Category: Our Stories

Our stories reflecting personal growth, lessons learned and blessings along the way

The Ugliest Pie Ever!

Toni’s 11 year old daughter wowed us with a simple, healthful creation of  ripe bananas seared in coconut oil, caramelized with added honey and finished with cinnamon and nutmeg. Yummy! I decided right then and there to make a banana pie for Christmas day dessert.  I grew up eating my Grandma’s banana pie: think apple pie, but with firm, ripe bananas. Ripe bananas are sliced, layered in a a pie crust lined pie dish, sprinkled with brown sugar, vanilla extract, cinnamon and nutmeg, sealed with a cover of crust and baked until golden brown. Enjoy this bubbling, fragrant pie – warm, with a scoop or three of vanilla or coconut ice cream.  You’re welcome.

But let me get back to me and my desire for banana pie. I decided to make my pie from scratch.  You see, I am not really a dessert person, but I have a weakness for anything in pastry: think patty, meat pie, fruit tart, fruit pie…ahmagawd… I felt that a bought pie crust would not give me that buttery, flaky finish that I was craving. So mi ah go dweet miself!!! I called Mummy in Grenada, got confirmation of the methodology that her mother used and felt ready to proceed. But here’s the rub (pun intended): pastry making is a precise science.  Yes, a science. Proportions have to be precise. Everything has to be cold. And pastry has to be handled deftly, with a light touch. Now please note: I don’t possess a kitchen scale. I consider myself to be a reasonably good cook. But I eyeball every single thing. I stir. I taste. I compensate and adjust. Apparently you don’t get this leeway with pastry.

I’ve had acceptable outcomes with pastry in the past though, so I approached this pie making task with a small measure of confidence.  So while the ham was baking Christmas eve night, I got busy with my pie crust. See it here now…remember I craved a buttery finish? I think I added too much butter in relation to the flour. Warning bells went off when that breadcrumb finish that I expected after combining the butter and flour was more like a sticky mass. Have mercy. Panic levels rising, I hastily added more flour. Woi mi bathy! I managed eventually to get everything into a a semi solid ball. I was almost in tears by this time as I replayed the amount of (man) handling that I had inflicted on my pastry mixture to get it to this stage.

I sighed. I cussed. I did everything except what I should have done at this stage: turn the darned thing into dumpling mix and fry up dem suckers to go with the ackee and saltfish that Little Master was going to prepare later that evening. But no. I am a hero and I was going to have banana pie made from scratch. So I took that “pastry” ball and wrapped it up in saran wrap and placed in the fridge. I was sure that in the morning, it would be firm enough to roll out and make my pie.

So at the appointed time Christmas day, kitchen smelling like heaven with all the other savouries being baked, simmered and seared, I trepidaciously removed my pie crust ball from the fridge. It was hard as rock. You see, all that butter had behaved like butter does in the fridge: it got hard. I dropped the ball with a thud on the kitchen counter. My shoulders dropped.

“Rachael.”

“Yes Mummy?“

“Rachael! Please come here.” I was standing as still as a statue, head bowed, shoulders drooping.

She runs into the kitchen.

“What ,Mummy? What happen? What’s wrong?”

“Rachael. Feel this.”

I rolled the ball of pastry along the counter to her. She touched it. She held it in her hand and looked at me with eyes and mouth wide open.

“OMG! What you gonna do? Maybe you can soften it up in the microwave.“

The microwave, People. Pastry. My breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps. I struggled to hold back the tears.

I waved her away. By this time she is doubled over with laughter asking me the same damned question repeatedly: “What you going to do?“

KMT. I am going to make and eat banana pie. Hook or crook. We had other dessert options you know: Christmas cake, red velvet cup cakes and ice cream. But. I.  Wanted. Banana. Pie. Made. From. Scratch. Awoe.

I gave the cannon ball 10 minutes to chill out (ha!) and then I squared my shoulders and went to work. I pressed out that sucker. I added flour. I rolled it like I was laying asphalt. I managed to line the pie dish. I gloated: HA! GOTCHA!  I sliced, I layered, I sugared and sprinkled. Yes, indeed… I was halfway there.  Grandma’s method calls for complete covering of the pie with pastry, small vents snipped to allow steam to escape. Could I get a uniform, continuous sheet of pastry to do this? After rolling and recombining and rolling again 3 times (can someone say dumpling?) I decided to make a lattice top. Lemme stop here. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Here’s the finished product: the Ugliest Pie Ever.

The Ugliest Pie Ever

Needless to say, when dessert time rolled around, I didn’t present this finished product.  My kids were like: “Don’t worry, Mummy…I’m sure it’s delicious.” I sliced up that sucker in hiding, plated and presented with flourish. Hallelujah!!! It was DELICIOUS!  The crust was flaky and buttery. The filling was perfect. I had only this pie with a little ice cream for my own dessert. I think the others agreed with my delicious verdict too:

What was left of the Ugliest Pie ever at the end of Christmas Day

All in all, Christmas day dinner was a success. I felt more confident dealing with the entrees and had no issue whatsoever presenting:

Christmas Dinner

So…where do I go from here?

Option 1: buy the damned pie crust next time.

Option 2: Buy a kitchen scale, look up some tutorial videos on YouTube and become a pie making champion. I hate losing, and I hate the idea that anything in the kitchen if off limits to me.

Option 3: Outsource the entire pie making activity. Toni’s daughter or my niece Ileanna are one hundred miles ahead of me in this department.

I’ll put this whole sordid affair out of my mind for at least three months then… well…we’ll see…

