From My Journal: Out of the Closet

I am afraid to write. For sometimes I am afraid to put into words the banality of my days. How I look in the mirror each morning and wonder if this is the day I will finally be beautiful. How so like my mother I am: scanning my closet, putting together an outfit that is color coordinated, brushing and brushing my hair, outlining my eyes, erasing dark, under-eye circles. The pruning and preening, the putting together is an act I go through to tell myself I am here and the day has begun. But who will see me? Who cares how I appear?

We camouflage ourselves from “outside life.” We try to live in order to forget about death. Dan's Aunt Dot died last week at 97. She was fairly healthy up to her early nineties. Then she moved near her daughter but not with her daughter. And I wonder why. Her last weeks were anxious and at times delirious. It is these downhill weeks that are discussed rather than the whole of the years before. Aging is scary. No one wants to get old. Dan's mother tells us, “Please shoot me if I get like Dot.” But Dot led an amazingly active life until her aging caught up with her. I don't want to lose my mind. I say I want to be aware and yet I can understand the need to escape the inevitable end.

I love when poets, artists, philosophers tell us to tune into and appreciate what we have now. Do I have all I need where I am at this ticking away moment? In the present I have no need for worry and anxiety because the unknown future is a ways out in front of me. In the present I have my mind, my dear husband, my friends, my garden, my home. In the present I can write and read, sing and walk whenever I want. So yes, I do have everything I need. With each passing day I am getting older, but with each passing day I am learning to accept my aging.

The mirror lies. Why I trust this mirror to reflect my true story is puzzling. I notice my face appears younger, the happier I feel. Cats constantly groom themselves. Birds pluck and preen their feathers. Gorillas groom each other. I have wanted for so long to go beyond the vanity and ego of appearance. We want to be seen and yet, most people see only themselves. I think my desire goes beyond the superficial. But in America we revere the surface. I want to be acknowledged and understood; I want to be appreciated. But isn't this true for most of us?

I watch young teen boys attending our alternative neighborhood high school skateboarding and smoking near my house. They want to be cool. One kid smokes, pauses, straightens his backpack, smokes. He waits. He wants to be later to school than the rest. We time our daily activities to coincide with what's in fashion. Being hip, however, is taking away our authenticity.

My dear husband tells me I am thoroughly authentic. He says I can't help but be myself. This need to be honest and open has gotten me in plenty of trouble. My outsider status is a badge worn proudly but can be a scarlet O. For I have trouble being honest with myself. The mirror's truth is I do want to be an insider. Do I want recognized fame and fortune? Perhaps, just a little.

I am running around the circle of present time. My aging face and body is here to stay. I don't want to be sculpted anew. I don't want my face to be lifted. I don't want my beautiful silver hair to return to black. I have been afraid to die and I know I am afraid to get old. I truly don't want more wrinkles, but I don't want to deny who I am either. Am I stupid or brave to go against make-up and fashion? I remember trying make-up in junior high. I didn't have the skill or patience then. I discovered in my sixties that outlining my eyes gives me a brighter appearance and so I have given in. But my lips are too narrow for lipstick and though continually searching for the right haircut for thinning hair, my silver white hair has grown on me.

Ingrained in our American culture is that we women are never satisfied with how we look. Not even the most beautiful feels comfortable in her skin. I have asked many gorgeous women if they know they are beautiful and most do not. If only they knew how lucky they are. Or is it lucky? We can never understand someone else from the outside and getting to the inside can be a challenge. I talk freely about beauty and aging. I talk freely about my death and aging fears. And this is what I believe is needed: a voice given, honest words written about each stage of this living progression. I want aging women to not always be staring into their closets. I want them to come out.

© 2012

Road Trip

I'm seeing one huge pelican and then another swooping and making a half circle arc in front of me. A feeling of effervescent ecstasy slowly rises to the top of my head. Pelicans...have I ever seen pelicans before? Dan and I have found a bench along the Santa Barbara strand overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We are resting after taking a nostalgic walking tour of the city where I once lived. We had lunch at this scrumptious Italian Cafe, the former Copper Coffee Pot, one of my old writing/study haunts. Nothing and everything stays the same. My first studio apartment, located in a quaint Victorian complex, The Magnolia, near the downtown park, appears, however, to have been frozen in time. It is eerily quiet. Where is 90 year old Willie doing yoga handstands on the lawn? Where are Meghan and Shauna sitting outside on their miniature deck sipping tea? Where is my neighbor Jenny, who pierced my ears? Presumably, these people in my former life moved on decades ago.

