First Downton and Ten

I know that sports plays a huge part in most American’s lives, and I know that there are legions of women who adore professional sports, but I grew up in a household with two sisters who didn’t and an artist father who could take it or leave it.  So, Monday night was Little House on the Prairie night for us.  Once our homework was finished, we cozied into our nightgowns, grabbed the tissue box, and nestled onto the couch with Mom.  For the next hour our petty lives fell away as we immersed ourselves in the dramatic lives of the Ingalls family and the trials and tribulations that gripped Walnut Grove on a weekly basis.  I suppose this seemingly harmless tradition was little more than a gateway drug for what would eventually feed into our daily dose of General Hospital, but we didn’t care.  When a wagon was pulled from the mud, we cheered; when a crop was lost, we moaned.  For ten years we laughed and cried with Half Pint, wishing and wanting everything she ached for.  Her life became ours and we traded gladly.

Fast forward to our current family get-togethers.  My father has passed, I’m divorced, and my other sister is single.  That leaves only one brother-in-law-- who has three daughters—as the sole male in a house for a long holiday weekend with seven women who can take or leave professional sports.  To be fair, we let him watch his game.  We hear him cheer in solitude when the good team gets the points and sigh in frustration when the bad guys get a win.  Sometimes, in passing, we see him leap out of his chair, fists pumping in the air when his team wins, clapping to punctuate his victory as if he were watching gladiators at battle—as if he were in the battle himself.  But the rest of the time we commandeer the TV and lately we’ve immersed ourselves just as thoroughly in DVDs of our own choosing.  Yes, Downton Abbey.

Like a professional televised sporting event, we get viscerally amped-up for viewing.  Everyone claims her favorite chair and various snacks are put out on display.  As the opening credits unfold, we turn down lights and hush the chatters, eager with anticipation, ready for uncertainty.  Anna shows early signs of being a likely candidate for MVP, whereas Daisy is the clear favorite as rookie.  Lady Mary is clearly not bringing her A game to find a husband and worthy air and Lady Edith is just making poor decisions with every play—Mr. Carson should totally bench her.  Lord Grantham gets character penalties for infidelity, Mr. Bates emerges in the second half as a leader in his field, and everyone loves to hate Thomas and Mrs. O’Brien.  Thankfully, Lady Sybil, Mrs. Hughes and Mathew are holding the team together with strong character and smart choices.  Someone has to.

Beginning with the first show of the first season, we were entranced, but we also felt a little defeated.  Anna kept gaining ground with Mr. Bates, only to be blocked at every move.  She bobbed and weaved well enough, but someone or some circumstance was always running interference.  Neither of them could seem to gain any ground.  Once, when a clandestine kiss was foiled at the last minute, our viewership of seven roared in unison.  “Noooo!” we all shouted at the screen, our hands up to our heads.  “C’mon, Mister Bates, you’re not trying hard enough!  She’s right there!  All you have to do is lean in, for crying out loud!”  And so it went.  When Lord Grantham stole a kiss from the housemaid, we hissed and “ooooooed” at his penalty.  Would this be a penalty that would cost him the game with Cora?  I’m still undecided about Cora as to her value as a team player.  Sometimes I’m beguiled by her flexibility, her tolerance, and her steadfast loyalty to her daughters and sometimes she plays as if she’s just been woken up from a nap.  C’mon Cora, snap out of it—get in the game.

Everyone wants her favorite players to do better, to make the pass, to win.  When, at long last, Anna and Mister Bates did finally come together in a tender kiss, our excitement got the better of us just as any fan’s would.  Without direction, each one of us lept up from our chairs, fist-pumping and shouting, “Yay!” while jumping up and down in perfectly choreographed glee.  We cheered so loud that you would have heard it had you been walking your dog outside.  In fact, you would have assumed we were watching sports.  And in a way we were, we were watching our version of sport, immersed in a world of victory and loss, of small gains and obstacles-- of triumph and hope.  After what seemed like seventeen hundred hours in a row of viewing nirvana-- tension, longing and desire--our team had won.  Team Go-After-What-You-Want had scored a major victory.  Team You-Deserve-To-Be-Happy had advanced us in the standings.  Team Hope had beat out the defending champs, Team Cynical.  We were going to the semis with Team Love.  

A Jew at Christmas

(Chorus)

What’s it like to be a Jew at Christmas?

