Sixties Chick

Today, my daughter Ani turns 30. I was ten years older than that when I had her. At the time, the medical profession with their usual no-nonsense approach referred to those of us over 35 as “geriatric mothers.”

For nine months,  this geriatric mother with a whole dossier of worldly experience worried about what it might mean to actually be responsible for someone else—seriously responsible.

I had no experience of it other than caring briefly for a died lavender chick that grew too rapidly into a hen and was promptly given away to the milkman by my mother.

To add to the angst, I also spent a lot of time calculating how old I would be at every decade of my child’s life. At the time, 70 seemed way too far in the future to be real. An unborn child as a 30 year old, impossible! Even after she arrived, I could no more imagine this big-eyed bundle of needs as a functioning adult than I could envision her ever relinquishing my tit.

For nine months, these totally futile mind games succeeded in creating a certain amount of dread, which happily took a back seat to the amazing euphoria I was also feeling. The instant that water broke, however, that dread morphed into a monstrous, immobilizing fear that managed to stall the wondrous workings of childbirth. The result was a labor that dragged on for five days. With all that fear, I had simply changed my mind.

At 40, I was ready, and not so ready. I do know that mothering would have been a whole lot dicier had I done it earlier – what with my comings and goings and carryings-on. Regardless, the whole deal still terrified me, perhaps because I had lived without a mother for so long. There were memories, but the role was frozen in time long ago,  shrouded with emotions, fuzzy at best, wrapped in loss.

Luckily, the kid that chose me was the one I needed. A strong willed, little soul who knew her own mind and made it clear right from the start that I should just pay attention and she’d show me the ropes. She would lead. I was to follow.

She pulled; she pushed; she got in my face. She insisted with a bullish obstinacy (an inherited trait) that I look at my less than stellar qualities, reassess my point of view, move through my fears, be willing to change.  Truth is, she was more my teacher than I hers.

Without a word, she demanded I work on my flimsy boundaries. Without spelling it out, she forced me to drop my “shoulds,” to let go of expectations.  It was to be her path; and any personal agenda I might have could be tossed. Subtle suggestions like, “You might want to consider another outfit for the occasion,” or the more forthright ones such as, “Bring home a Goldman investment-banker-boyfriend, and I’ll have to kill you,” were useless, often counter-productive.

Of the many things I learned at her adorable feet can be summed up by the advice given to me by a presenter at the John Holt Unschoolers’ Conference in 1998 when she was in the fifth grade, the first year of Middle School.

I had driven to Central Jersey to see if I could possibly offer her another way to learn. By this time, Ani was totally over school. She had better things to do, she had announced as far back as the first grade. More disturbing to me than her dislike of school (which was enough) was seeing that she had begun to equate learning with the six hours she felt held captive there.

So in response to my question about the seemingly impossible logistics of  homeschooling as a working parent, the presenter replied, “ Like some things in life where you can’t see the “how,” you’ve just got to jump in to find out!”

Even for me, that advice seemed somewhat sketchy. In truth, all the unanswered “ifs” came down to one key question:  Was I, her own mother, about to wreck all her chances of being a successful adult? Who could know for sure?

What I did know was that she needed something else besides school as we knew it, and she needed me to make it happen. I proceeded to invent and then submit a curriculum we never used to the Superintendent of Schools for permission to take my child out of the system.

Looking back, I am still totally amazed (and forever grateful) for the way it all turned out. One solution after another appeared as if by magic.

In the couple of years she played hooky from school, I got to witness the stunning perfection of what life comes up with when you let go, when you loosen your grip on the reins.  When you give up having to know the outcome (or thinking you can).

For Ani, of the many gifts in this giant leap of faith was the glorious time to indulge her innate creativity, to become an avid reader, to reignite that precious love of learning. The college diploma (Cum Laude, BTW), though it was wonderful, was just a bonus. For me, there was nothing better than seeing her get exactly what she needed to flourish.

Big thanks to this soul who had the temerity to entrust her well-being to me. She has brought me so much. By the sheer force of the love she engendered, I was constantly made to circle back to what was important in life. In no small measure, it was she who pushed me to really know myself and to be the best me possible.

