ENDURING FRIENDSHIP

If the news is bad, or getting worse, adjust.
If the days get long, help someone.
If the news is dark, dance.
If you feel hungry, ask.
If you can, help.


https://onbeing.org/programs/a-poem-for-how-friendship-endures/

The View From The Window

I've laughed the way I am sure a million others have at the vids of the moms in the cars venting, the toddler debris all over the floor of the tiny apartment, the creative ways parents are making birthday parties for 16 year olds or 21 year olds. I've laughed with them because it feels so human to connect about those things: a need to escape, a mess, a birthday, a milestone -- who can't relate to that?

In so many ways we are exactly the same. We are bonded by our mutual experience of motherhood or fatherhood or siblinghood. Or pain, or shame, or guilt, or insecurity. Anxiety and depression. Joy and love. So many things are common to each of us, in my town, in our state, my region, this country.
Somewhere on this giant planet someone is also all stressed out, or super in love, or really confused about school or the future of school, or what tomorrow's dinner will be.

I wonder what the view is from that window, if there is one.
I wonder what it looks like.

I will tell you what the view from my window looked like tonight:

The seagulls seemed undone and sorta angry. There we doing this really strange loud yell.
It seemed louder tonight and their posse seemed bigger.
They were diving and flapping their wings in a very aggressive way.

(NOTE: I know nothing about birds or how they act. Like, nothing.)

I've decided that they ganged up to yell about the fact that are no left over french fries on Revere Beach or any dropped chips or you name it here on their peninsula. I have decided that they were having a community meeting. And one of them said, "Phil, you have always been a shitty provider" or maybe it was, "Carl! Buddy! This is what is takes to keep the house feathered!"

Anyway, from my window the seagulls play out stories I make up for them.
What do you see?

THE FACE OF THE MOON

Back in the old days, when we'd get buried in snow, I remember thinking that all the familiar places of my small town looked, overnight, like the surface of the moon. Everything was unsure, and unboundaried and new: where were the sidewalks, or the entrances, or the yellow lines on the road? Who was the masked man shoveling my driveway? I never doubted there was bread or milk or flour (flour?), and I laughed about that often.

In the old days, when the snow used to fall, sometimes I'd bump into friends at the market. "Just here for cilantro," she might say. "Just here for Doritos and brownie mix," I'd reply. "The necessities."
No one talked about toilet paper or Clorox anything. Booze? Milk? (Who drinks that much -- milk?)

In the old days, when the snow buried us for a few days at a time and school was cancelled for the week, we'd all act like Europeans and get homey -- light fires, play board games that made us proud of our parenting. By the second night of an extended snow day, the whole neighborhood was outside -- hello? Hello? Buy the third day, ahh, fuck it! Back to life, back to cars skidding down the road, kids slipping all over the place, back to nowhere to park, back to belated blizzard parties.

Now? There is no snow to communally shovel. There are no plans to walk over in snow pants with a six pack. In fact, if you did, someone might shame you for doing so.

Our tiny town grocery store has aisles that can't allow any kind of social distance. It is the place where I would avoid going to because I didn't want to see anyone that day, because everywhere you looked was a friend, or a neighbor, or some kids' coach, or a teacher, or the guy you know you know but maybe don't know? You say "Hi!" anyway; you might even hug. That stranger you know you know.

Now, that place feels like the face of the moon. Our homemade masks, or better ones, they sometimes ride up over our eyes, or fog up our reading glasses. We can't see the arrows on the floor. We don't know when to wait when someone is choosing avocados or lemons or broccoli. We understand that there may be some around us who are scared. We understand that some around us might be vulnerable. We are not sure who is who, and suddenly, this very basic errand feels like a social pact gone wrong.

In the days, before this, when snow used to fall, I would pick up this ladies dropped can without a thought. Now, we just eyeball each other over crappy masks. I say, "Can I pick it up for you?" and she says, "Yes, thank you,"and then I realize it's not a snow shovel, but it's good enough for now.

I guess you get used to a new street, buried in snow, or a new world, faster than you think.
We adapt more often, and more quickly than we think, and most of us do so with love.

The face of the moon? You got this.

A Nose, Cameras, Love in Lockdown

I have seen my face more than a woman should ever see her face.
I have become the opposite of the dude in Dorian Gray: everyone I see looks so lovely.
I have to see myself when these new weird moments happen and I look so much older -- than I feel? Than my mirror tells me?

FaceTime and Zoom and OneWay interviews are weird -- do you look at yourself first?
Or do you look at all the people you love, their kind smiling faces -- and your face waving wildly back.... maybe they are as confused as you, as loving this as you are?

Who are you on the other side of the camera? Do you clean up? Do you let your life carry on behind you? Do you get up to pee? Do you tell the true stories of life at home? Do you tell the truth?

