tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72468348705692140842024-03-08T05:35:42.742-08:00The Water Is WideBeth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-66597491414304073592014-07-28T08:22:00.002-07:002014-07-28T10:52:39.865-07:00Kids PlaySaturday afternoon, I saw a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SouthBrooklynShakespeare">free street performance of </a><i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/SouthBrooklynShakespeare">Romeo & Juliet</a> </i>right around the corner from my Brooklyn apartment. Saturday night, I went to a Harlem rave.<br />
<br />
What a long, strange day it was.<br />
<br />
The afternoon was nothing short of miraculous. Boy-free–M was out with his dad–I was able to hang with my Park Slope neighbors as we watched the entire Shakespearean masterpiece I love so well.<br />
<br />
So what if some/much of the dialogue was drowned out by passing planes and children shrieking as they played nearby in an open fire hydrant? I heard "A curse on both your houses!" <i>and</i> "O Romeo, Romeo!"; the party scene, with the Venetian-masked cast dancing to Beyonce's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViwtNLUqkMY">"Crazy in Love,"</a> was too fun for words; the nurse, on crutches from a previous performances mishap, was hilarious; the star-crossed lovers were beautifully convincing; the sword play was thrilling. The rain even held off.<br />
<br />
With my day's dose of culture seemingly over, I headed home to dress for what I thought was dinner out with friends. After a few changes, I finally arrived at a blue peasant blouse, a flowing black linen skirt and funkadelic chandelier earrings. In other words, decked out for a pleasant evening.<br />
<br />
Flash forward to 10:30 p.m., when I found myself waffling as to whether to travel with a friend–along with her teenage babysitter and her baby-faced boyfriend–to a Harlem rave. (It had a Facebook page and everything!) Responsible Beth kept reminding herself that the boy would be up and at 'em early the next day, while fun-loving, "I'm not too old for this, dammit!" Beth said, "Why not?"<br />
<br />
Of course, it helped that my friend was footing the bill for a car or I never would have done it. Plus, hey, it was "only" 10:30–past my usual bedtime, but all work and all that. And so I went.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you, I haven't felt so old, like, ever. Not when the boychick who greeted us asked me, "How long have YOU been on the scene?" as he and his partner frisked my friend and me over with their eyes, as if they were trying to detect if we were narcs. Silly boys; don't they know undercover midlife ladies would have waxed their hair up into spikes, put on five-inch white platforms, and donned wigs, glow sticks and tutus?<br />
<br />
When they finally deemed us harmless–my friend kept telling them her sitter was her daughter (!)–we were led to an "undisclosed" location, a hot garage basement filled with post-pubescents trying too hard, drinking Coors Light and dancing to terrible not-even-house music.<br />
<br />
I had <a href="https://www.facebook.com/beth.arky/posts/10152554349494030?notif_t=like">polled my friends on Facebook</a> beforehand as to whether I should go to a rave. The answers ranged from "Yes!" to "Are you 22 and living in the '90s?" to "If you have to ask, the answer is..." After five minutes, I answered to my own question when I posted "Here. Underwhelmed and bored. #callmejaded"<br />
<br />
What can I say? I guess I have been on the scene a long time. And when you spent the '80s in Manhattan clubs, coming this close to JFK Jr. at Area and attending a party at the reopened Studio 54 with Michael Jackson hanging in the VIP Lounge (yes, I caught a glimpse, he was there), a few pyrotechnics and smoke machines aren't going to do it. I wasn't even moved to move. Still, I was thrilled the starry-eyed kids we'd taken were as excited as they were. ("It's the best rave we've ever been to!" cute boy declared. "<i>And</i> the most dangerous!")<br />
<br />
And so about an hour later my friend and I departed. Thanks to the travel time, the eye-frisking, the jaunt to said "super-secret" location a few blocks from our drop-off point, and the wait for our car, I didn't get home till 2. Thank all that is holy, my son didn't wake up till 9:30, which never happens.<br />
<br />
My friend says she can now check "go to a rave" off her bucket list. All I can say is, <i>Romeo & Juliet</i>'s music and dancing were much better than whatever that was up in Harlem on Saturday night. All's well would have ended well if I had gone home at 10:30.<br />
<br />
Next time, I'll remember: The play's the thing.<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-60267249214473289752014-07-24T11:53:00.001-07:002014-07-24T11:59:20.326-07:00The House of Blue Tape<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our apartment is tangled up in
blue–blue tape, that is.</span></blockquote>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">No, we aren't painting the place. I
wish we were; we could really use a touch up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">But I digress. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">When M was just a toddler, I arrived at
the idea of posting things on our stainless steel refrigerator–who knew magnets
wouldn’t stick on it?–with blue painters tape. From there, I perfected the art of looping the tape around the back of his preschool pictures for display. Little did I know I had a small blue monster in the making.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before too long, M took to wanting
to "build" things out of his riding toys. But </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">as an only child who lacked the skill to work independently,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"> he always expected us
to help–aka do it. By the time he was 3, he would rouse us from our wrinkled sheets as
early as 6 a.m. on a Saturday to "make doors" for his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-lqE83HcOY">PlasmaCar</a>, a
marvelous invention that is powered solely by the steering wheel. (It also
managed to scratch up our wood floors pretty well; guess we'll fix those when
we paint. When hell freezes over.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">The car is plastic and rounded and
does not lend itself to adding doors, or a roof, or any of the other myriad
things M demanded that we create for him. But try we did, with cardboard and
tin foil and rolls upon rolls of blue tape. (If I had to add it all up
over the years, I’d say we’ve spent thousands on the stuff.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">M graduated from the car to his
scooter and now his bike, which in its latest incarnation is "pimped
out"–as the kindly bicycle shop guy puts it–with a bell, plastic strips
that make his wheels clatter insufferably, and a misting fan he insisted on
lifting from a box of castaways, even though I told him not to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">The thing is, at 11, M is already a
longtime "collector." Our Brooklyn neighborhood is the epicenter of stoop
sales and the “leave your old crap on the curb” phenomenon, which used to mean
arguing him out of schlepping home every dead TV he saw on the sidewalk. My carefully curated loft apartment is starting to look like something out<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Hoarders</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">The latest pièce de résistance: A broken
white ceramic frame with the picture of a random model M bought at the school
flea market for 50 cents. He can't understand what's odd about leaving some
stranger’s picture in there. He “fixed” it with 12 pieces of very visible blue tape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">I must admit, it’s starting to grow
on me. Anthropologie would probably sell it for $25.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">But the ultimate blue-tape incident
happened one night not long ago, when I came home to discover that in what appeared
to be an OCD-like flurry to order his universe, he had labeled everything in
the house: "fish tank," "fish bowl," "light," "TV,"
"misc. home items" (aka the junk drawer), ad infinitum. The poor kid went to such an effort, </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I left it all on for him a few days</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">The latest: a box of tissue seemingly levitating above his bed, suspended by, what else, blue tape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm thinking of submitting it to the
next Biennial. I may just have a design genius on my hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-87630844519896878042014-06-29T16:43:00.000-07:002014-06-30T05:28:48.189-07:00Back to the WombYou <i>can</i> go home again.<br />
<br />
With my 10-year-old son settled happily at camp, I have returned to the St. Louis suburbs for some much-needed time with my extended family. Back in Brooklyn, I yearn for such support, and so I have left the paperwork and cleaning behind for a few days. I know all of it will be waiting for me when I get home.<br />
<br />
