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The Gift of Change
My new, next life begins today.
I’m sitting at the edge of San Simeon Creek alongside the best campsite I have ever had watching the ducks and native birds enjoy the early evening sun. I am in my happy place. Another happy place.
I left Happy Place No. 1 today—today. The Portofino Apartments. I had hoped to take-in the view, relax, swim, but nooooooooo, I had accumulated so much stuff over the last eight months it took me from morning to evening to sort out, discard, trash and donate. I had my morning coffee, with my amigo, Bevie, this morning, but there was much still to be done before handing over my key card and parking pass at 9:30 a.m. to Cody, the apartment manager.
It’s been a true gift staying at the Portofino. The view. The kind neighbors. The endearing staff. It was just what the doctor ordered when we arrived in January during the Winter’s rain, post Katie and the g-kid’s August visit when we Disneyland-ed and prepared for the tropical storm of the century. While the apartment’s accommodations were 1980s-dated that view. That view. Honestly, if the rent wasn’t so high, I probably could live there forever.
But that’s what I say about everything and everyone I fall in love with.
Like this place, Cambria. The breeze. The creek views. My veggies cooking in the air fryer in my new-to-me camper van. A fresh start in a place I am oh-so familiar with. My heart spot.
On this today-launched, two-month sojourn, my goals are simple, yet mighty. I want to relax. Truly relax my spirit. I want to re-connect with Nature, my soul—God. I want to awaken my senses to the wind, the stars, Nature’s soothing melodies and rejuvenating perfume.
Also, very important, over the last couple of months I allowed myself to get off-track foodwise; I intend to return to more mindful eating and drinking.
No more blanking out, covering up and avoiding, just me, myself and I enjoying all things creative; my writing, art, dancing and listening.
* * *
Day Two of My Transformation/Discovery Tour 2023
After leaving Cambria I decided to pick up a wine shipment at Brecon Winery along Vineyard Drive. Twist my arm, right? The wines were lovely, but even more so Frank, the server who’s been there for three years, about as long as my club membership. His enthusiasm and knowledge of product was infectious. My favorite wine was, naturally, the most expensive, a beautiful reserve Cabernet Sauvignon—eyes roll back kind of wine. I am not sure I have the will power to save it to share with my amigos, but I’ll do my best.
I do miss them. I wish they had the freedom to join me on what I hoped would be our shared quest to lavish in retirement. Maybe one day. As for now, I enjoy the quietude and return to embracing myself.
My older daughter asked me a few weeks ago if I’d ever want to date? Sometimes I think about it. But mostly now I just want to date myself. I want to discover that little girl who never quite ventured beyond the boundaries of her beloved Spreckles Lane playhouse.
“There is that in me, I do not know what it is, but I know it is in me,” penned Walt Whitman.
This thing I long to know, and when I do, hold on to it for the rest of my days. Feeling at peace. Making plans, but not too many. Talking to people, but not every moment. Taking a nap. Going for a walk. Stretching. Falling asleep to the roar of thunder and rain with a giant grin on my face.
That was me last night at my Harvest Host stopover, Locatelli Winery in San Miguel. Except for one other camper who parked far away from me, I had the whole winery to myself. It’s a pretty good gig. For $99 a year, you can stay at wineries, farms, museums, and other locations overnight. While it’s not required, it’s inferred you buy something from their business. Not a problem! I purchased a lovely rose which was perfect with my simple meal of veggies, hummus, and savory tofu. What a night! I savored “Demon Copperhead”, one of the best books I’ve read in a long time, watched a little TV, (don’t judge me, “Virgin River”) and tried to ignore how hot it was.
Right now, after showering and enjoying my breakfast smoothie—kale, yogurt, blueberries, and a touch of honey—I’m enjoying the silence of this place. I leave in about 15 minutes to do some errands before lunching with my friend, Julie, so I’m trying to soak it all in. My new beginning.
Will I look different when I return? Will my family see it on my face? In my gait? Will my voice be more measured, calm?
Be ye transformed.
After two days on the road, the cocoon is starting to crack as I awaken the dormant, winged creature I once met in a dream.
On the Verge of Tomorrow
“There’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, shining at the end of every day, there’s a great big beautiful tomorrow, and tomorrow’s just a dream away.” I hummed along to that tune every time I walked from Disneyland through Downtown Disney to our hotel room. That was just last week. Me, my daughter, and The Littles all jumbled, tumbled in the Wonderful World of Ultra Stimulation and Dollar Signs. It was charming and hot and humanity-packed and tantrum-iced and princess-glittered and, well, if you’ve been to the Magic Kingdom, you know—-Magic.
But that was last Thursday and I’m sitting on my daughter and son-in-law’s crowded wrought iron-framed balcony in Rego Park, New York. To my right are faded plastic sea toys idled in a bleached water table basin. To my left are the same plants that were tiny sprouts the last time I visited back in July: Thai basil, dill, rosemary, tomatoes, sunflowers, snapdragons, and a hanging strawberry plant, now gangly and in need of some pruning and water, which I’ll do when The Littles, Millie, 3, and Hudson, 21 months, wake up.
It’s almost 8:30 a.m. and they’re still sawing logs. Not unusual considering we didn’t arrive to the apartment until close to 9 p.m. which left them about an hour for dinner and bonding.
Being away from home is exciting, stimulating, and important. But getting back, awwwww, is a big sigh that all is well in the world; it’s a signal, a return normal, a schedule, healthy diet, proper sleep. Normally, when Katie leaves for New York, I’m weepy that she’s gone. This time, because she has two wee children under three, I escorted her home to make sure the five-hour flight was a little less stressful. It’s the first time I got a chance to see the babies bond with their home. As soon as they walked in, sleepy-eyed from the nighttime car ride home, they squealed, jumped up and down, and ran from corner to corner, touching, playing with, tossing books and blankets, trikes, trains and Disney princess dolls. There’s Miranda! from Encanto, Charlie! the perpetual shedding lab mix dog, the basket of balls! the kitchen set! the stroller! the set of wonky drawers brimming with clothes! Stuff. Favorite stuff. In places they remember. Bringing them delight and security. Joy.
