Category: Divorce Diary

My adventure. Before, during and hopefully, one day, after.

Graduation Day

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Oh would that I could end this. Some tell me to fight, some say get angry, some say take him for all he’s worth. Trouble is, ‘taking’ him for anything at all costs money. I simply don’t have the money to keep up the fight. Justice costs money. Plain and simple. And anyway I don’t like fighting. But I haven’t given up on my quest for equity – not quite yet.

Today I spent money I don’t even have on one round-trip ticket to Chicago in order to conclude this exhausting process. Also today, a pipe in my house burst, filling bucket after bucket and taking the ceiling down with it, yet there’s nothing I can do about it. Insane timing, huh. I shake my head in disbelief and try not to feel sorrier for myself than I do already. I admit I’m slipping a bit today. Here I go, spending more money than I have, stepping out onto the precipice of a frightening life ledge, and my house is springing a leak. Man. Really? Are you kidding? Thankfully, in the end, I do indeed have a good sense of humor. And I know that I’m in a far better place today than I was one year ago today. All in its time and place. Just breathe…

Am I not a good person, with the best, most loving intentions for all? I believe I am. How is it that Fareed can treat me as he does? In November we arrived at a settlement agreement, one in which he agreed to pay me back the money I’d invested in our first home nearly fifteen years ago. At the eleventh hour his father intervened, literally showing up in the courthouse lobby after having consulted his own private attorney, demanding Fareed not sign his own agreement. Perhaps in fear of his father, of the possibility of being disinherited (I can’t believe his father would do that, but then again I can’t believe that Fareed gives his daughter in London more he does Elihu, but there it is) Fareed ended up declining to sign his own offer. Minutes before going before the judge. My attorney said in his some thirty years in this profession he has never seen anyone so ballsy, so crass as Fareed. Wow.

His father insists that I owe him thousands – never mind there’s nothing on paper to that effect, never mind that he gifted Fareed and me money through the years resulting in tax benefits to him. Never mind that he offered his support without hesitation, that he knew intimately how we needed his help to maintain our home, our illusory middle-class life. His son’s lifestyle was a great source of pride for the man; he was able to show his Pakistani family how successful his son had become. A famous jazz guitarist, yes, but look! He has a fine home and a beautiful wife and a son! (Make that three sons…) His father was well pleased with our ‘progress’ and did not hide it. I guess it’s because I left Illinois that the patriarch is so up in arms. He told his son “there has to be a limit to her audacity”. My audacity was a request to receive enough money such that we might afford to heat our house and have enough food to eat. I’ve got balls too, huh.

Ok. I’ve ranted. I’ve indulged and given way to the crap that I so long to share with supportive ears. I really want to be done with this song. I’m so friggin tired of this story. Are we not all outraged? Good! Then let’s finish this thing and move fucking on already. I and many, many others see the blatant inequity. Let’s hope the judge does too. Let’s hope my over-priced airfare pays off tomorrow. Oh friends, really, if you can just think one tiny, kind thought for my progress and success tomorrow, I believe it will help. I mean to end this phase of my life. On Wednesday, as you finish your lunches and head back into your day, I hope you can send a wisp of a kind thought my way. I will be so very grateful.

My divorce is now in its fourth year. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve worked hard. I’m ready to receive my diploma.

Coming Clean

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It seems I’ve outed myself. I knew there’d be folks for whom my smoke jones would come as a bit of a surprise, I also knew there’d be those who’d nod to themselves, thinking how they’d been there too… I feel I’m in a netherworld – I jones for that which I disdain. I am, and I am not. At the same time.

I do know what it’s like to pass a decade without even thinking of a cigarette. I also remember a time in the early 90s as a hard-smoking, hard working musician when cigarettes were simply part of the landscape. Yet even then, in the midst of the most decadent time in my life, I would shudder with revulsion at the ‘after smell’ of smokers, out in the real world, away from the proper, cloistered confines of the cigarette.

The other day, at the end of my fruitless and enlightening quest for a smoke I came upon an ironic situation. I’d gone to the town hall in order to clear up some questions regarding a property line. When I joined the assessor at the map, we two mere inches away from each other, I smelled it. She, despite her well-groomed efforts to keep a professional, un-smoking profile at work, was a ‘ten minute break out back by the dumpster’ smoker. The acrid, disgusting scent told me the unmistakable truth. If I couldn’t bum one from the guys at the garage, I could get one from this gal. But then, how would it sound if I said, “Hey, I think you might be a smoker, could I possibly bum one from you?” Seriously. “You kinda stink, but hey, that’s ok, cuz I’m lame too!” I couldn’t do it. I just didn’t want one that badly. Instant perspective. I did shell out two bucks for an enticing color topo map of my neighborhood, but I did not offer it up for a smoke.

I know that tough times leave a human searching for relief, for comfort. Something to take the edge off. I can remember a time in my life when for many years there was simply nothing to take the edge off of. I may have been crazy-busy, over committed professionally, but still, no edge. Now here I am, no overt pressures on me, no relationship to fret over and no professional stress either, yet there’s an uncomfortable edge pushing at me almost each day, worrying me, threatening me, reminding me that I’m not entirely comfortable, at peace.

Yes, it is getting better for me. Much better. But this unresolved divorce and unrelenting poverty still hang over me, coloring my view of things. I’ve seen the sad sacks outside the doors of the social services office, all of them smoking, stinking, smoking. I think “Poor souls, why don’t they just quit? My God, they’re dirt poor already, how can they shell out ten bucks for a pack of cigarettes??”  And then I go home, and realize that I’ve got less than twenty bucks to last the week. I’m feeling that edge again. I can’t do much with twenty bucks, but I can buy a pack of something that will temporarily take the edge away. Even if the feeling is gone almost as soon as it’s procured. Even if. At least. At least it’s something. Something besides that Goddammed edge.

So I understand both sides. At the same time. Fully loaded with all the facts, scientific and emotional. No easy answer. The best one is to distract in the moment of stress, get through it somehow, and congratulate yourself for having made it. Then of course, there’s that edge. Still there. What to do? Humor helps. Yeah, exercise and meditation too. Somehow though, like flossing, it’s easier contemplated than incorporated into one’s routine. At least in the beginning. And I’m still in that neighborhood. Maybe just a bit past the starting line, but truthfully, I feel I’m just getting started on my ‘new’ life just about now. The past three years were a tricky phase of transition, of ground-laying. Now, antidepressants long concluded and cigarettes off the list, I’m ready for the next phase. Ok. But there’s still all this future to deal with. I have be able to negotiate it on my own.