What’s it like to be left out?

What’s it like to be a Jew at Christmas?

My guess is pretty darn annoying,

Hardly worth enjoying,

Tedious and cloying no doubt!

Your quiet little street’s now ostentatious

Gussied up with lights like Times Square

And garish blow up Santa’s and their reindeer

Are cheapening front lawns ever where  (even here!)

The shelves are stocked with more than you can fathom

More-crap than you could pos-si-bly-y need

It’s not so much the shoppers clogging up the check out lines

But Christmas music loud enough to make your ea-ears bleed

(Bridge)

The holiday season’s o-ver-wrought and vulgar  (vulgar)

And I can’t help but feeling like you do

I’m totally overwhelmed and the irony of it all

Is Ba-by Je-sus grows-up to be-come a Jew like you!

Oh!

(Repeat chorus)

I imagine it’s a pain to tell your children

And have to listen every time they grouse

They won’t be getting Christmas presents on the 25th

Nor will they be décor-ating a fir-tree in your house

Often times I wish that I could join you

And simplify by eating out Chinese

And wrap up only eight presents for Hanukah

This stress level is anathema to me

I’m super sorry on behalf of Santa

And well-meaning Christians everywhere

It’s not that we set out to commandeer your quiet lives

It’s more-like that-we real-ly do-n’t care

(Repeat chorus)

Another Utopian Thanksgiving

If I had my druthers, my utopian Thanksgiving guest list would read like the ultimate fantasy football roster of party planning.  I would invite all the people in my life I really like, which, we all know is code for people-who-make-us-feel-good-about ourselves-when-we’re-with-them.  Because who doesn’t like to feel good on Thanksgiving?  And if we’re not feeling good by just being in the room, we might be tempted to look for other ways to feel good about ourselves, like drinking too much and/or eating stupid quantities of rich, fatty, or sweet foods.  Thank goodness Thanksgiving doesn’t revolve around drinking or eating.  Or being forced into small spaces with people we don’t feel good with.  Wait.  Hold the phone.

I would invite a few fun celebrities: Amy Sidaris, for her decorative flair; Sofia Vergara for her sizzle; Tracy Morgan would keep everyone on their toes and Alan Arkin for his dry running commentary.  I would invite my son.  He’s not a teenager, yet, so we still get along.  And maybe I would borrow a couple of especially adorable pre-schoolers and puppy dogs to curl up in my lap later on when the haze of tryptophan settles over the living room like an opium den.  I would invite my elementary school phys. ed. teacher, Miss G, but I lost touch with her years ago.  She made me feel good about my thwarted efforts on the balance beam and miserable fails at dodge ball by asking me to demonstrate the Alaman Left, which I did with finesse, during our square dancing unit.  It would be fun to see her again. 

I would invite my therapist, but that would be weird.  I would have to pay her, which would get pricey and potentially awkward at the end of the meal when it was time to hand her cash.  I know my therapist isn’t my friend but she makes me feel good about myself or at least makes me feel good about my efforts to improve and evolve.  I suppose I could slip her an envelope with a plastic container of leftover creamed onions.  Though, bound by all that pesky confidentiality, she might be a little lackluster as a dinner companion. 

I could invite some old boyfriends who where really funny and entertaining as long as I could put them all on a bus before they got so drunk that their ribaldry turned sour and they got handzy with Sofia.  And I would invite my minister and a few especially fascinating cabbies I’ve had over the years.  Nothing like a well-traveled woman-of-the-cloth and a know-it-all New York City taxi driver or three to add a little zest to the table conversation.  I suppose then the cabbies could take my ex-boyfriends back to Brooklyn.  That would work out nicely.  The celebrities would leave by limo and my therapist could give Miss G and my minister a lift home.  The kids and puppies would have to be returned before they began to melt down at the witching hour but my son could stay as long as he helps clear. 

Dinner is sure to be a whirl, but it would be lonely preparing Thanksgiving with none of my extended family there.  Alan Arkin might just be in the way whereas my dad vacuumed before holiday family events.  It would be nice to have a doddering old dude with a great sense of humor puttering around the house, but there’s no replacing my dad since he died, even with central casting’s finest.  I suppose I would miss the inside jokes and clandestine looks that my sisters and I share behind my mom’s back while she’s cooking—I must say—a consistently darn good turkey, year after year.  Although Tracy Morgan would give an incomprehensibly hilarious toast, it wouldn’t resonate the same way a few simple heartfelt words of gratitude from my brother-in-law would, especially this year now that my aunt—displaced from her home at the Jersey Shore-- lives with my Mom ever since Sandy.  Amy Sidaris is very funny, but so are my sisters, and as long as we’re on our best behavior we can usually hold out like a time-release capsule of decorum, keeping off each others’ nerves right up until keys slide into ignitions the next day. 

