Monday, February 20, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Jumping off a Ledge, Twice
When I was in college, and in some of my post-collegiate years, I did some stupid things. They enriched my life, but also threatened my safety, on several occasions, to a varying degree. Many of the things I did because I wanted to, some I did because everyone else was doing them. Luckily, I'm not much of a follower and the fact is, I'm not a very adventurous person. These two things probably went a long way to keep me safe. But some of my friends were less measured, and they always looked like they were having so much fun!
It's probably not surprising that one of the riskiest periods in my life happened just after I graduated college and moved (two weeks later) to New York City. It was a time of testing boundaries, experimentation, cutting corners and piercings. But perhaps more surprising is that one of the other riskiest periods in my life was the summer between sophomore and junior year of college when I lived in idyllic State College, PA with one of my best friends. We took risks at night (I recall one tequila fueled experiment that could have, but thankfully did not, go array) and we took risks during the day. Caving in unregulated caves was one of our favorite daylight pastimes. Jumping off cliffs was another.
The Bellefonte Quarry is a dangerous place. It's an old limestone quarry that was abandoned when the company stripping it hit water and flooded the section that they were working on. It is rumored that the heavy machinery that was being used on the dig was abandoned under the water. Train cars and automobiles and refrigerators were contributed to the mess (and the danger) later. The day after we first went to the quarry I told one of the cooks at work where we had been. He told me a horrifying story of a guy who was cliff jumping, went down too far, hit some rusty equipment and came up paralyzed from the waist down. But I didn't know that on the day we first went.
It was also an attractive place. To get to the quarry swimming hole you park in a nondescript location and hike in on level grassy ground, past several "no trespassing" and "private property" signs. Unexpectedly it opens up to a limestone moonscape with cliffs on one side and a sharp drop on the other side. If you peer over the side you can see a shimmering blue-green pool and beyond it there are smaller rock formations, rich with green vegetation. On a hot summer day in Central PA - it was a terribly hot summer the year I was there - that pool looks mighty inviting, but the only way in is to jump off a cliff.
And not just any cliff.
A 40' (at least) cliff.
And not just any 40' cliff, a 40' cliff that slopes INTO the water which means you have to jump OUT pretty far in order to not hit the limestone face on the way down.
This is not something I would seek out to do on my own. But there we were, in bathing suits and cut-offs and it was a long way down.
You have to run and jump if you going to have a chance at making it safely into the water. I was petrified. I thought I would run and slip. Or run and chicken out, but not stop in time, but also not jump far enough. All I could think of was what a horrible idea it was. But everyone else was doing it. And they were having so much fun. So I did it, too. I ran, I jumped, I hit the water, I came up just fine. It wasn't even that cold, as long as you stayed near the surface. And something possessed me to climb back up the trail to the ledge and attempt a second jump. But then I froze. I couldn't do it a second time.
The first time was scary, but I somehow convinced myself it wouldn't be so bad. At least long enough to make the jump. The second time was a whole other ball of wax. I knew what it would feel like in my gut to leap off the ledge. To feel the confusion of gravity as my insides traveled up and my body plummeted down. I could not bring myself to do it, know what "it" was. In many ways jumping the first time, into the unknown was easier.
I started this post by saying that the risks I took enriched my life and they did. Today, thinking about what it means to have Kid #2 inside me, thinking about what it means to become a parent for the second time, I was reminded of my second jump at the quarry, which I eventually did, thanks to some major (and not very politically correct) harassment from my friends. While I don't have a lot of time these days to dwell on how scared I am, in many ways I am more scared of becoming a parent the second time.
When I was pregnant with Nora I knew my life was about to change but I didn't even have a language to think about those fears. You can't understand sleep deprivation until you've been there. What I went through in labor is not something I could have put into words before it happened. What it feels like to look at a screaming child who is so much a part of you but who you have no idea how to help -- this is not something you can be prepared for. I didn't bond with Nora right away and I certainly didn't count on that. But now - looking over the edge of the cliff the second time - I know all of those things, and more, could happen. And somehow, just like on the ledge above the quarry, knowing I survived the first time is a very small comfort.
After I talked to the cook at work that next day I vowed never to go back to the quarry. There were plenty of other ways to fill our summer days and my friends were only too happy to go to the quarry on days I had to work. But what the cook said wasn't the only thing that kept me away. A few days later I was talking with my friend about how scared I was and it was only then that she told me on my first jump I hadn't really jumped out far enough and she was worried I was too close to the wall on impact. Luckily for all of us the second jump worked out ok.
