tamarjacobson

You can never go home again …

This morning's Yom Kippur revelation …

Two events were influential in my leaving home, and becoming who I am today: the death of my father, and my son's bar mitzvah.

And once I left home, I could never go back …

Yesterday afternoon, Nelle and I drove alongside the Nooksack river toward Mount Baker. It was the Jewish New Year eve, a reflective time for me, and one whose rituals and significance were not well known to my husband's family. I was pleased to be spending a few days with Nelle, my step-mother-in-law, while life partner had gone away fly fishing with his father and brother. We like to take walks and talk – gab away – about, oh so many things – all of them real, meaningful, deeper than the usual superficial type chats that so many people seem to prefer. We get down through the meat to the very bone of things. Mostly I love being with Nelle because I feel validated, supported and accepted by her, and because of one thing and another, this was the very best of times for me to be spending my New Year with her. 

It also being a month before a milestone birthday for Nelle, I had asked to take her out for a special luncheon. That way we could celebrate Rosh Hashanah and her pre-birthday at the same time. Nelle being the avid hiker she is, chose a trip to Mount Baker. She wanted to show me a spot where she knew I could walk and experience the magnificent mountains up close, without my burdensome fear of heights getting in my way. She had been there some years before and hiked much more challenging trails at the time. On the way, Nelle had planned that we stop for a late lunch at Milano's, a small, but popular Italian restaurant in the tiny town of Glacier. She remembered once having a very tasty butternut squash ravioli during her last visit after hiking with her daughter. We chose a table in the small outdoor patio and perused our menus, finally choosing a tomato, eggplant, mozzarella and basil salad, as well as linguine with clams, shrimp and squid, and wild mushroom risotto. 

As we waited for the food to appear, Nelle talked a bit about the place we were heading toward, and then proceeded to describe what we would do on the way home. I heard her murmuring something about throwing into a river pieces of bread attached to past hopes and fears that we wanted to toss away. I stared at her as I began to comprehend what she was saying. For, it dawned on me that Nelle was talking about the Tashlich ritual of Rosh Hashanah. I burst into a gleeful laughter. "Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed. "You are talking about Tashlich!" She nodded up and down seeming to enjoy my excitement. "You looked it up on the Internet!" I continued. Nelle nodded affirmingly. I clapped my hands in delight, and tears came to my eyes. My gratitude knew no bounds. She had taken the time and trouble to find out something about my holiday. We slipped a couple of pieces of bread into our purses and pockets, and after a delicious meal headed out and up to Artist Point meadow five thousand feet high surrounded by Mount Baker and Mount Shukskan. The vistas and fresh mountain air took my breath away, and for the next hour or so we walked among the heather and wild mountain flowers, stopping occasionally for me to dip my hands into small tarns, or greeting walkers along the way. All the while I was marveling out loud or in my mind, at the awesome mountains flanked by blue-white glaciers. As we walked Nelle remarked something like, "It gives us some perspective. We are so small in the grander scheme of things."

As the late afternoon turned cooler we set out to drive alongside the Nooksack river on our way home. Nelle had not forgotten our date with pieces of bread and flowing waters. She was looking for the turn-off so that we might come up closer to the river bank. I looked down the ravines at the tumbling, rumbling waters, all the while delightedly murmuring to myself, "A Nooksack tashlich. A Nooksack tashlich." It sounded like a mantra – the best possible blessing for seeing in a joyously, sweet and fruitful New Year. We drove and drove, but somehow were not able to come close enough to the river's edge. The road was still just too high up. So, a little disappointedly, we decided to turn around and head home as it would soon become dark. It was getting late. 

Nelle drove a little looking for an area to turn the car around when suddenly she shouted, "A salmon!" She stopped and we ran out to look down at a stream that was running up aways from the river. There, we saw a huge salmon flopping and flailing among the river rocks. Nelle quickly explained to me that it was a female salmon heading upstream to spawn, who would probably die soon after that – her birth work done. "How amazing!" I cried. For at Rosh Hashanah the head of a fish brings us such good luck. Mesmerized I continued to look on at the enormous salmon struggling in the small body of trickling water. We drove on a little further, and finally as Nelle started to turn the car around I shouted out, "Stop! I've seen the perfect tashlich spot!" 

