Where Did I Come From?

I was on a walk with the dog yesterday morning and had my iPod on "shuffle."  I fast-forwarded through few Justin Timberlake songs and a French lesson and a kiddie song that I'd forgotten to delete, and heard a song by Arcade Fire called "Suburban War."  


Now, I didn't grow up in the suburbs.  From ages 3 to 15, I lived in a desert town called 29 Palms, which was more or less a habitat for rattlesnakes, families that were there for the Marine Corps base, people who chose to live a simpler existence far far away from the city, artists, miscreants and misfits. For my mom, who had grown up in the suburbs (Covina, when it was still a maze of orange groves and wild hillsides), it was paradise.  Quiet, remote, dark at night, stars in the sky, open space.


To me, as I grew up, it was like a prison.  When I listened to "Suburban War," somehow I was transported back to the room that I shared with my much-younger sister, who was 3 when I was about Emme's age (nearly 11).  I used to listen to the radio for hours on end, and this is why I know all the words to Toto's "Africa" and "Rosanna," among other hits of the time.  I see Emme retreating into her music and spending wide swaths of time alone in her room and it reminds me of that time, when I would spend hours watching the sunset through my window, wondering why the clouds would sometimes seem to burn up in pink flames and other times I'd only know it was getting late because there were shadows on the desert mountains.


The lyrics of "Suburban War" capture a bittersweetness of childhood that we maybe don't understand as kids but is utterly poignant when we're older and peek back through our old bedroom curtains, from the outside:


And now the music divides
Us into tribes
You grew your hair so I grew mine
They said the past won't rest
Until we jump the fence and leave it behind


And my old friends, I can remember when
You cut your hair
We never saw you again
Now the cities we live in 
Could be distant stars
And I search for you
In every passing car


Really, that "old friend" could be the younger me... who was I?  Why did I change?  Of course, the grown up in me knows the answer: we get older, we get married, we have kids, we have responsibilities.  And I don't think the younger me would be disappointed, but I'll bet she wouldn't recognize me.  


I'd probably have to play her a few songs that I love so that she would understand that we're still one and the same.  I'd play most of "The Suburbs" CD for her, and I'd probably cry a little (which would embarrass her), but she'd get it; she'd have just heard the Smiths for the first time and would be able to relate her newfound affection for Morrissey's purr and brilliant lyrics to my obsession with Arcade Fire.  She'd be shocked that Hall & Oates had become hall of famers and covered by The Bird and The Bee.  She'd be surprised that Madonna, a brand-new addition to her tape deck, would have already been a dozen or more different people and that a new "Madonna" called Gaga was on the rise.  I doubt I'd let her call the radio station and request "Crazy for You" for Matt Toler again - how embarrassing, save yourself the shame until you're really in love, I'd say - but I would tell her that the feelings she had for boys should be secondary to the love she had for herself. And if she protested, I can't love myself, I'd say, But that's the most important thing of all.  Love yourself.  You are AWESOME!  And she'd roll her eyes because nobody says awesome and I'll say, See? I'm ahead of my time.


And at the end of the afternoon, I'd just curl up with her on top of the table where the stereo is and we'd stare out the window as the sun began to set.  I'd let my cheek rest on the cool window and my breath would fog up the glass and I think I wouldn't even wipe it off.  She would probably wonder why I was crying and I'd try to hug her because I couldn't get any words out.  She'd resist, but eventually she'd hug me, too, a little grateful to have met a grown up who understands her, inside and out.


You'll jump the fence and leave this behind, I promise you, I'd say to her, even though she won't believe me, because she's 11 and has no forward vision.  But maybe she's right.  If I'm still thinking about it, have I really left it behind?  Will I ever?

The Real Reason I Have Highlights

Four Years

Whenever I travel, especially alone, I bring along the DVD of The Darjeeling Limited.  I sometimes have trouble falling asleep - my mind races and I can't relax - so I like to have a very familiar, sedate movie in the background to lull me to sleep.  It used to be the Meg Ryan/Kevin Kline sleeper French Kiss, but ever since I saw Darjeeling, I knew it was going to be "the one" for a long while.  I love it so much that when I saw a previously viewed copy of it at Blockbuster for $3.99, I bought it... even though I already have one.  And I contemplated buying another, just in case the other two wear out.  I know... weird, right? But it's true and I'm trusting that you won't judge me too harshly.


Raf and I saw this movie about 3 years ago and it struck a chord - three brothers taking a spiritual journey on a train in India, exactly one year after their father's sudden death.  Raf's dad Isaac had died in February and, even though we saw the movie in December, it seemed to open a wound.  There's a deep, painful sadness that sort of hangs over the movie, even in its funny moments. I've found that even though I've seen the movie countless times, I still feel that sad weight on my heart, every single time.


Since I've been in Italy, I've watched the movie repeatedly as I've fallen asleep.  Yesterday, I felt as though I was obsessing over the details - I watched the "behind the scenes" and Googled it and YouTubed it, searching for more more more about the movie.  Hoping, perhaps, to crawl into the story itself and make sense of grief and mourning and learn how to move forward, past the sadness, into a meaningful future in which I don't feel those pangs in my heart every single day.  Even I was a little bewildered by my obsession.  I mean, I love Adrien Brody - his face and green eyes sort of remind me of Raf - but it was borderline teenage girl.


