The 15-year-old who discovered this poem had grand illusions of love and romance and though she appreciated the sentiment of the poem, it was about romantic love – the kind of romantic love she was convinced would come her way at any moment.

The 30-year-old who reads it now takes something a little different away.  Yes, deep down she hopes that someday she finds a mate who embodies this poem, but can’t for a moment discount all the amazing people already in her life who already do on a daily basis, who are “helping [her] make out of the lumber of [her] life not a tavern, but a temple.  Out of the works of [her] every day not a reproach, but a song.”  So, thank you (you know who you are!) for loving me into the woman I want to be…

I love you,

Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out;

I love you
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can’t help
Dimly seeing there,

And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple.

Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good.
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.

You have done it
By being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means,
After all.

by Roy Croft

However, it got me thinking about how my own educational experience.  I had the privilege of attending a wonderful elementary school in Webster, NY, St. Rita School, and I really do think that attending that school had a huge impact on my life and the adult I’ve become.  Crazy, perhaps, but the love, support and encouragement I got during my short 7 years there were unparalleled by any of the schools I attended later in life.  I remember my Kindergarten teachers, Mrs. Peggy Garritano, like I was in her class yesterday.  The woman had more energy and enthusiasm than almost anyone I’ve met.  As far as I know, she’s still teaching Kindergarten in Webster.

My second grade teacher, Ms. Gibbons (now Mrs. Fisher) taught a combined class of 2nd and 3rd graders (having taught classes myself at this point, I now appreciate the teaching talent this must have required).   Ms. Gibbons taught with a sense of calm and care that made 2nd grade such a wonderful experience.  I remember loving going to school, thinking First Communion preparation was exciting and kept in touch with her for years following (even babysitting her son, Jake, when I was a teenager).

Mrs. Calabrese, my 4th grade teacher was another especially amazing teacher.  As a 4th grade teacher, I remember being a lot less “fun,” but only because we had much more material to cover.  I absolutely loved learning about New York State that year and remember her being strict, but fair and always with our best efforts at heart, encouraging us at every turn.

Mrs. Mrs. Madonia was my 6th grade teacher.  She died this past fall after a bout with cancer and my heart broke – 18 years later.  Her classroom was a tough one and I worked hard that year (was in the advanced math class taught by the principal as well…), but Mrs. Madonia encouraged so many of the qualities in me that I would carry with me through life – the responsibility to give back and help those less fortunate than I (I remember her letting me start a penny can for charity in our classroom), a positive work ethic and the importance of keeping a sense of humor.

There was never a day at St. Rita’s when I wasn’t encouraged to reach for the stars and that was unfortunately something I didn’t experience in the institutions I attended later in life.

When I got to high school, I’d been in advanced English and Math classes in grammar and junior high schools, had been swimming for 6 years, had always been encouraged in my efforts to make a positive impact on the world around me…and at Mercy no one seemed to care.  I remember vividly being told by an English teacher that I should transfer out of Honors English because I really didn’t have a talent for it.   I was essentially told the same thing about Science classes and so spent 3 out of 4 years in the top 5% of my science class, barely challenged beyond my abilities.   My first two years of swim team, we had a great coach who encouraged each girl and reminded us that we were valuable to the team even if we weren’t the highest scorer (in fact, I got MVP my sophomore year, not because I was the fastest swimmer, but because I was a team player and trusted our coach to use me where he needed me).  Mercy prided itself on encouraging its girls to be “Mary-like,” but I never felt as though any of my efforts to better the world around me – even as chair of the service committee for National Honor Society – were appreciated or acknowledged.   I left Mercy with a group of fantastic friends, but from an academic and personal perspective, felt I wouldn’t amount to much in the outside world.

College was slightly better.  In one of my first English classes, Dr. GoGwilt (who would become one of my favorite teachers) asked me if I’d considered majoring in English.  I remember telling him I wasn’t any good at English and his telling me that whoever told me that obviously wasn’t terribly knowledgeable. I had a handful of amazing teachers – Nicola Pitchford, JD Mancini, George Drance, but it wasn’t until grad school that I felt truly encouraged and capable.   At graduation, however, I had a degree and huge amounts of knowledge, but no skills to take out into the real world.  It took me another 5 years to develop those and find my way in the world.  Fordham had kind of failed me in that regard.