I don't want to return to my college and soul searching, twenty-something years, though I keep flashing to the fact my own daughter is the age I was then. Weird! Our California road trip is about people, youthful memories and grown-up insights. Dan and I might as well have been kids when we met; and then poof: here we are full blown adults in our sixties. We met in Ojai, up in the hills about 45 minutes from Santa Barbara, a major stopping point on our journey. We are staying several days with friends, first, the former remarried husband, and then the former remarried wife. But back to those pelicans. I thought our trip was mainly going to be about people and not places. But I am wrong. Each place has brought me a visual gift of wild and natural beauty...like those hold-your-breath pelicans.

As we make our way through the narrow high mountain roads towards Ojai, it is as if I am seeing this landscape for the first time. Having worked part-time at one of its private schools, having met Dan at that school, I drove this path a hundred times. But this September summer beauty whizzing past the car window is indescribable. We have climbed inside an enclosed hilly canyon of paradise which keeps opening up to these scenes of three dimensional splendor: jagged cliffs, bowls of greenery, and serene, eternal skies. Ojai has been equated with a spiritual Shangra La, and it is still thick with theosophists. As a college student, I came here frequently to hear Krishnamurti speak in its parks.

At Dennis's house, I meet and immediately like his new wife Meredy. Before dinner we are taken on a dog-walk up along one of those hills I saw through my car window. As we walk and talk, I feel my feet touching this amazing land. It is hot and I am sweating. The town of Ojai is small; one long, yuppified street. There are remnants of the orange groves along which Dan and I used to run. Kathy and Allyn's rental is in a posh neighborhood and makes Dennis and Meredy's sprawling tract home look rather earthy. Kathy beams through the front door window as she sees our faces. Decades-old friends whom we haven't seen in over a decade. E-mail and the telephone can't replace pure physical contact. Kathy has a manicured, cascading waterfall in her back garden, but this doesn't seem to ease the feeling that I have lost contact with nature. It isn't until the next morning when Kathy takes us for a walk through a neighborhood access only, corral-like open meadow that the natural contact resumes. I find that talking outside, talking in wilder and more primitive places loosens people's inhibitions.

That Dan and I are in rugged Ojai after spending two feet-burning days walking and visiting with friends in bustling, downtown San Francisco and Oakland, shocks us. We are like birds making our way south for the winter, flying through one habitat after another.

Leaving Ojai, we skim along the coastal highway to Dan's mom's house which is a half block away from the Hermosa Beach Strand. Dan's mother and younger sixty year old brother live together and always have since their father's death, at age 45. They resemble a grouchy, long-married couple who know they need each other to survive. Dan's mom has a tremendous heart, beating inside a neglected eight-five year old body. The television is on every waking moment, and so to find solace we take walks along the strand or walks through this now more upscale beach town to our usual coffee place for breakfast.

Our daughter wants to see grandma, so we fly her down for the weekend. After she arrives I feel complete. It is hot, even at the beach...record highs in Los Angeles. Mid-morning, the daughter and I go for a bike ride, riding fast along the sandy, increasingly peopled shores. There are huge tankers far out on the glassy waters looking more like toy boats. There are rows and rows of volleyball nets with groups of players arriving at every one. There are boy scouts doing their duty on beach clean-up day. My daughter rides faster, and I try to keep up. The sky is unlimited if I look north, but a stack of smoke is rising to the east. We stop and walk our bikes onto a pier and see surfers paddling for waves. It's a normal day at the beach, but it's totally different from our Eugene, Oregon home environment.

At one place where bikes must be carried up the steps, with difficulty I begin lifting my bike. But then this incredibly nice gentleman says, “Let me help you.” I thank him profusely and he jokes that he'll be happy to carry my bike all the way to Starbucks! As I hop back on my bike, I wonder if this is what it means to be a senior citizen? I like the respect and care but hope I can be an agile aging specimen. The daughter keeps turning around and asking me if I'm OK. “Yes, yes,” I tell her as I'm catching my breath and wiping away the heat induced-sweat. When I say “I love this,” what I am really saying is “I love being with you.”

