Purposefully Lost

For a very long time now -- not my full 51 years, but some period of time dating back to fourth or fifth grade, perhaps -- I have built a reputation around some key attributes: grounded, organized, dependable, logical, funny, smart and determined. I've received birthday cards showing a business woman in a suit, with heels and a laptop, sitting on a beach towel in the sand and still working. I've defined myself in those terms: driven, I guess; aiming for something, ticking off accomplishments like grocery items.

But I am not that person. I don't know if I'm not that person anymore or if I'm not that person because I've never been that person in the first place.

What I know is that I am decidedly NOT that person at this point in my life. Now.

Now, I am lost.

And here's the key: I am lost because I intentionally tossed aside all those characteristics and goals and assumptions, and now I'm standing naked and somewhat embarrassed and most decidedly unsure.

I can't say this is "just" because my mother died. Or "just" because I'm alone in the world with no parents and no safety net. Or "just" because I work for myself and it's possible that I will have no clients come January 2011.

I think it's more fundamental -- and more complicated, at the same time -- than that. I think it's about willingness. I have reached a stage in my life where I am willing, however uncomfortably, to say aloud (to myself, to others), that I am looking for something really, really and truly, authentic, and that something is me. Not all the characteristics and goals that other people ascribe to Amy Selwyn. But really and truly me.

My psychiatrist tells me, smiling, that he knows I want to break out of where I am now -- geographically, psychologically, logistically -- and do something different. And, he adds, it will become clear to me at some point and then I'll go do it. The key, he says, and I believe him (I REALLY REALLY do and I REALLY REALLY wish I didn't), is that I must sit with all the discomfort and the jealousies and the uncertainties and the wondering. Just sit. Sit until the path becomes clear.

In the past, I have picked a point --- a personal and/or professional Northern Star --- and I've aimed for it no matter what. My father died and I kept going. My heart got trampled on and I kept going. I got demoted and I kept going, certain and comfortable and undeterred.

So now I'm resisting the urge to pick a point. It would feel so much better, I can tell you that, if I could simply say to myself, Right, Amy, next stop is a $350,000 per year position based on the West Coast and a 10-year plan toward retirement. I could do that. Oh, there would be obstacles, of course. But they would be logistical, practical obstacles. And I'd find a way through them.

Instead, I'm looking at the nighttime sky and saying, Wow, a lot of stars. A lot of possible Northern Stars. I'm not going to fix my sights on any of them. I'm going to admire those stars from my little piece of earth, and I'm going to let an inner voice finally have its say. That inner voice is the voice that hasn't been mastered digitally in Dolby sound by engineers; it hasn't been influenced and perfected by other peoples' dreams and ideals. That's probably why it's a soft, elusive and childlike voice. And it's damned hard to hear it.

Today I find myself wishing I could change course. So much easier to just give up and go back to a much more driven lifestyle. To be that person who stands on the beach in panty hose and checks e-mail.

But there's no turning back once you commit to letting yourself get lost.

I am lost. Purposefully lost. And that is the only state of being that will allow genuine and authentic change. It sucks, that's the truth of it. But it will get better. In time.

In the meantime, I admire the stars, but make no claim.

Serendipity

From the small library of the Ibrahim Pasha Hotel in Istanbul, a glass of red wine and some pistachios on the low table in front of me, a vase of pungent lilies nearby, Paolo Conte on the sound system and light rain and cool air in the streets of Sultanahmet.

Istanbul.

One of my favorite places in the world. Sensuous, exotic, surprising. Welcoming but also unknowable -- my favorite kind of relationship.

Tomorrow I board a Turkish Airlines flight back to New York. My adventure wraps and, just like in the movies, the scene fades and the suspended reality edges back into the picture. Home, dogs, work, groceries, meal prep, bills, therapy, lawn care, health insurance, car maintenance, Spanish lessons, lots of Facebook postings, talks with my sister, Netflix, Amazon.com deliveries. The realities of a nice life. But also, perhaps, a life that fails to maximize serendipity.

That's what is so special about travel: the serendipity. The fact that you wake up in the morning, eat strange cheese and have absolutely no clue what is going to happen next: what you'll do, what you'll find on the way to the Forum, who you'll run into or strike up a conservation with or spot across a half-empty Turkish coffee house. Unpredictable and therefore exciting.