It’s not that I don’t like my family, I do.  I even love them.  It’s just that they’re also the triggers for just about every psycho-emotional idiosyncrasy I struggle with.  There’s no telling what might rear its ugly head when the kitchen gets too crowded or someone brings up the election.  So, I’m a bit wary.  But I’m also growing when I’m with them.  I’m learning to listen with detached compassion and not take anything personally.  I’m challenged to be patient and forgiving.  I’m learning to keep my mouth shut, walk out of the room if I need to, take three deep breaths and let it all go.  And with each Forced Family Function there’s a better understanding of where I came from, which I can use to inform where I’m going.  Heaven knows our past layers of resiliency have served us all well lately.  What’s one more?

So, perhaps the utopian Thanksgiving isn’t the answer.  With my true family I can sneak open the top button of my pants after turkey.  I can also be immensely grateful for what I have as I grope to become a better self.

Storm Concert

Sandy started out the way rock concerts do, thousands of people all looking forward to the same event, giddy with anticipation, a unified base of excited fans.  Hurricane preparations reminded me of the Springsteen tailgate I enjoyed only weeks before.  Coolers were readied; I donned warm comfortable clothes.  Focused on the same event that night, throngs of us were excited about the experience, fairly sure of the outcome.  As the tiny spec of Bruce leaned into the mic, his heart beat with ours to every familiar lyric.  From far away I looked down at a sea of bodies jumping and swaying below, arms fist-pumping to songs that united us--  a single-minded organism of nostalgic desire, craving our youth.  We owned these songs and they informed who we became.  We were a community that night.  There was no downside to the concert, no aftermath, only a happy shared memory between many hungry hearts.  

A few weeks later, millions braced themselves for the next shared experience.  Sandy united us again, giddy with anticipation.  As the media frothed I was proud of my calm preparedness.  I filled coolers with ice and readied warm comfortable clothes.  It was exciting and I was focused and ready.  I felt fairly sure of the outcome.  My son and I welcomed the power outage as one does an uninvited yet inevitable guest and lit burned candles around the house, giving our home a campfire glow.  We wore our headlamps and listened to seventies rock on the radio.  This was fun, I told my son.  And it was for a while.  Then the storm leaned in and with each downed tree and terrifying swell, my heart beat faster with responsibility and uncertainly.  There was no carload chorus of smiling singing friends to back me in this, I was alone with my son in the storm and my choices were my own. 

With every fierce and yowling gust of wind and beating rain, I perked up to the voice in my head whispering that this storm was not like the others.  Although I’d been riding out hurricanes on the Jersey Shore since childhood, my confidence eroded.  I wedged couch cushions against the windows.  I moved the bed downstairs.  But I wasn’t in this alone, not really.  Friends texted and I read their threads as they moved their families to the basement and strapped on bike helmets, just in case.  I welcomed their senses of humor.  One friend reminded me to breathe.  The texting continued until—one by one—their phone batteries ran out.  But we were in this together, I thought, as I extinguished the candles.  This knowledge calmed me and somehow I slept. 

Tuesday morning our shared experience splintered into thousands of stories—some brimming with luck and some ravaged with misfortune.  I was one of the lucky ones, in too many ways to count.  Friends with power offered my son and me a guest room and I accepted.  My mother found safety, solace and Boggle with her sisters.  Her beach house was unscathed, but information was scant.  Then as the days passed without power, a new normal emerged.  Talk of hot showers and thawing food supplanted jabber about soccer games and carpools.  Schedules dissipated and time slowed.  Rumors of devastation crept in.  One family with power opened their home to ten families without.  A makeshift commune blossomed of group meals and kids’ camp games, charging stations and workspaces.  For a week I experienced peoples’ abundant generosity and heard of others’ hoarding and panic.  As new routines and basic needs were secured, more and more distant friends stopped by and checked in to make sure my son and I were okay.  We joked about wearing the same clothes for days and listened to stories of midnight gasoline forays.  Then the homeowners went on vacation, gave out keys and incredibly, let the commune stay. 