In the afternoon Dan's sister and her partner, Mary, arrive and we all head down to the beach with our beach chairs and umbrellas. All the water people, myself and Mary excluded, go body surfing. I sit and watch the expansive horizon and see what appears to be seal heads bobbing up and down in the waters. Later we are given this habitat's gift: a pod of playfully frolicking dolphins swim merrily by my beloved human swimmers and can be seen from the shore. I am once again elated...dolphins are rarely seen so close to this Pacific Coast civilization. I scan the waters for more surprises but all I can focus upon is my beautiful, lanky daughter and dripping wet husband, both of whom I love beyond measure. They are so alike in temperament, I think, and can feel myself edging towards an outsider frame of mind.

Is it a burden to be full of sensitivities and mental meanderings? Is it a burden to have to put all experiences, all musings into spoken and written words? I so admire the quiet nature of my family. My husband and daughter have no need to speak. Their inward contemplations are enough. My enthusiastic energy can't be contained.

Like a taunt yet subtle rubber band, our eleven days of travel have stretched us far and away from our home and back again. From wall-to-wall peopled big city to quiet as a pin-drop mountain oasis, from one upscale California beach town to another, we have opened our hearts to and rejuvenated our minds with old friends and family. On our last afternoon in Hermosa, we set up the gigantic umbrella, wipe off the lounge chairs and help Grandma and her walker make their way around the side of the house to this front yard respite. In the thirty or so years I have known Dan's mother, she has never sat outside with us. But here we all are: brother, sister, partner, Dan, wife and daughter, Dan's mother, my daughter's grandmother, sitting facing a view of the ocean rising above the sand. It is a miracle, this short span of living we do. It is a miracle to be able to encounter the surprises nature presents. It is a miracle, simply to be together, sitting side by side with those we love.

(c) 2012

Are We Better Off?

The primary question of this election season is “Am I better off in 2012?” Jogging my memory back to the years between 2004 through 2008, I remember President George Bush neglecting one war, and, without true provocation, getting us into another war. Bush started his first term with a debt-free budget, and at the end of his second term, we were at least a trillion dollars in debt. Being the proud parent of a lesbian daughter, I never felt that a welcome mat was placed outside the Bush White House for her. Our LGBTQ soldiers were fighting in these wars for a beloved country who told them to keep their authentic selves hidden. Discrimination towards women in the work place was being ignored. Broad tax cuts were initiated for the wealthiest Americans while ignoring the right that all our citizens have access to health care.

When Obama was elected President I told my daughter: “Now I can give you a future.” But change is rarely a snap, especially when a country is going through economic hardship. True change takes time. But despite a mountain of political obstacles, Obama has kept many of his promises: He has gotten us out of the Iraqi war and will get us out of Afghanistan during his second term. He has given our LGBTQ soldiers dignity and respect by getting rid of Don't Ask Don't Tell. The White House welcomes my daughter as a treasured American citizen with all the rights of every other American citizen. One of the first acts Obama signed was the Lilly Ledbetter Act against discrimination in the workplace for women. Obama tackled the economy through financial regulation and auto/teacher/fireman job saving and job creation. He managed to pass a Health Care Law that needs some revision but will guarantee all a healthier life, including my 23 year old daughter.

Here in Oregon I travel by men and women working daily on our highways and bridges; I see construction workers revitalizing our downtown; I applaud the Occupy Movement for waking us up to our homeless/poverty problems and their drive for more permanent homeless transition camps and low cost/free health clinics. Obama knows that as a country we have a long way to go politically, economically and morally: The rich absolutely need to pay their fair share; we need to decrease poverty and homelessness; our economy can't take a new war in Iran. I'm not sure Romney gets it. Am I better off? With an intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate President who is fighting for my daughter, myself, our soldiers, our lower and middle classes, our children, you bet I am. Please vote!