There’s that pushy Mr. Edge to contend with. He’s still here. So I guess I gotta put my shoulder into it now. Get the healthy routines down. Make em second nature. Maybe even throw in a hot bath. I haven’t always been a bath girl, but I have rediscovered them the past couple years. Not always convenient, but still, it might serve to ease the way a bit.

At least it’ll give me another chance at a clean start.

Wannabe

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‘To be or to wannabe’, I think that’s my question today. Am I writer or do I just think I’m a writer? Over the past few weeks I’ve had more ideas for posts than I can deal with. I find I’m getting out of bed every night to jot down ideas. I have more material than time to write it. And I feel it must come out – if I’m to live healthily, that is. I can’t really justify it any more than that. I am followed by a guilty voice that tells me this is pointless and selfish. Every now and again I peruse my old posts and wonder if it doesn’t seem an extended pity-party for the poor, almost divorced (yeah, yeah, get over your drama) newly-impoverished (it’s been three years – not so new) middle aged woman who (boo hoo) is now a single mother in spite of her wishes (join the fucking club) to a simply amazing child (isn’t everybody’s?) and must somehow start over in life, now that her boobs can no longer hold their own without a bra and… well. You know.

Years ago after reading a letter I’d written, a dear friend remarked ‘you’re a good writer. You should be a writer’. That got me angry. ‘I am a writer!’ I screamed at him. ‘What do you mean I should be?!’ I referred to of course, as this poor guy could hardly have known, my collection of hundreds (ok, maybe dozens) of journals in which I’d written nearly every day of my life for the past decade. For years friends would see me writing in a tiny notebook that I carried with me wherever I went. I’d assumed he, having seen them himself, knew of the notebooks’ importance. But importance to whom?

The conversation we had on that day began a now decade-old debate inside my head. Just what makes a writer a writer? Is it getting paid to write? Is it simply the quantity of material? The quality or uniqueness of the writing? Getting published perhaps? It seemed, as the anger of my reaction to his one simple statement revealed, that I myself felt being a ‘real’ writer meant being a published one. I think I got angry because I myself felt guilty. I knew I wasn’t a writer. Silly to declare that I was. I’d always wanted to express things; I’d dearly wished to connect with people who might be happy to recognize themselves and their own experiences in my observations, and so I wrote. While I had material, no one had ever read any of it as of that point. To connect with people, this was the germ of my hope, but I hadn’t come close. So my own private sense of failure had bubbled to the surface in anger. I wrote, yes. But was I a writer – yet? I knew I wasn’t. My writing existed for me alone.

So now I have this growing repertoire of posts, and in some way, they are published. Kind of. I’ve had thousands of readers visit, I have hundreds of regular readers. I know I’ve connected with people. Does this now finally make me a writer? I’m still not convinced. I don’t want this post take on a ‘poor-me, won’t you please help me with my lack of self esteem issues and validate me’ sort of tone, I really don’t. I’m just sort of wrangling with this in a public way, as I’ve been doing with all of the mundane events in my life. So on I go…

I’d always thought that being a real writer meant in part that you were paid to write. That was somewhere in the equation. But first, a writer had to be published. No money in this critical step. You know, send your stuff out to underground zines and obscure quarterly literary issues – the kind that I remember looking hand-typed way back in the day. (And honestly, the kind of publication I might pick up casually at a cafe but would find little interest in.) But before the days of the internet I wouldn’t have had a clue how to find, much less court, these publications. Then of course people will want to know how to market you. Who do you read? What authors do you like? What is your writing similar to?…  Shall I mention another guilty issue for me? I read a lot, but I have nothing to show for it. I can never remember the titles or authors once a book is finished. So if someone asks me ‘what have you read lately’, while I can recall all the places I’ve been and all the thinking I’ve done as a result of all the volumes I have indeed read lately, I can’t for the life of me remember who wrote them or what their titles were. And that is inherently disrespectful of the author, to say nothing of what a huge oversight it is in general (plus it just makes me look stupid). While it’s not an excuse, I know I’m not the only one guilty of this. It’s kinda like meeting someone at a party: you have a really interesting conversation with them, maybe even beginning to feel a real kinship with them, but you’ve forgotten their name. Now what do you do? You feel silly; you like them, but you don’t know their stupid name. If you know you’ll never see them again, you don’t really need to know their name. You now know their essence; they’ve shared their story with you – and isn’t that the part you truly take away? And if you do think you might want to see them again, you ask their name. Maybe write it down. Then you can find them again if you like. Kinda like me and a book. If I really like it, I’ll write it down. Or I’ll scribble the author’s name on a post-it (and well, there goes that). So while I read a lot, I don’t have much on paper to show for it. So that might not go over so well in an interview situation. Maybe that’s what an agent is for – to run interference. But an agent? Geez. That’s a whole nother ball of wax.

Singer/Songwriter = Writer/Thinker. That’s occurred to me.  But what good is a singer/songwriter singing alone in her basement? What good is a writer/thinker with a journal in her pocket? I need to make some forward movement here, but I’m feeling stalled. Ladies’ Home Journal is hosting a writing contest. I submitted a piece. Not sure it’s clever enough. One thing I’m realizing in this process is that my writing is done in pretty plain language. Not a lot of color or nuance. Out of the context of my blog – who I am and what I’ve gone through up til now – my writing might not hold its own. I don’t really hope to win; I just don’t feel my writing stands out in terms of craft. I’m more about getting the idea expressed and shared, and I’m not sure my voice would work in a stand-alone essay contest. We’ll see.

Btw – I am printing out my entire blog and having it spiral bound at Kinko’s (parts I and II, thank you very much) as a gift for my internet-challenged parents. So pretty soon, I’ll have something published. Sort of.

I guess I’m a writer. Maybe. I’ll keep working at it, cuz even if I’m not one yet, at least I know that I want to be.