If you have read any of my prior blogs, particularly over the last year, you’ll recognize a reoccurring theme: my on-again, off-again relationship with stuff. Chronic shedding and obtaining. Spending and saving. The comfort of having everything I need at my fingertips. The freedom of carrying everything I need on my back or safely tucked away in my four-wheel hacienda. And the ping in my heart that needs to nest, be surrounded by my books and photos and limited items boxed away in the $300 a month storage unit I need to sort through and cut in half—once again. Which I will, start of November, when I return from a two-month sojourn.
My life is changing once again.
I’ll close shop at the Portofino Apartments in Redondo Beach in less than a week’s time. Since January it’s been a respite from the winter (and crazy summer) rains, and broken camper van, and Monet’s ill health, which originally prompted me to anchor in the city I moved away from last summer. My hometown. My beginnings. My family, friends, my hub, and sense of connectedness to the past and present. A place to breathe, this worn, 1970s-vibe, one-bedroom apartment with an incredible view of the Marina.
I could probably live here forever. But that’s what I said about my home on Garnet Street which I sold because I craved the excitement—and fear—of adventure. Staying put, being a couch potato, is my natural go-to. I love to nest, create and re-create my Barbie Dreamhouse settings, build a safe zone, a place to return to. Home. And my Redondo apartment could have been it, had the rent not been so expensive. And while I’ve been assured that rents are expensive everywhere, frankly, I’d rather use rent money to travel.
I’m not saying my knees aren’t shaking. They are. Leaving something I know, am sure of, for the great unknown is not in my nature. All the things that could go wrong—future worries—often consume me. But I know that if I don’t try, if I don’t jump now, that opportunity might just escape me.
So here I sit, now in the quietude of my daughter’s apartment, with the babies and daughter napping, knowing that when I leave this zany, crowded palace of love, I will return to my temporary home to pack up, sort out, donate and move on to a new life.
More reflecting is in store. But for now, as I sip my cold coffee and listen to the baby monitor as my grandchildren stir, I am grateful that my life is where it is, that I had the most incredible summer camping with my grandsons along California’s Central Coast, then visiting the East Coast’s historic sites with both of my daughters, grandchildren, our family reunion in Montana, and Katie and the kiddo’s month-long visit back home to Mama’s bachelorette pad in Redondo.
This time last year I never would have thought I’d have these adventures. One door closes and another opens. The future looks bright.
But for now, I have this precious, New York pre-Fall day to cherish.
Passing the Baton
Montana Reunion 2023
Family from Oregon, Texas and California converge to celebrate a beloved member’s 70th birthday at a spectacular 40-acre, four-bedroom plus two-bedroom cottage home in White Fish, Montana. Every minute bustling, joyous, energy drink-and a few bottles of tequila zany—MAGIC! There was bean bag-tossing, lassoing, baby motorcycle-riding, marshmallow-making, giant breakfast-scarfing, hot tubbing, eating and more eating, river rafting, four-by-four touring, Glacier National Park hiking, campfire-chatting, hail storm dodging, local restaurant-dining and wondering why we all waited so long to get together for a destination vacation clan reunion.
Like a lot of families who put get-togethers on the “one day” list, we needed an excuse: The birthday of an angel, loved by all, wouldn’t hurt a soul, puts others’ interests before her own, our one and only Bevie. In the last decade, she’s gone through monumental challenges, yet it hasn’t impacted her positive, looking-forward attitude. Turns out, I’m not alone in affirming that she’s been the entire clan’s patient teacher, lifelong mentor and sounding board, everyone’s amigo. Past, present and future, our forever friend.
And here we are in Big Sky Country, counting our blessings at a retreat as glorious as the woman of the hour. First, I must share the setting: Back Forty Lodge https://www.backfortylodge.com/: forty acres of pine, cedar, and birch trees. At night, the grounds are a’glow with miniature lights-flocked trees defined by a garland of Edison lights, full moon and roaring campfire. The house itself is ultrachic modern with all the amenities guests could only dream of: high end range, gigantic fridge, two dishwashers, four trash receptacles, the most beautiful organized cupboards you’ve ever seen, two massive, tastefully designed living rooms and a view of pond-bathing bears and deer. From the top balcony you can hang out near the firepit, enjoy dinner, a glass of wine while watching six cousins have a blast on the expansive grassy knoll backyard. If you wish to find quiet, there’s quiet. If you wish to socialize, there are so many possibilities for congregating and having small and large conversations; it’s the perfect setting for both the extrovert and introvert.
Can you tell I LOVE the place? Really, there was no reason to leave and explore, but we did.
Although the river is low due to Montana’s unprecedented drought, there were still opportunities to enjoy a bit of white-water action that our group of 19 thoroughly enjoyed. Some members of the family were brave and 90-degree temps-hot enough to jump into the glacier-cooled river. What a memory! As for me, I got my feet wet knowing it would be way too embarrassing to be hauled into the raft like a giant tuna.
So many best moments of the trip to reflect upon: the night we sang happy birthday to my cousin, the birthday girl, and how she was overcome with tears of joy; the reading of everyone’s contributions to a chat book I put together at the last minute thanks to family member’s contributions. The project was an excuse, just like the trip, to let this precious woman know how much she is adored.
