- Moving Forward, Looking Back (Nov/Dec 2005),
- Band of Mothers (Nov/Dec 2005)
- Wanting A Girl (October 2005)
- Craving Slow News Days (September 2005)
- Closing Time (July 2005)
- No Mom Is An Island (May 2005)
- Changing the World (April 2005)
- Paradise Lost (March 2005)
- Adopting Elvis (February 2005)
- Year-End Review (January 2005)
- Finding the Perfect Present (December 2004)
- The Calm Before the Holiday Storm (November 2004)
- Grave Matters (October 2004)
- Shades of Gray (September 2004)
- Surveying the Landscape of Motherhood (August 2004)
- Feeling hot, Hot, HOT (July 2004)
- The Best of Times (June 2004)
- The Yin and Yang of Motherhood (April 2004)
- Embarrassing Moments (March 2004)
- Lovely Letters (February 2004)
- The Learned Mother (January 2004)
- Finding the Perfect Present (December 2003)
- Fear of Falling (November 2003)
- Bodily Harm (October 2003)
- Sex, God, & Body Parts (October 2003)
- A Day Like Any Other (September 2003)
- Launching Olivia (September 2003)
- Reflections (August 2003)
- Miss Independent (July 2003)
- My Father (June 2003)
- Welcome to the Mommy Jungle (May 2003)
- A Mother's Daze (May 2003)
- Stranger in a Very Strange Land (April 2003)
- Kicking and Screaming (April 2003)
- The Boobie Tube (March 2003)
- March and Madness (March 2003)
- Finding True Romance (February 2003)
- Love 2003 (February 2003)
- Separating the Sexy Men From the Sexy Boys (January 2003)
- Closet Monsters (January 2003),
- Cleaning Out My Closets (January 2003)
- Stressing Traditions (December 2002)
- 'Tis the Season to Feel Tired (December 2002)
Showing posts with label Travel With Lizbeth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel With Lizbeth. Show all posts
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
TRAVEL WITH LIZBETH:
Moving Forward, Looking Back
In the Summer of 2002, after having spent a year writing about my personal adventures in motherhood, I had accumulated a dozen or so essays in my portfolio, and was frustrated. Not with the writing process, put with the submission process. I guess I thought national parenting magazines were going to read my essays, recognize my genuis (lol) and immediately offer me my own column.
When that didn't happen, I began submitting to smaller regional markets and online publications. I experienced moderate success, and my essays were posted here and there. I soon realized that smaller niche markets online suited my writing style. After all, I didn't want to write happy-sappy 1000 word tributes to motherhood with neat and tidy endings. I was writing about the joyous, and not-so-joyous, moments of mothering. I wanted to write THE TRUTH.
Not seeing the truth out there, I did what any creatively-frustrated woman would do -- I decided to take things into my own hands. In the Fall of 2002, I launched a webzine called The Philosophical Mother.
I had given birth twice. How hard could self-publishing be? Once upon a time, I had worked in public relations, so I knew to design newsletters for non-profit organizations. Why not design one for myself? I also knew I could take advantaged of new technology which allowed almost anyone to create online magazines, with virtually no start-up costs. While I had never created a website before, my experience in desktop publishing allowed me to get the hang of page design fairly quickly.
The response to my new baby, The Philosophical Mother, was neither immediate nor grand. Nobody was knocking down my doors to read my words. And I learned a quick lesson about the Internet -- You can build it, but that doesn't mean they're going to come.
There are thousands and thousands of websites out there. Sites with the best placement on search engines get the most hits. It takes money for advertising and marketing, if you really want to be make a big splash. Word of mouth helps, but they have to know you're out there, in order to talk about you.
I tried not to let this get me down. I told myself that if nothing else, the webzine was a good way for me to showcase my own writing. It forced me to write on a regular schedule, and allowed me to create an easily accessible online portfolio of my work. It gave me something to focus on besides laundry, shopping, and caretaking. And it fed my creative soul.
Still, as I began posting to the site, I felt as if I were stranded on a deserted island, cut off from the rest of the world. I was unsure if anyone would ever get my "message in a bottle." I held my breath and waited for a response.
In January of 2003, I returned from vacation and found my inbox full with submissions from other mothers. My call for submissions had run in Poets and Writers Magazine over the holidays, and apparently a lot of people had seen it. I had a response from the outside world. Perhaps, I was on to something. Perhaps other mothers were dying to talk about the same things I was dying to talk about.
They had received my message in a bottle, and sent back their own. Contact had been made. There was no turning back.
Over the next three years, I continued to receive submissions from all over the place. Several wonderful writers became regular contributing columnists, and together we posted a monthly webzine for mothers (and fathers) who who wanted to share their honest (sometimes brutally honest) tales of parenting.
Looking back, I am proud of my little webzine that started in the imagination of one woman but expanded to touch the lives of thousands of others. There are over 300 essays in our archives. And sometimes, I go back and read through them just to reconnect with the place and time that these essays represent.
I moved on from The Philosophical Mother in December 2005. My filmmaking and screenwriting began to fulfill my creative energies. Plus, I no longer felt comfortable sharing my children's stories as they aged, and became aware of what Mommy was writing about them online for strangers to read.
Still, the stories I shared, as well as the stories of others, remain here in our archives. They are here so that others may enjoy. They are here so that others may understand. Motherhood can seem lonely and isolating at times. But we are all connected. We are not alone. We struggle, but we get through it.
I survived, and so will you. Our stories bear witness to it all.
***********************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Band of Mothers
When I was young and single, I wasn’t anything like the women in Sex and the City. My girlfriends and I never sat around over lunch discussing every intimate detail of our sex lives. In reality, us girls talked, but with more modesty and vagueness.
And if any of us were having sexual problems, I never knew it. We just assumed everything was fine and dandy down there. We barely felt comfortable discussing our private parts with our highly-selected gynecologists, let alone our best friends.
However, all that discomfort with my body went out the door once I became a mother. Suddenly, I found myself sharing a common bond with thousands of strangers simply because we had crossed the threshold into motherhood.
I discovered that veteran moms can share “war stories” that are explicit enough to shock those seemingly unshockable chicks from Sex in the City.
After becoming a new mother, it amazed me how many times I found myself sitting in a fast food restaurant sharing the most intimate details of my life with other mothers, while at the same time doling out happy meal prizes. We easily conversed about episiotomies, hemorrhoids, engorged breasts, bowel movements, and other unmentionables as if we were discussing the weather.Usually, we discovered that while our birthing experiences were similar, they were also each unique and special too. Thus, we found ourselves in a secret sisterhood – bound together by something so enormous that before we had children, even we could not comprehend it.
We were survivors of war. And we had the C-section scars to prove it.
MOMMY BOOT CAMP
Pregnancy, as I see it, is sort of the motherhood Boot Camp. For nine months, future mommies are put through grueling physical tests and hazing rituals. Eventually, this madness culminates in our entry into the sisterhood of Mothers.
The humiliation in Boot Camp is great, starting with the monthly weigh-ins at the
This Boot Camp experience is about toughening us up as mommy soldiers for the real battle ahead: Parenthood.
For as grueling as pregnancy and labor are, parenthood includes the daily skirmishes of “The Toddler Wars” and “The Teenage Rebellion.” Therefore, we are put through rigorous drills for nine to tens months in preparation for what lies ahead.
Motherhood, it seems, is not for the weak in body or spirit.
THE BLOODY BATTLE
As if Boot Camp is not hellish enough, the real terror lies in the fact that all of us mommies-to-be know that the only way to become mothers is to live through the greatest trial of our life: THE BLOODY BATTLE aka LABOR AND DELIVERY.
During the labor, we often languish for hours in intense pain, terrified that we (or our precious cargo) will perish during the battle. However, we push on and brace ourselves for the onslaught.
If we are lucky, Boot Camp has prepared us well. And if we are really, really lucky, the baby will conveniently pop out with one or two pushes and we won’t feel a thing.