Gifts Assorted

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I played piano for a holiday party in one of the historic mansions of Saratoga Springs last night. Can’t help but reflect on how things change. Not too long ago I myself was the hostess of a similar affair. Then too, I sat at the piano and played Christmas carols and led the guests in song. Only now, my back faced the singers as I sat at an old upright, out-of-tune piano in the foyer of someone else’s home. Back then, I looked out over my ancient baby grand at my friends as they sang, enjoying their faces, the look of pleasure and togetherness I recognized on them, savoring the moment and filing away the images in my mind to remember forever. Last night, although kindly treated and fully appreciated, I was an outsider. For a moment here and there, I missed the old days, and ever so briefly, my heart became sad. Even still, having been rather cloistered away in my tiny country cottage these past three years, I was happy at the opportunity to be playing again among people.

Elihu had spent the evening running up and down the four wooden staircases, dropping wine corks down the center to the hall below, just missing the heads of guests standing in line for the bathroom. He befriended a small boy – very much of the same spirit as he – and the two darted through the forest of grown ups, following on small adventures through the house’s many rooms. As I played just about the whole three hours I was there, he had lots of time to himself. The books and drawing materials I always bring along with us to keep him entertained sat untouched at my feet as he explored the huge house, befriending cats, a dog, discovering a large game fish mounted on the wall of the billiard room on the top floor. He announced when we got in the car – and reiterated several times later on – that it had been his very favorite party ever. And this kid’s been to his share. “Why?” I asked, sincerely curious. “Because I could be alone. No one was watching me, making sure I could see something, making sure I was ok… I was with everyone and I was still alone!” I assured him I understood completely. I did. I have lived most of my life as a lone person in a crowd. It can be a wonderful feeling. Sometimes it’s just the best of both worlds.

Today Elihu flew to Chicago to be with his father for Christmas. So far Elihu has not spent a Christmas here. Probably never will. How can I deprive him of being in a household of two small boys, a mommy and a daddy on Christmas morning? I can’t. Elihu knows that Santa is old-fashioned at heart; he honors all twelve days of Christmas and seems to prefer visiting the country homes after that first, too-busy night of the holiday. That means after Elihu comes back, on New Year’s day, he may indeed find presents under our humble tree well before the wise men reach Bethlehem. So I do have Christmas with him. Only it’s just not on the 25th. And he ends up getting ‘more Christmas’ than most kids do. All around, it’s ok.

It was twenty-five years ago tonight that Fareed and I went on our first date. “VIP” seats at the Nutcracker in Chicago. They turned out to be a couple of folding chairs behind the last row of seats, hastily set up for us as the lights dimmed. Fareed had forgotten where he parked the car, so after the show we waited in the cold of the underground parking lot until it thinned out a bit and the car, a retired suburban cop vehicle, could finally be spotted. Checking first to see if it was ok with him, I removed my stockings. As it was a first date, I’d been trying to impress. Clearly, after the folding chairs and lost car I didn’t have to suffer through pantyhose all night. Off they came, ending up in the bottom of my purse. Then we were off to a fine, downtown Indian restaurant. A world opened up for me in that dinner. Then we visited his Rogers Park apartment, which was not far from my own Rogers Park apartment, the one in which we would live together for the following twelve years. It was then and there that he played for me a recording of John Williams playing the Aranjuez concerto. What did I say when it was over? I asked him if he could please play it again. To him, this seemed to seal the deal. For me, I was just trying to understand this strange new music. I needed a second pass at it. As I drove down the dark highway tonight after dropping our son off at the airport, I remembered what day it was. And our story came back. Hadn’t thought of it in years. Can it really have been a quarter of a century ago? Truly, it was the night that changed my life. I wouldn’t have my son, my life, and all that I’ve learned from it, if it weren’t for that one night, so long ago.

The first year we lived here we went back to Dekalb to visit over the holiday. I cannot imagine how I did that; I slept in my own house – along with my husband, his young girlfriend and their baby, waking up in that same house on Christmas morning to share the day with them – as if we were all some sort of a natural family. (I guess ultimately we are some type of family. Strained, not quite at peace yet, but in some way all related, like it or not.) I had been trying to show my young son that everything was ok; that I was ok, that I approved of this new family. Elihu had my permission to love them. I did not want my son to feel guilty for loving his new baby brother, however stunned I still was at the new baby even being here. (Today I realize that the antidepressants I was on back then probably enabled me to make such a brave visit, because I cannot imagine making such a visit today, ‘clean’ and fully alert as I am now.) On Christmas Eve I’d taken a prescription sleeping pill, and as it began to kick in, mercifully numbing me to the current surreality of my life, my then five-year old son told me he wanted to leave something for Santa. I was too groggy to deal with logistics this last-minute; we were in bed, for crying out loud. “Santa always gets cookies.” Elihu said. “But he’s fat; he doesn’t need cookies. I want to give him something he needs.” I struggled to stay awake for him as he thought about it for a minute. “I’ll bet he needs a screwdriver. A phillips screwdriver. He could really use that.” I told him to run downstairs and ask Jill and Daddy. So he did. A few minutes later he crawled into bed with me, happy to know that his gift for Santa – a small, phillips head screwdriver – was under the tree waiting for him. That Christmas may have been strange and painful, but I will never forget Elihu’s true love and concern for Santa as expressed in that one, tiny and meaningful gift. It more than made up for it.

I stopped in to see my parents after I dropped Elihu off at the airport. We had a nice visit. They were watching different ballet companies’ versions of the Nutcracker, a marathon of performances after which the viewers could call in and vote for their favorite. I told my folks that just that afternoon Elihu had recounted the Nutcracker for me – only he didn’t want to tell me how it ended and ruin the story for me. ! He’s a thoughtful kid. And I appreciate that. Not sure if I’m as thoughtful a kid; I often worry about my parents growing old and having all that house and life to take care of, yet I don’t stop in too often, despite my living next door. Life just seems to take over, and guilt follows. So I’m glad that I at least stopped in. Made going home to my first decadent night of house-tidying and free-form internet surfing feel better earned. Plus I knew that they were ok. And that’s something I don’t take for granted these days.

No sooner had I returned home than the phone rang. Elihu just wanted me to know that he had arrived safe and sound. “Love you so much” he said before he hung up. And then I was alone. For the first time in a long while my house was truly empty. I thought about the week before me, an expanse of time that belonged only to me and my private to-do lists. This week, I would to put my house in order. I would file every last paper, toss every last unused article, and donate every last item that needs a new home. For me, this week is truly the best gift ever.

