tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

We all walk the long road. Cannot stay … There's no need to say goodbye … all the friends and family, all the  memories going round, round, round … I have wished for so long … how I wished for you today … Eddie Vedder.

On the eve of therapy what can I say? I start to feel the excitement of my one precious hour of the week where I get to say what I feel, and it is acceptable and valid. And yet … when I arrive at the door, thoughts and feelings fly out the window and I am left sitting on the corner of the couch silent and shy – ashamed that I might be taking up too much time, thinking "Gee, surely he has something better to do than listen to my whining and complaining?" 

By the end of the session somehow I have mined a nugget, discovered something I was aware of somewhere in my psyche, but did not quite know how to put into words, and I stumble out to my car – air seems clearer than when I went in, sky bigger, brain whirling and swirling as I drive away.

And, all the while my perceptions and actions are being ever so slightly tweaked. I find that I approach problems, or I hear someone a little differently. Sometimes I even sense my brain shifting, hear my heart opening – making room for new options.

And then …

one week later …

it starts all over again …

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: The "turning sixty" compilation

'Tis the season.

I hear Natalie Goldberg saying: "New Year reflections … 10 minutes … go!" and even though I have much to do this morning before heading out to work, my fingers find themselves tap, tap, tapping at the keys to help my brain bring forth its thoughts and feelings about this past year.

Looking back it has been quite a busy year indeed. Another book published, an article, many presentations later, I now find myself writing from a completely different office space in our beautiful new home. And autumn is on its way. One of my favorite seasons of the year – the shedding of the old to incubate the new.

I have found a new pace. I continue my yoga exercises and meditation and yet it feels like I am returning to them with a different perspective. It seems deeper somehow, more peaceful. My home feels just right. Like my home. I am no longer sedentary, wandering aimlessly in our old apartment from my little study back and forth back and forth. I sometimes even bound up and down the stairs of our three floor house (?) – or is it a mansion? My body and mind feel renewed with the different light and space of our home. Every corner the eye lands is yet another aesthetic delight. Even Ada seems more spunky, playful.

My memoir is incubating, bubbling within, longing to get out. Will this be the year I write it? Or do I still need just one more book before it? A book for parents this time. I want to let parents off the guilt-hook. I want to let me, as a parent, off the guilt-hook. That book is incubating and bubbling too. Maybe this will be the year I give myself the gift of a Natalie Goldberg treat/retreat?

It is almost a year since I took myself back into therapy. I, for one, am excited at the prospect of peeling off yet another layer, and another after that in my psychotherapy journey.

So, Happy New Year to all of us who celebrate this event at this particular time of the year. There is much to reflect on and much to look forward to. Especially the apples I will be dipping into honey tonight.

Surely that will help to sweeten the days and months to come?

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Thinking about fear

… Inscribed on a Balinese river stone, I simply had to buy it!

I must admit I felt like a tourist, a groupie, hm … a child of the universe … as we crossed over from Pennsylvania into New Jersey's Frenchtown, in search for Two Buttons, the store of Jose and Liz. As in Elizabeth Gilbert author of Eat, Pray, Love, and Felipe, her Brazilian lover (now husband, Jose Nunes).

After an easy drive from our Mount Airy home in Philadelphia, along the banks of the Delaware River, on a glorious ending-of-summer-day, at the edge of Frenchtown, New Jersey, we discovered the sprawling warehouse, Two Buttons:

We wandered in and found ourselves transported to a "world of wonders." As described on their web-page, the store is full of "beautiful objects from hidden corners of the world." And as we walked through, we found the rooms opening and extending further and further, each filled with more and more beautiful objects.

We bought a number of different items:

I started with a much needed boundary statue: "Boundaries and Boundary-markers are very important in Indonesian life and culture. Often used to literally mark land boundaries, these statues are also used to protect ones emotional boundaries as well. Carved out of lava rock from the island of Sulawasi, these wonderful individually unique statues help to support and protect your boundaries. Haven't we all had times when our boundaries needed a little support?"