Out we jumped a second time, and directly, not too far below us was the other side of the stream, which flowed towards the salmon, we had just seen moments before. We hastily gathered our pieces of bread, curled up small chunks, and began throwing them in the water each time one of us calling out a farewell to past behaviors and feelings we wished to discard in order to start the New Year clear and fresh. "Farewell to my longing-to-belong!" I called out as I threw in the first piece. Nelle called out one or two of her own, and we both wished for healing for those we love. My heart was full to overflowing, as we watched the small pieces of bread flow gently down the stream toward the dying, spawning salmon.

We drove the long journey home almost in silence. I felt quite full of peace and gratitude. When we arrived home, I lit a couple of candles that Nelle pulled out for me, and toasted to the New Year with a small glass of wine, as we sat down to a simple repast of grilled salmon, fresh cucumbers and tomatoes from her garden, and a small remaining piece of the cappuccino-coffee cake we were unable to complete at Milano's earlier that afternoon.

I think that I will never forget the Nooksack Tashlich – not only cherished memories, and awesome vistas, flailing, spawning salmon, and wild mountain heather – but mainly because Nelle had made an effort to find out just a bit more about where I came from, and helped me connect my past worlds to the me of now.

Exercise in writing:

1. Make a list:

Clarity, clarifying, clearing, opening, awareness, exaltation, settling, understanding, sensing, feeling, vibrating, hearing, tingling, breathing, noticing, eyes widening, softness, storm abating, surviving, resilience, wonder, awe 

2. 10 minutes … go:

Awaking to a feeling of clarity having survived a storm of feelings prior to today. It is awesome. Even the hazy, horizon looks clear, and I hear the tiniest sounds of starlings and gold finch in the air, even chirping of other unnamed birds. I breathe in and out and find myself settling into the day, eyes widening, fingers tingling and a softness as I open up to the day. Maturity comes when I realize it is all in my attitude and the choices I make. Ten minutes is not enough time to explore all the feelings and sensations that arise with a clear morning. A day to celebrate our labors, the laborers. Picnics and barbecues as we watch summer disappear and leaves start to turn. A day of reflection as the Jewish New Year approaches – always a time of year I embrace with the turn of the seasons, apples and honey, fresh options, second chances, and time unfolds me turning, shifting and tossing me gently towards a new semester, winter, and holidays filled with good will. I am full of good will this morning even towards those who have caused me pain.

Recently I read in Street Zen that compassion is not only about being kind, but about being strong enough to set boundaries for those we love.

It was a different slant to my understanding of the word. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Regression recovery

This particular
Saturday morning we came into Starbucks early. We had gotten out of bed at four
thirty in preparation for a flight out to Seattle. Our bags were
packed and out on the front porch awaiting the taxi that was to arrive an hour
later, when at five a.m. my phone rang. The airlines called to inform me that
the flight had been canceled, and would I call the number 877 whatever. While bleary
eyed, and still a little sleepy, I sat quietly chatting with the woman on the
phone to reschedule our flight for the afternoon. “What time is it there?” She
asked. I told her it was five in the morning. She sounded sympathetic to our
cancelation woes, and we quickly booked a later flight out. After some
reorganizing, including making a call to postpone the cab service to the
airport, writing an email to family in Seattle, who would be picking us up
later than planned, and taking on other odds and ends that suddenly needed my
attention, we decided it was definitely time for an early morning trip to
Starbucks. A cappuccino was sounding pretty good to me right about the moment
that life partner made the suggestion.

Our usually
popular coffee shop was quiet. A few early morning people like us were
sprinkled around the room, some in armchairs reading newspapers, while others
sat next to small round tables quietly gazing at computer or iPad screens. We
picked up our drinks and a piping hot egg-white sandwich from the barrister.
Comfort food to help us plan the unexpectedly free morning we had received through
the cancelation of our flight. We sank into two comfortable armchairs and
devoured the breakfast sandwiches as if we had not seen food for a long, long
time. It felt good.

After some
munching and slurping, I noticed a man and woman sitting around a table close
by. They were intent on feeding some breakfast items to a young toddler: cereal
or scrambled eggs perhaps. I couldn’t quite make it out. The little fellow
toddled around the table and then ran behind and in between their chairs.
Whenever he reappeared by their table they would hastily shove morsels of food
into his mouth. He giggled and waddled away. By now I assumed that the two
adults were his parents. The child wore pajamas and his feet were covered in
soft, colorful sock type slippers decorated with pale blue floral patterns.
Every now and then he would stand on his tiptoes and then run around again and
again. His fluid movements, and his parents’ pleasure in his joy mesmerized me.
They seemed like a contented trio.