Santa, dear man, you can forget about me this year. I’ve got pretty much everything I need.

99 + 1

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What a perfect prologue to the thoughts on my mind this cold fall morning. I have made 99 posts in my growing blog to date, and this is the 100th. A personal milestone for me today, a symbolic equation for many these days.

As I watch folks around the country take their protests of the disproportionately rich 1% to the streets, bravely weathering the elements, my awareness and concern for the truth of their message begins to sink in. I feel the chill of my own reality as I dash for the bathroom in the middle of the night, the cold of my under-heated house reaching me as soon as I leave the covers and remaining with me long after I’m safely tucked back in. (My not-yet-ex remarked on his last visit that the temperature here in the house was ‘sort of like camping’. Great.) I cannot afford to heat my house, and that’s not right. I am out of milk and will need to find spare change to buy some, and that’s not right. Yes, I do have a house, and internet too, but I am hard-pressed to maintain these, let alone begin to figure out a way to buy Christmas presents for my 8 year old son. I can’t say this is directly related to all that’s gone on in the financial and banking  worlds, yet somehow it is linked. The distribution of the world’s wealth is simply wrong.

That debt can be forgiven of a huge, impersonal entity yet it can be held over the head of a suddenly-single mother who cannot feed her child is immoral. It is wrong that while some fret over which $500 handbag to wear, small children on the same planet fret over going another day with nothing to eat. I believe that one who has wealth should enjoy it, and perhaps even boast a closet full of $500 handbags, yet at the same time I believe everyone here should be eating and heating their house, secure in the knowledge that the rest of their human family has their back.

I’m lucky, for the US government has had my back to a degree; in the wake of my husband’s financial desertion I have been able to feed my son and myself as well as keep my pipes from freezing. If it weren’t for welfare, I know my situation would be dire. The credit card debt I carry from our marriage hangs over me still. The purchases were made for our business (mistake, I know), our home, for medicines and doctor visits for our child. And since it was my name alone on the dotted line it is me alone who is responsible for paying it back. Never mind that my husband has historically made 10x the income I’ve ever made, never mind that now I must buy food and basics on a wage far under the national poverty line – that debt will not be forgiven. Not unless I locate another grand I don’t have to hire someone to file bankruptcy. (Bless my mother, she’s the one who’s bankrolled my bankruptcy.) Inequity reigns supreme.

Last night, as we drove home from a session with Elihu’s mobility coach at the local mall, the topic of this 99/1 inequity began rather naturally. I had just bought us dinner at the Famous Cajun Grill – a shared plate which set me back a modest but meaningful $7. I expressed my concern that since I’d had to buy some gas today which I hadn’t planned on, I didn’t have currently have that much in my checking account; I ran the risk of incurring a $35 overdraft fee, which worried me.  (Plus we’d attended his school’s book fair that day, and while I pleaded with him to remember our beloved library, he in turn pleaded for books which he’d had on his list all month in anticipation of the fair. Bird books, of course. How could I deny him these? Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. The book fair is also something of a social event and as his peers were buying books with no constraints I just couldn’t say no. I ended up writing a check for a purchase that I didn’t currently have the money for. As many of us do, I wrote the check knowing it wouldn’t be cashed for a few days – and that by Monday I’d have another small deposit from teaching that would cover it.) Remembering the bag of coins I’d gathered earlier that day I told him not to worry – I’d pay a visit to the Coinstar machine first thing tomorrow and we’d get enough from that to tide us over for now.  This is a frustrating situation to be in. Very disheartening to say the least.

A few minutes passed silently as we drove through the night. “It’s not fair” Elihu said from the backseat. “It’s not fair that we have so little money. It makes me mad.” I paused, considering how to explain the situation without it becoming a lecture. “No, it isn’t.” I agreed. “That’s kinda what this whole ‘occupy’ thing is about. You’re right. For now we have to deal with it, but I really think it won’t always be like this. For us – or the other, really poor people. It can’t stay like this because people are getting mad, just like you are. Sometimes it takes a serious situation to get things to change. Sometimes things don’t change until someone gets mad”. Elihu needed more information.”Are all the regular people getting poorer?” he asked. I thought for a minute, then I answered him.

I explained that there have usually been three main types of people in our country: poor, middle class and rich. We’re kinda in the middle class, I explained; we don’t worry about going hungry, we can drive a car, use the internet and do some fun extra things too. But the truly poor people don’t have those things. They really do worry about eating. They can’t go to the Famous Cajun Grill for supper like we can. And the rich, they don’t have to worry about anything. They can enjoy the things that their money gets for them. And good for them – we’d want to live like that too if we could, right? I go on to explain that the new, big problem is that it’s getting harder to be in the middle. “Like us, for example. We’d be considered ‘middle class’ –  yet really and truly sweetie, we’re not.” I let a moment pass. “We have a lot of the things that middle class people usually have – good education, a car, beautiful things in our home, the ability to travel sometimes – yet we almost never have more than a couple hundred dollars in the bank and I can’t afford to buy heating oil for the house. I guess you could say that we act like middle class people, but we live like poor people. We’re kinda both.” Elihu began to list his friends, and then families we knew who lived in large houses and regularly went on vacations and skiing trips. He wanted to know if they were middle class too. I could feel him measuring himself against the world in which he lived, trying to figure out how he fit in. “I guess you’d call them upper middle class, honey.” He’s a smart enough boy to know that his life is not terribly lacking – of that I’ve made sure – so I hoped this new information wouldn’t dampen his spirits too much. A few minutes pass in the dark. “It’s ok, Mommy, we have a good life”. I smile. ‘Attaboy’, I think to myself, then I add “I think so too”.

