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The Things We Carry

Linda

the-things-we-carry

Some things feel irreplaceable. For Joey, the main character in Tears and Tequila, it’s the four yellow wooden hangers her mother left behind after leaving when Joey was only five.

These yellow wooden hangers are all she has left of her mother. She hasn’t heard from her in the past 27 years. She doesn’t have good memories of her. She barely has any memories at all.

But, for some reason, every time Joey’s moved (and she’s moved a lot) she’s taken those four yellow wooden hangers with her.

I, too, have those yellow wooden hangers. Like Joey, they’ve survived my every move. They’ve traveled with me from the Upper West Side of Manhattan to the Hudson River Valley to Beverly Hills and now, Sherman Oaks. For some reason I can’t part with them.

Even now, every time I see them, I feel happy. What do they remind me of? Living in a pre-War building on 76th Street and West End Avenue at a sweeter, simpler time? A time when I was a child with doll clothes strewn across my closet floor? When I would fall asleep hearing strains of classical music from the radio in the living room? A feeling of home? Safety? Comfort?

I don’t know the answer. All I know is this. I can’t part with those yellow wooden hangers any more than Joey can.

The things we carry. We’ve all got them.

What are yours?

Life Advice

Roberta Eisenberg

Linda

On the way back to LA to our monthly ‘Hoot’ after seeing the profoundly moving retrospective of Beth Eisenberg’s mother, the late artist Roberta Eisenberg. Her paintings spoke to me from across the room with titles like ‘Bardo’ and ‘Impermanence.’ A glowing testament to her great talent and huge spirit, even the sunset was calling her name. Thank you, Beth Eisenberg and Erin Doyle, for inviting us. And thank you, Roberta Eisenberg. You’ve touched my heart and soul.

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Grief

Thoughts on the October Surprise

Linda

I woke up with a splitting headache. Now I’m in tears, reading so many stories of how we were ogled and grappled and grabbed and harassed, abused. I am triggered by the evil words of that evil man. I am remembering how I was walking to Riverside Park in NYC, my skates over my shoulder as a man walked towards me with a smile and beckoned me to come close. I was raised to be polite. I did. He bent down and told me what he wanted to do to me. I didn’t understand what he was saying but I knew I’d better run. I was 8. The same age as my beloved granddaughter. I got away, only to be ogled and groped and grappled and harassed for decades after that. Now I’m afraid for our daughters and granddaughters. There are far too many men like the evil one. Far too many.

One good thing to come out of this is: 10 million women sharing their stories online. Please read: the Washington Post’s ‘This is rape culture’: After Trump video, thousands of women share sexual assault stories

Life Advice, Motivation, Writing

#Transformation

Linda

“The main block to transformation is the thought that we shouldn’t be where we are, that we should already be further along in our growth than we perceive ourselves to be.” I’ve had this quote on my desk for decades. On this same scrap of paper that I cut unevenly long ago. I’ve never re-typed it onto a new page Or framed it. Or re-cut the paper so it’s even. I like it just the way it is. And every time I reread it the words say as much to me now as they did then.

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events, Slipper Camp, Writers, Writing

Upcoming: #SlipperCamp: #Mindfulness

Linda

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I’ve been searching for awhile for the next topic of my online writing Slipper Camp. This one will take us into the the election and past it. (Starting October 29, ending 20 days later.) We will be writing at a heightened time, a critical time in our lives and the life of this country. I don’t need to remind any of us about that. Every topic I thought of I ended up rejecting. Not deep enough to create 30 prompts around at a time like this. Then I came upon this photo. It reminded me of one I took years ago on Fire Island. A photo of a majestic sand castle I found early one morning as the tide was coming in. And I marveled at the non-attachment of building such a creation, knowing it would be destroyed by the next wave. So here’s the topic of the next online writing Slipper Camp – Mindfulness. We’ll be writing about times we’ve lived our lives in every moment. Times we’ve been present even as we’ve built and loved, knowing that life can change in a moment. Like a beautiful sand castle that’s washed away by the next wave. Impermanence. Non-attachment. The circle of life. Hope and faith. Mindfulness. That’s what I’m creating prompts about. I hope you’ll be writing along with me.

It will be the same format as always – 10 writers will receive 3 illustrated prompts about Mindfulness every OTHER morning for 20 days along with daily writing tips and coaching suggestions.

You’ll be writing 1,000 words (2 pages) on 1 of the 3 daily prompts and sending them to me by midnight every OTHER day. Whenever I get your words I’ll read them and let you know I got them. At the end of Slipper Camp we’ll set a one-hour call to talk about your writings.

Hundreds of writers have taken this structured online writng course over the past years. The most common comment I hear is that the combination of structure and accountability yields good writing. Books, screenplays, a play, two novels and numerous published articles have been generated in Slipper Camps.

If you want to write online with me, please PM me and we’ll send you details. Starts October 29. Limited to 10 writers, 5 spaces taken already.

THANK YOU

events, Writers, Writing

Alchemy of Healing Workshop- How the Light Gets In

Linda
How I love these gorgeous women who came to the Alchemy of Healing Workshop. We wrote without fear, practiced gentle and restorative yoga with Ann Braden and made magic together. The colors of my mother’s paintings brightened by the hour. By day’s end we were sisters. The next Alchemy of Healing will be held on January 28th, 2017 please let us know if you’re interested in joining us!‪#‎Howthelightgetsingetsin‬‪#‎amwriting‬‪#‎amteaching‬‪#‎alchemyofhealing‬
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family, Memories

Baby Cries A Lot

Linda
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My mother didn’t approve of tears. So she held hers in while her eyes got redder and redder and her face paled. But she didn’t cry real tears. Not if she could help it. Not like Baby Cries A Lot, the doll I wanted badly and finally got for my fifth birthday. The one who drank water from a tiny baby bottle then cried real tears, the baby-bottle-water magically coming out of her eyes and flowing down to her pursed pink mouth that had taken in the water that started this whole gorgeous flood. My mother laughed a lot at Baby Cries A Lot. But I was filled with wonder at her waterworks. There she was, a girl like me, with real tears cascading down her plastic cheeks.
 
Making Baby cry a lot became my secret passion. At least there was one female in my house who cried easily, plentifully and on cue. Not like my mother, whose soft cheeks detested salt water. Not like me, who knew better than to cry real tears. Because I didn’t cry, either. At least not in front of anyone. If I cried at all, it was when I was alone in my room with the door closed or in the bathroom. 
 
Crying was forbidden in our house – I’d been taught that by my older brother when I was four. “Don’t ask Mommy about her parents.” “Why?” “Because she’ll cry.” It was an order and I took it seriously. Making her cry was the worst thing I could do, I decided. And it looked like it was the worst thing she could do.
Time after time, I saw the struggle on my mother’s face as emotion threatened to overcome her. I watched her wrestle the runaway emotion to the ground until she got control over it. Her eyes reddening but not filling with tears. Her mouth clenching. I hated to see her like that so I would look away. I would make some excuse and leave the room. Leave her alone. So I didn’t have to see her at her weakest. Didn’t have to witness the melting of that ice-mountain she’d built around herself. Because I knew. Somewhere inside that mountain there was dangerous red-hot lava, threatening to erupt.
 
My mother’s daughter, I built my very own ice-mountain. Piled it on, slab upon slab until I had a personal igloo in which I could hide, safe and unknown. My feelings of grief hidden to all, including myself.