My parents long deceased, I always stay with my Aunt Fran and Uncle Jerry. I like to call their subdivision ranch house "the womb," named for the back bedroom where I'm ensconced. When the drapes are closed, the dark hush that envelops me in a room furnished with my grandparents' bedroom set–the one I used as a girl–makes me feel safe and comforted. While I'm here, I will sleep and eat, eat and sleep, with plenty of talking and deep hugs and raucous laughter to punctuate the time in between.<br />
<br />
Someone asked if I have old school friends to whom I can turn for love and encouragement. I do, but I depend mainly on my aunt and cousins as we talk for hours about our children, our marriages, our work, our family history, cramming into several conversations many months' worth of events and feelings.<br />
<br />
There's even Ruthie Ann, the beautiful yet spiteful cat who will tolerate a brief amount of petting. Eventually, the fangs come out, but I'm sure my blood pressure has gone down, regardless.<br />
<br />
If I lived in town, I wouldn't need a therapist.<br />
<br />
My aunt and uncle keep a house of calm order and routine, so different from my own. And unlike my apartment, their home–with its full finished basement right down to a complete kitchen–offers enough storage to get them through several rough winters. Their hall closet alone is stocked like a Walgreens. A very partial list of contents:<br />
<br />
3 bottles Sarna lotion<br />
6 boxes Kleenex<br />
12 packs Kleenex packs<br />
3 bottles nasal moisturizer spray<br />
7 tubes Colgate Optic White toothpaste<br />
3 tubes Arm & Hammer Advance White toothpaste<br />
10 toothbrushes (you never know when house guests might forget theirs)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I'm not even going to begin cataloguing what's in the basement; let's just say that regular trips to Sam's Club and Costco mean there's little chance of running out of <i>anything</i>.<br />
<br />
The refrigerator is another marvel of home engineering. The asparagus stalks stand on their tips in a shallow glass bowl of water so, as my aunt explains, they don't dry out. The strawberry tops have been sliced off, the fruit placed in rows on an oblong plate like tiny red Christmas trees "because otherwise," she says, "you know what happens."<br />
<br />
For the first time in weeks, my mind is clear enough to write.<br />
<br />
Frannie, 76, and Jerry, 79, both look 20 years younger. They are still strong and independent; at an age when many lean on canes or walkers, he logs 2.6 miles almost every day–my engineer uncle's precise calculation–in the park or shopping mall, depending on the weather. (And I now know from experience that he moves at a brisk clip.) When my aunt doesn't join him, she works out at Curves.<br />
<br />
I only wish I had half my aunt's energy. I take after my mother, her older sister, prone to depression and anxiety. Frannie is always busy in the kitchen and takes joy in the things she does for her family. She never lays down to rest; I do.<br />
<br />
My uncle continues to cut the grass and do most of the home repairs. (He also often cooks and does the dishes; any gender-based division of labor that existed when I was growing up seems to have disappeared.) Both engage with the family, many friends and the community, running volunteer organizations and helping the elderly neighbor.<br />
<br />
They continue to make the small daily concessions–there is much discussion over the temperature setting–and exhibit the acts of kindness that demonstrate their love for one another and allow a marriage to thrive nearly 60 years. They are a team. This is their life, here in the quiet suburbs.<br />
<br />
I know there are reasons I rejected all of this as an about-to-burst 18-year-old, ready to make her mark in the big wide world. I know I'm lucky to live where I do, close to the most exciting city on earth, blocks from an urban park oasis. and within walking distance of shopping and the subway.<br />
<br />
And yet here I sit on their front porch, the wind whistling through the branches of oaks they planted 49 years ago, wistful for this life in the Midwest. What was once mundane to me has taken on a glow. At this moment, I wish I could pull up stakes and start over.<br />
<br />
Don't we all want a redo sometimes?Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-82509562550728954172014-04-14T07:22:00.006-07:002014-04-14T07:27:40.643-07:00This Year in Kansas CityYesterday's murder of three innocents at Jewish centers in Overland Park, Kansas, truly hits home. I spent many of my formative years at the St. Louis JCCA–first on the swim team, then as a swim instructor, lifeguard, camper and counselor–and I am certain the Kansas Jewish Community Center is much the same, attracting people of all faiths and backgrounds to its fine facilities and programs.<br />
<br />
This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen in the quiet suburbs, and yet a former Ku Klux Klan leader with a history of anti-Semitism and racism was able to get a gun and randomly mow down a doctor and his 14-year-old grandson in the JCC parking lot before heading for a retirement village, where he shot and killed a woman. Both of the JCC victims were members of the nearby United Methodist Church of the Resurrection.<br />
<br />
As news of the tragedy got out, my Facebook feed became a hotbed of debate–some feel anti-Semitism is on the rise in this country, while others continue to believe this is the best time and place for Jews since the diaspora. I am in the latter camp, but I realize I've been sheltered from much of the blind hatred toward my people.<br />
<br />
I grew up in an insulated community with many Jews and now live in a liberal Brooklyn neighborhood where, I hope and believe, people are judged by their character rather than the color of their skin or religion. Many if not most of my friends are Jewish; it's a tight circle. I have never been called a kike, though I know my mother and her siblings were when they were growing up. I imagine that's at least part of the reason my mom made sure I'd go to school and camp with other Jewish kids.<br />
<br />
I did spend two years in a small town in Colorado; it was there that I experienced what it feels like to be a minority. When I asked for matzoh at the grocery store, they had no idea what I was talking about. There was no synagogue; a rabbi would travel up twice a month to conduct services in someone's home.<br />
<br />
Tonight, I'll be with dear friends, but I'll be heading to the seder with a heavy heart. We will recount the Exodus tale of freedom from slavery, and I'll pray for the victims and their families–and freedom from hate.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-17857711931292269202014-02-07T16:05:00.001-08:002014-02-09T15:18:29.473-08:00Forever, MomThe check came today, bringing the usual bittersweet mix of gratitude and sadness. Gratitude for my mother's continued love and generosity, sadness for my loss.<br />
<br />
It's been coming for 16 years, ever since the first anniversary of my mother's death.<br />
<br />
As discombobulated and disorganized as Mom seemed toward the end of her life, she still managed to hire a financial planner and set up a fund that distributes a tax-free dividend to her children each winter.<br />
<br />
A product of the Depression and a displaced homemaker of the '70s, Mom was terribly nervous about money. So when we read the will and I learned how much she had saved for us--by no means a fortune, but a sizable amount for someone who acted impoverished--it made my heart hurt.<br />
<br />
"Why didn't she spend it on herself?" I kept asking through my tears. She should have traveled more, we all thought. She'd started taking art museum bus tours, traveling from St. Louis to see Impressionist shows at her beloved Chicago Art Institute, which she'd attended for a year before meeting and marrying my father. Why couldn't she have done more?<br />
<br />
She did take one last big trip, to visit us for a summer vacation on the North Fork of Long Island (that pink Victorian we rented is a blog in itself) and then see my brother's family in Salt Lake City. It was the last time I saw her.<br />
<br />
There were signs she wasn't well, but my brother and I didn't think there was anything serious going on. Her death was a shock.<br />
<br />
And now the checks come, year in and year out, a reminder of how she cared for us.<br />
<br />
These days, I understand her mindset. The first 25 years of my career, the economy was robust, my industry--print journalism--viable. But no more. I need to remake myself, much as she did after my father left on the eve of my departure to my first year of college.<br />
<br />
When I was working full time and sure of my financial footing, I wanted to tear that check up every year. It felt like blood money to me.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm a freelancer, I thank her silently as I deposit it into my savings account.<br />
<br />
Just as she would have wanted.Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-42566336012677698172014-01-28T12:32:00.000-08:002014-01-28T12:37:19.847-08:00Happy Birthday to Me!I'm slightly jealous of the petite blonde who lives next door.<br />
<br />
First of all, V comes by her tresses naturally. Second, she mixes it up with the boys with plenty of spunk. (I like spunk.) Third, she celebrates her birthday with gusto, right down to posting a sign on her apartment door broadcasting how old she is.<br />
<br />
Then again, she's 7.<br />
<br />
One thing we do have in common: We were both born in January, albeit a "few" years apart.<br />
<br />
