Day of the Dead

On my recent trip to Mexico, I was fascinated by the preparations for the Day of The Dead (Dios de los Muertos) celebrations on November 2. There were white flowering trees whose blossoms are used to decorate the graves of infants and young children (they are honored on Nov. 1, The Day of the Innocents), their white flowers symbolizing purity. Marigolds are traditionally used on the graves of adults.

I was particularly interested in La Calavera Catrina ("The elegant skull) — sculptures in clay, wood or papier mache of very fashionably dressed skeletons at the turn of the century. I bought two ceramic Catrinas - one was an elegant lady in a broad-brimmed hat with a lovely lilac dress, the front slit revealing a bony leg; the second was a Freida Kahlo Catrina, resplendent with a flowered headdress, holding a parrot and a small black dog.

The Catrinas are supposed to show that even the fashionable and elegant must face death one day. I love this photo — a happy accident— that has a ghostly feel.

I also love that Day of the Dead, despite its proximity to Halloween, is not a ghoulish or scary holiday. Instead, people buy decorated sugar skull and write their loved ones names on them. The body disappears but the soul and skull remain. Favorite foods and items of the deceased are presented for their souls to enjoy. People will even leave out pillows and blankets so that the deceased souls can rest after their long journey. After the soul has feasted spiritually, the family and friends feast literally.

Having been through the death of both my parents and my grandparents, I've learned that anticipation of death is far worse than the event itself. I have also been very fortunate that my loved ones have died peacefully and painfree, never losing themselves to disease or dementia. I believe in souls and Heaven and the promise that we will be reunited one day. And I also believe the souls of our loved ones touch us and visit us in various ways —through dreams, "coincidences" and even something as seemingly random as a song on the radio that stirs memory and emotion.

Who hasn't caught a whiff of scent that instantly brought back a loved one? I have a sweater of my Mom's in the closet in the guest room that I can't bear to get rid of because it still carries a trace of her scent. I can bury my nose in it and for a second, it's like receiving a hug from her.

So let's laugh a bit at death, rather than giving it the power of fear. Let's acknowledge that it is something we will all continually face until our own last breath is drawn. Let's celebrate the lives of the people who have moved on, rather than merely mourn their passing. I'd much rather keep someone's memory alive with tears of laughter rather than tears of sadness.

So as we talk of endings, I will leave you with this beautiful sunset at the end of an equally stunning day in Mexico. May all our endings —and beginnings—be this breath-taking.

Karen

I clearly remember the first moment I met Karen, over thirty-one years ago. It was in-between my junior and senior years in college and I was looking for an internship with an advertising agency on Hilton Head. I'd already pestered my friend Tim Doughtie, but his was a small operation and he really didn't have the bandwidth to need another person, even free help! But he suggested I call one of his competitiors, an agency with the tongue-twisting name of Smelkinson Cerrati & Co. (Later, while working at the agency, they hired an angry woman with a distinctive speech impediment as a receptionist. She'd quickly spew out a garbled version of the company name, then venomously repeat it when the caller didn't understand. Ah, good times.)

I was waiting in the reception area to meet with Marsha Smelkinson, who I'd never laid eyes on. The first woman through the door was about six-feet tall, broad-shouldered with a towering afro and a pounding stride. She snapped exasperatingly at the cowering receptionist before stomping down the hall. The next woman who came in was petite, despite being about six months pregnant. She had black hair cut in a bob with thick bangs above round red glasses. She also had one of the most beautiful smiles I'd ever seen—a smile of genuine delight with smooth white teeth.

I sat there, clutching my college resume and silently repeating, "Please let it be the small pregnant one, please let it be the small pregnant one."

As luck would have it, it wasn't. It was the big, scary one. Who ended up being a brilliant and innovative marketer, a sensitive and warm-hearted soul, and someone whose aggression masked a deep-rooted insecurity. The "little one" was Karen, a smart cookie who'd lived in New York and Miami, had a no-nonsense demeanor, was scrupulously organized, and who lived by the phrase "just do it" way before Nike ever claimed it.