Those of you who know me well, and practically anyone who came into contact with me during Nora's first few months of life, know that there were moments I was "too close to the wall." Here's hoping a solid running start, made up of knowledge and appropriate support, will carry me to safe shores this time around.
It's probably not surprising that one of the riskiest periods in my life happened just after I graduated college and moved (two weeks later) to New York City. It was a time of testing boundaries, experimentation, cutting corners and piercings. But perhaps more surprising is that one of the other riskiest periods in my life was the summer between sophomore and junior year of college when I lived in idyllic State College, PA with one of my best friends. We took risks at night (I recall one tequila fueled experiment that could have, but thankfully did not, go array) and we took risks during the day. Caving in unregulated caves was one of our favorite daylight pastimes. Jumping off cliffs was another.
The Bellefonte Quarry is a dangerous place. It's an old limestone quarry that was abandoned when the company stripping it hit water and flooded the section that they were working on. It is rumored that the heavy machinery that was being used on the dig was abandoned under the water. Train cars and automobiles and refrigerators were contributed to the mess (and the danger) later. The day after we first went to the quarry I told one of the cooks at work where we had been. He told me a horrifying story of a guy who was cliff jumping, went down too far, hit some rusty equipment and came up paralyzed from the waist down. But I didn't know that on the day we first went.
It was also an attractive place. To get to the quarry swimming hole you park in a nondescript location and hike in on level grassy ground, past several "no trespassing" and "private property" signs. Unexpectedly it opens up to a limestone moonscape with cliffs on one side and a sharp drop on the other side. If you peer over the side you can see a shimmering blue-green pool and beyond it there are smaller rock formations, rich with green vegetation. On a hot summer day in Central PA - it was a terribly hot summer the year I was there - that pool looks mighty inviting, but the only way in is to jump off a cliff.
And not just any cliff.
A 40' (at least) cliff.
And not just any 40' cliff, a 40' cliff that slopes INTO the water which means you have to jump OUT pretty far in order to not hit the limestone face on the way down.
This is not something I would seek out to do on my own. But there we were, in bathing suits and cut-offs and it was a long way down.
You have to run and jump if you going to have a chance at making it safely into the water. I was petrified. I thought I would run and slip. Or run and chicken out, but not stop in time, but also not jump far enough. All I could think of was what a horrible idea it was. But everyone else was doing it. And they were having so much fun. So I did it, too. I ran, I jumped, I hit the water, I came up just fine. It wasn't even that cold, as long as you stayed near the surface. And something possessed me to climb back up the trail to the ledge and attempt a second jump. But then I froze. I couldn't do it a second time.
The first time was scary, but I somehow convinced myself it wouldn't be so bad. At least long enough to make the jump. The second time was a whole other ball of wax. I knew what it would feel like in my gut to leap off the ledge. To feel the confusion of gravity as my insides traveled up and my body plummeted down. I could not bring myself to do it, know what "it" was. In many ways jumping the first time, into the unknown was easier.
I started this post by saying that the risks I took enriched my life and they did. Today, thinking about what it means to have Kid #2 inside me, thinking about what it means to become a parent for the second time, I was reminded of my second jump at the quarry, which I eventually did, thanks to some major (and not very politically correct) harassment from my friends. While I don't have a lot of time these days to dwell on how scared I am, in many ways I am more scared of becoming a parent the second time.
When I was pregnant with Nora I knew my life was about to change but I didn't even have a language to think about those fears. You can't understand sleep deprivation until you've been there. What I went through in labor is not something I could have put into words before it happened. What it feels like to look at a screaming child who is so much a part of you but who you have no idea how to help -- this is not something you can be prepared for. I didn't bond with Nora right away and I certainly didn't count on that. But now - looking over the edge of the cliff the second time - I know all of those things, and more, could happen. And somehow, just like on the ledge above the quarry, knowing I survived the first time is a very small comfort.
After I talked to the cook at work that next day I vowed never to go back to the quarry. There were plenty of other ways to fill our summer days and my friends were only too happy to go to the quarry on days I had to work. But what the cook said wasn't the only thing that kept me away. A few days later I was talking with my friend about how scared I was and it was only then that she told me on my first jump I hadn't really jumped out far enough and she was worried I was too close to the wall on impact. Luckily for all of us the second jump worked out ok.
