Cheers to girlfriends

My first girlfriend was my twin sister, Carolyn. I've known her always and, as a result, never really felt alone. We even had imaginary friends, Steeter and Goglin. In recent months, we've reconnected as girlfriends (not just mothers and sisters) taking adventurous half-day trips to a naturopath, who is quite the character. Mindy was my first school girlfriend. We spent hours at recess and after school copiously carving out a river along the playground edge with an abandoned silverspoon. It was that magical time when lowly ants are fascinating. We called our make-believe village Spoon Valley. I cried when Mindy moved after first grade. Though it was only an hour north and we talked on the phone, it was never the same.

I have been gifted with so many girlfriends along life's way. This week, I have been reminded of my blessings when I met with two of those remarkable beings. Tara and I re-bonded, though I hate to admit it, via Facebook and I asked if we could chat about possibilities for a writing project and suggested, perhaps, a call to accommodate distance and busy schedules. No, she definitively replied. Of course, she'd help, but only if it were live. So we met halfway. On the drive, my mind wandered to many of our (mis)adventures sparked by locations named on highway exit signs.


I met Tara the first day on my real job, fresh out of Miami University with a degree in English/journalism. She and her fiancee, the staff photographer, immediately embraced me. I was taking over Tara's reporting beat upon her promotion. She wrote THE most amusing description of the cast of characters I would soon meet in this little town (not exactly where my aspirations would have had me, the city girl, though I soon learned you can find adventure and interesting things to write about anywhere). Wish I still had that list, which served as the harbinger of the wonderful summer of digging into work and playing equally hard with the same people with whom I'd just spent the day.

At the newspaper I also found Ronda – maybe it was the other way around. She'd begun a few months before me, yet patiently waited until I hit my one-year anniversary so we could drive to Daytona Beach together for vacation. She taught me a lot a lot about travel and standing up for myself. We'd run near the end of our money, lucky to pick up enough cash after betting on a dog called "Flea-bite" for obvious reasons. Grateful and hungry, we feasted on a last supper of French cuisine created by Hugo from Marsailles. Soon the Jeans, one of whom I'd known in college when we both wrote for the student rag, rolled along into the newsroom. Collectively, we took Ronda to Toronto one year, then allowed her to marry a Canadian and move permanently. We'd often meet midway cramming into Detroit hotel rooms or Lakeside cottages, concealing our beer in the church resort. We've all been in and out of each other's lives over the years, but I know each one of these dear women is just a call or message away. 

One of the Jeans stopped by last night with four-dozen home-baked and decorated cookies for my non-profit arts event tomorrow night. It was such a thoughtful gesture, but that's who she is. When my mother was recovering from extensive heart surgery earlier this year, she visited the rehab facility to give her healing touch on several occasions. She also treated me with her gentle way, kind words and genuine concern.

The other Jean, my daughters and I caught up with last summer when she let us crash at her house on an East-Coast road trip. I miss her, maybe more when we are together because I see how much we have in common. First thing, she handed me a jewelry case that I quickly flicked open knowing it held precious contents: a Barnabas Collins ring. He was my hero when I was a kid. The adult Quaker who worships in light was enamored of a vampire.

I was lucky to experience the closeness of friendship I felt in college with my first group of adult work friends. Probably because we were all still growing up together. 

And I cherish my college girlfriends: Ruth, Donna, Mary Ann and my freshman corridor (Maggy, Beth, Anni, Barb, Jackie, Debbie and Shelly) clan, which still gathers every few years. When I was in Cleveland late last year for my mom's surgery and long recovery, I called Beth because she lives nearby. She listened, so lovingly responded and proved the strength of long-ago ties.

All of these women remind me that I am strong, fun, adventurous and loyal even when I have let the fibromyalgia cast its shadow. I have been dodging meeting Donna and my freshman friends for fear of explaining all that I haven't done in my life because of the disease. Being with Tara reminds me that I need to get over that. She shares the same struggle and it hasn't marred her.

The woman to whom I am the closest these days, Kathie, lives just down the alley. Can't tell you how many times she's sent me home on a full belly or let me rest in what we call her "womb room." She's seen me at my worst, the only one to respond when I called one awful, long day years ago as I was experiencing suicidal withdrawal from a drug prescribed for the fibro. I recovered at her house, when we named her bedroom.

My spiritual mentor and friend Char is always there when I need to let off steam and has opened me to the wonderful world of archetypal astrology. My husband's twin sister, Pat, has been my right hand all along the way in developing an exploration for local, at-risk kids (Artsy Fartsy Saturdays). So has Linda, my Quaker buddy and spiritual companion. These are true friends.

