Honoring The Kennedys

My mother was a big fan of the Kennedy family who were popular in the way that rock stars were. The charisma of John F. Kennedy and his family lead them to their being called the figurative designation of Camelot. This name was credited by Jacqueline Kennedy in view of John’s affection for the musical. Jacqueline Kennedy was admired for her style and elegance and I vividly remember my mother trying to mimic her wardrobe in her own closet. Even though my mother wasn’t much into politics, like many other Americans, she was swept away by the family’s allure and charisma.

I will also never forget that dismal day, November 22, 1963. I was in the third grade and the principal’s voice came on the loud speaker and told us that we should stand up behind our chairs because he had an important piece of news. “I’m very sad to report that our beloved President Kennedy has just been assassinated in Dallas, Texas.” The word ‘assassinated’ became part of my vocabulary that week, It was one of our ten spelling words and echoed repeatedly all week long on the black and white television perched on the small table in our living room. Our weekend writing assignment was to write an essay titled, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country,” in honor of Kennedy’s words spoken at his inaugural address.

Yesterday I watched Ted Kennedy’s Memorial Service, this time on a colored television but with similar feelings of admiration. As a grown woman, I now have a better understanding of the important mark some people make on our country’s history and how their legacy will live on. Ted Kennedy served forty years of his life in the senate, and after watching highlights from his speeches and interactions throughout those years, one can clearly see how much fun he must have been to work with; how his strong sense of humor lightened up some very tenuous moments. During these difficult economic times, this could be a lesson to us. Let’s lighten up, be thankful for the good things and remember to make the most of our sense of humor!

Rest in peace, Ted Kennedy.

The Universal Rhythm of Music

My family has always believed all birthdays are a cause for celebration, but this past weekend was a special celebration in honor of my father-in-law’s 85^th. There were close to seventy adoring people. After the events of the past month, I was delighted to have something positive to celebrate.

I cherish my father-in-law and there is not much I would not do to honor him, the family patriarch who for years has filled our family with his love, generosity and wisdom. This year’s celebration was particularly important in view of his recent diagnosis with Parkinson’s Disease. We have all grown accustomed to watching him sit uncharacteristically quiet during our family meals and discussions. Through his occasional questions, we know he is paying attention, but his interaction has been severely hampered since the onset of his disease.

The highlight of the evening was the presence of two Hungarian musicians, a violinist and guitar player. I watched as my father-in-law was transported by the music to his childhood growing up in Komarno. When the musicians arrived he sat watching in shock and then stood up, and began singing and dancing in the living room of his grandiose Toronto apartment to each melody and song played. It was as if he went into a blissful trance. I don’t remember him dancing like that since my wedding in 1977 where he swung me around the dance floor. We mostly watched in awe, but a few of us took the opportunity to get up and dance with him one by one. I was amazed by the way the  music took him out of his cocoon and brought so much joy to this eventful day.

At the airport I picked up the magazine, A Scientific Mind and there was an article very apt to the situation encountered at my father-in-law’s party. The article was entitled, “Why Music Moves Us.”  It discussed how music was the universal language. The neurologist Oliver Sacks in his recent book, Musicophilia, says, “Music seems to be the most direct form of emotional communication.”

As the mother of a son who is a musician I have seen the power of music and how it  can sway the human spirit. For years music has been shown to improve both mental and physical well-being. In the elderly it has been shown to decrease anxiety and agitation. So now, I am suggesting to my beloved mother-in-law to push self-medication with music, even if it means hiring musicians once a month for a live personal concert. There is nothing to lose, but so much to gain and Oliver Sacks professes, “Music is the most direct and mysterious way of conveying and evoking feelings. It is a way of connecting one consciousness to another. I think the nearest thing to telepathy is making music together.”

In Memory of Rynn Williams

For me, this has been a month of loss. Early last week I had even more bad news. I received an email from my friend, Molly Fisk, informing me that our mutual colleague and friend, Rynn Williams, was found dead in her bathtub by her dog sitter. Although her death has since been determined accidental, an autopsy will be performed. Rynn was 47 and leaves behind three children under the age of 13.

I first met Rynn many years ago in Molly’s online Poetry Boot Camp. It was during her earlier years as a poet and all of us critiqued one another’s poetry online. Many of the poets were mediocre, but Rynn’s words always rose to the top. Each day, I looked forward to her latest installment. The boot camp would last five days and each of us were required to turn in our poems by 12 midnight each day. More often than not, Rynn’s poems arrived in the early morning hours, perhaps her most creative time, or the time when she finally got her little ones to bed. Her poems were rarely in what seemed to be a rough draft. They were sharp and poignant and always touched a nerve in me. I am happy that I had the chance to work with her and more than once what a fine poet I thought she was. One reviewer of her books said that Rynn’s poems are “like X-rays that scrutinize each moment.’

