Fiercely

5 years ago, on Valentine's Day, my Uncle Jimmy died.  He wasn't old, or sick; he choked on a sandwich in the bathroom of the sheltered workshop where he spent his weekdays.  His life started out difficult and ended sadly, but these days, on February 14th, when I think of him and his legacy, I'm reminded of the absolute power of pure and simple love.

Both of my mother's brothers were born with Fragile X syndrome, a genetic condition that mostly affects males (since the mutation is carried on the X chromosome, females can be carriers but have a "normal" X to make up for it). My Uncle Jack is older, and less severely impacted: he can write simple words, and operate basic appliances, and groom himself and cook (he's also obsessed with show tunes, but that's another story).  Jimmy was born small, and as an infant had difficulty latching and sucking, so my mother--who was 11 years older--spent the first several months of his life spoon-feeding him sips of milk until his tiny muscles got the hang of sustenance.  From there, their bond was indestructible; they adored each other.  In the 1960s, before all the nifty advances in genetic research and testing, when people with intellectual and developmental disabilities were called "retarded" and relegated to sub-human status, there was little room in polite suburban Chicago society for a family like theirs--yet my mom's stories of childhood are like anyone else's, filled with sibling rivalries and escapades.  But Jimmy was the baby of the family, my mother his protector, so when my grandfather's job took them to Central Florida, my mother left college and followed them to the Sunshine State.

Jimmy had a lopsided smile and a habit of close-talking; he'd get right up in your face and ask you questions in his incongruously soft voice (he grew to be a very large man).  His questions usually centered around whether or not you'd drive him to the store for a "beer," a tradition that started when my father, during visits to my grandparents' house, would inevitably make a run to the 7-Eleven, taking Jimmy along with him.  Jimmy didn't drink alcohol, but long after my parents were divorced, my Dad would stop by and take him for a ride to the store for a soda.

Jimmy called me "Snork," because that was the sound he heard me make when I was a baby.  He loved to bowl, and was of such powerful stature that everyone in his general radius would reflexively recoil when he sauntered up to the lane with his bowling ball.  He was a man's man, he loved tools and could often be seen walking around the house in his toolbelt.  He was in the garage workshop when my grandfather died there, instantaneously, of a massive heart attack; Jimmy was never really the same after that.

My uncles lived with my grandmother until she died in 2004, at which point they went to live in a group home.  They worked during the week at a sheltered workshop--which sounds awful and sweat-shoppy, but was actually a hugely rewarding experience for them, for a long time--and one day, Jimmy went into the bathroom to eat his lunch (he had a tendency to be secretive around food) and they found him, a while later, unconscious on the floor.  He was taken to the ICU, where my mother lay next to him until they discontinued life support.

I flew home for his funeral, 4 months pregnant with Evan, and I was terrified.  I was afraid of how my Uncle Jack would deal, how my mom would handle the loss.  I was not prepared for what happened at the church, the standing room only, the absolute flood of people who came out to pay tribute to his life.  My Dad was a pallbearer, and I saw him cry for the second time in my life.  Fr. Robert, a long-term family friend and Franciscan priest, came from out of town to stand at the altar, though it wasn't his church.  People from Jimmy's workshop, his bowling league, old friends of ours from St. Mary Magdalen, tons of people I didn't know clogged the aisles and the back of the church. And outside, in the parking lot, I met a young man who was sobbing; when I introduced myself he threw his arms around me and said "I just loved him so much." I found out later that he was the manager of the group home where Jimmy had lived.

At the funeral, my mom gave the eulogy.  At one point she told the audience that as a child I told her I loved being with my uncles, because they were always happy to see me.  And they were; the summers and holidays and weekends I spent with them were filled with love and acceptance and fun.  I miss his crooked smile, I miss taking him for a beer.  I miss watching him sidle up next to my mom, seeing her cradle his head in the crook of her neck, witnessing that perfect bond, that pure affection.

We're all a little cynical these days about this holiday, but I'm reminded of how important it is to love someone fiercely, to love them wholly, to do it because it's important, and it's beautiful, and in the end, it's all there is.

