Love

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Insomnia and the Power of One.

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Ma loved all children but especially me.

I like to give.  I also like to receive.  But giving just feels so much better.  You get that warm and fuzzy feeling.  All gooey inside like a hot fudge sundae.  And there’s this glow that appears all around your edges.  Like the kind Angels wear and Beyonce sings about.  You know what I’m talking about. The halo. There’s also music.  Harps and lutes and chirpy birds.  It’s marvelous.  All this just from the simple act of giving.

Ma was a bigger giver.  And The Old Man would give you the shirt off his back without hesitation.  But I learned all about giving to people I didn’t know, and who lived in worlds far beyond our borders, from Ma.

Little back story.  Many years ago, when I was a much younger version of myself, I was living with my two oldest kids in the Italian neighborhood of Toronto.  It was a bleak period in my life.  I was separated, raising two kids alone, had a low-paying job, not much of a social life, lonely, frightened and lacking in resources.  I was also an insomniac.  Still am.  I spent endless nights ruminating over the state of my life.  Looking under every imaginary rock to see what was lurking there.  Leaving no stone unturned.  It was torture.  Self-inflicted torment.  Oh the wretched scourge of it all. Woe was me.

Much of my time was spent worrying about money.  There was never enough.  I took the expression “robbing Peter to pay Paul” to all new heights.  Gave it fresh and new meaning. I was equally inventive and creative with my money management.  Plus, I was a master juggler of serious magnitude.  My financial situation was in such delicate balance that I was a one-woman circus act.  It would have been hilarious had it not been so pitiful.  Or my life.

It was during one of these sleepless nights that I learned one of the most profound lessons on giving.  Typically when I have insomnia I stay rooted to my bed like a beached whale on a California shore.  I toss.  I turn.  I thrash.  I flip pillows.  Pound them.  Beat them to a pulp.  Then ultimately toss them on the floor.  I kick my legs in and out of the covers.  I roll my eyes inside my head until they hurt.  I try to substitute my dark morbid thoughts for pleasant ones that involve sunshine and fields of daisies.  Eventually I succumb.  I never really know when or why.  But eventually the Sandman pays me a visit and I slip fitfully into Dreamland. Or Nightmaresville.
But on this particular night long ago, something mystifying compelled me to get out of my bed and walk down two flights of stairs to our basement rumpus room.  It had a television and was far enough away from my sleeping children not to disturb their peaceful and tranquil slumber.  Oh how I envied them.

It was the hour of the wolf and I was fully expecting to see nothing but snow and static on the television.  That suited me just fine.  My head was spinning and my heart was howling with fear and bitterness.  I was in no mood to be touched by anything broadcast in those murky unsettling hours before dawn.  But I was.  Deeply.  So powerfully in fact, that what I saw would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I guess it was an infomercial.  Although that seems far too trivial a description for what this was.  There were no hawkers of magic mops and make-up.  Nothing of that nature was going on.  But it sold me none the less.  It grabbed a hold of my heart and hasn’t let go since.

In the quiet of that early morning gloom I stared into the faces of sweet innocent children thousands of miles away who had nothing.  And I was broken. And humbled.  Saddened beyond description.  I saw bellies swollen from hunger and thin tiny limbs covered in sores.  Poverty.  Sickness.  Strife.  Yet in the eyes of these beautiful ones I also saw my own two children.  No different.  They were children. Kids.  Just like mine.  Suddenly my first world problems were put into perspective.  So I did what I often do in situations like this.  I had a little chat with God.

It went something like this.  “Okay, here’s the deal.  I’m on my own and I’ve got these two kids and three cats to take care of.  I can barely make ends meet.  Just ask Peter and Paul.  But I can’t deny what I just bore witness to.  I need a few extra bucks every month to help one of these kids and their families.  That’s all.  A few extra bucks.  Plus I need your help with my own kids too.”

That was the promise made.  That has been the promise kept.  On both our counts.

I also thought of Ma that night.  And wondered if she had ever made the same deal.  She had four kids and an alcoholic husband, who often in their early years together, spent his paycheck before it was earned. She was like the woman in the Bible who had little but gave much.  Ma’s five or ten dollars sent off to this charity or given to that cause was like the millions given by the wealthy.  She too supported a third world child.  I remember the photographs she received of her foster children over the years.  She never boasted.  She just quietly and faithfully gave every month for years.  They could count on her.  She loved children so.  No matter where they came from.  She wanted to help. To do something to change the course of even one child’s life.  Ma was a shining example of the power of one.

