Sometimes it's hard to be thankful. Especially staring over a dead bird at your grandmother who quite possibly loves her Beefeater Martini more than she loves you. You have to get uber-yogic just to make it to the pumpkin pie. Smiling beatifically, almost as though you'd recently lobotomized yourself with a serving fork in your parents' powder room, you ask, "Can some one please pass the spinach casserole?" Only no one is listening because they're too busy discussing which hotels in Rome have the highest quality safety bars installed in the bathroom. You look around, at your cousins who are practically half your age and getting married--remember last year when you had a fiancé?--at your mother who is ladling sweet potatoes onto your thirty-five-year-old brother's plate and you say, unerringly, "Thank You, Krishna, for THIS moment ." As my dear friend and teacher Jen Guarnieri would say, It's all a dharma talk.
Speaking of dharma, last Thanksgiving, when I was engaged to a TV chef and really thinking I was on The Path, my brother, who is deathly allergic to nuts, ate a bite of cranberry sauce that somehow had a walnut in it. For twenty minutes, we waited for him to go into anaphylaxis or worse (nothing happened by the way). During this period while we flapped around the kitchen and the dining room panicking, my grandmother remained calmly at the table with her Beefeater. Maybe she was prescient about the nothingness that was really occurring? Maybe, at 96, death is so close it's a part of your everyday routine and you're just thankful for the entertainment? I wish I could be like that, sans the hooch, natch, and perhaps a little more selfless, but still, I wish I could remain centered and balanced no matter the situation.
The thing is, I can. I just don't always. I fly off the handle. Worse yet, I don't even recognize the handle when somewhere deep down in my anahata, I know that it's right there, this mythical handle on all things blissful, and all I have to do is let go. Okay, it's challenging, and the manifested universe keeps throwing these curve balls--O former fiancé, where are you roasting your brussel sprouts this year?--and you were always bad at sports. Or rather, how does a walnut end up in the cranberry sauce of a man who is allergic? Who put it there? God? Maybe to achieve balance in all things familial (which is really ALL things, AKA samskara), it's best to expect the unexpected, let go and roll with it. Thankfully.
Emily, I love your write. I felt as though I was at the table or a fly on the wall watching. It is interesting what we write about and how our roots are so pertinent to our life. Your experiences and mine or your close friend are so different but yet they have a huge impact on our lives. I guess before we find inner peace we must make peace with our roots. Your humorous write is underlined with turmoil. Somehow through the years I learned to see my youth and the family I was born into as gift. All that they are or not is what we need in this life to evolve into a higher plane. This is the path, the piece we need to thread all of our relationships with life.
And yes, one never knows what will happen, but whatever it is, there are no mistakes.Somehow it is a lesson in this classroom we are in right now and we must be so grateful
By the way, I was so grateful for your presence yesterday. Sometimes these old bones need all the energy they can get. God Bless You Emily in light and love, Loretta
I would like to share with you a story I put on a writing blog I belong to. I somehow sums up what I was saying.
Remember to Smile
As I journey through the second half of my life, I find myself immersed in the realm of the quiet. Whispers of my childhood that vibrate within my mind hold the remnants of many dark blemishes. Growing up, I remember how I tried to peel them away, yet somehow they always managed to make their entrance. Older and wiser, I look in between the crevices. As I thread together the tears and weave around the now and before, I delicately pull through the loops remembering to smile.
At dinner, we used to sit around the kitchen table. Being the youngest I was squished in the middle of my two sisters. On this one particular night, while we were waiting to be served, my sisters and I broke out in the giggles. We tried covering our mouths but each time we looked up at each other the giggles became louder and louder.
My uncle sat at the head of the table, occupying the chair usually reserved for my father. His face looked like a road map. It was filled with a thousand wrinkles. Although he stared straight ahead, I always felt his eyes glaring at me. Before he screamed his cheeks would become like plum tomatoes and a huge rash would appear on his forehead. It was then that my seven year old body would start to shake, for I knew what was coming. As his fist banged on the table, the dishes jumped and my heart skipped a beat. Holding our hands on each other’s laps, we turned our heads towards him and listened in fear.
“Stop that laughing right now.” he would say. “Sit up tall and wait for your aunt to serve you. If I hear another sound, you will all go to bed hungry.”
The tears fell down my cheeks reminding me how much I wanted my mom to be here instead of them. My father said that our mom was in the “special hospital” because her mind was all mixed up. But, on nights like these, I thought the hospital took the wrong person. We unclasped our hands and our laughter just died. Like photographs of children in an orphanage our faces portrayed much sadness. We all watched as our aunt carefully filled each bowl with a ladle of soup.
She never spoke very much. I think she was just as afraid of my uncle as we were. We said our prayers quietly to ourselves. My uncle didn’t believe in God so he didn’t pray.
“Dear God,” I said, “Please let my dad come home from work tonight. Amen. Oh and I guess I should thank you for this food. Thank You,”
As we stirred our soup around to let out the smoke everything felt quiet. Looking down at the bowl I wasn’t exactly sure if what I was seeing was real. Could it be that these little black things floating on top were ants? I didn’t remember black pepper having such a definite shape. In unison we all raised our eyes. Our fear was confirmed. I glanced over at my uncle only to find him eating vigorously. My aunt sat sheepishly next to him and was eating too. For a moment he paused but didn’t look up
“Don’t let your soup get too cold. Dig in girls. It is delicious.” he said.