My Fondest Christmas Memories: A letter to my Family

Happy Christmas Family!
As I was driving home from work earlier this week, the hosts on the radio talk show that I was tuned in to, started reminiscing on their fondest Christmas memories. That started me thinking…what are my own fondest Christmas memories?  I smiled as I recalled them and thought that it would be nice to share with the Circle of Truth and my own children. 
So I’ve just dressed the ham and popped it back into the oven. Rachael and I have done a callaloo quiche and made red velvet cupcakes, Nicholas and I cooked ackee and saltfish, Dave seasoned a roaster and jerked a chicken for Christmas Eve snacking, and I’ve cut up and seasoned some sirloin for beef and pineapples tomorrow.  So while I wait for everything to cool before I close the kitchen for the night, I figured that this would make a great time to write.
When I think of Christmas, my absolutely fondest memory is of Christmas morning service at Holy Innocents church in La Digue, Grenada. We went a few times I think…as visitors to the island at first, and later when we lived there.  Christmas mornings were damp and cool and dark. That Grenada smell, that La Digue smell…cocoa, nutmeg, wet grass, served as the back drop for this Christmas morning experience.  We got hot cocoa and off we went to this beautiful chapel with the outstanding acoustics. The chapel had a real bell that was rung. Greetings were friendly and familial, offered in hushed tones, so as not to disturb the peace of Christmas morning.  We sang traditional carols and recited the liturgy. There was something majestic yet comforting about the rituals in this Church of England, encouraging reflection and worship. I loved everything about Christmas morning at Holy Innocents in Grenada.
Right alongside my fond memories of Christmas morning in that old chapel in Grenada are my memories of the annual Jamaica Defence Force carol services. The open air carol service in Up Park Camp, Jamaica, held on the polo field, under a canopy of light bulbs strung end to end across the field marked the beginning of Christmas for us. The military band transformed those old standards into anthems and we sang along lustily. Soldiers, some nervous as hell, did the readings. We laughed at the errors they made, and squirmed anxiously awaiting the grand climax at the end: the singing of “Silent Night” when all the lights went out leaving only lit candles and the stars in the heavens as our light. It was so beautiful. It was so regal. I really felt lucky and privileged to be there. And the moment the final benediction was offered,  we children scrambled to collect programs left behind. The winner was the one who collected the most programs. Simple fun, moments that became part of the kaleidoscope of my own life’s experiences.
The best gift I’ve ever received was that Christmas when we got scooters. “We” consisted of Jaimie, Abby and me. Joe, Anna and Sam weren’t born yet.  I had no idea that we were going to get them. I remember jumping on that thing in my red and white long nightie Christmas morning, hair flying behind me as I scooted by.  What joy! I can’t remember ever receiving another gift that matched that one in my opinion (except for a Princess Leia doll that Auntie Maggie gave me…I loved that doll for many, many years.)
Christmas eatings were always a huge production. I suppose coming from such a huge family meant that this was inevitable. Recollection of the details are hazy.  We always had ham, rice and peas and a whole heap more dishes. We drank sorrel. We shelled gungu peas from Daddy’s garden until our fingers were black.  We cleaned sorrel again from Daddy’s garden, our poor little hands prickly for hours after with the fine hairs that came off the sorrel flowers. The shelling and cleaning were done in the days leading up to Christmas in a circle characterized by a whole heap of talking and joking, sometimes while watching TV.
    
Grandma baked her special fruit cakes. Fruits were soaked for weeks prior.  On baking day she solemnly took down the yabba. We children were pressed into creaming butter and sugar. If I close my eyes now I can bring to mind the smells of her baking: the fruits, the rose water, the spices… I am not a fruit cake/Christmas cake fan, but Grandma’s cake… ah boi…
And there was Sgt. Riley’s Christmas cake, which sat in all its glory on the sideboard, begging to be cut every time we walked past. This Christmas cake, encased in Riley’s special royal icing, was eaten over the course of weeks from December to January. It was the never ending cake.
I remember the crowds. Yes, crowds.  Even as a child, I found dealing with my large family stressful. Seriously. I think this is why I can’t remember Christmas dinner details. The thought of the work associated with staging this family dinner brought on instant fatigue and an overwhelming desire to just lock myself in my room until it was all over.  And you know that the guest list was never confined to just family.  Mummy and Daddy always had an extended guest list: officers under daddy’s command, the unattached and less fortunate people from the church.  Our parents set an excellent example of extending one’s self, one that, to be truthful, I haven’t really emulated. I remain firmly in my own comfort zone of small gatherings at Christmas, unwilling to take on the stress of hosting huge affaires. I’ll do better, guys…maybe J 
I took a break just before the paragraph above to sample the ham. We all did! Delicious as expected. I’m back. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast: callaloo quiche, mushroom frittata, ham, ackee and saltfish, waffles, coffee and orange juice.  Then we’ll have dinner.  Mrs. Mac, Dianne and JJ, and my former colleague and friend Claude will round out the guest list. We’ll have ham, roasted chicken, bread and bacon stuffing, sweet n sour beef, curried shrimp, roasted veggies, salad, candied sweet potatoes, green gungu rice n peas, roasted beet and corn salad.  It will be fun.  The children will open their gifts. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get a gift too! Sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t done such a good job at teaching my children to extend themselves at Christmas.  I hope that they have fond memories of Christmas and create traditions of their own too.
Well, it’s almost midnight. Off to lock up the kitchen and put away stuff. Happy Christmas, Guys.  I love you all. 

Kelly

Happiness at Work: Why does it even matter?