Flash forward.  It’s years later and I’m living on the Westcoast. It’s the middle of the night.  I can’t sleep.  But I can’t stay in bed either.  I have a room of my own now with a computer where I dream and make magical things happen.  Life is different.  I no longer ride it out.  Instead I write it out.  It’s raining as it so often does out here.  I’m worried.  There are wars.  And rumors of wars.  People are suffering.  Everywhere.  My heart aches and my head can’t make sense of any of it.  I get up.  I go to my computer and I write this poem.

A Mother’s Prayer for Peace

Dear God,

It’s the middle of the night,
And I cannot sleep.
The rain is pounding on the roof
And the wind is howling outside my window.
But I am safe and warm,
Comforted by my feather duvet.
My faithful dog curled up at my feet
And my husband breathing softly next to me
Our children safe in their beds
Surrendered to dreams,
Sweet sweet dreams.

Yet my heart is not at peace,
It is broken with sadness.
For out there
Somewhere in a world I do not know
In countries I’ve only seen on TV
Are other families
With mothers just like me,
Who but for your gentle grace
Live a different life.
One not privileged with
Warm safe beds to rest,
To sleep, to dream of tomorrow.

Their lives, every bit as precious as mine
Are torn apart and shattered –
By fear
And hate
And hunger
And disease
And disaster
And ignorance

WAR.

I pray for these loving mothers
And for their dear families
That they ALL
Each and every one
Have what I have
And know, truly know
What it’s like
To go to bed at night
And NOT be filled with fear
That their beautiful child,
Every bit as precious as mine,
Won’t be harmed
Or blown to piece
By the enemy lurking at the door.

God, I pray that all these mothers
Know at least one moment of peace.
And that that moment grows and grows
Like a wave across the world.

A graceful, gentle, loving wave of peace.

It begins with one moment
And grows from moment to moment.
It begins with one mother
And grows from mother to mother.
And it saves one child
And grows from child to child.

May we share this moment of peace
Mothers of the world.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

Amen.

In gratitude and love,
boo king

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer.

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After the photo shoot. Ma, The Old Man and Sugar.

I like to dance.  I’m lousy at it but that’s beside the point.  I have two left feet apparently.  I lack rhythm.  Poise.  And most importantly, grace.  I’m a klutz.  I bang into door frames and stumble farcically over cracks in the sidewalk.  But I flat-out refuse to accept the mountain of corroborating evidence that even though I’m a lousy dancer, I should pack it in altogether.  That’s just not going to happen. I may be in denial but I like it.  Nothing can stop me from shaking my booty.  Strutting my stuff.  Tripping the light fantastic.  And shuffling off to Buffalo.  My personal history has taught me that it may not be such a great idea to dance in public. But in the privacy of my own room, I can boogie on down and dance dance dance.

Little back story.  When I was six or seven I started taking ballet, tap and acrobatic lessons from Mrs. M.  Although I took lessons for seven years I never really got very far.  The writing was on the wall, “This girl needs to take up another activity. Like bowling. Or Paper Mache.”   Ma and The Old Man didn’t see it that way though. Just as I am in denial today, they were equally blind back then to the abysmally obvious. They had no perspective when it came to my talent.  Or lack thereof.  I was their child.  Everything I did delighted them.  As it should be.  But the truth is, I knew, and Mrs. M. knew, that I was never going to be the next Anna Pavlova.

My memories of Mrs. M. are vague and sketchy at best.  Blurry little reveries of wooden floors and pointy toes fused with young girlie scents and self-conscious glances.  Unlike Terpsichore, Mrs. M. did not find me amusing.  No, I was not her muse.  And unlike Ma and The Old Man, she did not take delight in my dance.  But she was my teacher for seven years and I do give her top marks for perseverance and tolerance.  And for not telling my parents to take my ballet shoes and go home.   I was also irrationally terrified of her.  In my mind she was at least 75 years old and monstrous.  Realistically she was probably only 45, but when you’re seven and small, anything over thirty is ancient and intimidating.

I wanted nothing more than to have made my inept body perform better.  But it just wouldn’t.  In addition to lacking rhythm, poise and grace, I lacked flexibility.  Especially in my legs and lower back.  Having pliable stretchy elastic Gumby body parts in these two areas is  undoubtedly advantageous.  This particularly comes in handy when performing moves like “the splits.”  I don’t advise that any human over the age of thirty attempt doing these. At least not without an Emergency Medical Team on hand to revive you and uncork your legs.  Even the sound of the word hurts.  Splits.  OUCH.

