Revising the Editor

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Revising the editor

Limits, rules, restrictions, guidelines, walls,

trigger my auto-response of

arising fierce Kali-spirit

that demands the shaking off

of the yoke burdening my shoulders,

spitting out the bit between my teeth,

severing the ball and chain cutting into my ankle,

and pulling the barbed wire from around my throat,

to run wildly into

the free dark woods of my intuition

Only to wander

Confused at the confusion that

my primal need for freedom

might cause the rest of the selves around

who earnestly want to understand

what I am trying to convey…

Beyond my defenses that protect where my heart

has been inscribed on the page

Is my yearning to connect deeply

using the instrument of my body/mind/ heart

and yours.

Truth must have some way

to the sacred water

that runs through us all

Slowly back stepping toward

my perceived prison

and now seeing

Walls were intricate bridges

Structure wanted not to contain

but to lend a skin of coherence.

Rules were noble agreements,

lending a lantern

of Illuminated common language,

limits only the background upon

which to create the limitless forms.

Finally

I get it-

the edit.

 

 

 

 

 

Hankies and Goodbyes

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“Well, I suppose I better hit the road. It’s a long drive home and I have work and classes tomorrow.”  There was a time when I used to wonder why those words caused my mother to cry. The reaction then required more words as if they had somehow created a chain reaction. “Please don’t cry mom. It won’t be that long until I come back.”
She always had a handkerchief tucked away in her sleeve on the mornings she knew I would be leaving. As I stood to walk to the door the tears began filling her eyes and what had been a face filled with laughter and delight all weekend had quickly turned to sorrow and sadness.

Dad always managed to stay close and would place a comforting hand on moms back while walking along beside her following me to the door. As we stood on the front porch I would first give dad a quick hug. I can still feel his whiskers on my cheek as he said something like, “Take’er easy now and get home safe.” Then I would turn to mom seeing her face and gentle little hands reaching for a hug which always made it difficult for me to hide the tears as well. But I had learned over the years that if I cried it only made it more difficult for mom. Besides, no young man wants his father to see him crying. Mom had a way of giving a loving hug but you could also tell when she knew that it was time to let her baby go.

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Quickly turning away to hide my tears as I headed toward my car there was yet more left in this whole chain reaction. Trying to shed some humor was typical for me and I would teasingly say something like, “Now please don’t worry about me mom, I’ll try to hold the speed below 100 miles per hour!” Her retort was always one of, “Now please don’t tease like that. You know how I worry about how fast you drive. And don’t forget to call when you get home. You know I’ll worry until you do.”

As I got into my car mom would either wait on the porch, hanky in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes and face or retreat to her favorite chair beside the living room window where she could watch me turning around and heading down the driveway. I always made sure to hold back my own tears and put on a huge happy smile as I waved goodbye and most importantly I made sure to take off gently when pulling onto the highway because I knew she would be listening and I wanted her to feel that I would drive carefully. (At least until I was out of sight.)

Having grown up in the midst of the muscle car era probably didn’t make matters any easier for mom especially when I was always driving the fastest muscle cars available and I probably should have waited longer before calling when I got home to let her know I was home safe considering I usually made the 10 hour drive in less than 8.

I recall one weekend when a couple of buddies tagged along with me. Mom and dad always enjoyed meeting my friends and classmates and weekends in Oregon always seemed to whisk by far too quickly. As we all loaded into the car to leave there was mom as usual hugging and kissing everyone goodbye with hanky in hand and here came the tears as usual.

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As I drove down the road everyone was quiet and then all of a sudden I felt someone from the back seat reach up and punch me in the arm. “Ouch! What in the hell was that for?” I asked. “Dammit Faules, your mom even made me cry! My mom never hugs me and cries like that when I leave home. But your mom really made me feel like I was part of the family.” Then the other guys chimed in expressing their similar sentiments.

We all laughed about it but that was the day which I began to realize not everyone was as blessed as I was with a mother who truly had a gift of being able to show her affection openly. It was an amazing gift and one I have long cherished.

I never believed or realized I would have to one day feel the sadness she felt each time I pulled out if the driveway or what it would feel like to wave goodbye with tears in my eyes while waving a frail little hand but then one day my son said, “Hey dad, guess what? I just bought a company and I’m moving to Texas!” It was the punch in the gut I never saw coming. Instantly deep inside I felt what my mother felt all those times I said, “Well, I suppose it’s time to hit the road.” It’s a real conundrum feeling pride and happiness knowing a son is finding success, fortune and happiness in this world and yet the many worrisome concerns we have for them and having to see them disappear down the road not knowing when we’ll see them again. We know deep down inside no matter how soon it is it just won’t be soon enough.

