people

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Grave Plots, Cremation, or Tibetan Sky Burial

IMG_1934I don’t know about any of you, but for me, when I die, I want to be cremated. Cremation is a choice I made many years ago, and have expressed as much to my family. I am not sure of the exact moment I decided this – was it after watching intriguing shows about death, like Six Feet Under, where the details of what to do with a body after a person dies is the focal point? Whatever the reason, what I know for sure, is that the idea of having my remains sprinkled into the strength of the ocean’s movement combined with its serenity soothes my soul.

When I was 16 years old, my brother Bill (one of my nine brothers) was killed in a car accident. At the time, amongst severe grieving, my parents purchased not only a grave site for my brother to be buried, they also bought plots for each member of our family, all thirteen of us. A little less than ten years after Bill died, my brother Scott passed away during a seizure. His body was laid to rest in a shiny casket, directly above Bill’s. And then about fifteen years after Scott, my Dad departed from this earth. He was quietly placed in the ground, next to Bill’s coffin, diagonal to Scott’s.

As one might expect, over the years, I visited the graveyard, and wondered which plot would be mine. Until I married and became a mother. Wait, I’d say to myself, while wandering over the low rolling hills. How do my husband and children fit in here? At some point, while considering options about where we should be buried, I also received, filled out and have carried around for what seems like forever, the organ donor card, which eventually became a permanent pink dot ingrained on my driver’s license. The want to be a donor furthered my thinking about where I wanted my body to go after I passed on. Ultimately, all this in-your-face information, and lots personal consideration, I knew, being a simple, no-nonsense, matter-of-fact person, that cremation is for me.

Simple. No-Nonsense. Matter-of-Fact.

And then, I was unexpectedly introduced to another, very raw and natural, way to finally let go.

Recently, I was reading Oprah’s June 2014 magazine (the theme being Age Brilliantly!) when I came across a snippet about reckoning with death by Caitlin Doughty, who also is the creator of the YouTube™ series “Ask a Mortician”. Interestingly, she talks about the ancient art of Tibetan sky burial, in which the deceased body is placed outside for vultures to eat and taken into the air with them. (Ms. Doughty does give more vivid details on her series – Episode Three, in case you’re interested). “It is one of my favorite death customs because it’s just beautiful,” she begins. “The idea of your body being taken apart and flown into the air is really powerful.”

Talk about simple, no-nonsense, and matter-of-fact.

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i’m the mother of a jerk!

IMG_0926one day my teenage son walked into my bedroom, and stated,

oh geez, mom. this girl is planning on asking me to a dance. but the thing is, she’s not my type, not someone i want to go with. so i have this plan. when she asks me during class, or wherever we are, surrounded by a ton of people I will say yes!

yes? i wonder.

yes, yes. but then when we are somewhere else, when no one else is around i will tell her no.

no? i say a bit too loud.

yes, no. he claims.

i stare at him. i don’t get it.

mom, it’s like this. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed by me saying no in front of everyone (‘ah, how sweet’, i think) but, I don’t want to go with her, so i will tell her the truth afterwards.

seriously?

it’s good, mom. it’s good.

you’d be a jerk! i say in defense of all girls being treating badly by dumb boys.

huh? no. no mom, no. he laughs. you see i have no idea when she might ask. she might even have it announced over the intercom, and you know, i want to look like a good guy, but then, well, i don’t want to go, so i will be nice about it when i tell her forget it. i’ll be kind. i’ll even smile, let her know it’s okay, that i am doing her a favor.

oh! my! god! i scream, even though my mother told me to never take God’s name in vain.

he laughs.

i try to explain how unreasonable, how jerky, how rude! his idea is.

it’ll be okay mom. trust me. she’ll be fine.

he saunters, nonchalantly out of my bedroom.

you’re a jerk! i yell after him, knowing he knows i’m a good mom, a responsible mom, and that sometimes words fly out without much effort.

he laughs.

i love you, too, mom, he shouts back.

not two minutes pass when he walks back into my room.

he’s laughing, jovially.

she just tweeted me, he begins. she straight out told me not to believe anything i’ve heard. she has no plans to ask me to the dance.

thank goodness, i say. so glad she won’t have to deal with your jerkiness, i add.

ah, mom, you’re funny.

funny or not, i realize that somewhere down the line, when teaching my son about being a good, honest person, and the importance of treating others with respect, he twisted it, most likely without intent, and assumed it was okay to do the wrong thing to make something right.

sigh.