Finally, while they
gathered up their things preparing to leave, the toddling boy stopped by close
to me and stared into my eyes. “Hi!” I greeted him, and he smiled. “I love your
slippers,” I said. He seemed to like hearing that. He shook his head from side
to side, giggled and stomped his feet as if in a dance. His mother smiled at me
as well, and then she said almost by way of apology, “Yes, they are the easiest
things to get on his feet because he moves so quickly. I know they probably are
not the best for his feet. No support and all that. But they are the easiest.” She
laughed nervously. I tried to put her at ease, repeating that I thought they
were a great choice. They all hurried out keeping up with the mercurial rhythm
of their young child. This mother had seemed so joyful about her little
toddler’s escapades, and then this strange older woman (me) came along and, oh
dear, mentioned the slippers – those dreaded slippers. As I watched them
leaving the coffee shop, I couldn’t help but think how constantly guilty
parents are. The young woman had seemed ever so slightly embarrassed – or was
it ashamed? – of her choice of shoes for her child, and I almost felt sorry I
had mentioned them at all. I wondered who had been the first to nurture her
guilt about those slippers as bad for her son’s feet. Was it her mother, siblings,
father, extended family members, or in-laws? Perhaps other woman friends, or
maybe she had read something in a parenting book.

I understood her
of course. I had been a mother of a toddler once. And I remember all too well
those guilty, shameful moments when I felt like the choices I made were the
“wrong” ones. It was usually when I was with my mother or mother-in-law, and at
times accompanied by other woman friends, who always seemed to know how to
parent so much better than me. If only I could have run after that loving
family, with the colorfully slippered, quick-footed toddler. I would have said
to them, “Don’t be guilty or ashamed. Cherish the joy you were expressing right
before I opened my mouth to speak. For, you are really great parents. Full of
care and love for this bright little fellow! And, as for your choice of
slippers? Well … just perfect!”

"Just open the door," my sister Sue said to me, as I sat huddled in a corner behind the closed door of one of the upstairs guest rooms – the one I call my son's room. Some time ago, he sent me about a dozen boxes of his books and private papers to store for him as his apartment was too small. I was ecstatic that he entrusted me with his things, and carried each one as heavy as they were, up the three flights of stairs, as if my sacrifice and suffering was a testament of my love of him. I packed each box carefully in the tiny clothing closet of the old futon guest room, the one next door to the Ikea-everything-floral-matching room that most guests choose when they come to stay. Not my son though. He says the bed is uncomfortable. He prefers the futon. And so, that space, up there across the hall from my study on the third floor, has become precious to me.

I realized the other day, as I sat weeping anxiously behind the closed door, that there is a large, red carpet lying warmly next to the bed. Almost the same as the rug in his room in our old apartment, when he was a child growing up in Ramat Hasharon. He would sit on that old rug and build all kinds of amazing creations with his lego bricks for hours and hours. Now I wonder if that has any effect on his preferring that room – subconsciously, I mean. Although he would probably reject that notion out of hand, and say he just finds the futon more comfortable, that's all. And probably that is so – after all, I tend to psychologicalize everything!

There I was, stuck, huddled, and weeping behind the closed door of "my son's room." I had received instructions from a variety of sources that were to keep our new kitten, Oscar, whom we had recently adopted, closed off in a room apart from our cat of the house – Mimi. That way the two cats could smell and twiddle their paws with each other under a crack at the bottom of the door before actually encountering one another face to face. But, I thought to myself, what was happening to Mimi out there on the landing? There was no one to stroke and cuddle her as she explored the new kitten paws and smells under the crack in the door. What about Mimi? Sitting there with the kitten mewing next to me, and the cat, Mimi calling on the outside, I felt torn in two. "How on earth do people have more than one child?" I thought helplessly to myself. "How do they spread the love around without making one of the children feel left out?" The more I pondered that, the more anxious and weepy I became. 