Not all labor is "flesh-and-blood" bloody, but more metaphorically bloody. For adoptive mothers, The Bloody Battle of labor, tied up in paperwork and bureaucracy, can lasts for months, instead of days.
I find that after emerging victoriously after the Bloody Battle, most mothers immediately begin the process of selective amnesia. We look down at the perfect baby in our arms and forget most of the worst parts of the entire bloody experience. Later on, when others ask about our labor or adoption experiences, most of us will not share the truly gruesome horrors.
Giving life is painful, difficult, and terrifying. However, most of us forget this and willingly sign up for second, third, or even more Tours of Duty.
Many of us are even good at recruiting future moms. Yet, there are times when recruitment gets tricky. While most civilians (i.e. non-moms) do not want to know intimate labor stories, every once in a while you get an expectant mom who demands to hear every detail, so that she can be prepared. My first thought is to scream back at the naive mommy-to-be like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men – “You can’t handle the truth!”
Instead, rather than destroy the future-mommy’s bliss, I answer, “To be honest . . . it’s really hard. The hardest thing I ever had to do.”
If her face goes blank and I fear she will faint, I quickly add, “But yours might not be. Besides see what you get when it’s done.” At which point I then gesture lovingly toward my own precious offspring.
POST TRAUMATIC STRESS SYNDROME:
Like all wars, returning to civilain life after labor isn't easy at all. Most new mothers are shocked to realize that not only do we no longer fit into our old clothes -- we also don't quite fit into our old lives.
We return home in a daze, with uncertainty and fear about our new roles. To add to the uneasiness, many new moms discover that instead of feeling blissful, we feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and depressed. Post-partum blues happen to the very best of us. These feelings are intense, and especially disturbing because they come at a time which is supposed to be joyful.
But these feelings are quite normal, caused by wicked hormonal fluctuations, coupled with sleep deprivation, and round-the-clock caretaking.
The goods news is that this initial shock eventually goes away, just in time to go back into battle and have another baby.
WAR STORIES:
The fact is that motherhood, like war, changes a person’s life forever. And it also affects the way a woman thinks and feels about her body.
It is very difficult to be modest after having gone through labor and have had dozens of strangers peek and poke at your private regions. It’s impossible to be bashful when your body has been ripped apart and put back together again. It’s ridiculous not to talk explicitly when so much of who you are seems to be directly tied to your sexuality and physicality as a woman.
As mothers, we each possess a distinct and amazing “war story” to share. We’ve been to hell and back and we’ve lived to tell about it. The victories are mostly sweet and beautiful, but sometimes marred by sadness or unspeakable tragedy. Either way they are ours. And we WILL NOT FORGET.
For there are many stinging defeats scattered along the path to glorious motherhood. We want and need to share these experiences. Mostly, we are ecstatic to find instant camaraderie with strangers who share a common language and understanding of the universe simply because they are mothers, like us.
Motherhood is the ultimate hero’s journey. We begin this journey, like all heroes, with reluctance, and an unwillingness to change. We slowly overcome our reluctance and begin preparing for big changes. Then we are put through a series of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual tests.
Labor, of course, is our ultimate task – the threshold we must cross in order to complete our journey. It is also the point of no return and the moment in which each of us confronts our greatest fears, and our own possible death. Each mother completes her heroic journey transformed and reborn by the experience, and rewarded with the gift of her baby’s life.
As a mother, I am amazed not only by myself, but by all the other women who have come before and will come after me. Despite the risks and dangers, we do not flinch from our destinies. And while history may never acknowledge women’s sacrifices or accomplishments as mothers, I know that there is tremendous strength and valor in each and every ordinary woman who enters the battlefield of motherhood.
We will probably never get a "Mommy Veteran's Day" parade or a Mommy Memorial to commemorate our heroic accomplishments. So we'll celebrate our deeds in our own way. We will continue to pass each other in the park, and nod in silent recognition. And when we get together, we will talk, and talk, and talk about our experiences -- blood, and guts, and all.
Sure, real war may be the bonding experience that makes all men brothers, but motherhood is that which makes all women sisters.
Wanting A Girl
In 1974, when my mother became pregnant with her eighth, and last baby, my siblings and became embroiled in a gender war. The five of us girls practically demanded a baby sister, even though our poor outnumbered brothers clearly needed another male on their side.When my brother Paul was finally born, three days late and weighing in at a hefty ten pounds, my brothers rejoiced while my sisters and I pouted. But our disappointment was short-lived. We were immediately won over by the indisputable cuteness of our new brother.
While my sisters and I might have been the most vocal and honest "girl wishers" that ever lived, we clearly were not alone. Still, when I became pregnant myself, I discovered that it was "bad form" for expectant parents to express a gender preference. A mere eight years ago, before “high definition” sonograms and skilled technicians most of us were not aware of the sex of our unborn child.
And most of us were afraid to inquire about the sex of our baby because in the early days of ultrasounds, we knew of too many people who were told they were carrying a girl, only to discover after months of painting the nursery pink and searching for feminine names, that their Tiffany was in fact a Thomas.
Rather than risk the appearance of being shallow, ungracious, or just plain disappointed, I did my best to hide my own gender preference.
When my friends asked me whether I wanted a boy or a girl, I always stated quite discreetly that "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it is healthy." Like some kind of political candidate hedging her bets, I knew that this "not-quite-so-honest" answer was the right answer.
My husband, on the other hand, would blatantly joke, "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it has a penis."
This punchline received lots of laughs from those who understood my husband’s warped sense of humor. Needless to say, many shocked acquaintances looked to me and inquired, "He’s kidding, right?"
Within mere minutes of beginning the scheduled C-section surgical delivery of my first baby, Dr. M said the words I longed to hear – "It’s a girl!" These magical words were then directly followed by the not-so-grand declaration by my doctor that my newborn daughter was “peeing on her.”
In the midst of my surgery-induced haze I simply blurted out, "It’s Olivia! I knew it. Hello Olivia."
I was clearly overjoyed, as was my husband. And if he had any misgivings, about his firstborn not being a son, he never showed them. In those first few magical moments of parenthood, we found ourselves completely in awe of this beautiful and perfect human being that we had created.
And a couple weeks later, my sarcastic husband who had brazenly wished for a son, would say of our daughter, that "It was love at first sight."
In the first months of parenthood, gender really became even less of an issue. My husband and I were both so overwhelmed by our tiny baby’s basic and neverending needs that we had little time to care about whether the baby’s stuff was pastel pink or sky blue. And it may sound corny, but it was true: we really were just happy to have a healthy baby.
Besides, when it came right down to it, our newborn was rather gender-less in her needs and looks. Even when dressed in pink ultra-frilly feminine outfits with bows in her hair, our daughter was still mistaken for a "cute little boy" in public. Clearly, strangers could not tell if I had a boy or a girl. And in a way, I too became gender-blind in that first year.
As our baby morphed into a toddler, I happily immersed myself in a girly-girly world, and couldn't help but dress my "mini-me" just like me. Meanwhile, my athletic husband taught our one-year-old daughter how to throw and kick a ball better than most boys twice her age. I couldn't help but wonder if my husband would have treated our daughter differently, more like "a girl," if we had a son first.
When I became pregnant a second time, my husband no longer made "penis" jokes about the possible gender of our child. He bravely stated that two girls would be great, even though I knew he secretly wished for a boy.
For me, the pressure was off. I had "my girl" and truly no longer had a gender preference. I would love to have another girl, a sister for Olivia, but a boy would be something completely new and special too. Either way, my husband and I agreed that two children were probably our limit. There would be no "trying for a boy" if we had another girl.
After two exhausting hours of agonizing pushing, my son was born. With much relief my husband declared that our family was officially complete, and he jokingly asked the doctor to "tie my tubes" while she had me on the table. I gave my husband a dirty look, and then bragged that I "knew it would be a boy all along," even though we still hadn’t come to a consensus on a boy’s name, and wouldn’t until the next morning when well-wishers started calling the hospital.
