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Damage

All humans have some form of damage.

Physical damage marks the body and usually has no bearing upon others except an occasional reaction if the damage is extreme. I doubt the scar on my foot left by the stitches received after stepping on a broken bottle could cause anguish to another, but you never know.

Spiritual and mental damage, are fractures lodged beneath the surface within the soul and brain. Both thrive incognito. While physical damage can be dealt with, ignored, surgically altered or covered up with clothing or make-up, the latter is not easily disguised. Counseling, acknowledgment, and professionally prescribed medication (once the trial and error stage is over) are some good treatments while denial, self -medication with drugs and/or alcohol are not. How one chooses to deal with the damage greatly affects those around them. Sometimes lack of health insurance plays a deciding factor.

Spiritual and mental damage.

Damage begets damage.

Imagine the damaged inflicted on the receiver of a person’s damaging words?

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Who are the people in my neighbourhood…

I was born, raised, moved away, moved back, moved away again but returned to live in my neigbourhood of the most gentrified kind.

The ‘hood’, as it was once known during my childhood, had an unsavory cultural characteristics of the almost ghetto kind, not yet there, but oh so close and that classification depended on whose perspective you cared to seriously consider-those who lived there and those who took one look and passed through quickly. But to me and my posse of friends the ‘hood’ was our world!

Winters were cold, idle and desolate while summers were muggy, alive and sizzling, riding the waves of the so-called “pulse of the city”.  At night, I slept the sleep of dreams on my twin mattress because during the summer days, the ‘hood’ was an interactive playground and as a young participant, I was constantly moving and socializing!

The rents were cheap and the living was easy if you were part of the ‘hood’.  Being part of the hood was to know the gangbangers by their real names, not their tags. Being part of the hood was having an extended family of misfit friends who played double-dutch, stoopball and red rover on demand. Being part of the hood was hanging on the stoops, sitting at the windowsills, yelling from rooftops and letting the water from an open hydrant stream into an open car window after you promised the driver you’d hold the water down as he drove through.

The ‘hood’ was comforting and predictable. Everyone knew everyone or some dark secret about him or her or them. We knew who would be on the rooftop at night trying to throw bottles on the heads of the women who flirted with her man on that day. Only later did we find out the woman on top of the roof throwing the bottles was not a woman.

We knew who to grub cigarettes off during Fourth of July in order to light our firecrackers-he was usually too stoned to noticed when we sneaked off with his pack. We loved Uncle Willie, a retired gentle person who lived in the block’s only wood frame home. He got the city to provide breakfast and lunches for the ‘hood’ kids and permits for street closings so we could run around like maniacs. We loved our neighbours who took an interest in us kids and in particular one couple who treated us to an excursion to Long Island for trick o’treating. We returned home with mounds of candy to last for a month.

Who would want to live here back in the days of: gang warfare, Molotov cocktails with police riots, drugs, racial mayhem, broken streetlights, abandon buildings, dilapidated playgrounds, Congo players drumming well past midnight and fake candy stores with bulletproof glass around the counter that sold weed. Not the garden ‘weed be gone’. Although you can have a garden of weed but I am not writing about the pest control kind of weed although weed can control some pests while unleashing others.

The more you put in, the more you got out. My friends were many and enemies did not exist. Familiarity can often bring contempt but the familiarity with my neighbours brought me protection. I was part of the ‘hood’,  my family was not.  Mom paid the bills, so when she said we had to move, we didn’t sell the house but moved to a new neighbourhood in Queens.

Almost thirty plus years have passed since my childhood days of living in the ‘hood’.  The ‘hood’ resides in the past, referred to nostalgically at times glorified by the few originals left who are lucky to be in rent-controlled housing.

The neighbourhood formerly known as the ‘hood’ is now, of the most unfavourable kind, depending on whose viewpoint you hear-those who pass through shopping at numerous upscale shops and those overwhelmed by the flood of crying babies and dogs. The ‘hood’ has moved on up, with most of the old occupants displaced and the abandon buildings turned into upscale luxury housing, some with swimming pools and most with concierge service. Restaurants of every fare occupy every square inch of a block. Thai, American, Classic diner fare, Vegan, Japanese Fusion, Campo de Flora Pizza made with real olive oil and Chinese fast food with brown rice, organic peas and carrots. Order take out or saunter up to the outdoor seating and people watch, the new people in the neighbourhood.

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Living

Mom, my mom, loves to quote scriptures. Stories of revenge on the news and she will say, “You see, the Lord said ‘an eye for an eye’.” Mind you, for mom it does not matter if the person taking the revenge was the one who started the whole thing in the first place, received a reciprocal blow from the other and instead of allowing it to end, decided they had to have the last word.