It was no surprise to me when years later I learned that Rynn won the Prairie Schooner Prize for Poetry for her first collection, Adonis George. I recall months later attending her reading in Grass Valley, CA with Molly Fisk. A mentor once told me that if a poet’s words stay with you long after their reading, then that’s the power of a good poet. Rynn had that power – so much of her work continues to resonate with me. I had been in touch with Rynn over the years – her emails, like her poetry, were terse, yet caring. Some time later, I was honored to join Rynn for a coffee in New York. For obvious reasons, that rendez-vous is now more poignant than ever now. The events of these past few weeks are a reminder to enjoy every day and moment spent with loved ones.

Here is one poem from Adonis George:

West Chelsea

I am going to leave the city tonight,

the handball courts and the Gemini Diner,

I am going to forget about east 33^rd street,

the penthouse, the Rawhide, the banks of elevators,

I want to forget the route of the C train,

the smell of the tracks when you jump down

to cross them, I want to fall asleep

and not dream of multitudes, I want to forget

that on West Fourth and Hudson my friend

held his forehead together with his hands,

I am going to abandon my FDNY cap

on top of a hydrant in alphabet city,

my Lucite stilettos on a shrine in the Bronx,

I want nothing but horizontal lines

so I don’t have to get on my knees in the intersection,

I am going to pick up my body and move it

to a town where the streets are perfectly logical,

I am going to drive east on the LIE

until the only rumble is in the pit of my stomach,

I am going to shred all my take-out menus,

I am going to eat dinner at six o’clock,

I am going to be a loser and love it –

get in my car and drive east to the ocean,

until I can’t stand the silence

and have to come home.

 

 

Life and Death Journaling

 This past week has taught me, that in learning how to die we learn how to live. The three prominent female figures in my life were struck by disasters. My 79 year old mother fell off her horse and sustained a severe subdural hematoma and has been in ICU, my mother-in-law, Jeannine is on a remote cardiac monitor and my favorite aunt Lilly and second mother, passed away. I don’t know who to write about first, as they are all such unique and dynamic women.

My mother has been riding since an early age and even though we tried to get her to stop she said she wanted to die on her horse. She always hung around with younger riders and has had a youthful spirit. I am happy she’s had this passion, but now as she slowly reclaims her memory and talking abilities after the accident, she finally agrees that she must give up riding and find a more age-appropriate hobby. We were told that her subdural hematoma was so large that if she was 20, she would probably be in a coma.

Aunt Lilly is my husband’s aunt, but I’ve known her for more than thirty-five years. She died in her sleep at the age of 88 after a tumultuous yet successful life. I suppose what I admired about her most was how in spite of all she had been through, she never wore her heartaches on her sleeve. She was a bright, vibrant and positive woman who was a successful clothing designer in Montreal where we lived during our early marital years. When Lilly’s daughter, Norma, phoned to ask if I would speak at her memorial I was honored to be included.

Here is my eulogy: Some people are immortal and Lilly Dee is one of those. I met Lilly more than 35 years ago when I married Simon. We immediately had a connection, but, more importantly, I so admired her vibrant spirit, positive attitude, sense of humor and snippets of wisdom. Lilly always seemed to say and do the right thing at the right time. Uncle Ernie called her the family diplomat as she always told us like it was with the right balance of honesty, grace, and compassion and like her brother Alex, with the sensibilities of a wise sage. I’d like to read a poem from my recent collection, Dear Anaïs: My Life in Poems for You. (Note: For those of who have my book, you will notice that I modified the last stanza for the occasion)

My Navigator

   Dedicated to Aunt Lilly

From the moment we met

I loved you, right there,

in your country house on a remote lake,

Hungarian cheese spread smeared on Swedish crackers,

chicken paprika draped over a mound of mashed potatoes,

that long French Canadian wood table,

delightful culinary aromas from your kitchen,

lively paintings and portraits enveloping your walls,

books piled on your bedside table.

Oh how I miss the warmth of your home,

nestled in your easy laugh and zest for life.

I knew I wanted to grow old like you,

proud shoulders pulled back,

despite years in concentration camp

and the loss of two adoring husbands.

