Hang in There

It was extra depressing to hear the NJ governor say that “Everything is going in the wrong direction” regarding the COVID surge, when it’s already been 8 months of living in relative isolation to prevent that very reality from happening.

While it’s fairly simple – albeit frustrating – to adhere to the recommendations of mask wearing, social distancing and separation, navigating many of my emotions around this whole scary upheaval has become more difficult the longer it’s dragged on, with no end in sight.

To keep from succumbing to negativity, I’ve had to dig beyond my Take-a-Walk and let Mother Nature do her Magic that I wrote about a couple weeks ago – and the Trader Joe’s dark chocolate almonds 😊 that I didn’t – to gain some strength from prior experiences that played out over a somewhat lengthy period of time.   

Two trying situations in my past that fit this description include 1 - going through divorce and 2 – the months leading up to being terminated from my workplace. 

In each case, I kept a running dialogue in my head to keep me from getting too emotional or distracted.  In a strangely powerful way, these conversations were quite effective.

The divorce process took a couple of years, and I had to keep reminding myself: Be patient…Stay the course! Be focused and positive! Don’t get caught up in all the minutia or bickering! Be grateful for the friends and family who support me! Look how far I’ve come…soon it will behind me!     

With regard to my employment clusterfuck, after 17 years I knew things had gone south for me but had no intention of giving up or making it easy for my boss(es) to fire me; I opted to fight for the job. So every morning as I walked down the steps to the basement where my office was, I would give myself a pep talk: Don’t turn around and go back home! Don’t quit! Don’t make things worse than they are! Be a good person, despite the crap!  Don’t have regrets!  

My guess is that all this talking to myself didn’t really change anything that was beyond my control, but it did keep me from spiraling to a dark place.

COVID, like these two scenarios, requires similar coaching:

Take it one day at a time! Don’t get sloppy! This isn’t going to last forever!

A Step in the Right Direction

What would life be like if I were a Black man?

I have tried to imagine this at different times but, after a few seconds, it’s too difficult to fathom so I go back to what I know: life as a white woman…where I can go for a walk in my neighborhood; I can stroll around the mall; I can drive anywhere; I can hang out in coffee shops; I can travel in my state, in my country and abroad, too.  

I can do all these things whenever I want and be fairly certain that I’ll be returning home safely.

I am aware that the color of my skin gives me the freedom to live the way I want to. 

But if tomorrow I were to wake up as a Black man, how would I feel? 

I am sure I’d be panic-stricken, knowing I could easily be singled out in any environment, pulled over, asked to leave somewhere, made to feel uncomfortable, worried about arrest – even death.    

And if I were a parent or grandparent of a young Black man, I’d always be frightened, just waiting for something awful to transpire…tonight, tomorrow, anytime at all.   

In Donald Trump’s world, these fears multiplied. His lack of character combined with his hunger for power further oppressed Blacks and other marginalized populations; he empowered neo-Nazis and White Supremacists so that he could continue to receive their support, giving them an amplified voice which in turn has caused widespread anxiety and dread in and danger to the Black community. 

He’s had no problem with KKK rallies, police brutality, random acts of violence against Blacks, discrimination, racism in every form and so on.     

CNN political commentator Van Jones, a Black man, reacted to Joe Biden’s winning of the presidency with tears that brought my own as well.  

His hope is that as a parent he will be less fearful and that his sons will have an appreciation for the fact that character and being a good person matters.

 

Outdoor Peace

In this COVID-infiltrated world, I could SCREAM sometimes because I cannot make one plan or decision without taking the virus into account.

I continually talk myself through it, saying stuff like “next year at this time we should be in a better place,” “this will be a blip when we think back in 10 years,” or “vigilance now will give us freedom later,” and so on.

All this COVID chaos has led me to become extra grateful for Mother Nature.  

Right now, during Autumn, she is giving so generously beyond measure. Her jaw-dropping beauty in combination with the restorative powers that she provides have done so much for me. 

Next to my grandbabies’ (and Shea Doggy’s) faces, nothing is more lovely to look at than fall foliage.  One tree can display a plethora of bold colors including red, orange, gold, yellow and green, and the blend of hues in one leaf alone is stunning.  

