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Archive for October, 2013

For the Week of October 27, 2013: If You Could Turn Back Time

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on October 26, 2013 | Leave a Comment »

Since I first arrived in Okinawa more than three weeks ago, I’ve been mildly confused about time.  It’s not a case of jet lag, but one of adjusting to the vast difference in time and date between here and my home in San Diego.  I lost a full day coming west and crossing the international dateline as we flew over the vast  Pacific ocean, but when I return home Monday morning, I’ll gain that day back. I’ll fly out of Okinawa on Monday morning, change planes at Tokyo’s Narita airport, then fly back across the Pacific to arrive the morning on 28th in California!  I suppose it’s an opportunity to claim I was able to turn back time, other the yearly routine of setting my clock ahead one hour in the spring and back again in the fall.

I’m not the only one intrigued by the notion of time change.  Turning back the hands of time is a subject that  has ignited the imagination of filmmakers, singers, science fiction writers, novelists and poets for decades.  “If I could turn back time,” pop singer Cher famously belted out in her 1989 hit.  Her lyrics may have been inspired, as so many films or works of fiction since, by H.G. Wells’s 1895 novella, The Time Machine, adapted for film, radio and television several times in the decades following its publication.  Think of Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future, or Bill Murray in the constant replay of Groundhog Day in the film of the same name.  Fox’s character traveled to the past in an attempt to influence the outcomes of life in the future.  Murray’s, an arrogant, self-absorbed news reporter, was doomed to repeat the same day until he finally began to care about others’ lives.  Another journalist who steps back in time is the protagonist in Ken Grimwood’s novel, Replay.  After dying of a heart attack in 1988, he awakens as an eighteen year old in 1963 with a chance to relive his life, yet the memories of his next twenty-five years are intact.  He continues to replay his life and death, awakening each time back in 1963 before he finally realizes he can’t prevent his death, but he can change the events before it—for himself and for others.

Neil Sedaka’s 1962 hit, “Turning Back the Hands of Time,” became his signature tune and one he performed for many years.  Set to Puccini’s “Nessum Dorma”score from the opera, Turnadot, the lyrics echo some of the longing we’ve all experienced when we look back over our lives.

Turning back the hands of time

To see the house I lived in,

To see the streets I walked on,

And there’s the children when they were oh so small,

Step back with me…

 

And there’s my father,

He’s waving to me gently,

Oh how I miss him.

 

To touch the face of friends and loved ones,

To hear the laughter and to feel the tears,

What a miracle this would be,

If only we can turn the hands of time…

How many times have you looked back over your life and begun a sentence with the words, “if only I could do it over again…?”  Whether regret and the wish you’d done something differently or the longing for a simpler time, a place you loved, or friends and parents you’ve lost along the way, chances are you’ve had those moments of wishing you could turn back time, maybe even alter the outcomes of your present life, giving yourself a change to make different choices than the ones you did.

I imagine I’ll be too tired and jet-lagged from my long flight to take advantage of having two October 28ths in my life this month, but it’s still fun to consider.  What if you could turn time back–not just an hour, but any period of time you chose?   What point in your life would you replay?  Would you do things differently, knowing what you know now?  Or would you opt to return to an earlier time and enjoy the memory a time in life you once knew?  Begin with the line, “If I could turn back time…” and see where it takes you.

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For the Week of October 20, 2013: What Do You Dream For?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on October 20, 2013 | Leave a Comment »

Where do dreams come from? Do they
sneak in through torn screens at night
to light on the arm like mosquitoes?

Are they passed from mouth to ear
like gossip or dirty jokes? Do they
sprout from underground on damp
mornings like toadstools that form
fairy rings on dewtipped grasses?

No, they slink out of books, they lurk
in the stacks of libraries. Out of pages
turned they rise like the scent of peonies
and infect the brain with their promise…

(From:  “Where Dreams Come From” by Marge Piercy, The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980-2010.)

For most of the past month, I’ve been in Okinawa, helping my daughter as she recovers from surgery, the better part of my day and evening spent in the company her children, Nathan, age four and Emily, two.  The day winds down each evening at seven p.m., as I herd them upstairs for our nightly routine of face washing, teeth brushing, and each of their choices for a nighttime story.  Nathan, fascinated with airplanes as a baby and now, chose Mousetronaut, a delightful story of a small mouse who wants nothing more than to travel to outer space, written by former astronaut, Mark Kelly.

The next morning, as we searched through old Halloween costumes in his closet, we discovered his toddler’s NASA astronaut suit his parents bought him three years ago.  Despite his obvious growth since then, he wriggled himself into it, even though the hem of the legs barely covered his knees. The next evening, as we settled down for our nighttime story, he raised his hand to silence me.

“Gramma, stop.”

“What is it, Nathan?”

He stood and faced me, his brow furrowed.  “I want to be an astronaut.”

I smiled.  “I know, Buddy.”

“No, Gramma, like this.”

He tugged at my hand and led me to his bookshelf and pulled Mousetronaut from its place, turning the pages until he found the picture of the team of astronauts, all wearing the same orange NASA uniform as his.  “See Gramma?”  He pointed at the tallest astronaut.  “Like this.  I want to be COMMANDER.”