I shall forever be impressed by your sense of humor,

how you called my husband the glue doctor

after he developed a prosthetic cement;

your fine attire as a clothing designer,

positive tint to life’s idiosyncrasies, and yearning

for learning and travel.

I sit here with the memory of your accented voice

and how you said you had to go to your room to

‘brush your tits,’ and how each time

we looked into one another’s eyes

we had a connection which transcended

any words I could blend on these lines.

You’ve helped me navigate through every

stage of this woman’s life and shown me

how to survive all that I’ve been through

and for this I thank you.

Lilly, your spirit remains forever alive.

Rest in peace.

Journaling About Spirituality

For the past few weeks I have attended a Sunday lecture at the Vedanta Temple. The temple is situated in a peaceful mountain setting and the atmosphere permeates with naturally-growing sage and magnificent views of the Pacific Ocean. Something about being on the property or even sitting on the temple stairs, nourishes and restores the soul. The energy or karma of the environment has a massaging quality, whether it is the, views, singing birds, the book store with hard-to-find books, the talks or a combination of all the above, something draws me back each week.

I am not a religious person, but I am spiritual. The Vedanta philosophy prophesizes a oneness of spirit. The ideas is that God or Brahman exists in every living being. Religion is considered a search for self-knowledge (which I am a big advocate of), or a search for the divine within ourselves. Vedanta philosophy believes that there are no accidents, only destinies as a result of cause and effect. (I really believe this also). It also stresses the idea of self-effect.

I find the Sunday lecture subjects to be both fascinating and captivating. Last week the Swami spoke about visualization and how our five senses make us feel one with the world. Having said that, we can see that if a memory haunts you, then the experience and visual memory can actually bring back the memory. In order to visualize something it’s good to start with something simple and then become familiar with the object through visualization. Start with a vague image of a person or thing and then as you become more familiar with it, you will notice even more details. Keep in mind that the emotional connection with the person or object gives us the will to visualize. In summary, we all affect our own future by using our imagination.

This past week the discussion was about the first Swami who brought the Vedanta teachings to the west. As a writer, the most interesting part of the lecture was his discussion about how reading biographies of great people is a form of spiritual practice. It was said that we if we can identify with these people, then we can change and improve our own lives. In view of this, I began thinking about my childhood and our weekly trips to the library where I would always head directly to the biography section. I loved reading about real stories about real people. I suppose that was my own personal spiritual practice which continues this many years later.

What do you think?

Happy 106th Birthday Grandma !

Last week my grandmother, Regina would have celebrated her 106^th birthday! After studying her life while writing my recent memoir, Regina’s Closet: Finding My Grandmother’s Secret Journal, I realized that even though there were many aspects of our personalities which were similar—our lives and times cannot to be compared.

My grandmother lived through two world wars, and although there were already two wars in my own lifetime—The Vietnam War and The Gulf War—their physical proximity only were only as close to me as my television screen. What must life have been like in 1903 without radio and television? Imagine only knowing of the beginning war from the soldiers marching through the streets of your hometown or some distant newspaper finally making it to your doorstep? Surely, life was tougher when technology was not an integral part of society, but in many ways it was much less complicated—priorities were family and survival and the wondrance if the daily bread would appear on the kitchen table, or even be delivered to the corner grocer because of war-torn districts. Now we worry about whether the newspapers will survive the technological advancement and stressful economical times or if our environment will survive our waste.

In the end, we must always have our lives in the proper perspective.

Honoring Fathers

Honoring Fathers

Yesterday, in honor of Father’s Day, I spent many moments meditating on wisdoms of fathers around the world, but in particular, my own father, who passed away in late 1991. During the years following his death, and on each third Sunday of June, when kids around the world celebrated fathers, I would cry relentlessly from morning to night. Now., many years later, I have accepted the loss and the fact that my father will never come back. Instead of mourning his death, I have decided to pay tribute to my wonderful father’s spirit by propagating all the wisdoms he shared during the thirty-seven years we shared. My father, who had survived the Holocaust. was a forgiving man who taught me not to hold grudges against people and that if I didn’t have something nice to say I shouldn’t say anything at all. He was gracious and demonstrated the fine art of giving and receiving love. He also showed me the intrinsic value of compassion, working hard and being happy.

