My Cathedral

THIS IS MY CATHEDRAL

I listened intently to the sermon Sunday, because it began with the story of the birth of twins, so of course, it caught my attention.  However, the thread about the twins was not actually what kept me enthralled.  It was one statement that made me stop to catch my breath.  It was the story of Cardinal Thuan Van Nguyen and how he had been imprisoned for 13 years in Viet Nam.  For most of the years, he had been in isolation and of course, deeply depressed.   

This prisoner in horrific conditions managed to get some wine and some crumbs of bread. 

They sent me a small bottle of wine for Mass with a label that read, ‘medicine for stomachaches.’ They also sent some hosts, which they hid in a flashlight for protection against the humidity. The police asked me, ‘You have stomachaches? Yes. Here’s some medicine for you.’

I will never be able to express my great joy! Every day, with three drops of wine and a drop of water in the palm of my hand, I would celebrate Mass. This was my altar, and this was my cathedral!

He describes many things about his life in prison and of how he wrote notes on small, dirty pieces of paper.  He shared these notes with other prisoners, with cruel guards and others.  They contain words of such profound spirituality and faith that they have been combined into a book. 

In our country there is a saying: ‘A day in prison is worth a thousand autumns of freedom.’ I myself experienced this. While in prison, everyone waits for freedom, every day, every minute. We must live each day, each minute of our life as though it is the last.”

But, what caught my breath the most in last Sunday’s sermon, what made me stop short and hear almost nothing else, was “This is my cathedral.”  So, for me it is this.  Everyday in every difficult, wonderful, heartbreaking, thrilling, mundane, boring, challenging, lovely, hideous, frustrating, satisfying, angry, tolerant, kind, cruel, empathetic, confusing, dull, exciting, mystifying, logical, rewarding, disappointing, frightening, fearless, doubtful, faithful moment, THIS is my cathedral!  So, when I have been wrenched away from love by the death of my precious child or when I have danced with my oldest son at his wedding; when I have witnessed the agony of disease or the satanic grip of addiction or thrilled to the accolades of my children graduating; when I have looked into the eyes of my beloved in my wedding whites or buried my father’s wasted away body; when I have held the thousands of newborn babies in my grateful arms or held their tearful and yearning mothers, all of this IS MY CATHEDRAL!  Every day in every moment in every way, no matter how small or how grandiose, I am where I am meant to be!  

The Pizza Room

There were two whole slices and one half eaten slice in the still open pizza box.  The cheese was congealed in the way that cold pizza typically morphs.  I stared at those slices of pizza as if they were the aurora borealis.   So mesmerized was I, that now 17 years later, I can still see those pizza slices. 

At the same time as I was meditating on pizza, Dr. Parker was telling me that my two year old who lay in the next room being air bagged, would not live until morning.  Perhaps, this is why I chose to focus on cold pizza. 

I could see the white-coated doctor’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t really hear her.  She could not possibly be uttering the words that I thought I was hearing.  Not possible.  Focus on the pizza.

She said to be sure and summon all my children to the hospital, as soon as possible so that they could say goodbye. She was crying.  Shep and I weren’t crying yet. We had years of crying ahead of us.  Why start now, when instead, I could keep staring at the pizza and leaving this room in every possible metaphysical way?

We stood and walked into the room where my baby was dying.  How did we walk? I suppose we walked in the same way that a prisoner, taking his final steps down death row, finds the strength or the rote memorization to put one foot in front of another when every bodily fiber is screaming “STOP!”  It is like walking into the cauldrons of hell, knowing clearly how much agony lies ahead in the burning flames.

We had no choice. We walked on.  We stood at the bedside sobbing, begging, pleading with those trying hard to keep my baby alive, to keep on trying. They did not look back. They never met my eyes. They knew it was hopeless. They knew hell was waiting anxiously for us and hopefully, that heaven had already embraced my dearest child. 

So sometimes, even today, why this very morning in fact, I end up back in the “pizza room.” It can often happen willy-nilly with no rhyme nor reason. Likely, it happened this morning, because this day, was the last day of my life as I knew it. Tomorrow, begins the death remembrance as the day of the drowning. The panic begins tomorrow morning and resonates through every fiber of my being.  Then it ends at 6 am the next day.  I begin to breathe again.  It is done.

When I unconsciously and randomly enter the “pizza room” the door slams and locks. My heart pounds and I beg to get out, but it’s hopeless.  I am stuck there now and no way to get out no matter how hard I try.  I have to stay until I am done. When I get out, I am usually stunned, but I do get out and look at the brightness of the sun and the blueness of the sky, or the peace of the night and the  shining of the moon and know that I am still here, but he is gone.  The pizza remains.    