That's the kind of life I love. (Do I live it or do I just crave it? I dunno. Perhaps a bit of both, which is a lot better than exclusively the latter.) A life in which things turn on a dime. You stop in for a donut and end up living in a foreign country. Unpredictable, unconventional, possible. I learn the most from these adventures. Serendipity is an inspiring teacher.

Here are some of the serendipitous moments for me over the last two weeks.

1. Driving with my friends Gulya and Ilgar in Baku. We are pulled over by a policeman. Why? No reason at all. We aren't speeding. Ilgar's Mercedes is in fine nick. Gulya tells me to make sure the policeman hears me speaking English. Ilgar explains that I am an American journalist, part of the press corps in Baku for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's visit. It's a big lie, of course, but the policeman is sufficiently spooked to stare for a moment, then let us pass. No bribe required. Had I not been there, Ilgar and Gulya tell me, cash would definitely have had to pass hands. Simply because that's the way it is. Note to self: be grateful this is not a regular occurrence in my life. Be grateful. Do not take for granted the freedoms I enjoy. And be aware that this is not the case for everyone. And, above all, improvise!

2. A nighttime walk in old Baku (the old city...leitmotif here...I love old cities) with one of the world's great storytellers, Fuad Akhundov. Ghosts of Russian spies, Azeri oil barons and Armenian merchants follow us from house to house, as Fuad reveals the city's secrets. He shows me the magic that is a port city at the other end of my world and, more importantly, a gateway to trade routes and destinations. We end the night in a half-restored garden, two turn-of-a-century wisteria trees stubbornly pushing their way up onto balconies and beyond in a romantic nod to one man's love for his saddened wife. Stories, I am reminded, bring lives to life. And everyone has one. Some people have many. Just have to remember to ask. And listen.

3. Crossing the lobby of the Ibrahim Pasha Hotel and seeing one of the dozen or so people I know in all of Turkey. Mehmet Yildiz. He is just sitting there, as if anticipating that I will be in Istanbul and it is normal that he should be waiting for me. My friend Asha and I had intended to go to the fish market for dinner. At Mehmet's insistence, we go left instead of right and make our way to his brother Hamza's carpet shop, just off the Hippodrome. We have a private showing of carpets. I buy an Usak and Asha buys two kilims. Then we head to the shop's top floor and eat a Turkish sofra (a picnic of sorts -- eaten on the floor, food scooped up with Turkish bread) with our friends. We drink red wine. Mehmet plays the saz, a long necked Turkish guitar. We say goodnight, laugh at the improbability of the scene, and agree to meet the next day at the Grand Bazaar after our morning at the Istanbul Culinary Institute. We promise to bring Mehmet samples of our cooking. The lesson here? Well, pretty obvious, really. Sometimes you need to take a left when you were certain you were going to hang that right. And see where the road takes you.

If I can integrate the memories, I'll add to my life that key spice: the one that makes it interesting and surprising and hard but worth it. And that ingredient is curiosity. Grateful for freedoms and not afraid to use them, willing to wing it, eager to hear other peoples' stories and to share, and willing to take what feels like a wrong turn and commit to the choice.

I head home. Wiser, perhaps. Poorer, no question. And curiouser and curiouser, oh yes.

From Gate 6, JFK

I am getting ready to leave for Baku, Azerbaijan. (To those who aren't sure where that is, here are the rough coordinates: Go past Iran and keep going 'til you are very nearly to Armenia, then land with the Caspian to your left.) I'm excited about the trip and also nervous, which feels about right.

I am flying Turkish Airlines to Istanbul and then changing for another Turkish flight from Istanbul to Baku. My flight is completely full and -- rough estimate here -- 90 percent of the passengers are Turkish. Maybe it's more like 95 percent.

At check-in, I watched as a young man, probably 22 or so, kissed and hugged his parents. The line snaked its way to the security area where only passengers are allowed. The young man and his parents began to cry. I don't speak Turkish but I don't have to in order to know what they were saying: I love you, be safe, I'll miss you, I love you, be safe, I'll miss you.