And proceeded to some bracelets and a japa mala:

I even found a beautifully carved wooden hand to hold my rings when I sleep or garden!

But then, life partner became serious. He found …

… a large wooden elephant for our library …

… an iguana carved from teak to hide between some plants on our sun porch …

… and a large picture of the Buddha's face for one section of the living room.

We were so excited, and paid for our purchases while Winston kindly helped to load them into the car  – but as we were exiting, we noticed a tall, serene Buddha standing by the front door. Life partner said, "Wouldn't that look good by our front door?" I gasped with joy and almost clapped my hands together like a small child. "Yes of course," I said breathlessly. So back we went and bought that too!

That meant moving things around in the car to help the statue fit in comfortably, and we set off into Frenchtown to find a place for lunch. The day was bright and clear, sun shining brilliantly and people were out and about – a feeling of end of summer panic in the air. Time for the last few moments of fun before school starts again, and with that, fall's routine hum-drum of work, work, work settles in again. Ah, the cycle of life!

Just as we were walking through the town searching for the right eating spot, I gasped out loud,"Oh dear, I forgot to take a photograph of the huge, white Buddha at the entrance to the store!" Life partner comforted me at once, "After lunch we'll go back on our way and I'll take a picture of you standing by the Buddha." "No need for tourist pictures," I replied with a laugh, "It was bad enough that I bought a river stone with Attraversiamo inscribed on it! How embarrassing is that! Don't tell anyone I did that, for goodness sake. Have I become an Eat, Pray, Love groupie?"

And so, after lunch we wandered back to Two Buttons. I was excited to see it again. I ran out to take a picture of the Buddha at the entrance to the store:

As I was returning to the car, Life partner noticed two tall urns standing in the sun. Whitish-yellow, delicately carved, standing on two pedestals. We drew in closely to look at them. I was thinking of the urn for our dining room. Although not pale green or porcelain, this looked much like the shape of the vase I had dreamed about recently. We  were commenting to each other in amazement at how inexpensive the urns were, when a man about our age came out to tell us they were from Vietnam, made of marble, and were inexpensive probably because they might have been broken and repaired at some stage. After agreeing that we could buy just one, he worked laboriously to tip up the urn and pour out all the rain water that had gathered inside over the past days or weeks. It looked extremely heavy, and I worried about him straining his back.

As we talked together I started to realise that this man was, in fact, Jose Nunes, Elizabeth Gilbert's husband. I smiled and laughed, exclaiming, "Ah, so you are Javier Bardem!" Jose smiled in return and said something about Javier being a "very jazzed-up version" of him! As we entered the store through the back in order to purchase the marble urn, Jose said that Liz was inside if we wanted to meet her. I was thrilled. "I wonder if she wouldn't mind signing a copy of my book?" I asked a little sheepishly, since I had put my copy in the car before we left home … you know, just in case. "Of course!" Jose replied kindly. Come on in!

Before we knew it, we were right back inside, amidst the beauty and wonder of Buddhas and trinkets, scarves, and beads, statues and carvings – on and on and on. Did I just hear Jose call out to Liz, "Darling … " as he summoned her to meet us? And there she was, extending her hand, smiling and greeting us emanating a relaxed and contented energy. She was quite happy to sign my book …

… and as she did, Jose poured us little paper cups of wine. I had a chance to relate to Liz that I had finished reading the book only two days prior to this trip, since I saw the movie first, and then read the book. I thanked her because the section written about India and the ashram seemed to have brought me back to yoga again in a deeper more fulfilling way. Winston and Jose loaded the precious, marble urn into our car, after once again we adjusted all our items to make room for the third and last purchase.

And off we went – back home. Only one more stop for ice-cream on the way, but I really could not wait to put everything in their places … but, especially, the urn.

… and so …

… as everything was put into place …

… life partner and I toasted each other with a glass of wine, and allowed all the beauty and joy of Two Buttons to bless our new home. Somehow, I feel, we will be back there again … and again …

I had a dream.

