brave Dave and all the police officers who lay it on the line every day, really are. And how much we need them. Thanks, Dave, and thanks to all your brothers in uniform. I AM GRATEFUL. And I think I’m speaking for a whole city, when I say, you are fucking awesomeness.

April 19, 2013April 19, 2013Uncategorized2 Comments

OH. MY. GOOOOOOOOOOOD. I woke up to the absolute insanity in Boston on my phone, computer and tv. I am really beyond words. Ally and I are supposed to be on a 7:30 p.m. flight back to Boston tonight, but looks like air space is closed for now, so we’ll see.

But I saved this guest-a-thon for today, because like Janetta, I too, don’t love to fly. It’s a great piece–funny and smart, like Janetta, herself.

I met Janetta because our kids went to school together. She’s an intelligent, funny and hip single mom of a great girl. She is also a spectacular cook and great writer. In fact, she has a well written, and awesomely fab blog about food you can go and read: http://umamis.blogspot.com. And now, Janetta, my sister in flight.

Name: Janetta Stringfellow

Occupation: Director of Development at Commonwealth School

About me: I’m mostly a mother of a teenage daughter, but I’m sure there’ll be time to focus on myself soon… really.

WHEN THE PILOT TURNS OFF THE FASTEN SEAT BELT SIGN

I’m grateful for the un-illuminated fasten seat belt sign – the signal that everyone on the flight deck believes that we’re all going to be okay, even if I’m still fairly skeptical. As I write, I’m 35,550 feet above the ground somewhere between Boston and Chicago. Were people really meant to be 35,550 feet above the ground? Other people fly to Chicago or even Timbuktu and never give it a second thought. Clearly I’m in charge of doing all the thinking for them. First I look around the gate to see if the faces of the passengers seem like faces that might crash. I’m not sure what specific characteristics I’m searching for, but I’ll know them when I see them. Babies are a good omen for some reason. And people with soft, beautiful, expensive leather luggage who look like nothing bad will ever happen to them. There’s like no way they’ll never make it back to their house in the Hamptons – their luck is too good. Once, I was on the Delta shuttle with Maria Shriver – she had her first baby with Arnold in her lap, and I was SO excited. MARIA SHRIVER’s not going to die, I said happily to myself, and I dared to recline in my seat and open my book. And then it hit me – SHE’S A KENNEDY!! All bets were off.

Anyway, after the wait at the gate, my real job begins. The universe apparently put me in charge of keeping planes in the air, and there’s a very specific step-by-step process. As I approach the plane from that dizzying tilted passageway, I check to make sure that there aren’t any cracks in the fuselage and that the aluminum (or whatever planes are made of) looks sound. Next, I look to my left into the cockpit to confirm that the crew is made up of real people who most likely don’t want to die either. During take-off I close my eyes, count to 10, and say the Lord’s Prayer twice silently (but while actually moving my lips). And then I order a Coke. Lots of times I don’t want a Coke. I want water. But, I don’t deviate. It’s too big a risk. Throughout the flight I’m responsible for listening to the wheels go up, and the engines whir, and whatever mutterings the flight attendants say to each other. It’s very important to ensure that all the right noises are happening at the right time. I never go to the bathroom – I don’t like my feet pushing down on the bottom of the plane. I’m sure there are heavier people than I am who walk back and forth willy nilly, but I try not to let that bother me.

I practice constant vigilance, but when the fasten seat belt sign goes off, I breathe a small sigh of relief. Maybe everything is going to be okay after all, and for that I am grateful. Perhaps I can read a book or take a nap (well, a nap is inconceivable, really), or I take out my headphones and watch the in-flight entertainment. Maybe. We’ll see. Chicago’s a long way away and a long way down. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.

Other things I’m grateful for? Xanax. But I seem to have forgotten mine at home. And, I’m grateful for Toni, for giving me a distraction in this tin can in the sky. Hope your flight to Miami was fab.

guest-a-thon day 3: meditation

April 18, 2013April 18, 2013UncategorizedLeave a Comment

Still reeling, down here in Miami, from Monday’s events. My daughter is scared, and just wants to watch the news. Joan and I are also obsessed with any piece of information we can get our hands on. My heart is with all those people whose lives have changed because they were at one of Boston’s most happy days. I give you everything, people. I am fighting for you in my heart.

Anyway, the guest-a-thon today comes from my friend Steph, who I have known since I was 13, and who I will love until I am 113, wearing granny panties. She is the greatest person, true and real. And I love her so mucho much. She is an illustrator, a pilates instructor, and now an art teacher. A very talented girl, she is. And I think her post about meditation is apt, given the horrors of Monday.

Name: Stephanie Peterson

Occupation: Art teacher

I am grateful for my meditation practice. It is a new practice, only 110 days old, and I missed once, or twice maybe. I started it as a auto ethnographic study for my graduate program’s culminating project.

I have always been intrigued by meditation, and intuitively knew that it was THE THING I needed to do to stay healthy, and happy. I needed it to deal with some issues that have come and gone but have been rearing their ugly little heads since menopause.

I always have thought I was a happy person, and optimistic. After all, I have managed to create a pretty good life for myself. I’ve changed careers multiple times to fuel my interests, and have found success each and every time. I married a really great guy. I also have really, really good friends. What’s not to be happy about?