A stunningly beautiful woman to my left, held a fat, beautiful, little brown baby in her arms and waved and blew kisses to relatives or friends seeing her off. She was crying.

This isn't an unusual airport scene, especially not in a place like New York, where families unite and part every minute of the day.

What strikes me, as I watch this scene, is the obvious point: at the end of the day, we are the same. We want the same things. We want our loved ones to be safe. We want to love and be loved. We want to feel that hug and that kiss and we want to know that we will have opportunities ahead -- in the future -- to see one another again.

I am nearly moved to tears by this simple thought. It could be the fact that simple thoughts are among the most profound. That with each passing day I am more and more aware of my humanity and my frailty and my strength. Every day miracles move me. Every day gifts.

Now, at the gate, I look around. I see that, so far, I am the only blond on the flight. And I am the only woman without a head scarf. We are 375 or so people traveling to Istanbul. I am Jewish; most of my fellow travelers are Muslims. We are the passengers of TK 0002. We want the same thing: a safe flight, a smooth ride, a quiet and clean neighbor who doesn't smell or snore too loudly or fart. A baby that sleeps. A safe landing. And, of course, the certainty of safe return to those we leave behind.

Taken like this, it all seems so simple. Peaceful co-existence, if not friendship, seems possible.

As I write this, a group of students performs a song at the gate next to mine. They are traveling to Uzbekistan. Two of the girls wear head scarves; two wear short shorts. Their voices are high and delightfully and unabashedly off-key. I nearly cry for the innocence. Others around me, including (funny enough) the gorgeous woman with the happy brown baby, smile and clap for the students. We smile at one another.

Is it me or is there a possibility for connection in nearly everything? I leave for a new experience, excited by the possibilities this experience will yield. I am grateful for the newly awakened appreciation for what is possible. And what is front of me.



[My next posting will be from Baku!]

Leaving for Home

Tomorrow I leave for a 2-week trip (part business, part pleasure). I'm excited by the prospect of getting to Azerbaijan and delighted that I'll be getting back to Istanbul, which is one of my favorite cities in the entire world.

So right now I should be all packed and bubbling over with anticipation. But I'm not. Instead, I'm full of dread. I'm generally like this before a big trip.

My dogs, Diamond and Diego, will be going to their babysitter's house for the two weeks. They're leaving tonight. In fact, I'm waiting for Andrea (the babysitter) to appear any minute now.

Saying goodbye to my two bulldogs is incredibly difficult for me. I usually cry, especially when Diamond (the 6-year old) turns from Andrea and attempts to come back to the house, certain in the knowledge that her rightful spot is with me. She looks at me with those beautiful, soulful brown eyes and she seeks the reassurance: that I will be back, that I will not forget her, that I will not abandon her, that I will not replace her.

(For his part, Diego, the puppy, trots along happily, willing to go along with the program no matter what it is. He's the kid I always pretended to be, but never really was, not on the inside.)

With a lump in my throat as I write this tonight, I think about the idea of Home. What is home? Where is home?

For the first 18 years of my life, Home was West Hartford, Connecticut. Home was my parents and my sisters and our dog. We lived in the same house for the entire time; my parents never moved. We ate dinner in our dining room (my mother was very proud of that).

Then I went to college and, later, graduate school. And still West Hartford was home. Still that same house on King Philip Drive: white, with aluminum siding and black shutters. A red door.

Then my father got sick. Home was that same house but with some modifications. Now we had dialysis equipment in the guest bedroom and bags of peritoneal solution in the pink bathroom my sisters and I had shared growing up. There was a funny, sweet, sickly smell in certain parts of the house -- the odor of disease, that faint whiff of something medicinal and antiseptic.

My father died in December 1998. My mother remained in that same house. I had moved to London by then and, still, when I thought about "going Home" it was that house that I imagined. My father's ghost graced us, a funny spirit who was loved and remembered and missed. Always.