The conversation then turned to how we might improve our situation. I told him that most folks would tell me to get a ‘real ‘ job. (The judge in our divorce case cites this point too.) However, if I did get a ‘regular’ job as folks would suggest, it would be a babysitter who met him at the bus after school, got him his supper and put him to bed. It would be a babysitter who’d pass the weekend afternoons with him instead of me. I explained that any of the jobs I might get – at Walmart, Target, Kohl’s – they’d all require me to work nights and weekends. And while that wouldn’t necessarily mean all nights and weekends, it would mean many of them. And if I can’t be here, someone else needs to be. “Now”, I go on, digging to the bottom line, “if I take home $9 an hour, and I pay a sitter $7 an hour, how much money do I really end up making?” “Two dollars.” “Yes. So now let’s say I work for 6 hours at $2 an hour, then how much would I make?” I wait for his answer, wondering if he’s hanging with me on the math…”You’d make $12.” “Yes, right. Now I need to take out $4 for the gas to and from the mall… How much do I end up making for my day of work?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Eight dollars. Mommy, you’d just make $8 for a day of work?” he asks, really wondering where the benefit is. “Yes, sweetie. That’s my point. I could take a ‘real’ job, I could work – but that would mean someone else would be with you most of the time. I’d just be there to get you up in the morning. That would basically be our time together. All so I could make $2 an hour. How does that sound to you?” He tells me it doesn’t sound so good. “So you can see that I make more money teaching piano lessons than I could with a ‘real’ job. Plus you can be here, at home, with me. For now, it’s the best I can do. When you’re older and you can be home alone, then I’ll be able to take a job of some kind. But for now, this is how it is.” I don’t want to sound ominous, so I try to lighten the message. “I feel, sweetie, that the quality of our life is the most important thing. You won’t be a little kid for much longer; I think it’s really important that we’re together as much as we can be.” Again, I let a moment pass before I ask him how he feels. “Yes!” he shouts, “you should teach piano!” Then he becomes quiet, thoughtful. “Mommy, I want you here. I want to do things with you.” So at least he now knows the deal. I’m doing the best I can in our situation.

For us it’s one percent about money, ninety-nine percent about living. I just wish living didn’t cost so much money.

Rage at Chillon

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We had the worst fight ever of our twenty-two years together in front of the Castle at Chillon. We had come to the place in order that I might finally see the interior. I’d visited it as a child, but had not been inside the castle; it’s silhouette had lived in my mind for years as a place I simply had to return to one day. I’d heard tales of the dungeons, of the gruesome way they treated prisoners, and I’d wanted to stand in that place and offer my peace to the long-gone tenants as if I could somehow mitigate their long-gone pain. If only I’d been able to offer that kind of peace to myself, and to my partner, that day.

I cannot for the life of me remember what it was that we fought about so terribly that afternoon. We stood mere steps from that stunning building, mountains beyond, sun in the sky sparkling upon the lake, and yet we did not enter it… what could possibly have prevented us from visiting that place? How on earth did it start? As I lay in bed again tonight beginning to pass what will most likely be several sleepless hours, I come upon this island of time in my past and become fascinated. I cast my net wide behind me in time, over the wake of my memories in hopes of catching some evidence or emotional artifacts that can help explain the many fights we two had through our relationship. And it starts at Chillon.

There is a photo of me on the bus, after our fight. My head is tilted, face skeptical. One long, black braid hangs down over my arms, which are crossed in front of me, telling the picture-taker that this is not really over, and you still don’t understand. In fact, your taking this picture – trying to lighten things up – just proves you don’t respect my opinion. And now.. I get it. I wasn’t being heard. I  wasn’t being understood. And what’s worse – that’s all I wanted. Understanding. Respect for my voice. Yes, now I begin to recall the feeling…

It occurs to me far too late, that this was the crux of each and every fight Fareed and I ever had. For all my effort I cannot come up with any subject of our arguments, although I can certainly remember many, many fights. I do, however, remember the emotion behind them and the unresolved issue for me: You’re not acknowledging me. You don’t hear me. 

I recall another impediment to our understanding. I would crave engagement, he didn’t. I would want a reaction, a witness, a ‘I hear you’. He didn’t have time or energy for that. So I would proceed to try and wring it out of him. He reacted by shutting down. His face would disconnect. I called that his ‘stoneface’. It was one of the most frustrating things about him. Impenetrable as the walls of that old castle.
We worked on all of this through the years, and I can say that I put great effort into curbing my frustration and rage, and he too worked on communicating better with me. We learned a lot from each other and about ourselves. Strangely, although the fights diminished and calmed during our second decade together, that was probably the point at which we began to move away from each other. By then we each became so busy with life that we had little time for our relationship. With dozens of artistic irons in the fire at any one time it was easy to put our marriage to the side. We simply had very few hours together. Perhaps we were both avoiding the truth that our relationship had run its course. I used to think that only people with absolutely no ability to communicate got divorces. Now I think differently. I believe that when lessons are learned, issues are settled, for many that may be reason enough to say ‘thank you’ and walk away. But it’s a sad thing, no matter how right it might be. Not easy to call it quits.

Understanding. I believe that’s all any of us wants. “Mommy, look! Watch! Are you watching?” a child cries. She wants witness to her world, her experience. That’s all. I see the same frustration in my child when he breaks down into his own rage, furious at some main point I am missing. He is frustrated to breaking; he only wants me to know how he sees things. Once my son and I expressed to each other our dearest wish; that each could know fully what the others’ perspective was. We imagined being able to ‘plug in’ to each others’ thoughts. If only we could merely touch the other and receive all of that in one dose. If only we could skip all this tedious, human nonsense of explaining and just be understood already! Elihu and I joke about it when we’re in the midst of a struggle to understand each other. I place my hand on his cheek and say ‘oh, now I get it’, and he laughs. It’s our private thing. We get it. I know how important it is that I understand him. And so I try.

One problem I have with my method – and I’m working on it! – is that I often interrupt my partner, trying to interject what I believe to be the word he is searching for. It’s simply my over-zealous way of trying to show that I get it, but 99% of the time it’s achieving the opposite effect. Remembering my own desperate need to be understood (is that not the crux of this blog?) I must hold my tongue, hold my breath and just listen. Yeah, I’m working on it, but I’m not great at it. I wish to give others what I would have them give me. Witness. Respect and understanding for their side, even if I don’t agree. I just want to know how they feel, why they feel what they do. At the same time, I must also accept that for many people it is not important that they be understood by all. Good for them. It’s gotta be a freer place to live. Nevertheless, I myself wish to live in mutual understanding with the people in my life.

