Friday, June 20, 2014

Living and Dying All In The Same Breath

...we all are.

When I was younger and hung out in karaoke spots I used to sing Bonnie Raitt's "Love In The Nick of Time." The line
"I see my folks are getting on, and I watch their bodies change.
I know they see the same in me and it makes us both feel strange..."
           always made me tear up, but even then I knew the impact of those words would only become more forceful with time.

I am, to my own surprise, almost what they call "middle age" assuming I live to be at least 100 (I do plan on making it to 120 but you know there may be something else in store for me). For a while there was this unshakeable sadness at the time passing, sadness at how fast it seems to go the older you get. I despaired for a while that I would live the rest of my life at the sadness of what I had left behind, but I forced myself to realize that if I DO make it to 100, that's an awful waste of 50 years, feeling sad. And that for as long as their is breath in me I can learn new things or do something new or go someplace I've never been... and the sadness has abated a little bit, but its still there.

This is why I love photographs so much... they freeze a moment, a glance, a gesture, one sixtieth of a second of time. No other medium freezes time that way; a painting takes time to make and so your perception of the painting changes with every stroke, your interpretation of the time makes it's mark on the painting itself. Music can invoke a period of time, and sometimes take you back to that second itself but still you are enveloped in a sensation of time. But a photograph is, and forever, that moment in time.

Yesterday was probably my Sun's last concert with Opus. As someone pointed out I said this last year... but this year felt final. They told him to turn in his violin for repair, but the look in his eye said he'd never go back to get it. I know that look... it's one of mine. I had a tendency when I was his age to do the same thing... move on and never ever look back. "Never revisit the scene of the crime" I'd say, "because that's how you get caught."

He still plays violin, the Sun. He plays in high school and he enjoys the music he's learning so I'm not sad about that. It's not even that I'm sad, really. But I was overwhelmed by the all the new faces up on the stage, all the new babies, all the new, proud, parents, jostling for pictures of their babies' first concert, new pride beaming from their faces. Overwhelmed by all the faces I already knew from two or three years back, no longer standing in the front row, steadily advancing backwards through the rows to "Variations of Twinkle on the E String" and "Andantino" and "Can Can," through "Canon in D" to "Orange Blossom Special." I remember how my little ones strove to learn "Orange Blossom Special," attempting to teach themselves and each other the fast fiddling required to play, egging each other on. And now, it's nothing; child's play. One of them has moved on to viola playing things like "Suite No. 2 for Solo Violoncello," his body swaying, transported by the music. Others, like my Sun the Reluctant Violinist, able to sight read and transpose keys or play a medley from "West Side Story."

Watching the music yesterday evening made me feel time and how much time changes things.

On the West Coast, a virtual friend fights cancer, on the East Coast loved ones fight tumors or face heart surgeries. I'm only 49 but already I've lost friends to cancer, or stroke, or heart failure. Other friends are planning weddings for their children, welcoming grandchildren. Some of the elders are passing through the veil; Maya Angelou and Ruby Dee, my "cousin Betty," my grandparents, leaving me to Become Elder, living and dying all in the same breath.

Life is good; I can't complain at all. As always, I wish I had more money, more time; my short term memory is overcome by the day to day things I must remember, my long term memory bringing my experiences into a focus that's ever sharpening... I remember my own teenage years crystal clearly as I watch my child navigate his; him swearing I don't know what it's like anymore and me knowing exactly what it's like and what the consequences can be...  But I can't tell him. I am relegated to watching, guiding...

as I live and die, all in the same breath.

Saturday, February 8, 2014

"Make It Sound Like Sawdust..."

(Good god, SEPTEMBER is when last I wrote. Far, far, FAR too much time on Facebook. In fact, I almost posted this there but I decided I am going to try to put my more lengthier "posts" here again, rather than on FB. I MUST write again. On the other hand... if you didn't know we DID start a family blog "Kelley's Magazine"... go check it out. Please. Anyhow... onward...)