Years later, and in hindsight, I can finally be honest and admit freely that when I was pregnant with my first child, I really, truly, deeply, madly wanted a girl. During my pregnancy I dreamed about my baby girl and even wrote in my pregnancy journal that I suspected, no, I KNEW, that I was carrying a girl. I could see her when I closed my eyes and imagined the future.
Before becoming a mom, I feared that I would give birth to one boy, followed by another, and then come to that point where I was so afraid of even trying again. But without trying I would never have “my daughter.” And I would go through life with regret and "what ifs."
I sensed that in some way, without a daughter that I would always feel incomplete. I thought that I wouldn’t know anything about raising a boy since I didn’t really like “boy stuff.” And I think I truly believed that a daughter would be easier, as if she would be a mere extension of myself -- the part that made me whole.
I can’t believe how naive I was to think that a daughter would be easier. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children both the same. But somehow my son just seems to adore me no matter what, while my daughter and I seem to have far greater expectations of each other. And we tend to clash on just about everything.
But things are the way they are, and it seems strange that I once wondered, wished, and worried about the gender of my children. I simply cannot remember a time before Olivia and Jared were a part of my life and family. And I now find it difficult to imagine that I would have ever wanted things any other way.
*************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Craving Slow News Days
JonBenet Ramsey. The name of a six-year-old beauty pageant winner shouldn't terrify me -- but it does. Like Danielle van Dam, Megan Kanka, Polly Klaas, and Etan Patz, JonBenet has achieved national name recognition in a way that none of us would ever choose for our own children. And JonBenet's brutal murder represents everything we fear as parents.It seems as if every other month we add another posthumously famous young victim to this elite, ghastly list. Let's face it, we live in terrifying times. Besides kidnappers who steal our sleeping children, there are parish priests that molest our young innocents. Troubled teens armed with acne and assault weapons spray our schools in gunfire. Terrorists take aim at airplanes, day-care facilities, and the workplace. Nannies shake babies to death. Drunk drivers plow into pedestrians. E.coli poisons our hamburger meat and organic vegetables. Anthrax pollutes our mail.
With all that threatens us and our children, it is no wonder that reportedly 19 million Americans suffer from Anxiety Disorders.
In the months following 9/11, I mentioned to a group of mothers that my family was planning a vacation.
"You're flying? I'm afraid to fly," one mother says.
"My husband WILL NOT fly with the kids," another mother chimes in.
"I'm nervous," I admit. But with more than three billion passengers flying worldwide each year -- air travel is statistically and unbelievably safe.
Logically, and intellectually, we all know that air travel is not risky. But we remain haunted by the Twin Towers Attack. Thanks to our media, we relived that assault over, and over, and over again. And we cannot forget the images of airplanes turned into explosives, and monolithic structures crumbling into dust.
Is the news responsible for our collective parental paranoia? Some would argue that the news merely reports the doom-and-gloom, and doesn't fabricate it. But I say, in this media-saturated worlds -- all facts are not treated equally. "Newsworthy items" tend to be those which are sensational or aberrant.
And so, Americans are fed a daily diet of disaster, tragedy, and scandal. As a parent, I simply do not have the stomach for it anymore. I crave slow news days.
I'm not saying I want to be blissfully unaware or uniformed of world events. I'm just asking for a little balance in news coverage. There are approximately 281 million Americans, and I want some acknowledgement that an overwhelming number of us ARE NOT victims or statistics. In fact, millions of American children WERE NOT kidnapped from their beds last night. Thousands of domestic and international flights took off yesterday and landed at their destinations WITHOUT incident. Billions of people eat UNTAINTED meat every year. Millions of Americans (although not the ones featured in the news) are leading very normal, NON-NEWSWORTHY lives.
Why not report these facts? In these especially anxious times, we need to "accentuate the positive, and eliminate the negative". We need to be reminded about the absolute normalcy of life. And we need to stop repeating grim statistics that do nothing but create anxiety and fear in our population.
Yes, we should be outraged and sickened by the despicable and cowardly crimes committed against our children. Of course the kidnappings and murders repulse and terrify us. But we need to put things in perspective and grieve for these isolated, tragic events -- without allowing them to define our culture or cripple us with fear.
While the media seems to take pleasure in reporting the more aberrant nature of society, the fact remains that few of us will ever suffer the horrific fate of the Ramsey family. For the most part, our own days are completely uneventful (in a newsworthy sense) and devoid of sensational tragedy.
Maybe once we understand this, we will be able to sleep soundly at night, take family vacations, send our kids to school, trust our neighbors, and order hamburgers -- without first reaching for Zoloft.
************************
2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
This essay was originally published at The Freedom Chronicles and was written in the months following September 11, 2001, when everyone seemed to be afraid of everything and the news only seemed to be making things much worse.
Closing Time
"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." ('Closing Time' by Semisonic)
We're packing up and moving on. Soon. We officially close in early July and move into our newer home, bigger home, in a neighboring neighborhood that boasts many, many million-dollar homes.
However, our new home does not cost a million dollars. Not even close. Still it was built only seven years ago, and so it boasts many modern luxuries -- like cathedral ceilings, a walk-out basement, walk-in closets, and a jacuzzi tub in the master bedroom. Our forty-year-old center hall colonial cannot even compete. Although, back when it was manufactured in 1962 by the Levitt Brothers of Levittown fame, I imagine that our house was rather spectacular -- with it's two and half baths, two car garage, central air, and ultra modern kitchen with built-in General Electric stainless steel appliances.
It was a good home. Our family's real first home. In just seven years, our family has grown from three people to four, eventually adding a dog to the mix. And just recently, my husband's parents have joined us. Which is partially the reason for our move. We have simply outgrown our little home. We are bursting at the seams.
My family is both excited and nervous about this move. Change is hard. Change is scary. But change also means new possibilities. And that is what I mostly try to focus on. I emphasize this move as a move forward, rather than a step back. And I hope that my own enthusiasm and certainty will trickle down to the children.
My daughter, Olivia, who is almost nine, worries about making friends in a new school, and in an unfamilar environment. While she's come to accept the move, she still voices her unhappiness. Just last night, she said, "I'm not moving. I'm not. I'll just stay here with the Changs."
I'm not sure our buyers will agree to raising our daughter. But, I'm pretty sure it won't come to that. By the time we have packed up and emptied this house of our things, I'm hoping my daughter will have resolved some of her anxiety.
My son, Jared, who is six, rarely shares any worries about the move. He is, in fact, excited because he is moving into a neighborhood in which many of his friends from Pre-K already reside. And unlike Olivia, he is ecstatic about riding a school bus next year with his friends. His only concern of late has been, "I've never moved. What does it feel like to move?"
We are doing the right thing -- moving. I have little doubt. Everyone convinces me that the kids will be fine. They tell me that children are flexible and they generally adapt quicker than their parents. I imagine that my kids will settle in by the end of summer. But oddly, I worry more about Jared than I do Olivia. A creature of habit, I worry that the first couple of weeks of a new room, new sounds, and new everything will take some getting used to. I warned my husband already to expect some late night visits from our restless son.
With the move, my husband will get an even longer commute to work. Not a lot, but just enough to add to his own stress and strain. Instead of walking to catch his NYC bus, my husband will have to drive two miles to the Shop Rite and park there to catch the same bus he used to take. I imagine this will take some getting used to, but eventually he'll forget that he used to practically roll out of bed, and sleepwalk to the bus stop.
My in-laws are also dealing with a lot of change in a small amount of time. Forty-five days ago they were still living in Arizona in a serene ranch on top of a hill with a view of the mountains and Lake Havasu. They've traded in that quiet life, in order to be closer to their children and grandchildren. I guess for them, it was simply time to come home.
And I will be the one who is in some ways most affected by the move, and yet, also the one whose daily routine will remain most unchanged -- or at least up to my own design and discretion. Because I work from home, there will be minor inconveniences of course. Since I am home more than anybody else, I will ultimately be responsible for getting everything squared away in our new home. That's okay, though. Motherhood has taught me to be flexible, and I have no doubt that I'll be able to combine my work/home lives seamlessly in this new environment.