My father, Edward Marquise, was a man who continuously counted his blessings and was appreciative for each day he spent on this earth. In spite of losing both his parents and baby brother, Josh in WWII, just days before his fifteen birthday, he made it his life’s mission to bring happiness and joy to anyone who crossed his path—whether family, friend or stranger. His greatest pleasure rested in bringing a smile to someone’s face. He loved telling jokes and although he was never a rich man, he had enough for a comfortable life and housed a rich spirit and zest for life.

Only when illness took over him and his vitality dwindled, did he decide that enough was enough.. In the end, my father’s smoking habit took away his life and although at times I am upset that he never tossed out the cigarettes, which eventually killed him, I try to focus on all the powerful wisdoms he shared with me during his lifetime.

What Story Are You Being Asked to Tell ?

Whether your chosen genre is fiction, nonfiction or poetry, you have a unique story to tell. For many writers, reliving and retelling childhood stories are common platforms. We often return to those times because they were filled with pain, joy or unanswered questions.

As writers we are often intuitive in regard to what we want to share and more often than not, there’s a story in us yearning to be told. However, once in a while we get stumped. Often times, the best story ideas come to us when we are not sitting at our desks ‘working,’ but rather when we are out and about, ‘not working.’ It’s important to be alert to those mundane moments in our every day life—odd discoveries and chance remarks made by others in the social, work or casual setting. Weaving these incidents with known facts about oneself, help make the story compelling.

My morning ritual is to read the newspaper and during the course of a day a magazine or two. Sometimes I will surf the web researching an idea which will lead me to something else intriguing, perhaps reminding me about a story I wanted to write some time ago, but forgot about. In my drawer, I have a file folder called, “Writing Ideas,” which includes all the stories I hope to tell one day. Whether I get to them or not is another story, but at least the file is there for when my well dries up. When you get really stuck, here are some questions you might want to ask:

1)    What is going through your head?

2)    What do you think about most often?

3)    Who are your villains? Who are your heroes?

4)    What are you obsessed by?

5)    What inspires you?

6)    Where are you in your life now?

7)    What stories are you drawn to read?

 

Whatever you choose to write, you will soon learn that the creative journey is similar to life—it is unpredictable, unstructured, mysterious and laden with miracles.

In her book, Negotiating With the Dead: A Writer on Writing (2002), Margaret Atwood says this, “Writing has to do with darkness, and a desire or perhaps a compulsion to enter it, and, with luck, to illuminate it, and to bring something back out into the light.”

In Writing (1993) Marguerite Duras says, “Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome.”

William Faulkner believed that there’s a more profound reason why writers write. “An artist,” he says, “is a creature driven by demons. He has a dream. It anguishes himself so much he must get rid of it.” Whatever this dream is writers often loose sleep until the project is completed and this is how they uncover the story they have to tell.

 In many ways, writing could be thought of as a modern, guilt-free replacement for confession. This might be one reason so many people are drawn to writing memoirs and personal essays. Writing about real life experiences is like a snake shedding its skin and leaving a former self behind. It’s easier moving forward when the baggage from the past is dropped. Franz Kafka summarized this idea beautifully by saying, “I write in order to shut my eyes.” Fiction writers might argue that they write fiction so that they can tamper with the facts in their life and that they have more freedom during the writing process.

In her essay, “Why am I a Writer,” Joan Didion says, “Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

In essence, we write to know ourselves. Even our darkest—or unknown—thoughts, memories and fears can transform to reveal value and meaning for us. And with any luck, for others as well.

                                            

 

 

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My journal is full of seeds, some of which will blossom into full-fledged projects and others will fizzle. Just like the beautiful process of fertilization—some eggs  get fertilized and some don’t. Speaking of which, my first book, Getting Pregnant and Staying Pregnant: A Guide to Infertility and High-Risk Pregnancy (Hunter House, 1988) is now being updated and next year the 20^th anniversary edition will be released. I am working with Dr. Errol Norwitz, the Co-Director of Yale-New Haven Hospital’s Ob-Gyn unit. This year my eldest daughter, Rachel turns 25 and I started writing this book on a typewriter while on bed rest with her! It took me three years to write. In fact, she designed the first book cover. Now Rachel is old enough to be a mother herself. Although she’s not even married yet, wouldn’t it be cool if this newly-revised book could be a guide for her during her own pregnancy?

 

By the way, I am looking for anecdotes from women who have had difficulties during their pregnancy. Do you have any that you’d like to share?

 

Post #5

 

By the way my pregnancy book began as a journal of my pregnancy. Eventually the journal was condensed into the book’s introduction and the book evolved into a self-help book for other women also experiencing difficult pregnancies. So you never know where your journaling might lead you. Have any of your journals or anyone you know had journals which turned into published articles or books?