Last night I saw a RT by #OOMF on Twitter: “Being Happy at Work Matters.”  To be honest, had it not been retweeted by this person, I’d have skipped straight past it. But his past recommendations and RTs have been pretty spot on and relevant, on so I clicked on the link. This HBR article started out immediately debunking the common view that how you feel and the quality of your relationships at work don’t really matter.  Many of us think we can safely separate how we feel about what we do and who we do it with at work and our performance.
Guilty as charged. I once had a colleague that I was not fond of, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same way. We managed to handle our respective portfolios despite the growing acrimony and dare I say malice that was growing between us. But one day things came to a pretty pass. I erupted in a meeting, decrying the unit that he was assigned to and what I perceived to be their approach to the mission at hand, and he rose to my very vehement and aggressive challenge and pushed back in a most admirable manner. I punched back hard…damned hard… and a few days later he called me and asked if we could talk. I had a feeling that this was going to get all touchy-feely but I pretended that we were going to discuss some work related issue and agreed very breezily. So we met and he said that he wanted our relationship to improve. I assumed the alpha dog position and looked at him with great incredulity and asked him why in hell he thought that was of any importance. I don’t think that was the response he expected or wanted. You see, I had zero desire to be his friend. I felt very justified in taking this stance. This individual had been more than rude in the past and to my mind, too cursory in his handling of matters of strategic importance. He had effectively pissed off several members of my own team, and I had very good reason to believe that he enjoyed this sterling reputation across the wider organisation.  I figured that how we felt about each other could at best lubricate our interactions and up the pleasure quotient, but I strongly believed that I could relate to him and get the job done without having to like him. And I told him as much. The discussion ended the way it started, two colleagues no closer to smiling and getting along.  
So when this article claimed that the quality of your output at work is directly linked to your happiness and the quality of your relationships at work, and that neuroscience supports this claim, I sat up a little straighter. This wasn’t mere drippy feel good opinions being pushed at us, here was some science challenging my cosy, self-contained world.  There are, the article claimed, clear neurological links between feelings and thoughts and actions.  Apparently, in the face of strong negative emotions (think anger, distrust, resentment) our ability to process information decreases, creativity declines and decision making is compromised! Anger and frustration effectively shut down the thinking part of us and we cope by doing this: we mentally check out, or as the experts say, we disengage. 
So despite how well we think we are coping in a sub optimal work environment, we really are not! A sub-optimal work environment could be one where you feel that you don’t get enough support from above, where you feel that your efforts are not appreciated, where you perceive that others doing less than you are progressing while you remain stagnant, where your evaluations are unfair, where your compensation does not match the value you bring to the organisation, where fear drives decision making, where form trumps substance, where you are underutilized, where you are over-worked, and so on and so forth. You think you are delivering, but you really are not being all that you can be due to compromised cognitive processing and shut off valves that you unconsciously activate in an effort to  protect your core.
So if this is the situation, what is the remedy? The article proposed that a happy, engaged workforce results when there is a meaningful vision of the future, a sense of purpose and great relationships prevail. Daniel Pink too maintains that stakeholder engagement results from three things: autonomy, mastery and a sense of purpose. Sure, at the individual level, you can accept responsibility for building great relationships. But that is only one aspect of happiness at work.
Most of us feel as if we can’t affect the vision of the future or inbue a sense of purpose to what we do. We feel as if it is the role of leadership to create that environment where we can thrive. And that indeed is so! I could never pretend that it is the role of effective leadership to ensure that team members feel connected to a bigger vision, that they have the freedom to create and produce and that they are given the opportunity to develop and to be all that they can be. So what happens when leadership is found wanting? Are we destined for unhappiness at work and therefore sub-par performance?
I am very, very unwilling to allow my own performance to depend on the actions of someone else. So I challenged myself to think of how I, not at the top, but not at the bottom, could create more happiness and feelings of good will at work such that my brain would work properly, my creativity would be given free reign, and my decision would be clear, straightforward and efficient.  Here’s what I’ve come up with:
Be the Leader you wish you had… trite but worth considering. If you are actively seeking to influence your own orbit, you will likely build solid relationships across, down and up, and this working towards a better future will likely fill you with positive feelings and energy.
       
Create your own Vision.  Find something:  a phrase, a direction, a goal from the grand Organisational mission and distill it down to a bite sized vision directly applicable to your role and make it the driver of your actions and decisions. Even when there is obvious and blatant misalignment between what you see around you and the stated organizational goals, you can still carve out relevance to your situation and make it work for you.
In an unhappy work environment, we unconsciously cope by disengaging and shutting down.  Perspective, though, allows us to deal more reasonably with perceived disappointment and disillusionment. We in fact alter perspective when doing 1 & 2 above. But I think we can also shift our perspective from what we consider to be a hopeless, dysfunctional work environment by compensating though building interests and purpose and happy experiences outside of the work environment. Think volunteerism, hobbies, activities that use your best talents and so on.
I wonder about how happiness at work affects men and how it affects women. My own informal recollection is that I know more men than women that have walked out of jobs because they were unhappy with the job. Women seem to hold on and persevere despite being less than satisfied with the work environment. Many years ago my own mother proffered the view that men define themselves though their jobs, so-called “job satisfaction” being of paramount importance in their personal matrix. I don’t know… worth thinking about. 
I can’t say that in my 20 year career that I have ever worked in a single context that I would describe as optimal. I’m not even looking for perfect, but I am looking for a context where I learn, where I am inspired, where I am valued and compensated accordingly, where I can’t wait for tomorrow to come. But throughout these 20 years I have very deliberately done things outside of these sub-optimal contexts that paid my bills, preparing for the future and as a way to cope. I’ve put myself in the role of perpetual learner (I’m happiest when I’m learning) and ensured that I have constantly retooled and gotten the certification to prove it. I’ve taken up different hobbies along the way (writing, cooking, and I’m about to take up photography). I’ve had the honour of building relationships with a few select switched-on colleagues and mentors who to this day enrich my professional activities with their sage practical advice and their willing ear.

I do have my periods of abject disenchantment, but I try to remain hopeful, and I especially compensate in the ways I described just now.  This is now even more important given the link between happiness and effectiveness. I still hope to find that work environment that ticks the boxes of compelling, clear vision and purpose, where functional, good relationships at work predominate. I’m pretty sure I have a part to play in creating this environment.

This is harder than I thought it could ever be.

This is harder than I thought it could ever be.

People are who they are, and try as you might, you can’t get into their heads and make them act the way you want them to act.

When “people” is your child, desire becomes urgency.

You oscillate between “how did I get this so wrong” and “how did this person come from me.”

I see way more than she possibly can…I’ve been here longer. I’ve been here before.

I want to prevent her from wasting time, from making missteps.

I want her to be happy.

I also see what she doesn’t seem to see…in herself.

I see her tying herself into knots, needlessly.

I see her spinning around and around and around in her head, beating herself, doubting herself.

What role did I play in getting her to this stage.

I want to jump in and fix it, unravel the knots, turn her around and say: “Go this way. This is the best way.”

I wish there was a manual that outlined steps and outcomes. I’d follow the prescription to a tee just to avoid this angst, this turmoil, this pain, this anger, this sadness.

How do you know when to be tough and when to be nurturing? Too tough can result in snapping. In breaking.

Too much coddling and the seedling will never withstand the conditions in the open field.

I simply don’t know.

Have I caused irreparable damage?

Have I inspired or depressed?

Have I destroyed rather than created?

This is harder than I thought it could ever be.

Being effective is more important than being right!