I remember practicing. Diligently. Tenaciously.  Willing my legs to  flatten.  Forcing them downwards towards the floor.  Long before I knew what visualization was, I would lie in bed and see my skinny bowed legs getting closer and closer to the floor.  It was painful.  Eventually I got pretty close. If I scootched my bum just right, sort of off-kilter and leaning towards one side, it sorta-kinda looked like I was doing “it.”  And that pretty much summed up everything about my dance career.  I got close, and as Groucho Marx or W.C. Fields put it, “but no cigar.”

In what would be my final year of lessons, I got to participate in the annual dance recital.  The Dance Revue.  Two horrifying nights of performances on a Friday and Saturday, in June. I still have the blue and green program from the evening.  My last name was spelled wrong throughout.  In the program it proclaims that in the first half of the evening I performed in three of the “Varieties” called Recital Time, Destination Moon and Tumblers. After the Intermission, that lasted precisely 3 minutes according to the program, I also performed in a dance called Flowers Awaken in the “In A Flower Garden” feature. It goes without saying, I was a supporting player, not a soloist like Donna M or Bernice H or Barbara C or Wendy W.  I probably secretly hated all of those girls.  A Prima, I was not. I didn’t even make it into the Grand Finale “Around The World” feature, of which there were sixteen.  You think she could have at least thrown me into the back row of Chantez Chantez or Canada The Hop Scotch Polka.  Everyone seemed to be in those little numbers.  Except me.

Ma made all of my costumes. Lovingly. Tenderly. Ardently.  I thought they were divine. Worthy of a Princess.  A Prima Ballerina.  I still have those too.  They’re wrapped in tissue and stored in a McNulty’s box in my storage closet.  I can still feel my mother’s touch on the fabric. And it breaks my heart.

Recital Time was a snappy little tap ditty.  The fabric for this costume looked like it once adorned Ma’s kitchen table.  A hot pink checkered gingham number with puffy little pants and a bib-like top tied in a bow at the nape of my neck.  The piece de resistance was the pointy little hat, that closely resembled a New Year’s Eve Party Favor or a small dunce cap. I think I wore the same costume for Destination Moon because the hat could also work as the nose cone of a rocket.  For Tumblers I wore a simple black leotard with tights and black ballet slippers.  My leotard was the wrong kind.  All the other Tumblers had leotards with short sleeves. I was self-conscious and embarrassed by the lack of sleeves on mine.  I never told Ma she bought the wrong kind but it was plain to see I had four inches of uncovered flesh on my upper arms.  In Flowers Awaken I wore an orangey rust colored tutu made of satin and crinoline with fake silk flowers strategically attached to my torso.  But thankfully there were no hats.

Ma and The Old Man thought I was marvelous, none the less.  Before the recital they took photographs.  They turned our living room into a photography studio.  Truth was, it was nothing like a photo studio.  The developed pictures were proof of that. They draped a white sheet over our floral curtains, moved the chair and end table aside and snapped away with our six-20 Brownie Junior camera.  I posed in front of the sheet in my three costumes.  The serious tap dancer.  The smiling ballerina.  The perplexed tumbler, almost doing the splits.  And then after the photo session, I took a picture of the two of them with our dog Sugar, wedged helplessly between my father’s legs.

There they are, my two biggest fans.  The ones who took me to lessons for seven years.  Made my costumes. Applauded the loudest. Fought back tears of pride.  Cherished my performances.  Showered me in kisses filled with admiration.  I was their tiny dancer.  They were incapable of seeing my flaws. My faulty performance.  And the gap between my skinny bowed legs and the hardwood floor.

Image

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: The Fine Art of Courage and Sunflowers.

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Ma’s Sunflower painting wide and open.

I love sunflowers.  They are such a cheerful good natured flower.  If they were people they would be the kind with the wide open faces and big toothy grins.  You know the sort.  The ones who always see the sunny side of things. The good. The optimistic. The hopeful.

Little back story: My love affair with this blithe bloom actually began as a seed.  As much as I loved the flowers, it was nothing compared to my love for the seeds.  Not the healthy versions that you buy in health food stores or in the bulk food section at the grocery store.  I’m talking about the ones you buy in the chip aisle or at your neighborhood corner store, the depository for all things so good tasting yet so bad for you.  I’m talking the super salty variety in their shell.  The ones that you suck, crack open, chew, swallow, wash down with soda.  One bag of Giants and your mouth is begging for mercy.  This is my idea of the perfect sunflower seed.