For half of the family the adventure continues to other parts of Montana and Wyoming. And the other half of the tribe, we fly or drive home with full hearts that we made the time and effort to be together, to celebrate this chapter of our lives, as the once young grows old, and the baton of love is passed on to the next generation.
Sitting on the crest of tomorrow, as eight red, yellow and red white sabots skate across the glossy sea, I am reminded, once again, of how quickly life is passing. Here today, gone tomorrow, my parents often said to us kids. Now a member of Crepe-y Knees Jiggly Double Chin Club, their words ring true: One day you’re 33 with two children and one on the way, the next you’re 67 with four grandchildren and another on his way in December. My hope, like my parents’, is that the little kids and their parents will love and support each other as much as my cousin and sister and I have had the privilege to do our entire lives.
Legacy. It’s what we talk about as we sit on the balcony, saluting the sunset, hoping—praying—-that our love will be their love. Were or are we perfect? Not even close. But our love is pure. Not to be questioned. Diminished. By age, ego, squabbles, misunderstandings that, in the scheme of things, don’t matter a squat.
Reunions remind us that all the junk and nonsense that can clog up a life are a waste of time. Love matters. Forgiveness. And an open heart.
Surrounded by Fireflies
Life IZ Good. Sometimes, you just need to pivot to realize it, you know, the half full vs. half empty kind of thing.
Drama happens. The toast gets burned. I lose a $100 bill. Skin cancer is detected. My blurry vision isn’t the scratched glasses, it’s cataracts. I’m still 30, more like 40 pounds overweight. An idiot crashed into my beloved Teddy The Subaru. People—sometimes strangers, sometimes family—say and do shitty things. (Anne Lamont recommends thinking about hurtful folks as having just been released from the ER. They be sick.) My dear Monet’s health is declining. I’m craving sugar—again. After seven months of asking, the apartment manager still hasn’t replaced the water-slogged dishwasher. And on and on and on. Like everyone, I have my fair share to kvetch about.
But then there’s today’s blessed grey skies and 72-degree temps and the two fans I rescued from the storage unit and the cheerful turquoise patio cushions and mat that define the rickety balcony and the ripening avocados encircling a bouquet of flowers I picked up from Costco, the tart and spicy margaritas I made last night for me and the girls and the plumber’s quick fix of the clogged toilet and the fact that, as a renter, I didn’t have to pay for the plumbing problem.
I’m surrounded by fireflies, a billion trillion dandelion sparks that bedazzles my days into an Impressionistic painting.
Gratitude abounds. Monet is resting comfortably at my side so I decided to forgo going to the Barbie movie this afternoon with my daughter and grandson so that I can be present with my pup, with myself, to take stock, to breathe, prepare a healthy smoothie, and reflect upon what’s happened to me over the last year that’s brought me to this place, this moment of self-reflection.
I watch Monet’s eyes flutter and wonder what she thinks. Is she remembering running along the beach at Cambria or cuddling with me on our floor mat last night or feeling snug and secure relaxing on the carpet now that I’ve removed the dated, gigantic furniture obstacles from the apartment, freeing up our temporary abode so we have more room to dance? Or is she in a mud bath feeling the pressure of her own weight against the chocolate coolness of peace? I am grateful, for her, for the fact that she doesn’t appear to be in pain, that I can provide a stable home and that we have this precious time to hang out, to talk or not talk. Together. Chilling out. Just being. Me and my buddy of the last 14 years.
She has slowed down, getting drowsy, droopy. Today she didn’t gobble down her breakfast as she normally does. Her eyes roll back when she sleeps. I sense our time together is short. I paint a picture of her in my head, try to memorize her freckles, her pointed black ears, her rising and falling chest, the way she wags her tail every single time she sees me, her immense loyalty. When it is time for her to go, when it’s my time, I hope to have a calm, predictable send-off, close to the ocean, with good foods cooking, a glass or two of wine nearby, music, singing and, of course, dancing. I affirm to her, “You are loved, Monet. I love you.” And rub her shoulders and head and she knows it to be true. She knows so much more than I ever will. She gives her whole heart away to those she trusts and is suspicious and snarly to those who give pause.
For the last eight months, we have been paused here at the Portofino Apartments in Redondo Beach. The apartment itself is 1970s-style yucky furniture motif. I finally broke down and purchased a carpet cleaner because the flooring is soooooo gross and the management wouldn’t schedule a cleaner. I’ve learned that, as a renter, you ask and ask and ask for things like a new dishwasher, which has been on the manager’s to-do list since January, or a painter to sand and refinish the paint-dripping kitchen cabinets, and your requests are often ignored. I certainly wasn’t that kind of a landlord when I rented out Moonstone Cottage by the Sea, but I guess I’m living in the “real world” of “who cares?” landlords.
Our view, a literal stone’s throw away from the ocean, makes up for the building’s deficiencies. I doubt I will ever again have this view for this long. So, I’m soaking it up for the month of August then I’m off on my next adventure—camping along the coast to Oregon and maybe Washington and Canada. Weather and fire conditions permitting, I might drive East and enjoy the Fall colors, or plant myself along the Eastern Sierras like I did last year. Two months of putting my finger to the wind and seeing which way it blows. Kind of a nice life.
But for now, I’m in the moment, preparing for my daughter and two babies’ arrival, making space, stocking the cupboards, and appreciating this one and only precious life and all its complications.
Eternal flame
This is the summer of wee ones. Under three. Over ten. And those in between. A gaggle of boys and one girl. My grandchildren, starting from the oldest, Jack, Bronson, Millie, and Hudson. Twinkling stars that light up my world.
I’m here in New York with three of my four grandchildren. Mr. Bronson had vacay plans with daddy and couldn’t make it to The Big Apple this year. His spunky joviality is missed. But three kiddos in the squished apartment, a patient lab-ish dog and Cheshire Cat-hairy rescue feline, Grandma and The Mother and Father are probably all this wee New York dwelling can handle amid the hottest global summer on record.