 Earlier today, the very talented musician I follow on Facebook (one Mr. Pilgrim of The Soulfolk Experience*) posted a video of The Beatles' "Fixing A Hole" off the Sgt. Pepper Album. I re-posted the song noting that it was my theme song. And it really is. If you ever cared to wonder how my mind works, it very much wanders where it will go. In my old apartment on the Rock (that I do miss occasionally) I had painted my bedroom in the colors of a caribbean sea and while doing so was  happily singing that song to myself. If there's anything wrong with the apartment I live in now--aside from the fact that it's just small--it is that we hadn't ever decided whether we were staying temporarily long-term or just temporarily. Consequently I never got to paint this place pretty colors. We've decided we're probably moving come spring (we'd like to stay in Harlem of course) and best believe... the next place will be painted "in a colourful way/And when my mind is wandering/There I will go..." I hope my BigMan will agree to red.

So Mr. Pilgrim posted the Beatles song earlier today. The thing about that album, Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, is that for me it is one of those audio cues that will instantly send me into reverie. As a six- or seven-year-old I spent hours with that album cover in my hands, reading the lyrics, going over the faces on the cover annoyed I only knew but a few of them, the words that John and Paul, George and Ringo sang painting pictures in my head of a man standing on a boat in a river watching newspaper taxis appear while yellow and green cellophane dripped into tangerine trees... what would a girl with kaleidoscope eyes look like and was she the same girl whose mommy came downstairs and found the note that said her baby was gone, gone to meet a man from the motor trade... the girl darting into a cobblestone alley with a big wooden door, behind which was a burly man with a moustache who swept her off her feet... of Rita the metermaid in her parlor papered with torn, floral wallpaper, her suitor uncomfortably seated between family members on a well-worn couch, the two seen later white-haired and still kissing, their grandchildren, Vera, Chuck and Dave at their knee...

Each song on that album gives me a mini-movie to watch in my head, a memory, a smell... I have listened to that album over and over and over throughout my life, and at every listen it gives me new memories, a new time marker in my own life to refer to, or something new to hear or think about.

The poster that inspired John Lennon
When I was in my twenties, I'd inherited some money from my father's half-sister, my Aunt Sinah and since I figured I should do something useful with it other than treat my friends to dancing to hiphop at the Roxy and drinking every Friday night I enrolled in one of those six-month trade schools that were supposed to teach you audio-engineering. I did learn engineering actually, but it was the early Eighties and hiphop studios weren't yet mainstream, so most of the audio engineering jobs (and prerequesite internships) were held by--and only by--long haired white boys. In other words, audio engineering did not become a career but the experience wasn't a complete waste of time... I learned about the soundmaking experiments The Beatles carried out while recording the Sgt. Pepper album. One of the greatest pieces of musical art ever recorded, in my opinion, is the song "Being For The Benefit of Mr. Kite!"

As a kid in Jamaica my father once took me to a real circus, in a real tent. I remember it being dusty and smelly, and it was only one ring. "Mr Kite" brings me back to that day every time.

The story goes that John Lennon bought a vintage circus poster and was inspired to take the verbiage off the poster and string it together, pretty much word for word, into a song. And then...
John wanted to hear the sawdust in the ring. That was the brief he gave me, and it gave me a nice problem. 'What you really want,' I told him, 'is a calliope!' He said, 'A what?' I told him, 'A steam organ, you know, one of those tooty things,' and I thought that it might be possible to get hold of a steam organ and actually use that. But, that was a bit of a wild idea and too cumbersome and it would have taken much too long for it to be done. So, with not being able to get a steam organ in the studio, I got as many different recordings of steam organs I could find and we transferred them to tape and I told the engineer, Geoff Emerick, to chop them all up into one-foot lengths and throw them all up in the air and pick them up and put them all back together again. But, it wasn't quite as effective as I thought, because some of the bits came together too well! They had joined up in the way that they had started. So, I told Geoff, 'That's no good, and turn that one back to front.' Eventually, we made a background tape that was just chaos. It was just nothing at all, but, undeniably, it was the sound of a steam organ. It was just a whirly-gig sound. When Henry the Horse takes over, I got John to play the tune on one organ, while I played swirling runs on another Hammond organ, played at half speed. The Beatles' road managers Mal Evans and Neil Aspinal played mouth organs and I played a variety of electronic effects.
- George Martin, 1998

For those of you who may happen to read this and have only come into music in the digital age, Mr. Martin meant to literally cut up the one-inch wide reel-to-reel tape, throw the pieces in the air, and then tape them back together again, sometimes turning the tape upside down and backwards. It was called "splicing" and it's another useless talent of mine... I got very good at it. I held on to my splicing block for years.