 

Post #6

 

Most of my articles and books are first written long-hand in my journals. Studies have shown that there is something about the creative juices which flow when the pen meets the paper. Actually, I do my best writing in airplanes. Less distractions? High concentration of oxygen? Where do you do your best writing?

 

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Post

Instead, I have just pulled down from the shelf in my library one of the many random volumes of journals I’ve filled over the years. A red un-lined journal with parchmont paper that I used while studying poetry with Sharon Olds in Key West back in the early 2000’s. I revisit a poem about women’s purses and how sacred they are—clutched close, jammed with receipts, phone numbers and unsent letters. Very sacred, just like my anniversary.

So what are your thoughts about women’s purses? What do you look for in a purse?

Journaling About Authors and Food

“Sometimes people say I am unusual because I cook and write. I smile and nod and think aren’t these things that everyone should do? I cook and write for one reason; I like to make stuff.” These are the words of writer Greg Atkinson in the forward of an anthology called Literary Feast: The Famous Authors Cookbook. I truly believe in Greg’s words and feel honored to be included in this collection put together by The King County Library Foundation. However it wasn’t easy to decide which recipe to include in this collection. After being married for 32 years and raising three kids, I have my share of favorites. I started by pulling out my self-compiled handwritten cookbook and listing in my journal the family’s all-time favorites. The recipe I chose to submit has been carried with me from my childhood—Wiener Schnitzel. I was asked to write a few words before introducing the recipe and here’s what I wrote:

“I have an Austrian mother and had a Polish grandmother, so this crispy Schnitzel recipe, with home-fired potatoes, was a staple in our home. It was the dish we had once a week and was always served when visitors were invited for dinner. You can say that I was brought up on this meal. Also it was often accompanied by a sliced cucumber salad marinated in vinegar and water. Although I didn’t mention this recipe in my recently published memoir, Regina’s Closet: Finding My Grandmother’s Secret Journal, it was a huge part of my childhood. My children, now all grown, have also learned to love this favorite dish of their ancestors.”

This wonderful collection also includes recipes from 90 authors, including David Baldacci, Elizabeth Berg, J.A. Jance, Jonathan Kellerman, Alexander McCall Smith and John Saul. By the way, it makes a wonderful gift for all the writer friends in your life.

You may order a copy for $22.95 from: www.thriftbooks.com. Happy cooking! Until you get your own personal copy, here is my recipe:

Wiener Schnitzel

4 thin slices of veal scaloppini

bowl of flour bowl of bread crumbs

2 eggs oil salt and pepper

• Assemble three deep bowls. In one put the flour, in the second beat the two eggs and in the third pour the bread crumbs. Start with moderate amounts of flour and bread crumbs, you can always add more as needed. • Flatten the veal with a meat mallet. Season on both sides with salt and pepper. • Dip both sides of the veal in the flour. Shake off excess. • Dip the flour-coated veal into the egg, making sure veal is completely covered. Lift up and allow excess to drip off. • Lay the veal in the breadcrumbs and make sure it gets coated on both sides. • To help the breading adhere to the meat during cooking, you can place the cutlets on wax paper in the refrigerator for one hour. • Use a large frying pan and heat oil (can use half oil and half butter) until it gets hot enough that the cutlet sizzles when you put it in. It usually only needs about 2-3 minutes per side. Drain on paper towels. Serve immediately. This is also delicious served cold for the next day’s lunch.

The Notebook and Story Ideas

If you are a published writer you’ve surely been asked where you get your story ideas. What non-writers don’t understand is that coming up with story ideas is the easy part of being a writer. The more challenging part is finding the time to write. Crafting a compelling story using an angle that will grab an editor or publisher is also a challenge. Let’s face it, story ideas have been the same for centuries – love, hate, money, women, men and sex—but what has changed is the way in which stories are told.

It’s been noted that 95 percent of the ideas writers jot down in their notebooks do not end up into publishable work and only a mere five percent are what we call literary gems. Figuring out the ideal time out  to launch your idea to the literary community is also crucial. Often times if you think about what is interesting to you, your friends or loved ones, then chances are those are the subjects which will be interesting to your readers as well.

This reminds me of a comment made by an editor I visited at a New York publishing house some weeks ago. I asked her what was selling, and she turned to me while looking for a book on the shelf and said, “We have a saying in the publishing world that anything about Lincoln and everything about dogs, sells.”

So there you have it – just in case you were wondering what to write about!