Gratitude is what we can feel when we are able to slow down enough to really pay attention to what surrounds us – and, it’s a very powerful force – therapy, if you will – for whatever ails the minds and soul. Just recently, I had the pleasure – no, the honor- to substitute in a kindergarten class in a local school. There is nothing that quite compares with the uplifting feeling you get when you get to spend time with five and six year olds.

 

It’s all so very magically simple, going back to the basics – a truly mindful, meditative, and Zen like experience. From listening to the melodious, youthful sound of their voices singing the songs commemorating the alphabet, the days of the week, the months of the year, and the numbers, 1 to 100, to counting the straws marking the days spent to date in school – bundles of 10 and 1 – your basic math, to guiding them through a dot-to-dot and coloring of a Chinese New Year Dragon – (and getting to do this myself,) to complimenting any and all efforts, or kindly suggesting that they “color in the white parts,” no matter the inattentiveness to staying inside the lines, and the look of pride when they completed the work, and plopped it into the basket, ready for a free time of puzzles, or an ipad reviewing letters, sounds, and words, to recess and the purely happy, excited, and frenzied sounds, emitted while sliding, running, climbing, hopping, and swinging.

 

Once inside there’s snack time while watching a story unfold on a television, followed by the sharing of precious items, to be guessed by their classmates before the unveiling-. The smiles, the lightness, and the calm of the day are so very palpable. This whole scene is repeated a second time for the afternoon class, but this time, I ‘”get” to do some “prep work” for their Valentine activities, a pleasantly repetitive array of cutting, pasting, and creating different sized hearts with a die-cut machine, which is pure and satisfying magic!!! As I work – play? – I then start to revel in the memories of my own children at this age and remember nostalgically the same innocence with a smile and happy heart.

 

Aaron at five: ” the Rubber Band Boy,” he was dubbed as he could not sit still, but enjoyed rolling around endlessly on the carpet at school, his voracious appetite for any and all books he/we would read together – the courage he mustered up on the first day of school, evident when I asked how it went, “I wiped away a tear and goed inside to listen to what the teacher had to say,” – his determined repetitiveness of practicing his letters and numbers over and over again to perfection – creating highly imaginative stories dictated to me, the scribe, and illustrated by him – walking/skipping to school with his favorite Jungle Book backpack, singing, “The Bare Necessities,” – running backwards in tee ball – 3^rd, 2^nd, 1^st, then home, and jumping up and down in excitement, unconcerned that his teammates had already headed outfield – his love of the Ghostbusters, “his guys,” – speeding towards me and a baby Joanna as I picked him up and swung him around – to his utter delight and mine – arriving home for a snack and a restful visit to Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

 

Joanna at five – smiling – always smiling, and her infectious giggling at the slightest bit of silliness, any silliness – all the goofy faces made when told to smile for the camera – her insistence at wearing her favorite red velvet dress with the gold bow to every event – big or small – for the entire year – dancing, tapping, prancing on stage, donning top hats, tutus, tights, and bling- once falling during a recital, and bouncing right back up without a tear while we held our breath – pretending to “jam” on an electric guitar in front of an imaginary audience in the wall length mirror at the dance studio while everyone else was paying attention to the instructor – insisting on the reading of Wacky Wednesday, her favorite book every night – choosing the infamous white rubber rat as a souvenir, playmate, and sleeping companion at the end of our lower Seattle tour – the rat that eventually turned a filthy black and was lost and refound on numerous occasions amid sad tears on her part and ours- her love of SpongeBob.

 

My children are now amazing adults with whom I love to spend time, and the children in the class will one day be adults, but the innocence and goodness that is childhood is still in each and everyone of us. It behooves us to spend time with children and really notice them and what they do – for therein lies the key to being happy – to be present in the moment – to keeping it all-simple.

 

 

 

 

What do you do when you feel overwhelmed with the challenging parts of life – when you simply can’t shake that deep and profound sadness that comes from the inevitable losses, the struggles inherent in letting go of that which we cannot control, the disappointments and unmet expectations – which we all experience – when there are just too many feelings, and that hopeful veil of resilience seems to waver under the weight of it all?

Most of all, you need to remember to breathe – deep, meditative, mindful breaths – the kind you hold in and slowly let out, easing the knot in your stomach and slowing the anxious beating of your heart.

Let the tears flow – do not even try to hold them in – not that it’s possible when one feels almost paralyzed at times with the struggle, when you attempt to sort it all out, to talk about it all, only to have the words preempted by the emotional tears that can and do flow much more easily and naturally.