...Paul would sit down and ask what I planned to do with his songs, every note virtually ... Lots of arrangements to his songs were very much his ideas which I would have to implement. But John would always be much more vague. He would talk in metaphors and I'd have to go inside his brain and find out what he wanted. For this song, he asked for 'authentic fairground sound, so I can smell the sawdust.' 
-George Martin

Stereo was just coming into existence and The Beatles made great use of it on that album, "panning" audio from one side to the other or "placing" instruments to the left or right, so that if you listen to the album in headphones their voices appear at different "places." For instance, in the song "Good Morning" you can hear the hounds and the horses gallop from left to right over your head. I still get excited about that. Every time.

On the last song off the album, "A Day In The Life" there is an explanation about the last 24 bars that's pretty funny, and can be found here. (Also poke around that site for other stories about the album's production.) What's not mentioned, oddly, is something I learned in engineering school about the last note of the song. It goes on so long because as the note faded, they kept turning up the mic on that track. Therefore you can hear the note for much longer than you would be able to with "naked" ears.

I hate that I'm becoming one of those old fogies who bemoans "music today." The thing is, I DO like a lot of current music... I think Pharrell is a genius, and as much as people argued over who "owned" the sound and the construction of Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" it's an interesting technical reconstruction. My Sun makes me listen to people like Ace Hood or A$AP Ferg/Ant/Rocky, and I like them well enough and for all his crazy, I love Kanye. I also like Bruno Mars. But there has gotten to be such a separation between good, experimental music and what's played in mass media  that you NEVER hear the experimental stuff without digging for it. In 1968 The Beatles were "new" and sometimes mocked by the old folk, but you actually got to hear them on radio or TV. These days, you have to be "in the know" in order to find something good and consequently, most people only hear the mass-produced pop stuff. And that all sounds the same to me. I miss collaborations, sound explorations, odd pairings like George Harrison seeking out Jewish Klezmer fiddlers to play along with Indian Sitars on "Within You and Without You." How cool was that??

One would think, with all the musical technology that exists these days people would play around more, but technique does not seem to be something I hear a lot of. We have stereo and yet every one's voices sit right at the top of your head in headphones. You don't often hear bass on side and drums in the middle, guitars on the other side like you would if you were in a real room...
Anyway. Put some headphones on and listen to this:

*Oh, and P.S. If you're in the New York area, go catch The SoulFolk Experience in Brooklyn at BAM on February 15th, 9PM. Get there early or you'll have to stand, though it's totally worth it.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Throwback Thursday #1

The best part about writing a blog, like a diary, is that you can look back over stuff you've written.

See if you've grown any.

See if you have changed your mind about anything.

See if you still feel the same way about anything.

See who is still in your life/not in your life.

Facebook is great for instant gratification. "Likes" and lively discussions. It is NOT good for retrospection. Well, except for photos. Facebook holds on to photos very easily (it IS "face" book, after all) which isn't that great if you can easily spot the *cough 30 pounds or so you've put on over the last five years. But conversations go by in realtime, in much the way they do in real life. It's very transient. In some respects that's great. I do like the conversational aspect. But FB is not great for introspection. For learning about yourself.

I started this blog in anonymity. I liked that; that I could write freely about friends/family/jobs, what I was feeling, what I was dealing with. I made some blogfriends. I enjoyed it. Then I got seduced by FB. And eventually I revealed my blogself to FB because I did enjoy having people know more about me. I am, as I've said repeatedly, mildly narcissistic. However, that sort of poses a new problem, since I can't really freely write about how people affect me. I'm not into hurting people's feelings. I'll have to be even more fair and unbiased in my reporting.

But I have really missed writing.  Like I miss singing. I've let singing go, pretty much, except for in my house... but my house is too full most days for loud at-will singing, and then I fell out of the habit and my voice, like my body, is a little flabby and wobbly. But I can start making time for writing again. And then maybe I'll find the time for singing. And exercising.