In my heart, it’s my grammar school teachers and the school itself that set me on the right track and are reflected in the confident, capable woman I’ve become.

It made me think of Frog & Toad and especially the song “Alone” from A Year With Frog and Toad (yes, I saw it and it was wonderful and I cried…so there!):

“Sometimes the days, they can be very busy
So I like to stop and think now and then
I think of the reasons I have to be happy
And that makes me happy all over again…
I only come out here to sit and remember
I love being a frog in the warm sunny summer
On days such as this one, that’s what I do.

This morning I woke up and thought, “I am happy!”
It’s been since April since I have been sad
I’ll go be alone to think how I’m happy
For all that I have, and all that I’ve had…

 

Today, I will think how I’m happy for all that I have and all that I’ve had…

Uncle Gerry emailed this excerpt from Evelyn Waugh’s Helena today and it gave me pause.

It’s strange – America begins the “Christmas” season November 1st at this point and Christmas trees are stripped of decoration and set out by the curb Dec. 26th in so many cases.  My mother is always horrified – “Christmas starts on the 25th, idiots!!”  And so, usually, by the time Epiphany rolls around (not that 90% of the population is aware of or celebrates Epiphany), people have already moved on to New Year’s resolutions, planning what they’ll do for the long MLK weekend, etc.

I live in East Harlem where “Dia De Los Reyes” seems an even bigger deal than Christmas.  There is, in fact, a parade across 106th St. every year on Ephiphany with live animals, floats, music and people dressed up as the three kings.  I miss the days when I still worked at Cristo Rey and could join my co-workers for the festivities on the street outside the school.

And yet, with all of the religious symbolism of the gold, frankincense and myhr and the kings traveling from far and near to visit this poor child born in a stable, its meaning will be very different after reading this passage.  I can only hope that my gifts, even when not needed, will be “accepted and put carefully by” because they are brought with love.  

 

“Like me,” she said to them, “you were late in coming. The shepherds were here long before; even the cattle. They had joined the chorus of angels before you were on your way. For you the primordial discipline of the heavens was relaxed and a new defiant light blazed among the disconcerted stars.

“How laboriously you came, taking sights and calculations, where the shepherds had run barefoot! How odd you looked on the road, attended by what outlandish liveries, laden with such preposterous gifts!

“You came at length to the final stage of your pilgrimage and the great star stood still above you. What did you do? You stopped to call on King Herod. Deadly exchange of compliments in which there began that unended war of mobs and magistrates against the innocent!

“Yet you came, and were not turned away. You too found room at the manger. Your gifts were not needed, but they were accepted and put carefully by, for they were brought with love. In that new order of charity that had just come to life there was room for you too. You were not lower in the eyes of the holy family than the ox or the ass.

“You are my especial patrons,” said Helena, “and patrons of all late-comers, of all who have had a tedious journey to make to the truth, of all who are confused with knowledge and speculation, of all who through politeness make themselves partners in guilt, of all who stand in danger by reason of their talents…

“Pray for the great, lest they perish utterly…For His sake who did not reject your curious gifts, pray always for the learned, the oblique, the delicate. Let them not be quite forgotten at the Throne of God when the simple come into their kingdom.”

And then just as quickly as I was transported back to 17 with Melissa in the car next to me, singing along to the song at the top of our lungs, I was 30 again, alone in the car with no idea where Melissa was, what she was doing and a nagging ache in my heart remembering how she disappeared from my life, decided that I was no longer worth her time and friendship with no explanation. Not necessarily something you want to experience on the drive back from your grandmother’s funeral, but important all the same.

No matter where I am or how old, “Slide” will always bring back vivid memories of that brief interlude in my life during which Melissa and I faced the world head-on with John Rzeznik singing in the background.