The kids are growing up fast. Millie is Miss Sassy Future Head of Some Mega Corporation. Hudson is our curious dimpled Future Engineer. And dear 11-year-old Jack, a bull in the China shop-big these days. Big feet, big voice, big appetite—especially regarding foods he likes like hamburgers, hot dogs, cucumbers, and pineapple. He is The Littles’ very own baby whisperer; fun, patient, protective, there to assist whenever “JACK” is screamed!!! Being kind isn’t new to Jack, but being immensely responsive to little kids is.
Jack is on the verge of trips like this not being cool. Hanging out with his younger cousins, watching “Peppa Pig”, “Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood” isn’t exactly a Lego master’s jam. But he sits here, joining-in with the antics of preschoolers, changing his first diaper ever (with detailed instruction by no-megaphone-needed three-year-old Millie), and immersing himself in play kitchen, “Encanto” figurines, bedtime-book-reading wonder. Normally, Jack’s sheepish around tykes, but on this trip I’ve seen him fully embrace his role as elder cousin. The Wise One. A boy with a voice, a role model. And The Littles—putty. You should see the adoration in their eyes when they look at their strong, handsome cousin; it’s heart-melting.
Speaking of which, it’s damn hot here on the East Coast. Draining. Melting. Troubling. Bring on the foggy mornings, afternoons, and evenings of 70s Redondo Beach, CA. My body’s made for brisk. Not freezing, but Autumn/Spring sweater weather.
Here in New York City yesterday, there was an air quality alert, not based on Canada’s fires, but dangerous levels of transportation and factory pollution exasperated by the heat: Avoid going outside because the air is dangerous. Have you seen the Apple series, “Extrapolations”? Think Ray Bradbury’s futuristic predictions. From Apple TV:
“Extrapolations” is a bracing drama from writer, director and executive producer Scott Z. Burns that introduces a near future where the chaotic effects of climate change have become embedded into our everyday lives. Eight interwoven stories about love, work, faith, and family from across the globe will explore the intimate, life-altering choices that must be made when the planet is changing faster than the population. Every story is different, but the fight for our future is universal. And when the fate of humanity is up against a ticking clock, the battle between courage and complacency has never been more urgent. Are we brave enough to become the solution to our own undoing before it’s too late?
It’s terrifying. Not the just the series, but how we’re living, how we refuse to listen to reason, how we’re dooming our children and grandchildren, how we refuse to change course because we’re too stubborn, stupid, set in our ways and/or refuse to modify our lifestyles because we think it’s useless or deny science.
This heat, the extreme weather patterns, makes me want to scream to our “leaders”, Corporate America, gas-guzzling automakers, polluters large and small—-“Do something before it’s too late!”
I don’t get it: Why must we fight, protest, complain to the-powers-that-be, to step-up and do the right thing? But we do. And we must. Because our children and grandchildren are counting on us. Recent headlines confirm climate scientists’ dire warnings. Yet, we continue to twiddle our fingers and do nothing.
So, I’m doing it—again. Researching what the United Nations’ response to climate change is https://www.un.org/en/climatechange, contacting my local, state, and national representatives and compelling them to push Climate Change to the top of the agenda. Today’s contacts included:
EPA: Climate Change Division (202) 343-9990
The White House Climate Change Office https: //www.whitehouse.gov/cpo/
Advancing Earth and Space Sciences (provides letter template and suggestions about how to contact lawmakers): https://www.agu.org/Share-and-Advocate/Share/Policymakers/Contact-elected-officials
My daughter says, “They won’t listen.” And I get it. One person’s email, phone message, letter, is a blip in the scheme of things. But as Assemblyman Al Muratsuchi told my change-maker eighth-graders, “Here’s how it works,” he explained: The squeaky wheel gets attention; the more of us who nag, insist, and make our voices known, the more likely lawmakers will pay attention. “It’s a numbers game.”
In addition to writing emails and making phone calls, each of us can make small changes; instead of wasting, we can re-use. We can be more mindful. “Like the ripples from a stone tossed into the pond from the water’s edge, the effects of our choices extend infinitely outward. Even the smallest of acts reverberates in the ears of unwritten histories,” Justin Young reminds us.
Today’s entry started off with me gushing about my love for my grandchildren. Love is great. The best thing ever. But it’s not enough.
It takes 30 minutes to express your concerns to legislators and corporations. Do it twice a week, same basic letter but new contact, and in a month’s time, you’ve registered your p.o.v. to eight different contacts; multiply that by 20, 100—1,000 comments and the CEOs and politicians start to pay attention.
A few days ago, Jack and I visited President John F. Kennedy’s eternal flame graveside at Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. I was overwhelmed with emotion as I flashbacked to the President’s assassination; I was in the second grade, 60 years ago. Why? my seven-year-old self-asked, and still asks.
Like others of my generation, President Kennedy’s words reverberated in me, inspiring a lifetime of service. “And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.”
I’m retired now, enjoying life; no schedules, no responsibilities, no strings to tie me down. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still be Activist Granny. From my laptop. My phone. Before my lil’ chicks wake up. In between adventures. On the plane ride home from New York.
Dear Congressman Ted Lieu,
As a grandma, I’m scared, really scared, for my little ones’ future. We’ve mucked up the planet and it seems we’re too stuck-in-our-ways to fix it. My daughter says my voice doesn’t count, that writing a letter doesn’t make a difference. She may be right, but I grew up in a different era than her; my generation was inspired by JFK and Martin Luther King, Jr. We were challenged to be of service, to step up and take-action, to be the change.