Many people have encouraged me to summon my rage when dealing with my near-ex in his unfair treatment of our son and me. There are moments when I do go there, but I would rather not. I just want acknowledgment, fair treatment. It’s hard to let go of something when it’s so fundamental to you. Maybe, like all the anger I’ve chosen to let go of, I should just finally let go of my greatest wish: that he himself feel remorse for his transgressions and as a result treat us better. But once again, it’s not important to him. Perhaps knowing what I want – and accepting that I may never get it – is the healthiest way to go. Perhaps. Again, working on it.

Last weekend Fareed came to visit. Somehow he seemed different. Disconnected – more than usual. He wore the stoneface more consistently. It wasn’t as a reaction to anything I was doing or saying, it was just there. Fareed seemed swallowed up by his own life. He seemed unhappy, or at least not content. I don’t mean to presume, but I just feel that something is amiss with him these days. Perhaps he too is realizing some things in his own inner life aren’t working. I don’t know. But I hope that he can find his way out. I don’t wish the partner I’ve shared half my life with to live the rest of his adrift, upset, imprisoned.

In fact, my wish tonight is that we may all be granted the vision to see what makes the bars of our own prisons that we may dissolve them and live freely in the worlds beyond…

Summons

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Heard a loud knocking on the door a moment ago. A very well-groomed, cologne-scented man with a Bluetooth thingee wrapped around his ear stood there. I kinda knew why he was here even before he declared the purpose for his visit. He was here to serve me with a summons. His job can’t always be too pleasant. He’s gotta hear a lot of sob stories. I surely didn’t need to add myself to that pitiable list of sorry sods who feel they must inform the messenger, but I just couldn’t help adding my own tale of injury. As if my re-telling of the tale would help to bring justice to my side, I endeavored to give him the casual, quickie thumbnail: husband left, he shirked marital debts, left son and wife in poverty. I’d happily pay the tab of these ancient credit cards if I had the means, but as a self-employed piano teacher and single mom, it aint happenin. My husband made the money, paid the bills. He bailed, and I simply don’t have enough income to live, let alone tackle several thousand dollars worth of bills. He listened kindly, smiled and offered his condolences on my situation. It helped a little. I shrugged my shoulders and accepted my document. He instructed me to call the number on the bottom.

So I called.

The gal on the other end keeps telling me she can’t give me legal advice. I get that. I persist in my one question: what action do I take now? She repeats herself. Over this we go a time or two. I read through the whole document. I’m not great with this stuff, but I’m usually not an idiot either. I cannot make out what it is that I should do. They can take me to court, but what can they possibly glean from me?? I have no money! I see that I may be liable for court fees etc, etc, if ‘deemed by the court’. When do they do the deeming? Might I represent myself somehow? “Look,” I say, as exasperated as she now is, “I don’t have an attorney, nor money for one. What can I do?” She tells me to contact a local legal services agency. Hmm? “As in a public defender?” I ask. “I told you, contact a legal service agency in your area”. Sigh. I thank her, not without a note of sarcasm, and hang up, a little more bummed out than I’d expected to be.

I can’t worry about this now, I have to get to my son’s school and go over his 504 with the wonderful team that’s come together to help Elihu navigate his low-vision world. At least that’s kinda hopeful.

And I need to summon hope right now.

Best Laid Plans

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I could never have imagined myself here a few years back. At the start of my married life I just kind of thought my path was to unfold in Evanston, in my beloved mid century home by the lake. I will admit however, that even then a dim idea existed in the recesses of my mind that the path immediately before me seemed potentially a rather dull life. A pretty one – beautiful house, lovely neighborhood and all the aesthetic details in place – but if mom to two, if no more gigs, if wife of touring musician, then it would certainly be fairly domestic. And I’d readied myself for that. I remember fall, six years ago, when I was pregnant. I remember Fareed and me taking our young old son trick or treating in our lovely neighborhood under a cathedral of elm trees. I can remember the voices of the families echoing between the houses, I can remember the secret my husband and I carried with us that night. It was a moment full of hope, of wonder that we too were pregnant again, we too would be a family like all the others we passed that night. I remember it feeling all very surreal, truly like I was walking through a dream. As Elihu and Fareed walked up the steps and rang doorbells I watched the other young mothers and fathers who passed us on the sidewalk. I remember feeling like they all belonged to this strange club that I was somehow joining despite the fact that I felt I had nothing in common with them. Nothing except having young children. Even so, I was excited in a deep, mysterious way about this new life growing inside of me. It felt unreal. I could not imagine myself the mother of two children. Seriously, me, mom of two? Was I ready? I needn’t have worried. Shortly after Thanksgiving I miscarried.

Fast forward a bit and I’m living in Dekalb, running a nightclub. This too felt surreal – like a life meant for someone else, but not for me. As much as I could make it look fairly satisfying on paper, it just wasn’t satisfying in my heart. I’d so hoped that somehow our move to the rural outskirts of metro Chicago would help us to slow down and merge more intimately as a family. After two years of what I then considered a waste of my precious life (and clock) we ended our role as nightclub owners. ‘Finally’, I thought. Now we can get back to our life. Now we’re finally ready. Now we’ll have that second child. I thought I knew what I wanted, but apparently the universe knew what I needed and shortly thereafter proceeded to give it to me.

Fast forward a couple more years and here I am. In my cozy, tidy home in he country. After a good meal and a glass of wine I retire to the piano to play some Bach, the fireplace glowing and the house warm with the feeling of family. Fareed is in Elihu’s room going over homework with him. It is the three of us again. It’s a short visit, as it usually is, and it will go too fast. For tonight our son is the kind of happy he only gets when we three are together. Finally he has his mother and his father at the same time, in the same place. There are many who wonder why I allow Fareed to stay here with us if he’s treated us so poorly; why don’t I just make him stay at a hotel? In part, it’s because of this. Because in these brief windows of time we are some kind of family. I wasn’t always able to enjoy it as I am now; in the beginning of our life here I felt a queer mixture of comfort and heartbreak when he visited. And when he’d drive off, my eyes would cloud with tears, my heart still unable to understand. Thankfully, time does diminish the pain and it transforms your perspective. Time, plus the stink of man pee in your toilet. (Boy pee I can deal with – somehow it’s not as offensive. Messy and off-target perhaps, but somehow more endearing – well, maybe that’s not quite the right word – and forgivable.  Sisters, can I get a witness?) So. That also makes his leaving a little easier.