I patted his head.  “And you can, Buddy, if you try hard enough.”

“Yes,” he said, as I tucked him into bed.  “I will be Commander.”

I left the room smiling, remembering  some childish dreams of my own, some that never materialized; others that, in one way or another, actually did, but not without a few whacks on the side of the head—one of them a diagnosis of early stage breast cancer; the other an unexpected moment when my heart failed.  Both events got my attention, and I realized that if I truly wanted to turn those dreams into reality, then I had better stop making excuses.   I’ve thought of many people since that bedtime encounter—those who faced hardship or odds that might have easily deterred them from their dreams.

I remember Ann, diagnosed with a rare, terminal cancer, who kept beating the odds and lived nearly six years longer than anyone expected.  That period turned into one of the most creative of her life.  She blossomed into an extraordinary poet, studying with masters like Ellen Bass, Jane Hirshfield, Dorianne Laux, and Tony Hoagland, among others, and several of her poems were published in literary journals before her death—dreams realized out of hardship and crisis.  Ann touched many of us with her grace and her spirit, manifested in her poems.

I thought back to the years I lived in Canada and, in 1980,  followed, as so many of my Canadian friends did, a cross-country run by Terry Fox, athlete and cancer survivor, who, after having one leg amputated because of cancer, began a cross-Canada run to raise money and awareness for cancer research. Although his cancer spread and forced him to stop after over 3300 miles, his efforts resulted in a lasting, worldwide legacy, an annual Terry Fox Run, one of the world’s largest one-day fundraisers for cancer research.

One year ago, L., a recently retired physician, enrolled in my creative nonfiction class through UCLA extension Writers’ Program.  She wanted to write her memoir—and what a story she had to tell!  When she was younger, newly married and just beginning a medical career, she was in a horrific accident, losing  both legs and an arm.  The life she faced was full of unimaginable challenges, and yet, she was undaunted.  She and her husband had a child; she continued with her medical career, and together, they found ways to enjoy a full and active life.  Last year, L. sent me a photograph of one of the expeditions taken with her husband—her wheelchair at the top of Machu Picchu.  Nothing, it seemed, would ever keep her from achieving her aspirations.

I am in awe of L. and people like her,  but I’m also humbled by their determination and resilience, overcoming enormous odds to realize their dreams.  They help me put my life in perspective.  Life can hand us some tough times, unexpected losses or difficult challenges, ones that threaten or even alter our dreams.  When I think these truest of heroes or look at the photograph of a solitary wheelchair atop Machu Picchu, I’m inspired to try a little harder too.

I tucked Nathan and his sister into bed again last night, as I’ve done since I arrived here.  He clutched a small plastic replica of the Okinawa superhero, Mabuyer.  “I have the power, Gramma,” he said, holding up the figure.

“Yes, buddy, you do,” I replied as I kissed his forehead.

I said goodnight, turned off his light and left the room thinking that we should all be so lucky to “have the power.”  Maybe then we’d never lose the determination to realize our dreams–no matter what obstacles we face in life.

Write about your dreams.  When has life gotten in the way of them?  What’s changed?  What do you hope and dream for now?

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For the Week of October 13, 2013: Turbulence

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on October 12, 2013 | Leave a Comment »

I would settle now for just one perfect day
anywhere at all, a day without
mosquitoes, or traffic, or newspapers
with their headlines.

A day without any kind of turbulence—
certainly not this kind, as the pilot tells us
to fasten our seatbelts, and even
the flight attendants look nervous.

(From: “Three Perfect Days,” by Linda Pastan)

Over a week ago, on the first Saturday after my arrival in Okinawa, a typhoon swept across the island. I’d felt the first vestiges of the approaching storm as I flew from Tokyo to Okinawa, a somewhat turbulent three-hour flight that kept me grasping my arm rests. I was noticeably relieved when the plane finally touched down in Naha. Just over a day later, I sat inside my daughter’s concrete house and watched as sheets of rain streamed down the long glass windows and bent the trees along the nearby river. “I’m certainly glad I got here before the storm did,” I said.

We had only a short reprieve from the rain and wind before hunkering down again on Monday, preparing for the arrival of Typhoon Danas, a stronger storm which, as the day progressed, shifted direction and took aim to the north of us. But the turbulent weather isn’t over yet. This morning my son-in-law scanned the radar images of the Pacific and reported another typhoon due on Tuesday. It will be another day inside, but thankfully, short-lived. Typhoons are a regular event each autumn, just as hurricanes are along the Gulf coast, and Okinawans are well equipped for them. But for me, who lives in a climate where changes in weather are barely discernible, the idea of flying across the vast Pacific where tropical storms are plentiful had me a little nervous. Turbulence is not something I enjoy.

Storms, turbulence: these are metaphors for chapters of our lives, aren’t they? Google “storms,” “turbulence,” and “cancer,” and you’ll find more than a few blog posts, book titles and articles written by people who have experienced cancer or other serious and debilitating life events.

For example, in “Cancer’s Perfect Storm of Pain,” P.J. Hamel writes:

After you hear those words, “You have cancer.”