Those of you who know me well, and practically anyone who came into contact with me during Nora's first few months of life, know that there were moments I was "too close to the wall." Here's hoping a solid running start, made up of knowledge and appropriate support, will carry me to safe shores this time around.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A Long and Winding Valentine to My Family
Sometimes I worry I'm not the best mother. Or the best partner. I can be lazy. I can be fickle. I can be dramatic. I can be unfocused. I procrastinate. I multi-task to a fault. I don't really cook or clean or do dishes or take out the trash. I often fall asleep while there are still multiple tasks to do, leaving Sam to do an unfair share of household work. (Ask him one day about the time I fell asleep at 11pm in an apartment that looked completely normal and well-lived in ... movers were coming at 8am the next morning. Then ask him if slept at all that night.)
Sometimes I worry about all of these failings.
And then sometimes, thankfully, I realize that I have many strengths, too.
In December we had a kitchen fire caused by some over-zealous Hanukkah celebrations. (Over-zealous Judaism is apparently my response to living in a predominately (and sometimes aggressively) Christian place.) Anyway - some things in the kitchen caught fire while we were eating dinner in the other room. I jumped into action, putting out the fire, saving what could be saved, and airing out the smoke. Sam opened up all of the doors on the first floor which resulted in Mae cat wandering into the front yard. Nora had no idea what was going on.
I am proud of my actions in that moment. I am slightly suspect of Sam's. (He later quipped that the next time there was a crises to lock him in the bathroom until it was over!)
This situation brought something in to high relief for me - something that may have been apparent to other people for some time - but it only recently dawned on me. I'm the person you want around in a crises. But the part of me that allows me to be so helpful in moments of extreme distress make it a little hard for me to function during the mundane, every day rhythms of my life.
This is why I always have talk radio on. This is why I'm blogging right now while Nora is eating breakfast. This is why I'm always on Facebook. And before you blame technology, this is also why in middle and high school in Mrs. Grime's math class (the only teacher who ever "caught" me) and Mrs. Malter's science class, I always had two notebooks open on my desk: one to take notes and one to write stories, at the same time. It's possibly why I'm simultaneous working full-time, finishing a grad degree, writing a novel, raising a toddler, growing an infant in my belly and trying to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, etc.
I require a lot of stimulation. And when I don't get it, I sort of shut down. Anyone who has waited tables probably understands this. There are shifts when the restaurant is mostly empty, but somehow you're off your game. And there are other shifts when the place is packed, but you're knocking it out of the park and even having fun. This is my life. Every. Single. Day.
There are probably people reading this who have no idea what I'm going on about.
When Sam and I first started dating he was in his senior year of college at the University of Chicago. I was living it up in Brooklyn. Most nights I could be found surrounded by friends in a both in a smoky bar (yes, you could still smoke in bars in NY back then) called O'Connors on 5th Avenue. According to Yelp! it's still there, listed under "dive bars." Back then it had a bartender named Spike and they sold Slim Jims (the "food," not the tool to break into cars) at the bar. Drunk, I would stumble away from my friends, and into a phone booth (no kidding) and use a calling card (for real) to call Sam in Chicago.
Photos Borrowed From NYmag
"We're at O'Connor's!" I would announce. "What are you doing?"
"Sitting," Sam would reply.
"Like, meditating?" I would ask.
"No, I'm just sitting," he would say.
"Like, in a chair? In a dark room?" I would ask.
"Yes," he would say.
I'm sure we were thinking the exact same thing about the other person at this moment: "What the hell is wrong with him/her?"
In this way, Sam and I are cut from two completely different kinds of cloth. He has grown to understand me, and he believes what I say about the buzzing in my head, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't truly grasp what it means to be me. In the same way I respect his needs, but cannot imagine experiencing them.
Sam requires quiet time. He requires time alone with nothing to do. While I've come around to appreciating alone time (being a parent will do that to you!), the idea of "nothing to do" is not, nor has it ever been, appealing to me.
While I'm coming to understand this personality trait, this need for stimulation, this 'calm in a crises, but crises in a calm,' is responsible for how I behave, I'm also realizing that it comes with a cost. That just because it's how "I am," doesn't mean it's how I "should be." And I thank my family for showing this to me.
