Aging – Page 20 – Don't Gel Too Soon

ALL MY LIFE’S A CIRCLE, SUNRISE TO SUNDOWN…

These little girls are dancing at their cousin Judah’s Bar Mitzvah. It happened Saturday and was quite wonderful. At a service that morning Judah read the entire portion of the Torah – long and intricate – in Hebrew in a loud, confident voice. As he finished, the 12 and 13-year-old boys who are his friends stormed down the center aisle of the synagogue to congratulate him and shake his hand – recognizing and celebrating his new status.

Once again, I was struck by the value of religious observances to give our lives shape and meaning – and by how much this simple fact still astonishes me. The rite of passage — an adolescent reading from the Torah before the congregation, is fraught with meaning. It’s an acknowledgement of impending adulthood and, even more critically, of entry into the covenant among the Jewish people. I love it.

Each part of the day was tied to learning (another lesson on this journey – you don’t study, you “learn”. ) A talk by the young Bar Mitzvah on the Torah portion he had just read, talks during lunch and through the afternoon, by uncles, cousins and more. At the evening party, father and son spent close to an hour talking through the final part of a complicated set of writings. Throughout, we were reminded that great though parties and presents might be, what matters most is the move toward becoming, each day, a better and holier person.

As we listened to the teaching, father and son trading riffs on the material, a friend, sitting beside me, leaned over and said “You aren’t as far as you think from all this. Your great grandparents, and mine, were doing this. And now you’ve returned to it.” Blew me away.

This beautiful day, and the loving, welcoming family that had included us in their celebration, offered a great privilege. Together we welcomed a new member of tribe, celebrated his family and shared their pride. Dancing, singing and, with delight, watching everyone spinning through the music and happiness, we reminded ourselves, and one another, of a treasured heritage – one that this young man’s celebration joins as the next link in the chain.

A Woman of Valor

Lisa Goldberg, 54 years old, died this week of a brain aneurysm. When I heard, all I could think was “what a waste.” While it’s always sad when someone dies, especially to those who loved them, Lisa, quietly (there are so few photos of her available online that I had to use this candid) and with great dignity, contributed so much. President of the Charles H. Revson Foundation, she was responsible for funding many impressive programs. Some dealt with Jewish issues, some with urban social change, and, as in the one through which I met her, some dealt with issues relating to women.

Two years ago, she had the foresight to issue a planning grant to support the launch of the Women’s Media Center, a project for women in journalism whose founders include Gloria Steinem, Jane Fonda, Eve Ensler and Marlene Sanders among other great pioneers. In the time since, the Center has made great strides and become a force not only for women journalists but in the coverage of issues that matter to or involve women.

I didn’t know Lisa well – more admired her from afar. Her role at Revson was remarkable, and her leadership made difference in a great many lives. She was Best Woman at the wedding of a friend of mine — which I always thought was pretty cool. Beyond a few conversations about the Center or books we loved, we didn’t have that much contact.

One incident though, to me, is typical of her. I was “staffing” the early days of the Women’s Media Center and we were meeting at the Manhattan headquarters of the Revson Foundation. Some material had not been printed, there was a blizzard, and I barely had time to get to the offices much less to Kinko’s. Lisa’s staff helped me get everything printed, collated and bound without breaking a sweat – OR acting like they were doing me a favor (which they were…..) I sent Lisa a note letting her know how great they had been. Her response was typical of my perception of her. She thanked me for letting her know, told me she had forwarded my note to the young women who had helped me and added how high her own regard was for each of them. Again – quiet, unassuming and on the mark.

Of course there’s one other thing. When someone dies suddenly, there’s always a moment of terror. In this case, just as I always measure the deaths of older people by whether they were older or younger than my father was when he died, I was shocked to realize that Lisa was younger than I. It’s a credit to her, though, that this thought was fleeting and quickly banished. The loss of such a “woman of valor” is tough enough on its own.