It’s true that we have many selves, reserves of personalities to draw upon befitting the times.  We have a storm self, a vacation self, a weekend self and more.  Some of my friends had beach houses devastated by the storm, bastions of golden nostalgia, faded by the summer sun.  Their hearts and houses were wrenched from their foundations last week.  Their crisis selves emerged.  They were unified with their neighbors by shock and disbelief.  But friends and strangers rallied like angels.  They sighed then reached down to pulled up the floors. 

We’ve all shared this storm.  It’s now part of who we are.  Some neighborhood relationships brightened with the warmth of shared generators and community meals while others drew a cold breath, preferring to eat and sleep alone.  But community was there for the taking, for those who craved it, they didn’t have to look far.  Resilience, tenacity and a sense of humor kept us going; it keeps me going even now.  We own this storm and it will inform us—like it or not-- as we continue to evolve.  It has dared us to laugh and brought some to tears.  It has amplified who we are at our cores; it has carved a notch in our souls -- like a song that gets under our skin and becomes part of who we are.  

Something Else

Thisssss is not love, it’s something else,

And we’re not friends, either

Thissssss is not love, it’s something else,

Not just for fun, neither

(chorus)

But wheeeen I’m with youuuu__ liiiiiife is as it shooould be

Eeeeev’ry moment’s perfect__ but I won’t wait and see

No, no-no-no, If I know what’s good for me

I won’t wait and seeee

Thisssss won’t work out, can’t be sustained

it won’t survive, either

Thissssss won’t work out, it’ll unravel

I’ll fade away into the ether

(repeat chorus)

(bridge)

Soo-oo-oo-oon after I met you__ I-I-I-I held out some hope

Tho-ught that I held all your answers__ but clearly I was just a dope >>>>>>>

You made it clear__ that it would never work

Figured that your honesty was another perk

Wanted you so badly__ thought that-I-could make it work

But I was in denial__ and youooo__ you’re ju-st a jerrrrrrk

(instrumental is the bridge)

Thisssss, this will end, I will recede

And you will stop, calling

Youuuuuu’ll, watch me go, and I’ll catch myself

__Try to stop my-self from falling

(chorus)

‘Cause wheeeen I’m with youuuu__ liiiiiife is as it shooould be

Eeeeev’ry moment’s perfect__ but I won’t wait and see

No, no-no-no, ‘cause I know what’s good for me

You hold no future for me

No, no-no-no, and I know what’s good for me

So I won’t wait and seeeeeeee

A Good, Healthy Life

Jason Neff worked in advertising right after college.  He was good at it, but then he became ill. “I developed all these health problems, these idiopathic autoimmune diseases,” he said.  “What do you think was making you sick?”  I asked.  Straight-faced, he said, “Advertising.”

Jason had always studied martial arts-- a passion he’d discovered in high school--which led him to a type of Chinese meditation called, Qi Gong.  (pron. chee-gung)  “I tried it,” he said, “and all my symptoms disappeared.  I learned that our emotional and physical components are interconnected.  I had to quit advertising.”  Jason went back to school to study Chinese Medicine. 

“It was this fascinating confluence of science and art.  Since elementary school I’d devoured everything I could about Leonardo DaVinci-- he was my idol.  So, this was heaven.” After 5 years at the Pacific College of Oriental Medicine—the Harvard of such schools—he mentored with Nan Lu.  “It was amazing,” he said, “real Mr. Miagi stuff.  I learned the entire time.  It was incredible.”  After 4 years, Lu kicked him out.  “He said to me, ‘It’s time to go.’”

Jason hung out a shingle.  His business grew quickly.  “I love seeing how the interaction between lifestyle and emotion affect health.  In the West, people believe the brain is in charge of the body. The Eastern concept is that the spirit, soul or intuition—whatever you choose to call it—is in charge.  When your spirit is aligned with your body, you have fewer symptoms.”  Jason is confident, relaxed, open and kind with a good sense of humor.  He is completely non-judgmental and accepting of his clients and dispenses wisdom with surprising accuracy.  “I came to realize that illness isn’t bad. It’s the body expressing itself, trying to tell you something.  Instead of fighting the illness, Chinese Medicine works with the illness.  I see people transform.  I watch them learn to listen, to work with their body’s signs and their life blooms.  They feel better.  It’s wonderful.” 