Mom’s interpretation of bible scriptures is conducive to whatever mood she may be in at the time. The power of the words written by the all knowing from above is all she needs. Like whip cream on top of bread pudding her usage of the scriptures solidifies her point. Bible passages are converted to validate her opinions and predictions. The interpretations of the best theologian scholars have no merit and forget the thousands of hours these scholars spent researching and dissecting. Mom’s interpretations are set in stone-figuratively not literally, for she lacks the strength to hold a chisel and is not related to Moses-the movie kind of Moses, i.e. Charlton Heston, where the hand of God writes in stone tablets.

“Living is giving. All things would die if only receiving” is a favourite quote of mom’s, my mom, used frequently throughout my childhood into adulthood. When asked about the origins of the quote, she will swear it is from the bible. Using the phrase verbatim during a search in Google as well as the enlisted research skills of friend did not lead to any hits on the internet to prove this. So its origin remains a mysteriously (unless someone reading this can verify where it actually stems from).

“Living is giving. All things would die if only receiving”, mom will say when someone is complaining about someone else’s selfishness and that someone complaining is usually me. I get it, I think.

One must be able to give in order to live. What is the definition of “living”? Day struggles or conquering the world? What exactly are we to be “giving”? Money, volunteering, time, presence? We give, we live, we live, and we give. What happens when we give too much and others are content receiving too much? What happens is we give too little? Are the receivers aware that the giving is too little? If I give and do not receive, can I justifiably be angry or resentful?

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Today

Today is the day I regain my body back.

The body, my body was kidnapped three years ago by the stress of two shoulder operations, the disintegration of yet another career and a family member’s illness. Once in isolation and infused with depression and chemical toxins, the body, my body, sought refuge and comfort in food.  Not just any old food but food of the most dangerous kind: White Castle burgers with onion rings, Pringle’s ultra stack, Jones’ sausages, and French bread pizza with pepperoni, Press’s version of the Cuban sandwich as well as the cheese and black bean dip with multi grain taco chips downed with fresh Margherita’s at the local Tex-Mex restaurant.

My body, the body descended into a madness of the most unfavorable kind: erratic blood pressure readings, thyroid issues, vitamin deficiencies and the dreaded numbers from the doctor’s scale for which I arguably state is out of whack. Crack is whack and so is that damn scale that reveals the truth behind the cover-ups that no longer justify the existence of my muffin top middle supported by thunder thighs of cellulite.

The Ann Taylor Loft and J.Jill clothing of days gone by sit in my closet refusing to be cast away into the large plastic bin of discarded clothes in the basement. I long, they long to be back on the body, my body that I’ve neglected and allowed to fall off the food wagon into an abyss of false food gratification binges.

Today is the day I regain my body back.

The jogging is progressing-finally made it to 35 minutes! But the amount of calories consumed overshadows the amount exercised off and a different approach is necessary in order to get my body to where it needs to be, weight and health wise.

So today, I begin.

To begin is to acknowledge I have an unhealthy choice of foods to eat disorder.  I own it, I do. The albatross will no longer circle above my head as I waddle down the street for I have armed myself with a just released book from Amazon that unleashes the diet secrets of all French women.  All, French, women? Imagine that. “White Castle burgers and a side of onion rings will touch my lips no more!”

So today, this morning, I began.

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Chasing my shadow…

In my slow and sometimes painful quest to run a 5k, I have finally made it to 30 minutes of continuous jogging. Now if only the continuous jogging could remain consistent with the mileage and evolve to 45 minutes of continuous running.  

I started the Couch to 5K training program, heavily modified, during the month of June 2010. The program starts with alternating a 1-minute run to a 90-second walk and repeating for 20 minutes. My modified version was a 1 minute jog to a 2 minute walk, 4x within an hour which translated to 3 miles.   

Slowly, the length of jogging increased, the walking decreased and mileage accumulated to 3 miles. I can now run continuously for 30 minutes, on a good day, but it does not equate to a total of 3 miles, more like 1.93 miles of jogging, with the remaining miles walking and huffing. My goal is to run a 5k in less than an hour and at the rate my body is adjusting to jogging, achieving that goal may be a miracle or a mirage.

Notice Couch to 5k uses the term “running” while I, a nonprofessional, prefer to use the term “jogging”. I am a self proclaim, bona fide, “penguin” when it comes to running labels. Professional runners walk faster than my jogging and my running to a professional runner is their walking a slow pace to recuperate after running a marathon.