And then my mother started getting lost driving to a friend's house. She bought fava beans at the store when I'd asked her for a vanilla bean. She didn't always remember to shower. She bought food and shoved it -- literally, shoved it -- into the already crammed freezer. She stopped cooking and lived on prepared egg salad and tuna fish sandwiches. This was a woman who had once worked her way through a significant portion (the bread and poultry sections, anyway) of Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

I came and went, back and forth from London to West Hartford. And my house -- and all that it represented, all that it meant -- was still there. Yes, things had changed. Yes, it was different. But I would lie there in my twin bed in my yellow bedroom and I would feel anchored. Connected. I belonged to a story and that story started with Home.

Summer 2004. My mother is diagnosed with Alzheimer's. She's unable to draw a clock. She has no idea what decade we're in. She can't remember the name of the president. When reminded, however, she is quick to tell the gerontologist, "I hate Bush. He's an asshole." The doctor recommends assisted living.

My sisters were enthusiastic; I was less so. I thought we should look at nurses and aides and even 'round the clock care. "Mom's going to want to be in West Hartford," I argued. "This has been her Home for over 65 years." But in the end it just wasn't practical. None of us had settled anywhere near West Hartford and most of my mother's friends wanted nothing to do with her anymore. "She shows up early for bridge games and it's very annoying," we were told. She had become a nuisance. One friend "thoughtfully" suggested we try and get my mother a volunteer job shelving books at the library. Subtext for please get her out of my life; she's frightening me.

In October 2005, we moved my mother to an assisted living community here in New Hampshire. And I made the decision to return to the States and to move to New Hampshire, as well. I wanted to help my sister Betsy. I wanted to be here to bear witness to my mother's final journey. I say this but I'm not sure that's all there is to it. I think I also wanted to find Home again and I suspect I needed to step out of the life I was living in order to so.

So is New Hampshire now my home? I don't think so but I don't know.

I can't say that I love my life here. I work for myself and I'm alone nearly all day -- no meetings, no lunches, no drinks after work, nothing. I find it lonely. And I find it hard. I miss meeting people from all over the world. That doesn't happen all that often here. I find it boring and I miss theater and foreign films and public transit. I really do.

And yet.

Now that my mother has died and her journey is complete I could move back to New York. Or back to London. Or just about anyplace I want. And something stops me. I'm starting to believe that I'm not looking for a new address or a change of zip code. What I want -- and what I've wanted all along, ever since I lost West Hartford and lost my childhood to time -- is Home.

Now I know that when I left London, I left for Home.

I haven't found what it is I'm looking for yet. I don't think I will find it. No, what I think is that I will create it. I will build my Home, not find it. Building a Home is a metaphor for building a life and living it. Really living it.

I look down at Diamond and Diego and I know why it hurts so much to leave them. It hurts because they are part of the Home I am building -- the life I am making -- and I am going to miss them very, very much. I will come back full of enthusiasm for and stories about Azerbaijan and Turkey. Of course. And I will be thrilled that I had this opportunity.

When I land at Logan on 10 July, I can't say that I'll feel like I'm Home. No, I don't think I will feel that way. But, here's a starting point: when Andrea (the babysitter) brings the "kids" back later that day, the circle will feel more complete than it did without them. That is connection. And that is the starting point for the place I call Home.

148,920 Moments

Today was an ordinary day.

That's how I would characterize it. Not an especially memorable 16-hour stretch. Nothing wonderful happened, nothing awful happened. Just a laundry list of everyday normal activities. A momentary work crisis that got resolved. A potential new project that may or may not come through. A pedicure.

It strikes me, as I sit here at my dining room table, that the overwhelming percentage of the time spent on earth comprises ordinary days.

Let's say, for example, that I live to be 85 years old and that I die with my faculties intact. And let's say further that each day is approximately 16 hours long. I'm now 51. That means 34 more years x 16 hours = 198,560 hours of ordinary day-ness.

But let's go one step further and say, wait, some of those hours will be extraordinary: moments of extreme joy, moments of anguish, et cetera. So, let's make it easy and say, Right, 198,560 hours x 75% of the time = 148,920 hours of ordinary day-ness.

What an amazing thought.

That's a helluva lot of time, I'm thinking. And that's time that is spent doing every day, not especially memorable things. The kind of stuff I'm unlikely to look back on at the very end of my life and say, Wow, yes, I did that.

