Solstice—Dark Unto Light

Solstice—Dark Unto Light

As we move toward the darkest day of the year—the Winter Solstice—I’m mindful of the light to follow. I think that might be the theme of my life, at least over the past few years.

It’s been almost seven years since my life fell apart—lost my mother, my marriage, our house, the writers conference. It seems a millennium ago. And yet, the lessons are so present with me today. That loss and grief give way, eventually, to light and hope. That trusting in yourself and the goodness of others will always turn out right in the end. That friends and family are treasures beyond reckoning. I am surrounded by light and love.

The last time I wrote on this blog was almost a year and a half ago. So much has happened since.

As some of you know, I decided in June 2014 to move to Santa Fe. After almost 30 years in Santa Barbara, I sought a new life in a new place that called to me. I love Santa Fe. Love the warmth of the people, the arts community, the architecture, the mountains, the snow, the extraordinary light. So I started to make plans and to pack, with a target date for moving of mid-September.

I found an adorable short-term rental with a woman artist named Bonnie Coe and made arrangements to stay through November, just to make sure I wanted to put down roots there. I planned to put everything I owned into a storage container and pack my belongings and Chevella, my dog, into the car for the trip across the country. Then….

In late July, I went to a benefit concert for Youth Interactive featuring Michael McDonald (LOVE the Doobie Brothers), and there, at the end of the concert, I met a man. He invited me to dinner that night, at the Lark around the corner. We had a lovely time, and, of course, I mentioned I was moving to Santa Fe in a month or so. He gave me his business card, and I sent him a nice thank-you email that night. I didn’t hear from him. Odd, I thought. So I texted him several days later just to make sure he’d received my thank you. He called that night and we talked for twenty minutes or so, and then hung up. And I didn’t hear from him again. My sister said, “Well, of course not; you told him you’re moving to Santa Fe.”

One evening a couple of weeks later I had a couple of glasses of wine and decided to text him (this is not advised, by the way). I wrote: “Hey, I haven’t heard from you, and I’m guessing it’s because I told you I was moving. That’s okay if it is; just tell me.” And when I didn’t hear back that night, I tore his business card into six pieces and threw it away.

The next morning he texted me and said, No, it wasn’t that. He’d just been really, really busy (his office was in Pasadena) and he hadn’t had a moment to call. Could he call the next afternoon? And what time?

I texted him back and said, yes, after 2 the next day. I fished his business card pieces out of the trash and taped them back together.

And then…he didn’t call.

I decided that was that. Went on with my life, packing, planning the move, saying goodbye to friends.

On Labor Day, he emailed. Some lame excuse about dropping his phone in the ocean and losing his contacts and he’d finally found my first email and if I was still even willing to talk with him could he call me?

Honestly, I had to think about it. He’d already failed on two occasions. Yet…something made me say yes.

He did, and we went out that night and talked in a sweet little restaurant for five hours. A week later he brought me roses and took me to the El Encanto for dinner, and we walked on the beach.

I left for Santa Fe six days later.

But, you know what? He came to visit me two weeks later. Then I visited him in California three weeks after that, and we went back and forth two more times before he asked me to come home for Christmas. And why didn’t I plan to spend a couple of weeks here?

I did, and we’ve been together ever since.

We’ve gone back to Santa Fe to visit, and in September and October we went to London and Ireland for three weeks. My life is gloriously wild and madly uproarious. Back and forth between Pasadena and Santa Barbara for almost a year, he’s finally moving up here full time in January. He makes me laugh every day, and it feels like we’ve just met yet been together forever.

So much change, so much transition, so much newness and joy. I think back on past years and all the heartache, and I am thankful for all of it, and for all the light that has come to be. This new life, this wonderful man, this exhilarating love. His name is Rob.

May this season of hope and new light bring you peace and joy. And may gratitude be the guiding force in your heart and life, as it is in mine.

A Birthday Present

Yesterday was my birthday. Well, it was and it wasn’t. My actual birthday is Christmas Eve, but about seven years ago I decided to celebrate it on July 14 instead. It has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Some people assume it’s just because it is close to Christmas, and that is partially true. When I was a kid, I never had a birthday party outside of just family members partly because of that, and once I was in my early 20s, people started giving me combined birthday and Christmas presents. That never felt good.

But for me, the reasons go much deeper. My Christmas Eve birthday is inextricably linked to my childhood, and very painful memories of innumerable hospitalizations and surgeries. I had no friends before junior high, primarily because the disfiguring scars on my face caused kids to shun me. Abusive Catholic school experiences made going to church difficult, and since we always went to church on Christmas Eve, those memories are equally woven into my Christmastime birthday. It got to be that I could hardly go to Mass without sobbing.

So, I created a new birthday celebration day, one that recognizes who I am today, rather than the sad and lonely disfigured child I was. I have not been that little girl in years, but I carried her around with me until my fifth decade. With lots of counseling – and writing – I was able to let that little girl go, and begin to see myself for the woman I am today – vibrant, happy, inspired, loving, loved.

Friends sometimes tease me about having a “half” birthday or claiming two birthdays a year. And one or two still insist on remembering my Christmas Eve birthday. I love them and appreciate the intent, but I sometimes wish they wouldn’t; it is emotionally painful.

Many of us carry within us what Jung called the “wounded child,” that part of us that was somehow injured in childhood and never recovered from it. It can be emotional or physical, or in my case, both. Often we don’t even know that child is influencing our lives, in ways that oftentimes are destructive.