Anyway... to try to jumpstart things, I'm still playing with the new look of this blog. I realize I'm a little different than I was when I started this thing. In good ways. But I needed to see a different thing when I come to this blog to visit myself. I've still some tinkering to do. In the meantime, I read over some of highlighted posts, to reacquaint myself with myself. And I came across this post in particular, this New Year's Confession in 2008. And HA! waddya know. Every goal I set for myself that year, got set in motion that year. And I didn't even know it at the time.

So... here we go. This year I resolve to love someone wholeheartedly who loves me wholeheartedly in return, and figure out how to obtain those red patent leather pumps and still keep my soul and my sanity.
I loved wholeheartedly that year, and in the process damn near lost my sanity. But out of that torment came the single greatest thing ever, and that was BigMan... even though he didn't come along until the following year. But without that Scrubthing, I never would have defined what I needed and wouldn't have recognized it when it stalked me on a darkened dance floor.

And... four years later I got those red pumps. Haven't worn them yet!! But I got 'em! Also, as of this moment I only have $30 in cash and -$30 in my bank account. But I'm in full command of my soul. And my artwork is really pretty good. AND I occasionally make real money with it, too.

Moral of the story: identify your needs. Then make them happen.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Marion Brown in 1967

Marion's son Djinji posted this today on FB... and I thought that instead of sharing on FB for likes I'd come back "home" and post it here. So here it is:

I remember Marion Brown in 1968 when he came to Paris. I was three. I remember his hands, I remember his voice and thinking that it didn't fit what I thought his voice should be like. He was brown and skinny like Poppy and somehow I thought he should sound like him. I remember Marion Brown's music. I remember that he and my Mima had a love and so he was at my house a lot. I had a huge crush on him because he was always very quiet around me. His music was not. 

This is the music of my very early childhood. It brings to mind the smell of my mother's paint, the sound of my father's typewriter, my new baby sister who was born that spring of '68 during the Paris Student Riots, the constant grey of Paris skies that pressed against the warm yellow of our little apartment on Rue Regis that my mom had filled with her paintings and African fabrics.

I remember people like John Keyes and Prince Kisa from the Congo and still others whose names I've forgotten but faces I vaguely remember, writers, thinkers, musicians, hustlers, artists. I remember Marion's musical partner Gunter Hampel who scared me because he was tall and his energy was weird, and I'd hide under the table when ever he came around.

I didn't know what racism meant, I didn't know yet that people could be mean. I knew that I was loved.

I was three, but I still remember all of that as if it were the day before yesterday.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

A Little Lite Housekeeping preparation for some more random musings, hopefully. I've been encouraged/prompted to pick up where I left off. I figured a clean page may inspire me to come visit myself more often.

But... now that I've done that, it's time for bed. In the meantime, an advertisement:

It should be an interesting collective. Some very talented folks. And some different pictures from me; not what I usually put up.

Till later...

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Hi..... *smallvoice

So yeah, it's been a minute. And before that post, just about a year ago, writing was sporadic.

Not out of a lack of things to say. Not because the voices are quiet. Not because I've stopped noting things around me. Mostly because life has sped up. And probably because I'm mostly happy.

Fat and happy. I now weigh more than I ever did pregnant. At first this caused me great grief. I didn't like the way I looked, but mostly didn't like the way I felt. But then I realized clothes makes the (wo)man and I didn't have the money to dress for my new size.

I've been working a few days a week at a large charity organization. I like the money. It's not a lot of money but it's steady and it's more than I had... and with the occasional "other" gig or the sale of a photograph, I can at least go shopping again.

So I don't mind so much the curves. Not too fond of the belly, and I still don't like how I feel, so I joined a gym. I like being physical. I was really devastated when my karate family moved so far north and I haven't done anything physical since then. The gym can be boring, but I like the movement. And the little bit of work I've put in has already shed bloat and water weight, and diminished the belly a bit. And the new clothes are awesome. I look forward to losing some pounds because it's an excuse to buy more clothes.