My very first blog post, January 2012 was entitled: “Being Right Isn’t Enough”. The JLP had just lost the general elections to the PNP.  I spoke about what I deemed to be the JLP’s failure to engage the electorate, the electorate choosing instead to respond positively to declarations of love and validation from Mama P, and the promise of great things ahead in the form of JEEP. In that blog post, I opined: 
“The space to make decisions after thorough analysis simply does not exist in Jamaica’s context of poverty, and the JLP ignored, to their downfall, the Jamaican psyche. Thus, they did not frame their communications appropriately. They did not work the communities effectively. Instead of being focused only on what was “right” in terms of managing the economy, they should have placed equal focus on getting buy-in from the Jamaicans who put them there to serve.”
The tension between being right and being effective…
I started thinking about this last evening after a conversation with a friend of mine. We were going on and on about a favourite topic of ours: “good” leadership and the lack thereof…
“You’re Lucky that I’m Bright!”
About a decade ago, I was a newcomer to the management team of Organisation X. I had come to them by way of an acquisition, and to further complexify things, we were once fierce rivals in the space that we operated in. I also happened to be young and female, a minority in the demographic of the management team at the time. So we started our relationship with a thin veneer of civility overlaying layers of tension. One management meeting in particular stands out in my mind.  
The then sales manager, reporting on a project we were working on, was waxing eloquent about how he had “properly schooled me as to how things should have been done” and that he had taken the time to “show me the nitty gritty of things.” I simply lost it. I turned my full body towards him, raised my voice and cut him off mid-sentence: “You did what? All of you in here are lucky that I am bright!”. I am lucky that the general manager didn’t fire me then and there. Yes, I had been handling my portfolio efficiently and yes, I had been contributing positively to the good fortunes of my new employers. And yes, perhaps I am bright, whatever that means. But my outburst did absolutely nothing to help the relationship among us managers. 
Tensions spilled out of our little circle and staff knew that management was divided. My boss hauled me to the CEO, I resented him, he resented me and the next few years were stormy. I continued to be right in a lot of instances going forward, but I know I was not as effective as I could have been. We wasted a lot of time tiptoeing around each other, being suspicious and guarding ourselves. I sometimes think about how much more we could have accomplished had I focused more on building good, professional relationships that would have facilitated more productive brainstorming, problem solving and strategy formation. 
Do you have the right support?
Eventually I was promoted out of that particular organisation to a senior position within that group of companies. By this time, I had mended fences with my former colleagues in Organisation X, and to this day, I remain good friends with them even though I have since left that group of companies.
Let’s go back to that promotion, though. The group of companies had problems. They had spent resources that they scarcely had to contract a world renown management consultancy company. Let’s refer to them as “M”.  I am chuckling now as I remember my audacity so many years ago. M had recommended a course of action aimed at lifting the group out of the slump that it was in. In my new position, I was expected to implement M’s recommendations. There was a problem though: I disagreed with M. Ha! I didn’t just disagree though, I had a plan of my own that I was sure was the way to proceed. So I told them I wouldn’t accept the position unless I had the latitude to implement my own plan.
To their credit, I was given permission. I was sure I was right. I even had the backing of SOME members of the executive management team of which I was now a part. Here’s where I went wrong: I spent hours and hours and consulted experts and more experts and formulated what I think of to this day as The Right Plan. I found and allocated resources, including having some of the best human capital at my disposal. BUT I didn’t get my boss fully on board. He was skeptical (I suspect that he was under tremendous pressure from his board, and he didn’t have a single original thought as to how to fix our issues. He was just happy to have M thrust a recipe at him, his only duty being to implement) and took the approach of “let me see what you can do” instead of “let’s do this, Kelly”.
In two years, we achieved some major successes with my plan: we implemented a warehouse management system which imposed never before seen order and efficiencies, cut labour costs, increased visibility across the network and drastically reduced stock variances. The change that the board wanted did not come fast enough apparently though, and half of that executive management team was eventually “made redundant”, including yours truly. I think it was easy for my CEO to cut me. You see, in all my “rightness” I never bothered to spend the time or energy to get him on board, and fully supportive of my plan. Had I focused on being as effective as I was right, I would have ensured that I was aware of the balance of power. 

In the literature, they refer to this as “force field analysis”.  It’s simply a common sense approach to implementing change. The leader has to know where support is, where it is lacking, and then implement measures to deal with those obstacles to change. 
An effective change leader would know that failure was certain without the backative of the most powerful member of the team, the CEO.  
So a decade later, I know for sure that I am older. I hope I am wiser. I remain passionate, opinionated and a seeker of truth. 
I know I am right! 🙂
What I do know for sure, is that no matter how right I am, if I don’t implement properly, if I don’t get all stakeholders on board, if I don’t engage my team, if I am not effective, my rightness means very little.

WHY?

I had been following the tweets of #oomf (I shall call her “R”)for a few weeks. I knew nothing about her except what I gleaned from Twitter. We’d occasionally even trade tweets. Here’s what I gathered about her: she had lupus. She had been spending a lot of time in hospitals of late. R had moved from hospital to hospital. Her condition had deteriorated over the past couple of weeks. She seemed to be in pain, all over pain. She couldn’t keep any food or drink down. At first, she was able to tolerate watermelon. Eventually, not even that. Her tweets progressed from mere notifications of her current state, to what felt like resignation to a horrible existence, the absence of hope, the sound of a very weary and battered soul, and in the instances where there was shard of strength, desperate cries for help.

Many of her own followers offered words of encouragement and in some cases tangible help in the form of visits, gifts of juice and doctor recommendations. For my part, I may have reached out in a single tweet trying to commiserate. She was always in my thoughts, and I would check her timeline to catch up her latest news. I prayed for her. Pain can be so debilitating, robbing the victim of his humanity, stripping away composure and erasing hope. As for her nausea…ugh! I had morning (noon and night) sickness during my two pregnancies which started at Day 1 and continued right up to the moment in the delivery room when I pushed my babies out. It. Was. Awful. Enough said. In my case I knew why I was sick. I also knew that it would end, and I knew when it would end. In R’s case, no one could tell her the reason, and nothing was helping. She was being stripped down day by day, dollar by dollar. Yesterday, very early, a lone tweet from her pierced my morning: “Anyone?” Oh God. I scrolled to the tweet before this one, and realised that in the dark just before dawn, R had thrown out a request to TwitterLand for advice as to where she could get a nurse’s aid. Not many people are actively tweeting at that time of the morning and her cry for help went unheeded. I got out of bed and moved to the laptop. I was on a mission. I DMed her and told her that I may be able to assist with a referral. Several FB inbox messages (I don’t have to provide the explanatory link to what FB inbox is, right?) to someone I was sure could help and several DMs to R later, I had linked her with her possible solution. But I was left with one question as I pondered the situation: Why?

I thought about a FB Note (I hope you know what that is too…if you don’t, please stop reading and ask your teen to tell you what a FB note is) I had written November 2009:

Why Me? Why her? Why now?

November 1, 2009 at 1:12pm

It’s always gratifying to see your children socialising and being participatory. This morning my Firstborn sang with her school Glee Club at a mass of remembrance for Pia. For those who do not know, Pia would have been 19 today, and it exactly 1 year since she died. Pia was accidentally shot by her father as he ran out towards Pia and her mother who were being held up by gunmen outside their Kingston suburban home. He slipped and fell in the melee and the gun went off, the single bullet piercing Pia’s stomach. Pia was the school’s head girl and an active Roman Catholic. As I observed her family supporting each other this morning, and the love and support of the Church community, I reflected on the whole notion of suffering.
Some of us suffer because of poor choices that we make. Others of us suffer and there is no rational answer to the question: “why?” Why did that one bullet hit and kill Pia, what anguish assails her father, why does one person get cancer and not another, why does one person get HIV infected and others engaging in risky sex escape, why, why, why? What about those of us who have misery beset us because of our own poor choices? Do we have a right to hope for mercy and redemption? 

