Ashes to Ashes

In two hours I climb in my car alone and head up to Big Sur to say my final good-bye to Natalie. There will be 11 of us gathered at the creek at Esalen to sprinkle her ashes. I know most of them only marginally, through Natalie. This will not be a reunion of the people of our youth. It will not, as Jonathan pointed out, be a Big Chill moment.

So I am going to look at this as my moving meditation to someone I love. And I am going to make my car into a traveling shrine to everything I can think of that made Natalie happy. I am going to pack my bags and music, and plan my itinerary, as if I were going to meet here there, because I think that would make her happy. I will be a one-woman caravan of love for Natalie. So this is what I am packing. I am driving the little red mini--which she loved, even if she only drove in it once. I am bringing great music that she loved, Bruce Springsteen, the Indigo Girls, a live Lillith Fair recording with The Water is Wide, Pete Seeger, U2, and all the amazing CDs she made for me over the years. They will be my soundtrack. I am wearing a necklace I made out of a fossilized sand dollar that I found with Natalie at the spit at Stinson, on a perfect day we spent together. I'm also wearing a seashell necklace made out of a heart from Stinson. I am bringing the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, that she had me read to her from in her last two days. I want to understand more purely what she believed. I am going to bring my book of Rumi poems, because they gave her great comfort. I am bringing pastels to draw, and a notebook to journal in. She liked doodling and making art. I am wearing a shirt with a big peace sign, and bringing my Bo 4 Bo '08 T-shirt from our favorite T-shirt guy in Bolinas, Buzz. She would have owned one of these if she knew they existed. And she would have demanded that everyone she met on this trip either vote for Obama, or explain why they wouldn't. I am bringing an old Patagonia sweatshirt that is falling apart because the last time I wore it she said, "I like when you wear clothes I have known you in forever." I will drive to Julia Pfeiffer (if it hasn't been burned to the ground) and hike where she showed me, and I will visit the Henry Miller Memorial Library. I will eat pancakes at Deetjens, because we did that and it always felt magical and perfect and happy.

I will walk the beach alone with her tonight in Cambria, and think what she would want me to say about her. I will jump in the water and look for otters. She loved them.

I will drink red wine and eat a big meaty dinner tonight. She would have approved. We were big strong women who loved to eat. And tomorrow I will stand by that creek and let my emotions wash over me. I will celebrate her life in every way I can, and I will cry from missing her. Nat, if you want to speak to me, I am open to you now. Talk to me on the way up the coast, OK? I am listening...

Heading North

On Saturday I head up to Big Sur, where we will sprinkle Natalie's ashes in the creek at Esalen. We are a small group, and we have received special permission to troop onto these sacred grounds in the middle of the day to spend some time thinking and praying for her in one of her favorite places on earth.
I am nervous.
I am nervous about what is going to come out of me as I drive up that winding, rugged coast on my own, and watch the ashes of my friend flow down the river. We spent so much time together there--soaking naked in hot tubs, dancing ecstatically in the halls, making art, walking through the sunflowers, raving on the cliff. I loved the crazy California she introduced me to, there. She always said she went to Big Sur on a family trip when she was 12 years old and spent the rest of her life trying to get back there--not quite certain where it was.
Her father--who felt uncomfortable with her life and her later friends, and will not attend her memorial later this month--will be there. So will her sister and Chris Price, the guru's wife, who spreads calm and beauty and enlightenment to all who lock eyes with her. I have fallen under the spell.
I will drive up the coast on Saturday and spend the night alone in some sad sack motel, thinking too much about her. I will get up early, hike the hills of Big Sur, eat a huge happy breakfast at Deetjens, skim some books at the Henry Miller library, and tap into the energy that made Natalie love the place. Then I will go and sing and tell stories about her, as she drifts down the creek and into the sea.