While I’m more mindful about what I consume and do my best to re-use and re-cycle, I know that my individual efforts aren’t enough to avert the meteoric crisis scientists have warned us about for decades. We desperately need leaders like you to grab the microphone and activate an army of change-makers. We did it during World War II and joined forces after 9-11; we need that same vision and determination to defeat Planet Earth’s most ominous threat—global warming.
Here’s what I’m thinking: As a respected member of Congress, you could use your position to rally music, film, and social media influencers—and invite savvy corporations like Amazon and Apple— to fund a multimedia campaign designed to pressure offending greenhouse gas-producing industries, and inspire change. Similar to waging a political campaign or introducing a new product to the market, the global campaign would articulate a collective vision—before it’s too late.
I know this is a tall ask, suggesting that you use your position and influence to kickstart a worldwide public service campaign—and you’d be right. But change, as we all know, often starts with the courage of a gutsy individual. Mr. Lieu, I pray it’s you.
With great respect and admiration,
Janet Barker,
The Grandma Chronicles
They’re not with me right now. One is at Redondo’s CDC summer program and the older, pre-middle school grandson, is hanging out with friends. Even Yogurtland, an after school treat we indulged in on his ride home from fifth grade, wasn’t enough to lure him away from his adolescent priorities.
I’ve been a grandma of little kids for 11 years now, but our relationships are slowly changing. Grandson No. 1 no longer hugs me in front of his school friends. He waits until we’re safely around the bend, hunkered down inside Teddy Owen Roosevelt, our agreed-upon name for his and my green Subaru, and only then will he allow me to scrunch hug his broadening shoulders. Once inside our Jurassic Park-pretend Jeep, he lets down his guard and returns to his sparkly-brown-eyed-Legos-consumed self. God knows how much I love this boy.
My middling, soon-to-be in fourth-grade, grandson doesn’t mind public affection. His hugs are goofy, and smiles rocket to the stars and back. But he, too, is on the verge of being embarrassed by Grandma. Until that day comes, our teddy bear hugs are like popcorn; a single bowl is never enough. God knows how much I adore this boy.
And don’t me get started about my crazy grandma-love of, and for, my two youngest g-babies, Millie and Hudson, whom I’ll get to hug and hug and hug later this week when Grandson 1 and I fly out to visit the Kwoks and New York and Washington D.C. and Virginia for our U.S. History Tour. Thank goodness for Facetime; I get to participate, in a way, in their daily lives; bathing, munching, screaming, wrestling, and grandma-cam-ing. I ask her, “Is it time for Grandma Cam?” and she almost always says, “Yes!” I take her on a video tour of the apartment; the fridge, the dirty oven, closets, Auntie Bevie and Wendy’s room, snarling Monet, the balcony, what I’m cooking on the stove. And that inspires her to take me on a tour of her home. It’s “our thing” and brings us closer. God knows how much I adore these baby birds.
How I wish my fledglings lived closer.
We grandmas and grandpas and aunties and uncles’ hearts are fused to the youngest members of our tribe. We bring softness, strength, security, laughter, and fun to their lives, as they do ours. It’s a role not to be taken lightly or for granted.
Of all the jobs I’ve had in my life, being a grandparent is, by far, the most profound.
Being in the homestretch of life, Act III, you realize that all the experiences, conversations, and observations you’ve had, has bridged you into the coveted position of Elder, aka, Wise One. Wrinkled, grey, often discarded as past our “prime-time”, our little ones don’t see us that way; to them, we are a combination Yoda, Harrison Ford, Mary Poppins and “Encanto’s” Mirabel, magical and adoring. We are consistent, stable, vulnerable, yet a tad fragile—just like them. Our Littles know that we love them with a force as mighty as The Force; they instinctually sense that we’re here to teach them how to tap into their unique powers with gusto and intent.
It’s such a strange, yet natural, phenomenon, being a grandparent; we realize, and accept, that time is ticking—FAST! This lifespan thing just sort of just creeps up on you; you’ll see: SURPRISE—you’re 67! You look back, shake your head, What just happened?
Wasn’t it just last year? The rains. The cold. Selling my beloved home of two decades. Me, on the road with Monet driving in the Fall along the 395. Worrying about where I’d live while the Eurovan was being fixed. Bleeding out money for repairs. Ending up at the Motel 6-styled Portofino apartment with a forever view. Sharing the short-term rental with my homies and often-visiting grandsons. The seals, now battling algae bloom. The nesting egrets and herons, saved because we rattled some cages, called the International Bird Society, Redondo Beach Animal Control, U.S. Fish and Game, alerting them that cutting the “egret” tree at the wrong time would mean destroying the birds’ habitats, their homes. Informing them for every fledgling displaced, it’s a $5,000 Federal Migrating Bird Protection Act fine. Knowing that for now, while we’re here—watching, informing the correct Powers That Be—this season’s generation of baby birds are safe. Taa-dah! Super Hero-caped Crusader Upstanders Save the Day!
Which is a lesson, isn’t it? Step up. Get involved. Listen. Do what you can while you can. Cogs in the wheel of life. People with a purpose. Animals who teach us not how to die, but how to live. Monet, dear Monet, with a zest for life, for me, that defies her prognosis. Resting, cuddling, eating, pooping, trusting in the rhythm of life. Like my grandchildren, who have no idea what’s around the corner, nor do they care. They play and eat and poop and are up for the next adventure with Grandma or are cool chilling with a big bowl of popcorn, binging on “Raiders” or “Star Wars” or anything else on Disney Plus. Their brows don’t furrow. They don’t care about Trump or Biden or whoever else is running for President. When my little g-boys sleep, they sleep in a blissful alpha state today’s adults need sleep meds to attain.