Phat

We eat king cake for breakfast, and take baths when it's convenient. 

We are Mardi Gras.

Our fingernails are dirty and we have too many swords. 

We are Mardi Gras.

We want that cup, but when the boy behind us steals it, we let it go.  And we hand him the next cups we catch, because we're cool that way.

We are Mardi Gras.

Our homework is half-done, and our Moms don't care.

We are Mardi Gras.

We know the rhythms: drop back to the curb for the marching bands, rush forward once they're past. But not too far forward.  Let the riders know you're there.

We are Mardi Gras.

When that awesome throw comes flying, the one we've been waiting for, and it rolls under the float, we wait. We know better. 

We are Mardi Gras.

Our siblings are smaller, and quieter; we know what they like.  We yell for them.

We are Mardi Gras.

We never throw coins at Flambeaux.  We hand them bills, and make sure our hair doesn't catch.

We are Mardi Gras.

We link arms and sing pop songs en route to the parades.  We are young, like this night, full of possibility and joy.

We are Mardi Gras.

Lines for Winter

Tell yourself

as it gets cold and gray falls from the air

that you will go on

walking, hearing

the same tune no matter where

you find yourself—

inside the dome of dark

or under the cracking white

of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.

Tonight as it gets cold

tell yourself

what you know which is nothing

but the tune your bones play

as you keep going. And you will be able

for once to lie down under the small fire

of winter stars.

And if it happens that you cannot

go on or turn back

and you find yourself

where you will be at the end,

tell yourself

in that final flowing of cold through your limbs

that you love what you are. 

                          --Mark Strand

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
                          --Ellen Bass

Goal

Of the many things I never imagined myself doing in my late 30s, coaching soccer is right up there at the top of the list--alongside things like performing interpretive skate-dances to humiliate my daughter and her friends and explaining to my son why his penis "pokes out" in the morning.  But here I am, a few weeks shy of 37, and I've somehow ended up as not only a coach, but the U-8 league coordinator, in possession of a large Adidas duffle bag, a clipboard, several extra balls, and a newly-developed penchant for saying things like "hustle" and "drop back."

When I first enrolled Sydney in soccer, I checked the "Assistant Coach" box on the registration form, because I am just that stupid.  A few days later, the league commissioner called and left me a voicemail, explaining that they were short a few head coaches and would I be interested in stepping up?  "It's not that big a deal," said he. "The game really teaches itself."  Because I am not always completely dense, I understood that to mean "We are desperate to recruit the requisite number of suckers and we will say anything to persuade you.  Sucker."  I ignored the voicemail, knowing that if I returned the call I would end up not only agreeing to coach, but to manage their website or oversee the maintenance of the playing fields for the next twenty years.  That's how these types of conversations tend to go.  But he tricked me by calling back, from a different number, and I unwittingly answered, and the next thing I knew I was sweating my way through a coaches' clinic, dribbling through "minefields" and going 1 v 1 against men who I had just seen neck-trapping their kids' balls.  I told myself that I was doing it for Sydney, which I was: I knew she would be less ambivalent about playing if I coached her team.  Also, I am a total sucker.

The U-6 draft, where all the coaches (me and 15 soccer dads) took turns selecting players from the roster to assemble our teams, was eye-opening: I watched the more veteran coaches choose players based on age (the older the better) and then, it seemed, on the ethnicity suggested by the surname.  But the season turned out fine; Sydney enjoyed it immensely and the whole team had fun.  My learning curve was huge, but I do enjoy a challenge, and I'll admit to being a little sad when the season ended.  But mostly I was relieved, since Sydney would be moving up to U-8 in the Spring and there was no way in hell I could ever be persuaded to coach in U-8.

When the voicemails started coming, I studiously ignored them.  I braced myself for battle.  Sydney was firmly committed to the sport; my job was done.  They didn't need me! Look at all those dudes with their bulging calves and their Pumas!  They could totally handle it.