A few years ago, the two of us did a past-life regression as part of a workshop. As we lay next to each other, the light dimmed, the room quiet, we and the other participants  drifted off – to where I cannot tell you.

At the end, we each shared our experience. Ani and I had had the same revelation. We had both been shown previous lives in which we were together as mother and child.  Apparently, there had been many lifetimes and much switching of roles.

No wonder we’ve had such an incredibly fabulous time of it this time round, I thought.  Not only do we have eons of a connection, we’ve had a helluva lot of practice!

Parabéns Anizinha. Muitas felicidades. Muito amor.

The other day a friend casually mentions that it’s been some time since he’s seen a new blog posting of mine. Hating to be reminded of something I know only too well, I respond quickly, anxious to move on.

“The PECO tower no longer inspires me,” I state, as if my boredom with the nightly cycle of  “run-for the-cure” promos  and electric safety tips might explain my silence.

Another friend, a writer herself, later reminds me of something I also know. If you want to write, paint, sculpt, compose music, make a mosaic masterpiece etc., you’ve got to sit your “bunda” down and–in my case—place hands on keyboard.

The muse awaits an invitation; at a minimum, a sign. You’ve got to show her you’re open to receive. Even so, sometimes she shows up, sometimes she doesn’t.

Lack of discipline aside, the whole issue got me thinking.  What inspires me these days? I’m not talking about the big super-duper, mind-blowing  acts. You know, ones in which a radically courageous soul risks it all to speak truth to power. Or some divine human forgives the most heinous act committed against him.

Nor am I referring to those things–big or small– that fire me up. The ones that initiate a flaming rant or two. The ones that can send me right down the rabbit’s hole. (They’re a dime a dozen these days, and where does it get you anyhow?)

No, I’m talking about inspiration from the small, quiet, mundane things.  The “you-better-pay-attention-or-you’ll-miss-it” things. The little things that “fill you with breath” as the ancient Romans described it.

So today I am on the lookout for that kind of inspiration as I head east down Pine to yoga or cross Fitler Square with nannies and toddlers playing on the grass. As I pick up some hummus at Trader Joe’s or walk down to the Schuylkill to watch the dogs sniff and fetch.

Turns out, inspiration is all around me, mine for the taking.  Here’s what I find:

A blue-suited father and his son are walking home from school.  I am a few steps behind them and lucky enough to overhear their conversation. “What’re we gonna make for supper,” the boy asks with excitement. A lively, problem-solving discussion ensues filled with possibilities, followed by pros and cons, yeas and nays. The dad leads gently so that both contribute. Finally, the list narrows, and both are pleased. It’ll be pasta, but there’ll be sauteed veggies too. Dessert’s in the freezer to their mutual delight. What fun they’re having!  What fun they’ll have making it! This father inspires me.

I stand at the busy intersection of 19^th and Walnut and remind myself to pay attention to the onslaught of cars, buses and bikes before I step off the curb. Next to me is a man. Next to him, a woman with a white cane. I watch as he asks her if he might help her cross the street. I hear him inquire how far she’s going. He’d be happy to accompany her those six blocks, he tells her. She smiles and takes his arm. The sweetness of the scene fills me up. Kindness is contagious. It inspires me.

So does beauty. Like the window boxes, clay pots and iron urns all over town, sprouting plants of every luscious hue, every shape, every texture. Each one is unique, each made with the best materials the earth has to offer. I am so grateful for their presence, these little flowering oases, as I walk the blocks of concrete, brick, glass and stone. They nourish me. They uplift me–even in the wilting 90 degree heat.

Unexpected messages also inspire me. The city’s full of them. I find them on brown paper stretched over the window of a store in renovation, on the T-shirt of a well-built guy at 11^th and Passyunk,  on a freight car with bubble-lettered graffiti sprayed an iridescent pink. Messages meant just for me; messages that appear at just the right moment. Like the one I found across 22^nd shortly after the election reminding me to remain, “Relentlessly hopeful.”

Today’s is on the board in front of the Unitarian Church on Chestnut. It reads:

“You are constantly invited to be what you are.”  Poet-philosopher, Ralph Waldo Emerson, still inspires.