One summer The Old Man and I planted sunflowers all around the perimeter of our back yard.  They grew tall.  And confident.  And winsome.  They were magnificent.  I loved them.  The Old Man Loved them.  Ma loved them. The birds especially loved them.  Everyone was happier that summer.  Sunflowers have a knack for bringing out the best in all.  Perhaps that explains their popularity.

Ma wasn’t a gardener.  She left that to The Old Man and me.  Ma was an artist. I didn’t really appreciate her artistic abilities until she turned sixty.  Not that Ma suddenly became Picasso or even Grandma Moses on her sixtieth birthday, and then we all took note.  It’s more that Ma’s creative talents weren’t so clearly defined, at least not to me.  An “Artist” by my limited definition, was someone, most likely bohemian in nature, who had abstract paintings in uptown galleries, SoHo cafes, coffee table books or at the very least was someone like the quirky art teacher in my high school.  Not my mother.  But her domestic talent was always present, manifested in everything she touched.  From the one-of-a-kind clothes she sewed for me to her scrumptious baking and homemade pasta and bread.  Everything she made with her expressive hands was a work of art.  A masterpiece.

At sixty Ma went back to high school.  At night.  To study art.  Oil and charcoal.  I can only imagine the bravery it took to embark on such an endeavor.  What a personal challenge it must have been.  But also what an adventure.  What a magnificent obsession she must have had.  I say this because she was so painfully shy and timid.  Her voice, at times was barely audible.  You had to really listen to Ma when she spoke or you would miss all the good stuff.  The wisdom. The gems. The humor.

Off she went. Courage mustered. Heart full.  Audacity emblazoned. Once a week she headed out to my old school where she studied fine art.  Drawing and painting.  Life and landscape.  People and places.  Her imagination was set free.  She was firing on all cylinders and having the time of her life.  She was in bliss.  Cloud Nine.  Heaven.  And yes, it was oh so fine.

Ma’s life as an artist could have started much earlier than age sixty.  Raising a family, time commitments, financial struggles, shyness and fear aside, there was something far more sinister holding Ma back.  She told me a story once that both broke my heart and made me angry.  When she was a young girl in grade school she drew a picture.  I think it was of a cat.  Proud of her drawing, she showed it to her teacher.  Instead of praise and encouragement she was met with accusation and shame.  The teacher accused her of tracing the cat, berated her, saying that she couldn’t possibly have drawn it so accurately without having cheated.  Needless to say, this crushed Ma.  Her spirit.  Her talent.  From that moment onward she kept her artistic dreams a secret.  Locked away inside her precious little-girl heart for decades.

I have no idea what the catalyst was for her change of heart, for the unearthing of her secret desire.  I don’t know what made her push the fear and shame aside in favor of following her dream.  It seems that one day she just did it, as if out of the clear blue.  She had a notion and acted on it.  And I’m so glad she did.

Ma had many many joyful years of painting.  In particular, she liked to paint flowers. I remember towards the end of her life, when she was in her late seventies, I asked her to paint me some sunflowers.  By then, she had pretty much abandoned her easel, canvases and paints.  She simply stopped.  Almost as quickly as she started. For no apparent reason. Another notion perhaps.  Again I had no understanding of why.  It was all a mystery to me.  The enigma of Ma.  The request for the sunflower painting was my vain attempt to coax her back into doing the one thing in life that brought her such joy, that had nothing to do with raising kids or managing a home, taking care of The Old Man.  It was just Ma’s.  Uniquely hers.  I also really wanted a painting of sunflowers for my living room wall.  But she kept putting it off.  Said she’d “get round to it one of these days.”  Then I dropped the subject.  She was getting old.  Then she had the heart attack.  And everything changed.

After Ma’s funeral, on a cold February night in a small town in Northwestern Ontario my siblings and I visited the home where we all grew up.  This would be the last time I would ever step inside this place.  It was cold outside but even colder inside.  It struck me that without Ma, there was no warmth.  This was now just a small wartime house in the west end of nowhere.  I visited each room for one last time, collecting little mementoes and treasures that once belonged to Ma.  My siblings did the same.