I wanted to know everything he treated.  I rattled off a list to which he answered yes to all: allergies, migraines, PMS, sleep apnea, addictions (including smoking), stress management, weight loss, back pain, auto-immune diseases, depression, anxiety and lethargy.  I could go on.  “What about cancer?” I asked.  “Cancer is very complicated,” he said, “but, yes.  Mostly I work in tandem with the Western treatments.  The Chinese say, ‘There is no illness, only unmanifested spiritual purpose.’”  Woa, I thought.

“How do you explain what you do to the kids you treat?” Jason said, “Kids are great patients. They’re very accepting of The Force from Star Wars.  I just tell them that there’s a force that flows through us, and sometimes it gets stuck and I help unstuck it.  Acupuncture is about reconnecting us with nature. It works on strengthening what’s already there.  Adults are very disconnected from nature. Children are closer, that’s why they react positively quickly.”

I asked him to tell me what he’s looking for when he takes my pulse on both sides.  “Pulse is the Chinese version of an MRI.  The simplified answer is that there are 6 on each side of various depths-- 3 positions, 3 levels.  The meridians relate to different systems and how they function.  When you feel a pulse, you’re like a musician, listening to a note that might be out of tune.  Is it sharp or flat? Weak or strong?  There’s a skill to it.  A sensitivity develops.”  “And my tongue?” I asked.  “The tongue corroborates the pulse,” he said.  “And when we look in the eyes, we’re looking for shen.  Shen is spirit or consciousness—it’s your soul.  We’re looking for brightness.”

I asked, “Does the job ever get old?”  “Oh, no,” he said, “It’s amazing.  I love to see how the spirit tries to express itself when a sick person commits themselves to health.”  “And that sensitivity you’ve developed,” I said, “Does it ever overwhelm you?”

Jason said, “It did in the beginning, but then my mentor said to me, ‘Do you want to see disease and illness in everyone you pass on the street or do you want to see beauty and light?  That’s what you’re trying to grow.’  A gardener can see weeds and disease or shoots and blooms.  I look for the good in everyone—what’s blocking goodness.”

            I asked, “And what do you say to the folks who think it’s all a bunch of hooey?  That it’s all placebo effect?”  “Oh, I love those people,” he said, “I usually say, ‘If it works, what does it matter?’”  I paused and considered all that I’d learned and what it must be like to be Jason.  “So, you love your job and you’re always looking for the good in people and life?” I asked.  “Yes,” Jason said, smiling. “You must be a very happy person.”  “I am,” he said simply.  His smile remained.  His eyes were bright.

(Jason Neff is the owner and practitioner of Phoenix Acupuncture in South Orange.)

Dinner Party Panic

“You know what this needs?  Celery seed!!” my friend, Cynthia, said with epiphany-like panic.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wouldn’t know what celery seed was or tasted like if it bit me on the ankle.  But she was convinced, by golly.  Celery seed was our holy grail and we had none on hand for the meal we were preparing for our joint dinner party.   I hoped she would bounce back after the crushing blow to our hostess-hood.  I was fairly certain the meal survive without it.  Cynthia had her doubts.

Planning a dinner party with Cynthia had been an honest treat and at times hilarious.  She was shocked when I suggested we buy the meat, seafood, vegetables and other ingredients at one supermarket.  I suggested that our guests would be happy with cereal as long as there was enough white wine.  She smiled at me and I smiled back.  We both thought the other was joking. 

Secretly I coveted Cynthia’s relationship with food and cooking.  At the supermarket—I talked her down to two stops from four—she had a close and unique relationship with every ingredient we considered buying.  There was great debate over the cut of steak and much eye rolling over the corn.  I marveled at her suspicions.  Cooking seemed so complex and important to her, so personal.  It’s such a mystery to me.  My people are Nordic, so for me, cheese is the fourth element—fire, water, earth, air, havarti.  My mother’s meals tended towards the safe side of the pantheon of ‘50s staples, which is really saying something.  Every hors d’oeuvre she ever made began with a block of cream cheese.  Open faced sandwiches on pumpernickel I can handle, but the rest leaves me flummoxed.  I’m jealous of my friends who can whip up a meal in the same way I envy bi-linguists or innate musicians.  Food nourishes the soul.  We literally need it to survive.  No one would ever cling to my mediocre tap dancing on a deserted island.