And then there’s Jerry who stands in front of a CVS  for hours each day selling a thin newspaper, entitled One Step Away. According to the masthead, it is produced “by those without homes for those with homes.” Jerry’s profits go for food; there’s never enough to rent a room. I tell him I love the poems in the paper. They are raw, honest. Mainly, though, it is that I am awed by those who manage to put pen to paper while camping out under overpasses.

Jerry says he wants to get back to his writing.  “Just haven’t been up to it lately,” he admits. Then, looking straight at me, he adds with a shake of his head, “Problem is, ‘scuses don’t get the job done!”

What’s inspiring you these days?

This week the PECO Tower went dark and remained so for a couple of days. Just like that, there were no more ticker-tape messages streaming through my living room window demanding my attention. Got to tell you, it was a welcomed break from the endless promos —  a 25th anniversary celebration  for this, a tri-state conference for that, a walk for yet another cure. All worthy causes, but still.

I thought for a moment that the blackout might be signaling the impending apocalypse – a construct on the minds of more than a few at the moment, but no, not yet.

After paying close attention to the darkened tower during those days, checking to see if it was back to its old self, there appeared the strangest post on the the very last day of the shutdown.It was an appeal of sorts, and it was directed to me.

“Dear Sixties Chick,” it began to my utter amazement.  “As we enter the new year, we ask that you find a new, stronger resolve – to keep calm and centered, to stay out of fear, to not despair. To do so, continue to sit quietly and go within.”

Holy Shit,” I gasped realizing that PECO had been spying on me for some time.

The illuminated message continued to roll out. “In 2017, you are to take a stand, once again and LOUDER than ever: NO MORE WAR, NO MORE WAGE SLAVES, DEBT SLAVES or any other kind of SLAVES, and NO MORE RAPING THE PLANET. We ask you to  keep a sharp eye out for all the many manifestations of greed here at present and the lies that cover it up.”

“How can I serve will be your question du jour. At this defining moment in history, gather up your gifts and go at it. However you decide to show up; you are to do so with love and all the joy you can muster.”

“But I caution you. Be on the lookout for that tricky ego of yours. Don’t be fooled. Catch the judgements, the hubris, the need to be right. The untruths you tell from time to time.  Please ask yourself – though I know it stings – is this the Trump in me?”

“Oh fuck,” I muttered, “must I?”

“Yes, you must!” came the response. “Change yourself, you change the world.”

“Remember too to take good care of yourself,” added the illusive phantom of the Tower. “Eat well, dance, oil that body. There’s a lot of work ahead, and as you and I both know, you ain’t getting any younger!”

“And so, a very Happy New Year to you, Sixties Chick. Go fill it up with light. PECO”

It recently came to my attention that I may have missed one of the most attention-grabbing events to come down the pike this year. And that’s saying a lot!

I blame PECO whose illuminated signage I rely on for the latest goings-on around town.

Why didn’t news of Philadelphia’s NAKED BIKE RIDE make it onto its four-story, revolving ticker-tape? I can’t imagine. And I can’t believe I missed it!

Just over a month ago, about a thousand naked and semi-naked cyclists were probably pedaling past my very apartment.  It was my cousin who broke the news to me. She recounted seeing them, a brigade of butts on bikes, rounding the corner of 19^th and Walnut for a pass around Rittenhouse Square.

Apparently, there were young ones and old ones, and just about every body type you could imagine. There were those young nubile millennials with their hot yoga bodies    cruising  past but there were lots of others too. Brave souls of  a “certain” age, fearlessly showing off their sagging, bulging,  bespeckled bodies.

Bodies that have seen better days, if you get the picture.

There were those buck naked, others with bits of cover-up here and there in strategic places. There were those donning body art, sequins, feathers or only a hat. Some with messages painted fore and aft.

A virtual ‘Burning Man’ breezing by the august Union League!

One guy, a dead-ringer for a Sumo wrestler, had inscribed in large letters over the length and breadth of his great pendulous pouch of a stomach, “LOVE YOURSELF.”

