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Monday, January 30, 2012

The Great Antagonist

We can be sure that even Charro has antagonists driving
her to look this good in her 60's.  Photo snapped
 by me in Times Square in the winter of 2011. 
If you find yourself looking over your shoulder as you're about to be lapped again, or maybe your nemesis was just named person of the year, don't despair. Instead, take stock in yourself and remember what you're made of. You are NOT meant to merely breathe the dust kicked up by others.


For many of us, most days are about going about our business, keeping our house in order. But we're only human. Count on having days when you feel jealous instead of generous, or envy when you want most to feel gratitude. Everyone has days like this, even the most kind and giving among us, when we lapse and our egos shrivel to a sad, deflated state. When this happens, we become easy targets for other folks which can make us feel small, unworthy and  unsuccessful. It can be difficult to see ourselves as the powerful, unique individuals that we are. We needn't consider or defer to others when going after our dreams. We should never compare our achievements against those of our neighbors, but we do. Oh how we beat ourselves up.


If you have a tenacious antagonist in your life, remember that antagonists are like motors, reliably driving us forward to our next destination. The antagonists in our life make us great (and most of us have at least one). So next time you feel jealousy or envy, relabel that feeling and call it drive. Drive yourself forward to make yourself great. You can do it.  Remember, every story worth reading has a great antagonist. What's your story?

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Memories of Mom

Backside reads in her script:
October 1972 Claudia's Birthday
Claudia & Mommy
A day doesn't go by that I don't miss my mother. And why should it be otherwise?  When I think back, trying to harvest bits of my past in an attempt to bridge time with memory, I'm always left wanting.


There are certain things I can remember with almost no effort. For instance, I remember when, on multiple occasions, my mother would come home with a bag (or bags) filled with clothes from Marshalls®. Those red stickers made me giddy. The more clearance items my mom saw that she thought I might like, the bigger the bag. "You don't have to keep anything you don't like," she'd say. She had such great taste. 


Most of my memories are non-specific. I remember the kind of music that always played in the background when she was in the room. She instinctively connected with music and blended it into our life. Big band and jazz standards set the perfect mood for impromptu dance lessons in the kitchen, in between chopping one thing or another.


I remember the two of us getting take-out pizza and practically inhaling a large between us. 


And whenever one of life's barbs would cause me pain, I remember the way she held me. She held me tightly and completely, whether I was two or twelve.   And despite my predictably brazen show of tears, her impressive calm restored me, every single time. 

Friday, January 6, 2012

Splendor in the Grass

My mother was 38 years old when this image was taken. My family rented a lake house during the summer when I was too young to remember. And while I don't recall ever seeing this photo, it was taken while my family was on vacation. Of course, right away, I marvel at how flat her stomach appears just ten months after giving birth to me. 


For the time, I was a late-in-life baby. My brothers were born in 1958 and 1959 respectively, and then there was Martin, the brother I never knew, stillborn, who bridged the span before I came along in 1968. My mother always seemed old to me, but mostly because I was surrounded by friends with much younger parents.  


Seeing this picture of my mother is bittersweet. On the one hand, it reminds me why I'm the kind of mother I am. You see, I do that - I lie on the grass when the sun is warm. I wrestle my dog to the ground and do cartwheels on the lawn. For me, this pose is standard fare. 


She looks relaxed, so carefree. I wonder who held the camera. Was it one of my brothers? Or could it have been my dad? Could he have had the sentimental insight to capture this rare display of my mother's calm, centered connection to her younger self? 


She died when I was 23 and never once did I see her lie in the grass. 

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Picture with Santa, 1971

Claudia McDonald, age 2, probably at Sears in Hamden, CT.  But who knows for sure?
I was two when this photo was taken. My only memory of this particular occasion is the photo itself. Outside of knowing that the photo exists, and knowing that the child reflected back at me when I look at it matches other images I'm told are me, there's no other connection for me. 


I love this picture, and even though I don't look through my childhood photos as often as I used to, I have always remembered this photo. But it's really just an image. I don't remember seeing Santa, let alone sitting on his lap. I don't recall wearing the blue jacket or the red checked pants. And I can't tell for certain if I was allowed to eat the candy cane used to still my toddler nerves.  


I revive my existential center when I think about how many moments I've experienced that don't link up with present-day me with any tangible breadcrumb trail to trigger a memory. 


I'm glad I have this picture, and I'm glad my parents helped to create this memory, however buried it remains. It seems like the kind of photo a person ought to have.