The Power of Charts

When it comes to my boys, I have found that few things change behavior as effectively, and as fast, as a chart with stickers, and a reward at the end. I know it, and yet each time the power of this exercise astonishes me. Sometimes I agonize--I think, should all behavior be rewarded with some object or experience? Shouldn't some behavior just be expected? And yet, time after time, the lure of the reward gets the boys over the hump into a new habit. Right now we are using a chart to keep Benji in his own bed all night. Sometimes when he goes to bed, as I kiss him good night, he says he doesn't want to do it anymore, he doesn't want the reward--getting to watch Diego one time, or getting to watch Bob the Builder. But at night, when he is groggy with sleep, all I have to say is, "Go back to your room or you won't get a sticker..." and he goes. The other night I heard he and Theo negotiating in the hall. Theo said, "Don't go in there (our room) or you won't get a sticker," and Benji backtracked, and went to bed with Theo instead.
So two weeks ago at a party, another mother who I love, said she no longer uses charts just for the kids. In their family they use charts for everyone. Everyone has goals, columns, and rewards. She said she gets a star if she exercises, cooks a meal from a cookbook (something off the cuff doesn't count.) She also gives herself one for reading a book. In the end she and her husband give each other rewards for their efforts. Some of them are very private. But they make her giggle.
So I started thinking about myself. What do I need on a chart to make me work a little every day. And what reward would make me stick to my plan and form a habit. I want to exercise and cook and read books--but I already do. I love to exercise and I love to cook and I can't stop reading books. Cleaning bores me, and I don't care so much-though I know that would make Jonathan happy (maybe he could put that on my chart). I decided I need a chart to make sure I work a little bit on my book EVERY day. Every day I do something on my book I get a star. The days have to be consecutive. If I break the pattern I have to start over. It doesn't have to be big, but it has to be real. It has to be some writing, or editing, or transcribing, or talking to agents. As for my reward, I will ponder it. A day of surfing? A double feature at the movies by myself? A day of hiking in Santa Barbara with Jonathan? A new dress? A new album? I need to decide before I start so that every time I waver--just like Benji in the middle of the night--I can remind myself that at the end something really good is waiting for me! In the meantime I hope I can form a habit that will stick. Just like my boys.

Comments from Day One

Theo's quote from his first day of kindergarten:

"There wasn't a lot of playing."

First Day of School at Larchmont Charter West

Today we took Theo to his first day of kindergarten. I swore I wouldn't get emotional. I think he has been ready to go to school for a year. But as we drove him to school, and I walked him past the principal, upstairs, watched him put his tote bag in his new cubby, and walk in and pick his name out of the pile and put it in the "present" column, then walk off to his little table by himself my eyes welled up with tears. I am proud of him, that he is so ready, and he is jumping in. And I am proud of us, that in nine months we did the impossible: we started a new school! It is filled with an amazing principal, an amazing vision, a kick-ass kindergarten teacher, children of every nationality and social class (his table: Theo, Omeed, Ondine and Sasha) and the most super-mod mini furniture I have ever seen. It is a new era.

My Body, Myself

I am 41 years old. I have the body of an athlete. I am strong, so strong. I am strong like a man and I can walk and run and swim forever. My head has often been weak. My mother told me when I was young, in a moment of despair, that I am all nerves, that I lack a skin, because everything affects me, good and bad. She told me life would be hard for me. That I would have to grow a skin, or I quite simply, would not survive. I have, sort of. I have taken jobs that force me to be stronger, tougher, and more resilient, but value my emotions and empathy as well. Journalism is perfect. And I have been blessed with friends who love my passions, and my emotions. But whatever my mind did, whenever it freaked out or looped, or grew anxious or sad or euphoric, my body always, always came through. It was my steady, reliable, never-failing thing.
And I have pushed it so hard.
And now, at 41, I wonder if it is breaking down. I had an abnormal pap smear--that will probably turn out to be fine, and a breast mammogram and ultrasound that were slightly abnormal, and need follow up. Doctors assure me the chances of anything being wrong are slight, but the tests go on and on and on. And in the end, I will probably not get full clearance--just an admonition to keep an eye on it.
My grandmother on my father's side, who I am most like, died at 54.
I don't want to die.
And I don't want to spend all my new found free time in doctor's offices.
Natalie's death has left me haunted, and scared.
I have had so much. If I did die now I would have been one of the luckiest people.
But I feel like I still have so much left to do.
I guess everyone does.
I guess my mind and body have to switch roles now. Just as my body came through before, as I drove it and drove it and lived on adrenaline for years at a time, now my mind will have to be tough.
I need to train it and calm it and not spread my anxiety to my boys and my husband.
I need to contain my fears because all of society is trained to play on those fears and it could ruin your life.
I need to be grateful for what I have, and fight for the rest.
I can do it.
But it is going to be hard.

