Sitting by myself on a bench at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, a little girl suddenly ran over and tried to hoist herself up next to me. When the mother came over and asked her to say hello, I learned that the little blonde, blue eyed adventurer's name was, Claire.
My favorite part of the Claire experience was when she climbed down and came to the other side of me and then proceeded to explore the texture of the arm of the bench. Running her hands over it a few times, I asked her what she thought of it. She said it was smooth and long and she wanted to climb it. Hearing this, her mom, now sitting next to me where Miss Claire had been minutes before, called out, "If you need any help from me, just let me know." And two seconds later, Claire did just that. I loved how her mom allowed her to explore and at the same time reminded Claire she was close by and ready to help if she requested it.
As Claire was very comfortable being physically up close and personal, her mom suggested climbing the arm of the bench closest to where she was sitting.
She carried and arranged Claire according to her wishes, and then they sat for a few minutes-- Claire on the arm, Mom on the bench. I learned as mom disclosed to Claire that she had a Simon & Garfunkel song stuck in her head the same way Claire sometimes had Itsy Bitsy Spider stuck in hers. When Claire started sucking on her thumb, her mom suggested to her that it appeared she was tired and fighting a nap. She asked her if she wanted to be placed in the stroller. Claire immediately took her thumb out of her mouth and responded with a very clear, "No!" But a minute later she decided she wanted to lie down.
Well according to mom, she could only do that in the stroller, and so, as she was being secured, Claire began to cry. Her mom promised she'd push her around for bit before heading home, and then told me Claire was overdue for a nap.
And so I waved goodbye to mother and daughter, and thanked them for the delightful interaction.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Try to Communicate, Try
The last time I saw my father, he had already begun his transition out of this life.
We didn't live in the same state and so I hadn't seen him for some months. But we spoke on the phone almost every week. The last phone conversation we had, about a week before his passing, was shorter than most --his voice was faint. I told him I'd be coming to visit the next weekend.
That week, my mom got word to one of my brothers that if there was a way for him to come home, however brief, it was important that he try. He's in the Navy and at that time was off shore and quite a ways away. But he promised he'd do everything he could. My other brother was already in the process of moving back home to help my mom.
As I journeyed to my Parents, part of me sensed that Death was on the doorstep, but another part felt there was a chance that maybe he wouldn't get inside. I prayed. I said affirmations. I tried to stay positive. But when I arrived and saw him, I knew Death had already entered the premises and was giving him time to say goodbye. Not literally say goodbye because at that point my dad was no longer speaking and there was't any indication that he could hear us. But his eyes were open and he was still breathing and I knew in my heart he was holding out for my other brother to get home. By this time, I had confirmation that he was on his way and so my mom and I told my dad and asked him to hold on.
From the moment I saw my dad, I knew his transition was inevitable and I basically began mourning. I was only there for the weekend but I sat with him and helped my mom and other brother do what we could to make him more comfortable.
My mom was/is amazing. My other brother-- the one who was in the process of moving back home-- was/is amazing. My brother in the Navy, ditto.
I left on a Sunday. My brother in the Navy arrived on Monday. My father passed on Tuesday morning.
It's been three years this past September 10th and while the feeling of loss is not as consistent and all consuming as it was-- particularly that first year-- now and again, the tears take over and I just have to give them room and permission to be what they choose to be.
My dad and I were really close. I think of the good memories but I also wish I could have been better at communicating during our not so pleasant interactions. When it came to the latter, I was, honestly, passive aggressive. I didn't speak up when things annoyed me or when I wasn't onboard with how he was going about things and I would get so upset because he didn't seem to see things from my own perspective. But that wasn't fair. How could he see things from my perspective if I didn't give voice to my perspective? As I am my father's daughter, I feel it's fair to say he, too, kept things inside. Actually, looking at my immediate family, I would say it's a shared communication trait that was most likely passed down, but now, my brothers and I, to varying degrees, are working on learning to be better communicators.
I apologized to my dad today for the times I didn't speak up. I apologized for not knowing how and for choosing the default of loaded accusatory silence. I know I--we-- did the best that we could based on what we knew and what we learned from those we grew up with. And while I can't actively practice better communication with him, I'm trying with my mom, my brothers and with others. I think Maya Angelou is quoted as saying, "When you know better, you do better." I'm sorry I didn't know better when he was here, but I'm trying to do better now. Not always "successful" and not always in the moment, but in my own way, I'm trying.
I write this to say that unless one speaks up--actually, unless one communicates (because speaking up and communicating aren't exactly the same concept), it's not fair to believe that others involved know what one is feeling. What may seem "logical" -- no matter the general consensus-- is still a subjective perspective. If something doesn't sit well and the choices are between choosing loaded accusatory silence versus communicating, genuinely give the latter a try. I'm sure life will give us plenty of opportunities to practice.
We didn't live in the same state and so I hadn't seen him for some months. But we spoke on the phone almost every week. The last phone conversation we had, about a week before his passing, was shorter than most --his voice was faint. I told him I'd be coming to visit the next weekend.
That week, my mom got word to one of my brothers that if there was a way for him to come home, however brief, it was important that he try. He's in the Navy and at that time was off shore and quite a ways away. But he promised he'd do everything he could. My other brother was already in the process of moving back home to help my mom.