A few random realizations have come out of being bigger, and working a few days a week. Firstly, working for someone else a few days a week has mostly contributed to my being bigger cuz there's not a lot of movement, and I eat to stay awake. Secondly, people sure do waste a lot of time on a job. I so much prefer working from home. I work at a weird, attention-defecit-addled pace, but I gets things done. At work, not so much. By the time I get my flow on, it's 5PM. So I end up staying till 7 so I can get things done.  Getting my own work done at home, or writing hasn't happened much cuz once I am home, it's the dinner hour, then the cleanup-hour, then the fight-with-the-child-to-come-out-of-the-bathroom hour, then I'm too braindead to do much of anything except waste time on Facebook.

Hey speaking of that child: He looks like this, rather than the cute fuzzy-haired dumpling face of a few years ago. He has a girlfriend, he wears a promise ring, he plays football. We've entered the rather interesting world of college recruiting for football, yes already. It's a process. There's a lot of money in it.

BigMan is still here; still tolerant of me. Still loves me. And my kid. He's truly my best friend. And I love him. Simply, and wholly.

So there's stuff to write about. There's racism and family and "isms" and fighting genderisms, God, people, nature, musings, thoughts... I hope I have the time. Once again I get the feeling that there is to be a major change in my life, and I'm trying to prepare myself for it... but I also realize that all the preparing isn't going to make it any easier. There is nothing to do but live.

I need to make the time to write something every day...

Saturday, March 17, 2012

A Perfect Example

...of why I hate Black History Month.

A phone kiosk ad for a Dutch Beer, lingering into March.

posted from Bloggeroid

Thursday, March 8, 2012

A Great Woman Was Laid to Rest Today...

...and I'm pretty sure that no one was thinking about "International Woman's Day". I certainly wasn't. I don't think her daughters or her son, were either... but if ever a woman embodied what "International Woman's Day" is supposed to be about, I'm pretty sure Iris was it.

I make a policy of not writing other people's stories without permission, and I try to only ever write facts as I know them to be true. And when I do write about my friends and family, I always use a pseudonym so that I can give them a little bit of anonymity. I say all this, because while I knew this woman as Iris, it wasn't actually her name and most people didn't call her that. I'm not even sure how the name came to be, and I hope that her family will forgive me using this name for her... but one of the reasons I'd like to write about her under the name of Iris was because my own grandmother had a Spanish "flower" name, Narcissa... which  means "Daffodil".

Iris died Monday morning. She was 85. I met her because she is the mother of one my best friends in the world, my sister from another mother. In previous posts I've written about my friend under the name of "Shoefly" because she has a penchant for fly shoes.

I met Shoefly right after I moved to the Rock. I worked at a cable TV station, and Shoefly was hired in to the payroll department, and since I was some kind of "manager" of the Helpdesk there, they brought her around to meet me. We hit it off right away and we bonded fast once we realized we lived on the same little Rock.

My other best friend, otherwise known as CrazyWoman, had just left the cable TV station for a position at another station, and was actually the reason I moved to the Rock. Devastated by my breakup with the AllAmericanJerseyBoy, I needed a place to live--fast. I had gotten used to the quiet of New Jersey, but wanted to live in the Bronx close to my sister and her new baby. CrazyWoman introduced me to the Rock, and for a long while I thought I'd never leave. At that time, we were all single (though ShoeFly was planning a wedding) and all about the same color brown, so I got Shoefly together with CrazyWoman on the Rock, and we became inseparable.

For a while, CrazyWoman lived towards the end of the Rock, but Shoefly moved right around the corner from me thanks to a fourth best friend who's mom had an apartment to rent; my bedroom window overlooked their back yard. And then CrazyWoman, who had a young daughter, moved across the street from Shoefly. For a time we four hung tough, but Shoefly got married and suddenly decided to have a baby, and then during her little one's first year of life, I got myself knocked up with the Sun. So that took the three of us off the hang-out circuit... and we spent more and more time in each other's company, rotating kids, cooking duties, co-opping K-mart runs, organizing zoo trips or keeping each other company in the laundromat. We used to joke that ShoeFly's very patient husband actually had three wives... with all of the duties but none of the benefits. We did beach days, pool days, birthdays... CrazyWoman's daughter was older than ShoeFly's Moon and my Sun but about the same age as ShoeFly's stepdaughter. So we were always together in some configuration.