© 2012

What the Thieves Left Behind

On returning home from a lovely early evening celebration of my husband's birthday, I entered the kitchen and noticed the door to our daughter's attic room ajar. Hadn't that door been closed when we left? Then I heard Dan's voice from our bedroom: “We've been robbed!” Clothes were strewn haphazardly on the now askew bed, drawers were open, my lap top and cover were missing. In the front room, Dan's lap top plus power cord was also missing and in what we call the Star Room, our DVD's had been ransacked. The television, however, was intact and on the floor were the rejected DVD's. Why hadn't the thieves taken “The Big Lebowski” (too edgy) or “The Hours” (too femininely painful and dramatic) or “Prairie Home Companion” (too senior nostalgic)? Their fine taste, however, robbed us of our “Lord of the Rings” and “Harry Potter” collections and my all time favorite romance for English majors, “Possession.”

We were in shock. I could feel myself reacting from a deep place of calm numbness. Nothing appeared to be ruined but our bedroom screen and our privacy. But slowly we discovered the pervasiveness of this theft. The fire proof yet unlocked strongbox at the bottom of the attic ladder was missing. Inside were our passports, our birth certificates, my financial statements and possibly my social security card. Our dear daughter, who gave us her undivided long distance support via telephone, asked us if our marriage license was also taken. Gratefully, the marriage license remained snugly tucked inside the marriage photo album. “Don't touch anything,” stated the police dispatcher. All I wanted to do was clean up the mess and rid the house of the invasive vibes. But instead we waited and we waited and we talked and talked.

What does it mean to lose a lap top? I forget that the virtual world of my writing is not as real as I make it out to be. I see the words flowing on the page and think they will always be there. I've made hard copies of my essays in the past but here is where procrastination plays its evil music. I hadn't backed up my online journal recently or some of the essays not published on my blog. Words lost. I mused that this only meant my daughter would have less ramblings to read upon my death. To be honest, one of my yearnings for a daughter was to bequeath her my journals. Who else could I leave them to? Who else might be willing to read or skim them?

Dan and I continued to wait up for the police. Finally, around midnight, we climbed the rickety wooden ladder to our daughter's futon bed. Just as we lay our heads upon the pillows, the phone rang downstairs. I rushed to answer it. On this Friday evening at the start of a city wide celebration the police had been preoccupied with an abundance of crimes. So tomorrow morning we would report our theft again.

In the morning things don't look brighter after a break-in, they just look clearer. We listed our tasks: contact credit bureaus, cancel passports, talk with insurance agent, write down missing items and monetary amount,replace screen, assess and further secure house, etc. Most people have dealt with thievery at one time or another. Dan and I both admit our negligence in leaving windows and blinds open on a warm summer evening. We were home by 7:30 p.m., but obviously these thieves were watching. For the first time in probably twenty years both houses on either side of us were without their residents and we were sadly without our aged dog, Lacey. The downtown celebration was loudly booming, while neighborhoods were naively quiet. Hindsight is golden.

It has been nearly a month since this robbery and as I sit here writing on my new lap top, I feel awkward and strange. I've avoided writing even on paper. Is there a lingering fear my words are meaningless and will be swiftly taken away? Or does it also have to do with a daughter's wish? Just before the break in, our daughter drove down for a combined celebration of what we call “Birthday Season.” She, Dan and I all have our birthdays a week a part. After a moment of unusual for her intimate candor, the daughter tells me she wants to share more in the future but she doesn't want me to write about it. I can't explain how my writing has more to do with me than her. But I promise to uphold her wish.

I discover silence is more harmful than loss. I tell friends about the events of the 24th of August and I state that for me and my writing it will be a new beginning. I don't miss easily replaceable stuff. But I do miss my source of personal creativity.

I vow to close the windows and replace worn out screen doors; we will add deadbolt locks to the back doors. But I will not close my heart. After thoroughly and ritually cleansing my house, I find I have also cleansed my compassion. These possibly drug addicted thieves were desperate, even taking the upstairs penny jar. Are their lives so sad and dependent upon such wrongful acts? Dan and I live simply and yet we know our culture applauds wealth and constant accumulation of material goods. What the robbers couldn't take is my gratitude for all that I have: a bed to sleep in, a roof to stay dry and warm, a garden to munch on. They might have erased thousands of words, but what they have gifted me with is a release of the past and a focus on the present; they have given me a restart, a revising of my creative pursuits. I will continue to open the windows when it is warm. I will continue to have new thoughts and imaginings. And I will promise myself to express these thoughts with new words.

(c) 2012

Mountain Lion Eyes

Growing up with a spontaneous, moody, tall tale talking father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. For example, in early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.