Feel it, I’ve been told and read in many a Zen/Buddhist book – acknowledge it – accept it – then, let it go, says the Dalai Lama.

Make your bed each morning and then move – do not give into the frozen lethargy, which usually leads to the monkey in your brain taking flight from thought to thought and not resting, creating havoc to your spirit and unsettling your soul.

Walk – often – and far -preferably in San Francisco – paying attention to all the busyness of the City – toward the ocean – always toward the ocean by way of Grace Cathedral, where you walk the calming labyrinth – one way in and one way back out – with intention – and again, with each concern – each thought – acknowledge – accept – and with a slight swoosh of the hand – let it go – all the while breathing deeply. A walk around this amazing cathedral with a final sit down to rest does calm the soul and slow the heartbeat, as does lighting a candle in honor of those of whom we think.

Labyrinths are such amazing vessels of healing – of being present – of accepting where we are with all the twists and turns, but always leading to the center and back out again, trusting in some type of resolution and then the resulting growth and strength.

Listen to the music that really stirs your heart and soul – and listen intently to the words and the accompanying sentiments originating from the inner struggles and challenges experienced by yet another fellow traveler in this life.

Read what inspires you – maybe start with the sincere eloquence of Marianne Williamson in a Return to Love, to the whimsical yet profound teachings of the Dalai Lama ‘s Cat books – and the spiritual and uplifting interpretation of the Tao by Wayne Dwyer and anything written by Annie Lamott – but always be on the look out for any type of inspiration – it’s all around – from a message written on the ground – on a wall – in a novel, a magazine – on a tree – billboard – the smile of a passerby – pay close attention.

Pour it all on paper – the thoughts – no matter how painful they are because in the midst of that which makes us sad can be hidden gems of happiness – and it’s damn cathartic!!!

Seek out the people – the special people in your life who care about you – not to unload on them because no one really understands the path on which you walk, and it is not fair to anyone to have the expectation that they will make it all go away  – but just to be in their loving presence – to be loved anyway.

Be kind to yourself and know that you have been here before and somehow made it through – acknowledge and reaffirm that in life there has to be the yin with the yang – the good with the bad – the unpleasant,  with of course, the beauty of it all.

Submerge yourself in what feels good physically – a long hot soak in a tub surrounded by uplifting music – a deep tissue massage – a nap with a purring cat – a glass of wine in one hand and your face in the sun, soaking in the warmth – being present and near any body of water when the sun sets – an ocean breeze – and this list is endless.

It’s all just life.

 

With a flurry of thoughts inundating and overwhelming my mind, brought on by the intense sentimentality of this season, I struggle to sift through them all to reach the memories that make me feel lighter, make my heart smile, and there I rest thinking of my dad.

I first met my dad in 1958 at the age of 4 ½ – he having left Italy to join his siblings in California the month I was born in 1954. At the end of the long trek from Italy, I was wide awake when my very handsome father walked into the Oakland train station, dressed in a suit and tie, hands in his pockets. I was peeking out from behind my mother who gently informed me, “Ecco tuo padre.”

His kind and loving smile and that compassionate twinkle in his deep brown eyes, that I grew to love and depend on, are what I remember the most, along with the instant attachment I felt toward him, regardless that he was not present for the first 4 ½ years of my life.

Almost from the beginning, I was fortunate to spend a lot of time with my dad, whom I called, “Daddy,” as per his request. He was a self-employed janitor and had his own business – not bad for a man who had a rudimentary understanding of the English Language. I was his “helper,” and later on, in high school, his one and only “employee,” and earned my first monthly paycheck.

I truly cherish my first memory of working with him. I was quite little and we were cleaning one of the banks. He had built a cart on wheels for me on which he placed a large garbage bin – which I could easily push, with a place for my dusting cloth for the surfaces, and a wet rag for the ashtrays after I emptied them. I also had to change the date in the plastic holder for the next day. Since I was too short to reach it, I first emptied the small wastepaper basket into the larger bin, turned it on its side, stepped up on it, and changed the date. I’m not sure where the idea came from – me – or my dad- all I know is that when I looked back at him, he was beaming at me and gave me one his astounding smiles.

I loved being with him – he made me feel so special and capable! There was always a steady stream of talking and laughing!! He was an attentive listener to anything I had to say – and, boy, could he make me laugh – sometimes in spite of myself. Often times, we would have to wait for the workers to leave so we could go in and clean. We would sit in his lime green ’56 Chevy work truck, and he would concoct outrageous stories about  anyone who passed by – and as hard as I tried not to laugh at the often inappropriate tales – I would inevitably burst to the point of tears.