ShoeFly and I had another thing in common, other than the Sun and the Moon.... strong mothers with gigantic personalities, and sisters. CrazyWoman did too, but her circumstances were a little different. But from the moment I met Shoefly, I heard about "mommy" and BigSister. BigSister was the doppelganger to my little sister the Professor, which made me fall in love with her immediately. And like my sister, BigSister could cook her ass off, and it was from her I learned how to make sofrito, recaito, Spanish style roasted chicken, and beans and rice. Oh, and turkey wings. And almost from the beginning, when we would rustle up the kids and go to the BearMountain pool or the zoo, BigSister had to "go get mommy" in very much the same way my own sister always has to go "get mama".

I liked Iris immediately. As the years went on, I heard all sorts of stories about her, and I won't repeat them because they are not mine to tell, but I came to have an enormous amount of admiration for this imperfect and independent woman, who was devoted to her God and to her children. She was certainly a nontraditional mom,  but the more I came to know her, and the longer I knew her and her children one thing stood out about her; she loved her kids. All of them. They were all grown, and had lives, and while sometimes their lives were disorganized or chaotic, not only did they look out for mommy, they looked out for each other.

And Iris was always the boss. BigSister was second-in-command, but Iris was the boss... and through the years, even after her kids turned 40, or 50, they could still be the doghouse with mommy. Some of my greatest giggles were at the expense of one of them getting into the doghouse. I'd call up Shoefly, or mostly she'd call me..."Girly I have gossip!!!!" and then proceed to tell me something one of her siblings did... and the punchline was always "so who's going to tell mommy?" Or "does mommy know?" And even better... "What did mommy say?"

Iris had a stroke a while back... it was terrible to see her kids rocked. And for a time she insisted on continuing to live on her own, but that was getting increasingly harder to do, and so she put herself into an assisted living facility.

It happened to be a nice one, as these places go, though not as nice as the Hebrew home in New Rochelle. But certainly a billion times nicer than the one they put Poppy in after he lost his leg. But what made this particular assisted living place resonate with life, was Iris. She ended up in a corner room, all by herself, and proceeded to fill it with plants, snacks and a collection of black and white cows. And I never hesitated to "go see mommy" when either ShoeFly or BigSister had to go take her food, or snacks, or just to say hi. Sometimes we would go because she didn't feel too well, but she was never feeble or whiny. If anything, she was demanding, but never in an imperious way... it was just she expected her kids to provide her with something, mostly because she didn't generally ask for much.

Pretty much from the beginning of my knowing this family, I spent Christmas eve with them. I don't know how it started... I don't remember the first one... but I do know that once I spent it with them, I could never spend it anywhere else. When the kids were little, we'd start congregating about 7P or so, and from then till midnight, the rest of the family would come in, and BigSister would have cooked some amazing dinner. And always, no matter who came or didn't come, there was always Iris. After her first stroke, when she became confined to a wheelchair, she would settle in her corner, and hold court. You came in to the house, you kissed mommy, and then you went to grab your plate and eat before everyone else came. And you would torture the kids with unopened presents. BigBrother has two girls, BigSister a son, and the LittlestPrincessSister, she has a boy and a girl. And then the Moon and the Sun... so for a while there were plenty of presents to torture the kids with. They could not be touched until the stroke of midnight. And then BigSister would stand there with a big plastic garbage bag, the presents would be passed around and ripped into, and the wrapping swept immediately into the garbage bag. In less than 20 minutes it was over. And then it was time to fight for leftovers to take home. Well, I'd fight for leftovers to take home.

By the way, yes, I'm Jewish. And no, I don't keep Christmas. But I certainly kept Christmas eve, mostly because the love that would fill that house was enough to keep you going at least half the year.

The last year or so, Iris's mini-strokes got closer together. For the most part she kept going, and at any family gathering she was there. And the only real indication that anything was wrong--at least the face that she showed the world--was that she was quieter.