Teach Your Children Well

Much of what I enjoy about other blogs, particularly "mommy" ones, is the sense of irony that is so different from my own sentimental view of parenthood. Brutally honest and often painful, they reveal wounds and issues I don’t think I could talk about on line. Loving mothers and beautiful writers, women like Liz at Mom 101, Mir at WouldaCouldaShoulda, Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored and Jenn at Mommy Needs Coffee are all gutsy beyond measure in their honesty. Mocha Momma Kelly, Liza from Lizawashere and BeenThere’s Cooper Munroe are just as honest but with a different tone – one more familiar to me. All perspectives are worthy, moving and wise.

Here’s one of the few times I really feel generational difference though. These bloggers are substantially younger than I am; I’m old enough to be the mother of most of them. I don’t feel that difference often, but today, with one of my boys gone already and the other leaving tomorrow, I just can’t get un-sugary.

The great gift of raising children is I am sure the most profound privilege life brings us. The pleasures are infinite. To my delighted surprise, they don’t stop when these tiny people emerge as full-blown adults, taking their places as productive, loving, principled men. The entire time they, and Josh’s girlfriend Amy, were here this week, was so great that I’m struck dumb with gratitude and love.

For an entire afternoon excavating six boxes of treasures from 20 boxes of childhood stuff — from broken Nintendos and the Jerry Garcia’s death issue of Newsweek to Double Dare sweatshirts and high school yearbooks, they worked, sorted, laughed, read aloud, complained, laughed some more, and got it all done despite my best efforts to help. I wish I could tell you what it felt like to see them laughing together over a first grade "book" Dan had written or once-treasured but minor value baseball cards, remembering the pleasures and joys of their lives.

Nobody’s life is perfect and our family certainly has had its share of pain, but there is a beautiful foundation that holds us up – draws us to one another and fills us with love. That’s corny. We have two sons who are funny and attractive and honorable and productive and considerate and who clearly love us. We are grateful. That’s corny too. I don’t know how to say that with any self-restraint or discipline – stylistic or otherwise.

I adore these young men even as I struggle to retain the distance they deserve (reasonably successful), welcome them when they want to be with us (easy as pie), shut up when they need to be someplace else( do my best), keep my mouth shut when I disagree (getting better all the time.) I am very proud of their self-reliance and accomplishments, their candor about obstacles in their lives, their incredible humor — they are both very funny, particularly when they are together — and their gentle, loving souls. They’ve accepted our newly religious lifetstyle with interest and respect. They are also very good to one another. I revel in their friendship, all the flying back and forth for concerts and birthdays, and great gifts they give one another.

In other words, I’m a corny, unoriginal mom. My sons have brought an unanticipated portion of joy and satisfaction, fun and admiration, adventure and idealism, into my life. And they love us. Stupid us. Despite all the mistakes and complications. I’d love to be able to be a bit ironic about it, to ditch what my kids call my "pink Cindy glasses" for a while just to see how I would sound, but it ain’t gonna happen. So I hope all my edgier colleagues will tolerate this gooey post and understand my inability, tonight, as the year winds down and this family visit winds with it, to say anything except "God I love my kids."

Remarkable

As usual after the break of the Sabbath – TV and computer off from sundown to sundown, I’ve found something amazing as I reconnect. My friend Cooper Munroe, who with her partner did more to get resources to New Orleans than most governments — via a BLOG (!!) has posted, on her blog BEEN THERE, Steve Jobs’ graduation speech at Stanford. It’s best if you just see for yourself — just watch it. More tomorrow.

Home and Heartache

Yeah, we’re home – and as usual it’s like walking into an electric fan. We landed, unpacked, did laundry, slept (until 3AM) then Rick went back to the airport for a fund-raising trip to California. I’m working on several major projects and wanting to organize for when the boys come home for the holidays. Grocery lists and activity planning in addition to many hours of business obligations.