Last night, I was sort of sleepy and fast-forwarded the DVD to one scene, in which the Whitman brothers recall the day of their father's funeral while they are on their way to the funeral of an Indian boy.  Tears streamed down my eyes.  I thought it was the music or the cinematography or the acting or the colors in the Indian sky.  When the scene ended, I fell asleep.


This morning when I checked my email, Raf had forwarded me a beautiful note that his brother Sky had written in honor of the 4th anniversary of their dad's death, which is today. I had forgotten the exact date, but obviously this information was stored deep within me.  


The brain is a mysterious organ.  On one hand, it would seem that we are "in control" of our thoughts, but I'm learning that there is an intelligence within us that doesn't need controlling.  It just moves intuitively, fluidly, guiding us, like a train on tracks that lead us where we need to go.  It may not be where we expected to end up, but it's where we are.

Nachos

Better than a whole dang bottle of Midol.

Weird Kids

Marlowe got "Rapunzel" hair for her Valentine's Day gift, just a fun little thing I thought she'd play with in the privacy of our own home.  Naturally, she took all three feet of it for a spin at the local park while Emme had her softball practice the other day.  I thought she'd be self-conscious - there were other families and kids there - but no, she reveled in the bizarre fantasy of crazy-long blonde hair.


I sent these pix to KP, a mom of three, who texted back: "I love weird kids."

The Sweetest Thing

Today, while Raf was opening his plethora of birthday cards and Valentine wishes over his morning coffee, I got choked up.  Not just about how much I adore him, or how good our life together is, or how I'm happy he's my Valentine, but how much I'll miss them while I'm in Italy for the next two weeks.  I leave in the morning.  


As I wiped a stray tear away and gulped my coffee (caffeine always makes it better, doesn't it?), he said, "You have to go.  This is what you love."


I didn't seem convinced and he let this doozy fly:


"You know, each of the five of us has a life separate from the other four.  It's important that we pursue what we love individually, or else it will ultimately be bad for all of us."


When we make a wish, it may affect everyone... but maybe for the best.

In Dreams They Come

Dreams are tricky things, especially after a loved one has died.


I have believed, for quite some time now, that those you've loved on Earth will visit you in your dreams.  This theory is somewhat common among psychics and mediums, spiritualists and quack-jobs, as well as those who just want to believe something, to hold onto the love that they shared with someone special who has moved beyond Earth.


Lately, I have been dreaming of Max.  Raf does nearly every night - I may have mentioned this before, that it sounds as though his dreamscape is something of a sports lounge for him, his dad and his brother - but it had been a while since I'd dreamed of my brother-in-law, though I think about him nearly every day.  In my dreams, he is generally just in the background somewhere, like in a train station or busy public place, hanging out, watching, not being overly conspicuous.  I just tend to notice him there and continue on in my dream.


The other day, I asked Emme if she ever thinks about Uncle Max.  "Yeah, sometimes," she said.  "But usually I'll just see him in my dreams.  They're never about him, but he's in them, in the background."


I was struck by how similar our dreams were, and that night I had another dream of Max, much more vivid than usual.  He and Raf were sitting side-by-side at a desk, talking low.  I couldn't hear them; so, knowing it was my dream, I moved closer so that I could hear them.  They looked a little perturbed and said something like, "We're talking business here," a phrase my father-in-law used to say to Emmeline when she was a baby.  I wanted to say, "But you're dead, Max, and any time I see you, even in dreams, I want to hear what you have to say, how you are, what your new existence is like!"  More or less, I relented and allowed them space, joyous simply for the chance to spend time with him - dreamworld or not.


I discussed this with Raf the next day on a hike with the dog, explaining that I'm glad I at least get to see Max in dreams.  


"I don't want to see him in dreams," Raf said sharply.  "I want to see him for real."


We walked on, gravel crunching under our shoes.  It is my tendency to try to soften the sharpness.  I would normally have said, "But we have to be grateful for what we get," but I held my tongue.  He's right.  Again and again, we are reminded: he's dead.


Over dinner, he said what I'd been thinking but reluctant to ponder aloud.  "What if we have been holding onto this belief that when we dream of Max and my dad, or your grandmas or whoever, that they are actually visiting us from the 'Great Beyond'... but it's not that at all?"


I'm sure I muddled through some sort of Pollyanna, cockamamie spin on the spiritual side of dreaming, but today I'm still mulling it over. What if, like everything else we dream, these "visits" with Max are merely the result of our subconscious mind mashing up important bits of our lives like an elaborate re-mix?  


There are no answers, and I feel adrift in a sea of questions like this.  The saddest thing is that I had been just as comforted by these dreams as if Max had walked through the door of our home, kissing the mezuzah as he entered, filling the room with his booming laugh.  I had felt that the grief of our regular life without him - the life in which Raf still has the reflex to text or call Max about little stuff every day, sports, business, Marlowe's lost teeth, where Max is no longer the Uncle Buck-like guardian of our children in our will, where we will now set a place for him, like Elijah, at our Passover table - was balanced by the loving presence of Max in our dreams.  


In that last dream, I had said to Max, "Emme says you visit in her dreams, too."


He answered, "Yeah, I don't like to make a big fuss.  I just check in, hang out a little."


In a world with no answers, I will have to accept that answer, even if it's only my own mind helping me cope with the emptiness, an elaborate game of talking to myself.