Its funny... I love pictures, and I take a lot of pictures. But usually on Christmas eve I would bring my camera, and end up taking very few pictures. In life, I usually take pictures because I'm an observer. I love watching people. But these people... this family... is one of the few where I'm completely comfortable being less observing and more participatory. So I'd be too busy to take pictures... or good ones, anyway. And later, I noticed my reluctance to take Iris's picture. She was so strong that her suffering was private. I would train my camera on her, and feel guilty invading her space with a picture of her immobility, and I couldn't take the picture. It wasn't ever that she made me feel uncomfortable.... and it wasn't the same as her family taking her picture, but I never wanted to expose her somehow.

So, Monday morning I got a text (I had to work) that Iris was making her transition. And in less than two hours, the transition was complete.

Wednesday was the wake. Many people came to show Iris and her family their love. I brought the Sun along, because as he said "she was always nice to me"... she never treated him differently from her own  grandkids, signing her cards to him "Grandma".

It was so sad to be there, to see her grown children hold each other and cry for her. But at the same time, it was clear that this woman's remarkable legacy was in the bond that her kids had for each other. It reminded me of a question posed to me once by a teacher at Pratt...."When you die, and you meet Saint Peter at the gate, what is the one thing you hope he says that to you?" I was the only parent in that class, and the professor turned to me and said "I bet it's that you'd like him to tell you you were a good mom?" I thought for a minute an decided, no, that's not would I want to hear... what I would want to hear is that "You Sun is a good man". Because that would mean I had done my job.

Iris had been a single parent. And according to her kids, sometimes a little unconventional. But  each of her kids has turned out to be good people. And her grandkids are at various stages of being good people. And while her passing is sad, and it will be hard to not hear her laugh, or hear her very funny commentaries on people, her passing allows her children to come into their own, to be the remarkable people they are.

The realization reminded me of this quote from Battlestar Galactica*:

In our civil war, we've seen death. We've watched our people die. Gone forever. As terrible as it was beyond the reach of the Resurrection ships, something began to change. We could feel a sense of time, as if each moment held its own significance. We began to realize that for our existence to hold any value, it must end. To live meaningful lives, we must die and not return. The one human flaw that you spend your lifetimes distressing over... Mortality is the one thing... Well, it's the one thing that makes you whole.

Death is sad, and final... but it is our greatest asset because it's what makes us what we are. As human beings we have the consciousness to know that every day we are marching very slowly to our inevitable end. It cannot be avoided, or changed. We will die. Hopefully after living a long and fulfilling life like Iris's, but we will die. In the meantime, we have the choice, the will, to make every day count towards something.

And... since this was International Women's Day (which I had forgotten about until a friend reminded me, rather pointedly), we as women have another contribution; our children. Not every woman is a parent, and certainly, not every woman should be a mother. And no, we should not define our entire existence through our children... our children are only a part of who we are, and we should never be defined by any one part.

But that being said... for those women who have chosen to be parents, it's one of the hardest, scariest and most rewarding things we can do. As BigSister said... we are handed a tiny, slippery, squawling bundle of humanity and that is all. It doesn't come with an instruction manual (no matter how many books on childrearing there are, there is no definitive handbook), or even any clothes. Everything from that point forward, we are responsible for providing. And we are responsible for shaping that life, and for guarding that flame. And sometimes we get it right and hit a "sweet spot", and sometimes we get it wrong. Sometimes we fail miserably. At best, we can hope that our children only need a minimum of therapy, and at worst, we hope our heart can survive the stress our children will give us.

And at the end of our days, when we make our transition, we can only hope that our children will stand together and love and console each other, and be the amazing people we have hoped they would be.

And then we can consider ourselves as blessed as Iris....

March 8, 2012

*if you're unfamiliar with BSG, the short story is, a race of robotic humans has destroyed the planet humans lived on, and most of the human race. There are 12 "Cylon models", and each model all looks the same, and share the same traits and memories. They die, but when they do they are "downloaded" onto a Resurrection ship, where their memories and personalities are transferred into another body, exactly like the one they had before. So it seems they never die... but at some point, in their quest to be more human, they decide to destroy their Resurrection technology...