Bed on the Couch

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, 

And all my toys beside me lay, To keep me happy all the day. 

I posted this photo on Instagram the other day. It was captioned, “Cozy bed on the couch, day three." The hashtag -#sickgirl-further defined my condition. 

Today could be called cozy bed on the couch, day five. This most persistent of maladies has kept me literally on the couch since Saturday. More disturbing is that this current episode is the third bout of this mess I’ve endured since mid December.  The symptoms are old news - cough, body aches, sore throat, headache, congestion, earache, upset stomach. Apparently I’m not the only one whose been going through this revolving door of malaise. According to an informal poll among my Facebook friends, this is rampant.

I realized today how complacent about my good health I’ve become. I was a sickly kid, always on the verge of coming down with something or other, even if that something was mostly in my mother’s overactive and fearful imagination. At the slightest sniffle, she had the thermometer in my mouth and was on the phone to the doctor, scheduling an appointment. (To be fair, I was asthmatic, and had made enough middle of the night trips to the ER for breathing treatments to make any mother wary. And mine was especially so.) Then she’d make me a “cozy bed on the couch,” with my two pillows at my head, my favorite blanket, and a pile of books to keep me company. Just like the child in Stevenson’s famous poem, The Land of Counterpane.

I outgrew the asthma, but most of my adult life I’ve been prone to sinus infections and even a normal head cold invariably ends up as bronchitis or sometimes pneumonia. When I was actively working in schools and exposed to so many different germs, I was sick quite often during the winter. I became pretty adept at powering through it.  I recall once accompanying 15 students at a State vocal competition, then playing the second night of a three night run of 42nd Street all while running a temperature of 102 degrees. 

The show must go on, and all that.

But I’ve since learned the hard way that rest is a key component in treatment and recovery. So every time I got sick this past month, I have been diligent about stopping in my tracks, staying inside, drinking a lot of fluids - all the things my mother taught me to do when I was firmly entrenched in those long ago bed on the couch days.

Nevertheless, I keep getting sick, and this past week was a doozy. I can’t recall when I’ve felt so completely wiped out. I dragged myself downstairs in the morning only long enough to get some toast and hot water  - another mark of the seriousness of this episode? Neither coffee nor wine had any appeal whatsoever - and then I’d be back to my bed on the couch.

As with every gray cloud there are silver linings. Enforced stillness is sometimes good for creatives. In between my fever dreams I’ve actually had some good ideas for things to write about. I’ve read a lot, putting me closer to my goal of reading 100 books this year. My mom has gone full throttle into Mother mode, making dinners, dog sitting, offering mom-like advice in several phone calls during the day. She loves to be needed (and what mother doesn’t?) My dogs have enjoyed spending these sunny winter days romping around in her backyard instead of cooped up in the condo with me.

My poor husband though- not only has he been forced to listen to my coughing, snuffling, moaning and whining, he’s had to look at me in my saggy flannel pajamas, trailing my blanket around like Linus. 

And now is not the time to remind me that my word for 2015 was VIBRANT.

Normally I might think that these recurring episodes of sickness are about my body trying to tell me something. But I’ve been taking pretty good care of my body for some time. I eat well, I exercise moderately every day. I don’t overdo my activities anymore, and the things I choose to spend time on are just that - things I’ve chosen which makes a world of difference in how you perceive time spent doing them. My life is pretty stress free these days, which is saying a lot for a woman my age.

So I’m left pondering what the message is here - because I always believe there’s something to learn from every experience, that every small thread of the universe connects us to a larger story within our own lives or in the world around us.

I guess I’ll crawl under that blanket on my cozy bed on the couch and see if something comes to mind. 

If you have any ideas, let me know. Just don’t get too close - I might still be contagious.

The Family Business

My husband and I were born and bred in Detroit - The Motor City - and automobiles are definitely in our blood. Both of my grandfathers came to Detroit expressly because of the automotive industry. My maternal grandfather by way of a small town in central Kentucky, my paternal grandfather by way of a small village in Armenia. But because of Ford Motor Company and Timken Axle, they were able to provide for their families during Depression years and The Great War. 