My soul is deprived of peace,
I have forgotten what happiness is;
I tell myself my future is lost,
all that I hoped for from the Lord.
The thought of my homeless poverty
is wormwood and gall;
Remembering it over and over
leaves my soul downcast within me.
But I will call this to mind,
as my reason to have hope:
The favors of the Lord are not exhausted,
his mercies  are not spent;
They are renewed each morning,
so great is his faithfulness.
My portion is the Lord, says my soul;
therefore will I hope in him.

Good is the Lord to one who waits for him,
to the soul that seeks him;
It is good to hope in silence
for the saving help of the Lord.

It breaks my heart that my grandmother couldn’t see all the blessings around her; that she was utterly convinced that she had been abandonned by her children and that she spent the last 6 years just waiting to die rather than enjoying each day and the blessings they provided.  She had 5 beautiful, talented caring children all of whom took everything they learned from her and went out into the world and made themselves into fantastic adults, each with a masters degree, three of them marrying wonderful mates and raising fantastic, socially responsible, intelligent and talented children (if I do say so myself).  She had an extended family that bent over backwards to accomodate and care for her.   She had a husband of 53 years who dedicated his life to supporting her and loved her with every inch of his being. It pains me that she couldn’t step back far enough to see all the gifts she’d been given.

I suppose what I should take away from the experience of witnessing her behavior over the past 10 or so years is to focus on the wonderful people and experiences I have in my own life and not the few things that might be lacking.

The right person is someone you want in 3 places
1) your bed
2) your treehouse
3) your foxhole

Absolutely true, isn’t it?  If you can find all three in one person and that person wants you in all three in his/her life, you’re all set, aren’t you?

It’s only now that I’m really  starting to appreciate The Big Chill and all its themes  – reflecting back on the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, idealistic college graduate I was long ago, ready to go out and change the world (my 30-year-old self laughs at her and wishes she could tell her to make the money first and save the world second); the frustration of wasting your life pining over and idealizing someone you were never meant to be with in the first place;  watching the friends you love, who you thought you’d always be close to, change and slip away; and realizing that the life you imagined for yourself isn’t the one that you’ve arrived at and that the one thing you were always absolutely sure you were meant to be isn’t a definite.

And I found myself identifying with Meg, the successful lawyer who has everything but the one thing she wants – a family. At one point, she is bemoaning the sorry state of the available men, positing:

They’re either married or gay. And if they’re not gay, they’ve just broken up with the most wonderful woman in the world, or they’ve just broken up with a bitch who looks exactly like me. They’re in transition from a monogamous relationship and they need more space. Or they’re tired of space, but they just can’t commit. Or they want to commit, but they’re afraid to get close. They want to get close, you don’t want to get near them.

I don’t know whether to be sad that not much has changed in the 28 years since the movie was made or relieved that I’m not alone and this is the plight of the independent, successful business woman in America.

…and just as heart-wrenching as I remembered.  Like almost every other girl of my generation, in the mid-80s I was treated to Disney’s The Little Mermaid.  I loved Ariel and knew every single song from the movie (and sang them quite loudly around the house, I’m sure) and was content knowing that even if you fell in love with someone utterly unattainable, your crustacean and/or piscine friends would save the day (even if only at the 11th hour), get your voice back and the prince would fall madly in love with you so you could live happily ever after.

And then my love of fairytales (REAL fairytales, not the Disneyfied ones in which no one is hurt and everyone lives happily ever after) began and I started watching Shelley Duval’s Fairytale Theater series like the fairy tale addict I was becoming. There was Pam Dawber all decked out in her mermaid tail and Treat Williams as the dashing prince <sigh> and a very young Helen Mirren as the princess who retrieves the prince from the beach and subsequently wins his heart.  And I was shocked: yes, the little mermaid spies the prince and saves him from drowning, falling in love with him (uh…he’s half drowned…you fell “in love” with him?  I think we need a Sassy Gay Friend intervention). Yes, she barters her voice for human legs, thus dooming herself to a very difficult process of trying to convince him who she REALLY is and a future as mere seafoam if she can’t convince him to love her.  But this time when she is finally washed up on shore, it is the prince AND his new love who find her and take her in to care for her.  No evil sea witch turning herself into an Ariel look-alike to win the prince away this time.  No, this is legit: this man has met and fallen in love with a good woman and much to the little mermaid’s despair, they are soon betrothed and she is doomed to eternal foaminess.