But what if I could learn to do that? What if I could learn to look at each day -- and each activity within the day -- as something special just for the sake of existing?

What I mean is this: What if I turn this whole thing around and say, Wow, my life comprises hundreds of thousands of hours of all kinds of moments and it is therefore complex and interesting and full?

What if I can get to that?

Better question: How can I get to that? How can I enjoy moments as they unfold and keep the unpleasant times in perspective, realizing they're temporary or they're normal or they're just a new reality that has to be dealt with?

I don't have the answer. What I have is the question. That seems like such a great place to start.

I'm committing to something tonight. At random points throughout the day, I'm going to stop and notice what I'm really doing. I'm going to acknowledge what that moment is about. It might be crappy (I'm paying a parking ticket); it might be fun (I'm singing along to "Company" while driving and I'm hitting all of Elaine Stritch's notes). No judgments. Just an acknowledgment.

An awareness. Being alive to some of those 148,920 moments I might very well have ahead of me.

So here's a start. I'm writing a blog. I'm writing. I love writing. I am making time in my life right now to write. I'm telling my truth. This is one of my moments.

180 Degrees

Someone I know died this morning in a freak accident: she had a gas leak and her house exploded. I don't know this woman well. I know her daughter and her future son-in-law, but only slightly. I won't be rushing to her daughter's house to comfort or to do any of the things we do when someone dies, because I wasn't that close.

I am a mourner from a distance.

My heart breaks for this woman's daughter. The what if's, the if only's, the hundreds of thousands of times she will play and replay the scenarios, looking for clues, looking for answers. In my case, it was easier. My mother was 83 years old and had suffered from Alzheimer's for six years. So I didn't need to spend time thinking about what might have been had some key element to the story been different.

This death was senseless and cruel. Tragic. I don't know how her daughter will ever come to accept what has happened to her mother. How long will it be before she forgets the explosion for five minutes? For ten minutes? Until she's able to watch a football game? Go shopping for a dress? Go away for a weekend with her husband? Get through a week without thinking about this every second of every minute of every hour of every day?

No, no sense can be made of this.

A couple of hours after I heard about the explosion, I received news of another sort. A close friend called to say that a difficult relationship in his life is starting to get a little easier and his faith in the human spirit -- and in friendship -- is being restored. He sounded happier than I've heard him in a while.

I am struck by the two extremes that presented themselves to me in the course of a very typical, very average morning: grief and agony, joy and faith. These are the twin towers of our lives, very often standing at some level of distance from every day life; speaking for myself, I live mostly in the in-between bit -- that stretch of relative okay-ness that is neither pain and suffering nor delight and wonder. I go to the dry cleaner and I have a pleasant chat. I buy arctic char because they've run out of swordfish. I chat with my neighbor about lawn maintenance. And this is all good. Oh yes, very good.

Life turns on a dime. It's that old line: Stop in for a jelly donut and end up living in a foreign country. We make plans (and God laughs). We think ahead.

And then something stops us in our tracks. It can be grief, it can be joy. It stops us and makes us live in that moment, right in the here and now. I am reminded of this so often lately that I wonder if someone in the universe is trying to tell me something.

And the answer to that query is: Yes. Someone is trying to tell me something. And that someone is me. I am telling myself to pay attention. To look up. To be.

In this moment, I am devastated for this poor woman and her family. And I am happy for my dear friend and his peace. Feeling both ends of the spectrum and believing I am more alive in the moment for allowing myself to do so.

A smart therapist of mine from New York once told me that I lived my life in that very safe range of roughly 60 to 75 degrees on a 180-degree line. She said I would be more fulfilled -- but less safe -- if I broadened my experience to reach as far to the right and as far to the left as possible on the spectrum of full emotional experience.

Today, I am feeling 180 degrees in all its wonder, complexity and difficulty.

Turn Here

Today's blog is dedicated to my friend Joan, with a huge thank you for giving me great, great insight.

Over lite frappucinos at Starbucks in Peabody, MA, we caught up with each others' lives and shared confidences.

"Sometimes," I said, "I look at peoples' Facebook pages and think, Jesus, I am a big failure. Because I read the postings and all their information about their jobs and what they've accomplished, and I just can't believe how little I'm accomplishing."