No surprise then that my father whet his teeth at Ford’s, learning enough about the tool and die industry to open his own business and then become an automotive supplier. 

My father-in-law worked for Chrysler, my mother-in-law worked for Ford, and both retired with good pensions and benefits, the kinds that have long since faded from the business world. Although Jim has never worked directly for an automotive company, he has spent his career in designing and building the inner workings of those huge factories where cars are assembled. 

My first car was a 1972 blue Chevy Nova with a 350 engine; my second car a 1976 silver Trans Am, “screaming chicken” and all. Followed by a 1978 Corvette silver anniversary edition, which my dad bought for me in May of 1979. My relationship to my husband was originally inspired by my desire for a ride in is 1971 black Mach One Mustang.

I think my son considers our old 1979 Bandit Tran Am his mechanical “brother” since Jim bought it the day after Brian was born. And I have a sneaking suspicion that our grandson’s middle name (Alexander) was chosen based on the fact that his monogram would be CAR. Which is perfect, since he is a complete and total car enthusiast, and at the age of 3 is already “driving” his Dad’s Pontiac GTO through the neighborhood.

So I’m a car girl in every way. Our whole family is loyal to the American automotive industry. The only “foreign” car we’ve ever had was my 2007 Saab turbo, and the year after I bought it the American car companies went bankrupt. I know I can’t take responsibility for that. But still. I’m all American from now on. (Or a least, American labeled.  I realize that a good many parts and pieces of American cars are no longer manufactured in America. That is much to my chagrin - but that is an entirely different story than the one I mean to tell today.) 

The American automotive industry has fed and clothed me since the day I was born.

It’s kind of our family business. 

Because of all that, a good portion of our income has always been spent on cars. And I’ll admit, as I’ve gotten older I’ve sometimes wished I had some of that back. Did I really need to lease new Lincoln Mark VIII’s every two years for eight years running, to the tune of $500 a month each time? That was a good chunk of change down the proverbial drain, even though I did really enjoy driving that sleek, smooth riding, powerful car around town.

One of the things that’s happened to me as I’ve aged is a definite diminishment in my enjoyment of the automotive experience. It’s a sad fact about getting older: the things that once brought great pleasure seem sort of ho-hum. (I know, there’s another story implicit in that statement too, but I’m not about to go there.) Maybe it’s because I’ve been relegated for the past five years to what I consider an “old-lady car.” Or maybe it’s just because the cars I can realistically afford aren’t all that appealing. If someone were to offer me one of those Shelby Mustang GT’s like I saw on the floor of the auto show yesterday, I would probably be much more enthusiastic. 

But maybe not. I think my priorities have simply shifted. These days I think more about saving my money to make sure we have a nice home for our retirement, that we can spend winters in Florida or somewhere else warm. I don’t do a lot of driving anymore anyway, and I’m beginning to have more interest in comfort (yes to heated/cooled seats and steering wheels!) and less about how fast I can get off the red light.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things.” This Bible verse seems very true to me in these days, as I think about the ways our lives will change in the years ahead. As we walked around the floor of the Auto Show yesterday, instead of dreaming about what color car I might get next, or trying to decide whether to get a two door or four door, or which had the most horsepower or the sleekest lines, I was planning how best to coincide my next car purchase with Jim’s retirement so that it made sense for our budget. 

At almost 59 years of age, I’m certainly well past childhood. I had a good long run of playing with cars, and I’ve got some great car-related memories (especially in the aforementioned 1971 Mach One Mustang that belonged to a certain first boyfriend). Even though I spent a lot of money in my “salad days” of car ownership, I don’t really begrudge it. The feeling of speeding down the highway with the windows down, the t-tops off, and the radio blaring rock and roll is a feeling I savored time and again. I don’t know for certain that it’s completely over -somewhere deep down I still may be holding out hope for that red Mustang convertible - but for now it feels as if I can put my cars away in the annals of my memory and travel on. 