This is why this post is a Valentine to them.
It is because of Sam and Nora that I am starting to appreciate quiet moments. I am beginning to realize that there's no need to rush to get Nora to go to bed because putting Nora to bed, if I allow myself to enjoy it (to NOT think about what I'm NOT getting done; to not be frustrated that it's not a more efficient process) is the main event. It is all I need to be fulfilled. And as I'm lying next to her, singing a song my dad sung to me, rubbing her back and kissing her head, as I'm helping her turn off the buzzing in her head (because I know her head buzzes, too), I can help turn off the buzzing in mine.
And I'm enjoying the louder moments to - learning to be present in them as well. Recently I've been taking great pleasure in listening to Nora laugh uproariously while Sam chases her around the house and tickles her. I'm actually stopping what I'm doing (blogging, facebooking, mindlessly surfing the internet) and enjoying the two of them and the fun they are having. I don't always stop and appreciate it, but I am doing it more and more.
++++++++++++++++
I'd also like to take this day and this forum (because ultimately, we are very practical and not very romantic people) to thank Sam for being an amazing partner in this life which continues to feel like a sprint and a marathon at the same time.
It is no secret that in the beginning we had a rocky relationship at times (see above - the "drunk phone calls" section). That we survived time and space and multiple states, time zones, countries and continents is somewhat amazing when you think about it. Back then, though I was madly in love with him, I had some concerns about what kind of long-term partner Sam would be -- or I should have, had I been paying attention. Likewise, I'm sure he regularly (and rightfully) questioned my sanity.
[One would think I could put a photo of us as youngsters here, but no electronic record exists of this time ... that's how long ago it was!]
We were together when we were fairly young and we weren't always the best at compromise or wise decision making. Even as recently as Nora's first few months on earth brought fears and concerns of unbalanced division of labor and of me pulling the lion's share of the child rearing: but these fears very quickly proved to be unfounded. Everyday I am amazed by what Sam brings to this relationship, to this family and to Nora. I was telling a male colleague who has a child the same age as Nora about what Sam does on a daily basis (gets Nora to the nanny in the morning, makes her lunch, cooks dinner and does the dishes, to name a few of his standard chores) and he asked me, politely, to never speak to his wife about any of this.
The fact is, whenever I thank Sam for what he does, he shrugs it off as if what he does is just what any husband should do. I am both grateful he feels this way and proud that we have done the work necessary to craft a relationship of equality and one (mostly) free of gendered stereotypes.
I hope Nora knows this is our valentine to her. I hope "Wallace" will know the same thing.
Sometimes I worry about all of these failings.
And then sometimes, thankfully, I realize that I have many strengths, too.
In December we had a kitchen fire caused by some over-zealous Hanukkah celebrations. (Over-zealous Judaism is apparently my response to living in a predominately (and sometimes aggressively) Christian place.) Anyway - some things in the kitchen caught fire while we were eating dinner in the other room. I jumped into action, putting out the fire, saving what could be saved, and airing out the smoke. Sam opened up all of the doors on the first floor which resulted in Mae cat wandering into the front yard. Nora had no idea what was going on.
I am proud of my actions in that moment. I am slightly suspect of Sam's. (He later quipped that the next time there was a crises to lock him in the bathroom until it was over!)
This situation brought something in to high relief for me - something that may have been apparent to other people for some time - but it only recently dawned on me. I'm the person you want around in a crises. But the part of me that allows me to be so helpful in moments of extreme distress make it a little hard for me to function during the mundane, every day rhythms of my life.
This is why I always have talk radio on. This is why I'm blogging right now while Nora is eating breakfast. This is why I'm always on Facebook. And before you blame technology, this is also why in middle and high school in Mrs. Grime's math class (the only teacher who ever "caught" me) and Mrs. Malter's science class, I always had two notebooks open on my desk: one to take notes and one to write stories, at the same time. It's possibly why I'm simultaneous working full-time, finishing a grad degree, writing a novel, raising a toddler, growing an infant in my belly and trying to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, etc.
I require a lot of stimulation. And when I don't get it, I sort of shut down. Anyone who has waited tables probably understands this. There are shifts when the restaurant is mostly empty, but somehow you're off your game. And there are other shifts when the place is packed, but you're knocking it out of the park and even having fun. This is my life. Every. Single. Day.