Lots on my mind. Today a friend told me about the last conversation she had with her father and I was ambushed by a deluge of memories. It’s tough to come to terms with the loss of a parent. Both of mine have been gone for years and there isn’t a day I don’t think of them — and, often, wish I could ask them something – or tell them something — or just feel their love again. I haven’t felt this way in a long time and it surprised me. I just wasn’t expecting the intensity.

I once sent my dad the lyrics to a Judy Collins song about her father. It’s a wonderful evocation of the love between fathers and daughters and the bitter-sweet realization that one’s life will exceed that of a beloved parent. It’s what they’d wish for us but it’s complicated. Anyway there wasn’t a moment of my life when I doubted the love for and faith in me felt by both my parents.

There were also circumstances in my life that led me, in my memory at least, to be less attentive than I wanted to be. I think it will haunt me forever- times when finances or my own parental responsibilities kept me from visits; times when I let my dad tell me not to come because he didn’t want us to "see him like this." — all those things we all wish we’d done differently. I am beginning to think that this is a real issue for me and one I’ve got to get some clarity about.

This is the second time in the space of the 90 days or so I’ve had this blog that my dad has come up and he’s been gone since 1991. Somehow though I’m more at peace with the loss of him. I can summon memories that make me smile and I know that he had a profound and lovely effect on my sons, which adds to my own fond remembrances of him.

My mother, who died in 1998, haunts me though. I know things in her life frustrated her – and that she would have liked to do more in the world outside the house. My husband told both her and me that I was guilty that my arrival had pulled her out of a promising career but she insisted that that was HER choice and I should get over it. That she loved raising the three of us. I don’t doubt that she loved raising her daughters but I also think she needed more than she was able to get in life as a suburban mom. I don’t know – all I know is that I feel a need to be particularly helpful to elderly women on the street, or the bus, or the synagogue steps. As if I can do for her by doing for them. Agh. I don’t know. I’m going to bed to see if I can beat the last of the jet lag. This is too sad.

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME, WILL YOU STILL….??

My older son used to shave his head. He’d lost lots of hair on top anyway so just shaved all of it off and looked way cool. I used to tease him that he needed an earring too but he said he was his own kind of rebel – being the only person to graduate from his free-spirited university with "no new holes." He’s always been his own self. Very cool, he and his equally groovy brother have kept me up to date with what’s new in music, books, film and world view. They are, honestly, two of the most interesting people I know. But I digress.

Thursday night at a Thanksgiving dinner in his new, very beautiful condo, he started talking casually about his grey hairs. GREY! Then his [younger] brother chimed in about "a couple" that he had. Now this is not easy. If my children have grey hair what does that make me? Not to be selfish or anything but it’s kind of disconcerting.

Aging is inevitable and I’ve been fortunate in my progress along this continuum but when your kids begin to demonstrate the passage of time you have to take a deep breath and accept it. I just read a piece in the New York Times about Baby Boomers refusal to join AARP. I can relate to that. My PARENTS belonged to AARP. No thanks.

Yeah — that’s me just above here. I think in 1967.

I feel about as silly as Peter Pan ( I won’t grow up. Not a penny will I pinch. I will never grow a mustache, Or a fraction of an inch. Cause growing up is awfuller, Than all the awful things that ever were. I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, No sir, Not I, Not me, So there!) but that doesn’t change my mind.

An old friend used to say "Call me adult anytime you want; just don’t call me a grown-up." I guess that’s how I feel. Counter-cultural and generational identity is strong in people my age and I feel it particularly. I did dozens of Boomer stories when I worked at the TODAY SHOW – including a series when Boomers (including me, Bill Clinton, George Bush, Ben Vereen, Donald Trump, Susan Sarandon, Goldie Hawn and Cubby O’Brien) began turning 40 in 1986 and an entire year of anniversaries of 1968 in 1988. I am formed and INformed by the time of my birth and have always known it. I joke that I’m a "walking demographic" but it’s true.

SO. I will handle the grey hairs on the beloved heads of my beloved sons. I pray for and wish them well in their own journeys and am more grateful than I can describe both for them– and for the experiences of my own eventful life. And that’s not bad — not bad at all.