Of course, this time, instead of a crab and a clueless fish, it is her sisters who come up with an alternative: they have sold their beautiful hair to the sea witch in order to obtain a knife – if the little mermaid kills this man before the morning after his wedding, she can return to the life she had under the sea (no cute little ditty about life being “better down where it’s wetter” in this version).  And this is where I remember the tears started flowing: she sneaks into the bridal chamber, ready to kill him and when she sees the love between the newly married couple and remembers her love for the prince, she refuses to kill him and throws herself into the sea.  She has given up so much for love of this man (stupidly, perhaps, but even so…) and in the end her love for him is so strong that she chooses eternity as seafoam rather than ending his life.  We still get a bit of a happy ending in that, because of her selfless love, she becomes a “daughter of the air” and is given the opportunity to earn an “immortal soul,”  but it’s still a pretty hard ending to accept. 

I remember walking into our kitchen after experiencing the story for the first time, tears dripping down my cheeks and asking if that’s what “poignance” (one of my recent Jr. High vocabularly words) meant.  Yes.  That was poignance – I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad for this creature, but I knew that whatever I felt for her, it was heart-wrenching. 

It was only years later, when I become interested in fairy tale/folklore studies that I learned more about the writing of the tale: that Andersen originally wrote it so that the little mermaid did, indeed, become mere sea foam because she couldn’t bring herself to kill the man she loved; that the author himself was prone to unrequited love and so this is considered by many scholars as one of his most autobiographical stories (the creator of the ballet actually incorporates “the poet” into the story to reflect this.  I thought it was brilliant); that some consider it a feminist tale about the dangers of accepting abuse or inconsiderate treatment in the name of love; or the reading of the tale not as one of unrequited, desperate love, but  of investigative curiosity (she is fascinated by the unknown/forbidden, and is intent on broadening her horizons). 

No matter how you read it, the story will always be the one that taught me about poignance and that endings can’t always be happy the way you want them to be.

One of the most profound take-aways I got from Fr. O’Malley was the point he continually tried to drive home to a bunch of clueless, lusty college students, that “love” wasn’t a mushy feeling or holding hands or make-out sessions on the couch – that many of us were probably too inexperienced to truly understand yet – but love was “the willpower remaining when the beloved was no longer even likeable.”  I remember, in my sophomoric “wisdom,” loving that statement for its profundity, but not understanding the truth of  it.

Ten years, a few relationships and more life experience later, I’m starting to understand:

My grandmother is currently very ill – physically and emotionally.  My grandfather, her spouse of 53 years with whom she’d raised 5 children, died six years ago and the depression, anger, frustration and all the other emotions related to this loss have run rampant since.  The woman with whom I spent childhood weekends playing in the community pool in Cheektowaga, NY, playing church basement BINGO, eating out at McDonald’s (hey, I was 5 and it was the height of sophistication), tending the garden, playing dress-up ceased to exist.  In her place appeared a woman I’d started to avoid; one who is angry and bitter, verbally abuses her children and grandchildren, has nothing positive to say about anyone.  And it breaks my heart.

But, in the midst of all of this, I have started to understand firsthand what Fr. O’Malley was talking about.  I love my grandmother – please don’t doubt that.  I wouldn’t exist without her – both physically, but also as the woman I’ve become.  She is the quintessential strong-willed woman and is part of the basis from which my own strength and determination derive.  I do not, however, like her at this point.  She is making the lives of everyone around her – from her children who bend over backwards to accommodate and care for her, to her nieces and nephews, cousins and grandchildren – impossibly difficult.  She has chosen to leave this world in the most destructive way she can and take anyone in her path down with her.  There is nothing attractive about that.

And yet, I would do anything I could to ease her pain; still send her cards to tell her I’m thinking of her; pray for her every chance I get; hope against hope that something snaps soon and she finds some peace in her last days on earth, surrounded by people who love and cherish her in spite of her complete dislikeability.