I have no illusions of grandeur. My jogging pace is akin to a penguin’s walk infused with having one too many krill on a good day. I am slow and damn proud of it. As the affluent runners pass by me while running the loop in Prospect Park, I smirk at their swiftness and skinniness and applaud myself for having the audacity to run in skintight pants with my visible oversized flapping belly. I have last years’ Garmin, big as a block of wood, strapped to my wrist and my ­Superfeet running insoles.  I am a Queen!

However, there are times when my ego deflates.  The one steep hill  too many, which depletes my forty something year old body of its energy and forces me to walk, and the little red devil, skinny no less, that sits on my right buttock shouting mantras of:

“You’re carrying too much weight, just walk”           

 “Your feet hurt, just walk.”

“You are way too old to do this, just walk.”

“Did you take the Bayer aspirin this morning? Oh forget it, just walk!” 

Therefore, I give in and walk. Return home. Look at the statistics from the Garmin and berate myself for not achieving the days’ goals. I am ruthless with myself and void of compassion. However,  two days later I am out there again-pumped and ready to accomplish my goal of adding  and jogging five minutes more to the 30 minutes-which has yet to be accomplished.

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Kids or Dogs

There seems to be an onslaught of books on a topic rarely brought up in public conversations-the decision to remain childless. Walk on Seventh Avenue in my neighbourhood on any given day and you will hear endless conversations concerning children, daycare, and schools, play dates, eco friendly diapers etc. These conversations are not only coming from groups of women but also men and nannies. As I navigate through the strollers, herds of running toddlers and the occasional breast feeding new mom sitting outside the Häagan Dazs shop, I smile because I am so glad I do not have children. I have dogs.

 During my late teens, I decided not to have kids.

Carefully thought out and an easy choice to make, I knew back then I was too selfish to sacrifice one hundred percent of my needs and especially my wants in order to raise a child. My surroundings helped with the decision. My siblings and their kids allowed a front row view of the trials and tribulations of child rearing. Babysitting dilemmas, erratic feeding schedules, diapers and prams, and the ear piercing levels of screaming/crying  for food, to be held and changed, along with other monumental chores,  solidified my decision. Of course, there were moments of grandeur: the first word, the first walk, the first solid food, the first curse… that had no effect on my decision.

I saw and still see the negatives instead of positives.

There were teenage female classmates who mysteriously disappeared during the school year only to resurface during the summer with a baby and stroller in tow. There were also neighbours in the old ‘hood’ having more than one child to increase their welfare and housing benefits. In addition, during my teaching years, some of the parents of the emotionally disturbed students whom I taught, viewed teachers as overpaid babysitters, who freed up their time during the day so they could party up with drugs -horrible situations to place a child in! 

Having children is a serious decision with serious ramifications.

Children do not fix damaged people.  They will not cure loneliness or repair broken relationships. Nor will they take the place of a dress up doll. I live across the street from a playground where I see more nannies with babies than parents and yes in my ‘hood’ it is quite easy at times to distinguish nannies from parents. What is the point of having children if the parents are too busy working or taking care of their needs and especially their wants without the sacrifice? If a nanny takes care of a child on a full time basis, then the parents’ decision to have children was hastily decided. 

I chose dogs.

Dogs are wonderful companions who love unconditionally and flourish under a daily routine of food, exercise and love-not necessarily in that order just as long as you stick to the routine. Provide nutritional food, which can be bought or made, exercise them like crazy, because a tired dog is happy and less destructive and finally, lavish them with cuddles, belly rubs, grooming and praise. This accounts for sacrificing sixty percent of my needs and especially my wants although I must say it is more like ninety percent. 

Having a dog is a serious decision with serious ramifications.

The same ‘nanny’ concept holds true for dogs. If a dog owner needs to place their pooch for nine hours every day in doggie day care then maybe the decision to have a dog was hastily made.  Dogs require bonding with their owners not bonding with the attendant at the day care.

Dogs will not prepare couples for children.

I met a couple who adopted a dog for the sole purpose of preparing themselves for children. They figured caring for a dog would give them insight into the responsibilities of having a child. It was also a test run to see if their relationship was ready for the next level.  Unfortunately, they adopted a Jack Russell terrier and did not bother to learn about the breed. The dog’s hyperactivity resulting from lack of exercise strained their relationship. They moved from the neighbourhood and the dog’s fate and if they decided to have children after all remains unknown. 