I was indeed their intern that summer, a roller-coaster of a ride where I broke up with one boyfriend, found a new very inappropriate one, went sky-diving and did a fair amount of growing up. Around the office, I was soon referred to as "R. Jane" which started innocently enough with comments such as, "We'll send our Jane over to drop off the layout."

I came back down from college for a baby shower for Karen. Weeks later, she gave birth on a Friday to her son Michael. She dropped by the office on Monday to check it. That's Karen.

I moved down to Hilton Head after graduation and within a year and a half, I was a full-time employee of Smelkinson Cerrati & Co. Over the next three and a half years, I travelled with Karen, her husband Al and Mikey to Disneyworld, was taught how to drive my 1976 yellow Triumph Spitfire by Al (I'd already bought the car and really didn't have a clue how to drive a stick shift), took Karen to get her ears pierced at lunchtime and entertained dozens of kids at Mikey's birthday parties. Together we made it through sick dachshunds, Little League and Pee wee soccer, Montessori School Mother's Day pageants and the best of all, the birth of her son Eric after two heart-breaking miscarriages.

Soon after Eric was born, I left Hilton Head and moved first to Greenville, SC and then to Boston. Karen — sometimes with the boys but more often without—would fly in for long weekends. We'd go see touring companies of Broadway musicals, take harbour cruises (some more successful than others - there was a particularly gruesome "comedy" cruise), or rent a convertible and drive up to Maine, eating lobster rolls and lobster stew twice in a single day. We'd walk the Freedom Trail with Mike and Eric, go on pirate cruises and Duck Boat tours.

Days before Christmas one year, I had a business trip to New York, where the Cerratis were spending the holidays with Al's mother. We met up at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and posed for photos, then went to Cafe Un Deux Trois for dinner before the Cerratis headed off to Radio City for the Christmas Spectacular and I flew back to Boston. Cards were handed to tables around the room and the entire restaurant sang an increasingly exuberant rendition of "The 12 Days of Christmas." The New York adventures continued when I moved to New York in 1998.

I'd always said that I wanted to go to Paris for the first time on my honeymoon, it seemed the height of romance (I've since changed that to Venice but time is running out for the potential groom to show up.) In her typically straight-forward manner, Karen finally said "How long are you going to wait for some man who may or may not show up before you go to Paris?"

I pondered this.

"Forty," I replied, safely entrenched in my 30's and confident that he'd show up in the next few years, "If I'm not married by 40, I'll go to Paris on my own."

Well, the year I turned 40, I went to Paris...with my friend Nannette who also had turned 40 six months earlier and Karen sent us both to a celebratory dinner on the Bateaux Mouche. (She also surprised me with a party of about 40 of my assorted friends from New York, Hilton Head and Boston—worlds colliding! Earlier in the day, while we were having pre-party makeup applications at Barneys, my present-to-myself Prada bag was stolen right out from under me. On the way to file a report at the police station, we passed Woody Allen and Son Yi. "Oooh! That makes having your bag stolen worthwhile," Karen cooed. I begged to differ.)

The next summer, Karen and I went to Paris, then onto Florence. The next time I went to Paris it was with my friend Lori, then Mary (and Carol), then Karen again, then Susan, Karen and lastly Sandy. Still haven't made it to Paris with a husband, though I did have a steamy makeout session under the chestnut trees on Blvd. St. Germain very late one April evening with a handsome American hedge fund manager we'd met over dinner at Cafe Atlas. That was fun....) On our last trip to Paris, Karen and I were joined by her son Eric, just graduated from Tulane and on the end of his grand European tour. Through many trips to New York with his Mom, Eric has learned he'll have a much better time if he sticks with us, rather then head off to drink beer in an anonymous bar with his pals.

We share a love of the glamorous side of travel—the adventure, the intrigue, the weeks of endless planning. It's taken us from Jerusalem to the west coast of Mexico and I can only assume, many more locations to come.