In recent weeks, I’ve been strolling through local neighborhoods, all of which have their own personalities but share a seasonal vibrancy unique to this time of year. I walk around holding up my iPhone in photo-taking mode to see which tree would make the most amazing shot or which overall view would be the best. Luckily, I haven’t tripped over my own feet yet in the quest to capture that perfect picture.

While I’m loving the mix of colors when I look up at the trees, the leaves aren’t so pretty when they’ve fallen to the ground on the front or back of our property, translating to hours and hours of leaf blowing and raking. Although David does the majority of it, in years past I’ve heard myself cursing through my portion of the process; this year, however, I’ve been so grateful for the exercise – especially since I can’t get to Planet Fitness – and for working alongside Mother Nature, in all her glory. 

I wish fall didn’t have to end, because the trees will look so bare and lonely, the way many of us feel.   

But before long, as I am bundled up for wintertime, I will eagerly anticipate the first snowfall and the stillness that always follows, soothing my soul.  

Embracing the seasons for their inherent beauty is an important reminder to me to appreciate the people and parts of my life that I find so special, for as long and heartily as I can. 

A Taste of Morocco

As empty nesters, it’s not every day that we get to share in such a life-changing, wonderful and extended period in one of our kid’s lives, right in our very own home.

We can attribute this opportunity in large part to COVID as well as to other factors but, lucky for us, David’s daughter Lauren, her husband Anas and their Baby May are with us until they visit with Anas’ family in Morocco.    

This time together has been joyous as one would assume with a new baby around and of course seeing our kids develop as adults with their own families is thrilling, too.       

Shortly after they arrived, I was so happy to learn that Lauren wanted to be responsible for some of the meals for all of us. As you know from prior blogs, this food stuff can be an area of anxiety for me and with more mouths to feed, I had been wondering how it would all play out.  

As pure happenstance, I had been lurking in the kitchen on multiple occasions while Lauren was whipping up lunch or dinner. I began to notice a handful of things: how happy she seemed to be when cooking; that she used copious amounts of vegetables, spices and herbs; that Anas was often the food taster; that I never actually saw her refer to a recipe; that I regularly heard Anas’ mom’s name, Nabila, in conversations that centered around Lauren’s preparation of the meal.  

One night, Lauren made a meal in a tajine that was absolutely delicious. A tajine is a type of North African cookware made of clay or ceramic. The bottom is a round, shallow dish used for cooking and serving; the top is shaped into a dome or cone to seal in the flavors.

Loaded with vegetables, she also added chicken to the tajine for three of us, while tending to her pescatarian dad with lentil soup she also made fresh that night.   

When she served dinner on the plate of the tajine, I assumed we’d each take a portion on to our own plates but, after watching them, I saw this wasn’t the case. They dipped their crusty bread into the stew-like blend not only for a heavenly mouthful but to also pull apart the chicken, all of which was shared from the tajine itself. This bread, I soon realized, replaced the need for utensils of any kind.

The very way we devoured it was fun and relaxing, contrary to some meals David and I have that are so quick to eat that 10 minutes in, we are starting to clean up, whereas this tajine meal couldn’t physically be eaten in under 20 or 30 minutes.

When I asked what the specific name of our dinner was, the answer made me more curious: “Tajine of the Road.” Lauren explained that it is the most widely available dish in Morocco, offered not only at most restaurants but also at rest stops and remote restaurants in the mountains or even on the beach. It’s not unusual to see construction workers making it on their lunch breaks using the tajine container, ingredients, spices, and a fire/heat source.   

After feasting like a king and queen for days, one night we asked for a lighter kind of dinner and even suggested omelets. Of course I could just eat less of a bigger or heavier meal but I’ve had no willpower because everything looks and smells so yummy, and frankly I don’t want to miss out on anything. Lauren was quick to suggest Moroccan salads. That sounded perfect.

She went back to chopping huge amounts of vegetables with two or more pots on the stovetop. I was wondering why she was cooking the vegetables for our salads and why so many of her spices and herbs that I’ve seen for a larger presentation were also out, such as the cumin, paprika, garlic/garlic powder, cilantro and parsley (that she keeps frozen), ginger (powdered), coriander, saffron and salt and pepper.  

When it came time to eat, as I eagerly looked for some kind of lettuce or spring mix, she placed two bowls on the table filled with warm concoctions: Taktouka (tomatoes and peppers) and Zaalouk (eggplant) and more bread, stating that in Morocco, salads can be warm or cool. They were fantastic.    