As a self-employed landscaper, the love of nature and gardens was in my Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional, unplanned weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small man-made bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.

The adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”

Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!

In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.

On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.

If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.

During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.

We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.

Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.

We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.

© 2011

Simple Joy

(Published in Chicken Soup for the Soul Think Positive, 2010)

There are times I have sat in my small yet cozy home and wished for a larger living room, a tiled kitchen floor with a stainless steel glass top stove, and a new couch with matching chair and ottoman. But I have come to realize through raising a child and having family and friend gatherings that what matters is not the furnishings of my house but whether love seeps into every corner.

Over the years the hair shedding dog has slept on the couch in my absence, the latest kitten has repeatedly clawed the corners of the chair and cat pee and spit-ups have been cleaned up a thousand times from rugs, floors and down comforters. With an only child and the raising of home day care children for eight years, my house has that lived-in look. I admit I went through a period of railing against the universe each time I cleaned up the next mess: Why can't I have anything nice? All I want is simple elegance! Little did I know then that the lessons I needed to learn were just around the corner.

As the recession hit, we have felt lucky our small home is paid for. We have felt deep gratitude for our jobs and for our ability to save money for our daughter's college, although out-of-state tuition was killing us. Then our daughter recently decided to move back to Oregon to live with her then girl friend who was studying in Portland. Suddenly, my year of constant saving made me rich.

After going through a clothing and shoe shopping spree, I began reading, meditating, walking, writing. With my daughter gone, my small empty nest loomed large, surrounding me with mothering memories. Tears filled the corners. I had to begin again. I had to reinvent myself. I felt overwhelmed by my wants and needs. Yes, let's hire this guy at my husband's work to tile the kitchen floor. Let's redecorate the bathroom. Let's dig up the side garden and put in a new lawn. The house projects became endless and my self contentment diminished with each new décor I envisioned.

We made a visit to Portland, to see our daughter's new living space. We parked across the street from the five-story red brick building. There was an old fashioned broken buzzer by the locked front door, so we pulled out a cell phone to tell her we had arrived. She came downstairs and led us up to their studio on the second floor.

We entered their combined living room/bedroom which had a bed and a shelf for the non-functional television and their modest DVD collection. “Remember those large pillows in your bedroom that grandma made? They might be great for your floor in front of the television.” Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she replied. On the left side of this one open space was a narrow kitchen, capable of only one person cooking at a time. They had a small, square card table, but no chairs. On the right side was a decadently large (in comparison to the other dimensions of their studio) walk-in closet with two tall dressers and one long wooden rod for hanging their clothes. Going through this closet, one got to the tiny bathroom which had the usual wall sink, toilet and claw-foot tub with a removable shower device. Our daughter absolutely praised this bathroom because she had lived in a college dorm where the only bathroom on her floor seemed miles down the hallway.

Her girl friend had spread out a simple lunch for us of cheese, crackers and fresh fruit, plus goblets of mineral water. We had wanted to take them out to lunch, but this thoughtfulness touched us. “We don't have chairs,” they laughed as we sat on the bed or the floor to eat. The walls were covered with their own drawings; I recognized our daughter's batik cloth print covering one window shade; the vase of flowers I brought now added color to a shelf by the stove.

Memories floated to the surface of when my husband and I had first met. He stayed with me in my small studio, even smaller than the one we now ate lunch in. We clicked glasses and made toasts. I swallowed their every loving glance; I drank in their oozing of contentment, their bubbling of gratitude for simply being together.

Since their apartment happened to be located in a lovely neighborhood, a walk seemed natural. There was the bustling, trendy Hawthorne Boulevard to our right as we walked out the main entrance. We strolled the opposite way through Victorian style houses towards a meridian circle rose garden. I was captivated by the lushness of this garden which apparently was one of four, one at each corner of the tic-tac-toe-like crossed streets. The surrounding homes were a combination of well-worn two-story mansions and more modest one-story residences.

Across the garden was one such mauve-colored Craftsman. They were having a garage sale out front and there prominently displayed were a pair of chairs. My daughter and I simultaneously quickened our stride and were practically running to sit in those chairs. Each carved wood chair had a music staff design on the back and deep rose colored tweed cushions. They were perfect; my daughter and her girl friend are musicians. “We want to buy them for your apartment,” my husband and I said excitedly. The asking price was $35 for both chairs! What a bargain, we thought as we wrote the owner a check.