Now that was a man on a mission. Right on, Bro! If riding a bike stark-naked down the Benjamin Franklin Parkway is a possible path to self-love, I say “Go for it!” And, from what I could glean from photos, this group — if not fully loving themselves – who knows? —  sure seemed plenty at peace with their bodies.  Clearly, they were having a grand old time to boot!

Will I be participating next year? Probably not, although I’ll definitely  be there to cheer them on. There’s just something about a bare tush on a hard pointy seat that doesn’t seem all that inviting.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to work on loving myself… whatever I’m doing, clothed or unclothed!

It’s 78 degrees at 7:12am or so reports Peco’s illuminated four-story revolving ticker-tape seen from my living room window.

Not a good sign. It can only mean  another steamy East Coast scorcher of a day. Oy!

Following that helpful news comes the same announcement I’ve seen for months – news of Peco’s new website, the one “you can visit anytime or anywhere” which hardly seems like much to brag about.

To compensate, it ends with quite a flourish: PECO IS DRIVING INNOVATION. TODAY AND TOMORROW.  THE FUTURE IS ON!

You bet! The future is on and it’ll be here before you know it. Not looking any too rosy either. A whole lot of people are plenty freaked out about it.

So it got me thinking.

Notwithstanding the “public service” announcements that come across that tower daily, messages like “THE ZOO CHANGES YOU,” I am feeling a distinct lack of inspiration from Peco’s recent posts.

Personally, I would appreciate some inspiration. “We the People” are in dire need of it.

With that in mind, I’d like to suggest that along with celebrating Franklin Square’s 10^th birthday, Peco might consider giving us a message or two of hopeful instruction? A stirring “listen-up” from the wise ones – from the mystics, the visionaries, the poets, the saints?

A word of wisdom from the greats? From Gandhi, Socrates, Buddha or Twain? Maybe a verse from Rumi each day?

Even a simple reminder to “unplug” would do.

I can’t help but think that with all that free sky as billboard, Peco could be doing a lot more good if, from time to time, they’d post across the chemtrail skies a truly transformative tidbit like …

• Sit
• Get quiet
• Go inside

Now that’s what I call a Public Service!

PECO NAMED BEST MID-SIZED UTILITY EMPLOYER.    PECO EARNS NATIONAL EMERGENCY RESPONSE AWARD. The tributes just kept running across that four-story illuminated ticker-tape all month.

Self-promotion. Why not?  Self-promotion is where it’s at these days,  practically the number one American pastime.

I know nothing about these awards—like what criteria was used or who else was in the running. I’m not all that interested to go find out either. I may be jaded—but it all seems a bit bogus.

Here in the US of A, we love to hand out awards. We love competition. And we love winners. Our latest cultural icon, Donald Trump, is all about that.

We have the TOP DOCS issue every year in those glossy magazines for which I get an annual email from my dentist’s office asking me to please cast my vote. Then there’s the usual 30 under 30 who, we are told, we should keep an eye on. My advice is to steer clear of that particular issue unless of course you didn’t waste those precious years carrying on like I did.

Then there’s all the rest with their ever-compelling list of winners in categories of vast proportions such as “THE WORLD’S TEN MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN,” “AMERICA’S SEXIEST DUDE,” and “MOST FAMOUS PERSON IN THE WORLD.” Talk about bogus!

I’m not into competition. Never really have been, except if you count the couple of years of childhood when I’d  hit my younger sister over the head with the Parcheesi board if she dared to win a game off of me.

Competition doesn’t really spur me forward. It doesn’t excite me. It doesn’t push me to do better.

To me, competition’s got a rather protruding underbelly. Anybody who’s attended a kid’s soccer game with Dads frothing-at-the-mouth along the sidelines can attest to that.  Then there are all those ‘bothersome’ concussions -Shhhhh. The undercover drugging -Shhhhhhh. The hyped-up hoopla of  “do or die” admissions into the Ivy League.

Even the Olympics—oh boy, now I’m in trouble—was recently described to me as a “private franchise paid for by public money.” The Brazilians I know are not so crazy about that sort of ‘artful’ deal. And yes, the athletes are still amazing!