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Liar, Liar

girl_boy talkingThey’re sitting around a large, rectangular, standard issue, classroom table, doing work, and chatting. Well, one girl was chatting chatting chatting. Nonstop. She’s telling the story about an accident her mom was involved in. A serious one. I mean, seriously, this girl went on and on and on about how one car crashed into the rear of another car, which caused that car to crash into the next car’s rear-end, and it just continued. A domino effect. Collide collide collide. Somewhere in this story one of those car flipped, “like five times,” she said. Flip flip flip.

Someone asked if her mom was okay and the girl just kept chatting, stating that her mom was fine. That she had just a little bump. On her forehead. Right there, right above her left eyebrow. One kid, a boy who seemed to be deep in thought, stopped her mid-sentence. Looked at her with contemplation. His lips gently pinched, and his eyes narrowed. Squinted, full of doubt. He casually claimed that she was lying. And she responded that she was not.

“I mean, really?” he began. “That many cars crashed into one another, and one kept flipping? It’d be all over the news,” he pressed.

The girl went on to say that yes indeed it did happen, and that she didn’t know why it wasn’t on the news. But the boy challenged her, brought up an old story from a previous time.

“Last year you told me your brother’s super strong tooth, the one that could chomp through anything, took a bite out of a brick building. That the whole thing fell down.” Crumbled to the ground. Crumble crumble crumble.

She went on and on, saying it was all true, that it all really happened, but the boy just looked at her, and he had only one more thing to say.

“Liar,” he told her.

“Liar,” someone else added.

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Women Rule the World, but Men are in Control

IMG_2074It’s funny, but if you watch, seriously pay attention to TV shows, movies, and commercials, it’s the women who rule the roost. A roost that parallels real life. Men back off, and accept the knowledge and skill women seem to possess.

If she wants a certain car, there’s no debating. She’s simply in-the-know and her decision is the solid one. If a guy wants to help his girl with the new baby, he better-well embrace her standards and specifications. Otherwise, he’ll find himself being shoved aside, being told he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I mean, because really, she’s the expert, right?

Watch a man’s face, when confronted with a confident, knows-what-she-wants woman. He looks down, unsure of himself, feels like an idiot, and backs off. All the while the woman smiles her winning smile, crowding him out, taking over all the available space, having her way.

Yet. Change locations. Have men step out of the home-front, the personal life, and suddenly they are in control. In general, it’s a location overloaded with testosterone. A place where guys confidently fist-and-shoulder-bump one another. A guy’s hangout, where men become powerhouses. The top-dog. A guy’s guy. The master’s of the universe.

If women maintained their bossy role, the one they possess at home, and threw it out into the world at large, they might just rattle a few chains, turn things upside down, and not only would they rule the world, but they’d rule it with complete control.

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BOYS

IMG_1015So, there’s this kid, a nice kid, a boy, a boy’s boy, who isn’t afraid to show his feeling, you know, he’s wears his heart on his sleeve. And then there’s this other boy, an okay kid, in an okay kind of way, as long as he’s in control.

Heart boy is learning, growing, figuring out the road to follow, hoping upon hope it will lead him to a carefree, productive life. This boy full of heart, he has a mind of his own, creates his own destiny, and sees things in his own personal way. He’s him, just trying to find his own space, his own style.

Control boy, as okay as he is, worries what others think, lets the unknowns control his thoughts, behaves according to what’s cool, not to what’s not. His young heart snubs, ignores, and turns against heart boy whenever heart boy stands up for himself, doesn’t play follow-the-leader.

Heart boy is seeking friendship, true, loyal friendship, while control boy, who also seeks friends, looks for those who will follow, not someone who thinks for himself.