A Word About “The Word"

In January 2013, I chose an inspirational word as my guide for life throughout the coming year. It was the first time I had engaged in that practice, and it came about through working with my friend Deb Smouse, who puts together a yearly workbook to help guide you toward the word (or words) most meaningful to you. Working through the exercises in that little workbook was so enlightening to me then, and put me in touch with my feelings in a very surprising way. My word for 2013 (“Settled”) helped me get my new house in order, literally and figuratively. 

I repeated the process again in 2014, and came up with the word that not only helped me complete Life in General, but gave me a new way of thinking about the things I do for my family: Devotion.

 I was eager to discover my “touchstone” word for 2015, so once the holiday hustle was over I spent an afternoon in my comfy chair with a pot of tea and began the process. Part of the exercises involve scanning lists of words and marking those that “speak" to you. This is easier than it sounds, especially if you’re a word person. Reading through those words, I get a definite feeling about them. Most of the time it’s kind of neutral - nothing really happens. Sometimes it’s an averse feeling, like you’ve smelled a unpleasant odor. 

Then there are the words that “pop,” that give you a definite pleasurable sensation. My lists of those usually include lots of words like attentive, calm, disciplined, productive, generous, peaceful, wise, tender. 

This year’s words were so surprising. They were words that generally don’t show up on my lists at all: words like elegant and festive; fearless and feisty. Impact, insightful, luxurious. Proficient, resolute, revitalized. Strength, successful. Unsinkable.

At one point I found myself saying out loud, “Where did that come from?” (I think that was “feisty”).

As I worked my way to the end of the book, and came up with the final words that meant the most, I was enthusiastic. These were magic words that could enable a new way of looking at myself and my life. 

Excited. Confident. Elegant. 

Vibrant.

I always think of myself as a very low-key, understated kind person. I like to fly under the radar most of the time. I don’t want to make a big splash or draw attention to myself.

To my mind, those are all antithetical to someone who would be considered Vibrant. That person is outgoing, vivacious, bright, adventurous.

But I think the way I gravitated toward this word indicates a need to bring some elements of vibrancy into my life. Looking back over the past year, I can see myself coming to this point. We’re settled in our home now and I feel like it’s ours. I’ve finished my book, a long time goal and one that I completed successfully and with gratifying results. I feel more confident than I have in a long time, more sure of what it is I need to be happy. And I’m excited about new creative projects and partnerships for the future. I’ve started to feel an urge to get out more, do new things. And while I’ll always be a homebody, I’m feeling ready to see other places once again. I’ve felt a need to take better care of myself, not just on the inside but the outside. Lavish some extra care on my body, get some new clothes, ditch the blacks and greys for brighter colors. 

There is vibrancy in all of that.

Just because I didn’t fit my pre-conceived perceptions of a vibrant self-confident person doesn’t mean I can’t alter my ideas about vibrancy in a way that makes it congruent with my personal nature. By limiting myself to this idea of myself as quiet, self-effacing, and understated, I am limiting my ability to be and do in the world. Just as there are self-fulfilling prophecies, there are self-limiting ones as well.

You are as you think you are. 

This notion of a word (or words) to guide us is, admittedly, sort of self-indulgent. But in a world where the focus is often on injustice, violence, anger, and hopelessness, maybe it’s important to look inward sometimes to make sure we don’t slip into that kind of despair. 

I definitely feel like the world could use more vibrant, confident, excited, and elegant people. 

This year, I hope to be one of them.

(*If you’re interested in choosing your own word, try Deb Smouse’s workbook, Choosing Your 2015 Touchstones. You can get one free by subscribing to her newsletter (which also has some great ideas for creating a life you’ll love.)

What Saves You?

When I am among the trees, 
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines, 
they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment, 
and never hurry through the world 
but walk slowly, and bow often. 
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,”
they say, “and you, too, have come
into the world to do this, to go easy,
to be filled with light, and to shine.” ~ Mary Oliver

For poet Mary Oliver, the trees - the willows and the honey locust, the beech, the oaks, and the pines - save her. We all need saving from time to time. I know I do. When we are “distant from the hope of ourselves” for whatever reason, we look to our personal sources of encouragement and wisdom to instruct and inspire. Nature is that source for Oliver, as it is for many poets and writers. I’ve been reading Terry Tempest Williams memoir, Refuge, in which she pays homage to her landscape. “Only the land’s mercy and a calm mind can save my soul,” she writes as she drives across the Great Basin. “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."