Well, last summer I found myself depressed, really depressed. In my mind my life was miserable, and I really didn’t care for living it very much. I latched onto little annoyances that happened in the day-to-day and turned them into stories written for a mini-series, and they didn’t have a happy ending. At least not in my mind. I knew I was doing it, and that it wasn’t how it really was, but I partly believed them, because I said them over and over, and couldn’t stop. Everyone does this, right?

Fortunately I have a really good and caring doctor, who helped me out with a cocktail of meds and hormones (don’t worry, not a very strong cocktail) that put me on my feet and helped me to function well enough to do what I had to do every day.

Five months later I started doing meditation, 20 minutes a day, in conjunction with a daily art making practice. I decided to follow the way of Insight Meditation, incorporating concentration (on the breath), mindfulness (connecting fully with the present moment), and loving kindness (toward my self and others).

One of my biggest realizations is that meditation isn’t done well or badly. All it really is, is a choice to begin again, to refocus our attention on the present, without any criticism or judgment. We let go of the distractions, and the stories that we drag along from our pasts and the ones we make up for the future. Meditation provides clarity and calm, and is so simple, grounding and so incredibly healing.

Nobody’s marriage is perfect, nor is their career or financial life or family. But one thing I hope to do, is not get caught up in the monkey mind I did last summer, and I think so far I am doing pretty well with it.

It’s a practice that I plan on sticking with, and seeing where it goes. I feel good again, and am comfortable with who I am, and am less sensitive in a good way. I am not making up stories, but enjoying the moments when I choose to bring my attention back to the present moment, and treat myself with loving kindness.

This week I am going to spend two days meditating at the Insight Meditation Center in Barre, MA. I am so grateful for the chance to be there, meditating with others, and for the possibility of it. I’ll let you know how it is, because I am not going to write the story ahead of time.

guest-a-thon day 2: the aftermath

April 17, 2013April 17, 2013Uncategorized8 Comments

I met Kat several years ago at a freelance job. I liked her immediately. Hard not to like the infectious laugh, the big blue eyes, the intelligence. She is smart, and funny and spiritual, and curious and very talented. She has a new website that’s coming. I’ll post it when it’s up. Cool girl.

Name: Kat Jaibur

Occupation: Creative Director/Copywriter/Coach

Seven weeks ago today, I was up at 6 a.m., excited to spend the day with one of my best friends, who was celebrating 24 years of sobriety. It was a gorgeous day, filled with laughter and hugs. By 6 p.m., we were sitting on the floor of my vet’s office, crying and saying our goodbyes to my beloved 12 year old golden retriever, Millie.

Two weeks ago today, at this time, I was in the procession of cars on the way to my mother’s funeral. In about an hour, I would stand in front of the lectern with my brother, look out at a beautiful sea of faces, and give her eulogy. I would tell people to take a deep breath, put their hand over their heart, and breathe in a memory of our mother, their nana, auntie, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, friend. That she would always be that close, as close as a heartbeat, a memory and a breath. At the reception luncheon across the street afterward, there would be so much laughter and happy reuniting with long-missed friends and relatives, so much joy introducing friends from Boston to my high school friends and all my cousins, so many stories being told, and so much excitement and noise that you would have thought we were at a party. I guess we were.

A week ago today, I left the beautiful sanctuary of a lake house in Vermont that had been loaned to us, said goodbye to my hometown, and sobbed my way down I-89.

Today, I sit at a desk in Rockport, Massachusetts with a front row seat to the show the ocean is putting on. The spectacularly blue sea, tiny whitecaps throwing themselves at the rocks like giddy schoolgirls chasing after Justin Bieber, the crashing of the waves and the whoosh of the wind are the only background music I need. The gift of this place is overwhelming. Everywhere I walk, every where I turn, another holy view. My heart almost leaps out of my chest. These last 5 days have been such a blessing.

And so it goes. Joy and sorrow. Laughter and tears. Mingling like the waves and the rocks, the sun and the wind. Do we have room in our hearts for both?

Two bombs went off at the Boston Marathon on Monday. I won’t pretend there wasn’t devastation. I won’t pretend that it wasn’t a bad thing, or that people weren’t traumatized, maimed, killed. I put my hand over my heart, and breathe in the breath of God that keeps us alive. I breathe out peace. I know my energy has the power to help heal the world. I know my prayers have the power to bless, comfort, soothe and encourage people I don’t even know. I know that every time someone intends to create havoc and misery, our incredible resilient spirits treat it as a call to rise to something greater. I know that the majority of us will see the good, and BE the good. I savor the stories of kindness already coming out into the light. THIS is who we are. We are better. We are bigger. We are more powerful and loving than we know.

Out of sorrow, we find what we’re made of. And it is good. In joy, we celebrate all that we are given. And it is good.

Here, in the richness of life, I know that this is what really matters. I know my heart can hold both happiness and sorrow, that I can turn from loss to thanksgiving. I will not stay down. I will not suffer in the darkness. I will turn the light on. And if I can’t find the light, I will be the light. And for this — all of this — I am beyond grateful.