The closer we get to closing time on our old and new houses, the more I feel at peace with this decision. My instincts tell me that it is the right time to move. I sense that I am on a journey, and even though I don't know exactly where I'm going to end up, I strongly feel as if I am moving in the right direction. I am ready to say goodbye to one part of my life and begin another. One chapter comes to a close, but another chapter is just beginning.
Not that I'll ever forget the memories we've made and shared in our first home. I just plan on taking those memories with me -- and making plenty of new ones along the way.
**********************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a mother, freelance writer, and independent filmmaker who lives and works in suburban New Jersey. She is currently working with producing partner, Sandy Longo, to develop a cable TV series about motherhood based on Andi Buchanan's Mother Shock: Loving Every (Other) Minute of It.
No Mom Is An Island
EXT. SECLUDED ISLAND BEACH -- DAY
A WOMAN, in her mid-thirties, somewhat attractive, yet extremely unkempt, appears to be stranded -- a castaway.
The WOMAN sits in the sand, scribbling frantically on a piece of ripped notebook paper. With her lipstick she writes her S.O.S., which reads:
IS ANYONE OUT THERE? I'M HERE! I'M ALIVE.The Woman finishes the note, and places it in an empty Diet Coke bottle, and then seals it with a makeshift cork (i.e. a tampon). She rises and tosses the bottle into the ocean.
TELL THEM THAT I'M NOT DEAD!
As the CAMERA PULLS BACK, the waves engulf the bottle and the vast ocean appears to go on and on for as far as the eye can see.
CLOSE-UP on Woman, as a single tear rolls down her cheek.
EXT. SECLUDED ISLAND BEACH – NIGHT
The Woman sits on the darkened beach, warmed by a blazing bonfire.
The waves ROAR along the beach. The Woman shivers. But something in the waves catches her attention.
She slowly rises, and then begins to run to the shoreline. She plunges into the water and reaches for the emerald green bottle in the surf. There is a message inside the bottle.
Soaking wet, the Woman hurries back to the fire, her heart pounding. She smashes the bottle on a rock and retrieves the note, which reads:
I JUST FOUND YOUR MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE.The Woman wipes a tear from her cheek and looks up and out over the vast ocean.
YOU'RE NOT ALONE; I'M HERE TOO.
She turns over the message and continues to read:
P.S. THERE ARE MANY OTHERS OUT HERE, TOO.The woman turns around back towards the fire and now we see that she ISN'T ALONE on the island. Her BABY BOY and TODDLER DAUGHTER are playing in the sand. The Woman rushes up to them and embraces them lovingly.
WE UNDERSTAND.
WOMAN: We're going to make it. We're going to survive this place . . .
She WEEPS.
EXT. UNITED STATES COAST GUARD SHIP -- DAY
Wrapped in warm blankets, the Woman sips hot tea on the deck of the Coast Guard ship. She looks up at her kind rescuer, a handsome young COAST GUARDSMAN.
WOMAN: Thank you so much for saving us.
COAST GUARDSMAN: Oh, well, about that. You really saved yourself. If you hadn't kept writing those notes, we might never have found you. Most of us assumed that you were dead.
WOMAN: And what about the others? Have you found the others?
CUE: DRAMATIC MUSIC
COAST GUARDSMAN: What others?
WOMAN: The ones who wrote back and kept my spirit afloat when I felt so alone. Without their voices, and words of encouragement, I surely would have died . . .
COAST GUARDSMAN: Perhaps they will be all right, wherever they are.
CUE: TRIUMPHANT AND HOPEFUL MUSIC
The Woman puts down her tea cup and goes to the edge of the ship. She looks into the orange glow of the glorious sunset and the light it casts on the swirling ocean below. She looks over at her beautiful children. And she smiles.
WOMAN: Yes, perhaps they will.
FADE OUT:
**************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Originally published at www.literarymama.com
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a mother, freelance writer, and independent filmmaker who lives and works in suburban New Jersey.
Changing the World
Once upon a time, there was a bright-eyed college student who dreamed of growing up and saving --or at least changing -- the world. The future was wide open before her and she knew she could be whatever she wanted. But she still clung to some youthful optimism that somehow she had a duty to leave the world a little better than she had found it.
That girl -- who was me -- now seems like a complete stranger. I glance in the mirror and don't always recognize myself. My face is changing. My body is changing. I look like somebody's mother. I no longer resemble the girl I was.
I realize that in many ways, I am the one who has changed -- not the world. I gave up some dreams, and discovered new ones. I lived a life under the radar, not making the gigantic splash I once imagined. My mind has matured, as much as my body, and I look back on my life not with regrets, but with appreciation and gratitude.
Why the retrospective? Perhaps it's simply because I realize that I have been out of college for fifteen years, and at times I still feel like I haven't quite embarked on my real life yet. But I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I am in the midst of moving, and packing up crates of memories has given me time to pause and reflect on my life.
I have been writing forever. And in sorting and packing, I've come upon much of my past scribblings. I found a pile of the editorials I wrote as Editor-in-Chief for my high school newspaper. Even then, as a kid, I had a burning desire to communicate my opinions and ideas. I was a shy student, yet I could express myself clearly and passionately in print. I smile when I read these articles and columns. Especially because I realize that I haven't changed all that much. I still am shy and subdued in real life, but am somewhat transformed into a more outgoing and passionate persona on my blog and in my essays.
In senior year of college, I was employed as a public relations assistant for the Rutgers Department of Health. And I was then, as now, the editor of a monthly publication. When I read through my writing from that time period, I am immensely proud of my work and of my serious convictions. And I realize now that I have always been driven to write about the things that matter to me. This passion is one of the constants that runs throughout my life. For all of the changes of the outside, I am still somewhat unchanged at my inner core.
Fifteen years ago, in April of 1990, I wrote about Earth Day. This month, as I prepared the April Issue of The Philosophical Mother, I couldn't help but think about the fact that this dated column still resonates with me, now as a mother -- instead of the daughter and student.
And so, I have decided to include that editorial here, today, in a nod to my past, and as a wink towards whatever still lies ahead in my future.
*******
April 1990 -- The Health Advocate
A Letter From the Editor
On April 22, colleges and universities across the state will celebrate World Earth Day, an environmental awareness movement that began twenty years ago. In keeping with this theme, we thought it appropriate that the April Health Advocate focus on health issues which relate to our environment. While these issues cannot be fully addressed in a four-page newsletter, we decided that we could provide information, resources, and facts as an introduction to the issues and as a catalyst for thought.
As college students, we sometimes get caught up in our own problems that often require immediate solutions. We try not to think about things we cannot see (such as invisible chemicals or rainforests in another continent) or change (such as oil spills and industrial pollution). However, if we don't think about long-term environmental matters, what type of earth are we leaving for our children and grandchildren?
While the problems of the environment can seem immense, we are not powerless. There are small but important steps that each of us can do everyday to work towards change. The first step is becoming informed about environmental issues and gaining awareness about how our daily activities affect the earth. For example, consider throwing trash in proper receptacles, so that recycling becomes the norm. Refuse to buy aerosol sprays or products made of foam that help contribute to the depletion of the ozone. Reduce pollution caused by car emissions by walking, bicycling, carpooling, or using public transportation (whenever possible). Get involved in community activities and actions that promote a health and clean environment. And support laws to prevent businesses from dumping garbage and oil in our oceans or from polluting our atmosphere with dangerous chemicals.
In America, youth has always been a symbol of hope and change. Alone, we cannot change the world. But together, our voices can make a difference. The earth is our home and we cannot constantly take from it without giving something back. By helping to create a safe and healthy environment, we ensure our own future health and survival.
****************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother, a regular columnist for Literary Mama, keeps a daily blog, called MOM & Pop Culture.
Paradise Lost
Somewhere between the Caymen Islands and Cozumel, I began hatching my plan. I simply wouldn't go back once the cruise was over. Nobody could make me. This was where I wanted to be, now, and possibly for eternity. This was life at its most simple and magnificent. And I could get used to life in Paradise.