This year, while she was off broadcasting her number in No. 2 pencil, I was answering my brother's birthday call with, "Yeah, whatever."<br />
<br />
It wasn't all about my number, though that figured into the equation. I was also nursing a broken ankle that had been sidelining me for weeks, with the stomach flu thrown in for good measure.<br />
<br />
But larger changes were afoot. Up until 50, I crowed about my birthday, seeking attention in the worst way. This year, it felt like just another day I might want to move to Australia.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness for phone calls, my friend S's visit and Facebook; goofy as it sounds, those greetings really did lift my spirits. (No, I didn't tell everyone what a downer of a day I was having. I have a positive image to maintain!)<br />
<br />
Speaking of my social-media fix, my mood hadn't lifted all that much over the following weeks until my friend M posted an excellent meme. (I only wish I could find the link.)<br />
<br />
It's a vintage shot of six middle-aged women on an amusement park ride. The two in the first row, decked out in pearls, look like the girls they were, hysterical with laughter; the two in Row 3 look downright dire.<br />
<br />
The caption: "You can choose to live in the front row, or in the third row."<br />
<br />
On my birthday, I'm afraid I was one of the Sour Sisters. I needed the reminder to move up. After all, I can't let the petite blonde next door think only 7-year-olds have spunk.<br />
<br />
Besides, it's my birthday. Last one to the front row's a rotten egg!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-29574048734325755822014-01-22T14:35:00.002-08:002014-01-22T14:35:28.022-08:00The Snow QueenAt 3:30 a.m., I awoke to hear the plows rolling down my street. The second of January's gnarly snowstorms had hit New York City hard the previous day and, true to form, I had gone to bed not knowing if there would be school the following day. I prayed the verdict would be "yes."<br />
<br />
I dialed 311 and heard the recorded "school is scheduled to be open today." (It turned out the new schools chancellor had called it at 11:30 p.m., but I had crashed at 9.) Then, for the next hour, I followed the debate raging on Facebook: Should school be open? Are you sending your kids? Why can't the Board of Ed cancel school early, like everyone else? Why are you sending your kids? (Implied: What kind of mother are you to send your kids out into this awful storm?)<br />
<br />
I was relieved to drift off until my alarm rang at 5:50. I called the bus company to be sure the yellow fleet was running--it was. I thought of keeping my son home. What if the roads were slippery? But I managed to quickly dismiss the thought. After all, the buses were up and at 'em, and so was school. I know I might sound cold, so trust me when I say I'd never send my baby out into what I feared to be a dangerous situation. And it seemed clear we didn't have that. Heck, we didn't have the foot they'd predicted, either.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing: As I see it, the world is divided into three kinds of moms, with a sprinkling of dads in the mix. On the one hand, you have the 21st century version of the <i>Saturday Evening Post</i> mother who celebrates a snow day as a chance to bond with her children, making memories filled with baking, sledding and hot cocoa.<br />
<br />
Then there's the 21st century mom who figures it's no biggie if her kid stays home; he'll keep himself occupied with Minecraft and <i>Harry Potter</i> all day.<br />
<br />
Then there's the panicked mom.<br />
<br />
Guess which group I belong to?<br />
<br />
Even at 10, my son requires my constant engagement. If I go to the bathroom, he asks me where I'm going. (It's an apartment...how far could I go?) I might as well be living with a retired husband.<br />
<br />
Not only that, I had just survived a three-day weekend. A <i>three-day weekend</i>, I tell you. It was far too soon for another day with my darling hanging around when I had work to get done...and a blog to write!<br />
<br />
And so if school says yes, I say yes. I went even further. When my friend Judy messaged me, "Did you send the boy to school this morning? I'm going through all kinds of Jewish angst about how selfish I could be to let mine go," I told her it was OK, our kids would be fine. And yes, we would be, too.<br />
<br />
I'm just glad I missed the email from school saying that many of the teachers wouldn't be making it in today, but not to worry, there was enough staff to handle things. It might have given me pause, if only for a moment. And they did handle things. And the bus delivered M to school and back home again just fine.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I love my son. I just happen to hate snow days.<br />
<br />
Call me the Wicked Witch of the South Slope.<br />
<br />
That's how this mom rolls.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-68009469553128361862014-01-14T08:46:00.000-08:002014-01-14T08:46:07.120-08:00Blogging Rights<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Two stories in the news have captured the attention of this neophyte blogger. They touch on important issues of privacy vs. the right to tell all. I think that as long as writers are clear and aren't hurting anyone, it's their prerogative to do either, or both, at any time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">First, fine writer and memoirist Dani Shapiro wrote a wise, on-target <a href="http://www.salon.com/2014/01/10/open_letter_from_dani_shapiro_dear_disillusioned_reader_who_contacted_me_on_facebook/">open letter</a> to "a dear disillusioned reader who contacted me on Facebook" that touched me so personally, I had to comment like this: "Thank you, Dani Shapiro. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">It's good to know I'm on the right track and shouldn't be cowed by those who want 'more.'" It's not that I need the justification, it's just always nice to have backup, for what is this blog but personal memoir? </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Shapiro starts by clarifying this important distinction: <i>memoir is not autobiography</i>. Amen. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">"When a writer sits down to write memoir, she is not sharing her diary," she writes. "She is not confessing. She is not doing some sort of public striptease. </span><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 20px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Her whole entire life is not up for grabs</em><span style="line-height: 20px;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">Can I tell you how many times I have been the recipient of precisely the </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">gotcha! </em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">moment you so furiously leveled at me on Facebook? I’ve had readers angry with me for not writing about certain members of my family. Other readers have been angry that I’ve written </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">too</em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;"> much about certain members of my family. I’ve had readers inquire as to why I haven’t written much about my husband. Or my ex-husband. Or my other ex-husband. (What can I say? Memoirists! We have complicated lives!) Then, I’ve had readers approach me with tears in their eyes, telling me that we are soul sisters. Separated at birth. </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You told my story</em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">, they sometimes say."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">She continues that those who write, and read, memoirs, are "looking to make music" out of the "random, merciless jumble" of our lives: "</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">The memoirist looks through a single window in a house full of windows. After all, we can’t look out of all the windows at once, can we? We choose a view. We pick a story to tell. We shift through the ever-changing sands of memory, and in so doing create something hopefully beautiful, by which I mean universal. We try to tell the truth – by which I do not mean the facts.</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Shapiro is describing exactly what I hope to do, in at least some small measure, with my blog. I <a href="http://thewaterswide.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-blog-is-born.html">stated early on</a> that I've avoided writing one until now because I am a private person. Now that I am doing one, I have chosen to focus mostly on myself, for better or for worse</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">–</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">my experiences, past and present</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">–</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">leaving my family out of it much of the time. In the past, editors and other writers have questioned my choice of not focusing more on my son and marriage, but I've always had a gut feeling I didn't want to do that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">Perhaps my motivation has something to do with my experience with out domestic open adoption. From the get-go, the agency impressed upon us that the story is our son, M's, to tell, if and when he's ready. (He's 10 now.) So when someone would ask a seemingly innocent question about him like "who are the birth parents?" I had my pat answer ready: "That's not my story to tell. M will share, or not share, what he wants to when the time comes." I'm sure some people were taken aback but I couldn't worry about it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">I also don't post recent photos of M on Facebook, for reasons that go well beyond the latest warning that our images may be co-opted by advertisers and whoever else feels like it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Back when I first got active in social media, I proudly made my profile picture a shot of my then 4-year-old, Botticelli-beautiful boy (someone else's words, not mine) with brown cascading curls and almond eyes. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">We were on vacation and he was wearing swim trunks. The photo stopped at his soft shoulders, but it was enough exposure for my sister-in-law, D, to warn me to take it down right away. She felt it could be used for online kiddie porn, something she knows about due to her work with a foster care agency. Part of me thought "rubbish, she's far too paranoid," but there was a little voice that said, "What if she's right?" And so down it went. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">While I do not judge what others choose to reveal on social media, I remain strongly protective of what I share, both in terms of words and images. I have been warned that by not doing that "striptease," it will hurt my readership. If that's the case, I can only hope that as I try to make sense of the jumble, at least a few people along for the ride will recognize something from their lives, too. There are universal truths, happy and sad, about love and life, loss and death, after all.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Which brings me to the strange, disturbing case of Lisa Boncheck Adams, who has chosen to tweet and blog about her battle with Stage IV breast cancer. Columns by married writers </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Emma Gilbey Keller of <i>The</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="line-height: 18px;">Guardian</i><span style="line-height: 18px;"> and Bill Keller of </span><span style="font-style: italic; line-height: 18px;">The New York Times</span><span style="line-height: 20px;"><i> </i>h</span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">ave fired unseemly rounds at Adams for sharing what they see as misguided (at best) </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">details </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">she should have kept to herself. Keller's take: As the ultimate act, Adams should go softly into this good night, something his father-in-law did under palliative care in England. (The </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Guardian</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"> has since taken down its post.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Only Adams has three children she wants to stick around for, and I daresay she's years younger than Keller's wife's dad was. Writing as a cancer survivor, I say she's doing a service by exposing the realities of cancer and cancer treatment, minus the pink ribbons. Adams is not the first and she certainly won't be the last to share her cancer journey; in fact, the <i>Times</i> ran an acclaimed series titled <a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/category/voices-2/life/">"Life, Interrupted"</a> about a young woman battling cancer. But most importantly, <i>it's her business</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">When I went through my treatments some 14 years ago, there was no such thing as social media as we now know it. Were I to have a recurrence or some other health crisis, you better believe I'd consider strongly sharing it in some way or another.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">For an observer to feel she has the right to grill someone for not sharing enough, or sharing too much when it's about something as personal as how one chooses to deal with one's cancer, is wrong, plain and simple. Privacy vs. exposure: I say it's a question of choice. The writer's choice.<br /><br />And in this space, my choice.</span></span>Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-91147899598931277892013-12-29T10:54:00.002-08:002014-01-01T14:13:26.188-08:00Turning Lemons Into Lemon DropsI'm always trying to teach my son to be flexible. This Christmas break, I had my own crash course in going with the flow, and it was harder than I might have expected.<br />
<br />
I was all set to take my M to visit family in St. Louis the Thursday after Christmas. But there was a major plot twist the Sunday before, when I turned my ankle and came down hard on it.<br />
<br />
I figured it was a sprain. But it was so puffed and painful by Monday, I decided I'd better pay a visit to my friendly podiatrist, Dr. S, who I'd already seen too much in 2013. Of course, I'd hurt my right ankle, so there was no thought of driving. Instead, I had to call a car service.<br />
<br />
Several X-rays later and voila!, lucky me, it was broken. Equipped with an air cast, aka Das Boot, I attempted to hail a car service. Dr. S was sending me to an orthopedist in case I needed a partial or full cast.<br />
<br />
But in a scene straight out of an old black-and-white melodrama, it was raining and there was no car to be had for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, given the timing--it was the day before Christmas Eve--I had to get to the orthopedist before he took off within the next hour. Despairing that I'd never make it, I began to cry the ugly cry.<br />
<br />
Finally, I went back into the office and told them of my plight, pleading with the receptionist, asking if I was close enough to walk to the orthopedist's. The receptionist, noting how distraught I was, asked Dr. S, who upon seeing me told me it was doable.<br />
<br />
And so I set out limping and pitiful in Das Boot, tears streaming down my face even as the rain streamed over my uncovered head. Normally, the few blocks' walk through Brooklyn Heights from Remsen to Amity is a picturesque one, thanks to the gracious old New York brownstones and gaslights. But I was oblivious to them that day. I was, to quote my son, a hot mess.<br />
<br />
I finally stopped crying when I landed in the orthopedist's office, despite the fact that it was situated in Long Island College Hospital and featured the word "surgery" on the door.<br />
<br />
When Dr. C finally saw me after examining my emailed X-ray, I was relieved to hear that I could continue in the walking cast. However, I would have to have X-rays repeated in three weeks, would probably be in Das Boot for six, and would need a cane for the inevitable slippery January days. (When my concerned podiatrist checked in with his broke-down patient later, he was more conservative, urging me to "baby" my ankle with crutches.)<br />
<br />
But I had other things to do first. When I wasn't icing my elevated ankle that Tuesday--Christmas Eve--I was soldiering on, planning a new line of attack on the St. Louis front. I called Delta and arranged for bulkhead seats and a wheelchair at the airport.<br />
<br />
Then my Uncle J started calling. He and my Aunt F, both well into their 70s, were concerned about me coming with the boy in tow when I was in such a sorry state. I finally relented. I had to admit it: I had a bag full of lemons in my hands. Time for Plan B, aka Operation Lemon Drop.<br />
<br />
I had feared how M might take news of the cancellation, but he was quickly appeased by Plan B. Now I just had to make sure it happened.<br />
<br />
After postponing the flight without a penalty--the folks at Delta couldn't have been nicer--I recalled that M is still at the stage where a hotel with a free breakfast and pool makes him feel like he's king of the world. (If there's a hot tub, he's even more jazzed.) And so I began my within-cab-fare Brooklyn-Queens hotel search, not an easy endeavor within a two-day window and on a scant budget. (Much of the St. Louis trip had been arranged with frequent flyer miles.)<br />
<br />
I scoured the discount sites for hours. Yelp reviews warned of bedbugs in one place, rude staff in another, and most New York hotels under $250 a night lacked pools. Finally, I found something.<br />
<br />
Sure, it was near LaGuardia, where I had to brace for noise. But it looked nice enough. And not only was there the holy grail, a pool, there was breakfast (I would later find out it wasn't free but cost $10 per room per day, one of the many add-ons I would run across in a tourist hotel) and that piece de resistance, a hot tub. Also, remember: I was desperate.<br />
<br />
With one room in my price range left, I booked a three-night stay.<br />
<br />
Good omen No. 1 came when I called the hotel that Friday after Christmas and learned we could check in early. By 2 p.m., the boy was soaking in the hot tub along with three local men over the age of 80 who belonged to the hotel's health club. It looked like something out of <i>Cocoon, </i>save for my energetic 10-year-old. He was soon schmoozing away, beguiling the old-timers.<br />
<br />
Before too long, he had ingratiated himself with one man and his caretaker, even helping with the man's walker and calling the caretaker his "babysitter." (Not that far off the mark, I'm afraid.) The caretaker offered M popcorn and then pizza delivered poolside, cementing the newfound friendship. I often worry that M attaches to strangers too hard and fast, but I agree with her--he made her charge's day.<br />
