my husband is Jewish

My husband Jimmy is Jewish.  He was born a Jew and practiced reform Judaism as a child and maybe even as a teenager.  At age 10 he went to a Jewish summer camp, Camp Nebagamon.  He does not attend temple now nor does he know the dates of the Jewish holidays.  Neither here nor there, just is what it is.  How did I get started on this?

Oh I remember.  His friend, David Eppstein, is here visiting.  He recently retired and is taking his inaugural road trip, destination not determined, but plenty of places to stop along the way.  So he arrived today and is staying with us on this Easter weekend.  I have told my friends here in Memphis that our Jewish relatives have come for Easter.  Okay Good.  I hear Eppie now giving Jimmy a blow-by-blow of his travels this past week.

Now I like doing this kind of writing.  Writing about something that is happening in the present moment.  Not in the past, not about the future, but a word-photo essay on the present moment.  Eppie talking.  Jimmy listening.  Me writing.  Each here together in this house, but in a deeper sense alone sharing space and time together.  I like it.  I like having people in the house.  I do not have to be in the room with them to enjoy their company.

So back to my husband who is Jewish.  I love my husband.  Pops.  That is what our grand-daughter calls him, Pops.  I love Pops.  My Jewish Pops.  He cannot fix things.  He can’t.  His friend, Eppie, who is here now, can.  He is going to grout our bathroom faucet, hang a towel rack, and tighten the back door handle.  Originally he was planning to stay a week.  I am disappointed that he will only be here 2 days.  If he stayed longer I would have him replace shower curtain rods, and maybe completely remodel our bathroom.  Yeah.  That would be great.

My husband cannot do that, but he makes a damn good cup of coffee.  Love that man.  My Jewish husband who will be canoeing on Easter Sunday while I am eating chocolate bunnies.

What? What the World Needs Now

That is a good question.  What?  What is your name?  What do you do?  What are you feeling?  What is the weather like today? What’s going on?  What have you been up to lately?  What did you eat for lunch?  What color is your daughter’s hair?  What do you think about unemployment benefits for the long-term unemployed?  What is the impact of a global economy on the wealth of American businessmen?  What makes civilization?  What is anarchy?  What makes democracy better than socialism?  What long-lasting scars linger in the hearts of the children of Hiroshima?  What did you do last night?  What amount effort are you willing to put into getting healthy and staying that way?  What happens to your heart when you lie?  What does it take to get a book published?

What do you want to be when you grow up little girl?  What do I most miss about the world of commerce?  What drives me to write?  What right do I have to think I am good enough to be a writer?  What was my mother thinking when I told her I had remembered being sexually abused and her response was, “Get over it.  Everybody has a bad day.”  What do I think about getting older? What do I still keep hidden under lock and key?  What am I still afraid of?  What do I long to do?  What precipitates depression?  What drives a mother of three to walk into a lake and drown herself?  What is mental illness?  What about the library of congress?  What does retirement mean?  What is sin?  What is redemption?  What is Soul?  What is moderation?

What is the source of my eternal longing, my need for attention, my desire to be noticed, my drive to be seen and heard?  What crosses the mind of a poet like Mary Oliver when she sees the refracted light of the sun cast upon her bedroom floor?  What makes ice cream irresistible?  What complex sequence of events causes two people to fall in love, marry, have children, build a life together, and then, after thirty-two years together, divorce?  What happened to all the sea shells in Destin?  What drives one person to adultery, betrayal, vengeance, remorse, revenge, and retaliation, and another to loyalty, forgiveness, empathy, compassion and sympathy?  What is love?  What is the difference between the alcoholic and the social drinker?  What draws one man to God and religion and his brother to crime and misfortune?

What is enough?  What for?  What if?  What he bleep?  What difference does it make?  What did you say?  What’s that?  Now what?  What do you mean?  What do you care?  What do you think?  What do you have to say for yourself?  What is it?  What now?  What, why, where  and when?  What do you expect?  What else?  Now what?  What for?  What the heck?  What do you want?  What do you like?  What did he say?  What are you saying?  Say what?  So what?  What ever!?  What ….wait just a minute? What works?  What I mean is….What can I do?  What’s the use?  What does it matter?  What do I want?  What do you want?  What’s left?  What goes around, comes around.  What else?  What’s up?  What the world needs now is love sweet love, not just for some but for everyone. What more can I say?

Out of Control

“Are you enjoying your retirement?”  I hate that question.  Someone asked me yesterday, “How has it been since you sold your yoga studio?  What are you doing?”  What does that question imply?  I want to say, “Oh, I sit home all day and watch old movies.”  What do you mean, “what am I doing?”  I am living my life, every minute of it, but if I say that, I sound grumpy and rude, two qualities I have worked hard to eradicate.  So I tell them the truth.  “I am writing.”

“Oh, what are you working on now?”  I don’t like this question either, because I really do not know what I am doing.  99% of the time, when I sit down to write, I have no plan, no outline, and no idea what will spill out unto the page.  I just do it.  I may or may not respond, “I am working on a book.”  It all depends on how brave I feel, because as soon as I tell my inquisitor that I am writing a book, I feel like Daniel in the lion’s den.  “What kind of book.  What is it about?  Fiction or non-fiction?”

All I can say is, “I am not quite sure.”  That pretty much ends the conversation.  At this point, the conversation usually ends with, “Okay.  Well good luck.”

Good Luck.  I guess that’s about all you can say to someone who has just informed you that they have absolutely no idea what they are doing.  Good luck with that, whatever “that” is.

This morning I am going to a yoga class and then to breakfast with a group of women, many of whom I have not seen in months.  Writing does that to people.  I have become pretty much a recluse, at least during the day.  My husband I still go out with friends, go to basketball games, have dinner parties,and keep our grand baby one day a week.  I go to spin class twice a week

Next month, I am adding a yoga boot camp.   When I am not teaching yoga, seeing private clients, I am cooking, exercising, doing yoga, meditating, or entertaining. I also keep my grand baby, Amelia one day a week.  I love doing all these things but what I really want to do is to write until I cannot write anymore.  I want to sit down and not have to stop because something else demands my attention.  Since that is not possible, I write when I can and as often as I can.

“Tell my story.”  The Voice persists.  I cannot help but ask, “Who’s story?”  There is always a reply. “That will be revealed.  Listen.  It is okay to not know.  Just show up.  Trust the process.  Let your character show herself.  Be inquisitive.  Don’t try to figure it out. Surrender.  Be the channel.  This is your path.  We will lead you.”

I put my bike in the shed, grateful to have spent time exercising on this cold winters morning.  I hear the Voice. “Susan. Her name is Susan.  Get to know her.  She will tell your story.”  My stomach flips.   I am a control freak.  You might not know it just by looking at me, but those who are closest to me can testify to my need to know.  I constantly ask questions like, “What time is it?  What are you doing?  Where are we going?  What time should we leave?”  When I meditate, I set a timer.  I have to know how long I will be sitting.  For years, I controlled my weight by not eating or taking laxatives when I did.  People tell me I have a beautiful smile.  I cultivated this happy face to hide my depression, fear of rejection and my anxiety.  Up until I was 60, I dyed my hair, because it made me feel and look younger.  Now I have gray hair and I hate it.  Seriously, I am thinking about coloring it again.  I do not want to be old.

If I tell my story, much of which you already know, if I put it all together in one book for others to read, I will no longer be in charge of the myth have worked so hard to create.  Maybe that is  why Susan must tell the story.  So I can be an innocent bystander , an observer.  I will give up being in charge and let her tell it all.  Go, Susan, go.  I’m ready.  Let it fly.