Our dinner party was a success—celery seed notwithstanding.  During our post mortem, I asked Cynthia when her love affair with food took hold.  “My first solid as a baby was escargot,” she said.  “As a toddler, I couldn’t get enough of abalone.”  Where did you grow up?” I asked.  She said, “Atlanta.”  Of course, I thought.  America’s culinary hotbed.  “Our neighbors were Chinese and introduced me to dim-sum,” she continued, “My parents entertained-- at the age of six I could not get enough smoked oysters on Ritz crackers-- and they took me with them when they traveled.  One of my favorite food memories is of the Russian borscht I had at Boris’ Restaurant in the Yak & Yeti Hotel in Kathmandu when I was twelve.  It was like ambrosia to me.  I will never stop craving it.” 

Cynthia was able to parlay her childhood adoration for food into an adult profession when she became the tourism editor for AAA, rating hotels and restaurants in the Northeast.  I asked, “How did you take notes in restaurants if you didn’t want them to know what you were up to?”  “Sometimes I would pretend I was writing a letter and make all my notes on stationary.  Other times I would go directly out to the car and start writing.”  I asked, “And what is it like for you now that you no longer work in that industry?”  “I try not to be a pain in the neck at restaurants,” she said, “but I hold grudges.” 

“Does everyone have a food memory?” I asked.  I have a music memory and a dancing memory, even a fashion memory, but no lobe for food.  “Yes,” she said, “everyone except my in-laws.”  She continued, “I have a flavor memory, too.  I always know what’s missing.  I have a bank of flavors in my brain and I can pick them out.  Like an enormous store.  Everything is there in little boxes.”  I imagined Cynthia’s flavor memory like I would a scene in a Harry Potter movie—hundreds of wooden boxes as far as the eye can see, all with hand-written inked labels like in an apothecary shop.  My own flavor memory would fit in a shoebox filled with capers, Mallowmars and a jar of mayonnaise. 

I asked Cynthia if there was anything one shouldn’t put garlic on.  She answered immediately, “Dessert.”  I concurred.  She said, “Once I said to the waiter, ‘My tuile cookie is garlic-y.’  He went back to the kitchen, returned and said, ‘I’m sorry, M’am, you were right.  We stored them in the wrong bin.’”  I said, “What’s the most common cooking mistake people make that’s easily corrected?”  Right away Cynthia said, “Stop fiddling with your food in the pan.  Don’t touch it so much.  Leave it alone and let it brown.”  I said, “And if you could only take three seasonings with you to a deserted island?”  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I’ll be eating a lot of fish if I’m on an island.”  I hadn’t given that any thought whatsoever, but I supposed she had a point.  “Kaffir lime leaves, Beau Monde—it makes everything better—, and smoked paprika chipotle chili powder.”  “Are you kidding me?  I thought you would say salt, pepper and garlic.”  “Oh, sure, that, too,” she said.  I decided right then that I would get into her rescue boat if the ship were ever sinking.  Then I wondered, where’s Kaffir?

I said, “So, you must be one of those people who start thinking about lunch when you’re eating breakfast.”  “Oh, totally,” she said.  I confessed, “I think about dinner twenty minutes before dinner.”  Cynthia leaned in towards me.  Her passion was palpable.  “The thing is,” she said, “is to get your kids to like food, to pass on that joy and pleasure in eating food.  Let them see you loving it.” I nodded, fearing that I was too late with my son.  Maybe not.  I asked, “And when do you start thinking about dinner?” Cynthia’s eyes flashed.  “When I wake up.”

Tree Swing

I want to climb inside your mind.  Sit-on-the tree swing in your brain

It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain

I want to empty out the foam-peanuts crowding-the-space in your-head

Want you-to clear a path for me that leads right to your bed

(Chorus)

It hurts me not to reach for you.  Kills me not to touch

I have to sit down on my hands.  I want you, oh, so much

Hurts me not to tell you what I really think of us

Have to clench down on my heart.  I want you, oh, so much

It hurts to trace your winsome smile.  Watch your lips not kissing me

It wears me down to hear your voice, so salty like the sea

It hurts to look into your eyes, they’re so painfully pale blue

Want-to-punch-out the in-ev-itable good-byes I’ll say to you

(Bridge)