When we write or speak about those things that “save" us, an element of the sacramental creeps in. In the short passage above, Terry Tempest Williams uses the words like holy, sacred, soul, mercy, and pilgrimage, all words we associate with religious experiences. Indeed, the word “save” itself is loaded with religious connotation for those of us who grew up in the Christian tradition. We were raised to believe in the “saving power” of faith in God and Jesus Christ, a gift that was there for the asking through simple grace.

I suspect nature is a saving grace for many people, though most of us don’t have the same facility for description as do the poets and writers who honor it so beautifully, so religiously. Today when I awoke the room was filled with the particular brightness that only sun on new fallen snow can offer. Pristinely white, not yet marred by traffic or footprint, the ground outside was aglitter with trillions of tiny snowflakes etched in ice. I’m not a fan of winter or snow, but even I was struck by the silent, perfect beauty of my view out the window. 

Am I "distant from the hope of myself" these days? Perhaps a little. That particular line in Oliver’s poem always strikes at my heart. It is so poignant. We all have those hopes for ourselves. We want to be more - creative, compassionate, attentive, loving, patient, mindful. We want, as Oliver says, to have “goodness and discernment,” to “never hurry through the world.” We pick and worry at ourselves and our lives, discontent with each minute. But she is right - when I can walk outdoors among the trees or especially along the waterside somewhere, I feel content, fulfilled, peaceful. I feel as if I belong, as if I am enough just as I am.

Saved.

But winter is hard. There is little opportunity for outdoor walking for me, there are no green leafed trees to sough and sigh and sing me their soothing song.  I have to find other saviors, and I am trying to be patient with myself as I search. Sometimes a cup of tea sipped from a beautiful china cup, both dogs curled on the couch next to me, a good book or two close by, some Chopin or Debussy playing softly in the background - sometimes that can save me. Those few minutes are reminders to slow down and savor, to “walk slowly and bow often” to the comforting peace and warmth of my home and the little animals who depend on me. 

Reading and writing - yes, they can save me. The power of words pulls me in, but also sets me free. It lights the way toward what a good life can mean, and connects me to the world and every person in it. 

The end of Mary Oliver’s poem gives us a mandate of sorts, one I try to remember when I most need saving from all the petty grievances I harbor against myself. “It’s simple..You too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."

On this cold winter day, I hope you find what saves you. May you go easy with it and shine.

Playing Dress Up

During my childhood I would go home with my best friend after school about once a week. She had two younger brothers, one of whom was young enough to be having an afternoon nap when we arrived, making it necessary for us to be extremely quiet because her mother would not be happy with us if we wakened him.  So we would tiptoe into the back door and make our way stealthily to my friend’s bedroom. Our quiet play usually consisted of reading or dressing/undressing our Barbie dolls. Conversing in stage whispers, we had to suppress our giggles before they turned into noisy fits of laughter. 

While we were playing, I was aware of my friend’s mother rustling around in her bedroom next door. I could hear the closet door opening and closing, the whisk of hangars passed across the clothes rod, followed by the sounds of zippers being zipped, snaps being snapped. Periodic efficient clicks ensued, sounds I recognized as the opening and closing of lipsticks and compacts.

By the time the baby was awake, my friend’s mother would emerge from her room dressed in a slim skirt and matching sweater, with a pair of black low-heeled pumps on her feet. She always wore a pearl studs in her pierced ears, and soft pink lipstick. Her gray hair, though cut short, was neatly styled and freshly brushed. She would lift the baby gently out of his crib and set him to play in his playpen, then go into the kitchen and finish preparing dinner. 

This transformation was a mystery to me. My own mother dressed each day in plain slacks and tops, which she wore all day unless she was going out, at which time she often put on an ensemble similar to my friend’s mothers. One day my curiosity got the better of me. “Why does your mom get dressed up every afternoon?” I asked my friend.

I could see she had never paid this much attention. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably because she wants to look nice for my dad when he gets home from work."

