I’ve listened to some pretty spectacular and melancholy break-up songs these past few weeks. Most don’t entirely reflect my experience, but have some nuggets of emotion that resonate with the various stages of feelings that have accompanied my divorce.
I’m not really in break-up mode any longer so these songs bring back specific memories of those first few days rather than reflecting the place where I’m at right now (which is, generally, one where I’m listening to less angry/sad music). But given how significant some of these songs were in my process, they seemed worth sharing here…
What about you, what songs have you listened to during a break-up?
This weekend was filled with a multitude of pleasures (that I’m recalling while sipping my afternoon cuppa):
the thrill of a travel adventure, with places new and old
the Museum of Jurassic Technology, followed by tea and cakes with founder David Hildebrand Wilson
giggling (over and over again)
slurping on kosher dills at Junior’s
sunsets
celebrating a friend’s birthday, full of good fortune(s)
breakfasting on Eggs Benedict (yum, Hollandaise)
driving and singing
learning the secret ingredient for some famous guacamole
decoupage art (and a decoupage artist) coffee with cardamom, after a morning of paddling in the sunshine
There were moments as I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard where the memories were so potent that I was knocked back and forth in time. I was there. I had been there. When things were different. When people were different. When trajectories were different. The 405 freeway. The familiar landmarks. The taste of deli food.
And I knew I would always remember, but it would never be the same again. And I didn’t want it to be.
She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called petites madeleines, which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. … Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? … And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.
Last night we celebrated Le Chandeleur, a holiday with traditional religious underpinnings, but for us was a reminder to note the first signs of spring. After an especially dramatic ‘winter’ at the Remy household, this was a lovely way to celebrate the return of the light. And as is traditional, we celebrated with crepes (the one below being a ricotta-raspberry crepe, but we also made some equally yummy lemon-curd & fresh strawberry crepes):
The new semester began at Chapman last week so I’ve been far busier than usual. It feels good to have much to do, but it’s also overwhelming at times. Especially when we have major systems fail, as we did the first day of classes (ugh). Fortunately, I’m learning better how to troubleshoot problems with my IT team, and am becoming a better administrator:
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And to combat stress, I’m exercising everyday, including some paddling on the weekend with my team (Go Imua!). I also did some impressive weightlifting with friends on Monday and my regular rock climbing stint on Wednesday:
With some of the residual stress from Toby’s death, I haven’t been terribly productive on my dissertation this week. However I do plan to work on it as much as possible this weekend, in addition to visits with friends both new and old. I’m finding that it’s important for me to make plans to look forward to–especially as those seed catalogs come in the mail and I remember (again and again) that I don’t have a garden to prep this spring, nor do I have my wee kitten to cozy up with in my big purple chair. In the past, the garden was what helped me keep death in perspective. When Paul, Sara, Linda, grandma, and Madge died–that garden kept me whole. I am missing that so much right now, because there’s so much hope in every peach blossom bud (and I still simply can’t believe that my peach tree is gone now, but I never have been able to face that patch of bare earth since the garden was razed)…
I love moving around the familiar space of my kitchen and creating tasty food. Undoubtedly that’s why I was so thrilled to get a kitchenaid mixer as a birthday gift two years ago. And surely it’s one of the many reasons why I’ve found myself cursing or crying when I’m mid-recipe and I discover missing items that John took from the kitchen as part of the divorce…
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But perhaps the most important realization that I’ve had about my kitchen recently, is just how much I enjoy cooking for other people–it’s such an expression of love to create artful, healthy, and tasty food. Seeing my family and friends sated by what I’ve created, is such a joy. Perhaps this stems from so many years of being in a ‘mother’ role, or perhaps it’s simply that it’s one important way that I express affection for others.
So…I feel as though I’ve finally made it past the worst of the loss of my familiar kitchen implements and am hitting my stride again. Last night I made an excellent lasagna (half-veg for CatGirl, half-meat for GameBoy) and it turned out tastier than most I’ve made in past years (the kids agreed–and heartily ate several servings apiece!). The kitchen is now clean, and orderly, and mine. I’ll miss cooking meals from my garden this summer (which was so much pleasure), but I still have many herbs on the porch and will be shopping at the Orange and Irvine Farmer’s Markets for in-season ingredients. So you can bet that many good smells will be wafting from my kitchen. And I hope they’ll entice you to stop by–I’d love to share what I make with each of you 🙂
PS: Picture above is of a garden-fresh pizza. One of my specialties!
For my friends who are under snow this weekend, here’s a view of cherry blossoms at the Huntington’s Japanese garden last Saturday.
The weather has been so sublime here this weekend, that I’ve spent a good deal of my time out on the water. How about you, what are you up to this weekend?