Another delectable foodie experience was made in a cast iron skillet. It was a meatball tomato dish with sunny-side eggs on top called a “Kefta.” She had me with “eggs on top,” as I anticipated a runny yolk that would get all over everything. I scooped up every bite from the pan itself…again, with bread.       

One day, I asked Lauren if Nabila taught her how to make all these foods. Yes, she learned by shadowing Nabila around the kitchen and taking notes as Nabila spoke in both French and Arabic about her mother and grandmother’s recipes that she mastered by heart, with nothing written down to refer to.   

Lauren has been able to keep up with Nabila’s teachings given she had taken a French immersion program years ago and is also becoming familiar with Arabic – and the family talks to one another in multiple languages – but, for the sake of passing traditional Moroccan recipes to May, Lauren has begun taking her own notes.         

Instructions for making these dishes aren’t difficult, she said, but they do require time and patience, as the cuisine is cooked slowly. A typical recipe when broken down is generally about 2/3 ingredients and 1/3 directions.

Since she is still in learning mode, there are hiccups along the way, often due to a lack of specifics. Here’s one conversation told to me by Lauren about her conversation with Nabila, instructing her how to make bread.     

Nabila:  Put flour in a bowl.

Lauren:  How much?

Nabila:  A good amount.

Nabila:  Add water.

Lauren:  How much?

Nabila:  A good amount, little by little, till it’s enough.

Lauren: What temperature should I bake the bread on?

Nabila:  In the middle

Lauren:  For how long?

Nabila:  Till it’s done 

Lauren said sometimes a quick phone call to Nabila helps this process move along.

Food is a real source of pride for women in Morocco, Lauren said, with women spending a good portion of the day between shopping for the food and then preparing it.  

“Here in the US, an accomplished woman balances work and kids; in Morocco, an accomplished woman puts all this food on the table for her family. There is so much love that goes into it.”

David chimed in that since Lauren can’t bring Anas to Morocco [right now], she has to bring Morocco to him.

Again...lucky us.  

 

Deja VIew

My 2^nd road trip to southwest Florida with Andrea, my daughter’s mother-in-law, went off without a hitch. Mostly everything about the 18-20 hour ride itself was on auto pilot from our last trip: a cooler filled with iced waters and egg salad and lots of fruits/vegetables and, much to Andrea’s chagrin, a huge supply of peanut M&Ms. We also kept a bag of masks, sanitizer and gloves accessible on the front passenger side floor.

And once again, we didn’t make bathroom stops to or from, but I don’t know if that makes us an impressive duo or a crazy one. 

Pulling up to the kids’ house around 4:30 pm on our 2^nd day of driving, we ran in quickly – of course to go to the bathroom, but equally as pressing was to see our kids and of course 4-month-old Zoey. 

Proud grandmas who view everything she does as magic, we began our picture-taking spree immediately. We carried our phones from room to room so as not to miss one new and/or endearing second. After all, it had been 3 months since we had seen her, so we had to make up for lost time.

As we moved around the house day after day, I would often misplace my phone and then feel compelled to remind Andrea to send me the images she took, and vice versa. I found myself getting agitated when neither of us was prepared to photograph one of Zoey’s fancy new moves. It reminded me of how a girlfriend of mine felt cheated when she walked 10,000 steps but had forgotten to wear her Fitbit and missed out on the congratulatory vibration of the device for reaching that milestone.

One night after dinner, the 5 of us went on a walk together: Allison, Dave, Zoey, Andrea and me. Dave created a seat in his arms to hold Zoey facing outward, and she was wearing super cool sunglasses that Andrea had bought for her that matched Dave’s. 

Halfway through, Andrea said she wished she had brought her phone to take photos of us all together on the walk. I felt disappointed that I too hadn't taken mine and that the kids hadn't brought theirs either.      

“You don’t need to take a picture. Just enjoy the moment,” said Dave, sensing our disappointment.

H U H?

I had to let that sink in. I considered this thinking before, when I had taken my then-2 year-old granddaughter Eliana to a local gym to play on my babysitting Tuesdays. I’d be so busy taking one photo after the next that I couldn’t assist her as I wanted or even relish in her actions or reactions. It didn’t stop me, though, from joining so many others doing the same thing.