My older sister Linda was very shy. But my middle sister Cecilia never had a problem expressing herself. Yet, somehow that night I heard a hesitation in her voice.
“…but Uncle Ted,” she said, “There are ants floating on top of the soup.”
My uncle stopped instantly. Holding the full spoon level to his mouth, he dropped it back in the bowl. As he stood up my heart trembled. Looking straight at her he pointed his finger and shouted.
“How dare you disrespect your aunt like that? Now put that spoon in your mouth and don’t let me hear another word. Do I make myself clear? That goes for all of you.”
We proceeded to pick up our spoons and somehow managed to get it down. When we were all finished we each excused ourselves politely and ran to the upstairs bathroom to throw up.
For as long as I can remember they were our surrogate parents. They ate with us when my father worked late. Friday night was always a very late night. Oftentimes, I thought that my dad would just leave us and never come back. It used to get me scared. After dinner my aunt and uncle went home and we took care of ourselves. As soon as we closed the door behind them we would run around the house screaming for joy. When we got tired we plopped ourselves down in front of the TV and shared a blanket on the floor. Sometimes, I would fall asleep or just think about my dad. But when I heard his footsteps by the back door, my heart suddenly felt so relieved. I ran to greet him.
I immediately took the huge white box from my father’s hands and carefully placed it on the kitchen table. While I opened the box, my sister Cecilia gave out the spoons and Linda began to count. When we heard the number three, we dug our spoons into one huge chocolate pudding pie. We laughed and giggled as much as we wanted banging our spoons around and enjoying every last bite.
“Leave some for me,” said my dad as he gave each of us a kiss on our heads and a large napkin to wipe our chocolate faces. It was moments like these that I cherished for I knew that in the morning the tears would fall again.
We used to leave early on Sunday morning so that we could catch the first train that left for upstate to visit my mom in the ‘special hospital.” My sisters and I would huddle together in a two seated alcove and join each other in the giggles. My father sat across from us and just smiled. But sometimes, when I glanced over at him I noticed one or two tears dripping down his cheeks. Holding unto the pole I would leap to the other side and jump on his lap.
Taking a tissue from my pocket, I whispered, “let me wipe your tears daddy. My teacher always tells us that it is good to cry because it helps to wash our eyes. Is that what you are doing daddy?”
“That’s exactly what I am doing little girl.” He answered in his gentle voice.
As I put my head up against his chest I asked, “Daddy, does it make you sad to see mommy in the hospital? Is that why your heart is beating so fast?”
Looking up at me with his meek eyes he shook his head and said, “Yes, it does, Ann,”
He squeezed my hand real tight.
We had to go through a few gates before we reached the door that lead to the building where my mother stayed.As we made our way to the visiting room, the smell made my stomach feel sick. The guard at the door led us to a table that always had some playing cards on it. My sisters and I would play war until my mom came. It helped us to get our minds off the sadness. Even though the room was well lit, it always made me feel creepy and afraid. When the door opened everything became silent. My mom was always dressed in the same outfit, black pants and a dark green shirt. The nurse escorted her to our table and pulled out the chair. As she sat down I started to get nervous. I felt as though the ants were in my stomach again. She didn’t even notice us. She just kept staring straight ahead. It was as though she was a million miles away. It reminded me of the stare that you get sometimes when you are bored in school. The teacher would call out your name and you would suddenly jump. But, my mom never jumped.
Then my dad would kneel in front of her and with his benevolent smile look into her far away eyes and say, “we all came to see you Nancy. Look how big the girls are getting.” While I watched the lump in my father’s throat protrude as he swallowed I felt the ants crawling again.
When it was my turn I would kiss my mom and like my dad try to turn her face to look at me. “Mom,” I said softly. “My teacher wanted me to tell you that I got a 98% on my spelling test. She was so proud of me.”
She stared into my eyes and said nothing. Even though what I said wasn’t really true, I wanted to scream and cry until she reached out to hold me. But like the ants, she already died.
Two years later, my mom passed away. My father said that her heart got tired of staring and not being able to smile. Throughout the years, I used to question why and how come it had to turn out this way. I searched for her everywhere. There were so many times that I stumbled and fell wishing that she could have been just like all the other moms that I knew. But life moved on quickly and I carried the dark spots with me. Sometimes they disappeared but other times they resurfaced and became even stronger.
Like my dad who tried so hard with my mom, I married a man who I thought I could make smile. Unfortunately, it took me many years and a divorce to realize that you can’t fix what is already broken.
Now with age by my side, I look back and simply realize that whatever was had to be. I don’t question why, nor do I hold any remorse or regrets. I have learned that although the pain never goes away life still moves on. While I continue on my journey with one foot in front of the other, I make sure to listen for the delicious sounds of spoons clicking. I chuckle quietly to myself and remember to smile.