As I got older, traveled, studied, relocated across country and back, the decision was right. Traveling with a child while studying abroad in the Caribbean would have been disastrous. I was involved with my studies, trekking through plantation sites and battling mosquitoes capable of transmitting Dengue fever.  A baby in the midst of this would not have made the trips possible or rather; I was not ready to give up the opportunities in order to raise a child. When the settling stage set in, less travel, sticking close to home and financial stability, the decision was made to share my life and enlarge my household. I chose dogs!

The enormous responsibility of child rearing was and still is not on my list of things to do.

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Lent 2011

My first Lenten observation as an Episcopalian and boy, changes have arrived.

 

  1. I have committed to sacrificing alcohol for forty days and forty nights or whenever Easter arrives.
  2. I will attend a Wednesday night Low Mass, Lenten study (Gospel of St. Mark with Mother Askew) with soup and dinner, until Easter arrives or the series ends-whichever comes first.
  3. I will read spiritual books, which include Bible passages and attend our church’s Stations of the Cross.
  4. I plan, to attend Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday services.

Sounds like allot of religion, but how do you judge what is too much or too little when it comes to nurturing the mind and body for once in a positive way? 

Lent for me is a period of spiritual enlightenment.

This precious period within the liturgical year offers a chance to delve into the scriptures and interpretations at times with the guidance of a Mother or Father (Priests). The Old Testament invites examination of the past, acquaintance with those who became prophets, and the introduction of conceptual texts. The New Testament invites further examination on the evolvement of those texts by way of the Messiah’s short life. Psalms are re-read, sectioned off, with favourites highlighted and the “Book of Common Prayer” paged through, Collects, noted and meditated on. This process stimulates my spiritual growth and absorption, questioning and understanding begins leading to enlightenment.

Lent for me is a period of cleansing in the form of sacrifice.

Abstaining from alcohol during Lent has allowed my body to detoxify and replenish the vitamin deficiencies accumulated during the consumption of the fleeting every other night of red or white. Taken for granted within the past two years, wine was easily attainable, ready to scoff down in one night. The palette of flavours released with just the right cheese and the savoured sips of pure fermented grapes were rituals of the past. Back then, wine was purchased for celebrations or for the weekend of a particularly difficult workweek. A bottle would linger around for four days not evaporate in one.

Lent for me is a period of spiritual growth.

Lenten Study series, readings and Kindle’s array of free spiritual EBooks help saturate mi alma with wisdom, parables and lessons  of the Bible’s past now re-evaluated and applied to life lived in the now and future.  I enjoy reading scriptures as a writer and as a wanna be scholar. My analysis leads to dissecting and examining events within the scriptures.

Through a Lenten Study series conducted at the church I attend, I became aware of the relationship between Gospels, time and space. This new knowledge heightened my understanding of why situations existed, the possible mindset at the time and most importantly the conflicts that arose between a Roman government and Pharisees of a Jewish religion. Historical and cultural background information enriched my understanding of the Gospels and led to a deeper appreciation of the short life lived by Christ.

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Middle Age

Oxford English Dictionary defines middle aged as the period between early adulthood and old age, usually considered as the years from about 45 to 65.

Okay. My age falls between 45-65.

Now what? 

Birth, adolescence, adulthood, middle age, old age-the cycles of life. Some of us do not live through all of life’s cycles but for those that do, each cycle contains a transformation of some sort as we advance to the next.

Transformation requires a starting point from which the process begins. With glee I accepted the process from adolescence to adulthood where puberty set in and brought about desirable (height) and sometimes not so desirable (breast-I was a tomboy) changes to my physical body. I could not wait for the arrival of the age of legal consent because of the parties and rewards associated with it: legal drinking, legal voting, legal entry into nightclubs, legal driving license etc.  

As a twentysomething, I basked in the joys of having a high metabolism and the ability to consume mass amounts of junk food calories that literally evaporated off my fat cells. Thirtysomething entertained a move across country, and a business. The family with a husband and two kids did not materialize nor the move from a cramped studio apartment in some trendy part of the city to a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath colonial home in the suburbs. That’s okay. Destiny dictated an alternative lifestyle.Grudgingly or happily, young and indestructible I went through the early cycles’ angst!

Suddenly, middle age arrived, a bookmark at the end of the beginning and the beginning towards the end.

The quest to retain youth became the focal point as I realized there was no reversal to the aging process. The physical changes of the body once desired at youth now dreaded as the sagging set in.  

The process of degeneration began. Metabolism slowed, fat accumulated in places I dare not mention, flexibility decreased, loss of my skin’s elasticity and the wrinkles sprouted up overnight. Money once spent on weekends of boozing and partying now went to anti-wrinkle creams, hair dye, Centrum Silver and GNC’s TriFlex. Considered the Lifestyle Lift but unemployment earnings left no budget for plastic surgery and then it occurred to me that once started, a one-time procedure would never be enough.