Finally, unable to contain myself a moment longer, I called my oldest sister Sue on the phone from my home in Philadelphia to hers way up in the upper Northern tip of the Galilee in Israel.

"Where are you?" She asked. In between tiny, gasping sobs, I described my hopeless plight. "Oh Tamar," she exclaimed. "Just open the door!"

"Open the door?" I said weakly through my tears.

"How will they ever be able to meet each other and form a relationship with one of them locked behind a door?" She asked. "Just open that door and go about your business. It will free you up as well. They will be fine." I was silent as I thought about all the disasters that could befall them if I set the kitten loose out into the terrifying and unsafe universe. 

And then Sue said quietly, "That little kitten's mother has given him all the skills he needs to survive. He will know what to do." I was silent, but starting to become convinced. She continued, "Tamar, you are not a cat, nor are you their mother. Now open that door."

And so, I did. I opened the door, dried my tears, and sat close by observing as the two cats greeted each other with a few hisses and growls, backing off and returning to check each other out over and over again. 

As I watched them throughout that day starting to adjust to each other's movements, smells, and antics, I realized that what had convinced and calmed me most about what Sue had said to me was not so much the knowledge of cat development she shared with me. What had comforted me that morning was faith - Sue's faith and hope for the best for the two cats - faith and hope for the best for me too. 

Indeed, it was a lesson in faith.

Mimi and I are preparing for Oscar the Second to arrive. Well, in fact Mimi hasn't a clue that the little fellow will be entering and sharing her space within a couple of days. She stares out the window as she does every morning at dawn while I clickety clack away at the computer. She has had her five little treats atop the scratching post, a habit she and I have developed over these past five months since Oscar, her brother, died. She runs around chasing after a small, soft, rubber ball, or woolen toy mouse on her own, calling out for me to join her – or is it to announce her play? I keep thinking, 'Oh dear, she does so need a little kitty playmate." Frankly, I am unable to chase after those items and romp around with her. I am a sixty four-year-old woman, for goodness sake! She must be so bored with me.

I know I am.

And so, I adopted Oscar the Second. I found out about him from a Facebook friend, whose cat had birthed eight kittens about three months ago. I drove out to meet him, and he seemed to fit the bill. Strong, playful, and sweet. We have had to wait a couple of weeks while he became older and strong enough to undergo neutering surgery. And now, after recuperation, he is ready to join our family unit. Just two more days and he will be here. This past week, I have been talking to Mimi, explaining to her that Oscar the Second is due to arrive. She has sat as still as a sphinx while I washed blankets, cleaned out litter boxes, and rummaged around in the basement for small food and water bowls. I have discussed with her about how they might play together, even snuggle up on the couch, perhaps? She certainly seems to know that I am talking with her about these matters. Sometimes she chirps or meows in response. Or perhaps she just loves all the attention.

Oy! Attention! And here's the rub. Preparing blankets, buckets, and bowls is not going to be enough. Emotional preparation is what is needed here – for me, not Mimi. Mimi knows what to do: how to protect her turf, or roll about on the carpet with mouse and ball toys. She knows how to jump into the litter box and kick around the sand making it fly in the air only to land yards away from the box spreading out all over the floor. Then she adores chasing after the broom as I sweep it all up, running and tackling it as it swishes back and forth gathering up the pieces of litter from all ends of the basement. She is emotionally prepared.

It's me. Attention getting is an issue for me. Having never felt a priority, or mostly felt invisible as a child growing up in a house full of older, charismatic adults busy with their lives and not much time for me, I am constantly worried about children – or cats, in this instance – feeling lonely, abandoned or neglected emotionally. I can't seem to help it. These anxieties rise up and grab me with the slightest twitch of Mimi's eye, or murmuring meow. Indeed, I have never had to deal with sharing my love with my own children, having only had one son.  

This is not new for me, understanding that "our own emotional development affects how we relate to … children and families" - for I have addressed these issues in books I have authored, and prior blog posts. However, these past two nights I have found myself tossing and turning as the anxiety mounts. "How will I handle all those feelings of the two cats?" I ask myself as I lie awake, staring into the darkness. Today I realize, quite profoundly, that the question is rather: "How will I handle those feelings I have around attention getting, of abandonment, and neglect?" 

What can I say? Challenging myself to understand and overcome ancient childhood wounds sounds doable these days. And what better way to go about it than with the companionship of Mimi and Oscar-the-Second?