I successfully dodged multiple recruiting entities for a couple of weeks, and I thought they had finally given up when I got a phone call in the middle of a busy clinical day from a number I didn't recognize.  The commissioner was on the line, his voice thick with congestion.  He coughed loudly into the receiver. "It's really not a big difference from U-6," he croaked. "But I really can't do it this season," I replied. "I'm really very busy."  There was a pause on the other end; a child cried.  "I'm sorry, can you say that again?" he said.  "We all have bronchitis here and this fever is making me a little out of it."  I realized I'd been beaten.  "Send me the details," I said, and hung up the phone, realizing in that moment that I am a person who will never be able to say no.

While the U-6 draft had been a little disorienting, the U-8 draft was downright frightening.  Once again, I was the only woman in the room, and I watched the men (mostly dads who did not have sons) debate the relative merits of the players (6 and 7 year-old girls) as if they were auctioning cattle or something.  The therapist in me recognized all the uncomfortably hostile dynamics swirling around that dark little room, and when I realized I had ended up with a team full of young players, several of whom were openly disparaged by the veteran coaches ("she looks like she's never seen a soccer ball before"), I experienced a surge of resolve.  We will be the Bad News Bears.  We will suck, we will persevere, and then we will dominate.

And that's pretty much what happened.  We lost every single game, but kept working on finding open space and passing and holding positions, and in the very last game, we dominated.  Like a switch had been thrown, every single player on that team played very good soccer; they passed, they attacked and defended, they scored.  There was one player in particular, a shy girl who cried at the beginning of every practice and game and who often seemed lost on the field, who made tremendous progress.  At the beginning of the last game I took her aside and told her that if she played aggressively, I knew she would score a goal (she had never done so, and desperately wanted to).  And she did, she scored, and her parents cried on the sidelines, and I knew in that moment that I would coach soccer for as long as they would allow me to do it.

This season, I didn't hesitate to sign on to coach; I no longer needed to be persuaded.  So when the call from the commissioner came, I cheerfully answered, expecting to hear some details about clinics or drafts or something. "So, we're really trying to recruit more women coaches for the girl's leagues..." he began. "Excellent!" I said. "That's fantastic!"  "...And we think that having a woman as the league coordinator would really help."

"..."

"It's not really that big a commitment."

"I'm really very busy, you know."

"All you have to do is make sure we have enough coaches, and run the grading and the draft, and then make sure the season runs smoothly and everyone is following the rules and such."

What he neglected to mention at this point was that league coordinators get free beer from the concession stand.  I found this out later, after I had agreed to the job, and I guess if he knew me better he would have led with that perk instead of the whole "step up for the good of all women" thing.  Either way, I got suckered again, and am once again proceeding with gasping, stumbling steps up a steep learning curve.  I'm learning that some men really don't like when a woman is in charge, and they will get downright nasty about it, but that they will yield when that woman shows no mercy and no patience for the nonsense they try to throw at her.  I learned that in an Olympic year, every kid suddenly wants to play soccer, and that instead of 8 teams you can expect to have 12 in each league, and as league coordinator you will spend every second of your non-existent free time recruiting additional coaches and trying to usher 105 children through grading drills.  I've learned that it is in fact an excellent thing for these girls to see a woman in charge--especially when that woman is also not afraid to hug them on the field when they score.

But perhaps most important of all, I've learned not to be shy about saying "I'm the league coordinator" when the kids at the concession stand try to charge me for my beer. 

To Sydney, on your 7th Birthday

Last night you had your birthday party at The Bead Shop; ten of your friends came and made beautiful jewelry and listened to the “pop music” playlist you created on your iPod.  You love creating (and wearing) jewelry, and you’ve wanted to have this party since you turned 5—but since the shop has an age threshold for birthday parties, you had to wait two years.  It did not disappoint.

This was the first of your parties to be girls-only, with selected invitees.  Though it was certainly developmentally appropriate, it made me a little sad, as it seemed to mark the end of the first phase of your childhood.  You had your girlfriends, your playlist, and the parents were relegated to the back room for the duration of the party (you could literally feel the separation anxiety in that room—the collective sense of childhood’s end).  But the experience of planning the party, and the party itself, provided an extraordinary opportunity to get to know you better.  Let me explain.