It was a very moving service that prompted these musings. I certainly did not leave with the answers, only a feeling of gratitude for the blessings that are still there in the middle of sadness, loss, regret and despair….a certain knowledge that His ways are not our ways, and that redemption is available and possible for all. 

It somehow seems easier for us to reconcile consequences to actions. If I put my hand in the fire, I will get burnt. Inevitable. Painful, but expected. And we roll with those punches. But if I am walking past the stove and it somehow explodes, burning that same hand, I now contend with the same pain and then some, asking WHY… why did this happen to me? After all, I didn’t get burned through any fault of my own.  In fact, some of us, having made poor choices and even wrong choices, welcome the fall out as a sort of penance for our wrong doing.

Life, though, exists and manifests with inter-relationships that we have no control over. Here’s a simple illustration: two of us are sitting perhaps 2 feet apart at the side of a pond. The fool to my left decides to pick up a large stone and throw it with force into the pond. His decision, his action. So he throws it in and there’s a huge splash. I’m pretty sure he expected that he would get splashed. And sure enough, he gets splashed. Here’s the problem though: I’m only 2 feet away, so I too get splashed, my only part in this mess being my proximity to him. The stone that he pelted into the water, startled the King Fisher about to get his morning meal in the form of a hapless fish swimming merrily in said pond. The fish escapes death, the bird goes hungry. Ripples are created and radiate outwards all the way to the other end of the pond. One single action by one person has affected, in one way or another, several other situations and persons.

So we ask why. My wise Aunt Jeannie (the same person who shared laughingly while shaking her head I as I shared with her some of the settling in pains of our first year of marriage: “Men are simple you know, Kelly…accept that and it makes it easier to deal with them…”) once replied to one of my “why?” moments with this counter: “WHY NOT?”

This is life: inter-connectedness that we will never understand or even know about… actions and consequences, some our own, many having nothing to do with us.

Last week, the parents of a student at Little Master’s school were murdered. My godson sits beside that student and his mom, my friend G, called me to talk about it. “How do you think we should deal with this situation, Kelly?” she asked. We agreed that acknowledging what had happened would probably be best, without going into the gory details, and that providing a safe space for the children to ask questions and express their feelings would be useful too. G told me that my godson had challenged her recently: “If God is supposed to take care of us, why do bad things happen? Does it mean that God is NOT taking care of us properly?” That “WHY?” again… I was naturally curious as to her response to my obviously thinking and intelligent godson. Here’s what this wise mummy replied:

“God created all things and allows situations to happen (big fish eat fish). Humans are different from the rest of God’s creations as we can think and reason at a higher level. Our job, as His people, is to do the right things in our lives.“

I can’t answer every single “why?” that crops up as I make my way in life. My faith allows me to reach out and ask for and accept grace when I am faced with the consequences of my own actions. That same faith challenges me to reach out and ask for grace to deal with circumstances that are created without my participation. I don’t believe that my life is a series of random events. I try daily to embrace My Story. There are lessons I’ve learned. There is a God that I’ve come to know. I believe that I have grown as a person, and I think that I have been able to journey with people though their own story, sharing strength and insight that I gained along the way through my own experiences. I believe that even though I may not be able to answer “why?” today, there may come a day when I possibly can. I believe that every single thing happens for a reason, and that as at today, it’s not all over…”the story nuh done yet.”

Dear Sir: (a plea for help from the Team)

Dear Sir:
We need your help.  We need no vision crafted. A mission statement won’t help us here. We don’t need you to demonstrate heroic fearlessness “standing astride this narrow world like a Colossus”, Sir.  No swashbuckling, chest beating posturing needed. We are self-starters, Sir.  So don’t you worry about getting us engaged and on board. I know that all your leadership manuals (and you do read them, right?) drone on and on about “getting the stakeholders on board” and “getting motivation levels up”.  Your team consists of a bunch of people that actually take pride in what we do and derive great satisfaction when we give a dream legs. Lucky for you, you can use those manuals to prepare another scintillating speech to share at your next Rotary luncheon or when you talk to your mentees at your alma mater.  
Please help us by being clear as to what you want accomplished.  Paint us a picture: “this is what it should feel like, look like, smell like at the end.” Is the picture hazy in your mind, Sir? No problem! Share the part that is clear, the general idea that you have, and allow us to help you complete the end game picture.
It’s easier to fill in the blanks once we know where we’re going. We know you don’t know the shortcuts, the roads that are potholed, the detours…afterall, you don’t travel these roads daily. But we do! Once you tell us where we need to go to, WE can tell you the best way to get there.  Why don’t you make it easy for yourself and less frustrating for us by simply saying: “Team: we need to get to Mobay in 2 1/2 hours.” WE KNOW HOW TO DO THIS! WE DO THIS EVERYDAY! Please don’t say: “go over Sligoville, then turn right at Bog Walk, then use the new highway to by pass Mt. Rosser…when you come to the end of the highway, call me and tell me what time it is.”  Am I coming through clear, Sir? Allow us to do our jobs, to participate, to use our experience and our knowledge to give your dreams and your aspirations wings. Please.
I have been frank and I sincerely hope you receive this in the spirit in which it was given. 
Best regards,
Kelly

another (not so) random in-flight encounter

The drill was the same as it was a few months ago… I had just completed 2 days of meetings and was returning home, tired and thankfully not as dispirited as I was last time. I was still battling the tail end of the ‘flu and a tad worse for the wear having closed the bar a few hours earlier. Leave it to a real Rum Head like myself to spot the lone bottle of Wray and Nephew whites hidden on the second shelf to the back, pushed disrespectfully to the corner behind several other bottles of pretenders… I was literally standing on the lower rung of the bar stool directing the bartender and insisting that I needed “that bottle right there…yes…no…go more to the left…pull out those 2 bottles…no those….THERE YOU GO!” But I digress.

So I boarded the plane and made my way down the aisle looking for 11C. We were told that the flight was full (what’s new) and given specific instructions as to our hand luggage management. I thankfully had gotten an aisle seat and waited to see who my seat mates would be. Despite the ‘flu and the hangover (which had abated somewhat due to the Excedrin that I had snacked on earlier) I was in reasonably good spirits and had decided to play nice and smile.