Eight years ago at Tamarika: Never okay; & The blog … my inner world

Somedays, I wish I could just lay down my old, worn out bag of guilt on some side-street sidewalk in Paris, just like Macon Leary in Accidental Tourist. I mean, at times it is so heavy I find myself physically limping down the street, or up the stairs to my study. The guilt is profound, pervasive, paralyzing, and unforgiving.

Yeah, yeah, I know it served a purpose once, maybe fifty, or even sixty years ago or so, but now the bag is just old baggage – a bunch of useless, irrelevant, unrealistic, and unhelpful stuff. 

This morning I say, "Just lay it down, Tamarika." 

Set it aside.

And walk on by with a lightened load.

As I click on "compose-a-post" at the blogging website, I become excited. Of course there is a mixture of excitement and slight trepidation for I am never quite sure what will become the final posting. I have an idea as I start out – sometimes even an outline. I have something to say. For example, this morning as I looked out in the pale, light of dawn, I saw the garden below my third floor study. I peered down at the flower beds and over the tops of the shorter trees. Mimi sat up straight, almost to attention, as I approached the window, where she had been laying soaking up the fresh morning air. We both stared out and down. The ground looked soaked and on the rooftop the gutters were filled with water, rippling now and again with the last few drops from the late night storm the night before. I think I saw that the plants and blossoms were drooping their heads and bodies from the weight of all that rain, but I imagined when it first started falling they must have been reaching out their leaves and flowers to soak up the desperately needed rain after many days of exhausting heat.

Mimi pokes her head over the armrest of my chair as I type this post. She plays with my arm and meows gently. She needs breakfast, but I cannot seem to stop the flow of writing. I reach down, look in her eyes and smile. "I know. I'm coming," I say out loud, and she wanders towards the window on my right, jumping up on the soft yellow blanket awaiting her strong, young, furry body. There, she stares out at the trees watching and listening to the birds: cardinals, cat-birds, and robins – chirping, whistling, singing through the rain drenched leaves and branches. I stop and find myself hoping that their nests were not destroyed during the night of bright, snappy lightning and deep growling thunder, as it rained and rained and rained.

Well, I suppose I could have just written a brief "status update," on Facebook, or a short "tweet" on Twitter – perhaps, "My how it rained," or "Plants and flowers ecstatic this morning after the storm." You know … headlines. Instead, I felt energy in my fingertips and brain, and needed to write more about it, going a little deeper. There's more, I am sure. Because as I write I feel a stirring from my dreams when I slept and woke in and out during the storm late last night and into the early morning. Something from my dreams is pushing me to write. I know something else is wishing its way out of my brain and onto this cyber page … I can feel it in my stomach, sense it through the tingling in my fingertips, and slight burning sensation behind my eyes. 

I look up and see Mimi sitting as still as a sphinx, her eyes half closed, with a patience that I yearn to experience. A solid acceptance of the here and now. Just waiting. Holding still. Until I rise to give her breakfast.

Becoming a writer means learning how to observe. Not just seeing a butterfly settling on a leaf, but realizing it is a large, yellow Monarch expanding itself as it settles for long enough without flying away so that I can take a photograph with my iPhone, while on my morning walk today. Not just feeling hot and humid, but noticing how rivers of sweat are running down my back and into my shorts, trickling like rivulets along the outline of my face, down the sides of my neck and into the narrow sleeves of my white tank top – the one I used to wear fourteen years ago when I was 52. I feel proud that the shirt still fits me even now that I am sixty four. I walk out into the bright, muggy morning feeling light footed and confident. I even want to shout out to passers-by, "Hey! My tank top from 14 years ago still fits me, when I am 64!" Instead, I quicken my step and walk briskly along the hedgerows, past the Unitarian Church, and up the hill towards Carpenter Woods. I realize I am smiling. I remember holding up my arm tightening my hand in a fist and calling out, "Amandla!" when Madiba was released. "Power," is what it meant. I want to hold up my arm again and call out, "Amandla!" Instead, I smile to myself and walk on – three more miles to go, and the day is heating up. I notice a hardy hibiscus in a yard as I walk by. Lush, green leaves puffing out the bush full of bright red blossoms of a Lady Baltimore type. The flowers are as large as the palms of both my hands cupped out and upwards together as if to receive a gift from the heavens. I stare at the huge plant, and wish my own was as prolific as the one I am ogling at. As soon as I feel envy rising up within, a voice in my head whispers until I find myself actually mouthing the words, "… Just look at it for what it is, and not for what I don't have." Indeed, I surprise myself with that thought, that seemed to have come out of nowhere. I stop walking and note the thought in my status update on Facebook. I just need to share it out there in the Universe. It feels profound and touches something deep inside. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Chapters