There are probably people reading this who have no idea what I'm going on about.
When Sam and I first started dating he was in his senior year of college at the University of Chicago. I was living it up in Brooklyn. Most nights I could be found surrounded by friends in a both in a smoky bar (yes, you could still smoke in bars in NY back then) called O'Connors on 5th Avenue. According to Yelp! it's still there, listed under "dive bars." Back then it had a bartender named Spike and they sold Slim Jims (the "food," not the tool to break into cars) at the bar. Drunk, I would stumble away from my friends, and into a phone booth (no kidding) and use a calling card (for real) to call Sam in Chicago.
Photos Borrowed From NYmag"We're at O'Connor's!" I would announce. "What are you doing?"
"Sitting," Sam would reply.
"Like, meditating?" I would ask.
"No, I'm just sitting," he would say.
"Like, in a chair? In a dark room?" I would ask.
"Yes," he would say.
I'm sure we were thinking the exact same thing about the other person at this moment: "What the hell is wrong with him/her?"
In this way, Sam and I are cut from two completely different kinds of cloth. He has grown to understand me, and he believes what I say about the buzzing in my head, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't truly grasp what it means to be me. In the same way I respect his needs, but cannot imagine experiencing them.
Sam requires quiet time. He requires time alone with nothing to do. While I've come around to appreciating alone time (being a parent will do that to you!), the idea of "nothing to do" is not, nor has it ever been, appealing to me.
While I'm coming to understand this personality trait, this need for stimulation, this 'calm in a crises, but crises in a calm,' is responsible for how I behave, I'm also realizing that it comes with a cost. That just because it's how "I am," doesn't mean it's how I "should be." And I thank my family for showing this to me.
This is why this post is a Valentine to them.
It is because of Sam and Nora that I am starting to appreciate quiet moments. I am beginning to realize that there's no need to rush to get Nora to go to bed because putting Nora to bed, if I allow myself to enjoy it (to NOT think about what I'm NOT getting done; to not be frustrated that it's not a more efficient process) is the main event. It is all I need to be fulfilled. And as I'm lying next to her, singing a song my dad sung to me, rubbing her back and kissing her head, as I'm helping her turn off the buzzing in her head (because I know her head buzzes, too), I can help turn off the buzzing in mine.
And I'm enjoying the louder moments to - learning to be present in them as well. Recently I've been taking great pleasure in listening to Nora laugh uproariously while Sam chases her around the house and tickles her. I'm actually stopping what I'm doing (blogging, facebooking, mindlessly surfing the internet) and enjoying the two of them and the fun they are having. I don't always stop and appreciate it, but I am doing it more and more.
++++++++++++++++
I'd also like to take this day and this forum (because ultimately, we are very practical and not very romantic people) to thank Sam for being an amazing partner in this life which continues to feel like a sprint and a marathon at the same time.
It is no secret that in the beginning we had a rocky relationship at times (see above - the "drunk phone calls" section). That we survived time and space and multiple states, time zones, countries and continents is somewhat amazing when you think about it. Back then, though I was madly in love with him, I had some concerns about what kind of long-term partner Sam would be -- or I should have, had I been paying attention. Likewise, I'm sure he regularly (and rightfully) questioned my sanity.
[One would think I could put a photo of us as youngsters here, but no electronic record exists of this time ... that's how long ago it was!]
We were together when we were fairly young and we weren't always the best at compromise or wise decision making. Even as recently as Nora's first few months on earth brought fears and concerns of unbalanced division of labor and of me pulling the lion's share of the child rearing: but these fears very quickly proved to be unfounded. Everyday I am amazed by what Sam brings to this relationship, to this family and to Nora. I was telling a male colleague who has a child the same age as Nora about what Sam does on a daily basis (gets Nora to the nanny in the morning, makes her lunch, cooks dinner and does the dishes, to name a few of his standard chores) and he asked me, politely, to never speak to his wife about any of this.
The fact is, whenever I thank Sam for what he does, he shrugs it off as if what he does is just what any husband should do. I am both grateful he feels this way and proud that we have done the work necessary to craft a relationship of equality and one (mostly) free of gendered stereotypes.
I hope Nora knows this is our valentine to her. I hope "Wallace" will know the same thing.
Friday, February 3, 2012
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