We proudly carried the chairs through the rose garden, down the neighborhood streets, through the halls and up the stairs to their studio. We placed the chairs by their table and Aspen and her girl friend immediately sat down in them. “We can dine elegantly now,” they teased. I have rarely felt happier than I did at that moment observing the glow on my daughter's face. It is all really so simple, I thought to myself.

When my husband of thirty years and I first met, we packed up all we owned in his van and my station wagon and drove north to Eugene, Oregon. When we rented our cozy one-bedroom duplex, we only had my childhood rocking chair and his childhood bureau drawers. We slept on a foam pad. I bought yarn and braided a rug. We found a used kitchen table and chairs plus a two person couch. My husband made my desk by copying one I wanted at a furniture store. I don't think I have ever felt more fulfilled than I was during those early years. We filled our lives with friends. We filled our lives with family. We filled our lives with love. Sitting in my daughter's Portland studio, watching her radiating happiness, I remembered and reminded myself to treasure the simplicity in my own life.

© 2010

What's for Breakfast?

Every morning when I wake up, I tiptoe around the house and open the curtains, turn on the heater, and fold up the futon bed. In the dusky silence I listen to my three year old daughter Aspen's breathing or hear her small voice trailing down the hallway, “Mommy, I want to nurse. What's for breakfast? Where's Daddy?”

We cuddle together on the green rocking chair as the sun slowly filters in through the windowpanes. “Look, Mommy, it's the morning light.” I dress myself and then help Aspen. We make sure to go potty and then she sits at the kitchen table with her stuffed friend f the day, waiting for her juice and cereal and Mommy's company.

A mother's life is full of simple, ordinary tasks, I think to myself. Many days I love opening the house to light and these daily routines. At night I ceremoniously draw the day to an end by closing the curtains, turning on artificial lights to continue the warmth and glow of the sun, and putting away the remnants o the day's activities.

Evenings bring quiet times: reading or acting out stories, building huge towers or other magical Lego structures, treating ourselves to popcorn or ice cream, listening to our favorite music. Again, simplicity.

Is this life, I mean the very essence of life? IS washing dishes, doing laundry, wiping a runny nose, hugging away pain, hugging in joy, reading stories, telling stories, licking each other's faces like slimy slugs, cooking, IT? Is this the warp that holds the fabric of life together?

Put on pajamas, brush teeth, give good night kisses and hugs, tuck ourselves in for another dream-filled sleep. Where is the deeper meaning of why I am here on this earth? It seems like I've been searching all of my life for something more, something that's really important that I'm supposed to be doing.

I wake up in the middle of the night next to the rhythmic breathing of my husband. The house radiates a humming quiet until I hear Aspen cough. I crawl across the bed and move toward the entrance to her room. I peer in and see her round, innocent face framed by her cloud-like pillow. Her arms are cuddling her brown stuffed horse. A halo of peace and contentment surround her. I want to crawl into her bed and hug her tight. I want to crawl into her bed and become three years old again.

“Where does the sun go at night, Mommy?” Nothing is simple or mundane to Aspen. Everything is wondrous and totally new.

I go to the bathroom. Let out the cat. Look up at the moon and notice the light reflecting off the lilac bushes. I feel a chill in the air, but buds are forming and it will soon be spring.

I crawl back into bed and feel the warmth of my partner's body. I snuggle closer to him. Have I told him lately how much I love him? How much I love being a part of our family?

Our lives are simple, we often tell each other: we parent and we work. I hear movement from our daughter's room. Little feet patter across the floor to our room. She drags her pillow and stuffed horse over the middle of our bed and places them and eventually herself between her father and me. I kiss her and tuck her in We sleep.

In the morning I quietly get up and open the curtains and turn on the heater. I let in the cat and feed her, put on some water to boil for tea and get dressed.

Looking out the front room window I notice a few people biking down the street. A professionally dressed woman walks briskly by on the sidewalk near our house. She stops for a moment to notice the flowers and vegetables in our garden. The school bus turns a corner; a few cars drive pass.

I hear Aspen's small voice in the background, “Mommy, what's for breakfast?”

And without hesitation I turn and tell her, “Life, dear heart, life.”

© 1995