Simply put, now it is I that is haunted by the silence and I am the one left standing in the driveway with tears and wondering when I might get another hug.

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Nine to Five

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When I graduated from college, I was pretty sure I wanted to go to law school eventually, but I was VERY sure that I wanted to take some time off from school first. I was sick of writing papers and taking exams and always having some assignment hanging over my head to make me feel guilty while I was out having fun. A 9-to-5 job seemed like the answer, but I didn’t even know what kind of job to look for. All I knew was that I wanted to be in Boston, New York, or D.C., so I started searching the classified ads in the newspapers of all 3 cities. This was not as easy then, pre-internet, as it would be now. After a summer trip to Europe, I was at home in New Jersey, where we got the NY Times every day. I don’t have any idea now how I checked the Globe and the Post, unless I had friends in those cities looking for me.

The most interesting job I applied for was as the administrative assistant to Stewart Mott. He was the son of a fabulously wealthy family, already a millionaire in his own right, who lived in a Manhattan penthouse and spent all his time donating his money to liberal causes. He was 35 years old at the time, single, and very attractive.  As described by the Times in his 2008 obituary, his philanthropy “included birth control, abortion reform, sex research, arms control, feminism, civil liberties, governmental reform, gay rights and research on extrasensory perception.” This was pretty heady stuff in 1972! There was a huge number of applicants for the job initially, all of whom he interviewed himself, but I was called back for a second interview a week later, along with only one other young woman. It looked like my chances were pretty good, and I was excited about it. He even called me at home to ask me a few more questions, including whether I planned to commute from New Jersey or move into Manhattan. Of course I would move into Manhattan, I assured him, once I knew I had a job. This was obviously the right answer, but ultimately he chose the other woman. She was a little older and more sophisticated, and probably a better match for him personally — and there was no doubt in my mind that there would be a personal aspect to the job. In later years I often wondered how my life would have been different if he had chosen me.

The job I ultimately got that fall was in Cambridge, at the Transportation Systems Center of the US Department of Transportation. They were looking for an economist or an urban planner. I was neither. So how did I get the job? I wore a very short dress to the interview, and I had great legs! One of my interviewers admitted as much to me, a year or so later. It was an interesting job, but I really didn’t know what the hell I was doing. When I was given a specific assignment, I could generally carry it out, but the place was basically a think tank, and much of the work was supposed to be self-generated. I didn’t know how to do that, so I spent a lot of my time on the phone to my scattered friends and family, taking advantage of the free long-distance telephone lines in federal offices, instead of coming up with research projects. Also, the married guys I worked with kept hitting on me, which was problematic. After almost two years in that complicated environment, I had had enough. In August 1974, within days of each other, Richard Nixon and I both resigned from the federal government. I went off to California to go to law school, so that I could actually learn a marketable skill — or be ready for the revolution, which I still hoped was coming.

Three years later, after finishing law school, I was back in the interviewing game. I applied to numerous state and federal agencies, and ultimately was hired by the California Attorney General’s Office. Although there were already a few other women attorneys there, feminism had definitely not arrived. The secretaries called all the male attorneys “Mr. ____” and all the female attorneys by our first names. Sigh. Was I the only one who was bothered by this? I was pretty militant in general, and refused to let men open the door for me or wait for me to get on (and off) the elevator first, which made them uncomfortable. On my first or second day, I was talking to my supervisor about a case, and then as I started to leave his office, he asked me to get him a cup of coffee. I didn’t say anything (I was too shocked), but I must have had a look on my face that expressed my feelings, because he immediately stammered “oh never mind, I’ll ask my secretary to get it for me.” At the interview for this job, I was asked to commit to staying three years. I said I would, because I knew I wouldn’t get the job otherwise, but in my head I was thinking “no way, I’m never gonna stay that long.” As it turned out, I stayed almost 30 years.

I discovered that I actually enjoyed litigation (it was much more fun than law school classes), and particularly getting the better of male opposing counsel who invariably underestimated me, especially in the early years. I won most of my cases, and settled the ones I couldn’t win. I also was able to take paid maternity leave three times, when each of my children was born, and to work part-time while I had kids at home, which was most of my career. It turned out to be a great job, despite the rocky beginning, and I only left when I realized that I was old enough to retire and (under the complicated formula of age times years of service times salary) still get paid as much as I earned working part-time.

I have been retired for nine years now, and I have never once missed working. Retirement is the best job ever! Especially now that I have Retrospect, to help me focus on polishing my writing skills.