A whole slew of friends came over last weekend to help me “break in” my new couch. If you haven’t yet made it over, I hope you’ll consider dropping by–it’s a very comfy place to sit with a cup of tea and solve the problems of the universe. 🙂
Toby-cat was a gift from my garden. A stray that I’d seen but couldn’t catch. I told a friend that I’d seen a wee kitten haunting my plot, and within a few days this friend brought a clawful unhappy bundle to my front porch:
I remember Toby well — from the moment when she was still just a rumor (“Hey, I think I saw a little kitten wandering around in the gardens! Have you seen it?”) to the first time when I actually met that little rumor face to face (I was down on all fours weeding Y’s garden, so it literally was face to face) and how, — after several false starts — I finally scooped her up in my clothes and brought her, mewing and scratching, to your door.
She was a scrawny little thing, but I just knew, from the loving and concerned way that you’d first told me about her, that you cared so much about her and that your home would be an welcoming place for her.
“Quirky but lovable” — that’s how I’d describe her. It’s not a bad description for us either. 🙂
We later learned that Toby’s history included an unhappy adoption from the shelter to a family with small children. She was wary and troubled. She quickly learned to love but one soul in this world, and that was our Catgirl.
This evening our vet put our TobyJoy to sleep, after her seizures had escalated to the point where further control with medication seemed unlikely. Her seizures started again a few days ago–small ones at first, then morphing into body-wracking shakes that contorted her small frame backwards and forwards.
Last night when Toby’s seizures began to escalate I texted John, unsure of whether it was appropriate to ask for his support. We exchanged a few messages as Toby writhed in my arms, and as her legs became paralyzed. I was so confused. I didn’t know whether to lean on John–as I had so many times before–or whether this was my own burden to carry. All I knew was that I was hurting and I couldn’t figure out who else to call on. For the past two decades when I’ve been weak, John has stepped in to “fix” the problem, to offer solace, to help me to decide what to do.
As I wavered with indecision, Toby was curled in a ball on my chest–so much like my babies did when they were little. Feeling her weight, wrapping my hands securely around her body, I settled into an armchair and sang some songs. I stroked her fur and told her how much I loved her. I rocked back and forth. I was unsure of what else to do but just be there with her. I alternately prayed she would die and then prayed that she would live. I cried. I hoped. I wondered. And eventually…the morning came. When I needed help getting her into her crate for transport to the animal hospital, I chose to call on my friends rather than John.
Within a few hours John joined me at the vet to ascertain the extent of Toby’s ailment and we decided to put her to sleep to ease her pain. I sat, and John stood uncomfortably nearby as Toby’s doctor explained the procedure and our options. I signed the paperwork. Because Toby-cat was so ill, we got no last visit or chance to say good-bye.
When we settled the bill in the foyer (tears sliding down my cheeks) and reviewed the charges with the cashier, I pointed out some details to John and called him “sweetie.” It was pure instinct to address him that manner (as I always had). The endearment spoken as we stood side by side, working through something hard together. I instantly regretted my slip, not knowing if he had even noticed it, but at the same time feeling an even greater loss than a moment before when all I was mourning was our sweet kitten.
We then walked out to our separate cars, me carrying Toby’s crate and collar.
A friend sent over this link, letting me know how the words of this song apply to my situation in many ways. I love it for numerous reasons, although it did make me desperately hungry for the ocean as I’m sitting in my office today…(oh, and reminded me how much I need to add some ab-strengthening exercises to my workout routine!)
…What do I know.
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun
lights up willingly; for example–I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch–
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
After realizing how my skewed “sunny-side up” view of the world contributed to the breakup of my marriage (because I simply wasn’t able to see what was in front of my eyes since I was so comfortable in my own view of the world), I decided I should probably tone down my rosy-colored outlook. It seemed that I would be better served by having a more realistic, perhaps even more somber, perspective. I began to wonder if I even really felt the events of my breakup, since even in the dark times so many moments of beauty came bubbling through. And even in the midst of those first few awful days, I could still see so much good on the horizon. What was wrong with me, I wondered, that I didn’t cry and scream and yell and melt into a ball of sorrow? Instead, I wandered gardens and embraced friends and enjoyed my children.
My insistence on optimism is a long-honed skill that stems from the difficulties of living with a disability and the residue of having survived cancer, as well as a variety of other personal setbacks. I simply can’t seem to sit in the midst of a storm without seeing a silver lining. I deliberately choose happiness over sorrow, every time. Like the poem fragment above, I believe in “taking what is given” and seeing the light, whatever difficulties are thrown my way.
But I don’t sit around with my head in the sand denying life’s cruelties, either. For example, for my dissertation research I purposefully chose to study the awfulness of life. Children suffering from horrific incurable diseases. Scores of soldiers dying for want of care. I pore over case studies of bodies mangled by machinery, or injured by the foolishness of quack remedies. I hold these stories in my heart, trying to make sense of a world where people suffer so often and so deeply (and, so needlessly)…
But I think you can know the awful and still see the beauty. Which reminds me of a favorite quote from The Man of La Mancha:
When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness…Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!