I found the perfect porcelain floor vase for the corner of the dining room next to the piano. It was pale green with light blue, turqoise markings, elegant ovally, sloping body with a gracefully rounded neck, not too long and not too short.

It was perfect. Delicate. Beautiful.

When I awoke, I could imagine it as clearly as I am writing about it now. "Had I seen it at IKEA the other day?" I thought to myself. I jumped out of bed and completed my house chores as quickly as I could so that I could return to the IKEA store and purchase the vase. I decided that perhaps I might place tall grasses and dried twigs inside it. I knew exactly how it would look in the corner of our elegant dining room. Mostly I was amazed I had such a vivid dream of a vase like that. Indeed, I could not remember ever having a dream like that before. People, places, journeys, quarrels, love, so much more – yes. But never of a piece of porcelain, and certainly not with such intimate, vivid detail. I could have painted it right then and there.

When I finally managed to make it to IKEA that day, I raced to the Market place area with all its home organizers, fabrics and textiles, kitchen wares, and lighting fixtures. My heart beat with excitement as I wandered into the home decoration section. My eyes scanned the room longingly for my porcelain vase.

No such vase to be found.

There were many glass vases, some tall, others shorter. Greens, blues, pinks. Nothing porcelain, delicate, Asian looking, like the one I had pictured so vividly in my dream.

I was disappointed.

A few days later, yesterday, in fact, I was walking around a home decoration store in Chestnut Hill with Shimon and Laurel. They had driven down from New York for the weekend. Suddenly I remembered my dream of a few days prior and animatedly described it not leaving out a thing, telling them over and over again how amazed I was that I was still able to recall every detail of my beautiful porcelain vase.  My heart was palpitating with excitement again. Laurel, an interior designer, said she knew exactly the type of vase I was describing. She knew what I meant, and I felt she understood.

And then, suddenly, in the midst of our talking, just as my dream was taken seriously by my nephew and his wife, and my excited and amazement feelings were being so validated, I realized that the dream had taken place a day before the surgery to my womb. Eyes shining, I said out loud, "I had the dream just before my surgery!" Shimon nodded understandingly. All three of us said almost with the same voice, at the same moment, "Of course. A vessel." "A beautiful, precious vessel," I almost whispered, "My womb was that vase!"

Laurel beamed. "A healing dream," she said.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Pieces life takes out of you

I love it when I feel a blog post coming on. It is silent, coming from somewhere in the middle of my chest but radiating through my brain – a tingling sensation. I sit at the computer and stare out the window sensing the words rising into my fingers. And then all of a sudden I begin to type. Clickity-clack at the keyboard, fingers flying. Sometimes I know I have misspelled or written something awkwardly but I press on regardless. Simply needing to get out whatever it is that is rising up and out of me at that moment.

And then … I stop. Pause. Think about what I have written, sometimes even read it over changing a word or grammatical point here or there. This leads me onto yet another thought or feeling, a different idea or turn of phrase, and on I go. Invariably Ada senses something is happening, developing. If she is lying further away from me, she suddenly jumps onto my desk with a chirp and a purr and watches from her little bed perched by the computer.

Of course something inside me is percolating and rising to the surface as I start writing, even if it is only a description of how I write my blog. Perhaps I am not yet aware of the feeling or thoughts behind why the urgency to write – why now at this moment. The reasons might come to me while I am in the process, or sometimes the idea is already there, clear, firm, strong, assertive. Sometimes the inspiration is revealed to me at the very last sentence. I am always amazed when the final sentence, phrase or word just comes out at the end – almost as if somewhere in my brain I always knew how this was supposed to begin and just how it needs to end. As if there was a plan all along.

And sometimes, I find out only later in the day, or even days later, why the urge to write became so intense at that moment. What, in fact, I was really writing about …

On Monday I noticed a status update by Geneen Roth on Facebook:

Think of The Voice as a GPS from the twilight zone. When you follow its directions, you spend your life trying to find streets that no longer exist in a city that vanished decades ago. Then you wonder why you feel so lost.