There are moments when I consider that I've given a friend a "Golden Ticket" - a lifelong pass that cannot be revoked (okay, maybe only the most dire of circumstances, like murder). Karen earned hers when my Dad was in a rehab facility during the last weeks of his battle with lung cancer. Every day without fail, Karen would show up for an hour, first taking my Mom for a walk around the beautiful grounds, then taking me for a walk. It saved our sanity, literally. With just my Mom and I dealing with Dad's illness and inevitable death, there were times when tensions had us at each other's throats. Karen defused those emotional timebombs before they had a chance to detonate. When my Mom died unexpectedly seven years later, Karen was the third person I called that early morning, after 911 and our minister. She was there with me through every decision I had to make, always with support for my decisions and encouragement. When I was overwhelmed, she gently stepped in.

Over the years, my relationship with Karen has become one of sisters—although neither of us have a sister so its our best guess. We're yin to the other's yang. Karen's pragmatic with a dose of the romantic, I'm a romantic with a dollop of pragmatism. She writes concise lists, I compose pages (volumes) of prose. She is a very private person, I wear my heart on my sleeve. And yet for our differences, we complement each other—like salty/sweet—we bring out the best in each other. Our lives have become tightly braided together over the past 31 years and I imagine they will continue to over the next 30 years to come.

There's family you're born with and then there's your family of choice. I choose Karen.

Day 2 - an exploration of self

I'm going to start with a couple of quotes that I've recently read that I liked very much. And no, I'm not doing this to pad today's word count.

“One day at a time--this is enough. Do not look back and grieve over the past for it is gone; and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come. Live in the present, and make it so beautiful it will be worth remembering.”

Okay, this next quote is from a French poet named Apollinaire, who died at the tender age of 38. Here is the quote in French, on a pen and ink rendering I bought in Paris.

Mais en verite je l'attends, avec mon coeur avec mon ame et sur les ponts des reviens-t'en si jamais revient cette femme. Je lui dirai. Je suis content.

And here is the rough translation in English:

But truth be told, I am waiting for her, with my heart, with my soul

and on the bridges of come-back-to-me, if that woman ever returns. I will tell her. I am happy.

Oh, the romance of that stanza - aren't we all waiting for someone we once loved to return? Partially convinced that it will never happen, yet happy with our waiting, nonetheless...

Okay - on to today's post.

I'll admit it. I am my own favorite subject. One could blame this narcissism on the fact that I am an only child, that I'm single and live alone or that I have a super inflated ego.

And yet, I don't honestly consider myself to be an overly confident person. I know there are plenty of people who are smarter, more attractive and more talented than I am. And yet, whenever there is a self-assessment quiz, I'm the first to take it. I think the reason is, that no matter how much time I've spent with myself, I don't know if I really know me all that well at all.

Think about it. Would you recognize yourself if you met your personality in another person? Would you like yourself, want to spend time with you? Would you hire you for your job, would you fall in love with you? Sure, Hell may be other people, but who would you rather spend time on a desert island with—just yourself or with someone else?

Maybe that's not really a fair question. Perhaps we only understand who we are by the reflection we see in other people. After reading "Conversations with God," I changed my whole notion of God and our purpose here on Earth. I saw God like an enormous film projector, but without a screen to reveal the images. So he created Earth and its inhabitants to reflect his/her self so he/she could better understand him/herself. (I've always liked that Buddhist saying: "The God in me recognizes the God in you.")

And yet, when people tell us something about ourselves, how often do we doubt them? How often have you received a present from someone you believe who knows you very well and your first thought is, "Why would they ever think this is something I'd want?" Maybe our view of others is more who we want them to be, rather than who they actually are.

When someone gives you a compliment, the knee-jerk reaction is usually to deflect or contradict it. Why is that? Here is—hopefully—an honest perception of who you are from someone who cares or at least likes and respects you. Why is it so hard to simply say "thank you?" And why is it so much easier to believe that little devil whispering in our ear all of our doubts and insecurities?

