education

Happy Father’s Day.  When I say that it conjures up so much for me and for so many others, I expect you included.  Many of us have had varied relationships with our fathers nothing like Father Knows Best, The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, Blackish, or even Home Improvement.  If only we could tune in for 30 minutes a week and enjoy the comical moments that focus on the highlights of the best parts of them, with a little silly thrown in.  

It was a mere coincidence that we happen to be in Split, Croatia the same day the New York Times travel section featured 36 hours in Split.  It’s about the same amount of time we’ll be in Split, which is a beautiful port city on the coast of the Adriatic Sea.    

I, like many, have mixed feelings about Mother’s Day.  

As a daughter I knew that I loved my mom, and I also yearned for her acceptance, spending far too much of my babysitting money to bask in the momentary approval of an expensive Mother’s Day gift.  I’d set up Arlene’s Kitchen, honoring our mom.  It was a made-up restaurant in our home with hand-written menus for the family.  Nervous about what I might cook, I’d prep all the possibilities from eggs, any type of French toast or bagels & lox.  As down home as those brunches were, they were followed by the certainty that my clean-up techniques would be met with inevitable disapproval.  No one could make a countertop shine like my mom.  

It was a full moon this week.  I love looking up on a clear night and viewing the magical, mystical moon between the high rises.  Ever since I was a child I’ve found the moon an enchantress.  Myths have their place, and for many years I counted on myths to justify my outsized love of a full moon.  In times of feeling invisible I felt seen by the moon.  

I just heard that The Museum of Failure in Brooklyn opened last week (https://museumoffailure.com).  It’s primarily a collection of product fails through the last 5 decades or so.  I’m happy to be celebrating failure.  Their slogan is “Innovation Needs Failure!”  I’m not so sure I can say I’ve been innovative, unless one considers resourcefulness as an innovation, but I can say with absolute certainty that I, too, have a history of failures.

Unlike many recommendations for sleep hygiene, I do not go to sleep the same time each night.  Some nights I work late, some nights I enjoy the theater or other live entertainment.  Some nights I’m reading, while others I’m catching up on a television show.  I do my best to listen to signs of being tired if I’m at home, and I put myself to sleep accordingly.  Inevitably, this leaves me in a perpetual state of never quite catching up with the shows I enjoy.  

Years ago I had a phone book.  It looked like a fabric-covered hardback, divided by letters of the alphabet neatly cut into tabs descending on the paper’s edge.  Often the pages were outlined in gold ink.  I’d get an updated one every few years and I’d transfer the names, addresses, and phone numbers into my new, usually colorful, phone book.  These were also the days in which long distance phone calls were a big deal and we were reminded to speak quickly since we were being charged by the minute.  Phones had cords and were strategically placed in one or more locations in our homes.  A bygone era.  Yes, I have become a senior stereotype.  

I was preparing dinner as I do many nights.  Last night was pesto glazed salmon and garlic-marinaded skirt steak with sauteed spinach, garlic bread, and a spicy salad.  Thanks to Marion Zinn, my mother-in-law, I have the best marinade for the steak.  She was a wonderful hostess and served many delicious dishes.  Conversely, my mother would get anxious when hosting guests.  Nonetheless she deserves a shout out as an excellent baker. All three of my siblings and I have fond memories of annual birthday cakes baked from scratch, stored on a glass cake plate with an aluminum cake dome.  I used to cook and bake regularly, but as life’s responsibilities expanded, my domestic duties dwindled.   

I’m going to think of my gloves as rentals.  No matter what I pay, and how I try to keep them deep in my pockets when they are off my hands, I seem to lose one or more throughout the winter-wear season.  Say what you will about gloves, they undoubtedly lack permanence.  I suppose we could say that about life itself.  

I was in an emotional tailspin earlier this week.  I could tell I wasn’t in the right headspace as I kept thinking of past mistakes I’ve made, times I’ve previously hurt friends, and ways in which I had poor judgement. I was not coming out a champ.  More like a chump.  The negative barrage is not unfamiliar, but it happens less often than in former years.  By Tuesday, I knew that I needed to clear my head so there’d be space for self-care and kindness.  Luckily, I had my weekly therapy session.  

I made it to page 50 of the New Yorker with the promise of a poem on the next page.  Of course, this is the November 14^th Issue, which may seem to indicate I’m a month behind.  Not so, since I arbitrarily picked it up from a pile that goes back to issues from last year, I now am down to eleven unread issues.  This is my ongoing plight with New Yorkers.  My pile expands or contracts based on what’s happening any given week.  

A couple of days ago I installed an iPhone update.  I find this new format annoying.  I get it, things change.  But sometimes the changes come all at once and too fast.  I just wasn’t ready for a new change, small as it is.  

It’s Halloween Weekend and the city is ready for the many trick or treaters at every age.  As a child of the sixties our Halloween was comprised of a trip to Kiddie City to pick out a cardboard box with a clear window displaying the plastic mask with a thin mouth opening with two nostril holes for labored breathing that allowed for a muffled song of “trick or treat” at the door of kind home-owners who distributed candy, both great and questionable.  My favorite candy were plain Hershey chocolate bars, M&Ms, Twizzlers, or Good and Plenty.  I was not a fan of the chalky Necco Wafers or boxes of raisins.  We had plenty of fruit and raisins in our home, so I was on the lookout for forbidden treats that I would hide in the back of my closet.  

The Hebrew Year 5783 is upon us.  It’s a celebration of new beginnings.  Sometimes called the great reset.  We have a tradition of bringing bread crumbs, which symbolize our sins, down to the river to release them so we can start anew.  For me the letting go of the recent past to move on is an unburdening.  It’s a kindness we can give ourselves in letting go of what we deem to be opposed to our values.  It’s a personal forgiveness so we can live better lives through right action.  

I woke up this morning to a stunning sunrise.  I slept well and was in a better mood than I had been the last couple of days.  Sunrises bring hope.  They help me to begin the day with gratitude.  The day is lovely.  It’s warm enough to avoid outwear, but cool enough to enjoy the breezes on my walk.  The outdoor cafes are filled with happy brunch diners.  The city is moving along nicely.

Today I turn 63.  In my 20s and 30s I wanted a lot of celebrating.  By 40, after I started my present career as a psychotherapist, low key became my preferred option.  Don’t get me wrong, I wanted recognition.  Sometimes, I say with some embarrassment, I demanded recognition.  But smaller became better for me.  Today I took myself to the Bronx to walk among the August flowers at the New York Botanical Gardens.  

Pre-Covid, I took a wonderful writing workshop with Emily Raboteau at the Key West Writer’s Workshop.  Not only was it a beautiful setting, but the guest speakers and the workshop itself were invaluable.  One thing Professor Raboteau taught us was the necessity of proper scaffolding to support the writing.  It took time, but I built my scaffolding.  It’s been more precarious than proper, but I worked with the materials at hand and I’m finding my way.