The thing is___I’m pretty sure you’d melt into to me

The thing is___I’m pretty sure that you’d cave

The thing is___I-think-you’d hug me all day in the rain

The thing is___I think it’s me that you crave

I need to barricade my brain from caring about what you say

Need-to-slowly inch away from you so it hurts less every day

I need to dig a moat ‘round you, restrain my body from yours

Need to pile the fur-ni-ture in front of my desire’s door

(Repeat Chorus)

Want-to nestle in your shoulders, wear you like a sweater that fits

Want to rip up all your suffering, tear it into small bits

I want to calm your cluttered mind.  Sit-on-the tree-swing-with-you in your brain

It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain

Sand Boxed In

I was single all through my twenties and for the first half of my thirties.  Folks used to ask me if I was gay, as if that would somehow solve my problem of being single, like it was psoriasis.  “I have a lesbian friend,” they would say.  “I bet she’s perfect for me,” I would answer, “but I’m not gay.”  I was just waiting for the right smart, funny, kind man to come along.  I realized too late that I missed the first round of marriage by not marrying my college boyfriend—who became a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—or any of the Eurojerks I dated while backpacking through Europe.  I had no regrets although that Eurojerk phase lasted much longer than it should have, but marrying Costis, Isaac, JeanPierre or Kort was the right thing not to do. 

During my late twenties-- as my weekends filled up with friends’ weddings, I continued to date all the musician/filmmaker/carpenters who were left.  They were all named Dave and I dated many of them.  That’s not completely true-- I dated all of them.  At least all of the ones named Dave.  It was about then that I began to tell people that I had skipped my first marriage and was waiting patiently for my second.  Because people seemed to notice.  It seemed to bother them that I wasn’t married.

One day I found myself sitting in the middle of a circle of chairs at the beach.  Reading and chatting in those chairs were my friends and their spouses.  Their children played in the center.  I was laying on my stomach on my towel making lazy designs in the sand with a stick.  I always enjoyed my friends’ kids as I inherently like them and was looking forward to having my own one day.  So we took turns, a four year old girl, and I, drawing faces in the sand then erasing the other one’s with the sweep of a hand.  Back and forth we did this, wordlessly for a while until finally she spoke. 

“Where is your husband?”

“I don’t have one,” I said. 

And then it hit me.  I understood that it was my job in this moment to lay the foundation for this little girl’s future as a confident single woman and productive member of society, so I made sure to keep my voice chipper so as to convey to her that she wouldn’t be any less of a woman one day if she weren’t tethered, by law, to a man.  One day she might take me to tea at Bergdorf’s to thank me for giving her the chutzpah in that seminal moment on the beach, when she was four, the moxie to go it alone and seek her fortune and happiness, knowing that if she were internally contented, that her inner radiance would dazzle all who came into contact with her and that one day she would meet a smart, funny, kind man in due time.  I continued to make designs in the sand and radiate wholeness.

“Why don’t you have a husband?” she said, and then she added, “What’s wrong with you?”

Huh, I thought.  So we’re going to play it that way, are we?  Well then you can kiss tea at Bergdorf’s goodbye.

            I leaned in close so that none of the adults could hear me, then looked into her eyes and speaking in a steady, hushed tone said, “There’s nothing wrong with me, sweetpea.  I’m just patiently waiting for your parents to get divorced so that I can marry your daddy.”  That shut her up.

Ocean Classroom

Growing up in Toms River, N.J., John Petrillo never liked school.  “History was the only subject that I did homework for,” he said.  But he loved to sail.  “In high school I thought, ‘There must be something wrong with me.’  I went to college anyway.”  For his final semester at Carnegie Mellon, John applied to study at the Sea Education Association. (SEA.org)  He studied marine sciences, history and literature; physical oceanography; and maritime ways of life.  It was the first time he could remember connecting with his subject matter.   Along with 23 other students, John lived for 6 weeks in Woodshole, Mass., then 6 weeks aboard a 200 ton, 135 foot sailing vessel.  Also living aboard were 4 faculty, a professional crew of 13 and one cook.  “It’s then that I finally liked school,” John said, “I became enamored with studying.

While living aboard, John learned celestial navigation, how to clean and operate the vessel, what it meant to ‘stand watch’ and how to get along with strangers in very small living quarters.  “It felt nice to actually be interested in what I was learning.”