Summer's End

It's Labor Day Eve and all weekend I have felt overwhelmingly sad. It is the bittersweetness of knowing that a perfect summer is over. I love summer. And not working has made summer as sweet as childhood. I love corn and watermelon and peaches and sangria. I love hot dogs and hamburgers and fresh blackberries and zucchini. I love going to the beach, I love boogie boarding. I love sunsets and cook outs and drinking wine on a warm summer evening with friends. I love watching children run around outside together at dusk--children who have just met but are best friends by the end of the evening. I love being sandy, showering, and then eating dinner clean and slightly sunburned and so happy. This summer I have loved watching Benji collect feathers on the beach, and create feather labyrinths in the sand. I have loved watching him leap off the edge of the pool and swim to me underwater. I have loved having him boogie board on my back in big waves and scream like he is on the roller coaster of his life and beg and beg for one more ride! I have loved watching Theo learn to boogie board like a master--even if he terrifies half the parents on the beach with his fearlessness. But he holds on and bounces out of the waves like a pro. I have loved watching Theo learn to swim and dive and play chess. I have loved collecting sea shells and rocks until our pockets are so full our pants are falling down. I have loved lazy evenings with Lorenza, sitting under twinkling lights in the backyard and listening to emotional girly music our husbands would never tolerate--pouring our souls out to each other as you only can to friends you have known for a long long time. I loved seeing Diana Ross with Alana and Gina, sitting so close we could practically touch Diana's sparkles. I loved my Wellesley reunion, sleeping with my husband in a narrow dorm bed. I loved skinny dipping in Lake Waban by moonlight and listening to the Tupelos in the Claflin living room. I loved hearing my boys sing the Wellesley reunion songs--uninhibited and proud. I loved tunneling beneath the campus with the former swim team members, and emerging in the greenhouse across campus. I loved our time in the Hamptons--my perfect bike ride out to the beach with Jonathan at sunset. We saw deer and abandoned houses and magical pink and lavendar and blue light. I loved camping in Coronado in Judy and John's backyard and showering by moonlight in the backyard. I loved the LIttle Ranch and floating down the river. I loved going to City Lights and reading Isabel Allende in Marin County. I loved being outside, being strong, being covered with salt and sun and sea. I lost a best friend. But even that came in a deep, beautiful, life-changing and life affirming way. She gave me a gift and I had the time to accept it and be with her and witness the miracle of death. And now summer is over. Tonight. Jonathan says he is not sad because it is always summer in California. And in a way he is right. September and October are the best months of the year in Southern California. But it's not the weather, or even the shortening days...Margie says I am sad because even though we celebrate New Year's in January, the new year really begins with school. And it is true. It is an exciting new stage. We have so much to look forward to. Theo will be in his new school, a kindergartener at last. Benji will be at Canyon all morning long, and is ready to take classes on his own. I will have time of my own again, to write, and move forward on my book. It is all good. They are the signs of lives moving forward, growing, getting better. I am excited. And yet...I am sad. I am sad with the sadness that comes with knowing something perfect has ended.