We also ate – a lot – and both of us were quite chubby!! Now, my mom always served a very delicious and nutritious meal before we would leave – but it was a long stretch between 5 and 9 when we were done, so one of my tasks was to go buy “snacks” – Ding Dongs – Ho Hos – Hostess fruit pies (our favorite.) We would also, on occasion, have a complete “other” dinner, stopping off at the nearby DerWienersnitzel for a hot dog and fries!!

On Saturday mornings, I would get to go with him on his “ weekend jobs,” but first, breakfast; he absolutely loved the American breakfast at Bob’s Big Boy Diner where we had to sit at the counter so he could flirt with the waitresses. Though I was a bit embarrassed by his banter,   it was never enough to make me not want to be there with him.

At home, I loved snuggling up to him, with my head on his propitious belly, which he always said was simply full of air. He was the one my brother and I would run to when my mother insisted on the necessity – once a month – to clean out our systems with a nasty concoction of Milk of Magnesium and orange juice. My dad could never save us from our fate, but his melodious loud laughter and comical comments did ease the horror.

Though my dad did suffer from depression, you’d never know it because he was so playful, and loved to make us laugh and smile. He would spray the window to our kitchen with the garden hose and startle us, and then there were the faces he would make – no matter what mood you were in, it was impossible not to react and laugh in turn.

He lovingly called me “Lori,” and he always encouraged me, made me feel so very loved, and I know that a lot of my own wisdom, strength, sense of humor, and my heart comes directly from him.

My dad has been gone almost 28 years, and yet, his presence in my life, in who I am, and how I define myself, is still so very strong. Not a day goes by when something he said or did doesn’t come to mind. I can still conjure up his comforting, melodic voice, his heartfelt laughter, his “softly callused” hands, his unconditional love, his kindness and compassion. He is still my “go to” person when I need him, and that is an incredible gift.

The long Thanksgiving weekend has come to a close, and I sit and revel in the newly formed memories of the precious time spent with my family.  I ponder these thoughts as well as conjure up images of the special people in my life who are no longer here – my parents, other relatives, and friends, and to that list I now add my sister, Tina.  Though her passing happened in June, and the celebration of her life in August, it was just recently that I returned to the cemetery where her name is engraved below my parents on the crypt they now share, making it as real as it will ever get.

My sister and I were estranged.  She was a very difficult and challenging force to deal with, and the bitterness and anger she felt  at a life that did not pan out as she had envisioned was turned outward, and projected onto others, and, most specifically, onto me. She was, as we all are, broken, and, into her brokenness, seeped her own personal demons which she was unable to corral – to tame – to keep at bay, but this is not what I want to dwell on anymore.  In fact, my purpose in remembering my sister today is to continue letting go of all the sadness, hurt and pain of the past, and to honor her good spirit instead.

We all have, inside each of us, that core of goodness, of perfect beauty, harmony, and innocence with which we are born.  It behooves us to access this, though it is often not an easy feat in the least. I want to access that core for my sister through a few memories of her, and us, during younger, better times.

From an early age, Tina was put in charge.  She was already 4 1/2 when I was born, and a second mother I was given.  I do not have firm memories of her until we left Italy in 1958 to join my father in the U.S.  I have an image of my sister, brother, and I cuddled together in bed, exhausted after the long trek across the Atlantic to Brooklyn at the house of relatives. Then, after our arrival in California – another picture of the four of us now, huddled together in one bed in Mountain View , during my father’s hospitalization, which happened shortly after our arrival, and I see a 9 year old Tina and my mom leaving early in the morning to walk downtown Mountain View to clean the J.C. Penney Store, one of my father’s many janitorial jobs.

I fast forward to 1965 when we made our first trip back to Italy. On the TWA flight to New York, our layover, the plane abruptly and significantly lost altitude three times – I was sitting on the aisle with one seat between Tina, who was by the window, and myself.  She undoubtedly was as terrified as I was, and yet, she looked over at me with that beautiful smile and with those “Sally Field” cheeks, giggled, grabbed my hand, and held on tightly, and I was calmed and reassured that it would be all right.

Once in Italy, there were many moments of laughter – she had a “ripply” laugh –  when you throw a pebble into the water ripples are produced, and I always thought that if this were ever to be accompanied by a sound effect, it would be my sister’s laughter. That summer we visited a lot of people who offered us wine, regardless of our young age.  She once returned from one of those visits with my mom, and she was really giggling a lot, having imbibed a bit of vino, causing me to laugh as well.