On this walk, however, I appreciated the idea of watching and enjoying without feeling the responsibility of  photographing everything Zoey did or videotaping her as she “talked” up a storm.   

There’s no doubt that trying to capture memories interferes with living in the moment, especially when I'm thinking about how to photograph a person or scene. Then by moving around to find the best vantage point, I've potentially become a distraction myself and run the risk of changing the scene, thus ruining the opportunity to get a good shot altogether anyway.

It becomes even more problematic when I look at the picture I just took and start assessing whether it’s acceptable or if I should try from another angle or for a better smile and if I want to add sequential pictures and so on. Before long, I find my energy being sucked up by the quality of the picture instead of the beauty of the current situation.       

While a good photo in my iPhone would always be nice to have as well as to show and send to others, once I relaxed without the phone in my hand as we continued on our walk, I was able to revel in the joy of my daughter’s family and the experiences we were all sharing.

Today was Eliana’s 3^rd birthday party and guess how many pictures I took? Only 6!  

The rest of the time, I just watched and smiled. No better way to spend an afternoon!

Tears

These are emotional times. Lately I feel like I am either laughing or crying at the drop of a hat, and yes – in case people are wondering – I’ve been through menopause. 

There are far too many feelings to get into – and many of us are probably experiencing a similar reality – but suffice it to say that on the one end there’s the infinite joy of grandchildren and on the other is all the matter that darkens up the sky.

Every now and then, extra tears creep in, surprising even myself at how close to the surface they must be to roll down my face when they don’t seem warranted.  

Friday’s tears caught me off guard and were kind of embarrassing, especially when David turned to me and asked in an incredulous tone, “Are you crying?”

We were sitting side-by-side watching the Italian Open Tennis Championship in Rome, and he could hear me sniffing.

I’m sure to him there would be no reason to be emotional, especially because I wasn’t attached to either of the two players like I’ve been to Naomi Osaka, who opted out of this tournament with a nagging hamstring injury. 

The match on at the time was between Daria Kasatkina and Victoria “Vika” Azarenka.

This was the third-round match for them and, unlike the U.S. Open on a hard court, this was on clay.  They had just played the first set of two or three (best of three) and were engaged in a very close battle – the score was 6-6 – and they were in the midst of the tiebreak. 

Vika had been on a hot streak; she had made an awe-inspiring comeback after years of missed tournaments due to a custody battle with her ex-boyfriend over their son, an issue that I mentioned in last week’s blog post called Game, Set, Match.

I wasn’t familiar with Daria before that match, but David told me that she had been moving up the rankings several years ago but then leveled off; recently, she upped her game but then was injured on the court and had to take a hiatus.

So here the two women were during the tiebreak, when Daria slid toward a ball that dropped right over the net, her right ankle turned in, and she rolled over it. She fell to the ground and laid there – not moving – and clearly in pain.

Within seconds, Vika rushed to her opponent with an ice bag to keep Daria’s ankle from swelling, took off Daria’s shoe to place the ice on her ankle and wiped the clay off her back and legs…just like a mom would do with her daughter.

Vika and the sports trainer helped to get Daria off the court and to her seat. Once the trainer assessed the situation, Daria had to retire from the match. 

For a couple of minutes more, viewers could see Vika bending down to the same height as Daria on her chair, and the two women were face-to-face sharing a private moment (overheard by the courtside microphone). When Vika stood up, she kissed Daria on her head.

As Vika was getting ready to walk away, Daria reached out for her hand and then said something to Vika, which was later shared by media outlets. 

Daria told Vika that her (Vika’s) “game in America inspired me,” referring to the recently completed U.S. Open.

Then Vika said to Daria, “Just keep going. Don’t ever think it’s over. You can always try harder. Just do the best out of the situation.”

This is great advice that can be applied to almost anything, given by a tennis champion and, equally as important, a mom.

Seeing Vika mother her opponent brought me to tears. I don’t know if it’s because Daria is only 23 years old, and when I saw her age, I thought to myself She could be my daughter. I then felt so sad knowing how heartbroken she must have felt when she realized she couldn’t continue to play.      

Then – kind of unnervingly – I realized that Vika at 31-years-old could also be my daughter and, in that case, I was so very proud of her. Not only did she demonstrate admirable sportsmanship but to witness her motherly instincts coupled with enormous compassion was incredibly touching.     