There is a light…Not all is doom and gloom in the middle age cycle and the positives are not based solely on the physical.

My intellect, often neglected and underutilized during the aging process held the coping tools. Stimulated and nurtured throughout the years, my intellect handles middle age with grace and acceptance. It is rich and abundant with memories from the years lived. Reasoning, creative thinking, problem solving, wisdom, maturity, reactions, are refined, defined and applied. The accumulation of books read, people with their influences that have flowed in and out of my world as well as the places visited have all contributed to my intellect.

The aging cycle will continue and god willing I will reach another bookmark: old age.

 

*Photos:  Margarita’s (mom) cycles

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Our Father…

Religion and spirituality are tricky subjects when it comes to defining the person I see in the mirror. Leftist political views as well as my outright allegiance to LGBT equal rights and marriage would have had me excommunicated from the Catholic Church from the time I took my first communion vows-yes, even at that young age I thought differently.  

Although baptism was painless (got to wear the mini wedding dress with the veil ,white gloves and my Buster Brown patent leathers), the sacrament of Confirmation would not take place in the near or distant future. Although, I attended and survived the weekly classes, the decision was made to hold off on the commitment before choosing my confirmation name.  I was not ready. It did not feel right. The decision to commit to a dedicated religious life absorbed in guilt and yearly confessions would have to wait until later when and if maturity set in.

I remained a sporadic Catholic throughout most of my adult life, going to services when it was convenient or after some emotional trauma. Guilt going in to service and guilt coming out of service-the perpetual sinner can never find redemption. Rituals followed throughout the liturgical calendar year. I was not devout and did not adhere to the guidelines for repentance and prayers and conveniently forgot confession prior to receiving communion and would never attain “poster child” status due to my lack of pledges and proselytizing.

Eventually my presence at services ended but I read the bible infrequently to make up for it. I lived life, partying, working, career driven, relocating across country, establishing my career, losing my career and relocating back. However, mí Alma salio de mí cuerpo… family illness moved in and I sought respite at a Catholic church in Brooklyn.

The church I went to in Brooklyn has a façade set in dark stone, some, dislodged and missing. The grey gargoyles near the steeple peer down crouched in their perches as if preparing for flight.  The interior ceilings once white washed contain water stains and holes while the tile flooring is dingy, caked with dirt.  It is in need of structural repairs and lacks the finances to get it done.

A Church can be grand, with flaws and all and this church is grand because its priests deliver uplifting sermons and parishioners who remain steadfast regardless of their dwindling numbers or strained finances continue to attend services.

I attended this church three to four times a week during mom’s doses of cocktails and discovered peace, stillness and comfort. Incense did not burn during mass, communion wafers were divided in half and electrical candles replaced the wax and wicks. It was cold, very cold during the winters and hot and humid during the summers. Nevertheless, I continued to attend because I needed to. Sitting in the pew, in the dimly lit church with the altar before me, allowed perseverance and hope to seep into my thoughts and strengthen me.

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Loner

A friend posted this quote on FB.

“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” ~ Jodi Picoult

Read it once and thought this is not correct; some loners may truly enjoy solitude instead of socialization. Amongst a host of comforting attributes, solitude brings reflection, tranquility, solace and protectiveness. With solitude, there is a deliberation of the self that demands stillness, a meditation on the me, myself and I with no interruption.

Many cannot understand the benefits of or how to fit solitude into their lifestyle.  Still others readily presume solitude is a negative state of being; to be alone- that dreadful word-even the sound of it conjures up a barren desert. Moreover, if you are a loner, then you have done something wrong, there is a reason you don’t fit into society, why you don’t blend in.

How do you blend into the world if you cannot blend into society?

People are disappointing. The ways we deal or chose not to deal with people can be disappointing and the ways people deal with us or chose not to can also be disappointing. I believe expectations placed upon others, based upon our wants and needs are destined to result in disappointments. We cannot expect or change people to our likings. That may be the reason “loners” give up trying. Expectations are set too high and are unattainable. They have not learned how to navigate through the world while remaining objective and accepting with serenity. Lord grant me…

I am a loner (sometimes being alone is the best way to be). Am I a loner because I tried to blend into the world and people disappointed me? It’s a possibility and may be closer to the truth than I care to admit.

At this time, I am in recovery from two year’s worth of medical, physical but not emotional stuff. Being alone right now, is the best way to be, while I write and get myself together so I can jump into the next chapter of life.