So as not to be a spoilsport, I extend my heartiest congratulations to you, Peco, on your  latest accomplishments… whatever they are.  I will sing your praises just for keeping the lights on. What’s more,  I’d sing you the whole ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ if you’d only lower my bill.

May is ‘National Stroke Month’ so says Peco’s four-story, illuminated ticker-tape framed in my living room window. It suggests that I learn the signs, but I’m not up for delving into disease right now, what with the failing health of our country these days.

Nor am I inclined to tackle the message that’s circled the tower since I moved in: MONEY GRUBBING MONSTERS MAY BE HIDING IN YOUR HOUSE. FIND THEM@PECO.COM. Another time perhaps.

Even the upcoming Girl Scout Triathlon with a possible riff on the cookies doesn’t do it for me.

A sign down at 4th and Race belonging to the Old First Reformed Church, though, now that’s a sign! A sign we all need to see. Uplifting for sure in these dark days, it is a reminder of our humanity. A whisper in our collective ear of the kind of people we aspire to be.

It is a kind of mission statement – for life – as my friend Lorenzo remarked on his recent visit.

Why not? After all, these days you gotta have a mission statement.

Take Johnson and Johnson with their, “Our first responsibility is to…”mothers and fathers and all others who use our products…” Must have slipped their corporate minds back  in ’79 when evidence surfaced that linked talc (in their Baby Powder) to ovarian cancer. J and J must have decided the mission was better served keeping the news under wraps. Until recently, in fact.

Or Goldman Sachs of “Our clients’ interests always come first,” except for a couple of years at least when they steered those same clients into ‘hot’ investments that they then proceeded to bet against, all for a bountiful boost to the bottom line.

Or Volkswagen whose credo states, “Our mission is to build long term strategic partnerships with our customers.”  Oy, even the ‘People’s Car’ company!

So what’s mine?  For a while it was “Live fearless,” until I saw the phrase on billboards all over Philly, my words-to-live-by usurped  by Independence Blue Cross. The phrase suddenly took on Orwellian overtones. It lost its truth. Fearlessness as ad-vice from the  health insurance industry. Really?

So I’m going for “Choose love.” That’s my mission statement. It’s lofty enough.

Of course, on days of less resolve, I’ll settle for “Stay calm and get through the day.”

What’s yours?

May 5,2016

In case you missed it, APRIL WAS SAFE DIGGING MONTH according to PECO’s four-story illuminated ticker-tape.

Yes, I know it means checking with some city agency before you start excavating out back for that fabulous home theater, patio, pool or what have you.  And, like the sign says, “KNOW WHATS BELOW BEFORE YOU DIG.” Good idea! Thank you PECO.

My fertile little mind, however, goes straight to the digging of a different kind. And, as anyone who has ever confronted his or her shadow knows, there ain’t no such thing as “safe” digging.

If you dare go noodling inside—and I  MEAN DEEP INSIDE—looking to finally face down the stuff that’s got you by the proverbial balls, you never know what you’re going to find.  I do know it won’t be pretty. I do know it won’t do anything for that old ego.

In fact, coming face to face with that slippery, shrouded, not-so-loving part of us is no fun at all.  It is upsetting, demoralizing and at times pretty painful. It is a perilous pursuit. It is why so few of us do it.

Right off the bat it requires sitting still. You know, getting off the treadmill, stopping for a time. With no input, no output. No feedback, no comment, no LOLs, no nothing. That’s a mighty big ask, if you ask me.

Must I extricate the Amazon? De-friend the Facebook?  Trim the tweets? Prune the earbuds? Oh dear!

Must I lose the “likes?”  The pundits?  The polls?   The cute cat videos?   Oh no!

Afraid so.

Because in the quiet of that sitting, I will look those demons right in the eye.

I will feel them, smell them, taste them, caress them, and come to know them.

I will accept them, forgive them and then,  let them go.

Just imagine the unsavory bits and pieces of congealed “stuff” from years of unconscious stuffing?  Why, it’s the mother lode!

I will free you my little wounded ones, and with it Myself.

To dig or not to dig; what a bogus question! Proceed without caution, and full steam ahead!