Upstairs in the room that was once occupied by my older brothers, then by me, and was one of the places where Ma liked to paint, I found the most resplendent keepsake of all.  The sunflower painting.  There it was.  Waiting for me.  Even after she had moved on, she was still giving me gifts.  Suddenly the room grew warmer.  My heart was light.  My face open and wide.  My grin big and toothy.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Everything Scares Me.

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I was even too afraid to smile in my Kindergarten photo.

I have fears.  I have always been afraid.  Everything scares me.  Anxiety has haunted me from the beginning, probably even in the womb. Perhaps there is deeper meaning to that first cry.  I have no conscious memory of not being anxious about something.  In fact, fear and anxiety have been such an indelible part of my life I suspect on some level I’ve grown comfortable with this diabolic duo of emotional destruction.

I’m an ordinary woman who has always longed to live an extraordinary life.  And in some ways I do.  I look back with wide-eyed wonder at the life I have led, the people who have surrounded me, travelled this journey with me.  I’ve come a long way baby!  From the little girl trembling and weeping on her mother’s knee because she didn’t want to go to kindergarten without her to a fully evolved woman with accomplishments, skills, adroitness, and stuff under my belt.  I’ve had the privilege to have met and worked with sublimely talented people, who have shared their gifts with me and enriched my life, both professionally and personally.  I’ve fallen in love, married and had children, who have sat on my knee and wept.  What an honor to be their mother and to have dried their tears. Yet through it all I have been afraid.  Some days just getting out of bed is an act of courage.

It’s a miracle that I’ve done anything with my life.  I don’t recall what got me off my mother’s knee and into that kindergarten classroom. I don’t know what she said or did.  But I do know it required faith and trust. The flip side of the coin.  The antithesis of the diabolical duo.  Faith that someone or something was out there watching over me.  Trust in my mother, that she wouldn’t lead me astray nor send me somewhere that would cause me harm.  I was her dear one.

I tried a slew of things to overcome this underlying malaise that colored my days including reading copious pop psychology books.  In turn I became a perennial student of self-help, a physician to my subconscious wounds and minister to my spiritual being.  Some of these books were helpful, downright inspired, especially those written by Dr. Wayne Dyer.  I think I’ve read everything he’s written from Your Erroneous Zones to the one I’m reading right now, Change Your Thoughts – Change Your Life.

In addition to books, I took fitness classes, practiced yoga, tried meditation, attempted creative visualization, ran my butt off, rode my bike everywhere, hopped on an elliptical machine every morning for a year, and I walked and walked and walked.  I still run five mornings a week, practice yoga every morning prior to the run and I walk almost every day.

All of this mental and physical activity has helped.  But nothing has helped more than the time I spend in quiet solitude writing my letters to God.  Sometimes it feels a bit like we’re pen pals, albeit a tad one-sided. And other times it feels like unrequited love.  No cards.  No flowers.  No love letters in return.  But bit by bit, day by day I’m learning to trust in the process of life.  I’m slowly letting go and letting God. And I tell myself that I was Ma’s dear one.  And I like to think that I am God’s dear one too.  Only good can come from a relationship like that.  Nothing to fear.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: A Little Piece of Heaven on Earth.

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Ma’s Recipe Box.

I bake.  Cookies mostly.  But sometimes cakes on someone’s birthday.  Or pies at Christmas or Thanksgiving.  I love everything about baking – the ingredients, the utensils, the smell, the warmth, the kitchen, the bittersweet memories.  Simply divine.

Ma taught me how to bake and cook.  Not by instruction but more by osmosis and illustration.  And by surprise.  My fondest memory from childhood is that of walking in the backdoor after school and inhaling the delicious aroma of something freshly baked.  Heaven scent.  Growing up, our kitchen was the hub of the house.  A Mecca that attracted all, not just us kids but our friends as well.  It was where we ate of course, but it was also so much more.  In a way it was Sacred Ground, the place where things got discussed, prayed about, laughed and cried over, and most importantly, where Ma served tea with delectable treats.  This was her turf, the place where she was most at ease where she could express herself creatively through the things she made with her hands.  Not just the food but other things too.  The curtains embracing the windows, the paintings adorning the walls, the cheerful tablecloth.  All wonderful expressions of her God-given talent to make much with very little.

Little back story.  Ma taught herself how to do pretty much everything.  Her mother died when she was three and her father at ten.  She was raised, along with her four sisters, by her maternal grandmother who taught her manners; how to pick lettuce from the garden and turn that into the best sandwich in the world; how to embroider and transform the drab to lovely with a few colorful stitches; and how to love unconditionally.  Ma learned how to bake and cook by doing and perfecting.  I learned by watching and eating.