Faced with a difficult boss years ago who just didn't "get" me, I decided that once and for all I was no longer going to let someone else tell me who I was. That I knew better than anyone else what my abilities were, where my potential lies. Anyone else was just seeing a single view.

I just finished reading a very good book, "All Over the Map" by Laura Fraser, who also wrote a favorite book of mine - "The Italian Affair." In it, she talks about apprehensively attending a seminar on personal development. The leader has everyone tell a story of something awful that happened to them. Then they have to tell the story again, but how they are accountable for the outcome. "What you resist, persists," says the leader. Such a good point. I always fight against a victim mentality, and yet, when I was leaving Digitas, I placed much of the blame on this difficult boss. And I've held a grudge for years. Finally, I started looking at the elements that added up to my leaving the company -- I was uninspired by the work, bored with my clients, didn't embrace a new work ethic that was focused on pure creativity with budgets and marketing goals be damned. I fought this new boss in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. In the end, we both got what we wanted. He got rid of me -- a reminder of his predecessor - and I got a new sense of freedom. I was finally unyoked from a job that I was afraid to leave on my own. Since then, I've felt healthier, more spiritually grounded and generally happier.

I'm also starting to be more conscious of my internal (and external) dialogue. I think that for better or worse, you can create your own reality by what you tell others and yourself about you. I've always jokingly said that my autobiography will be titled "I'm not interesting, but my friends are!" I now realize that I am indeed just as interesting. If I don't want to feel like the supporting actress in my life, I've got to stop accepting that role for myself and strive to be the lead actress. I think this process of writing at least 1,000 words a day will be so valuable on this new exploration of self. I've always felt the power of writing, that by committing an idea to words, you imbue it with a certain heft and weightiness. I just want to free myself of the notion that I am writing to be read and really strive towards writing in a 100% authentic voice.

The process of growing up continues... stay tuned.

Things I love....

• dogs, especially terriers
• chick flicks
• history - England, Rome, France in particular
• researching a subject -- I love the hunt!
• taking photographs
• trying a new recipe
• horses
• organizing my closet or a drawer
• shopping for perfume
• dressing a friend in something they'd never choose for themself
• traveling, especially internationally
• any beach
• eating outdoors
• theater
• more to come...

Day 1 - "I'm I getting older?" - a rant

So this weekend was Halloween, a holiday which arguably one could say takes place every weekend in the West Village. On both Saturday and Sunday nights, the streets were filled with comely young women in lingerie, dressed as "naughty nurses,""sassy devils," or "fallen angels." As my friend Natane says, "Halloween has become an excuse for otherwise modest women to dress like sluts." And dress like sluts they did indeed do. (It must be said that Natane managed to be both sexy —well, she's a professional model so she does have a certain advantage right out of the gate—and smart. She was a "Walk of Shame," wearing heels, boxer shorts, a rumpled oversize man's shirt, messy hair and makeup, and some lacy lingerie peeking out of her purse.)

Now, I remember the days when my roommate dressed in skintight spandex top to bottom a la Olivia Newton-John in the final scene of "Grease" and was faux-astonished at the amount of attention she gleaned. I was a Deviled Egg - red turtleneck and tights, egg-shaped sandwich board with a satin tail sticking out the back, red horns, makeup, pitchfork. The sauciest comment I got was from a guy dressed as a chicken who asked "did I lay you?"

(Actually, that's not quite right. A fellow came up to me and asked "How's your bed?" I was flustered, taken aback and thinking this was the most forward man I' ever met until I recognized him as the guy from the local furniture store who, yes, sold me my bed four months earlier.)

When it's come to costumes, I've always opted for witty over sexy, which may go far towards explaining my single girl status. One year I spent the afternoon before Halloween painstakingly sewing mousetraps and plastic army men and tanks onto an enormous brassiere that my neighbor Donna had dyed olive green. We made her a matching hat and skirt out of tulle. And she was...a Booby Trap! Brilliant. I was also a "Glamour Don't" one year, with a mishmash of uncoordinated clothing and a black strip of cardboard with tiny eyeholes, attached to a pair of sunglasses. The women at the party all roared with laughter, the guys just blinked in confusion.

