Friday, November 19, 2010


Change comes by the dozen. When my life flipped end-over-end this fall with a change of career, an addition to the household (the mother-in-law) and a drastic turn in my own mom's health, I fell out of my body, or at least that is what if felt like. While driving my car, cooking or even talking to my husband, I was a witness floating some distance from the action.
I returned this week from an extended visit to my mother, knowing that it could well be the last time I see her alive.
While in San Diego at my sister's house, I sat crying on the couch one night after putting mom to bed. Nancy tried to help me transcend despair by explaining a strategy for shifting my attitude, but I wasn't getting it. She resorted to sharing a letter received from a friend that was a response to one Nancy had written while in a crisis. Instead of a return letter addressing the specifics of Nancy's rant, Nina wrote her a love letter.
It was the most beautiful and effective reaction to what for Nancy was a dire situation. Nina simply listed everything she adores about my sister by citing examples of her generosity and kindness.
Today is my mom's 81st birthday. Before leaving San Diego I sat down and wrote a love letter to my mom that goes something like this:
Dear Mom, there is so much I love about you. I love that you never made us wear shoes as kids, that dessert was a part of every dinner and how on my birthday I'd wake to the crinkle of wrapped presents at the foot of my bed. I love you for my strongest memory of bedtime being how you wished me "Pleasant dreams" before closing my bedroom door. I love how you asked about my dreams on our drives to school and how you listened as I leaned across the bench seat of our station wagon to talk in your ear. I love that in your purse I could always find a crumpled tissue blotted with a dozen imprints of your lips; gum, cough drops, Band-aides and a worn out nail file. I love that you never left the house without spraying three squirts of perfume around your neck or a Fresca tucked into your purse. I love that when I call, you want to talk, and when we hang up, you try to end with a positive. Today it was, "Don't forget to breathe in and breathe out, Pam." I love that when I read to you aloud you correct my mispronunciations. I love how fearless you are, which made you reckless, but also inspired admiration for your toughness. I love how you fully embraced your motto, "God is my co-pilot."
Happy birthday Mom.
Thank you Nancy and Nina, for giving me a formula for stepping away from fear and toward love.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Shake the beer


Painting by Kapahi artist, John Howard

About two years ago my neighbor exposed himself to me – for the second time. The first time I was such an innocent. I seriously thought, “That poor guy is going to be so embarrassed when he realizes his pecker is hanging out of his boxer shorts.”
It was before 7 a.m. and I was returning from a walk with the dogs when this guy steps out from behind his truck saying, “Good morning.” I responded in kind and then realized the obvious. I assumed he’d just climbed out of bed to retrieve something from his truck and was caught unaware of his predicament (pun intended).
I completely dismissed the incident, believing he’d die of shame when he realized he’d just exposed himself to a neighbor.
Nothing creepy was said. It was a gorgeous morning; not like I was in some urban back alley greeted by a freak in a trench coat. This was in a residential area on Kapahi Road just a few houses before the trailhead leading down to Hopi'i Falls.
In my nearly 50 years on the planet somehow I’ve escaped the sordid encounters most my girlfriends have endured in their teens and 20s. When friends have shared this sort of thing with me in the past, I’d scold them saying, “Don’t avert your eyes and empower that pervert, point at his pecker and say, ‘That’s nothing to brag about.’ Humiliate the bastard.”
I was completely on the moon. When faced with a stranger revealing himself, the shock sucks the wind right out of your words. A simple flashing is one thing, but when there’s some vigorous activity (yah, picture it), it’s a different story.
The afternoon my neighbor stood beating off in his garage in broad daylight, I looked, then looked again, and then walked faster. I returned home to tell my husband who couldn’t help but laugh.
“Are you sure he wasn’t just shaking his beer,” he teased.
I had to laugh as I gesticulated for Wes exactly what I’d seen.
“Call the police,” he said.
I did. A complaint was filed and the cop went to the pervert’s house.
Nothing came of it. The cop told me without two witnesses he couldn’t make an arrest.
Since then I’ve changed my walking route.
He won.
I did consider writing a letter to leave on every door in my neighborhood describing the scene and the location of the house, but never had the nerve.
So why write about it now?
I want to know how to respond in the moment in a way that reclaims my power. A similar incident happened recently and once again I was paralyzed into silence. How does a woman deal with a situation like this?