As I journeyed to my Parents, part of me sensed that Death was on the doorstep, but another part felt there was a chance that maybe he wouldn't get inside. I prayed. I said affirmations. I tried to stay positive. But when I arrived and saw him, I knew Death had already entered the premises and was giving him time to say goodbye. Not literally say goodbye because at that point my dad was no longer speaking and there was't any indication that he could hear us. But his eyes were open and he was still breathing and I knew in my heart he was holding out for my other brother to get home. By this time, I had confirmation that he was on his way and so my mom and I told my dad and asked him to hold on.
From the moment I saw my dad, I knew his transition was inevitable and I basically began mourning. I was only there for the weekend but I sat with him and helped my mom and other brother do what we could to make him more comfortable.
My mom was/is amazing. My other brother-- the one who was in the process of moving back home-- was/is amazing. My brother in the Navy, ditto.
I left on a Sunday. My brother in the Navy arrived on Monday. My father passed on Tuesday morning.
It's been three years this past September 10th and while the feeling of loss is not as consistent and all consuming as it was-- particularly that first year-- now and again, the tears take over and I just have to give them room and permission to be what they choose to be.
My dad and I were really close. I think of the good memories but I also wish I could have been better at communicating during our not so pleasant interactions. When it came to the latter, I was, honestly, passive aggressive. I didn't speak up when things annoyed me or when I wasn't onboard with how he was going about things and I would get so upset because he didn't seem to see things from my own perspective. But that wasn't fair. How could he see things from my perspective if I didn't give voice to my perspective? As I am my father's daughter, I feel it's fair to say he, too, kept things inside. Actually, looking at my immediate family, I would say it's a shared communication trait that was most likely passed down, but now, my brothers and I, to varying degrees, are working on learning to be better communicators.
I apologized to my dad today for the times I didn't speak up. I apologized for not knowing how and for choosing the default of loaded accusatory silence. I know I--we-- did the best that we could based on what we knew and what we learned from those we grew up with. And while I can't actively practice better communication with him, I'm trying with my mom, my brothers and with others. I think Maya Angelou is quoted as saying, "When you know better, you do better." I'm sorry I didn't know better when he was here, but I'm trying to do better now. Not always "successful" and not always in the moment, but in my own way, I'm trying.
I write this to say that unless one speaks up--actually, unless one communicates (because speaking up and communicating aren't exactly the same concept), it's not fair to believe that others involved know what one is feeling. What may seem "logical" -- no matter the general consensus-- is still a subjective perspective. If something doesn't sit well and the choices are between choosing loaded accusatory silence versus communicating, genuinely give the latter a try. I'm sure life will give us plenty of opportunities to practice.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Seen on the Bus- A Snapshot of Sweetness
White and grey hued clouds peppered the blue expanse of sky as I got on the bus to begin the first leg of my morning commute to work. As I stood, holding on to a pole, swaying with the push and pull of the vehicle, I noticed two fellow passengers.
They were of Hispanic decent and looked to be Father and daughter. He was dressed in a blue denim jacket with a matching denim hat and jeans. She was perched sideways on his lap facing my direction, and underneath her off white cap, her shoulder length hair fell straight as black rain. She looked to be about 3 or 4, and quietly smiled to herself when her guardian--again father, I think-- drew her in for a hug. At one point, we made eye contact and I smiled a quick hello.
When their stop was approaching, he picked her up and she, in turn, curled her arms around his neck in a hug that spoke of love and trust and sleepiness. Then as they exited, he called out to the bus driver in a clear, strong voice, "Thank you! Have a good day!" And the little girl, now cradled over his left shoulder, expressed her goodbye with a shy wave of her right hand.
A snapshot of sweetness at the start of my day.
They were of Hispanic decent and looked to be Father and daughter. He was dressed in a blue denim jacket with a matching denim hat and jeans. She was perched sideways on his lap facing my direction, and underneath her off white cap, her shoulder length hair fell straight as black rain. She looked to be about 3 or 4, and quietly smiled to herself when her guardian--again father, I think-- drew her in for a hug. At one point, we made eye contact and I smiled a quick hello.
When their stop was approaching, he picked her up and she, in turn, curled her arms around his neck in a hug that spoke of love and trust and sleepiness. Then as they exited, he called out to the bus driver in a clear, strong voice, "Thank you! Have a good day!" And the little girl, now cradled over his left shoulder, expressed her goodbye with a shy wave of her right hand.
A snapshot of sweetness at the start of my day.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Seen on the Subway-- Love in Action
I boarded the subway train and sat across from a man. He looked to be in his 50ties. Next to him sat, what felt to me to be, a version of his teenage self-- so strong the nature of their shared facial features. Both were so focused on the electronic trip map that announced the upcoming station stops that I concluded they were either visitors to the city or just simply concerned with missing their exit stop, or both. Eyes steadily trained on the map, they exchanged a few words--indecipherable to me due, in part, to my headphones, the faint volume of their conversation, and, to a greater degree, the drowning underscore of machinery in action that was our train as it sped along the tracks. At one point, the older man reached out his right hand and grasped the right shoulder of the younger man, pulling the latter slightly towards him resulting in a snapshot that spoke of love and pride. Despite the gesture, they still kept their gazes turned out, still resting on the map. But now, the young man was smiling. And so the combined effect of the shoulder grasp and the smile that followed, touched my heart and made me smile, too.
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