Ma shared a lot of her favorite recipes with me over the years.  She even gave me the recipe box that came with her first “modern” stove.  A Gurney.  I still have the box.  It’s a magnificent piece of vintage memorabilia, tin construction, red and cream enamel with “Recipes” embossed on the front.  I cherish this gift.  The Gurney Box came complete with a set of recipes covering everything from Beverages to Vegetables. No A nor W X Y Z.  The best categories were in the middle – Cakes, Cookies and Pastries. The super stars of the box.  But my favorite recipes are Ma’s handwritten gems.  These are the ones that have seen better days, are tattered, smudged, splattered, greasy, barely legible. But it doesn’t matter.  I know them by heart.

The days prior to Christmas I become a marathon baking fiend, along with my sugar-sweet grand daughter, who has my mother’s beautiful dark eyes and easy smile.  I pull out all of Ma’s ancient recipes.  Sometimes I cry when I see her handwriting but mostly I’m comforted by these artifacts of her, little pieces of Ma on scraps of paper torn from a memo pad or jotted on 3×5 recipe cards.  It takes me back to a small divine kitchen, a little piece of heaven on earth full of activity, laughter, tears, flour and lots of sugar.  Love.

Ma’s Chewy Ginger Snaps

Cream Together:
3/4 cup butter
1 cup white sugar
1 egg
1/3 cup molasses

Sift Together:
2-1/3 cups flower
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp each ginger & cinnamon
1/2 tsp closes
1/4 tsp salt

Add dry ingredients to wet and mix well.  Shape into 1-inch balls.  Roll in white sugar.  Bake on ungreased cookie sheets @ 375 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes.

Sweet and Simple.  Just like Ma.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Walk Talk And Listen.

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Ma and Me on the town in our snazzy slacks.

I love to walk.  Alone.  Or with dogs.  Sometimes with people.  But mostly I like to walk alone (which sounds like the title of a good country song but that’s another story.)

I didn’t always.

A little back story.  I have a long history of walking, which began with my mother.  She too loved to walk.  She didn’t drive so in order to get around and maintain her independence, she walked or took public transit, which in our town meant the bus.  When my father wasn’t working, he drove her to and fro, mostly to the grocery store and the plaza, which eventually flourished and grew into a mall.  Progress.  But I digress.

I loved walking with my mother.  And talking.  Ma wasn’t a big talker, but she was an excellent listener.  This gift alone made her an extraordinary conversationalist.  She was quite simply, transcendent in this talent. With Ma, there was never any competition for airtime, cutting off mid-sentence, interrupted chains of thought, one-up-man-ship, running rings around, nor upstaging in quick wit and repartee.  She was a delighted, polite and interested listener.  I liked that.  I could pour my heart out and bare my soul endlessly and still she listened, with kindness, patience and love.  She offered her opinion when asked, her advice when needed, her consolation and comfort unconditionally.  I liked that too.

I think over the years Ma and I must have traversed thousands of miles and covered an infinite array of topics while doing so.  Everything from soup to nuts (literally).  We solved all of the world’s problems, or at least had a few good recommendations.   We walked off pain, sorrow, anxiety, fear, and a few extra pounds.  We laughed.  We gabbed.  We gossiped.  We wept.  We commiserated.  We stopped.  We started.  We looked back.  We looked forward.  We thought we could walk forever.  At least I did.

Although Ma is no longer with me physically on our walks, she is with me none the less.  I have conversations with her in my head.  I still seek her advice.  I still hear her laughter.  I smell her face cream, subtle and clean.  I ask her about God.  Is there anything I need to know Ma?

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Growing The Compassion Muscle.

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Me and The Old Man

At the start of every new year, I resolve.  I gave up resolving out-loud years ago, but I resolve none the less.  This year is no exception.

Like a lot of people, I’ve resolved to lose –  weight, toxic relationship, bad habits, double chin, muffin top.  And to gain – more knowledge, more money, more fun, more wisdom, more sleep.  This year I thought I’d try something new.  I have resolved to grow.   Not a garden full of tomatoes nor my bank account nor my hair.  The focus will be on one very specific muscle, which really isn’t a muscle at all, but I like to think of it that way. Compassion.  It’s right next to the heart muscle. Not really.  But for argument’s sake, let’s say it is.  Anyway, I want to grow this in a big way.  I want it to be so large I’ll have to give it a name and buy it a wardrobe.