But lately, the only ones I see in smart and witty costumes are either men or dogs. You heard that right - one of the winning entrants at the annual dog run Howl-oween party was a big mixed breed hound dressed as a Chilean miner, complete with a flashlight attached to her belt. Two years ago she won as a "polar bear for Obama." The best human costume I saw this year was a fellow dressed as a bed bug. Very topical for New York.

As I said before, most weekends could be mistaken for Halloween here in the Village and I've noticed that twenty- and thirty-something women continue to wear skimpy clothing as eveningwear. Really, a dress so short you need a bikini wax to wear it. Really? One evening while taking my Cairn terrier Petey for a late night walk, I passed Whitney Port, of "The Hills" and "The City" reality tv fame. Easily 5'10" tall, she was even more giraffe-like in 5" platform heels. At 5'7" in my flats, this put my eye level approximately at Whitney's crotch, which was barely concealed by a flap of fabric. I have belts that are wider than her skirt.

And she is not the exception but the rule. On a nightly basis, I see women teeter-tottering over cobblestones in nosebleed high heels, in all kinds of weather. Only a few can saunter by with Carrie Bradshaw bravado, most tiptoe like geishas or lurk on their stilts, more precariously with every subsequent cocktail.

It also seems the shorter the skirt, the higher the heel, the louder the pitch of her voice. Shrieking in delight at seeing her friends, shrieking into the omnipresent cellphone between courses in restaurants, shrieking drunkenly at her boyfriend—"I've always had your back, fuck you!"slurs under my bedroom window at 4:00 a.m.

What has happened to grace? I was an early feminist in my teens and twenties and I look at these girls and they seem to have slid backwards by decades. Here's my impression: They want to be objectified. They'd rather be noticed for their appearance rather than their intelligence or point-of-view. They don't want to be seen as too smart or too funny as it could be threatening to that guy they're going to yell at, right around 4:00 am under my window.

Now, I also realize, as a 52-year old woman writing this, that I can definitely sound bitter, overly conservative and well, just plain old. Yes, I do remember wearing a thigh-skimming Norma Kamali tee-shirt dress with the Flashdance-inspired neckline that would slide provocatively off one shoulder then the other. Today it would be a tunic-length top. Then I wore it as a dress. (But with flats!) I had my love affair with mini-skirts that skimmed my knuckles when I held my hands at my side. But that was in high school - by the time I was in college and then in the workplace, I'd gained a sense of appropriateness.

Is "appropriate" even a word that's still relevant when it comes to fashion for the under 40 set? I hope so. I hate to see what I have to perceive as the dumbing down of women today—young women who seem to feel what they think and say is much less important than how they look.

I had a male friend tell me years ago, "You can't spot a great personality across a bar, Jane." To which I responded, "Yes, but you can't really talk to a Barbie doll for more than a few minutes." Beauty can fade, intelligence only attains a gleaming sheen.

1000 words a day

Okay, so technically, it's already November 1, but since it's nighttime and the fire in the fireplace is just winding down, I'm going to pretend it is still Halloween - October 31. In an effort to see if I can really be disciplined with my personal writing—as well as to determine whether I really can write purely for the pleasure of choosing the right combinations of words to best express my ideas—I have set myself to the task of writing 1,000 words a day. I have no doubts that some days this little exercise will be arduous and discouraging, while on other days, I may have to edit my verboseness. But anyhow, I'm committed. And like in marriage, it's for better or for worse. So feel free to tag along. I'll try to post some photos as the mood strikes or when I just have a photo that I believe is too good (ego) not to share. So off to bed now, kittens, because when dawn breaks tomorrow morning, I will have no more excuses not to begin this exercise....

(For anyone who's interested, what I just wrote is a mere 180 words. This does not count towards November 1st's total.)