Happy 1st Birthday, Asher!

One year ago exactly, I was one hour away from giving birth to my beautiful baby Asher. How has it already been a year? How has it only been a year? Haven't I known Asher forever? Time is such a strange thing. Especially in a year like this, the most epic, transformative one of my life.

I love this picture of Asher with my dad over Asher's birthday cake--they've had such a special connection from the very beginning, and this photo captures it beautifully. As Thanksgiving approaches, I can't help but remember last year's holiday; Asher was about 90 hours old, and my dad was 90 years old. The three of us took a nap together, me between them--I have never felt myself to be "middle aged" more powerfully or sweetly than that moment, sandwiched perfectly between someone so new and someone who has seen almost a century of life. Asher's newness has brought the whole family a healing freshness that has helped us weather our season of loss.

Asher, I'm so grateful for your sweetness, your curiosity, your knowing, your humor, your pure, simple, profound love. Thank you for bringing us joy, so much light, when we've most needed it. I love how you've always loved light, from the time you were a newborn and would stare and stare at the light framed in the high bedroom window; I love how "light" is one of your first words now--you radiate it, my sweetie boy. Happy, happy birthday--I can't wait to watch you continue to grow, to learn, to shine.

"It sucks"

I have been so moved by and grateful for the "It Gets Better" campaign started by Dan Savage and his husband, Terry Miller. I hope it will give countless LGBT young people the strength to get through profoundly difficult times. I wore purple on Wednesday to memorialize the young men who have recently killed themselves and support the end of anti-gay bullying; I wear a lot of purple anyway, but on that day--which was also Michael's birthday (interesting that three of the most important guys in my life have October birthdays! Happy birthday, sweetie!)--it felt especially meaningful. I was purple as Violet Beauregarde, all the way down to my skivvies. I felt as if I was wearing it to memorialize my mom, as well as the young men. I felt as if I was wearing it for everyone whose lives have been touched by suicide.

I wore purple again today--it didn't have any significance when I first got dressed, but now it feels appropriate. I found out today that a friend's father killed himself last night; earlier in the week, I learned a friend from college took his own life. My heart is aching for the families of both men, for the shock and grief and complicated emotions they are suddenly forced to face. I wish I could tell them it gets better--because it does, but then it gets worse again, and back and forth, and nothing is ever quite the same. Maybe a campaign for those who have lost loved ones to suicide could be called something like "It sucks". I think it's important to acknowledge how much it sucks, because it's not spoken about enough. It sucks big time. But you'll get through it. And you'll learn, and you'll grow even though you'll fall apart from time to time. And there will be people to support you, whether they're wearing purple or not. That's one of the biggest gifts I've received through the chaos of my mom's death--the support that's come from sometimes unexpected places. I hope that's what those touched by these recent suicides will find--steady arms to help guide them across newly unstable ground. I am reaching mine out now.

belly dance

Belly dance is my salvation these days, my creative outlet, my connection to the world. Because of life with a baby, I haven't had as much time to write as I would like (or email--if I owe you an email, please know I'm not ignoring you--I'm just woefully behind.) Somehow, though, I seem to be able to find time to dance.

Until 2008, the last time I had performed as a belly dancer was when I was six months pregnant with Hannah, seventeen years ago. Then, shortly after I separated from my first husband, my incredible friend Nancy invited me to dance with her troupe. It was such a generous gesture--dance was a way for me to work through all the confusion and grief of that time, and find my way back into my body. Belly dance continues to be such a lifeline for me; the women I dance with are, too.

One of my most powerful dance experiences was last weekend, when Nancy and I performed a "pre-funeral party" for the father of a friend; George knows that he is dying, and wanted to host a celebration of his life, surrounded by his many friends and loved ones. It was such a beautiful event to begin with, and the best audience I have ever performed for--I have never felt so much love and joy radiate from a crowd before. At some point, George joined the dance (you can see him above in his motorized scooter festooned with a smiley face balloon); later we invited others to join us, as well, and most people were shy, but below you can see the young man with Downs syndrome who grabbed my hands and led us into some wonderfully spirited twirling.

Nancy had been encouraging me to choose a dance name (hers is Saahira; our troupe is Saahira's Gypsy Soul). I had originally decided upon Ghaliya, which I liked because of its similarity to Gayle, but then I learned that it is also a type of lamb stew, and it didn't suddenly didn't seem as appealing. I ended up choosing Nasheeta, "full of life", the night before we performed for George. I have to say that most of the time I don't feel so lively--I am exhausted and overwhelmed a fair amount of each day--but when I dance, the energy kicks in, and my heart opens up and I feel fully alive, so in that way, the name seemed like a good fit--certainly something to aspire to.

At George's celebration, his daughter came up to us and told us that her dad had wanted the party to be about life and she was so grateful for how much life we brought to the event. It made the name I chose feel all the more meaningful.

Lately, a snippet from a poem by Wyatt Townley has been running through my head--"We are here so briefly, weather/with bones". Why not take that brief time, this transient weather, and dance?

Happy 91st birthday, Papa!

Happy birthday to the most amazing 91 year old I know (it's wild that the picture above--one of my favorites--was taken 41 years ago!) I don't know how I got so lucky to be your daughter. Thank you for teaching me kindness, teaching me playfulness, teaching me goodness (not to mention the proper way to toss a salad) :). I am humbled and inspired by your example, and love you with all my heart.p.s. Your harem sends their love, too. We are all so glad you were able to come watch us dance on Saturday!

Happy 20th birthday, Arin!