I wish I had resolved to do this sooner.  About ten years sooner, while my father was still alive.  Or probably further back than that so it could have actually had some affect on our relationship.

Little back story.  As far back as I can remember I had this love-hate relationship with my Old Man.  That’s what my siblings and I called him, not to his face of course.  Actually we referred to him as “The” Old Man.  He didn’t even warrant a personal pronoun.  Looking back, that disrespectful name-calling makes me sad.  I guess my compassion muscle is already starting to grow.  In our defense, referring to your father as your Old Man was pretty common back then, even amongst offspring who revered their fathers.

There were reasons for my love-hate relationship with The Old Man.  First and foremost, he was an alcoholic.  And it wasn’t pretty.  He wasn’t the life of the party, the fun guy when he drank.  He was mean and miserable and terrorized my timid mother and her four kids. I being the youngest, and his only biological child had no memory of a father who didn’t drink.  Not that it’s any consolation, but my siblings had a few good years without an alcoholic in their midst prior to my parents meeting and falling in love.  Okay, that’s the hate part –  the ‘I wish he’d drop dead’ silent prayers.

The love part goes like this.  The Old Man was a sweet, shy, funny, give you the shirt off your back guy – when he was sober.  That father took me with him when he delivered bread, went to my parent-teacher nights, took me to baseball games that he umpired, brought home pastries from the bakery, bought me my first teddy bear when I was sick (that I still have), took us for Sunday drives in the country, on trips to Duluth, taught me to drive, hugged me when my heart was broken, yelled at drivers who sped down our street for fear one would hit me, spit on my warts every morning because he’d heard this was a cure, took me to church, loved me unconditionally, thought I was beautiful.  And so much more.

My father’s alcoholism got in the way of things.  It especially interfered with my ability to love him like a daughter.  As I grew older, so did my resentment and impatience.  Even long after he had found sobriety, my detachment and lack of interest in my father’s thoughts or feelings was ever-present and my inability to forgive was paramount.  As he became elderly, he also grew cantankerous and ornery, demanding of my mother.  This was just fodder for the chasm that lay between us.  Even as his hands shook and his gate faltered, his hearing went and his eyes clouded over, as he developed Diabetes, Parkinson’s and Petit Mal Seizures I was unmoved, detached and lacking in compassion.  None of this touched my heart, or if it did, I wasn’t about to tell him.  I was over it, past all that. Emotionally bankrupt.

Of course, I’m not over it.  And probably never will be.  I also have regrets.  I wish I had spent more time with him that last year of his life.  I wish I hadn’t scolded him for sneaking cookies and cake, threatening that  it would send him into a diabetic coma.  I wish I had listened better to his stories at the dinner table.  I wish I hadn’t looked away, called him an asshole under my breath.  I wish I had told him I loved him more often.  I wish I had said ‘thank you.’

My father died of a broken heart five weeks after my mother.  I had this crazy thought in my head when my sister-in-law called to tell me the news.  I was relieved.  Not because my prayer for him to drop dead had finally been answered but because I took comfort in the thought that perhaps he was with my mother.  For the five weeks prior to his death, I worried about her being all alone “out there” and now she wasn’t.

A few months after he died my sister-in-law sent me a small box of his stuff.  There wasn’t much in it – his wallet, watch, ring, a few photos, a Finnish Bible and a Song Book that belonged to his mother and some newspaper clippings which included his obituary and an article on his days driving a horse-drawn bread wagon, the last of his kind.

In his wallet was a photograph taken by my mother of The Old Man and I when I was about three months old.  It was tattered, torn and cracked, barely recognizable.  I didn’t know it existed.  He had carried it with him my entire life. I love that photo.  My heart expands when I look at it.  As does my compassion muscle.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Wisdom Doesn’t Come Easy.

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Ma loved the shade her summer hats provided.

When my mother died two things happened.  First, I lost one of the people who were most dear and precious to me.  And second, she didn’t leave me with any words of wisdom regarding the “meaning of life and why we’re here.” She didn’t uncover any big secret during her life and impart that to me on her deathbed.  No, instead Ma, my daughter M and I played “I Spy with My Little Eye” on what would be the eve of her departure to God knows where.  We laughed at the grey wall.  I never knew it was her last night. I thought there was still time for her to cough up some tidbit that would help me understand what this thing we call life is all about.