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Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

mars-one-colony-astronauts-2As I was driving to work, listening to the antics of Heidi and Frank, this question was posed on KLOS 95.5, a radio station in Los Angeles, CA.

Would you? Could you? Is an unexpected-fantasy-come-to-life more important than the fate of your stable family union?

Mars One Project, a nonprofit organization, has been taking applications from anyone interested in establishing a permanent settlement on Mars, 10 years from now. In other words, applicants could be the winner of a one-way ticket to the red planet, establishing a new world. 200,000 people applied. 1,058 have made the final cut. 24 people will eventually be sent.

Among the 1,058 chosen is a 38 year old man from Utah. Problem is, he forgot to mention his desire to travel far and away to his wife and four children.

A light-hearted discussion ensued between Heidi and Frank, about the pros and cons. As I was listening, thinking about if it was me, and the husband was Rudy, and our children would be affected by their dad taking off forever, and while Frank thought it wasn’t that big of a deal, that the guy is just following his dream, and what is he supposed to do, not go?, Heidi stated, “…divorce him…”, just as I made the same claim out loud to myself in the confines of my car. The wife would need to begin thinking about her future without a husband, or maybe with a new one, someone she hoped to grow old with, hold hands with, share the end of her life with. The guy basically told his wife and family they are not his priority, so why stick around with someone whose choice is another life, a different path?  Frank considered the fact that it wouldn’t even happen for another 10 years, and that he may not be among the twenty-four finalists. So why punish him for a dream?

Would  you? Could you?

Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

(By the way, the wife did, or is planning to, divorce her husband, stating she didn’t want to stand in the way of his dreams.)

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Who Am I?

I like neatness,

yet,

here I sit,

in a messy room.

And I am fine with that.

I like quiet,

yet,

here I sit,

surrounded by sound.

And I am fine with that.

I like friendship,

yet,

here I sit,

without a friend.

And I am fine with that.

I like dreaming,

yet,

here I sit,

feeling dreamless.

And I am fine with that.

I like teaching,

yet,

here I sit,

without any students.

And I am fine with that.

I like marriage,

yet,

here I sit,

without my husband.

And I am fine with that.

I like the present,

yet,

here I sit,

thinking about the future.

And I am fine with that.

I like writing,

and,

here I sit,

without much more to say.

Except.

I like love,

and,

here I sit,

knowing,

 love surrounds me.

And I am grateful for that.

IMG_2036

 

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28 years of….. Life.

f7804-img_1469

As Rudy and I celebrate our 28th wedding anniversary, I begin to reflect.

There was a tupperware party, a yellow VW Bug, and a kiss.

A phone call, Magic Mountain, holding hands, and a smooch.

Followed by a major make-out session.

Weekly phone calls.

Dates.

Youthful days.

Walking and talking inside the lobby of the Anaheim Hilton.

The love letter.

The hug.

The one bedroom apartment.

Commitment.

Engagement.

Vows.

A daughter.

Diapers.

Breasts.

And bottles.

An education.

Sleepless nights.

Graveyard shift.

A son.

A scratched nose.

Family photo.

A credential.

Another son.

The return of pinned cloth on a dry bottom.

More sleepless nights.

Exhausting days.

Arguing.

Crying.

Laughing.

Holding hands.

Talking.

Consoling.

Bonding.

Growing.

Aging.

Enjoying.

Altogether, loving.

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whoa! or woo!, which one are you?

liz's butt in jeansOkay, so you’re walking down the street, or along some path in the park, or maybe you’re at the mall, or the grocery story, or it could even be that you are working out at the gym, entering the movie theater, maybe you’re at work, or at your child’s day care and it’s in the afternoon and your walking back to your car, kid slung on your hip, or you’ve just walked outside your place of residence to grab the mail, or maybe you’ve knelt down to pick up the cell phone you just dropped, or….. well, let’s just say you are anywhere and a guy looks at you, a girl, a woman more like it, and he says WHOA!… as you walk by. Or, rather, instead, he says WOO! 