[NOTE: This post was originally written in 2005 in my Tamarika blog – it has been slightly tweaked]

I think I am going to have a very difficult time dying. It will probably have to hit me out of the blue. I just cannot imagine people living without me. They will never be able to think of things to do or do them as I well as I. And how will they manage when I am not around? For example, the cats need me early in the morning. Ada wakes me by pulling on the telephone chord and sometimes sits close to my face, gently patting my lips with her paw. She and Molly want to play. More urgently they like to watch me clean their litter box because they know that those seafood tasty treats are on their way. 

I think about them as I plan my new fall position at a college three hours drive from my home. This will mean that I will have to rent a small studio where I will stay for half the week. On the one hand I am thrilled at the opportunity for this new position. On the other, what will Molly and Ada do without their morning treats, tuna once a week and the twice a day litter cleaning ritual?

I remember when my son and his girlfriend went up into the Snowy Range. He was sixteen. He took a pack and headed out from Buffalo New York to Wyoming on a Greyhound bus. After a week, his girlfriend returned. It had been so high in those mountains that she had felt quite unwell. He stayed behind to wander the range alone. I did not sleep for days. There were no cell phones then. How did I allow him to go off like that? Lying awake each night in my comfortable home in Clarence, I imagined all manner of terrible things happening to him. When I would get to the part about him lying alone in a pool of blood, I would sit up sharply in my bed and head quickly, urgently for the kitchen to make a cup of tea. In my family, all crises are dealt with by a cup of tea. As I write this, I can hear my sister calling out, "Put on the kettle, I'll make the tea!"

My son returned two weeks later looking well. His hair was knotted and tangled into natural dreadlocks but he looked tall and strong. Soon after his girlfriend had left him on top of the Snowy Range he had stumbled onto the "Sand Lake Lodge." There he stayed for a week or more, helping out with chopping firewood and other such chores. Where had he learned that? He handed me a letter from the owners:

Dear Tamar, We had the pleasure of meeting and knowing your son, G. He stopped by for a drink of water and through mutual agreement he stayed and helped us at our lodge. I just want to let you know what a good person your son is. He has pitched in and helped doing anything he was asked to do, and cheerfully (I might add). Please stop and see us if you are ever in this part of the country, and the door is certainly open for G at any time. Take care and hope to meet you some day.

My son could more than survive without me. But was that a good thing? At age fifteen, he started making his own sandwiches for school and I was mortified. I wandered around feeling depressed and listless for days until I realized that I was not feeling needed. After all, making food for the family is one of the ways we give love. Imagine my joy when one year he wrote to me in a mother's day card, "I love you and I need you but I allow you to rest once in awhile. I take that back. I love you and I need you UNCONDITIONALLY. Love G."

Is my self-worth dependent on being needed?

In March I will be presenting to directors of campus based child care centers about delegating. As a director of a large campus based child care center for eleven years, I learned to let go of being the only person who knows what to do, or the only person who does it properly. Before I left the center to move to Philadelphia I would sit in my office and weep silently to myself. Who would know that when you feed Nacho, the cockatiel, you have to chirp and sing so that he/she would reply in kind? Who would talk to the plants, as I did in my mind, as they watered them? Who would …? It was agony. I was sure that no one, parents, staff, children, would be able to live without me. And then we hired one of the teachers who had been at the Center longer than me to be the new Director and, presto! Everyone is growing and thriving. When last I visited Nacho and the plants looked happy, strong and joyful!

Whenever I go off to conferences, Hawaii or to Israel to visit my family, Life Partner does just fine! Even though he does not always give Molly and Ada those special seafood tasting treats at the right time early in the morning, they all seem to be thriving and joyful when I return.

So perhaps I can allow myself to feel worthwhile in ways other than being needed.

I wonder how.