<br />
Day 2, my friend S came over with her two kids, making a full day of it at the pool. There were some rough patches when my boy wouldn't stop splashing and jumping in a "no jumping" zone, but by the end he and my friend's little girl were swimming underwater like "dolphins" together.<br />
<br />
Still, I needed to remember that lemon drops are sour as well as sweet. If I wanted to pick the hotel apart, I could complain about the scalding shower, the spotty internet connection, the TV charges, even the occasional, if expected, jet plane noise.<br />
<br />
But balancing it out were the lovely staff including J, the bartender who brought up our dinner despite the lack of room service; the man running the cereal-and-muffins breakfast buffet, who allowed M to take eggs from the section reserved for the spiffily dressed Korean Air flight crew; and the obliging dad from Albany who tossed my child in the water, making him squeal with delight (after said dad got my OK, of course).<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the sound of the jets took me back to one of the highlights of my childhood in St. Louis, when my mom and dad packed my two older brothers and me into the VW wagon and took off for Lambert Field, now St. Louis International Airport.<br />
<br />
This was a era when cars didn't have seat belts and they'd still let you throw a blanket down on the other side of the landing strip fence and watch the planes whoosh right overhead as they took off and landed. <span style="background-color: white;">I can't say I grew up in a happy family--what was it Tolstoy said? But these are my own lemon-drop memories, and now I was making them for my kid...right near an airport. </span><br />
<br />
This break, both my son and I had to become as flexible as Olympic gymnasts. To my mind, we each scored a perfect 10.<br />
<br />
To celebrate, I think I'll order up a Lemon Drop tonight, our last at the hotel--the kind with the vodka mixed in.<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-59097129407047000312013-12-14T11:54:00.000-08:002013-12-14T11:54:51.817-08:00My Body, Myself, Part 2First, the good news: I don't have a double chin.<br />
<br />
Now, the not-so-great news: I have an enlarged thyroid gland, aka a goiter. A goiter! Isn't that something people had in the Middle Ages? No, wait. That's gout. I don't have gout. Whew.<br />
<br />
But a goiter? That still sounds so...ancient. I know, I know, I'm 53, in the midst of my own middle ages. Maybe I'm in denial; I don't feel that old, certainly not as old as my mom and her friends seemed to me when <i>they</i> were 53.<br />
<br />
How did this happen? Who's responsible? I want names.<br />
<br />
<i>Anyway</i>, I digress. As some of you may know, in my <a href="http://thewaterswide.blogspot.com/">last installment,</a> I wrote that a blood test had shown no markers for BRCA1 and BRCA2 genetic mutations linked to breast cancer. I was shocked; given that I was diagnosed at 39 and my paternal grandmother died of the disease at 48, I'd expected very different news. Instead, I had major reason to celebrate, but the festivities were cut short by some less positive news: my insulin level was sky high.<br />
<br />
I knew that I'd had something to eat before the test, so I had reason to hope that had skewed the numbers. But given that I've had a dramatic weight gain over the past several years and my father had adult-onset diabetes and then a deadly heart attack when he was 56--a mere three years older than I am now--I got pretty scared.<br />
<br />
I did my best to remain calm as my gynecologist, who had ordered the bloods, sent me packing to the endocrinologist. It's a good thing she did. After I had donated about 10 vials of blood and collected two days' worth of pee in huge orange jugs--what can I say, I write what I know--my kindly new doctor called me back into her office to share some utterly confusing news.<br />
<br />
First, more good news: I don't have diabetes. (Collective sigh of relief.)<br />
<br />
But she did have some confounding news. I have some pretty funky thyroid issues going down. I have two sets of antibodies waging war inside my body. One causes hypothyroidism--<a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/hashimotos-disease/DS00567/DSECTION=symptoms">Hashimoto's disease</a>--while the other brings on hyperthyroidism--<a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/graves-disease/DS00181/DSECTION=symptoms">Graves' disease</a>). My doctor says the hyperthyroidism/Graves is winning out.<br />
<br />
Her immediate response: Along with ordering a two-day scan that involved me ingesting a radioactive pill to show my thyroid function and another round of bloods, she put me on megadoses of vitamins D3 and B12--apparently, I was seriously deficient--and ordered up a gluten-free diet, saying it makes a lot of people feel better.<br />
<br />
Of course, all this sent me to everyone's medical bible: the internet. Finally, I may have gotten some answers to much of what's been ailing me, much of which I attributed to stress. According to the Mayo Clinic, Graves' disease symptoms include fatigue--that's been a biggie--anxiety, difficulty sleeping. and even the fine tremor in my hands and fingers.<br />
<br />
My luck, the only symptom I don't seem to have is weight loss with no change in diet. Perhaps that's the fault of whatever's going on with the hypothyroid/Hashimoto's antibodies, which may also be causing the fatigue and sluggishness I've been feeling for months, if not years.<br />
<br />
I've been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support I've received from Facebook friends on this one, and slightly shocked by the number of women who's shared that they've had Hashimoto's and that they have plenty of tips for me if it turns out to be that. Interestingly, no one has mentioned Graves, but I'm sure there are sufferers out there.<br />
<br />
So now I'm in a holding pattern till I get the test results back and see my endocrinologist after the first of the year. I wish I could tell you more; I will as soon as I know.<br />
<br />
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I never had any doubt that I would beat it. I was lucky, for real. It had been caught early and treated aggressively.<br />
<br />
But I can no longer be blithe about my health. These thyroid issues have been taking me down, I don't even know for how long now.<br />
<br />
One thing's for sure: After a long break, I've strapped the oxygen mask back on.Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-8028447459983382802013-12-10T13:59:00.000-08:002013-12-10T13:59:03.364-08:00My Body, Myself, Part 1I've had some very good health news in the last couple of weeks, followed by some not so great news.<br />
<br />
First, the good stuff.<br />
<br />
In mid-October, my gynecologist suggested she draw bloods in her office, despite the fact that I'd had coffee with milk and a power bar that morning. I think she knew if she gave me a prescription to take to a lab, I might never get there.<br />
<br />
She had good reason to doubt me: I've been letting too many things get in the way of taking care of myself for more than a few years now. (Oxygen mask? What oxygen mask?)<br />
<br />
She also brought up the idea, again, of screening me for <a href="http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Risk/BRCA">BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene mutations</a>, which increase the risk of breast cancer. The one caveat: whether insurance would cover the hefty bill.<br />
<br />
I was already pretty sure I was a slam dunk for having them. Diagnosed with breast cancer at 39, I'm of Ashkenazi Jewish descent, making me more at risk for said mutations. My paternal grandmother died of breast cancer at 48. My maternal grandmother had it, too, though I've learned that since her main diagnosis was leukemia, her breast cancer "doesn't count" in the genetic Russian roulette.<br />
<br />
So <a href="http://midlifeattheoasis.com/stuff-i-love/guest-posts/beth-arky-on-breast-cancer-and-the-environment/">I vowed</a><span id="goog_1562899134"></span><span id="goog_1562899135"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a> three years that I was finally going to have the testing done. If it turned out I was "a genetically loaded gun" at increased risk for ovarian cancer I would, as I wrote so elegantly, "cut those potential time bombs out of my body."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Instead, it turns out I can be a very big talker. I dawdled. I figured, why find out? Was I really ready to have my predisposition confirmed and then decide whether to have prophylactic surgery--the removal of both breasts and my ovaries? It's something <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/27/health/in-israel-a-push-to-screen-for-cancer-gene-leaves-many-conflicted.html?_r=0">Jewish Israeli women</a> are grappling with right now as leading scientists there push for what may be the first national screening for cancer-causing genetic mutations.<br />
<br />
Back in 1999, I had a lumpectomy, followed by chemo and radiation, and have been monitored closely these past 14 years. The one thing that did weigh on me was how much it would help my family to know about our genetics, but to me this vital test became just one more to-do that fell by the wayside in an ultra-stressed life.<br />