I let my husband in on my escape plan. "We can sell everything we have, and move down to Grand Caymen and open a small cafe or maybe a casino."
After five days at sea, surrounded by the Caribbean current and island life, with unlimited food and drinks, and world-class pampering, I was ready to ditch the "ordinary life" for a full-time Fantasy Island.
"Sure," my husband humored me.
But deep down we both knew the truth. This Caribbean vacation was a wonderful break from our lives, but it wasn't meant to last.
Paradise is a place we visit, not our home.
* * *
We came back from the cruise about one week ago. And now, I'm still trying to get through the mountain of laundry that accumulated on that trip. Meanwhile, I'm really backed up with work and I have all kinds of looming deadlines causing me stress and anxiety. Somehow a vacation doesn't seem like much of a break, when you come home to what seems like four times as much work.
It snowed again last night -- the third winter storm that we've had here in New Jersey in just a week's time. In December, snow in Jersey is fun and we welcome an unexpected snow day. In March, we detest snow. Enough is a freaking enough. Great, another snow day! Both kids are home driving me, and each other, nuts. Jared is sick as a dog, coughing up a storm, and he wants me to snuggle with him on the couch. Olivia is bored, she complains that I never give her any attention.
"I know it's a snow day, kids, " I bellow, "But Mommy still has to work. Mommy doesn't get a snow day!"
Winter sucks. I miss the sun. Why did I come back to this? Why couldn't we stay in Paradise?
* * *
I look outside my window and see a world blanketed white in freshly fallen snow. The neighbors are digging themselves out from under with their expensive, noisy snowblowers.
I'm tired of winter, and my body aches for sunshine. I know it's March and spring is right around the corner. But that's little consolation on a day like today, when it seems like winter is never, ever going to end.
I close my eyes and imagine that I'm back on the deck of the cruise ship. Somebody hands me a frozen drink, and I can feel the sun beating down on my face. I can hear the children splashing in the pool, and my body and mind are more relaxed than they have been in years.
I wonder if life in Paradise ever gets tiresome or old? I wonder if Paradise is really an oasis when you have deadlines, and laundry, and everyday isn't a vacation day? I wonder what keeps us here? Why don't we just chuck the shackles of our life, and choose a simpler, freer existence?
I remind myself again that Paradise is a place we visit. I make a mental note to visit more often.
***********************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother, a regular columnist for Literary Mama, keeps a daily blog, called MOM & Pop Culture.
Adopting Elvis
My husband, Mike, looks at me and says bluntly, “You know this is a mistake.”The cashier hands Mike his credit card receipt and my husband signs his name on the line. I look down at the eight-week-old baby cradled in my arms.
“You’re probably right,” I say. But still I can’t help but smile.
Meanwhile, our children, 5-year-old Olivia and 2-year-old Jared scamper about the room excitedly. They are like two unleashed puppies. They have to smell, touch, and taste everything.
“I wanna hold him! I wanna hold him!” They scream.
“Wait until we get home,” my husband says.
“I won’t drop him. I promise,” says Olivia.
“He’s scared,” I say. The baby whimpers softly in my arms. I can feel his little heart pounding through his chest. And he is shaking. “Mommy has to hold him right now,” I tell them.
“What are you going to call him?” one of the clerks asks us.
“Elvis,” I say without missing a beat.
“His name is Elvis Arnold,” Olivia chimes in.
“Elvis? That’s so adorable.” She says.
“All right, let’s take him home,” my husband says with tinges of regret and uncertainty in his voice.
Somebody else in the store says, “Elvis is leaving the building.”
And with that we exit the puppy store with our newly adopted yellow Labrador Retriever, named Elvis.
****
Elvis, the “hot-dog king of rock-and-roll,” became an official member of our family on a sunny Saturday afternoon in October 2001. But Elvis Presley, “the King,” has been part of our family for a much longer time. He has been with us through the good, the bad, and the ugly. And he has shared some of our most precious and unforgettable moments together.
I don’t remember why or when exactly Elvis Presley became such a vital part of our family. But I think it may have something to do with the fact that he is the one thing my husband and I truly adore together. We are opposites through and through. My husband loves sports. I love the cinema, especially independent cinema. My husband loves casinos, cards, and gambling. I love reading, writing, and relaxing. My husband plays basketball, while I practice yoga and meditation. My husband loves loud “classic rock.” I love anything “eighties.”
But despite these differences, Elvis remains the one pop cultural phenomenon that we both share. And even though I prefer the young Hollywood Elvis and my husband prefers the older, Vegas Elvis, it’s hard to argue with the overall merits of the King. The man is as legendary as the music. We can listen to him anytime, anyplace with anyone. We do not tire of Elvis, ever. Simply put, we don’t really know why we love him, we just do.
I probably discovered the power of Elvis earlier than my husband. I spent many an afternoon as a child mesmerized by Elvis movies. My favorites? That’s easy – Jail House Rock, Blue Hawaii, Viva Las Vegas. Even as a child I could see that Elvis had a certain charisma and sex appeal that was like no other. He obviously was not the greatest actor and yet he absolutely connected with his audience. Unfortunately, surrounded by mediocre scripts and formulaic plots, his movies were often nothing more than extended music videos.
But like many critics, I truly believe that given the right script and the right stage, Elvis could have been an extraordinary thespian. If only Elvis hadn’t died so young, I suspect there are a lot of things he could have accomplished.
If only . . .
****
In November of 1993, Mike and I took a cross-country trip together. We were young, single, and on the road without a care in the world. We were driving more than two thousand miles from our home in New Jersey to Lake Havasu City, Arizona, where Mike’s newly retired parents had just moved. During this trip, we made our first and only pilgrimage to Graceland in Memphis Tennessee.
“Was that it?” Mike said as we whizzed by the gates of Graceland.
“Yes, that’s it. We’re passing it. Turn around,” I said.
Neither of us suspected that the beautiful and luxurious Graceland would be set on a busy highway surrounded by car dealerships. Previously, we had only seen Graceland on television or in photographs. And we had assumed that Elvis’ lovely estate was nestled in some quiet and expansive countryside.
We took the requisite Graceland tour and vicariously peeked into Elvis’s private life. He was after all a larger-than-life icon and true to form, his home clearly exhibited a larger-than-life existence. Sure by 1993, most of the decor was considered tacky-seventies and severely outdated. But somehow, I looked around and admired what I saw. I began to imagine that even if Elvis were alive today, I would prefer to see him hanging out among his yellow naugahyde bar stools, multiple televisions, and the jungle room interior, rather than in some classy, yet bland retreat. I love that Graceland is frozen in time, a snapshot of 1977 and the excessive lifestyle that only Elvis could have lived.
After visiting Graceland, Mike and I headed to Beale Street to check out the blues clubs. If Graceland is a snapshot of the seventies, then Beale Street is a sepia-toned photograph of an earlier era. And the street seemed to have an energy, a life of its very own. That night, we meandered throughout the street and sampled the local music, alcohol, history, food, and fun, and felt an even greater affinity to all of the things that influenced Elvis.
Eight months later in July of 1994, when Mike and I were finally married after seven long years together, Elvis sang to us:
“Take my hand, Take my whole life too. For I can’t help falling in love with you.”We could not imagine a more appropriate wedding song. Mike and I had our very own “Blue Hawaii” wedding, exchanging our vows in Sea Girt, New Jersey with an ocean view.
In 1996, Mike and I became parents to a beautiful baby girl named Olivia Lynn. Like all first time parents, we were excited, nervous, and overwhelmed. We were also utterly in love with our precious princess. At night, I waltzed around the room with my daughter and Elvis sweetly serenaded us:
“You’re so young and beautiful and I love you so. Your lips so red, your eyes that shine, shame the stars that glow. So fill these lonely arms of mine and kiss me tenderly. Then you’ll be forever young and beautiful to me.”By 1999, we added a son, Jared Michael, to our family. And again Elvis would share a sweet nocturne:
“Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go. You have made my life complete and I love you so. Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled. For my darling I love you and I always will.”I would tenderly cradle my baby boy in my arms and dance until he drifted peacefully to sleep.