And Joan said something very, very smart. She said:

"Amy, EVERYONE feels like a failure. That's how it works."

She went on to explain that the I'm-A-Facebook-Failure Syndrome is a close relation to the How-Come-I-Don't-Have-A-Perfect-Life-Like-Hers and the I-Wish-I-Were-Part-Of-That-Perfect-Family mythology. No one's life is perfect. Scratch the buffed veneer and lots of tough stuff lurks: troubled children, drug addictions, eating disorders, shitty marriages, financial woes. Perfect families? No such thing. Turns out Mom's an alcoholic, Dad's having an affair and Grandpa is in a Federal witness protection program.

I know this stuff. Intellectually, that is. But knowing something intellectually and believing it emotionally are two different things.

At the emotional level -- the one that kicks into high gear 'round about midnight or later -- I've been wondering how I missed the turn. You know the one. The turn that leads to Fulfillment Land. The turn that would have directed me to that satisfying and challenging career. The turn that would have put me directly in the path of that endlessly fascinating partner. The turn that would have led to children and the summer house on the Vineyard and legs the length of Carly Simon's. Yes, THAT turn.

The comparison between that fantasy life -- the one I would have if I'd only seen the sign practically screaming TURN HERE -- and my current situation makes me feel like a failure. And I get on Facebook and think sometimes, Wow, all of these people managed to make that turn. I am a turn-missing fuck up.

But Joan, a definite smart cookie if ever there were one, tells me that everyone feels like this. And suddenly it's like having a headache lift -- there's that magical moment when the pain behind the eyes disappears and you're finally free.

"And you have so many friends," Joan adds. She says she has been really struck by how many people I interact with regularly on Facebook. "People from all over the world!"

A second gift from my generous friend. A moment of recognition (which, when you stop and think about it, is re-cognition -- re-realization) when I think, Hey, that feels good: I connect.

I'm adrift at the moment. I've lost my mother, I'm living in New Hampshire, I work for myself and by myself and there's risk and loneliness (and reward, too, of course) in that choice. I'm searching for some sort of place to start. Like when I was designing my kitchen and I knew from the minute I saw it that I would create the whole thing around that stove, that beautiful, beautiful stove (GE Cafe Series in stainless).

In this new life that I am molding, my starting point can be my ability and my willingness to connect. That's a real realization. Thank you, Joan.

Sepharad

Last January, I started studying Spanish. I took two 7-day, total immersion classes at the University of Miami, and made great strides. Then I stopped the week my mother's health took a turn for the worse. Tonight, for the first time in six weeks, I mustered the energy and the focus to return to Spanish. I had a one hour lesson this evening.

Learning a new language is like being issued a passport to a new identity. When I learned to speak Italian, I became Amy Selvino. I rolled my rrrrrrr's and I gesticulated wildly, and I channeled the inner Monica Bellucci.

When I learned to speak French, I felt like Deneuve and I started wearing my hair in a chignon. I listened to Edith Piaf. I cried when France won the World Cup and the band struck up the Marseillaise.

And now it's Spanish.

There's a family link here that I should explain. My father's parents fled Russia in the early days of the century, approximately 1911. They were Ashkenazi Jews -- typical Eastern Europeans arriving by the boatloads at Ellis Island and probably smelling of pot roast. Or worse.

My mother's family, on the other hand, hailed from Spain -- part of the Jewish community ushered out of the Sepharad in 1492. A big year for Columbus; a bad year for Spain's Jews. My mother's aunt was a world-famous flamenco dancer by the name of Estrellita (real name Stella Paul), whose photo hangs in an arts museum in San Francisco and who had a very public affair with the writer Jack London.

(Incidentally, this is small potatoes compared to my mother's grandfather, blackface comedian and Ziegfeld Follie Frank Tinney, who pulled down $1,500 per week back in 1912 and was kicked out of the Follies when he bit the nipple off of some chorus girl he was shtupping.)

So, back to Spanish. As I explained to my very patient and kind teacher, the lovely Julio from Argentina, I have managed to forget nearly all of the verb conjugations. Except, interestingly enough, the present tense. Talk about a sure-fire way to remain in the moment. If the only tense you know is the present, then the only thing you can talk about is what is happening right now.