That’s when the pain begins.

The emotional pain that comes from cancer takes many forms. There’s the searing pain of imagining your children without their mother. The dull, systemic pain of figuring out how to tell those you love. And the jagged, intermittent lightning strikes: They’re going to cut off my breast. My hair is going to fall out. What if I lose my job?

(In: Health Guide, www.healthcentral.com, September, 2013)

Turbulence has been on my mind, and it’s not just about another impending typhoon. It’s the shift from the quiet and more routine life I lead to this temporary one of navigating the challenges of caring for two pre-school grandchildren, a boy and a girl, as my daughter lies upstairs, recovering from her abdominal surgery of this past week. Shrieks of laughter can quickly become loud wails of complaint as small storms as one decides that he or she wants the toy or book that the other has. Both children loudly protest naptimes as I herd them upstairs to their rooms after lunch, and once they have settled down for an hour’s nap, I make a few more trips up and down the stairs to tend to my daughter’s needs before they awaken.

Turbulence. I think of young mothers dealing with cancer or being the primary caretaker to a loved one with small children, and I’m completely humbled. How do you navigate through the turbulence of daily life, much less the larger storm of cancer? We all have our coping mechanisms, ways of helping ourselves ride out the storm. For me, writing has always been important as a way to make sense of the chapters of life that up-end me from time to time.

Julie McCoy, an Irish author, commented on the process of writing her debut novel, Eye of the Storm, saying “Writing has always been this for me: peeling back the visible layer to see the much more interesting and meaningful stuff underneath. But more than that, it is a coping mechanism, a way of setting this overwhelming world straight on a page, a way of dissecting tragedy, love, life and trying to make sense of it all.

(Posted on www.Writing.ie, the home of Irish writing online, 2013)

Coping, setting the world straight on a page, making sense of it. It’s why writing can be such a powerful way to write yourself through the storms of life, of cancer, hardship, or loss. This week, write about one of those turbulent chapters you’ve experienced. What was the event? Describe how it felt or what happened. What helped you navigate through it all?

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For the Week of October 7, 2013: Border Crossing

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on October 6, 2013 | Leave a Comment »

We’ve all crossed different borders in our lives, some of them geographical, some of them metaphorical.  I crossed over several borders this week, leaving San Diego on Wednesday to fly across the Pacific to Okinawa, where my youngest daughter and her family live.  I made the same trip two years ago, so I some familiarity with disembarkation in Japan.  I stood in line at customs, then at the baggage claim to wrestle my large suitcase from the carousel, re-check it to Okinawa and locate the gate for my connecting flight to Naha.  Unlike my first trip two years ago, I had a sense of how to navigate smoothly through the process.

But not all border crossings go so smoothly, whether they are geographical ones or life transitions.  The shift from the familiar to the unfamiliar can be abrupt, thrust upon us with little warning, and filled with turbulence.  Like hearing the words, “you have cancer.”

No one asks for your passport or smiles and says, “Enjoy your stay.”  The terrain is unfamiliar, and the roadmap you’re offered is sketchy at best. Even the language is strange to your ears.  There’s new terminology to learn, colloquialisms, and even if you studied a foreign language or two in college, it doesn’t prepare you for the multi-syllabic utterances from your physician’s lips.

Barbara Abercrombie, author of Writing out the Storm, describes how it feels to cross into the place called “cancer.”

There’s a moment, not necessarily when you hear your diagnosis, maybe weeks later, when you cross that border and know in your heart and soul that this is really serious… The hardest thing is to leave yourself, the innocent, healthy you that never had to face her own mortality, at the border.  That old relationship with your body, careless but friendly, taken for granted, suddenly ends.  Your body becomes enemy territory (p. 39). …The sudden crossing over into illness or disability, becoming a patient, can feel like you’re landing on another planet, or entering another country…what Susan Sontag [in Illness as Metaphor] called “emigrating to the kingdom of the ill (p. 41).

You’ve entered the foreign territory of your body’s betrayal, where nothing seems quite real, and fear is a constant companion. For a time, you feel like you’re traveling solo, without an interpreter, in a confusing and difficult place. You have to learn how to navigate, to cope, and learn it quickly.  Your life may depend on it.

Gradually, however, you discover other travelers, men and women who, like you, are struggling to make sense of this strange and hostile territory. You share the experiences of your journey and feel less alone.  There’s comfort and support to be found among a community of survivors.  As you share your experience, fears and hopes, you gradually find your way through this new country.

Somewhere out there in that darkness are hundreds of thousands … like myself …new citizens of this other country… In one moment of discovery, these lives have been transformed, just as mine has been, as surely as if they had been  plucked from their native land and forced to survive in a hostile new landscape, fraught with dangers, real and imagined. — Musa Mayer, Examining Myself:  One Woman’s Story of Breast Cancer Treatment and Recovery).      

Write about crossing the border this week, about entering this “enemy territory,” “the kingdom of the ill.”  What was it like?  What old assumptions have you had to leave behind?  How has your relationship with your body changed? What helped you navigate through the country of cancer?

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