From the moment you were born, you have been an intensely connected person.   As your primary caretaker and (to this date) your primary person in general, to me this facet of your personality has always been obvious.  As an infant, you craved physical attention—being held, cuddled, caressed.  You held eye contact at a very young age (2 or 3 weeks), and seemed to recognize voices and faces very early.  As a baby and toddler, all of your play was interactive; you created games that almost always involved exchange.  In preschool, you seemed to go through a more solitary phase (I would often arrive to find you playing by yourself in a corner of the yard or classroom), but when asked you knew exactly what all of your friends were doing, what they ate for lunch, who had a time out and who got a sticker, and who seemed sad/angry/excited on that particular day.  You wrote love letters to the important people in your life on a daily basis.  I worried about your transition to Big School, both because of your age—you just made the cutoff for kindergarten, so you are the youngest in your class—and because of your sensitivity and kindness, but you managed the transition with grace and strength and have seemed to do very well with all sorts of transitions since.

You’re imaginative and strong-willed, and the adults in your life—including me—are constantly urging you to listen, to pay attention.  The reports we get from school all say pretty much the same thing, quarter after quarter: something along the lines of “Sydney is a bright, happy child.  She just needs to work on her listening skills.”  And I’ve always sort of brushed those things aside with a knowing laugh: that’s my girl.  And on the soccer field, where you’ve put in so much training and are turning into an excellent player, your only real struggle has been with focus.  And we’ve had some battles, you and I, both on and off the pitch; as your coach and your mom, I’ve thought it my duty to help you hone your “listening skills,” to encourage your success.

Back to the party.  In the weeks leading up to the big event, we talked about all sorts of details; this was something you’d been waiting on for a long time, and we needed to get it right.  You were very concerned from the start about who would be attending the party—every day you asked me who had replied, and you kept an updated guest list, sorted into categories (coming, not coming, maybe coming), on your desk.  I assumed that you were anxious about whether or not your friends would come, but when I said something to that end you corrected me.  “I just need to know who’s coming,” you said, “so that I know what kind of party favors to get.  J. likes lip gloss, but G. doesn’t.  Maybe I could get them different favors?  And S. doesn’t like chocolate, so maybe we can have some cupcakes with chocolate frosting, and some with vanilla.  Also, if P. is coming, we should bring some extra activities, because she has a slow process and I know she’ll take her time making her necklace and we’ll all need something else to do so we don’t make her feel pressured to hurry up.”

I listened to this and watched you develop your party plan and realized, for the first time, what an intensely social person you are.  Relationships are your primary interest; you absolutely love people. Not only that, but you also have a keen awareness of the inner lives of others; you’re able to observe and interact, and then deduce what people will want or need based upon these observations.  Your friends had a wonderful time at your party, in large part because of your thoughtfulness—you were spot-on about everything. 

And this got me thinking about the “attention issues.”  I know now that you are, in fact, paying very close attention, all the time.  Maybe not to the instructions your parents or teachers or coaches are giving, but to what’s going on with the people around you.  When you win a soccer game, you’re distracted by concern about the other team feeling sad.  When your friend’s parents are planning an anniversary party, you spend your evening sewing presents for them.  And when you’re preparing for your own birthday party, you’re thinking about how to make the experience special and fun for everyone else.  I typed that last line and cried a little—you are such an amazing and beautiful gift.

Over the years, a lot of people are going to want you to focus on other things—they’ll try to distract you from your generosity of spirit.  Although I will occasionally be one of those people, I hope that you’ll fight back.  I hope that I’ll always catch you sewing pillows for people you’ve only met once, when you should be doing your homework.  I hope that you’ll continue to hug people on the soccer field (even though I’ll have to tell you not to).  The other day you hugged me and said, “I’m in love with you, Mommy.  I’m in love with the whole world.”  I hope you never fall out of love, that you never stop looking deeply into everything, that you're always immersed in your own slow process of discovery and connection.

I’m in love with you, Sydney--my sweet, thoughtful, creative, and all-around amazing girl.

Happy Birthday.