For some odd reason these expressions sparked some interest during a sit down dinner, or maybe it was just a casual conversation, with the ratio of men higher to the total women in attendance, when a light-hearted debate ensued trying to decipher the meaning of both seemingly quick assessments. No one really was able to define each compliment (it is? isn’t it?) but rather gave their – lot’s of laughter issued here – opinion. Most assumed whoa! was when a guy was likely responding to the girl, or woman, wearing something tight, like a skirt, any length above the knee, but that is snug on her round rear-end, and cinched in, making the waist small, the butt rounder. The hot girl. Whereas if a guy says woo! – the cute, or pretty girl – she’s still looking good but in a more comfortable way. Someone who’d be wearing jeans, perfectly fitted, not too tight, not too loose, with a basic t-shirt, or a pretty blouse and sandals or some other carefree type of shoe, with hair flowing loose, free from the binds of bands or pins.

Well, now, not that these expressions are even relevant, or as some might say, maybe they are just stupid sexist hoot-and-hollers that men make, but our conversation about them did produce a fun and lively conversation, and tons of laughter. So worth it!

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face matters

He looked at himself in the mirror. Just stared at his reflection, pondering the quarter-sized red rash on his right cheek. The other over-sized looks like a big mosquito bite rash, above the cheek rash, on the edge of his right eye caused him to lean in, close to the mirror, just to see what exactly was happening to his skin. “I don’t get it,” he said, irritated. “Why do I even have this mess on my face?”

“Just keep applying the cream the doctor gave you. It should take a day or two before you see it looking better,” his mom said calmly.

The next morning, as he was getting ready for his first day of seventh grade, he, again, simply stared at himself, shaking his head to and fro.

His mother was watching him, hoping her close-by presence wasn’t a distraction. She was curious about his behavior towards the sudden change to his lovely little face. She didn’t want to interfere with his concentration. Didn’t want to make him feel worse. The less she said the easier it will be for him to handle as he walked around the halls at school, trying to look cool.

“I feel like crying,” he stated out loud, as if to himself, yet looking in her unhidden direction. She could hear a slight choke in his voice. She kept quiet. No need to baby him. That will only make him actually begin to cry. Which will then cause him to announce, “I am not going to school.” She knew him so well. Knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. Let him work it out on his own.

As she watched him she began to think about people. People she has seen on the streets. In TV documentaries. Read about in autobiographies. People who have disabilities, and deformities. On a daily basis, for life. She considered it interesting that her son had become insecure with a minor it will be gone in just a few days rash while there are people who must come to terms with their appearance. Learn to master confidence, every day; anew. Prevail no matter how often strangers stop and stare at them. She is sure they must adapt daily, love who they are, and move on. As best they know how. She is also aware that this is not the time to bring up that subject with her son. They’ve had the conversation before. About people. They will again. Just not today. Today is his day to feel the anguish. His anguish. No matter what anyone thinks his problem is huge. For him.

Interestingly, her son is full of charisma. The kind of kid that others tend to gravitate towards without knowing why. On the one hand she is grateful he doesn’t fully realize the impact he has on others, yet it’s so odd he just doesn’t see it. He could do anything, everything. Be a trend setter. Others would follow. Yet, there he was, looking in the mirror so worried what his peers at the middle school would say about the large rash on his face. She gets it. His mother does. He is not used to seeing himself with facial marking, and there they were. Like any of us, when something is different, he overly wondered what others would say. What they would think.

She wanted to tell him it would be fine. That the others kids might notice, but won’t care. They like him for who he is, not for his looks. She wanted to tell him but she knew he’d just shoo her away, tell her she doesn’t get it. So there she stood quietly observing her son. Observed him while he gently placed a not too big not too small band-aid on his cheek, covering his problem. He fixed his hair just right. Looked in the floor-length mirror to make sure his outfit was a good choice for day-number-one.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late on my first day,” he said as though nothing was wrong.

Later, in the afternoon, when he climbed into the car after school, she asked him how his day went.

“Fine.”

“Any problems with your face?” his mom asked.

“Well, not really. Lots of people asked what happened. I said it was just a rash.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. No one really even cared.”

She smiled. She thinks he is slowly learning how to handle situations. Situations that involve his appearance. Slowly. Yet, learning.