Who do you connect with when the world is so apart?
And does that answer make you think about who matters most to you?

Empathy in the Time of Corona

"It was inevitable. The scent of rancid socks and cereal bowls always reminded her of the fact of being a mom. She noticed it as soon as she ventured downstairs, the smell of the refugees, distanced, undone, former leaders of the packs of newcomers or the defender of the back line or the hardworking clown in the room. They had been booted from their worlds: their remains lay in their wake."

OK. Let's be totally clear.

My kids' experience, my experience and the Kid's as well...we're fine.
Too much together time, so he misses some milestones, or they do, or their friends?
Yeah, it does break my heart, but I realize how small that is in the measure of this.

This. All of this.
Trouble is, I feel it. Bigly.
Like in my gut and in everything I do.
I am doing all the good things -- self care, positive thinking -- but I feel it.
I want to clap with the people in New York and I want to sing with the people in Italy and Spain.
I want to make a difference.

On Friday, at 7:00pm EST, I will force all these Short Drunk People outside.
No one who matters will hear us, but I still have some authority so we will do it.
#clapbecausewecare

They will be dropping of flyers tomorrow.
Because their mom's heart breaks...
And maybe, because their's break as well, they will learn what helps...

Empathy cures what ills us.

ALARMS

Remember alarms?
Remember the coffee routine before the day started?
Remember making school lunch or planning a dinner that was "regular'?

I miss getting the automated call from the High School telling me my kid was a few minutes late.
I miss picking him up at school and talking/not talking in the way you do with a teenage boy.

I miss yelling at him to get up! I miss being bossy in that way that seemed meaningful.
I miss knowing that he wouldn't sleep all weekend because he had basketball.
It stinks that it's my job to create some normal in this abnormal world.

I'm the mean one: I'm the "tardy" call.
I'm his new badass, his new mean teacher, his tough couch.
Now, I am his crappy new routine.

The girls have settled in easier than him: home-college is not so bad.

He? He misses everything so fundamentally and physically, I can feel it in the way he smiles and jumps around and goofs off and then seems so sad.  He is sixteen and stuck inside.

Tonight, he said to his sister, "I think God doesn't want me to be a Varsity athlete."

This was interesting to me because the GFYO wasn't raised with religion.
This was interesting because even for the GFYO the world feels wrong.

Remember alarms?
I think I have to blare some everyday: WAKE UP!
Let's hit the hoop! Let's study music for ten minutes!
Let's make some waffles and talk about history!

Maybe I can remind him that when the alarms go off, the world will be okay or okayish?

PIN BALL WIZARD

Let's be honest up front: I have weaved in and out of looking for a "job" for two legit reasons.

1) After a "career" in the music biz, some publicity self employment, three kids, badass volunteer work, a blog (omg) (is that even a word used anymore?), some minimal success writing for actual money, and a TV Show for kids (back to that volunteer thing).... my resume isn't exactly hopping. And no, like everyone, I can't do Excel.

2) Also, every step out seems like.. well, I'm right back in. "I left my backpack with all my gear -- and I need it for a game" two hours away, or "do I have a social security card and this office is scary and I want to cry" or "is it normal for my finger to swell up after I cut it with a knife?" or "MOOOMMMMMM! Practice is right now and you have to take me!"

So that. All of that.

I guess I can push that worry and self-doubt aside right now, because I doubt the job market is waiting for me. What is waiting for me? Today? Like all the other days, but even more now: food, dinners, laundry. A smiling face. A sense of normal.  I think that might be the reality for many of you, or... sorta, or in some kinda way.

I bat one ball away. Ding!
I bat another. Ding!

One slips through. The lights explode! The game goes nuts!
You got one more ball. Ignore the lights....
Focus. Do better this time...

If I am right, I can make sure all is well -- him, them, her, she, they, everyone.
Pull it back, take a breath and SHOOT...

There is no paddle I can operate fast enough or with wizardly skills to keep these balls at bay!
The game was hard enough to begin with.

Pacman?

B

(You can read back and see what I wrote about Her then...)

She is who I saw back when she was little.
Not a lot has changed: she is vulnerable but also so brave and strong.
She takes too much of me, all of us, on her shoulders.

She is resilient, despite me.

We sat on the bus together traveling through Italy with her soccer team. We saw so many beautiful things and laughed so many times. We also whined, because it was weird and busy and like a race. When we returned, she was cut from the team. She had to pack up and come home. Soccer -- her identity -- done.

She seemed destroyed, and she was: drunken face plant on her day back to school.

Since then, she did what she always does: fixed it, changed it.
No soccer? How about the ski team? Cool. Tour guide, yes!

Also, she's in love.

This kid, my guide, my North Star...