As I mature, I view my mother as my friend and experience moments of friendship with my daughters. As teens, mostly it's some strong mothering, but I see ahead and remember that my mother-in-law said she liked her children best as adults, when they had grown into the men and woman they would become.

ALL of the women in my life are such gifts. Monday night four of us from our long-term book club gathered around a cozy kitchen table to discuss a new pick* on introversion. It was so rich as we each are introverts. My neighborhood is chock full of amazing, interesting and giving women. So is my faith community.

I simply can not imagine a world without girlfriends, Monday's lunch and last-night's cookie delivery reminded me. I don't recall how many young women I have counseled to make sure they have enough girlfriends in their lives. The deceased husband of one of my bookclub friends told me shortly before he died that women had it right. "Men don't develop long friendships like women," he counseled. "So, when we get older we don't have those and we are lonely."

Cheers to girlfriends who mirror who I am, pick me up when I am down, could care less if my teeth are brushed, remind me I am strong, help me raise my daughters and are one of the greatest treasures in my life.

* Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain

PS. After I wrote and recorded this, then began searching for photos, I remembered another longtime friend, one I've known almost as long as my twin sister. Amy is the daughter of our parent's best friends. In the past few years I feel close to her as she has been such a supporter of Artsy Fartsy and this blog! And, Renee, my new partner-n-crime and first yoga teacher. I may need to write a sequel as I have been graced with so many incredible women.

Listen to this post:

Riot of rainbow colors

My neighborhood book club just read Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman. We had an incredibly lively discussion last night with a variety of opinion, but a collective nod that she’s an incredible writer with a knack for dropping in on lives, carving detailed characters and leaving much unsaid.

The women in this club are as varied as the author’s stories and last night’s group was less than half our total. While I missed the others, I enjoy the intimacy of a smaller gathering, when we can really connect and talk about the book, which, often, means talking about our lives and how the book touches them.

Y said it drove her crazy that there was no resolution in these stories. A successful IT manager, she is no nonsense, but also very honest about herself. We gather, first, over food and catch up. It was fun to hear about Y’s trip with her family to Disney. She was a woman with a plan and they stuck to the daily itinerary and did everything everyone wanted, often walking onto rides sans any wait. Even her sixth and 11^th-graders, boy and girl, got along. If I’m ever stranded on a desert isle, I want her there with me! I think this club is still going strong 14 years out because of her ability to gather us and keep us on task.

It was K’s birthday and, as she’s an empty nester and her husband was out of town, we celebrated with a deep-chocolate goddess cake. It really suits her earthiness and position as a junior-high counselor and wonderful, tender ear for friends. She’s listened to me rant about my youngest and offer calming, right-on advice, but only if that’s what I desired. She’s lived with a similar temperament and, in a sense, is still raising her children while also getting ready to move her parents nearby from out of town. Some would say she’s a saint … with a wicked sense of humor.

My mother, who joined the club when she moved to town a few years ago, was motivated to write her own short story, which I am dying to read. She’d forgotten it, but remembered cheese and crackers and her constant traveling companion, Puff, the magic oxygen tank. She reminded us of the elements of a short story, of which we realized Pearlman was master. Her favorite was shared. The story of the beautiful toddler trapped in a diseased body and mind, caged and worshipped, and finally set free by her mother tapped us all down deep. We’re all mothers and know the burden of doing the sometimes unthinkable because it is the loving thing to do. As my mom and I talked about the book earlier in the week, she seemed regretful that she had not nursed me and my twin. One of the stories centered on a stubborn health minister who bucked the government trend of manufactured milk, chucking her career. I know on some level I missed that closeness with my mother, but in that moment I laid that down, trading if for gratitude that she thumped convention to ensure my sister and I developed as individuals, not a set. I’d like to uncover what other unthinkable things she did for me.

C sent me a thank you this morning, complementing our house and how, as she was packing up her appetizer plate and basket, she noticed the painted fireplace surrounding the kitchen vent. I’ve been in my house too long and only seem to see the work and mess. It was wonderful to be reminded that it can be a welcoming place as well. My family generously pitched in (I can’t say I was so gracious when I had to remind them for the third time) to get it in shape. For a moment, I settled back into when my girls were pre-schoolers and they would toddle down on cold mornings and sit by what they called the warm spot. In my grandmother’s house, it was a forceful grate that transformed our soft, flannel nighties into blooming mushrooms. The warm spot enticed me into giving it a Victorian mantel.

C had also picked this book, so I was especially grateful for her. She has a knack for selecting things I wouldn’t ordinarily read, but that I adore. Carefully culled choices from a thoughtful reader and person. Though they moved a few years ago, she’s still very much a part of the neighborhood. She and her husband drove the church van, transporting families in subsidized housing, for the Artsy Fartsy open house in June.