At the end of our hour, I was remembering more and the words were coming more fluidly. It will happen. I will speak Spanish. I long for the day when I can sing along with a Marc Anthony CD and converse -- at least in my fantasies -- with Javier Bardem in his mother tongue.

But there's a serious point to all of this. Not just that I managed to stay in the moment for an entire hour, bound by my limited grammar and vocabulary. No, beyond all that, there was a tremendous feeling of connection. Finding those dots that connect and form a line -- literally, a life line. From a people, from a country and a culture, to my mother, to me and to our story.

There's something incredibly magical -- and comforting and reassuring and wondrous -- in knowing that I am part of a story. A dot on a line, yes, but a dot on a line that is continuous. Like there is a plan and I'm part of it. I'm meant to be here.

The story continues. And note that it is in the present tense.

Why "Say Yes To The Dress" Makes Me Cry

I love the TV program "Say Yes To The Dress". It's my guilty pleasure. Watching women of all ages choose their weddings gown is more than just fun. It's heartwarming and a bit embarrassing. It's sometimes downright maddening. And it's always touching.

There's a bride whose groom is deployed in Iraq. There's a bride with Stage IV breast cancer. There's a bride who's marrying a woman. There's a bride who's marrying for the first time at age fifty-three. There's a bride who's a total bitch and a control freak (and her fiance ends up dumping her before the wedding).

Lately, these stories make me cry.

Because nearly all of the brides shop for their dresses with their mothers. And in almost every case it's a time for some major bonding. The mother sees the daughter in the dress and that's it -- the two of them are sobbing and hugging and it's everything you ever dreamed it would be. A passing of the torch.

When I was thirty, I got engaged. (I later called it off.) My mother and I went shopping for a dress. She tried to steer me toward something simple. "An A-line will suit your figure," my mother said. What she meant was, "An A-line will fit you." She always thought I was fat.

I don't remember any of the dresses I tried on. I don't remember what I chose. I ordered something, I know that. It's amazing to realize this -- and even more amazing to write it where others might see it -- but I don't remember one thing about the experience at all. But I do remember what did NOT happen: my mother did NOT cry, my mother did NOT hug me, my mother did NOT tell me I'd make a beautiful bride.

It wasn't that kind of an experience for us. For me.

I've been thinking about this now that my mother is gone. I've concluded that the grieving process is as much about yearning as it is about missing.

While she was alive, I yearned to know that my mother thought I was beautiful and a wonderful daughter and everything she'd ever wanted and more. I yearned for her to throw her arms around me and hug me, telling me she loved me this much (arms open wide) today and that much (arms open wider) tomorrow. That was never going to happen. But for as long as my mother was alive, that possibility existed.

And so when I sit in my living room and cry through episodes of "Say Yes", I know what those tears are about. They're about those moments my mother and I never had and were never going to have. For the boundaries that framed our relationship. For the yearning that remains even when the missing begins. For the love I feel despite the disappointments.

Accepting that and still loving...that is something remarkable.

Defending my life

My friend Susan is a psychic and an intuitive counselor. So when she recommended that I watch that old Albert Brooks/Meryl Streep film, Defending Your Life, I figured that she knew I'd like it...

I may even have seen the film 20 years ago or so when it first came out. I can't remember. Albert Brooks plays Daniel Miller, an ad exec living in L.A., who crashes his brand new BMW convertible into an oncoming bus and dies. He is sent to Judgment City -- the comfort stop between heaven and a one-way ticket back to earth to try and get it right another time around. There, in Judgment City, the newly dead are asked to defend their lives during the day and are free to socialize and dine in the evenings. In Judgment City, Daniel meets Julia, played to perfection, of course, by the luminous Meryl Streep.

Daniel, as it turns out, is not as evolved as Julia, and the judges decide to send him back for another shot at life on earth. Daniel isn't sent back because he's a bad person or a failure. No, he gives to charities and he earns a good living and he does lots of things right. Daniel is sent back because he lives in fear. The motivating force in his life is Fear. Fear of what people will think, fear of what people will say, fear of making a fool of himself, fear of being laughed at.