I realize unearthing the meaning of life is a huge topic and probably an impossible burden to have placed on my sweet Ma, especially at the end of her life when she was so terribly ill but in my defense, she was a wise woman and I just assumed she would say something that I could hang onto for the rest of my life.  Put an end to all this seeking and just sail on through without any effort or care until we hooked up in the great Hereafter. I mean it’s only fair.  She was my mother for God’s sake.  She was supposed part with something really great, incredibly profound and comforting that would explain my purpose for being here.

Ten years later, I still grieve for Ma.  Not the way I did initially but I think of her daily and every now and again I am overcome with sadness and I cry.  These sudden spurts of emotion are random and always unexpected.  I can pass a photo of her every day for months and not think too much about it and then one day out of the blue I’ll see the photo in a completely different way, as if for the first time, and I start to cry.  Like a baby.  Inconsolable sobbing. Snot-faced and red-eyed ugly.  It isn’t just a photo that can reduce me to tears either.  Anything can trigger it: an elderly woman with veiny hands and long piano fingers examines a mango in the grocery store; a baby in the park with dark chocolate eyes glances my way; a dog barks in the dead of night; a piece of pie in the fridge looks cold; a fallen leaf forlorn; a rock; a bird; a plane, a hat.  Anything can set me off really.  There’s no rhyme.  And there certainly is no reason.

Why does this happen?  What is it about this random, seemingly unconnected stuff that reminds me of Ma and touches my heart so deeply.  Maybe because it isn’t so random after all.  And it is connected.  All of it.  To Ma.  To me.  To you.  To God.

As it turns out, I did learn something profound through that whole journey of Ma getting ill and ultimately dying.  This probably shouldn’t have been the epic revelation it was but I can be a little dim sometimes.  Anyway, here’s the thing: it wasn’t Ma’s job to tell me the meaning of life, nor answer the big question of why we’re here.  That wasn’t her responsibility.  It’s mine. This is all part of my quest, my journey.  Her’s was entirely something else.  Between her and God.  None of my business.  And maybe she did know something and wouldn’t tell me because by doing so she would have robbed me of the chance to figure this out on my own.  What greater gift.  Ma was wise.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Liberty Will Set You Free.

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Liberty will set you free.

I started writing letters to God about twenty years ago.  At the time, I desperately needed to talk to someone and there wasn’t anyone in close proximity that I could tell this stuff to.  I could have gone to a shrink I suppose, but I’m not sure I thought this was all that shrink-worthy at the time.  In retrospect, it probably was.  It was just private, intimate, inside your head kind of material that you can’t really share with anyone human, no matter how much you love them and they love you.  So who do you turn to?  I remembered from those years at Christ Lutheran that Pastor M said you could always talk to God and he would listen – even to the worst of the worst.  Well that was me.  I was a long-time renegade from organized religion by this point, and the mere thought of getting down on my knees and praying out-loud, or even silently, was painful.  So I did what came naturally to me.  I wrote.

Little back story.  My first letters weren’t actually letters at all.  And they weren’t written in a Plain Jane Hilroy notebook either.  The first compilation of “prayers, petitions and pleas to God” were contained in a genuine bona fide journal. I can’t remember who gave it to me but I’m guessing it was my best friend B because we gave each other gifts like that.  It is one of those cloth covered dealios with sweet little flowers in pink and periwinkle and many many many daunting blank pages to fill. The word “LIBERTY” is engraved in gold leaf front and back, along with the words “Hand Made in England”, also engraved in gold leaf.

All this gold leaf and English pedigree seemed to not only endow this chronicle of my early interior life with virtues I surely didn’t possess but with magical powers as well.  And I have to say I still love the notion that by the mere act of writing in this supernatural diary I would be set free, just as all that gold leaf LIBERTY promised.  If there was a theme, some common thread woven throughout this first flowery treatise, it was the need for freedom and the desire to hit the road Jack. And of course, I needed God’s help to achieve this.  Really.

It is also filled with all kinds of “New Age” postulations, which looking back, make the older me both smile affectionately and cringe with horror.  A bit like looking at prehistoric photos of myself in bell bottoms.  What was I thinking?  Here’s the thing.  I’m not sure I was.  Thinking that is, at least not clearly.  But somewhere between the inside front cover inscription of “My Book of Gratitude, Love & Appreciation” and the last sentence “Thank you Father” some sense of clarity was achieved.  Not a lot.  But enough to begin this journey, to first get me the hell out of Dodge and then to begin having these daily conversations with God.

Dear God.  It’s me.