One day, I was given the task of setting the table in the sala of my grandparent’s house to host the men who had helped my grandfather harvest his hay – il fieno – while my mother and grandmother were preparing lunch.  After I was done, I sat looking at my handiwork – and remembered my sister’s funny behavior from the day before, and thinking, ” I wonder what that wine tastes like without being diluted with water and sugar (that I had been accustomed to drinking most of my very young life.) I started with one glass of my nonno’s very tasty Lambrusco, followed quickly by four more.  By the time my nonna and mother came in to check on me, I was a very happy and intoxicated ten year old.

Sternly, my nonna ordered me upstairs.  At that moment my sister walked in and took one look at me, and immediately emitted that infectious “ripply” laughter of hers.  She was instructed to drag me upstairs and put me to bed.  So, my sister grabbed my hand, and we stumbled upstairs, her laughter making me act even sillier.

Once upstairs, in bed, my eyes made contact with the roving eyes on the Virgin Mary in a painting on the wall – the eyes would follow you everywhere.  Nonna , seeing me looking at the Madonna, admonished me by telling me that Mary was very angry with me, and I honestly did not mean to be disrespectful by my response, “Why is she angry? Does she wants some wine too? Because there’s more downstairs.”  Nonna’s lips quivered as she fought to not laugh, and quickly left.  Her exit was serenaded by another onslaught of Tina’s “ripply” laughter as she gently pushed me down, and I finally slept.

Most of my memories of Tina entail family time spent together – with the steady stream of Italian and English as she spoke and  discussed any and all topics with my father. In the background my mother is busy in the kitchen, and my brother and I rolling around on the floor, irritating each other.

When I was younger, she was my encourager.  I was very quiet and not too confident.  When I was a senior in high school, and it was getting close to deciding  what to do after high school, I had made up my mind to not go to college, as I couldn’t imagine living away, and I also thought I wasn’t smart enough.  When she asked me what my plans were, I told her that I would just stay home, get a job as a secretary somewhere, buy a car, and maybe take a class or two at Foothill College. She responded quickly, saying that that wasn’t good enough – that I was plenty bright to go to college, and so, together, we filled out applications, and I was accepted at UC Davis, and even qualified for a state scholarship, so off to college I went.

Tina also encouraged me to do my “Junior Year Abroad” in Padova, Italy,  just like she had. When I was there, so was she, having moved to Milan.  I saw her a lot , and we went to plays, films, museums, an opera at La Scala, and so much more.

Milan is the Panettone capital, and one day, we bought three of them, freshly baked, along with a few bottles of Asti Spumanti, and went back to her hotel room as she hadn’t yet found an apartment.  Without utensils, we grabbed at the panettoni and drank the champagne – all the while Tina talked and I just listened – I was her sounding board – that was my role and I simply listened – her voice was always a comfort.

Once when I couldn’t get anyone to go to Switzerland with me, she encouraged me to go on my own. She arranged to travel up to Lucerne with me, help me locate a place to stay, visit a little, and them she would go back, and I would travel on.  I was ok with the plan until it came time for her to leave, and then I panicked and didn’t want to do it anymore.  I remember how she started to laugh and couldn’t stop saying, “This is so funny,” which made me see the irony as well.  Then I started laughing too, and my confidence returned.  That was the best week ever as I went on to a few more cities all on my own.  I’m pretty sure that my wanderlust today had some of its origin on that day.

My sister loved to travel, and travel she did, extensively, especially during her 3 year stint living in Milan, working for an airline.  The goal was to take up permanent residence, and then, we would all somehow follow. It was during this time that she “broke,” and the stories explaining it abounded, but definitively, there was not one specific cause, other than she was no longer comfortable in her own skin.  Because of this, she was often angry and bitter, and that inner core of good was further obstructed by her unmet expectations of life.  I had become at this time no longer a “listening board,” but rather a”punching bag.”  Time and time again I rallied to “fix” her – to “make” her happy,” in spite of the detrimental effects her “arrows” had on me.  I always had the hope that I could help her – but the reality is that no one changes unless it is within them to make it happen.  I had to let go, something that happened not that long ago.

I wish that my sister could have been more at peace in life, but somehow this alluded her, and my heart is filled with a profound sadness and compassion, and has been for a long time. Since her passing in June, whenever I  think of her, though, it is her amazing smile, that melodious “ripply” laughter,” and her goodness that I welcome to my mind.

One of my most favorite quotes comes from Maya Angelou: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you’ve said; people will forget what you did; but people will never forget how you made them feel.” And, so the lesson I take away with me is that we must take good care in how we treat each other, through being  just a little more kind, empathetic, understanding, helpful, and less judgemental to anyone we meet along our path.