You see, I have what people refer to as a “resting bitchy face”, which simply means that if I’m not smiling, I look as if I’m angry. I’ve been told that I’m intimidating and appear unfriendly and unapproachable. I’m not as bothered today by those judgments of others as I used to be, but I accept that a smile and a friendly word or two can lubricate deliberate and chance encounters making the experience more enjoyable for all. So, enter Rose. Rose came down the aisle, a woman about my age, short, round, wearing a sweat shirt, jeans and sneakers, hoodie draped over her handbag, pulling her carry-on down the aisle.  She smiled at me and said “this is me right here, but lemme find somewhere to put my bag”. I wished her good luck and she found a space way down in the plane.  When she came back and I extricated myself to allow her in, I remarked to her that she’s going to have hell retrieving it and disembarking once we had landed.  She agreed and said lemme go move it den. Ah boi. That decision resulted in me and Miss Rose playing musical seats, up, out, in, down over the next 5 minutes as she co-opted a flight attendant in her quest to optimally place her hand-luggage. I would normally be very irritated, but remember, I had decided to play nice and smile, come what may.  Miss Rose apologized as she squeezed in for, praise Jah, the last time and thanked me for understanding. We both laughed as I told her that I really was not about to stand up again and that she had better climb over me.  So she did and we laughed as she settled into her window seat.  And on that full flight, the only empty seat was the one between Miss Rose and me. My donuts (yes…7 Dunkin’ Donuts  for my favourite people back at home…it’s a thing I have with them…) and her bag and hoodie shared that middle seat.

“I like you” grinned Miss Rose at me.

“Well ok then!” I grinned back at her.  We exchanged names. Ever fass, I asked her if she was returning home, or going to JA for a visit. She explained that she was off to Jamaica to look for her mom and relax for 8 days. I told her that I was returning home after attending meetings in Florida for 2 days.

“Is yuh man that?” she asked as she pointed to my colleague who I was travelling with, sitting across the aisle from us.  Before I could answer, he said “yes…this is my wife.” She saw the look of horror on my face and realised that Steven was messing around.  I made the introductions, clarified the nature of our relationship and we settled back.  She complimented Steven and told him that he was a very handsome “half chiney man”.  Steven, good natured idiot that he is, remarked to Miss Rose that she too looked half Chinese…

I then took a good look Miss Rose.  I asked her if she was really half Chinese.  She was dark skinned, had in braids so I couldn’t assess her hair type and texture, had tiny, almost squinty eyes, high cheekbones and full lips on that broad smile of hers.

“Yes!”  I said to her…”you really look like you have some Asian somewhere there. What’s the dealio?”

Miss Rose explained that she was half Japanese (wait…what?!) and that she is this close to doing plastic surgery to shave down her cheekbones and widen her eyes.  I turned my body towards her and settled in for what I felt was going to be an interesting story.

“Tell me why” I invited.

Miss Rose’s mother is a black Jamaican woman who was married to an abusive man. He was working in England when Miss Rose mother went to work as a domestic helper for a Japanese family living in Jamaica. Mother ended up getting pregnant for the Japanese son. Miss Rose was born. She recounted this starting off very matter of factly, but growing hesitant as she revealed the truth of her origins.

“I guess you could say my momma was a ho” Miss Rose apologised.

“Oh hell no she wasn’t!” I countered. “She was lonely, abused and simply received affection where she found it…and look at the result of that..You!”

She smiled and wiped at her eyes, and said softly: “I guess.”

She went on: “My mother’s husband came back and she left that job and went back pregnant to live with him and their other children.  I was an outcast from the moment I was born. I was never accepted by the Japanese family, and my siblings mocked me and physically abused me. My step father was also abusive towards me, and my mother wasn’t able to shield me. I was made to do the hardest manual work while the other children played outside.  I was teased about my Japanese origins at school and tried to just keep to myself. There was a neighbour, a big man, who used to keep me company in the kitchen round the back where I often left alone for hours to work. From the age of  8 that man would have sex with me. He was the only person I had interaction with and he violated me and hurt me.” By this time she was crying as she recounted her story.  “When he died, I remember being so afraid.”

She explained to me that she was happy he was dead, afraid that it wasn’t true and that he would reappear to harm her and that she was once more alone…a contradictory mix of fears and emotions, too much for a child to bear, let alone process.

She went on to claim that she had made a good life for herself. “I’ve been living in the states for 33 years now. I’ve visited my Japanese relatives in Japan several times, and they have welcomed me.  I wrote to my mother and siblings and asked them to forgive me for anything that I may have done to hurt them.  I have given so much money to my brothers and sisters, my mother and even my now dead step father.  I paid for medical care for him in the years before he died and before he passed he asked me to forgive him.”

“So have you been able to forgive him and them?” I asked with some hesitation… You see, I accept today that forgiveness of self and others is the fundamental prerequisite for inner peace and moving on in life.  But I also accept that it is a process that comes after a decision to do so, and that to glibly admonish someone to forgive their detractor or abuser without acknowledging the hurt and understanding that forgiveness is not pressing a button is both disrespectful and inhumane.

Miss Rose wiped her eyes and was quick to say: “Of course I have. But I have a pain right here that never goes away”.

A pain right here that never goes away….

“So you think that by changing your face you will somehow expunge the cause of your unhappiness and pain, Rose?” I challenged gently. “You were not a mistake. You have survived and continue to make your way forward, helping others in the process.  Please don’t try to erase what God has put together.  You are perfectly beautiful as you are.  And wider eyes, more slender cheekbones looking back at you in the mirror will do nothing to affect the pain that you still feel, and they cannot erase the awful things that you experienced.”

She looked back at me saying nothing. I inhaled deeply: “May the God that has brought you this far, finish His work by hugging you tight tight and taking away the pain you feel. God bless you, Rose.”

I have been thinking about that (not so) random encounter.  I don’t know what I am supposed to take away from that encounter. What I do know is that once again it has been demonstrated very clearly to me that we all have a story…a back story. H and I have a list that we’ve been maintaining: “Interesting People We’d Like to Have Dinner With.” A bunch of people have made it to that list, based on things that intrigue us about the selectees: ” Fareed Zakaria, Hilary Clinton, Bill can come too, Oprah (at my insistence), Malcolm Gladwell, Lady Saw…to name some. To qualify you have to have original thought and a fine mind. Simple. These are all people in the public domain, easily identifiable because of their public personas. But interesting people are sitting right beside us on the plane, or lying beside us on the beach, or drinking to our left in the village bar, or waiting with us in the doctor’s office.