But thing weren't always so calm in our little family. Miserable rainy days outside, could make for miserable days inside. On those days, I tried my best to entertain my little prisoners. But when all else failed, I beckoned Elvis:
“Warden threw a party in the county jail. The prison band was there they began to wail . . . ” And suddenly the three of us were dancing around the house wildy. “Let’s rock. Everybody let’s rock. Everybody in the whole cellblock was dancing to the Jail House Rock . . . ”****
Olivia says, “Is Elvis dead?”
I’m preoccupied, in the middle of making dinner. “No, of course not, he’s just sleeping,” I say after looking over at the dog who is snoring rather loudly.
“No,” Olivia says, “I meant the real Elvis, not the dog Elvis.”
“Yes,” I say turning away from the stove. “Remember I told you Elvis died.”
“How come he died?” Olivia asks.
“Because he was sick, and taking all those bad medicines, and he was old,” I start to explain. But I stop because I’m not sure how to explain the sad, and unfortunate early demise of Elvis.
In reality, Elvis wasn’t old, he died young. And he was only sick because he was taking so many prescription pills. If he had cleaned up his act, Elvis could have continued to be an incredible entertainer these last 25 years. I sometimes imagine that Elvis would have won an Oscar, or starred on Broadway, or headlined his own prime time sitcom called “the King and I.”
But how do I explain to my daughter that the man who brought so much joy to others could not find joy in himself? How do I explain to her that ultimately, Elvis extinguished himself?
I think about Elvis’ ability to touch the lives of millions through his music. I think about his exceptional fame. I think about how he was one in a billion and how we will never see another Elvis Presley again. And I think about how some things cannot be explained.
“I don’t know why Elvis had to die,” I say. “Except that everyone dies sooner or later.” And in the end I realize that Elvis was just a man, flesh and blood, like the rest of us.
“But I don’t want him to be dead,” Olivia says sadly.
“I know,” I say. Like so many other fans, my five-year-old daughter longs for Elvis to be alive. She too feels a magical and spiritual connection to a man whose life expired twenty years before she was even born. I like to believe that in a way, Elvis is very much alive. He lives every day in the music, movies, and memories that he left etched in our minds. The very essence of Elvis has transcended ordinary death in such a way that he continues to touch and inspire new generations. Like William Shakespeare or Claude Monet, Elvis will endure throughout the ages. He will be studied, honored, and often imitated, but never, ever duplicated.
And Elvis will still be here, “taking care of business,” long after the rest of us mere mortals are gone from this earth. Elvis does live. At least in my house he does. He lives physically as a dog and spiritually in the gifts of song and entertainment that he bequeathed to us.
My family adopted Elvis a long time ago. And we intend to keep him and love him forever.
************************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
This essay was originally written in 2001 and was one of the first pieces of mine that was accepted for publication. An abridged version appeared in RIVER CITY (Literary Journal of The University of Memphis/ Spring 2002) as part of an anthology marking the 25th Anniversary of Elvis Presley's death. This is the first time that the entire essay has been posted anywhere.
Year-End Review
It's a new year. And you know what that means? It's time for a fresh start, a clean slate, a brand new beginning. Out with the old, and in with the new. We cannot change our pasts, but we can change our futures. Why spend time with regrets, when we have so much unspoiled potential before us?
Most of us begin the new year with new resolve. I know I do. I've already pledged to be a better and kinder person to myself. I make this resolution after stepping on a post-holiday scale and realizing that I have regained all of the weight that I lost on my Summer 2004 South Beach Diet.
It was inevitable that the weight would come back. After all, I've slipped back to "snacking too much" and "exercising too little." There's a million excuses for why I skip workouts and opt for sugary snacks that offer no nutritional value. But it all comes down to one fact -- I am extremely lazy when it comes to taking care of myself.
I know I should eat better and exercise more. I know I can't keep weight off just by wishing it off. And I also know that I actually enjoy exercise and feel better when I'm eating healthy. So why, oh why, can't I accept that a healthy diet and consistent exercise regimen need to be a constant part of my life, and not something I turn to once or twice a year, when I suddenly find myself bursting out of all of my clothes?
Unfortunately, the extra pounds are as much a weight on my psyche as they are my hips. So, yes, with a new year I am determined to take control of my physical self and remain in control for, well, EVER. It's an ambitious resolution, I know. But that is what starting new years are all about.
With the 20/20 hindsight from the previous year, we suddenly see our past missteps and mistakes clearly. And we vow to not make those same mistakes again. Sure these new year resolutions tend to be overly optimistic. But I do think that a renewed optimism is sometimes all one needs to reset and revitalize your life and stop the downward spiral and negative mindset that may have trapped you for too long.
To me, the new year, is like a swift kick in the pants. As the year winds down, it's important to reflect on your life, and reconcile yourself to the things you can change and the things that you cannot. It's time to let go of bad habits and at least attempt to start anew with refreshed vigor for life. Otherwise, we'd all be so weighed down with regret and negativity that we'd never be able to climb out of bed in the morning or look at ourselves in the mirror.
But I do not mean to imply that all end-of-the-year reflections should be mired in mistakes. Just as important as acknowleding the problems of the past year, is the acknowledging of our accomplishments. When I'm feeling most down or frustrated by my lack of progress in my life, I just need to sit down and recap a list of recent achievements or benchmarks. Usually, when I do so, I am amazed by myself and by how much I have done in just a few short months of time.
I call this my own "personal year-end review." And for many of us moms, especially those of us who no longer receive annual employee reviews or bonuses, it is important to periodically remind ourselves of our goals and accomplishments. Otherwise, we become bogged down in the daily minutiae of life and we lose sight of just how much we do -- especially for others.
For me personally, last year was a pretty good one. I had many things to be grateful for, and I had little suffering or loss. My family was healthy and happy, and gave me more joy that I once thought possible.
I also enjoyed a heck of a professional year. I wrote a lot -- in my blog, in my Travel With Lizbeth columns, at Literary Mama, and at various other websites. I completed (as in finished) two different original teleplays, and produced and directed an independent short film. I launched a legal corporation called jona musa productions, and embarked on a highly-productive professional partnership.
But most importantly, I continued to push myself past my comfort zone, seeking out new opportunities for personal and professional growth.
Last year was also a year of tremendous emotional growth for me. After years of wanting too much, and always feeling empty, I learned to roll with the punches. I learned to take criticism, and not feel rejected. I learned how to take rejection, and not feel defeated. I learned how to make lemonade from life's proverbial lemons.
Finally, I learned that whether good or bad, all years eventually come to an end. And if we are lucky, we will live to see another year -- and everything it holds in store for us.
********************************
Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama.
Finding the Perfect Present
Ever since Charles Dickens wrote a little story called A Christmas Carol, being haunted by the ghosts of our pasts, presents, and futures have become sort of synonymous with the holiday season. As each new year approaches, one can’t help but look back on the previous year, and make resolutions for the next. But no matter how “naughty” we have been, just like good old Ebeneezer Scrooge we all hope to have the chance to make a last minute jump onto Santa’s “nice list.”Still, what exactly is it about the holiday season that makes us analyze our lives? Why do we share an almost universal desire to be deemed worthy of the presents we are given? What makes us want to give gifts to our friends, family, and fellow earth-dwellers? And why can’t we be joyful, peaceful, spiritual, and giving all year — rather than just during the holiday season?
I have a sneaking suspicion that being in the “giving spirit” every day of the year—24 hours a day — just wouldn’t work. Ironically, I learned this lesson from Sesame Street. Back when my daughter, Olivia, was two, she watched Elmo Saves Christmas about 4000 times during the month of July. In the video, Elmo makes a wish on Santa’s magical snowglobe — and what does he wish for? Why, Christmas EVERYDAY! But much to Elmo’s surprise, Christmas Everyday is too much of a good thing. The loving, happy people of Sesame Street become exhausted and frustrated, and are practically ready to run poor Elmo out of town. Finally, Elmo admits that he made a mistake. He realizes that if Christmas came everyday, then it would no longer be special. And it might even become a chore.