After college John worked at the Maritime Museum in San Diego, The New Bedford Whaling Museum, Mystic Seaport, and as crew on a tall ship—13 sails in all.  He earned his Masters in American Civilization at Brown where he studied Caribbean and Polynesian history and literature, whaling lore, whaling ship logs and scrimshaw art.  He can even discern fakes.  Then his dream came to fruition.  He landed a position as head educator and humanities professor for high school and college students with Ocean Classroom Foundation. (oceanclassroom.org)

For 8 years, John taught history and literature at sea to high school and college students.  For 4 months each semester, the ship sailed 6,500 nautical miles and spent about 40% of her time in port.  Once there, students would visit Botanical gardens or learn marine biology via snorkeling, etc.  “They had no TV, phones, computers or running water.  Showers were buckets thrown over the side, hauled up and dumped over us.  There was a GPS on board, but only for emergencies; all navigation was made by students using a sextant.”  The ship might be at sea for up to 17 days, in which case students would read, do homework, write papers by hand—or stand watch, which included 4 hours shifts at the helm, on bow lookout, boat checks and kitchen duty.  “Smoking and drinking was forbidden, zero tolerance; exclusive relationships were curtailed.” I said, “That must have been challenging.”  John said, “I learned a lot at reunions,” and smiled.

Now John is getting his PhD in Learning Sciences at Rutgers’ Graduate School of Education.  “I'm studying how kids learn in informal out-of school contexts--experiential and outdoor learning.  I want to open a school that creates deeper learning and understanding through hands-on approaches using Barnegat Bay as the curriculum’s focus.” 

So much for the kid who never liked school.  

John Petrillo has a Masters License to captain a vessel up to 100 tons.  For photos and to read student and faculty diaries, visit oceanclassroom.blogspot.com.

Marbles

Found a marble__ in my pocket

Lost the marbles in my brain

Found the nerve to__ tell you bye

Now it’s drivin’ me insane

Lost the will to__ let you hurt me

Found the reasons in my heart

Now I’m free to__ love another

Lost the know how where to start

(Chorus)

I used to worry that I’d lost you, expecting you to leave

Now I feel much better—I can finally breathe

I used to worry that I’d lost you, panic that you’d gone

Now I feel much better--  I’ve kept calm carried on

(Instrumental)

Lost the need and desperation

Found my wayward self-respect

Now I’m sleeping much more soundly

Have more ti-ime to reflect

(Bridge)

Youuuuuu didn’t treat me very well

Made my life a living hell

But my desires I couldn’t quell

IIIIIIIIIII couldn’t seem to pull away

At least not until today

When I found the voice to sayyyyyyyyy

I have to leave you, I have to leave you

Found a marble__ in my pocket

Lost the marbles in my brain

Found the nerve to__ tell you bye

I must have been insane

Lie Here

(Intro- sung/spoken)

Sometimes when I first wake up, before I open my eyes

I have a little chat with myself

I glance at the alarm clock then slowly realize

I should get up-- or I could put this morning on the shelf

The guilt sets in as I-I ask my conscience for permission

I can’t seem to stop this pen-chant for self-admonition

This goes back and forth for minutes though it feels like hours

Should I get out of bed,

or remain in my head.  I really need to shower

Why wouldn’t I stay asleep when I could be dreaming of you?

Why wouldn’t I stay in bed when there’s so very much to do?

(Song)

Let me lie here__Quietly thinking of you

Let me lie here__With so much to do

My eyes have just opened__I’m still in my bed

But-I can’t still the mem’ries__Of you in my head

It’s time to get up__Get-this show on the road

But-I can’t move a muscle__My heart is too heavy--  a loaaaaaad.

Let me lie here__With you in my heart

Let me lie here__Knowing not where to start

My lists are all waiting__With hands on their hips

But I can think only__Of your tender lips

It’s time to get moving__I really will try

But I keep on replaying__The last time we said--  good-byyyye

(Instrumental)

(Bridge 1)

The morning has come__And you’re far away

I’m left to imagine__What you’ll do today

My day has begun __Yet I can’t move an inch

Without your arms wrapping me__ Up in a clinch

(Repeat first verse)

(Bridge 2)

Oh-oh-oh let me lie here__ with you in my heart

Wrapped up in blankets and yearning

Let me lie here__ so far apart

Alone in my bed but so crowded by burning… desires

Let me lie here__Quietly thinking of you… mm-mmmm