Was she writing to me directly? These past two days I have been thinking intently about these words, written in exactly this particular way, even talked about them in therapy, shared the phrase with a friend while walking in the Wissahickon yesterday afternoon – yes, I have been working on The Voice all of my life. But never has it been said so clearly, succinctly – made so much sense to me right here and now in this stage of my life.

My writing thread loses its focus. Ada suddenly needs to play with her toy mouse, my sister-in-law chats with me on Facebook, life partner stirs and calls up "Good morning," as he scrambles for that first cup of coffee.

Time to start my day.

It occurred to me during meditation this morning, that I have been interested in the Buddha figurine since I was a young child. I adored this green Buddha that my grandmother purchased from my step-father's store ever since I can remember. Was I eight years old? Ten? Or younger?

It was made in Czechoslovakia out of an expensive, heavy, green glass-type material. Today it is probably 50 or more years old. I had already emigrated from Africa to Israel when my grandmother died, and my aunt sent it over for me because my grandmother remembered how I had loved it. 

Since then, I have always collected Buddha statues, but I have never known why I am attracted to them. Recently, I decided to stop collecting them – again – for no reason that I can think of.

And then, suddenly, this morning, during breathing meditation, I remembered my green Buddha. I saw it in my mind as clear as the new day out there. Anxious to look at it more closely, I ran up to my study and took this photograph.

I wonder why I loved it when I was a child. I realize that my grandmother remembered me even after so many years we were apart, and that my aunt took the trouble to send it to me. I start to understand (perhaps for the first time) that it is one of my most cherished possessions.

I place it alone, in full view, apart from all the other Buddha figurines I have collected these past thirty years or so – right by the blooming geranium plant a colleague gave me recently to celebrate the publication of my new book.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: A parting gift

 … which arrived all the way from Seattle after residing with JJ for many years.

It fits snugly in the corner or our new dining room, as if it belonged there forever. Life partner stayed home to await the hutch's arrival, and I rushed home from work in excitement, especially because he let me know JJ had included a gift for me – beautiful smelling bath accoutrements for one of our bathrooms (or "Spas" as she termed them, when I called to thank her!). How did she guess they would match the third floor shower room, which is nestled right next to my newly developed study?

For now, I have placed two important gifts prominently on the hutch. An African picture picked out carefully and generously, and sent all the way from California by Marion for our new homecoming. The picture represents "moving" and "journey," so apt and meaningful, touching both our hearts – life partner and me.

The second is a wooden carving with Hebrew letters symbolizing space, letting go, and love, that Susan brought in person, accompanied by the gift of her Self, when she arrived all the way from Buffalo. She came especially to share in the new house with me. What an unforgettable visit she gave me! These past two days, we talked and talked – for hours, while walking for miles, eating good foods, sitting on the porch, or in various other rooms of our choosing – sharing and catching up on years of stories of our lives. My gratitude for Susan taking this time to spend together with me is simply impossible to describe.

The hutch joins the piano, which waits longingly for Gilad to stop by one day – who knows? The piano has special memories for me. It seems fitting and right that it stands across the room – facing- JJ's – now our – hutch – with gifts from two of my dearest, special friends. As I stand in the newly developing dining room, taking pictures to share with my readers, friends and family (who have been requesting pictures of our new home for weeks now), I realize that the new table and chairs are anxious to have a dinner party – house warming? Thanksgiving? Christmas? Shabat? Guests from afar – or near? Who knows?

I walk out of the dining room and find myself in the front section of the foyer facing the new rug we bought recently at a store close by … Dragan allowed us to take it home and live with it for a few days before purchasing – to get a feel for it in the new space.

What can I say? I fell in love with this rug. I am not sure this has ever happened to me before – falling in love with a rug, I mean. Whenever I arrive in the foyer – either from the dining room, down the stairs, through the living room, or even by the front door – I gasp – catch my breath and feel a surge of excitement. Yes indeed. I would safely say that these are all symptoms of falling in love.

From the hutch, to the piano, and all the way through to the new foyer rug, our home is coming together – slowly but surely, bit by bit.