I guess that being “too nice” definitely takes a toll on people; and limited exposure to “good will” probably works best. After all, we can’t all be saints, just like we can’t all be sinners. But we can still strive to be our best, hopefully learning from our past mistakes without too much damage or regret.
I recently picked up and read a copy of Spencer Johnson’s The Present. Just like Johnson’s other book, Who Moved My Cheese?, this book provides a short, life lesson about something that is somewhat obvious, yet elusive, as well. Johnson believes that people can lead successful and happy lives, both at work and at home, if they live their lives guided by some very basic, simple truths.
Long story, short — the moral of Johnson’s tale is that “The Present” is “the most valuable” gift you can receive. Johnson says, “The Present is not the Past and it is not the Future. The Present is the Present Moment. The Present is Now.”
To some, Johnson’s message about living in the present, may seem rather corny and a bit self-evident. Yet why is it, then, that so many of us ignore this commonsense by dwelling in the past or running towards the future? Why can’t we simply “learn from the past” and “plan for the future” as Johnson suggests?
It basically goes back to the same message that Charles Dickens shared long ago through his tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, a man who finally sees the light: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.”
And whether we know it or not, there really is no such thing as the “perfect present.” There is only The Present and what we make of it.
Johnson gives these reminders about finding your own “present”:
1. You already know what The Present is.
2. You already know where to find it.
3. And you already know how it can make you happy and successful.
4. You knew it best when you were younger.
5. You have simply forgotten.
This holiday season, instead of stressing out about finding the perfect present, perhaps we should all take a deeper look at the present we already possess.
*****************************************
Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
The Calm Before the Holiday Storm
WHEN, I ask you, did Halloween become the official kick-off point for Christmas? Wasn’t it just a couple of years ago that Thanksgiving was the official start of the most crass consumer of all holidays? Why didn’t I get the memo, the one explaining that the Christmas invasion would begin early this year?I found myself feeling a bit anxious in the middle of my supermarket on Halloween. Why? Because I ran in for a couple of last minute Halloween treats and found none to be in existence. Instead, I found aisles and aisles of Christmas products. They seemed to mock me openly – “Forget about Halloween, you loser, you’re already a day behind for Christmas…and you will fail.”
So much for living in “the moment” as the Buddhists encourage us to do. In our world, there is no such thing. Holidays should be celebrations of togetherness and provide opportunities for us to take a break from our oh-so-busy lives. But instead, the holiday season has become a stress-inducing time of hyper-planning that sets us all up for ultimate disappointment and disaster. Thanksgiving and Christmas become days in which we “fail” rather than moments for which we give thanks or meditate on the simple pleasures of life.
I look around and I see parents everywhere who are exhausted, tense, and stressed out. I see people who seemingly have everything, yet are still dissatisfied and unfulfilled. I see children who want everything, and then still aren’t happy once they’ve got it. I see a country of people searching for answers, binging on a steady diet of junk consumerism, filling themselves up with empty, meaningless material objects. On the outside, we are a fat and bloated society. But deep down inside, we are starving -- yearning for something more substantial and more filling.
In preparation for the onslaught of the holiday season, I have been trying to calm myself by reading the book, Buddhism for Mothers: A calm approach to caring for yourself and your children. Sarah Napthali writes:
“The cause of suffering and unsatisfactoriness is desire. The world we live in has turned us into creatures tormented by innumerable desires. The objects of our desire won’t bring us peace and we are often blind to the effects of our endless striving for them.”
There is no doubt that most of us want to be happy. And there is nothing wrong with that. But I wonder, why we think that we will find this happiness in objects that “WE MUST HAVE.”
Not that I’m perfect. Like everyone, I have a list of “things that I need to feel happy and whole.” But this year, the over-zealous, over-the-top marketing of Christmas sort of has me cringing with a bad taste in my mouth. I think maybe retail has gone a bit overboard in their attempt to compete for limited customers and extend the buying season. Target sent out it’s chunky holiday circular as an insert in the newspaper, not on Thanksgiving (as acceptable) but on HALLOWEEN!! Amazon.com, Gap, and Toy-R-Us, have already sent me email reminders to “shop early for the holidays.” Almost every retailer in America had their Christmas displays up by Halloween this year.
I feel surrounded and yes, THREATENED, by Christmas, a holiday I once loved and anticipated. Like a gluttonous kid who has binged on too much sugar and junk food, instead of feeling happy, I feel queasy. I am downright nauseated by just the sight and sounds of Christmas. And I feel myself developing an aversion to all things marketed as “festive must-haves items” of the holiday season.
According to Buddhism, “the keys to peace and calmness are within.” And so I remind myself that I can choose to ignore the holiday madness and calmly approach it in the ways that I prefer. Instead of becoming anxious about it all, I can close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself that I already have everything I need for happiness.
And EVERYTHING ELSE is just gravy.
***********************************************
Copyright 2004 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama. You can read her daily blog, MOM & Pop Culture.
Grave Matters
It was late one night, and my daughter and husband were already asleep. My four-year-old son, Jared, was still winding down for the night, but eventually settled on the couch next to me, as I read a book. Out of the blue, he suddenly turned to me and blurted out: "Mommy, I don't want to die.""Oh, sweetie," I said. "I know you don't."
My son was quite healthy and there wasn’t any fear of imminent death to him or anyone else in our immediate family. So, I wasn’t quite sure what provoked my son’s sudden declaration against death.
"But Mommy," he said as tears welled up in his eyes, "I want YOU to change the rules. I don't want to die. And I don't want you to die, or Daddy, or Olivia, or Elvis (our dog)."
I held him tight, and tried to console him. But I felt completely ambushed and unprepared to dive into a deep philosophical discussion on death with my usually silly little boy. And so I stuttered a bit, and tried to tread as lightly as possible into a world I wasn’t quite ready to explore. The problem WAS and IS is that I don’t want to die any more than Jared. But like most people, it is something I try not to dwell on.
That night, I wished I did have the power to change the rules, if not for me, then at least for him. And I silently wished that I didn’t have to be the one to help him, my four-year-old son, confront an essential, yet harsh fact of life: all things must die.
And I worried that I would give Jared more information than he sought. Perhaps, he just wanted to feel safe, and be reassured that he would have a long life before him. But I couldn’t know his fate for certain, and I didn't want to lie to him and tell him that he would live forever. I also didn't want to scare him or mistakenly let him think that he could or would die soon.
This was clearly one of those times where I could have relied on the beliefs instilled by my Catholic upbringing. I could talk of heaven, the soul, and GOD. The problem was that I stopped believing in all of that years ago. I had never found solace in organized religion. I personally never needed simple answers that were driven by blind faith. But content as I was to live without answers or a core spiritual belief system, I now stumbled to give my son the comfort he sought.
"Please, Mommy," he begged. "I don't want to die."
I just kept holding him, and whispered, “I know, sweetie...I know.”
It is one of the great ironies of life, isn’t it? As humans, we have the amazing intellectual capacity for complex thought, reasoning, and understanding. And yet, just like a flower or any other living thing, we also must eventually die. We are each born with endless possibilities and yet, we immediately become aware of our own impending demise. And this knowledge influences just about everything we think about and do. It compels us to seek answers to life’s greatest mysteries. It leads some to denial, depression, or despair. It encourages us to make our marks on the world in an attempt to attain a sort of immortality. And it unconsciously encourages us to procreate – a last ditch effort to leave our DNA behind.
Ironically, giving birth has reminded me of my own mortality. Like many, I believe that laboring has brought me as close to my own death as possible. I feel as if I am one with the universe, part of its perverse cycles of life of death. And I sometimes cry when I realize that the beautiful babies I have created – will some day –like all things – DIE.