When my life started to fall apart I was fifty years old, and I couldn’t understand why things weren’t working the way I wanted them to. My marriage was crumbling, my relationship with my mother was puzzling and distant, and I couldn’t seem to make the one professional thing I loved – the Santa Barbara Writers Conference – successful financially. That led to one bad decision after another, until finally, I was forced into bankruptcy. I was despondent, desperate, nearly suicidal.

And yet, through the grace of good therapy and lots of prayer, I began to understand. I started to see how the lessons I learned just to survive had caused me to make choices that ultimately harmed me. I have written about this in my memoir, Face, which was as much a part of the healing as the excellent counseling I received over nearly eight years.

Changing the celebration of my birth allowed me to become the person I am today, without all the woundedness of my childhood. So, thank you, all who have embraced my new life with me. Friends have invited me to lunch and dinner almost every day this week and into next. I cannot express how much you mean to me. You have all literally saved my life, and I am grateful.

Let’s celebrate!

Standing in Gratitude

"Celebrate all that is good and blessed about your life, realizing that gratitude is a powerful remedy." - Caroline Myss

Shoreline Park, Santa Barbara

I was privileged over the weekend to be included in a workshop called The Daring Way, based on the work of Dr. Brene Brown. Brown has written a number of books, among them Daring Greatly, The Gifts of Imperfection, and The Power of Vulnerability. She also has given two very powerful TED talks on shame and vulnerability, which prompted me to think deeply about how those two emotional states affect my life.

The workshop was facilitated by Kathryn Downing and her husband, Gerry Flake, who spent several years working with Brown to become certified to teach the course. It was an amazing experience, and I will reflect more in this space on the things I learned in coming weeks and months. The primary take-away for me was that we can choose to live authentically and be vulnerable. The more you can show up and be vulnerable, the less shame you'll feel and the more authentic your life will become. It's a way of living wholeheartedly, and that's what I intend to do.

So, I'm grateful for the time I got to spend with Kathryn and Gerry and the nine others who participated. I'm grateful, too, for my life, and for all of you who are so important to me. (And you know who you are.)

If there's anything I have learned over the past few years, it is that we get to choose what our lives will look like. We can create the life we want. And in the creating we find love, hope, peace, and abundance in all things.

May this day find you in a state of joy and gratitude - for your life, and all the people in it.

A Dog's Life

My dog, Chevella, on the beach near Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara. She blasted down the beach to where hundreds of birds were settled on the sand. The birds rose as one, swarmed her and circled around, cawing and crying. She was beside herself, jumping and racing into the waves. It's a dog's life.

Images from Ghost Ranch - AROHO 2011

I've been meaning to post some of these photos from our extraordinary week at A Room of Her Own Foundation's biannual retreat at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico in early August. The stunning landscape only enhanced the wonderful friendships and connections that were made between the talented women who attended. Hope you enjoy these!

Late afternoon sky at Ghost Ranch

Marianela Medrano-Marra

Aine Greaney and Barbara Rockman

Pedernales - Georgia O'Keefe's favorite mountain

Our final night together; 90 women strong

Red rock at sunset

Breena Clarke, Marianela and Esther Cohen

Afternoon moon over Ghost Ranch

Life, Death and Celebrations

My birthday was Thursday. Some people think birthdays are overrated, but not me. I think birthdays should be huge celebrations, probably because for most of my life my birthday got subsumed by the biggest holiday of the year. So several years ago I changed my birth celebration date to July 14, and it’s one of the better decisions I’ve made. Even so, Thursday’s occasion turned out to be more than I expected, a celebration of both life and death.

You see, a friend of mine’s husband died suddenly and unexpectedly last Sunday, and his service was held Thursday afternoon. So I spent the better part of the afternoon mourning a life cut short, but also celebrating an extraordinary man, and realizing that while we mourn, we also acknowledge life.

I did not know Roy Mankovitz well. His wife, Kathleen Barry, is an extraordinary person in her own right, and we have become acquainted through a women’s association. At his graveside service, I learned this man was a rocket scientist (really!), an inventor, an author, a genius. Also, a husband, father and grandfather of the first order. As his children spoke about what he had meant to them and their lives, I found myself feeling as if I had been cheated because I did not get to experience the man they described.

The graveside service, given in the Jewish tradition, drew many friends and family members. As I stood and listened to the cantor chant, and looked out over the cemetery’s green expanse through the trees to the ocean, I was struck by how uplifting it is to be surrounded by people who mourn. As the rabbi said, it is in our memories that those who die still live. In Roy’s case, he will live on for a very long time.

In celebrating Roy’s life, and in mourning his death, we affirm life – and our own lives in particular. As I left the cemetery, I felt such gratitude for this moment of clarification – and deep sadness – on the day I choose to celebrate my own life, my birth day.

Both of my parents have died, and there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of them and wish I could touch them, give each a warm hug. I miss my dad, who always made me feel as if I were the only person in the world who mattered, who offered advice when asked and whose unconditional love created a cocoon that helped me get through some very difficult times in my childhood. I miss my mother, whose emotional distance I am still trying to understand. That sorrow is complicated by hurt and regret. But I still miss her every day.

My friend Kathleen is gifted with many friends and a close and loving family, and all will help her move through her grief in the weeks and months to come, in her own time and pace. This giving to each other, this helping when help is needed, is another way we celebrate life. In the end, any observance of death is a celebration of life. It was one of the most powerful and uplifting birthdays I have ever experienced.