(This being Hollywood, Daniel overcomes his fear in the final three minutes and is happily reunited with the heaven-bound Meryl Streep. Roll credits.)

Lately, I've grown afraid of dying. I think that given the circumstances that's probably pretty understandable. And it's a fear I'll work on in time. But here's another fear: an old fear and a fear that is limiting and will stop me in my tracks if I try to live in this moment. Fear of going broke. Fear of not being able to afford. Fear of being a spendthrift. Frivolous. Out of control. I grew up with my father's fear of poverty. I internalized that fear and made it my own.

I don't want to get to Judgment City and discover that because I was always so concerned about financial security I missed the point. So I've decided to commit to something as a first step of pushing past this unfounded but disproportionately sabotaging fear: I am going to stop talking about money. Period. Punto y aparte. I am setting a goal of making myself go one entire month without so much as a peep about how much something costs. That goes for the internal dialogue, as well.

This ought to clear out a lot of fear and also a lot of fear-based thinking. Lots more room, lots more energy for something else. We fill the spaces we're not using. I'll pay attention to what I make room for. Maybe it will be some grief and some sadness; maybe some memories that hurt a little bit but feel good, too. Maybe some fun. Maybe a new hobby. Maybe time for blogging. Maybe a friendship. Maybe a connection.

Maybe seems so much more promising to me than fear. There is possibility in Maybe. That feels right. Should make it so much easier to defend my life and defend my choices when the time comes...

Breath(e)

This is the first day of my blog.

I'm calling it The Older Orphan because that's who I am. My mother died on 3 May, 2010, just five weeks ago, and my father died in December 1998. I'm 51 years old. And now I'm an orphan.

Orphan. That word always felt so Dickensian: a small, grimy-nosed boy in a torn and tattered waistcoat pleading for another ladle of watery gruel. But now it describes me and hundreds of thousands -- millions? -- of people just like me. We're losing our parents and we're standing alone, no one watching our every move, no one cheering or criticizing or laughing or wincing at our foibles and our achievements.

My mother had Alzheimer's. So it's probably accurate to say that I actually lost her a number of years ago. I thought I'd feel a huge surge of relief as soon as she died. And I did. Of course. Who would want anyone to suffer those indignities, year after year? So, yes, I am relieved. And I am also incredibly sad. I thought the relief would outweigh the grief. Not the case. The grief is the more powerful of the two emotions.

What I grieve is my loss. What I grieve is the passing of time. It -- life -- is whizzing by, sometimes unnoticed and rarely feeling like it's being squeezed for every drop it's worth. I spend a lot of time thinking about the past. I spend too much time fantasizing about the future: the relationship I'll finally have, the retirement I'll be able to afford, the jeans I'll finally squeeze back into. The present is sacrificed to rewriting history or scripting what's next.

I am determined to change.

The weekend before my mother died, I watched her as she breathed. She was being administered morphine and Atavan; she was alive but no longer reachable. I imagined my mother hovering somewhere between this world and the next. I watched that breath. It was shallow. Just one breath, then another. Then a pause. And then another breath. And as long as that breath came, my mother was alive. Life is in that single breath. We don't know if another is coming. But in that moment, there is breath and so there is life.

It was such a humbling realization because I'd never before allowed myself to distill it -- life -- down to such small proportions. Before that weekend of my mother's death, life was big and complicated, with plans and chaos and concessions and priorities. And then suddenly it became clear. That the only thing we can really experience is the single moment of time in which we are living. Right now. Breathe.

Making my life smaller but more intense. That's what I'm thinking about.

I have no idea what I'm going to write about. But I've told myself that I am going to write every day and I'm going to tell the truth, no matter how trivial or mundane or embarrassing.

My goal is to make this blog an authentic ride through my life. Maybe, if my fantasies come true, fellow orphans will speak out and share their stories and talk about how hard it is to finally stand on your own two feet and do the hard work of being in your life. Maybe other people from our generation will join the conversation and say, Shit, I'm really scared that my mother or my father is going to die. Or, Shit, I'm really scared that I'M going to die.

And then we come together and remind ourselves to live it in this one moment. And breathe.