Another nice thing about having Daddy here is that having a third person in the house really does add an extra energy, it adds life to the place for sure. I do wish he could visit longer than a day here and there, spread months apart. Elihu began to cry this morning when he realized that his father would be gone again tomorrow. “Why can’t I have a Daddy who lives with us like a real family?” he sobbed to me. Not a thing I can say. I can just remember what a good life we have here, and indeed how different and how much less full it would have been had we stayed in the midwest. All I have to do is just picture it for a minute, and I’m able to stay the course.

Just what would our life have looked like had we stayed in Chicago? A garden apartment in Rogers Park, no piano playing in the evenings, no drum set to practice at home, no animals, no money, no car, no grandparents next door… lots of ‘no‘. I would have been full of resentment had I stayed there. Quality of life is everything, and it’s easier to have a good quality of life on far less money out here. Knowing this as surely as I do now, I can offer my compassion for his sorrow and help him ride it out til his heart recovers. I understand the feeling well.

In spite of the crap that my almost ex has caused us, in spite of the Lordly way in which he continues to deny his responsibility, I cannot help myself; I relish those cozy moments with all three of us tidily tucked into our corners of the house. Tonight will be the second and final night of this visit. I still have mixed feelings; strangely, this role of father has become normal in some way. And I’m better with it now. I guess three years of having the bed all to myself has helped convince me. That and the man pee thing. And the blackberry to the ear all the time thing. And the calls to his girlfriend in front of me thing. You know. Those little reminders that say ‘hey, Elizabeth, remember that? Don’t worry, you’ll have the place all to yourselves again tomorrow”…

Poverty or not, father in the house or not, we still have a nice life here in our corner of the world. Yes, if we had our druthers things might not be as they are, yet I humble myself to the path the universe has put before me. Clearly I wasn’t headed in the right direction. What have I learned on this new course? Humility is probably the biggest lesson, and I’m always working on it. Self-reliance, self-respect and self-love are also on the list. The self-effacing thing might work well in a stand-up routine but it aint quite as effective in real life. And I might want to roll up my sleeves and begin to face this poverty-consciousness demon head on one of these days. But not today. Maybe tomorrow.

For now, I’m just going to go outside and watch my son and his father play in the fall leaves. I’m going to sink as fully into the moment as I can, and offer my gratitude for the opportunity to do so.

Waking

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I begin to awake. I am aware my dream was just that, but I try to remain there, my waking conscious mind trying to reel the scenario back, to elaborate on it, to discover what might had happened had sleep continued… Oh, oh, oh, here I am again, when I was just there… I can hear the rooster through my foam-stuffed ear. I open my eyes and peer out over my tiny, disheveled house – when just moments ago there was possibility, allure, potential…

I’d designed a beautiful reunion event, and while no one had showed thus far, the room looked good. Ready. A few folks came to investigate, and they complemented me on my success. Satisfied, I left to go peruse the other peoples’ parties – for this is what it was, a day of many events, one atop the other in multi-leveled rooms, down large hallways, on top of dramatic cantilevered staircases, spread across large shallow pools with floating cups of light… And I simply wandered in and out of them, faintly hoping to meet someone I knew, meeting only distant acquaintances of acquaintances… Once again I was thin, once again I was young, once again my dress was elegant, once again this was simply the way I existed in the world…

I recall another chapter from my night. There was a man from my dream named Steven, with whom my friendship promised warmly and in good humor to develop into something more intimate, now that he had bought the new townhome… I picture the home in my head, the street view, the neighborhood (for my dreams are usually more about place and the feeling of place than anything else) and I wonder if it really would have been better to live out my life there. Things would not have lingered in that buzzing, hopeful mood forever, would they have? Laundry, at some point, along with a myriad of other toilsome things would eventually need to be done. Right? Or not? Oh, to live in that suspended state of promise…

I simply cannot draw the dreams out any further. I muse on the few familiar faces I did see, and try to recall their names, and from where I know them in my waking life. Kathy from camp. We loved each other, we were the outsiders. What was her name? She was there in my dream – yet I wasn’t able to reach her, too many bodies in between. Then a mousey, dancer girl I knew in High School – how on earth did she get there? And the chubby black guy holding an infant like a football – what was that about? There will be no answers, just perhaps a frantic search in the damp basement for the box that contains my senior class yearbook so that I might find that dancer girl… Maybe a meditative moment of concentration to bring back Kathy’s last name followed by a search on Facebook… The dream is done. The day can no longer be avoided. I remain quiet. My son is still sleeping, my world is still private. I’m left with a slight residue of sorrowful back-looking and what-ifs coloring my first waking moments.

The rooster has been quarantined in the garage. Last night was his first apart from his flock, and I can no longer lay in bed, coaxing enlightenment from the vapors of my dreams as his discomfort is descending on my conscience… I get up, shuffle to the mudroom and don my flopping, unzipped winter boots, to make the wet trek to the coop. I open up the interior door to the run, then attend to the de-throned king in his tiny apartment. He is perched, his dignity maintained surprisingly well, atop an old metal shelf cast on its side for just this purpose. Poor guy. I open the outside door and he pushes past me. He has never been apart from his ladies like this. Does this bother him? (As much as a chicken can be bothered.) He paces back and forth along the fence of his private enclosure, strutting and scratching at the dirt, indicating he ‘means business’. The hens’ backs are missing feathers and raw on the shoulders due to the non-stop sex life of this rooster. Finally, the poor girls have a break. You’re welcome.

Yesterday we’d entertained a four year old boy for the day and had pulled out Elihu’s old tricycle for him to ride around.  I trudged over to remove it from the middle of the driveway. It is blue and shiny. Elihu had always called it ‘Mongey’ – with a hard g – because the name of the bike was ‘Mongoose’. We took Mongey with us a lot of places. Like when Fareed would have a long rehearsal, or we’d be visiting a childless household with time to kill. In the rainy day gray of the morning I stare down at the little blue tricycle, my wakefulness tinged with the sense of longing that the dreams have left behind.