I can barely believe it's been 20 years since I first became a mama. Happy birthday to my amazing son, Arin. May you always be as exuberant as you are in this video (thanks to your beautiful girlfriend Prany for putting it together). I love your zest for life, your kindness, your all around wonderfulosity. Thank you for being who you are--I love watching you soar.

laying Jette to rest

The real reason for our trip, of course, was to lay Michael's mom's ashes to rest. I can honestly say that I have never experienced a burial as a "laying to rest" before now; when I have seen coffins go into the ground, I've always felt a sense of panic and claustrophobia that had nothing to do with rest. When we scattered my mom's ashes in the harbor, they bloomed and billowed under water, full of motion; I can't think of them resting, per se, because they're part of something so dynamic and grand. But Jette feels at rest, at home, now.

I have never seen such a beautiful cemetery--it felt more like a garden than a graveyard, so green and lush, each family's plot surrounded by its own little row of hedges. Michael tells me that when he visited Denmark as a child, his mother would always take them to the cemetery to visit the family plot; his great grandfather had been the mayor of Struer and has an impressive headstone (which you can see below). The small hole waiting for Jette's urn was surrounded by coral colored roses and sunflowers; it looked festive and inviting, more welcoming than any grave I've ever seen. While there was a heart-aching finality to the burial, there was also a sense of homecoming, of her being where she wanted to be, where she belonged.
Earlier in the trip, we stopped at the amazing Roskilde Cathedral, which was originally built in the 12th century and has been the main burial site for Danish royalty since the 15th century. One of the more contemporary tombs incorporated three sculptures that so perfectly captured the experience of grief, I was brought to tears (you can see one of them behind Michael and Asher.) I was also brought to tears, for other reasons, in the Sagrada Familia cathedral in Barcelona, but I'll write about that and more of our trip in another post. If there was a statue above Jette's gravesite, though, it wouldn't look like this. Michael and I have talked about maybe putting a small stone sculpture of a bird on or near her grandfather's stone to represent Jette, something peaceful, something that looks like it's home.

Our journey

We've been home for about a week and a half now, and already our trip feels like a dream--a dream full of vivid sensory detail that sneaks up on me during the day, nipping at the edges of my thoughts.

It was a beautiful trip, as meaningful and enjoyable as I could have hoped (even with the brain-crushing jet lag.) Here are some scattered memories that I'd like to capture before they slip away...

--Asher's baptism the day after our arrival. I never imagined I would baptize one of my babies, Jewish heathen that I am, but it is a tradition in Michael's family, and we thought it would be cool to honor that tradition in the same historic Copenhagen church where Michael and other members of his family had been baptized. We approached it in the spirit of family ritual rather than religious significance; thankfully the priest understood that's what we were doing (and knew that I was Jewish) and he didn't get lecture-y and dogmatic about it at all. I couldn't understand the service (which is probably for the best) but Michael tells me he asked the babies if they wanted to get baptized in water or Fanta, so it's clear the guy had a sense of humor, too. :) Hannah's job was to wipe the holy water from Asher's head after the sprinkling; she said that she liked to think of it as wiping away the baptism. I must say I was relieved to hear that the baptism doesn't "stick" unless the person is later confirmed; otherwise, as my sister joked, Asher would get awfully lonely in heaven some day. ;) It was actually a very sweet experience; the priest asked the whole family to put our right hands on Asher's head to bless him after the ceremony, and it was a lovely moment of honoring our sweet boy (who was a champ of a traveler throughout our trip.)

(here's Asher getting the baptism wiped off) :)

--The Danish tradition of eating bread slathered with a thick schmear of butter and a thin slice of Havarti for breakfast. I find myself craving it now, but the butter here is nothing like the butter in Denmark, which was so incredibly rich and creamy. They say the Danes are the happiest people on earth; I have a feeling their cows are the happiest, too (despite the whole California "Happy Cow" campaign. I've seen the packed, depressing cattle yards here; those cows have nothing on the cows that dot the Danish countryside.)

--As long as we're talking about food...the pastries. My favorite quickly became the Danish Crown with vanilla cream and thin slices of hazelnut. I tried it in several different bakeries, and do you know where the best one was? The 7-11. Shocking, but true. They had the freshest, yummiest pastries there. Now why don't they carry these at the 7-11 down the street?

--And okay, since we're still on the subject of food...the fruit. Sadly, I didn't get to eat as much of it as I would have liked. We passed many amazing looking fruit markets, and I kept telling myself that I wanted to try the spherical little strawberries (I've never seen anything like them) and the tender looking Santa Maria pears, but somehow it was never quite the right time to pick up fruit. Our first meal on the airplane home featured a fruit plate that had one of those little round strawberries, though, and while I'm sure it was not as delicious as the more fresh ones in the market would have been, it was yummy (best airplane food I've had, for sure.) A funny thing about the naming of fruit...in Denmark, oranges are called appelsin, which confused me on menus. Also, pineapples are called ananas--at a buffet (and wow, the Danes create lots of beautiful buffets), there was a pitcher of ananas juice, and I was surprised to learn it was much more acidic than banana juice would have been!

--My favorite meal of the trip had to be the dinner we had at Michael's cousin's restaurant, Blue Bird, in the Danish countryside. Klaus had taken all the tables in the small, lovely space and created one giant table down the center of the room, then covered it with candles and a gorgeous feast he had made for all of us and some of Michael's other relatives. I felt as if I had stepped into a gorgeous foreign film as we passed large bowls around and clinked wine glasses and communed.


Okay, this is getting long, and I'm tired and there's still so much to tell, so this will have to suffice for now. Be on the lookout for a non-food-related (well, at least lesserly-food-related) post about the rest of our trip soon. :)