Looking at all that transpired and the exchange between the two was more riveting than the set itself. It would’ve been so easy – and expected – for Vika to attend to Daria briefly, wish her well and then within a minute or two bask in her own glory of winning the match (albeit by default) and move on to the next round.

I’m not really sure what’s causing my emotions to be on high alert. Perhaps having three grandchildren born within 3.5 months during COVID has done it to me. Perhaps because I feel more love and connection than ever before. Perhaps because there’s a scary and divisive virus going around with no end in sight. Perhaps because the election is right around the corner. Perhaps because I have way too much time to reflect on things. 

On to the French Open.

Game, Set, Match

I wish I were a sports fan.

David watched a football game earlier today and boy was he pumped. As usual he spent a lot of his time texting like-minded souls. Others tuned in with friends or family – outside or virtually – and nibbled on lots of fun appetizer-type snacks while never taking their eyes off the screen. If they witnessed a historic game of any kind, they will talk about it forever. I know I’m missing out.     

I’ve tried. I just don’t appreciate seeing grown men run around chasing a ball or a puck and, as added entertainment for the viewer, potentially fighting over it. 

If invited to join a game day gathering, I would consider it so that I’m not seen as antisocial, but I’d rather do almost anything else. Would I rather…try on a bathing suit? Well…No. I’d choose the event. How about clean out the bottom shelf of my linen closet?  I could pick this. Go out for ice cream? Definitely.        

Make the athletes women, however, playing a sport that demonstrates individual skill and mental fortitude, throw in a story or two about overcoming a personal and/or professional struggle, tell the tale of two siblings or rivals, or demonstrate how a player uses her position in the limelight to take a stand (that I agree with), and I’m all in.

For the past 2 weeks, I was spellbound by the Women’s U.S. Open Tennis Championship. David and I watched all the women’s singles matches and some of the men’s. The fact that No. 1 ranked Novak Djokovic was thrown out in the quarter finals because he got angry and hit a ball that injured a line judge was just another reminder to me that if this sport was male dominated, I wouldn’t be interested.  

The women participating from the get-go were awesome. In the mix was a variety of individuals who made me proud:  9 moms, 1 social activist, 1 woman making a comeback, 1 underdog, 1 tennis icon, and lots more.  

The final was between Naomi Osaka, a mixed-race 22-year-old – her mom is Japanese and her dad is Haitian – and Victoria Azarenka, a 31-year-old Belarusian mom with a 3-year-old son, Leo.

I was rooting for Osaka; David was rooting for Azarenka.

He was surprised that I wasn’t cheering for a mom who had been stuck in a custody battle with her ex-boyfriend and therefore couldn’t participate in many tournaments over a few-year period because she wasn’t legally allowed to leave the country with her son.

While I felt badly for Azarenka, she was able to make up for lost time. She had been penalized unfairly – no doubt about it – but I was so inspired by Osaka and felt great pride that such a young woman would stand alone in the tennis world as a minority herself and speak out about racism and police brutality.

She brought to the U.S. Open 7 masks, each one bearing the name of one of the Black victims of racial violence, hoping to raise awareness and “to make people start talking.” She honored Breonna Taylor, Elijah McClain, Ahmaud Arbery, Trayvon Martin, George Floyd, Philando Castile and Tamir Rice.

She also spoke about the battle she often encounters with her inner self about maintaining a positive attitude and not getting caught up in bad moments when things start to go against her on the court.

When she won the championship, Osaka thanked runner-up Azarenka for being an inspiration ever since she (Osaka) was a little girl and for teaching her so much along the way. 

Osaka then said what I’d be thinking but probably wouldn’t have verbalized – although maybe 40 years ago, I would have – and that is, “I don’t want to play you in any more finals. I really didn’t enjoy that…it was a really tough match for me.”

David, on the other hand, supported Azarenka’s comeback and the unwavering confidence she demonstrated in herself. She shared her belief that if she’s in the match, she can win the match. I’m sure that having followed her over the last decade influenced his interest in seeing her become the winner.

She was asked by reporters what she felt about moms being so prominent at the U.S. Open. 

“That’s not the only thing that we are...We are also women who have dreams and goals and passions.”

All these women are why I love tennis.