<br />
But in that moment at the gynecologist's, she tossed out the screening idea so casually, I ditched my clearly genetic predisposition to overthink everything. "What the heck?" I figured.<br />
<br />
I'm glad I did. A few weeks later, I was shocked to get a call from her office, saying that I didn't carry either gene mutation. I still need to think about having my ovaries removed per my oncologist--ovarian cancer is much more difficult to detect and therefore more deadly, and as a breast cancer survivor I have a higher risk. But my family is relieved by the news, and I have one less thing to worry about.<br />
<br />
Except that the bloods turned up one more thing to worry about. Ah, life is always full of twists and turns, isn't it? ...<br />
<br />
And with that cliffhanger, please stay tuned for My Body, Myself, Part 2.<br />
<br />
BethBeth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-9941244751561659582013-11-19T07:32:00.000-08:002013-11-19T07:32:14.858-08:00Que Sera, SeraWhen I was just a little girl, my mother loved to sing Doris Day's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc">"Que Sera, Sera"</a> to me. By then, Day had made her Oscar-winning song from the 1956 Hitchcock thriller <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0049470/">The Man Who Knew Too Much</a></i> her own theme.<br />
<br />
The song progresses from the perspective of a child to that of a parent, but of course I only remembered the first verse:<br />
<br />
"When I was just a little girl<br />
I asked my mother<br />
What will I be?<br />
Will I be pretty?<br />
Will I be rich?<br />
Here's what she said to me,<br />
<br />
"Que sera, sera,<br />
Whatever will be will be,<br />
The future's not ours to see,<br />
Que sera, sera."<br />
<br />
My mother's habit of singing to me was one of the many things, big and small, that cemented our bond. In fact, it's a tradition <a href="http://thewaterswide.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-blog-is-born.html">I've carried on with my own son</a>. At the time, the song seemed lighthearted and lovely, the implication being that everything was going to turn out fine.<br />
<br />
But today, the lyrics are bittersweet. Not knowing what the future holds can also be a very scary thing.<br />
<br />
My mother lived to see me marry at 33 but died four years later. I never saw it coming. I think I was in shock for more than a year.<br />
<br />
Yet even then I managed to maintain the laid-back "que sera, sera" philosophy. I had my health, a steady job and confidence in the future. But that was before I had breast cancer at 39 and lost my job at 46 when my industry–print journalism–imploded.<br />
<br />
Now, as the 53-year-old mother of a 10-year-old son and a freelance writer, I can no longer sit back and trust the idea that "whatever will be, will be."<br />
<br />
I want to know that everything will be all right–for him, for me–even though I'm old enough to have learned that life is about change, be it wonderful or awful. Just yesterday, my husband's employer laid off dozens of people. These are uncertain times.<br />
<br />
Lately, the song playing in my head isn't "Que Sera, Sera" but the Roches' <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJjJ6FNWFdI">"Mr. Sellack"</a>:<br />
<br />
"O Mr. Sellack,<br />
Can I have my job back?<br />
I've run out of money again.<br />
Last time I saw ya,<br />
I was singing Hallelujah,<br />
I'm so glad to be leavin' this restaurant.<br />
<br />
"Now the only thing I want,<br />
Is to have my old job back again.<br />
I clean the tables, I'll do the creams,<br />
I'll get down on my knees<br />
And scrub behind the steam table."<br />
<br />
When I was younger and everything felt possible, I moved solo, without a care, to Colorado, then New York. I guess I didn't know any better; the economy was also a whole lot healthier. Now, the prospect would keep me up nights.<br />
<br />
Apparently, <a href="http://www.lifehack.org/articles/communication/13-things-mentally-strong-people-dont.html">mentally strong people</a> don't shy away from change. The only thing we can control is how we react to the ever-shifting ground on which we stand.<br />
<br />
These days, as I struggle to keep my balance, I sometimes wish I were a girl again, with my mother singing "Que Sera, Sera"–and making me believe everything <i>is</i> going to be all right.Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-64958316360489818062013-11-15T14:42:00.000-08:002013-11-15T14:42:19.243-08:00The Blunt TruthThere are some beauty routines on which I will not skimp, highlights being the prime example. My hair is far too fine, as in thin, for me to be messing with bleach out of the box. This is a job for pros. Price is (almost) no object.<br />
<br />
As for haircuts, not so much. I've been to some of the swankiest salons in Manhattan and, try as they might with potions and dryers and sprays (oh my!), my locks remain limp. There's only so much magic in even the trendiest stylist's bag of tricks.<br />
<br />
To be blunt, all I need is a straight cut. For that, I can pay $20 at the old-timey local barbershop–the same one where my son lost his luscious first head of curls after I finally relented and agreed to take him at 3. (There are photos of me cringing in the background as his locks hit the floor.)<br />
<br />
Which is how I found myself in that testosterone-infused no-woman's land the other day. I watched at the two sixtysomething brothers who own the joint chatted away with their patrons, talkin' guy talk. One prime snippet: "I saw that Miley Cyrus riding a wrecking ball. The only thing real on her was her teeth."<br />
<br />
I decided to close my eyes and relax–there was no point in trying to interject my feminist opinion or engage my guy in chit chat. And so I sat quietly...until they cranked up the Lionel Ritchie.<br />
<br />
They usually play Frank, and I love me some Frank. But listening to the guys singing "You're once, twice, three times a lady" was too much for me. It was all I could do not to fall out of the chair laughing.<br />
<br />
They failed to see what I might find ridiculously funny about one of the schmaltziest wedding tunes of all time. Instead, they launched into whether it wouldn't be better if the woman in the song was "once, twice, three kinds of lady," leaving my barber to quip, "Yeah, a cook, a cleaner..." "and a breadwinner," I finished, ignoring the fact that the guy had scissors to my head.<br />
<br />
Did I get a decent cut? Sure. Was the price right? Yep.<br />
<br />
Do I care that they may have resented a woman entering their bastion of manhood? Nope. After all, I'm the one who won't hesitate to use the men's room when the line to the women's is winding around the block. <br /><br />But will I be back?<br />
<br />
Given that the last time I was at my salon, my colorist was dishing with me while Donna Summer and Edith Piaf played in the background, I may just have to find out what a junior stylist costs.Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-84140852729321870012013-11-13T08:09:00.000-08:002013-11-13T08:09:00.091-08:00And Then This Happened!Something really exciting happened yesterday, something I couldn't have timed any better. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've been feeling overwhelmed of late by a new freelance writing assignment, wondering what I've gotten myself into. On top of that, I had just decided to <i>start a blog</i>, of all things! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know I should be writing every day, or every other day, but I haven't come close. And yet, dear readers, I learned yesterday I was named one of <a href="http://www.babble.com/babble-voices/home-work/ten-bloggers-i-think-youll-love-as-much-as-i-do-part-i/">10 bloggers to love</a> by none other than blogger extraordinaire Katie Allison Granju over at Babble.com. You could have knocked me over with a feather!<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I won't deny connections came into play, at least initially. My dear college friend Kimi told her dear friend Katie about "The Water Is Wide." But from there, Kimi assures me, it was all up to Katie. Expanding on my "Water" theme, if she thought I stunk, I would have been sunk.<br /><br />Be sure to check out Katie's blog; I'm in some pretty awesome company.<br /><br />And thank you for your support. I'll do my best to write every day. Or every other day. Or something like that. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Beth</div>
Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-26163602011183270322013-11-12T04:59:00.000-08:002013-11-12T04:59:33.281-08:00The Curse of the Salted CaramelWe all know peanut butter and chocolate are two great tastes that taste great together. I've succumbed to more than my fair share of Reece's, thanks to what the advertisements would have you believe was a happy accident. (As if.)<br />
<br />
Now I've fallen fully for another match made in foodie heaven: salted caramel. Apparently, I'm behind the times, as the mashup's <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/31/dining/31cara.html?pagewanted=all">flavor of the year status</a> goes all the way back to 2008, after the idea was hatched in France, bien sur. All I know is that, along with pumpkin everything, it's everywhere now: in ice cream, in lattes, even in candy (!)<br />
<br />
I shouldn't be surprised by my craving, given that I'm a salty-sweet woman all the way. Clearly, I'm not alone: Cracker Jack dates from the 1890s, Reece's from the 1920s.<br />