And I am haunted by the pain this causes my son – who at the innocent age of four has already discovered the brutal fact of life: none of us can escape our eventual deaths. And so, my typical rough-and-tumble boy, who is wired to jump, leap, wiggle, run, and blow things up, is also very introspective and aware of the gravity of life.
******
In late September we flew to Arizona to celebrate my father-in-law's 60th birthday. I realize now that it was just after our return to New Jersey that Jared began asking about death and about my father, his other grandfather – the one he never met. He innocently asked where my father was and why we never visited him.
“Your other grandfather, my father, died a long time ago,” I told him.
“What was his name?” My son asked.
“David,” I said.
“Why did he die?” Jared continued with his thoughtful investigation.
“My father was older, and sick for a really, really long time. He had a sick heart and it kept getting sicker and sicker until he died.”
I don’t tell him that even though my father has been deceased for almost twenty years now, that he wasn’t really that old when he died. In fact, he was only 59 years old, a year younger than Jared’s other grandpa just turned.
Again, I stutter, and hesitate, worried about how to explain this death to a four year old. How do I convey the fact that people die without causing unnecessary anxiety in a child? How do I simplify the meaning of life and death without oversimplifying it? How do I know if my son understands just how sick my father was before he died? How do I assure my son that yes, kids get sick too, but they usually don’t die? How do I know the right things to say, when I’m still searching for answers myself?
“When did he die?” Jared wants to know.
“Long ago, before either you or Olivia were born,” I tell him.
And then, as if truly understands the scope of what has been lost, Jared says, “It's not fair. Me and Olivia can't never meet him.”
“That’s true,” I say. “But you know what? We can go visit his grave in the cemetery. Would you like that?”
“Really?” he says with boyish enthusiasm. “Can we go right now?”
“No, not now,” I say, buying time. “Soon.”
After this talk, Jared becomes increasingly intent on seeing my father’s final resting place. Every time we go out in the car and pass a cemetery, Jared yells out from the backseat, "A graveyard! Is that where your dad's grave is?"
“No, that’s not it,” I say.
“When can we go see it?” He asks me again and again.
“Next week,” I finally say, knowing that the anniversary of my father’s death is coming up. I decide that it is time for a visit.
********************************
We arrived at the cemetery in the late afternoon. I had waited for the kids to get out of school and then I picked up my mother on the way. The cemetery is located in a small bay town on the Jersey shore where I grew-up, where my mother still lives. When I was a kid the cemetery was known as “The Green Light Cemetery” because of the eerie green glow that lit up the cemetery at night. According to urban legend and all the kids in town, the green glow was caused by ghosts. Turns out that the glow was created by a green light set atop a hill at the tip of the cemetery. It was a beacon for any boats out at sea lost in a fog. When we were in high school a bunch of us piled into a car and snuck into the cemetery to find the green light. And there it was. Just a light. Mystery solved.
During the day, there is no green glow. In fact, the cemetery is pretty private and secluded, hidden and set-back from the road at the back of a 1970's housing development. And if one didn’t know it was there, they might simply pass it by. It is a quiet place, surrounded by trees. I don’t visit often, but when I do, I feel at peace.
At this visit, the kids piled out of the car with mild anticipation and let me lead the way to my father’s grave. My mother immediately commented on the overgrowth at the site and said something about not visiting enough. She doesn’t drive anymore and usually has to wait for one of her children to make the trip, and then she feels guilty for not visiting enough. But in the year after my father died she visited his grave almost every day. EVERY DAY. I was only seventeen then, and I didn’t want to visit the cemetery every day or even every month. It brought my mother comfort, I guess. But a cemetery is not a place for a teenage girl who is still alive and needs help understanding life, and not death. It’s not that I was in denial. The sad fact was that I knew more about death than most adults. I had been confronted with its harsh reality earlier than most. But part of understanding death is understanding how to live in the face of it; or in spite of it.
Seeing my mother’s distress, Olivia volunteered to help spruce things up a bit. She began weeding around the plants placed previously by my mother, and also helped pick up the scattered dead autumnal foliage. Like a typically active little boy, Jared didn’t sit long by my father’s grave. There’s not much to see. A name. . . a birth date . . . and a date of death.
Jared took off running excitedly from tombstone to tombstone. Nobody else was there to be disturbed by my son’s loud and youthful exuberance – nobody living, that is. Jared began reading the numbers from each tombstone.
“Mom, this one says one, nine, twenty-one and one, nine, eighty-six.”
“That’s because the person was born in 1921 and died in 1986,” I explained.
“This one says one nine thirteen and one nineteen eighty-seven,” Jared read rapidly before running off to the next grave.
I followed as quickly as I could, but was no match for the enthusiasm and energy of a four-year-old boy.
"Hey look Mommy, TWO PEOPLE died together," Jared said while pointing to a tombstone that was in fact engraved with the names of two deceased people – husband and wife – buried together for all eternity. Their names were elaborately etched in entwined hearts.
I tried to explain that the couple had actually each died fifteen years apart but were simply buried together. But Jared had moved on. He didn’t need a full explanation, and was content with his own observations. Then Jared noticed that there were miniature American flags that were placed atop several of the graves. My mom explained that in this cemetery flags are placed on the graves of war veterans. At the age of seventeen, my father was a Sergeant stationed in Germany during WWII. Like many of the “greatest generation”, my father was still a boy when he was called to defend his country. Instantly, he became a man. And now, a simple, flat bronze gravestone memorialized his service to our country.
Armed with this new information, Jared made it his mission to locate all the flags that indicated a veteran’s grave. Undeterred be the sheer numbers of veterans buried in this cemetery, he gleefully pointed to each flag, yelling, "Mom, was this guy in your dad's army?"
As I followed Jared around, I was drawn into the lives of those around me, curiously reading the gravestones. I recognized several family names. Most of the graves were for older people and most in this section of the cemetery had been dead since the mid to late 1980's. Some of the deceased have long been forgotten, their graves barely marked. Next to my father’s grave is a simple gravestone for a baby who also died in 1984. After twenty years, I’m sure the baby’s parents no longer visit the grave. But I doubt the baby is forgotten. I know that I think about that baby every time I visit my father.
I chased Jared some more until I came upon a tombstone for a young woman, a name I recognized from school - Tracey B. Seeing her grave stopped me cold in my tracks. She wasn’t a friend or even an acquaintance. She was simply a contemporary, and I shuddered as I looked at her grave with her short, uneventful life carved in the stone, stating the facts: Born 1968 – Died 1995. I’m pretty sure I had heard about her death somewhere. But still it was a shock; reminding me that death doesn't just take the old and sickly. Sometimes death comes early, and takes a young woman before she’s even had much time to live at all. “Beloved Daughter,” the inscription read. I wondered about her grieving family and remembered the words my Nana, my mother’s mom, had said at my father’s funeral: “A parent shouldn’t bury a child.”
The sun began to drop behind the trees and the wind suddenly kicked up out of nowhere dumping more dead leaves from the sky. The once balmy October day became filled with a late-afternoon chill. I made my way back towards my mom and daughter with a reluctant-to-leave Jared. Olivia called to me excitedly, proud of how she had helped to clean things up at my father’s grave.
As we climbed back in the car, the kids grew quiet; tired from their long day. We drove out of the gates of the real cemetery and passed countless homes festively-decorated for Halloween, with their fake graves, fake ghouls, and other morbid celebrations of make-believe death and dismemberment.
By the time we arrived home, the temperature had dropped considerably. I was reminded that it was October, and as such, here in New Jersey, the seasons tend to change overnight. One moment it is sunny and bright and the next it is windy, cold, with leaves falling like omens of impending gloom, and stark winters. The days grow increasingly shorter as Halloween approaches with all of its dark reminders of death.
And it always seems like the date of my father's death - October 14 -- is the day in which the world grows cold; autumn turns to winter; and hope is replaced with cold uncertainty and graver matters. At least it seems that way to me.
*********************************************
Copyright 2004 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama. You can read her daily blog, MOM & Pop Culture.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