April 14, 2016

Inspired thought sparked by PECO and its high voltage ticker-tape of revolving info-a major part of the skyscape up here in my Center City nest.

On a recent early morning trip (a short one) from the kitchen to the living room, I catch a glimpse of my orbiting informant, PECO’s electrified ticker-tape, with just these words illuminated …

LIONS EYE BANK OF DELAWARE

Mmmm? What a beautiful name for a financial institution, I conclude.  I picture the now rare White Lion with those translucent green eyes and that strong, powerful form gracefully stretched out in the tall grass. Truly a mighty beast,  yet one known for great tenderness toward his cubs.

How wonderful that a bank would have chosen such a name!

And how fitting!  After all, who but that kind of noble and caring creature could safeguard our economic well-being? Who else could protect our hard-earned savings? I am overcome by the symbolism!

I make a mental note; open an account ASAP.

Not for a minute do I see the name as menacing. Not like the banks that yield a knot in my chest just hearing their names. You know the ones; the real predators of the jungle; the ferociously carnivorous big cat BANKSTERS with their bail-outs and bonuses, their paws in every pot.

But just as I’m picturing the possibility of an interest rate greater than .01%, new information comes bopping along the top of the tower:

NATIONAL EYE DONATION MONTH.

WHAT?  Oh no! Seems I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. Misread the cues. This is no bank imbued with the spirit of connection between humans and the natural world. An eyeball collection? The Lions Club?

Not what I had in mind at all.  Now what comes to mind are vats of eyeballs in the bowels of some city office building. I feel queasy. Eyeballs make me very nervous.

Forget the eyeballs, I tell myself.  More important, how often are you so far off base? Then I hear that wiser inner voice letting me know. Note to SELF:

1. Look at how easy it is to misread signs, misinterpret words…never mind misconstrue the intentions of others,  even of those you know  and love the most.
2. Remember that everything you “know” originates from inside that itsy bitsy, teeny weeny,  tiny tumbleweed room of your own reality. Therefore, everything you believe, judge and pontificate on…is skewed at best.
3. Clearly, yours is a worm’s eye view, and “truth” like beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
4. And, though it’s nothing personal, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that most of the time …you know BUPKIS!

3/26/ 2016

Inspired thought sparked by PECO and its high voltage ticker-tape of revolving info – a major part of the skyscape up here in my Center City nest.

The PECO building is right outside my window. Or so it seems. Framed by the window facing North on 22^nd, there in my nest of a third-floor walk-up, there’s PECO in all its illuminated splendor.

Anyone who’s ever driven in Philly after dark knows the building I’m talking about. Unless you never look up, you can’t miss the high wattage ticker-tape of revolving messages at its top.

For some reason, when I moved in, these rolling dispatches made me think of Gatsby. You know, the billboard with the ubiquitous eyes of the Optometrist silently commenting on the goings on below.

PECO gives me the time and the temperature (both helpful) and then a rolling public-servicey kind of announcement. Since moving in, I’ve been notified of the Vatican Splendors (might be better for Rome not to play up the stash), The Travel and Adventure Show, membership to The Franklin Institute, a couple of plays and of course, a few fearsome diseases of the month.

The month of March is for us women. March is Women’s History Month, it proclaims. Isn’t it lovely, Blanche! It is to honor us; to show us how far we’ve come. And, just to prove it, PECO is adding some historical corroboration, notifying us that in 1920, just five years after my mother’s birth, women secured the right to vote, and sixty-one years later, in 1981, the first woman was appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Hail to the Divine Feminine, the Black Madonna, bringer of life… and JUSTICE!

Yesterday, the posts took a rather menacing turn. ELECTRICITY THEFT IS DANGEROUS AND A CRIME, it warned as it gracefully flowed around the building. REPORT ANY TIPS. 888-231-PECO.

 I thought back thirty-five years, to life in the impoverished Northeast of Brazil. Electricity theft was common. Like squatting. People spliced wires and tied into trunk lines. It was simply to light their homes, or to plug in a small refrigerator. Not to power on a big screen TV.

At the time, I had never heard of stealing electricity. In America, you didn’t need to do it.

I guess now you do. Welcome to the Third World!