<br />
My downfall: Steve's Salted Caramel ice cream, best eaten semi-soft. Now McDonald's has followed suit with its own (for now) limited-edition salted caramel sundae. And my college pal Kimi informs me that Haagen Dazs has it, too. I thought they only made caramel but, silly me, of course they're in the mix. As Kimi puts it, "I gotta have the salt, too."<br />
<br />
In the end, I guess I owe it all to my mother, who never met a <a href="http://thewaterswide.blogspot.com/2013/11/twas-day-after-halloween.html">Snickers</a> she didn't like.<br />
<br />
Mom, this scoop's for you.<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-3357534548979146082013-11-11T12:37:00.002-08:002013-11-23T09:34:25.137-08:00The Paper Chase<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">At the risk of sounding like the lady who doth protest too much, I am <i>not</i> a hoarder. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">According to the Mayo Clinic, "</span><a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/hoarding/DS00966" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">Hoarding</a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;"> is the excessive collection of items, along with the inability to discard them. Hoarding often creates such cramped living conditions that homes may be filled to capacity, with only narrow pathways winding through stacks of clutter." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">I don't do that. I'm not those people on TV, the ones who now have a bona fide psychiatric diagnosis. I can walk down my hall just fine, thank you very much.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">Just don't ask me to find the receipt for those two pairs of shoes that have to go back to </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Zappos</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">I maintain a facade of tidiness: I won't leave dirty dishes in the sink, the beds and bathrooms will get done, I've been known to vacuum on occasion, and I definitely maintain a clear path between rooms.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">But I have to face facts. I may not be a hoarder, but I'm a piler.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">Wikipedia–my go-to source unless my editors tell me not to go there–adds that </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compulsive_hoarding" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;">compulsive hoarding</a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.5em;"> causes "significant distress or impairment." Now that has a ring of truth to it. My H is clearly distressed, though I've reached the shrug-my-shoulders stage. As for impairment, see "Zappos receipt."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent;">The towers of books, magazines, shipping statements, and miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam just keep getting taller; a couple of them have reached the brink of toppling over. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent;">I must admit, it's starting to look a tad cluttered. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">I have reams of papers everywhere in the apartment: on the kitchen island, on my bedroom chairs, in baskets on the floor. You'd think I'd be more conscientious, given that some of it is important: medical forms, school progress reports, and the boy's precious handmade don't-you-dare-suggest-I-pitch-them birthday and Mother's Day cards. Yet somehow, I can never find the time. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I dread the prospect (?)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">It's not that I haven't made some token efforts. I've even bought cute canvas storage containers to give myself the illusion of organization, only to chuck everything in them without a thought. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">I wasn't always this way. My life used to fit neatly in one accordion folder, sorted out on a Sunday afternoon. But then things got messy and disorganized–funny how that can happen post-kid–and so did my paperwork. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">My friend J recently treated me to an evening of organization porn when she gave me a tour of her Real Simple/Martha Stewart basement. Everything was just where it should be, in carefully marked bins placed on carefully stacked shelving. I hadn't seen anything like it since the last time my Auntie Fran sent me downstairs for some paper towels from her BJ's-stocked basement. You could eat off her spotless floor. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">I felt both better and worse when J told me a professional had helped her do it–better because it meant she was just as lost as I am, worse because I could never afford to have someone come in and save me from myself like that. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">Meanwhile, another friend scanned and then shredded all of her paper. I must really love her to forgive such complete competence. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">So now the holidays are upon us and I'd really like to get things back in order so I could have some people over...</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">Oh, who am I kidding? Unless I get a storage unit where I can haul this mess, I'd much rather score some invites and forget the piles.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;">I just have to remember to leave the important stuff on top.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 1.5em;"><i>Postscript: After finishing this blog, I did a bit of cleaning. Apparently, writing about the piles was enough to make me do something about them.</i></span></div>
Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-42239985869218579272013-11-10T15:45:00.002-08:002013-11-10T15:45:43.077-08:00And the Leaves That Are Green...The other day, the boy entranced a new sitter by gathering a pile of the beautiful yellow-orange leaves scattered across our building's courtyard and fashioning them into a necklace for her; he even wrote a sweet card.<br />
<br />
At first, I didn't connect the fact that these gorgeous leaves came from the same cherry trees that provide a transitory riot of pink in the spring. When I did, I was struck by the fact that they provide beauty throughout the seasons.<br />
<br />
The sitter was in her 20s, in the spring of her life, brimming with a sort of enthusiasm I can't seem to muster these days. The leaves complimented her sunny disposition as much as her coral sweater.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've been feeling nostalgic for the spring of my 20s, 30s even 40s. Yes, I know in my head I'm supposed to be in a good place. I have dear friends with great sites (<a href="http://midlifeattheoasis.com/">Midlife at the Oasis</a>; <a href="http://bestofeverythingafter50.com/">The Best of Everything After 50</a>) telling me so. But as I get older and life gets more complicated, my heart is often heavy with worries that keep me up at night.<br />
<br />
I need to remember that, like the cherry trees, all seasons of life offer their own special beauty. That before the leaves turn to brown, they can provide a new jolt of color. That I have to try to find my own, bolder shades.<br /><br />I've never looked good in orange, but it might be time to try a splash of scarlet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-86790933090350389572013-11-01T06:36:00.000-07:002013-11-01T06:36:41.034-07:00'Twas the Day After Halloween<i>'Twas the day after Halloween, when all through the house, </i><br />
<i>The Snickers were snickering, "We won't tell a mouse."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The Twizzlers all wrapped in their cellophane fair,</i><br />
<i>Kept taunting, "Come eat us, till the cupboard is bare."</i><br />
<br />
It's the day after Halloween and <i>I want all the candy</i>. I'm thisclose to lowering my high chocoholic standards to gobble down every CVS-bought mini stowed in my son's bright orange pumpkin, along with the sticky high-fructose crap I could pass up easily at the checkout line.<br />
<br />
I'd be ready to eat it all–if it weren't for the photos.<br />
<br />
I'd left the house with a fresh coat of makeup and adorable giraffe ears, thinking I might like what I saw when my friend obligingly took some shots. But even with a 20-pound loss (give or take), I still didn't. My BMI is an SOB.<br />
<br />
I eat when stressed, plus I'm sure genes and possibly even my <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/06/health/gut-bacteria-from-thin-humans-can-slim-mice-down.html">gut bacteria</a> come into play. NYU's weight loss center sees obesity as a disease, not a character flaw. And then there's this: "<a href="http://www.childmind.org/en/posts/articles/2013-10-6-shoulders-giants-2013-nora-volkow-and-proteges">For some people, [processed food] is a drug of abuse</a>, and...many of us are equally unprepared to deal with synthetic substances as we are with synthetic pharmaceuticals," creating a "maladaptive" response–overeating.<br />
<br />
But none of it makes me look, or feel, any better.<br />
<br />
