Mass Measure

I’m afraid of heights, but I love roller-coasters.

The rush of the drop. The sail into the return space.

The click-click-knowing the adventure is done and I’ve taken a chance.

The ride is scary, but the arrival—-with the sudden absence of wind blowing and screaming and plummets and rises-—the arrival at the end, is what the roller coaster is all about.

I never scream on roller coasters. I stuff the sound in and hold tight to the rail. I feel embarrassed to let the noise out. What will those around me think?

Those around me. The ones I worry about? They are too busy carrying on with their hands in the air. 

All the same, I stay silent. 

Exhilarated. 

Quiet. processing.

Over a year ago, I write a blog about wanting to ride in a convertible. Feeling comfort in a black interior. A thrill as the roof rolls back. A freedom in my hair blowing everywhere. It is that freedom in looking outward that I crave. The feeling of flying yet being in control. I speak of destination. I feel sure that I know where I am going.

In April of 2014, I take a trip with my girlfriends. I cry hard on the return flight and clutch the hand of my best friend as she hands me tissue after tissue. I sob as she encourages me to let it out. To not mask what I am feeling. I hold her hand silently and pray as we fly. I look out the window to the clouds below and remember what it was like to be a child with the confidence that walking on those clouds was possible. 

I wonder about prayer and G-d at that moment. About if it would be possible, somehow, to measure force or velocity or weight of prayer in large group gatherings. To measure Mass. 

Mass of prayer. A prayer Mass. 

It makes sense. 

During horrific events like a plane crash or a bombing, if we were able to hook victims up to some sort of wave device, would we be able to move the needle simply with the massive force of hope? Could their prayer and power be harnessed and measured? Surely, at that moment, humanity all cries out with the same sentiments.

Save me.

Save me.

Help me.

Please. Please.

Give me strength.

Give me strength.

I wonder, as I place my fingers between those of my best friend, if prayer is its own cloud. Tangible. Tactile. Touchable.

A cottony covering on which we may tread.

A belief we hold as children that evolves to a faith we nurture as adults.

I jot down these words as we begin our descent:

The Landing of Flight 1670

Collective bargaining agreement

you can measure, 

prayer power,

on departure. Take off.

Arrival. Death and Birth. The end and start.

The bumps increase the most;

the tangible forcefield created 

by shared hopes and dreams.

He is a Son.

A Hand.

A Spirit.

Allah or Mohammed.

Adonai.

A deity direct dial from any

locale.

Call collect or, no,

no,

No phone necessary.

Why search for proof?

Does it matter?

Tap into the seismograph

waves of your soul.

White lace and gossamer breath.

I’ve spent my entire life being sure.

I planned.

I perfected.

I appeased stringent and invisible guidelines.

I smiled visible smiles.

I held onto the rails and did.not.scream.

I ran endurance races earned Masters Cum Laude nailed interviews had parties cleaned and cooked and washed and folded and sat in the NICU and the PICU and sang and danced and read and mothered and — I stopped.

Stop.

I needed to stop. I needed to say give me strength. 

Give me. Strength. 

Hear me. Speak.

I thought I knew where I was going.  I am so glad, now, that I didn’t. I am glad for that roller coaster drop. For the ride in the convertible. 

I am glad that I am no longer afraid. I am so fortunate that I have been taught to let sound out.

To drop the mask.

To take a hand.

To trust.

To open myself.

To walk back into the classroom. To teach. Write. Breathe.

To have faith. In so many things. 

In love. 

In my children.

In myself.

I believe we will all get where we are going.

That scary roller-coaster drop into the return space is merely an arrival at a destination.

And the rail we can choose to hold? That’s faith.

I have learned to not look at the others carrying on with their hands in the air.

The only one watching, the one that matters,

is You.

Unicornism

When did unicorns become a thing? Was it right around the time that kids starting saying everything was awkward? Perhaps it was brought on by Charlie going viral. Maybe it was encouraged along by double rainbow guy.

Either way, it’s cool to like unicorns now in a weird, hipster-I’m-original-if-you-like-it-too kind of way.

But, just so you know, I liked unicorns first. When it wasn’t mainstream or ironic.

Seriously, you can totally ask my mom.

It’s  1989. I am 10. I am in full unicorn collecting heaven. I receive unicorn collateral for every holiday, birthday and vacation. My yellow walled room is filled with snow globes and stuffed animals. Books and music.

All unicorn.

All the time.

My favorite unicorn paraphernalia is an anthology of stories with vivid pictures. In one, a princess is sitting on a mossy forest floor with her arms around the neck of the sleeping animal.

That picture would take my 10 year old breath away. I wanted to be her so badly. I would close my eyes and pretend as hard as I could that I was the princess. That I was the one in the forest. That I was the one in the fantasy.

When my parents would take my brother and me on trips to Acadia or Franconia Notch, I would hike through the birch woods and look for hoof prints.

Evidence of existence.

One Halloween, my mother upcycled an old white Izod shirt in an effort to create the perfect unicorn costume. She had me wear a white sweatshirt underneath. She trimmed the collar and sleeves with fur. She glued a Styrofoam cone (twirled in gold glitter) to the top of the hood. She stitched on pink felt ears. She threw that sucker on me and-presto-I was in magic happy land.

I was a unicorn.

I remember when I realized that they weren’t real. I was incredibly sad. I felt juvenile and overly naïve. I couldn’t stand that I had allowed myself-that others had allowed me-to believe in something impossible for so long. Where was the justice? How was that fair?