Keep in mind that this was the mid 1960’s, an era when women in their mid-30’s were mostly at home all day raising the children. When the men came in after a hard day at the office, wives still felt it was their duty to have a hot meal prepared, the children clean, tidy, and quiet. Sometimes they also felt it behooved them to look attractive. 

Obviously this made an impression on me because I’m still remembering it 50 years later (as I sit here wearing black yoga pants and a 10 year old Tabor Hill Winery t-shirt topped with an Eddie Bauer thermal sweatshirt.) I am home all day today, working around the house and at my desk, so I will most likely have this outfit on when my husband comes home at the end of his work day (at which point he will change into gray fleece pants and an oversized flannel shirt.)

I guess I started thinking about this after watching Downton Abbey the other night. As we watch, we chuckle at the number of times everyone changes their clothes at Downton. The ladies will wear one outfit for breakfast, another for riding or walks in the morning, still another for afternoon tea, and a final full dress affair for dinner. Each outfit requires the assistance of their ladies maid to lay out the pieces, tighten the corsets, fasten the jewelry clasps, and smooth on the gloves. The men don’t have it much better with their stiff shirt fronts, high starched collars, and innumerable hats, all of which signify their social class and status, so must be chosen with care and attention to detail.

Thing have drastically changed in the dress up department in the past 100 years - even in the past 40 or 50. Perhaps we have devolved too far into casual complacency when it comes to our appearance. I was certainly brought up to dress nicely, and even though my mother didn’t “dress for dinner,” she believed in people looking stylish and wearing good clothes. She often bemoaned that my father, if left to his own devices, would dress “as if he just got off the boat,” while my clothes were always purchased at quality stores like J.L. Hudson or Jacobsons- no K-Mart, Montgomery Wards or Sears duds for me. So I grew up loving clothes, although I went through a period of being very chubby and buying clothing was a completely demoralizing experience. But by the time I reached puberty, the baby fat distributed itself nicely into a Junior size 3, and I became a clothes horse of the first order. The hardest part of going to a Catholic high school was being forced to wear a uniform every day. It was torture for a young style maven like me. 

As a adult, when I worked in a high school I usually dressed in what’s known as business causal. I wanted to set a good example for the teenage girls, who mostly came to school in outfits that could have been plucked from the floor of their brothers closet. Later, when I was working in an office, I continued to dress professionally, adding blazers and skirts to my office wardrobe. I enjoyed dressing up each day, although as I aged it was harder to keep up with style trends without looking ridiculous. 

“Dress codes” for school and work had begun to disappear in the 1970’s and were all but gone by the 21st century. The year I started high school was the first year that girls were allowed to wear pants to school in the public schools.  (Yes, I am that old.) I remember the school administration tried to prevent the change by quoting “scientific evidence” that young people performed better in school if they were "dressed up.”

I can’t quote you those studies, but I can tell you from personal experience there might be something to that - at least for some people. I do feel more confident and focused when I’m wearing a smart looking outfit. It’s only common sense - if you feel attractive you have more confidence which can translate into better performance.  It’s akin to drinking coffee from a beautiful china cup. It always seems to taste better when you do. And sexist or not, most men- at least men of a certain age- will tell you they appreciate a woman who is “dressed up,” especially if she’s wearing a skirt or dress. (I know. But they can’t help it.) Besides, I appreciate a man in a classically tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt and beautiful silk tie. 

Still, I’m not interested in dressing like the Edwardians at Downton Abbey. Nor do I really want to feel compelled to put on a smart looking outfit each afternoon to wear while we eat dinner in front of the TV like my friend’s mother did in the 1960’s. And since I’m home all the time, I realize I’ve let my appearance slide. I tend to reach for the same pair of jeans and black tops every day. My yoga pants beckon when it’s time to watch TV or settle into the reading chair. I wonder: Would my writing go better if I put on slacks and a tailored shirt? Would I be more inclined to practice piano seriously if I were wore a flowing skirt to the piano bench?

Perhaps that’s a good experiment to try, one of these cold winter days when I’m home alone and feeling like playing dress up.