It is our humanity, our weaknesses, our strengths, our experiences that are all woven together to make up the beautiful tapestry that we are. To hide an experience or a failing out of shame, in order to project what we think is a more acceptable image, is to compromise the beautiful original work of art that we are. Miss Rose was open enough to share where she was on her journey. I suspect that her story is not over. I pray for the day when Rose realises that she can’t gift or buy her way to inner peace…that she is uniquely beautiful, a gift to the world…when the pain that sits right there goes away… that nothing she has done or not done has caused her adversity. And in the mean time, Rose lives her life. She goes to therapy, she works hard, she raises her family, she takes chances.  She has two failed marriages under her belt and she presses on in hope of finding love.

Last week I tweeted one morning that I was determined to listen more. One wise person on my time line agreed and admonished me to add “observe” to “listen”. Wise, wise words.  I have a friend who comes over as closed off, saying very little, arms folded tightly across his chest almost always. In response to my pestering him, he admitted that he observes people and tries to understand them and the context at hand. I suspect that there’s more that he’s not saying and that he too has some issues surrounding his own humanity that he’s processing. Listening and observing without a willingness to share will limit the value and beauty that can result from an encounter with another human, whether this encounter is deliberate or (not so) random.

So I have no profound revelation to share from that (not so) random encounter with Miss Rose. No ah ha! moment transformed my life. What happened was a memorable, interesting 90 minute trip back home, getting to know another human being, logging her story into my consciousness for later retrieval perhaps when I need to share with someone else or remind myself what strength and grace looks like. So I share it with you.  Take from it what you will. Listen, observe and be open. Let us acknowledge and embrace our own humanity as we journey on and share this planet. And know for sure, that our story nuh done yet.

Ruth, Friendship and Life

I met Ruth in Grade 8 at St. Hugh’s High School here in Kingston.  She was already part of a group that included my childhood friend, Toni.  Ruth was tall and skinny, with a huge head of curly hair and even bigger glasses.  Ruth made friends easily and was effortlessly bright, excelling, if I remember correctly, at Math and the other science subjects.  Ruth was artistic too, right? (Toni: please correct me if I am wrong) I seem to remember her drawing and painting… This girl was always, always, ALWAYS smiling…smiling and talking. Ruth was a talker JShe always had an opinion, a story or a joke that she shared willingly and easily.
At the end of Grade 11, when most of us from our lunch group went on automatically to 6th form, Ruth decided to go to Austria for a year as part of a student exchange programme. Brave girl! She voluntarily deviated from the prescribed track that we all followed without question (graduate 5th form, on to 6th form, and then right after 6th form, university…right?!) From all accounts Ruth had a stellar year in Europe! She came back having made new friends, having done well in school IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE and with a bag of memories to last a lifetime.
Another thing that was different about Ruth was the fact that she had a boyfriend waaay before any of us! Hell, I never even had my first kiss until after high school! Ruth left school in lower 6th to marry her boyfriend and start their family.  I had the pleasure of being at her wedding. Toni was part of her wedding party if I again remember correctly. Ruth was an active member of her church, and her wedding was a celebration that included a few of us from school, her family and her extended family from church. I remember Mrs. P (Ruth’s mom) and Aunty B (Toni’s mom) fussing around to ensure that the bride was as beautiful as she could be.  Mrs. P treated Ruth’s friends as if they were her own children, and we were always welcome to the Stanton Terrace home.
And life went on.  I lost touch with Ruth but knew when Daughter 1 was born, saw a few pics (what a baby did favour her daddy!) and  I knew when Daughter 2 was born, a replica of her Ma.  Toni kept close to Ruth.  I found out that she migrated.  Years later, when I was a post graduate at UWI Mona, I saw Ruth again when she and Toni came to a fete at the Student’s Union.  Ruth had gained weight in all the right places and was a gorgeous as ever. 
Okay.  So far I’ve recounted mere facts about Ruth as I have remembered them.  It is at this reunion years after school, that I came face to face with the persona of Ruthie that I had, up until now, only had glimpses of.  Here’s the thing: Ruth shared with me (remember she is a talker, right?) some of her experiences as a mother.  She shared about her marriage. She was frank in her accounting, not glossing over stuff, not leaving out stuff…just sharing.  What struck me was her honesty and her humour and the absence of bitterness in her recounting stuff that she had gone through.  And listen: Ruth was not pretending.  That is who she was. You KNOW when someone is fronting or pretending . I know that Ruth was doing none of the above. That’s how she lived her life: never allowing regret or bitterness or anger to hold her down or back. Ruthie joked and laughed and spoke honestly and was constantly moving forward.
So while we went on to university and completed at least one degree before we were 22, Ruthie was being a wife and mom.  Toni can better fill in the chronological order here, but before her transition yesterday, Ruth had completed her first degree, and two post graduate degrees. While raising her daughters and living her life, she moved (again if I remember correctly) to Colorado, back to Boston and finally to Florida. I never knew her to be afraid. I always knew her to be making new friends.  I will forever remember Ruth living with a smile.
I never knew her daughters (I may have met Daughter 1 once when she was little one), but kept up with their progress through Toni Updates and pics on Facebook.  Ruthie did good. They seem to be accomplished, traveled, talented,  gorgeous like dem Mummy, properly educated women.   May God comfort you at this time, Girls. Your Mom was loved and admired and will continue to be loved and admired as long as we live.
Then when Toni told me of Ruth’s diagnosis back in 2011, I was floored.  I asked Toni if she thought it would be ok for me to reach out to Ruth. Ever the Best Friend, Toni consulted with Ruth, and in standard Ruthie fashion, I got the green light.
“Ruthie: Toni told me of the latest developments with your health. Sending a whole heap of positive energy your way. You name Ruth…survivor of a whole heap of stuff. We’ll talk I am sure. Love, K.”
“Hi Kelly: Yes, it sucks and it is going to suck. But I’ll get thru it just fine, I’m sure of it. Thanks for the positive vibes! Ruth”
Again, Ruth’s modus operandi with respect to how she lived her light was clear: she would fight this thing.  She would fight it with science and with humour. Ruth never paraded her illness around.  She was never a martyr seeking sympathy.  She did what she had to do and lived while doing it.  Ruthie lived for Fridays and for soca (I won’t hold that against her, or Toni or Jackie Wilcott J).
Ruth and Toni doing what they love: Carnival!
Ruth and Jackie doing what they love: more soca!
I saw her once in Jamaica after her diagnosis.  She was the picture of good health: glowing and beautiful, laughing and of course, talking about everything.  Toni opened her house to a couple of us one night and we finished a few bottles of wine and filled our bellies with food and laughter.
There was one particular Facebook post back in May of this year that forced me to confront the fact that Ruth was really sick.  She posted: “Thank God for pain medication”.  I had just finished my morning workout and meditation and was checking my various social media updates J and was floored when I saw it. I remember waking up H and saying: “Ruth is sick and she’s in pain.” I cried. I prayed. I loved her for her courage and for her uncomplaining soul! Even in the middle of her pain, her acknowledgement of her pain was a actually a prayer of thanksgiving. I inboxed her once I had composed myself and she replied with her usual forthrightness and humour.
“How you do? The pain must be hot, don’t… Wish I could take it all away, Ruthie. you’re in my thoughts and prayers. You are a champion. Love you!”
“Thanks Kelly! Yes, last night was certainly rough. I had to triple up on meds to get it to stop. It did hat mi sah! Woiiii…and to add to it this morning one of my big toe’s nail came completely off, another wonderful side effeck…..cho……..thanks for the prayers…..I am hanging in there jokified and with positive thoughts!”
“Love you, Girlie”
“Love you too! Nuff hugs!”
That was May 30. I never spoke with Ruth again.
Toni told me when the meds stopped working a few weeks ago. Toni then told me that things had taken a turn for the worst. She flew up to be with her Bestie. Toni kept me posted though the difficult last days. Toni did what many of wished we could do and was with our friend when she transitioned. Thank you, Miss T for your love and courage. I know it has been difficult for you. May God Bless you.
Forever Friends.
Ruth made her peace with God and was with her friends, daughters, mother and sister Fern as the Lord freed her from her pain. In attempting to cope with Ruth’s passing, a friend of mine encouraged me to look at it as a transition of her soul. She is not dead.  She is no longer here with us, and that makes us sad.  We miss her. But she has transitioned to eternity and lives on in heaven.
Toni summed it up best with this final post on Facebook:
                                                             “Fly my Friend. Soar!”
Pics Courtesy of Toni and Jackie 