I picture the year when Elihu was four, when he himself decorated his little tricycle with a glass ball ornament on each handlebar. Colorblind, he couldn’t have known it, and perhaps I had had a hand in it, I don’t remember, but he ended up with one red, one green. An image flashes in my mind: a tiny boy with hair gently curling at his neck, pedaling madly, his knees flying up towards his ears, the glass ball ornaments dangling… He is riding away down the long hall of the practice rooms at Northwestern University. It is also gray outside. The light is even, neither light nor dark. I can’t tell if it’s day or evening. I feel suspended in time and space. Fareed had just told me of his pregnant girlfriend a few days before. I am sick. I am trying to understand how to live, how to exist, to react, behave. How to breathe. I am stunned, I am looking at our son, the comical image of his mad pedaling, and realizing that I cannot share this moment with my husband as my heart yearns to; with our arms around each other as we look on in love at the child we have created together.

I need not lament this sad moment in my past story, for this morning is filled with my son’s declarations of his love for me. Is this not truly the pinnacle of a mother’s existence? He is happily cleaning up after our young visitor yesterday, at my coaching putting ‘like with like’, sorting airplanes from cars, dinosaurs from gum wrappers, singing all the while, telling me how happy he is and how much he loves me, and I am here, in the beginnings of a good mood, purging myself of the morning’s emotional residue in the form of a new post.

Half-remembered dreams leave me with longing. And while longing can be good fodder for creation and progress, longing can also be a disheartening feeling to live with. These past few years I’ve had to deal with many bouts of longing head-on. And for me, the best cure for that frustratingly diffuse ‘what-if’ game starts with a tidy house. There are those (my ex included) for whom this might seem a distraction in of itself – a condition that I’ve mandated for myself that obscures the work or challenge at hand. Perhaps. If so, so be it. For me, an orderly house brings a great sense of control, of peace. I’m not naive enough to think I actually do have control, but I’m human enough to still want the illusion.

And so right now I will turn to the tidying of my home. The aligning of things on shelves, the straightening of piles, the putting away of things with like things, these are the actions I can take today that will bring me a sense of certitude, of conclusion. At the very least, I can know where I stand in relationship to the artifacts I share my life with. My waking to-do list may never dwindle, and I may never again see my old friend Kathy but for my dreams, but I know that I love my son, I know he loves me, and I know that everything in my home will soon be neatly tucked away in its place for now.

There’ll Be Some Changes Made

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There was a time when change of any kind would throw me into a fog of sentimentality. Now, not so much. On my recent trip to Chicago, a place I’d lived most of my life but had not visited for several years, I was quite surprised to see so many places so radically transformed. I understood the growth around Wrigley field; I had already witnessed the change beginning years before, yet nonetheless it was rather shocking to see the giant shadow of brick that blocked my view from the el as our train passed the ballpark. Neighborhoods that had been run-down and forgotten for years upon years had been rediscovered and revitalized so much so that I didn’t even recognize them until I passed them a second time at street level in a car. This would have sent the old me into a tearful episode. The old me would have taken all this very personally. I would have lamented the lost, original character of the place. But now it’s just not as tragic to me as it once would have seemed. Maybe my changed perspective comes in part from living in a part of the country with a longer history of such man-made changes, or maybe it’s because of my age and the way in which one’s middle years temper the self-righteous character of youth, probably both and more, but for whatever reason I find myself observing the changes in my once familiar world in a thoughtful, measured and slightly detached way. I guess it’s because my personal world was so rocked and transformed over the past few years that it’s made me realize that in the long run it hurts more to resist the change than to accept it. And what ultimately allows me to accept change is the knowing that no amount of physical or experiential transformation can remove the truth of the places and experiences that once existed. They exist for we humans as long as there is a memory, a story.

“In the end, you still have your story”. One day it came to me just like that. I had had an exhausting day of trying, but not succeeding, to better understand how my partner could have changed so. How could he have been that same person to have shared all those years with me? Here he was, now, a different person from the one I had once known. In the end it was fruitless to speculate on how or why he had changed; I needed some way in which to regard our years together such that they were not the loss they seemed to be. The only way I could begin to make peace with my situation was to know that in the end I still had the story – and in it all the good things that it had added to my life. I might not have my husband with me any more, but I do have my memories, my story. And really, after all, just about your whole life is the story. Even what happened five minutes ago is now the story. And whatever it is that no longer exists for you in your present does still exist in the story, and it’s a story you get to keep forever. And in having that memory, that story, you still possess the essence of what it was that pleased you about that person, place or event. For me, knowing that an experience still lives within me is comforting. It’s like I’ve backed up all my files. My house can burn down, but I still have it all inside me. (I sure hope the universe doesn’t put me to the test on that – I do have a friend whose house burned down not once but twice! And he is a musician who lost a lot of precious instruments, writings, music, recordings and mementos from a lifetime of travel. If I were him I’m not so sure my thinking would offer a lot of comfort, yet perhaps he too has reached a state of acceptance. He’s still active and upbeat – I’m guessing the lesson was integrated pretty well.) It’s scary to let things hold such power over you as to render you heartbroken and sick at their loss. It’s a lot healthier to consider yourself lucky to have had the experiences, lucky to have enjoyed the objects while they were yours and feel the gratitude for these things having added to the fullness of your life.

Change has never been easy for me, yet I’m getting better with it. Today I painted a room in my house which held some sentiment for me. It was my son’s room. Shortly after we moved here I has chosen the colors for his room with great care. I’d wanted his room to be easy on his Achromat eyes; not too bright yet with some visual interest to make up for his not seeing color. I chose a green for the bottom third of the walls, blue for the top. Funny thing was, in the end Elihu could not even detect the change in colors for I’d matched the values so well. He would have to examine the wall up close to even begin to see the line. The colors of the walls represented to me the first thing I did here in this house to make it ours. They carried with them the story of his not being able to see the difference in the two colors. They carried with them the story of a mother’s love for her son. The walls carried with them the story of all the books we’ve read together at bedtime in this room. The blue and green walls reminded me of The Story. Today, when I had the walls painted over in dove white, although I knew that the story wasn’t in any way diminished or forgotten as a result, I was still surprised – and pleasantly so – that the change was so easy for me to make. Hmm. Interesting.

The blue and green still shows through a little bit so tomorrow I’ll give the walls another coat of paint. A fresh new color for a fresh new story.