Love,

Mom

Strong

Marathon training began in earnest last month, and with it the inevitable analysis of runs gone wrong.  Could I have been faster? Trained harder? Consumed more/less GU/Gatorade? Worn different shoes? More/less/different clothing? Could I have shaved a few seconds off my time if I hadn't wasted breath cheering on that red-faced dude who was walking in the 19th mile? And what about that weird, spasmy leg thing that happened in the last 10k? What was that about? On paper, my last marathon was a success: I didn't die, or injure myself, or unwillingly defecate.  What else can you ask from the 26.2? But I went into this one determined to do better--to finish faster and feeling stronger.

I thought I was being smart when I took some time to consider strategy--a more holistic approach to training.  I'd started to have a little trouble with my IT band, and felt good about the fact that I'd worked in some strength exercises to address that, in addition to a particularly gruesome but effective technique, recommended by a running buddy, that involved applying deep tissue massage to those areas with a frozen Nalgene bottle (for the record, that shit hurts).  The stress of the last year had left me about 10 pounds lighter, not weight I could afford to lose, and so I also started approaching nutrition deliberately (I have a tendency to forget to eat).  Pilates, strength training, deep tissue massage and icing, good nutrition: these are all elements of a sound marathon training plan.  On paper, I was good to go.

What I never stopped to consider was whether or not I wanted to dedicate myself to the endeavor.  I've been wanting to run New York for so long that when I found out I got in, the decision was automatic.  I registered immediately, giddily, and told everyone I knew, all of whom were excited for me and overwhelmingly supportive.  I made plans to take the train from my conference in Boston the night before the race, to stay with a friend in Brooklyn, to take the Staten Island Ferry the morning of.  I started training.

What I noticed right away was a profound ambivalence, which was totally new and deeply frustrating.  I didn't want to run.  I forced myself.  We all have days when getting out of bed to knock out some miles is difficult, but it was happening every morning, and I pushed through the runs with an antsy boredom.  At first I chalked it up to momentum: I needed some time to get in the groove.  But as the weeks went by, and I wasn't putting on weight, and I was getting sick more frequently and severely than I ever have in my adult life, and I was constantly stressed about fitting in runs before it got too hot, I was forced to reconsider my decision.

When you're the sort of person who says yes to everything--not out of an inability to say no or a lack of assertiveness, but rather a wish to stuff your life full of as much experience as possible--backing out of a commitment, even one that you only made to yourself, is almost unthinkable.  When people have suggested to me that perhaps I work too hard or push myself too hard or take on too much, it's always made me think about all of the things I'm not doing with my life.  If only they knew what I slacker I am!  If only they could see how deeply I've disappointed myself by not finishing that novel or learning to play cello or taking my kids on a Disney vacation or writing more letters to the editor or learning to sew or or or or or--

Sounds a little nuts, right?

I'm on the Board of an organization that's been entrenched in expansion planning for the past year; the last time we met with the developer, I asked him to identify our risks and vulnerabilities.   His answer? Taking on too much.  Trying to do too many things.  And this is the risk of every entity who wants to expand: if you take on too much, you risk collapse.  I say this to my Schweitzer Fellows constantly, as they wrestle with their community projects--most of them are passionate about what they do, they want to change the world, make a true difference.  And almost all of them try to do too much; their project descriptions inevitably read like Five-Year Plans, though they only have 9 months to implement them.  And my job is to gently direct them to simplicity and focus.  I somehow manage to do this well, though as is true of most practitioners, my personal endeavors reflect the exact opposite approach.

And so, I've withdrawn from the marathon.  I'm taking a hiatus from running, as well, as I think that particular form of exercise only promotes my tendency to push myself excessively.  I'm going back to yoga and pilates, and though the mere thought of that makes me squirm with impatience, I think that's the exact reason to do it.  I'm tired, and I'm slowing down.

This somehow feels like a huge risk (what if I slow down a little and completely stop doing everything?), but I've looked around at the people I admire and all of them possess the ability to simplify and focus, to essentially say, I can't do that right now.  It seems paradoxical, still, but in my gut I know it's true: if I want to feel stronger, I need to quit.

Hooray for quitters.