Skin Hunger

He had the most perfect falsetto she had ever heard… a distinctive combination of power and pure melody that sat comfortably in the upper register.  His delivery of “Stay with me” was moving, plaintive, dignified, raw, human.  She listened to it on and off over a period of about 3 weeks, loving it more with every rotation. But yesterday she just couldn’t get enough of it.  And this morning she woke up singing it. It’s like that sometimes.  She would get up with that song on her mind, and find herself singing it in the shower as she readied herself for the day ahead; her “soundtrack for today” is how she referred to these feelings set to music.
This Sunday morning her daughter had school business to attend to, so chauffeur duties dominated her list of things to do on what should have been a lazy Sunday in bed. She cranked up Sam’s plea as she backed out of the garage.
Guess it’s true, I’m not good at a one-night stand
But I still need love ’cause I’m just a man
These nights never seem to go to plan
I don’t want you to leave, will you hold my hand?

Oh, won’t you stay with me?
‘Cause you’re all I need
This ain’t love, it’s clear to see
But darling, stay with me

Why am I so emotional?
No, it’s not a good look, gain some self-control
And deep down I know this never works
But you can lay with me so it doesn’t hurt


“Well you’re loving that song” her daughter commented dryly.
“There’s something about it that keeps tugging at me. It’s such a human, painful, honest confession… He’s obviously hurting and willing to compromise by having a superficial sexual encounter just to keep the pain at bay even for a minute. That’s a rough place to be in. I hope never to find myself there”
“Well you’re married, so that doesn’t apply to you, Mom.”
“Married people get lonely too, Hon.”
She looked sideways at her mother.
“Remember when our marriage started breaking down? It was a very lonely place… There was so much tension between Daddy and I. There was a huge ocean of resentment, hurt, anger, pain. Even the simplest of exchanges was difficult, tedious and loaded with double meanings and things left unsaid.”
She kept talking as the memories flowed, unbidden, as if they needed to be given a voice to set them free.
“Skin hunger.  That’s what Sam was talking about in that song. Have you ever heard of skin hunger? That’s the basic human need to touch and be touched.  Premature babies have a significantly higher survival rate when they are allowed to rest on their parents’ bare skin. Sam wanted to feel physical contact with another human being. He needed it.”
She inhaled deeply… she couldn’t stop now.  She pressed on.
“During that incredibly rough period, I had to go to the doctor.  He was on the phone when he motioned me in and told me to have a seat.  I was in no rush.  I smiled at him and sat down.  He mouthed an apology and indicated that he was wrapping up.  It was apparent that the person on the other end was in no hurry to let Doc go. He mouthed another apology as I sat there just enjoying a moment of having to do absolutely nothing.  I waved him off with a smile: take your time, Sir.  He seemed to be offering reassurance and after a few more minutes, he simply reached out and rubbed my ankle in yet another attempt to make amends for not attending to me sooner. That simple gesture startled me out of my skin. In that moment I realized that it had been so, so long since I had felt the simple touch of another human being in a kind context. I wasn’t hugging you or your brother apparently… probably too engrossed in my own confusing and painful fog. My mother wasn’t nearby. And whatever energy I had was one hundred percent allocated to my duties to you guys and my job, trying to control the things that I could actually control.  As he rubbed my ankle, the tears came. I literally had to pinch my palm to stop the flow and gain some control. I shifted in my seat, coughed, wiped my eyes all in an effort to hide my reaction and re-center. He eventually ended his call, and we went on to deal with the real reason I had come to see him that day.”
“Awwww, and you’re crying now, Mom.  Why?”
“Sweetie, I don’t even know. You know that things are much better with Daddy and I now. But that was such a low, low period in my life.  The memory of how horrible a time it was is obviously still there, and I’m having some strong residual feelings. I don’t fully understand why I’m moved to tears. Perhaps I needed to simply exorcise them by giving them voice and wings.”

“My mother would likely be appalled at this discussion!  How can you share these things with an 18 year old?” She countered her own self: “My daughter’s smart enough to understand. This is life and she needs to know that if and when she has a similar experience, that there’s nothing wrong with her. And that her own mother, who always seems so capable and omnipotent, went through and came out on the other side. She need never feel less than because of her own humanity.”

She wiped her eyes and selected the song again.  She cranked the volume with an apology to her daughter and sang along with Sam. With empathy. Loudly.