As for me, I’ve been sleeping really well of late. When I feel that drowsy state of sleep come upon me, I roll with it and allow the fog, the fairy tale mist, to envelop me. “Once upon a time…,” I hear Dad whisper as I snuggle into my sleep mat on the floor, next to Monet, next to the blasting, nonsensical TV watched by an insomniac member of the household, and fall into a deep slumber. The best sleep I’ve had in forever. No aches. No pains. No worries. Just love. On my foam raft, wading down the river, with no destination in mind.
Demons and Saints
What makes a person sit down and write versus not wanting to write? Time, not enough. Distractions, too many. Demons, and the opposite: Joy or lack thereof. The list of excuses goes on.
What I know for sure is that when I take a few minutes to value my thoughts and experiences through writing, I feel better. Reflection, the pause button, makes me a better version of myself.
Let’s start with the demons: I yelled at one of my grandsons this week during our epic four-day camping trip, got impatient with his all-over-the-place not-listening hyper-movement multiple rude responses question-question-question-not-listening demeanor. I cussed. Twice. In front of my little boy. I hit my limit and I caved into frustration. I was a bad example.
The last thing on Earth I want my beloved grandson to feel is unloved, by me.
Of course, I apologized. I put my arm around him and told him how much I love him, and my harshness came from a place of frustration. But I worry that the F—– and G—–damn Grandma bomb will destroy our otherwise great time we had on our so-looking-forward-to epic four-day camping trip along the Central Coast with his older, more chill, cousin.
Damn.
There I go again.
Just when I think I have my emotions in-check and have tamped down the ugly demons, they once again rise to the surface. God help me, I have so much work yet to do. Which is one of the reasons I blog, go public; to release the parts of me that get knotted up and toxic.
Looking back, I think what I should have done on our 99.9% marvelous camping trip to our favorite place in California is take more time for myself. Actually, I didn’t have any in four days, never reserved a moment to value myself, not even enough to take a shower—-ewww-—I was either cooking or cleaning or driving or organizing or problem-solving or shutting down spats between the cousins or worrying about Monet’s health. I didn’t factor-in a minute to finish writing in my journal.
“Grandma, come here, Grandma, look at this.” Which I did. Once again, putting my little people’s needs over my own.
I know better now—after my regrettable, cuss words episode. The boys are old enough to understand that Grandma needs a few minutes to herself. Being on “high alert”, making sure no one gets hurt, is F-ing draining.
Damn. Strike Two.
I can see now; my bank was drained and that’s why I overreacted to Grandson No. 2 dancing around the fire pit with his back turned toward the fire and not listening to Grandma asking him to stop and yelling, “G-damn it, I am sick of asking you to be careful——STOP!”
I know I could have phrased it in a kinder, much more productive manner, but I was terrified he was going to get burned and yelled the first words that came out of my mouth.
Then there was the night he emptied his sand-filled pants onto the white sheets just before bedtime.
“F-ing hell! Why don’t you be more careful?”
Not my finest hour.
I NEVER cuss around my grandsons. I try to channel my inner Mary Poppins. Now they’ll forever think of me as that potty-mouthed grandma.
Or, maybe, human.
If a person is mostly wonderful, but occasionally off-the-rail, do we give him or her a pass? Or is better to be mostly awful and occasionally good? Do we appreciate the positive effort from the crappier person and give them more leeway? I wonder. Maybe it’s better to be a balance of good and bad (sorry for the black and white terms, but you know what I mean) and teach our children that no one is purely a saint or a sinner; self-acceptance of all aspects of our personality—warts and all—is what’s important.
What I know for sure is I love my little man to the moon and back and would give my life for him and was sorry the instant I lost my temper. I am mighty flawed.
I’m pretty sure he gets it. He’s a forgiving child. He gets in trouble quite a bit because of his impulsivity and poor listening skills. Maybe this is something we can bond over? Saying sorry and meaning it, then getting back on the horse and continuing to love and be even better versions of ourselves?
Maybe forgiveness is the lesson.
Like my dad showed me.
With Father’s Day around the corner, not only do I miss him profoundly, but I am eternally grateful: I had the best Dad in the world. Not because he was perfect. No, he certainly wasn’t. We had many a scrappy argument. I slammed doors, ran away and married a man the polar opposite of him. He got mad at me and I at him. But always—-always—-he showed up. We both cried following a spat, and he told me how much he loved me, and that he was sorry. I’m tearing up right now thinking about his vulnerability and how much it shaped me. And my grown children. Like me, he was also an imperfect grandparent. But he was deeply loved and cherished by his grandchildren and their mother because we always knew how much he cherished us. Death doesn’t change that. His love for us is eternal.
And that’s what I hope for the people in my life that I may have hurt with my actions or words. Let me be candid: I am screwed up, but working on it. Trying my best not to get stuck. Trying to learn from my mistakes. And remembering, that for me, writing is a pressure valve that releases tension and helps me sort out my feelings. Writing helps me return to the good and the positive and end on a positive note, like my sweet, cussed-at grandson shouted at end of the camping trip, “That was so much fun! When can we go again Grandma?” He is my heart, my most loved saint of imperfection.
Tomorrow our next destination is Mammoth Lakes, CA. Condo this time, near the slopes.
Note to self: Pack laptop. Remember to write. To me, writing time isn’t an indulgence, it’s a necessity to keep me sane.
What keeps you balanced? Your tips and experiences are most appreciated.
May 16, 1956—Today
When it’s your birthday and you’re 67…
Don’t need a party.
Don’t need presents.
Don’t need to go out to dinner.
Don’t even need to book a massage.
Because everything I need and want, I have. I get to look at the ocean every single day. I have a laptop and journal and art materials and can document whatever inspires me. I get to dive deep or glide superficially. I have my amigos who love me, my three grown kids, their partners, four beloved grandchildren, my much-loved nieces and nephews, my dear friends, my Monet, my adored vehicles, my health, books, and music. Life really IZ Good these days.