Of course, we missed our regulars: they each bring unique gifts, voices and presences to the group. It’s really more of a nurture group in my mind than a book club. Y even organized a letter-writing retreat one summer for all of us at Grailville. It was powerful.

My heart, now, is on M, struggling with a reconstructed ankle and unable to join us last evening. She and my mom have so much in common and the connection has been good for both of them. She’s surrounded by loving, attentive family, but I am certain the neighborhood women will be needed when that procession ends. That’s what this group does: bring food when we’re delivering babies or ill, calling to check in, rallying around local social causes, inviting us to graduations and weddings and just being present and available.

Certainly nothing like the flat, lonely misfits Pearlman so beautifully animates. Her work seems cloaked in grey tones. My book club is very much a riot of rainbow colors.

• How does what I read touch my life?

• How has a group enriched my life?

• Who, exactly, are my neighbors?

• How have they colored my life?

• How do/can I share my gifts with them?

delicately wrought

characters,

broken and real

calling me

to read on

and on

brought to

life again

in a book-

club discussion

only to remind

me of the

solid, compassionate

women who

constantly

surround me

 Listen to this post:

Albatrosses to be shed

I had a last-minute invitation to an International Women's Day (IWD) lunch hosted by a Russian friend of mine Tuesday that was more of a treat than I could have imagined. I had never even heard of IWD until I met Svetlana a few years ago when the heater on the gym pool conked out in December and we were the two lone and hearty souls to take a dip.

The luncheon brought together an interesting array of women spanning five decades of ages, a myriad of life experiences and the common desire to unite. It was lively, serious, fun, nurturing and the breath of fresh air I desperately needed. Emanuela, originally from Umbria, Italy, and Svetlana, from St. Petersburg, had both grown up celebrating IWD, so they seemed to be the driving forces of the commemoration, which happened to be the 100th anniversary. It's a national, no-work, holiday in almost 30 countries. Apparently, in the former Soviet Union, there's a men's day, but everyone still works. The irony was not lost on me.

Initially,  IWD was political in nature, originating in socialist Eastern Europe and Russia advocating better rights and working conditions for women, but has taken on the larger role of celebrating and uniting women around the world. It seems the collective voice has grown loud and strong in a century.

And I had NEVER heard of it before my Russian friend. How strange and ridiculous is that ... in this land of plenty and justice? Fortunately, my seventh-grader came home also talking about it as it had been discussed on her daily school news program.

After a marvelous Soviet-style feast, mingling and getting acquainted, learning about IWD and feeling a part of this group, we meditated together. Right there in Svetlana's living room mid day. And it was glorious. She played an Indian sax CD, we opened our kundalini energy and faced her altar dedicated to Sahaja Yoga founder/guru Shri Mataji Nirmala Devi, who died last month.

All of these women had that in common. They asked if I'd be comfortable meditating with them; I smiled and said I was Quaker and used to silent worship, which is, essentially, the same thing. They seem pleased.

OMG I had not realized how very long it had been since I had meditated outside of Sunday worship. Sure, I make my semi-weekly swims meditative and the five-minutes of relaxation twice a week in yoga, but this was SO different, SO healing, SO cathartic because I entered with NOTHING.

It has been a very long time since I entered my Sunday worship that way and I had not even realized it. Compared to the heaviness and restrictiveness I have felt in Quakerism [can you tell I haven't been fed in awhile?], the Sahaja yoga was light, deep and refreshing all at the same time. With no agenda.

I also happened to have a strange dream this week. [Well, aren't most dreams strange?] Someone in the Quaker Meetinghouse was pointing out rubber body parts – a heart, hand and unidentifiable organ – on the office floor to me. I recognized them as representing me and, upon reflection, something has been tearing me apart ... literally. My wise spiritual friend has given me some ideas for working further with this dream, but it is obvious wholeness is not a part of my life right now and I am beginning to understand the source – that, perhaps, it's time to explore another spiritual avenue. I am uncertain whether that means leaving my home of the past 12 years or just branching out. Hard to tell, but Tuesday's meditation makes the idea more appealing,

• How has a refreshing experience shaped or changed my view or attitude?
• When my spirituality has become stale, am I brave enough to look elsewhere or make a change?
• How can I extract myself from that kind of rut?
• What are potential drawbacks?
• Potential rewards?


unquestioningly entrenched
because, for so long, it fit


wearing it, bearing it because
it had been such a vital connection


relying more on memory than
the present for comfort


until something: a new experience or dream
awakens us to new possibilities and albatrosses to be shed


what courage will I be called to muster?