I realized these past two days with Susan's generous visit to me, how important it is to share my life with dear friends. I bid Susan farewell this morning, and watched her car disappearing out to the highways for her journey home to Buffalo. I wandered through the rooms where we had spent talking and sharing our past and present lives and realized that I was relaxed – feeling less anonymous than I have felt for the past almost six years in this new city. 

My home has taken on a wholeness of me.

The plants are rejoicing …

Shooting new leaves or bursting into bloom …

Showing off their smarts …

Each one …

In their own way …

Greeting the days …

In a room of their own …

A room of their dreams … a room of my dreams.

Today was a typical summer day in Mount Airy (my new neighborhood). Before the temperatures could rise into their usual nineties, I strode out for my morning walk down Lincoln, across at Hortter, right at Wayne, left at Sherman and over to McCallum toward my old apartment stomping grounds. On the way back I stopped in at the High Point Cafe for a crepe filed with turkey, spinach and cheddar accompanied by a very frothy, slightly wet non-fat cappuccino. Next to me were two middle-aged women quietly but intensely discussing something of importance to them. They were leaning across their small table almost reaching their faces into one another as they talked, gasped, gestured, and sighed. On the other side sat a young family, father, mother and toddler. The father was playfully teaching his young son about this and that. The mother watched them smiling from time to time, and all the while chomped pieces of blueberry scone. Others sat at tables on the sidewalk, their dogs splayed out panting in the heat of the day. I did not hear any one thing that was said even though people were up
close and personal around me. I sat silent as stone, almost as if in shock, and numbed out their voices.

It felt good to sit at my little table checking email on the iPhone,
and scribbling notes in my journal, as I munched the delicious fare cooked by the young man behind the counter. He did not seem too keen on light chatter – efficient and abrupt as he took my order, grumpily scolding me before I left, for placing my empty plate in the wrong pile. However, the savory crepe and small green salad he prepared was delicious and satisfying after my long, hot and humid walk around the neighborhood. Even so, I dropped a couple of dollars tip into the jar on the counter as I stumbled out later. 

It was the perfect spot to process the therapy session I had a few hours prior to my walk. I had left the therapist bewildered and sad. When I arrived home, I immediately donned my sneakers and before I knew it, was striding out into the Mount Airy community, breathing in the few remaining puffs of fresh air before they were swallowed up by the humidity and intensity of the heat for the day. During the walk thoughts had been rising up to greet me. Memories, emotions, words, sentences, ideas, all churning and swirling – associations brought about by the few choice phrases the therapist offered at specific moments during the session.

Not wanting to be alone, but also not wishing to share my emotional
confusion with just anyone, the High Point Cafe was the exact
place to sit and write out the main points for me that had emerged from the therapy session, and continued during my walk. I tried to listen to me without judgment. I struggled to validate my feelings. And, when there was nothing left to challenge me, I picked up my small leather pouch, affixed the sun visor hat my sister had left with me last summer when she came to visit on her way home to Israel from England, and strode out into the blinding sun light for home.

So that is it. I have finally settled into a study of my own in our now house. It has taken almost six weeks to decide which room I would use, and it was a difficult decision indeed.

Up on the third floor under the roof, it has different nooks and angles:

The coffee corner with compact fridge and coffee maker. Now I will not need to run down three flights of stairs to get that second cup of coffee – especially when I am in the middle of blogging, for example!

Plants accompany me even to the third floor …

IKEA chair – one area of IKEA bookshelves … (all put together by self) …

Another set of bookshelves … bowl of water for Ada …

And, last, but not least – the computer station complete with Ada's old bed, and my trusty old desk that I assembled alone sixteen years ago.

I am getting there – slowly but surely. Today, I brewed my first coffee in the new coffee pot.

One of the things I really love about my room, is that there is ample space for me to do yoga. 

Sixteen years ago I read A Room of One's Own, and I think I have finally attained mine. I am allowing it to develop slowly, acquire its own vibe, find its soul, and nourish my brain as I enter into a new writing phase – a new life.