The shimmering mirage disappeared and unveiled a reality that felt harsh and cold. I didn’t look for the creature in the forest or in dappled sunlight. I didn’t sit on the wall to wall green rug in my room and dream of possibility. I put my books away and stashed my snowglobes.

I grew up.

And yet. And yet.

We are all still looking for the unicorn. It just symbolizes something else, doesn’t it? It comes in many forms of perfectionism and idealism and achieving of the impossible.

It is as simple as cooking and serving a beautiful meal to children who are rested and relaxed enough to partake in conversation at the dinner table. It is as simple as comparing oneself to others who we feel have somehow managed to attain a reality that is beyond our grasp.

What I am going to deem Unicornism, is nourished in overly perfect social media posts. It is cultivated at craft fairs. In songs. In movies. At get-togethers and community gatherings. It thrives in an environment of false perception.

Unicornism is the wish and the hope and the gut clutching desire to throw the golden noose around the neck of a dream that has to be there. It has to be there.

Put away your snow globes people. You don’t need a golden noose. You don’t need a fabled anthology.

You need simply to step out of the forest and into the sunlight and open your eyes. There might be a creature out there somewhere galloping, just as there might be a Loch ness swimming lazily in Scotland. But those fictions don’t matter.

What matters is the belief that whatever you want to achieve or accomplish is achievable or accomplishable. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And it’s honest.

I trust that.

Out there are people who see the belief and trust inside you and nourish it. That allow you to nourish it. There are people who love you without your unicorn. It’s a group effort of acceptance.

Suddenly, the lines blur and it becomes clear. The clouds part; you watch the idea of the unicorn gallop away into the forest in a trail of glitter and spectrum, and you feel happy.

Adara

In 17 days my Grandmother will be 97.

I chose my daughter’s Hebrew name in honor of my grandmother.

Zoe is Miriam Adara.

Miriam, the sister of Moses and a poet, is my Grandmother’s Hebrew name. Zoe’s second Hebrew name, Adara, means fire. I chose this intentionally. My daughter is fire; she personifies this image. I love her for it. Adore her for her hypnotizing personality. Her soft sharpness.

I adore even more the fact that she is blessed with my Grandmother’s name.

Because my grandmother is strong.

She is full of life.

Grandma came over and spent some time on the porch with me today. She sat in my white rocking chair looking at the front yard. Her cane was at her side; her wheelchair tucked unassumingly into a corner. She can still walk, but slowly, so the wheelchair helps when we need to give her a little speed. She wore a red sweater and blue boot cut jeans. Soft black slip on shoes. Her hair is white white white and short. She has carefully applied her makeup. Her huge blue eyes gaze into mine.

Sometimes I think I feel your grandfather with me, she says.

She tells me that she likes to think that his spirit is watching over her. She swears that she feels him with her. I ask her if she believes in the afterlife. She tells me that she isn’t sure. She can’t prove anything and is skeptical and, yet, she feels him.

She tells me that their hearts are connected.

She begins recounting memories of their life together: In your grandfather’s eyes, she says, I could do no wrong.

I laugh and ask her what she thinks about that sentiment.

She pauses and says to me: Doing no wrong is impossible. But for him, in me, it was possible.

She pauses for a while and enjoys the warm wind and talks to me about my wind chime. She is frustrated that it doesn’t make noise. I explain to her that I bought it while on vacation because Zachary liked it. I agree with her, it doesn’t do very well at its job; it rarely makes noise. It was relatively inexpensive though, and Zach liked the color and the way it felt in his hands. I ring it sometimes just to hear its sound. But, other than that, it serves as a memory of time spent.

We sit in the quiet. I step inside to grab an apple and a notebook to record her thoughts.

I tell her a story about Zoe’s tenacity around the topic of bath time. She grins and assures me I am in for it when Zoe is a teenager. I tell her that I know. Zoe is going to be a challenge of challenges.

Grandma wishes out loud that she could be there to see it.

I propose a promise. I request that if, after she’s gone, she finds there is a way to send me a message or a feeling, to please do so. That I would like to feel her with me. She agrees.

Again, for minutes, we sit together in the warm air. We look at the changing leaves. She asks about my lawn.

She says she’d like me to send my grandfather an email. I agree that I will, in the form of this blog, and ask what she would like me to say.

She dictates:

Dear Joe,

We are waiting for you. We want you to see our little girl.

Our Zachy. He’s so big now, Joe.

I think you would enjoy Zoe. She’s spicy like her mommy…

Grandma trails off and looks at me. She tells me that she reads my blog every day. I am surprised. I had not known this. She explains that when there is not a new one, she feels disappointed. I promise her I will write. I explain that I had been writing in other ways over the past few weeks.

She touches her green emerald ring.

Her hands are knotty and smooth.

Her nails are clean.

She complains of the failing batteries in her hearing aids.

She tells me that she needs a new bra because her breasts have fallen down.

She tells me I am beautiful.

I ask if she has eaten.

If she’d like a glass of water or some cheese.

She is not hungry and happy just to pass the time with me.

I’m happy to pass the time with her because I don’t know how much time there is left to pass.

In a week, in my front yard, I will host a wedding. Grandma will be there. She will watch my children dance.

I will watch her watch them and take note of the strength of her spirit. I will memorize the feeling so that I can look for it again in the future when Zoe stamps her foot and disregards some trivial request I make.

I will memorize Grandma’s love for me and hold carefully its weight.

I will listen for the silences.

In them, are the answers.