Despite all the science, society still judges the overweight–and overweight women, in particular–harshly. <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/stigma-obese-acceptable-prejudice/story?id=18276788">One headline</a> says it all: "Stigma Against Fat People the Last Acceptable Prejudice, Studies Find." As one researcher put it, "Thinness has come to symbolize important values in our society, values such as discipline, hard work, ambition and willpower. If you're not thin, you don't have them."<br />
<br />
Is it any wonder that I judge myself harshly, too? Yet it makes me angry that my sense of self is still so tied to appearance.<br />
<br />
Despite the fact that I know I have some good stuff going on and try to be kind to myself, it's hard not to buy into the general population's way of thinking when the evidence of my "lack of willpower" is apparent every time I pass my reflection, go clothes shopping or, yes, see myself in pictures. Unlike, say, alcoholism, the evidence of food addiction can't be hidden easily.<br />
<br />
Of course, it's not just about looks. I've never been small, but I used to be a lot fitter and trimmer. Over the years, I swam, skied, went to the gym. Now, my only hustle involves chasing after the boy. I can only hope my <a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/10/31/how-old-is-your-health/?src=me&ref=general&_r=0">"fitness age"</a>–my body's ability to deliver oxygen to its cells–is better than I think it is at this point. I'm not talking about wanting to be slim anymore, just healthy.<br />
<br />
Still, I wish I were more like the boy, able to put down a half-eaten dark Hershey's and then forget it. I could learn a lot from him. He loves, but doesn't live for, his treats.<br />
<br />
And so I will be posting no selfies this Halloween. Instead, I'll battle to avoid eating all things–even the snickering mini Snickers calling my name.<br />
<br />
And maybe even take a walk.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-71127696794412859582013-10-29T06:07:00.000-07:002013-10-29T06:16:36.503-07:00The Writing LifeThe other day, I did something I try to avoid: I jumped into one of those silly Facebook games. This one had me soliciting words to describe me starting with the letter "A." I would have been happy to receive complimentary but generic terms like "awesome." Instead, to my great surprise, I earned words like "author," "astute" and "articulate" (three times).<br />
<br />
Why was I taken aback? Because this writer thing is still relatively new to me; I still don't think of myself as an "author." I only started 10 years ago, after I got laid off from my last magazine editing job. Prior to that, I'd spent 25 years behind the scenes, sans byline, first as a copy editor and then an editor.<br />
<br />
As much as I loved working with words, I lacked the confidence to put my own work out there. During college newspaper internships, it became clear that my natural strength was in editing, not daily reporting. Instead, I respected writers even as I pushed them. ("This needs rephrasing, it isn't clear." "Where's that story? I need it <i>now</i>.")<br />
<br />
As much as I preferred staying relatively anonymous while working for great national publications, I did get a lot of pleasure from writing particularly good display. I've had the luck of working with some very smart, hilariously creative headline writers with whom I engaged in a competitive camaraderie; I'd flush with pride when I came up with something that made them laugh. <br />
<br />
But ask me to stare at a blank screen and write and I'd freeze–at least until I entered back into the job market and learned no one was interested in hiring editors. I had to accept this brave new online world, where it's all about providing <i>content.</i> Luckily for me, a friend was willing to give me a chance writing a humor blog for <a href="http://www.seventhgeneration.com/learn/blog/paper-trail-my-kitchen">Seventh Generation</a> about my learning curve as I attempted to green my family. People started telling me I had a strong voice, though I still didn't believe it.<br />
<br />
But I kept going, realizing I had observations on just about everything. Like so many others with something to say, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/beth.arky">Facebook</a> became my watercooler.<br />
<br />
Then I started writing for the <a href="http://www.childmind.org/en/press/brainstorm/daryl-hannah-reveals-her-autism">Child Mind Institute</a>, where I've often struggled with the process but have been proud of the results, focusing on topics that mean a great deal to me. I've been lucky to have skillful editors–and I'm not just saying that in case they happen to stumble across this space. I find everything fascinating, which leads to some massive word counts. I need a good editor! I've also been thrilled to find support from expected, and wonderfully unexpected, corners.<br />
<br />
And now I've taken the ultimate leap, getting personal on my own blog. I look back and see I was always a writer, I just didn't think of it that way. My cousins and I got a great belly laugh when we discovered my diary. The day the Vietnam War ended, my cynical 13-year-old self wrote, "I'll believe it when I see it." My log of my summer camp's road trip to Colorado led to me write an essay decades later that ended up in an <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Winter-Harvest-Jewish-Writing-2006-2011/dp/0965788024">anthology of St. Louis Jewish writers</a>. (Somewhere, my mother is still kvelling.)<br />
<br />
The challenges are great: Aside from my own near-constant writer's block, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/27/opinion/sunday/slaves-of-the-internet-unite.html?_r=0">the struggle to get paid</a> what one is worth, let alone paid at all, is well-documented. But now that the door is open, there's been no closing it. I have ideas for articles, for books, for songs.<br />
<br />
All I need is the time. And discipline. But hey, at least I've written my fourth blog. I wasn't sure I'd get that far.<br />
<br />
To infinity and beyond!<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-8915046260293144752013-10-26T19:16:00.001-07:002013-10-26T19:16:33.182-07:00You Can Go Home AgainGame 3 of the 2013 World Series, the Cardinals are home, and I'm cheering them on from my Brooklyn apartment. It's funny; when I was growing up in St. Louis, I couldn't wait to get out of what felt like a suffocating suburban purgatory. But time and circumstances can change everything. Now I'm a proud Midwesterner who looks forward to every visit.<br />
<br />
Watching the Cards brings back memories of our split level with the dinette set featuring a faux-wood blue table and white pleather swivel chairs. My brother, C, would lie on the downstairs family room floor, eating Oreos and drinking gallons of milk, cheating the family pudge thanks to the miles he swam every day.<br />
<br />
Decades later, I live a world away from my pink bedroom and green Gremlin. Now when I go back, I marvel at the ease of living and cherish the family and friends who know me best of all. I fantasize about a backyard with a trampoline for my boy. I value the things I took for granted.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure when I'll return to the nest. But tonight, the Cards are bringing it home, and bringing me home, too.<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-69238792886822431882013-10-25T16:02:00.001-07:002013-10-25T16:02:43.751-07:00So Why "The Water Is Wide"?Just in case you haven't had a chance to search under James Taylor The Water Is Wide, let me try to explain why I chose the title for my blog.<br />
<br />
It starts as a paean to love, with lyrics dating from the 1600s:<br />
<br />"The water is wide, I can't cross over.<br />
And neither have I wings to fly.<br />
Build me a boat that can carry two,<br />
And both shall row, my love and I."<br /><br />But then comes the verse that stops me every time:<br /><br />"There is a ship and she sails the sea,<br />
She's loaded deep, as deep can be.<br />
But not as deep as the love I'm in,<br />
I know not how I sink or swim."<br /><br />
From this point, the song is no longer about romantic love; it speaks to a feeling much more profound and primal–the love I have for my son.<br />
<br />
Sometimes in life I sink, but I have no choice. I'm a mother.<br />
<br />
I swim.<br />
<br />
<br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246834870569214084.post-64394339824770640902013-10-25T15:21:00.000-07:002013-10-25T15:21:32.246-07:00A Blog Is Born!I've been hearing it for years.<br /><br />"You have to do a blog."<br />
<br />
I've resisted, for many reasons. I don't have time. I can't juggle one more thing. I'm private, at least until you get me talking.<br />
<br />
It's not that I don't blog, but I've only done it for organizations–nothing really personal. <br /><br />
I save my witty, touching and/or "you've got to see this cute dog!" posts for Facebook. At least until now. After all, it's 2013. Time to get with it.<br /><br />I named my blog after a beautiful traditional song I used to sing to my son, now 10, every night. If you don't know it, you might want to give it a listen. I'd include a link but I'm not sure if that breaks copyright laws. (I have so much to learn.) Just search under James Taylor The Water Is Wide.<br />
<br />
I think you'll get it.<br />
<br />
And if you're looking for someone to blame for unleashing yet another blogger into the blogosphere–say that fast 10 times--blame Nancy.<br />
<br />
I do.<br /><br />Beth Arkyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03522834933243475180noreply@blogger.com0