Every single day is my birth day, a new beginning, a chance to renew, change course, see the world with new spectacles
Such a blessing today is, to be loved and cherished from the beginning which, my mother reminded me every birthday while she was alive, was an unnaturally hot day in Lawndale, California. I was born a post War II, 1956 wanted daughter. My parents’ glistening eyes prove it. Cradled in the sink by my exhausted, but effervescent L&M-smoking, permed-hair mother, was big-smile, rosy-cheeked me. Chubby, vibrant, and happy, so I was told. I loved to entertain, dance, sing, make-believe, invite everyone to the party. All the strays. All the wounded, and the popular kids too.
My beginning was magic.
Trees to climb (and fall down from).
Quinn’s Dairy milk deliveries. Helms Bakery chocolate doughnuts.
Gutters to sail Barbie dolls down.
A metallic blue Sears bike that turned into a galloping horse.
A PV-stone embellished playhouse built by my carpenter dad.
Giant goldfish. Our calico, Miss Penny. Frog-pets. A pond. A tiki patio.
The rotisserie barbecue.
Swanson foil TV dinners and those gold-flecked, rose-stenciled fold-up trays from the Blue Chip Stamp store.
The green screen black-and-white Philco TV console.
Silver tinsel Christmas tree and all-blue lights. Modern. American.
My entire world. It was a good one, for me, a little pig-tailed, freckled nose rascal.
My sister was born when I was three. My cousin, three years older than me, would visit for weeks at a time during the summer and school holidays. Best buddies. Then, and now. We’re full–time roomies, hanging out in the apartment-by-the-sea. They share the one bedroom; Princess Bevie has the queen bed, my sister’s on the air mattress at the foot of the bed, and I sleep on the floor in the living room next to Monet. It’s a sweet life. Not the one any one of us imagined, but absolutely kind of cool and different and perfect.
I’m still in my pajamas and it just turned noon. See what I mean?
The sun decided to peek through the clouds in time for me to go for a birthday swim before picking up grandson-friendly goodies the boys will nosh on while the grownups slurp my homemade potato soup, kale salad, bread, cheese and, of course, some wine. What is the birthday girl’s favorite foods? The meal I just described: simple, healthy, and made with love.
When it’s your birthday and you turn 67, what you want most in life is for those you love, both near and afar, to cherish the day because it’s beautiful and hopeful and a gift.
Birthdays ARE special no matter how old we get. Birthdays are a day to say, “Thank you,” and feel the origins of love.
My birthday gift this, and every year, is YOU. Your radiance. Your imagination. Your kindness, intelligence, humor, creativity, and patience. Your toughness, your tenderness, combined with your inner and outer beauty, brings light to the world.
You are such a gift to me and others. You have NO IDEA how much hope and strength you have gifted me throughout the years. You have given me courage. To start anew. To take an unexpected path. To show up. To be there. Always. You. YOU. You are my birthday blessing, today and always.
I can’t begin to tell you how much love, gratitude and admiration I have for you as you forge your own path, making the world better.
Thank you Xs 67 years.
Love, The Birthday Girl.
Round 66.9: Brain vs. Heart
Just when I figure something out, ascend into the golden clouds of enlightenment, I get tested and climb into the dumpster like Jimmy McGill did in the last episode of “Better Call Saul”.
Life is gooey. That’s my reoccurring theme.
What I knew one day, was sure of, buzzed about, wrote about, was straight-spined million percent convinced of a mere 24 hours ago, is instantly shattered by an agitated text and fist-clenched phone call …
… if I allowed said communication devices to consume me.
And I did.
And I do.
And it’s clear
I will never be cured of the terrible Need to Save disease.
(Julie, help!)
Not my monkeys. Not my circus.
Why does my brain know this, but my heart says otherwise?
Without going into details, a person I dearly care about, briefly, apparently, disowned me. Until I got a text pleading for help.
These are magic words to me. Save me. I jumped into action. Conducted research. Found leads. Worried. Fretted. Discussed. Aged, about a year, realizing that while I could help, I couldn’t solve the problem. Because it’s not my life. It’s that person’s reality. And until that person-–or any of us for that matter—deconstructs the reason the problem exists and decides—once and for all—to subsequently and systematically take the necessary steps to get better, then—duh—nuthing’s going to change. I’ve been dealing with this person’s vicious cycle of hope and promise, self-loathing, and regret, for decades. No pill, no giant bank account, no form of escapism, can fix the problem. The only cure is staring deep into the mirror and doing The Work.
Every. Single. Day.
This recent crisis is predictable. Lose a pound. Gain two. Let it go. Take it back. Wise one day, porcupine mess the next.
Stay the course. Eat healthy. Think healthy. Even though it looks like it’s not working, it’s working. Don’t give up.
Tests. Tests. Everything’s a test. As a teacher I hated giving tests and as a student I hated them even more. But these Life Tests are the pits.
When I go on my marvelous camping travels and hang out in Nature, everything seems so clear, so in control, so basic. I’m happy. At peace. And then I return and fall back into The Frenzy of Others. Everyone has a problem, a need.
My go-to response: Abandon self-care for others’ care, yearn to escape, return to a place where I’m surrounded by those who ask nothing of me other than for me to be me. The lightness of being. That’s what I crave.
For 24 hours, I tossed and turned, furrow-browed fretted, contacted experts; how can I solve the problem? I even spoke to Carlos, one of the maintenance wizards here at the Portofino, who noticed my worried faced and remarked, “My friend, you look like you’ve had a hard day.”
“I’m trying to help a friend,” I explain.
“Give it to Jesus,” he said. “That’s what He wants us to do.”
“You’re right,” I said. I forgot to pray.
I got back into the apartment and did just that. I sat on the balcony, closed my eyes, and asked for help.
The next afternoon, after spending the morning researching and forwarding possible leads to the person-in-need, I received a text explaining that the situation had changed for the better; an apartment, at long last, has been secured and may be available as early as this Friday. Thanks for your love and concern. I’ll be in touch.
Just like that. Wow.
The tension in my neck began to ease. Thank you, I said, closing my eyes.
Grateful for the turn of events, I decided to jump in the pool—my chapel by the sea—and swim and swim and swim until my spinning brain stopped spinning.
During lap 15, I remembered Carlos’ kind eyes and departing words: “We only have a finite time on Earth. Be careful how you use it, my friend.”
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know how much I love to end with a they lived happier ever after conclusion. Usually, I wait for the “lesson” to come to me as I write. But this time, this time, I realized that I’m not such a good driver of life. I get side-tracked by billboards, bad-for-my-health road snacks.
I wish I could say that I’ll never again allow myself to be consumed by other people’s drama, but that would be a lie. Shiny objects distract me from my real work: Growth.
I could block calls, texts, wait a week to respond. But running away, hiding out in a dumpster, is chicken. No scam, no double-speak, no avoidance, can outwit fate. Eventually, like Saul Goodman discovered, and The Clash sang about, I can try to fight the Law, but in the end, the Law’s gonna win.
Live Like a Warrior
My microscope these days zooms in and out with the speed of my unsatiable van’s fuel tank. I feel everything. See everything. The blue jay that feeds from Monet’s dog bowl, the bushy tail of the red fox weaving in and out of the damp, Oregonesque fauna here at Camp Site 60 .
Strange things are happening in the silence, in the aloneness. I crave discussion the same as I crave sitting in the hushed morning rain in my pajamas, on a Tuesday, sipping my cooling cup of Trader Joe’s java.
What will happen on this grey Tuesday that will somehow change my life?
I’ve lived so many other lives. And here I sit in the warmth of my van feeling like I’m in a Dream with No Agenda. What truths will this wide, open space reveal? Will Walt Whitman sit across from me, gift me his walking stick, and recite my favorite passage, I know not what it is, but I know it is within me? Will Mary Oliver take my hand as we walk across the creek and remind me of The Other Kingdoms?
Consider the other kingdoms. The trees,
for example, with their mellow-sounding titles:
oak, aspen, willow.
Or the snow,
for which the peoples of the north
have dozens of words to describe its
different arrivals. Or the creatures, with their
thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze.
Their infallible sense of what their lives
are meant to be. Thus the world
grows rich, grows wild, and you too,
grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too
were born to be.
How does one get there, to this wild and authentic place? Like refinishing a piece of old furniture, I suspect that one must strip away the layers, accepting the fact that the process is likely to get uncomfortable.
Accept the messy, that’s what I’m discovering. The confusion. The uncertainty. The possibility that you might be making a mistake, yet something inside you tells you, “It’s time.”
And then, on the other side, which is where I’m at now, I’m learning to trust the process and give myself time and space to just be. No TV. No Internet. No friends. No sugar. Just healthy stuff to cook. For moi.
No one but me, and the Lord above, can stop the noise, the chatter, the restlessness.
It’s a challenge. I constantly flee my thoughts because they almost always require work, be it a change of heart, direction, even a sense of purpose.
Recently, as in the last few days of solitude, I’ve experienced what’s on the other side of uncertainty: love.
My entire life I’ve been taught/told/constantly reminded that there was something wrong with me. The way I think. The way I look. My choices. My trunk load of naysayers are right: I am mighty flawed, just like the sloping, stretching oak tree that I’m looking at right now, an easy-to-ignore landscape accoutrement that refuses to stand straight in its quest for the sun.
This tree is me. And you. And our children, each of us cravers of acceptance and love. When things don’t go exactly our way, it’s crushing, stunting. Truth is, shattered limbs can’t be duct-taped back into place, but their brokenness does provide a canopy and sun-nutrients to the saplings below. The tree reminds me that my brokenness can lead to growth. I wish it weren’t true. I really do. Because feeling not good enough, unworthy, is debilitating.
There’s something immensely freeing to embracing my entirety, including my clumsy parts.
Changing subjects, but not really, my girlfriend Julie and I were talking the other day and realized—out loud—that as kids we were both fixers. I channeled my Fixerism toward wounded animals and guys I dated. Julie, God bless her, tried to fix her bruised family. Going forward, we both agreed, it’s time to work on ourselves by making better, healthier choices. One day at a time, as they say. Grand plans are important. But it’s the small steps that get us there.
And where is there? Here: Camping in Cambria with my devoted pup, having a cup of honey-sweetened mint tea, in a warm van, sheltered from the rain, reading a book, glancing up at the tumbling ocean and feeling humbled and grateful. In a week and a half, I will celebrate my 67th birthday. How lucky am I to grow older, wiser, and have this golden time to reflect? I get to put the pieces together and move on.
I started today’s journal entry sensing that somehow my life would change. Visiting with my friend of 57 years, astounded by her grace and the way in which she’s conducted her life, being in Nature, hanging out with my teacher-dog, is changing–present tense–my life. I’m an evolving, shaping, like a mound of clay.
An old song I used to listen to popped up on my iTunes, “Live Like a Warrior” by Matisyahu.
Your heart is too heavy from things you carry a long time
Been up you been down, tired and you don’t know why
But you’re never gonna go back, you only live one life
Let go, let go, let goooo
Let go, let go, let goooo
Today, today, live like you wanna
Let yesterday burn and throw it in a fire, in a fire, in a fire
Live like a warrior
Take a listen to the entire song. Maybe it will be your new anthem too!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efMx15FEaaA
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