May 2, 2012

Maundy Thursday - The Stripping of the Altar

This is always a very meaningful evening for me. It isn’t really the religiosity of the event as much as it is a stop and stand still moment. It causes me pause; in other words. It is almost like resetting my clock. And typically, it can take my breath away.

Last night, we attended our “new” church downtown. Previously, we attended a church where we were part of a tightly knit community and where foot washing was always part of Maundy Thursday. In fact, there were entire Holy Weeks that kept me breathless when the inimitable Bishop Michael Curry preached night after night blowing the doors off the sanctuary. This guy is an enigma in a way. He is a middle aged, black preacher in the midst of the still southern, South, namely, North Carolina. He begins softly, friendly-like, standing in the middle of the aisle, never at the lectern. You become immediately engaged and curious. He oddly usually asks if he can “have a minute of your time.” I always wonder if anyone ever says, “No, I’m too short on time this evening.” Then, gradually his message builds and builds to a crescendo the likes of which you have never imagined. He is yelling. He is sweating. He is speaking so rapidly that some of his words are tripping over each other. He is swaying and racing back and forth and you are hearing exactly and precisely the words you desperately needed to hear. “How did he know?” you wonder. You are mesmerized, transfixed, wanting more, more, more. How did he know all the things I ache about and all the angst and all the guilt and all the shouldda, couldda, woulddas? He did. How did he know I needed reminders of all the good I still need to do? And he is speaking with a passion the likes of which I never experienced “BC” (before Curry). When he preached, I always cried and often I felt I spilled tears as much from his passion as I did from the content. I wondered how anyone could ever be filled with THAT much passion. Totally unforgettable.

The other magical event in our old church was the foot washing ritual. It too, always moved me to tears. In the earlier years, our dear friend and rector, Diane would wash everyone’s feet on her own. We all hesitated to bare our tootsies that were not at their best and darn it, never freshly manicured! But, my friend Kathy, encouraged me to remove my socks and come along because she said, “This is the best night of the year.” Eventually, we morphed into washing each other’s feet. It was the most humbling and moving thing to sit on a chair and have a fellow traveler kneel and wash your feet, as Jesus had. There were some years when it was hard to hold it together. The year that Tara walked up the aisle to the waiting basins was one I shall never forget. She was the tall, elegant blond whose beloved husband had died from a sudden heart attack five months prior, leaving her completely bereft.
She sat on the chair weeping and I rushed up from my pew and hugged her endlessly wanting to heal her heart. Instead, all I could do was to wash her lovely feet and pray for her sustenance.

Another most memorable foot washing event was the time when my atheist son, Peter agreed to come along as he was leaving for a trip to West Africa the next morning. He washed my feet. I washed his feet and we looked deeply into each other’s eyes with the kind of love only known between mother and son and we cried. Back in the pews, he said, “I don’t know what the hell I am doing going to this awful place, but I am going anyway. I never told him, but all I could think of was that perhaps Mary had washed her son, Jesus’ feet in the very same way. He left on Good Friday and had a life-changing trip. He left with feet washed by his mother.

So, when this year rolled around, we knew we would miss our old church, but, we felt we should continue breaking new ground with new traditions, and attend our new church.

It was different. No one was hustling around getting bowls of warm water or clean towels. This just isn’t yet the type of place where one would remove their Jimmy Choos for foot washing. But, it was still and prayerful and quiet. The organ began and was low and steady. The sermon was meaningful and spoke to me about remembering feelings from important moments in one’s life. We can remember feelings, just as we can remember events or turning points. And when the end came and we sang the hymn that repeats, “Sometimes it makes me tremble, tremble, tremble” which usually repeats in my head for days, the stripping of the altar began. This was not done by the women of the church, or any altar guild, but instead, the clergy and the acolytes began removing anything removable which included hymnals, prayer books, cushions and any brass. Finally, the crucifix was draped in black. The altar was bare. This was a life without Jesus. Gone.The church went dark. I caught my breath and sighed. I thought about all the moments of ending in my life. The births. The deaths. The losses. The gains. The bitterness. The sweetness. As always, I pictured Mary, mother of Jesus watching her son breathe his last breath. I know that heart stopping moment too well. Empathy. And then, as Jesus said, “It is done.” And, it is. We leave to head home. Once again, I have been moved. I have been moved to the center and to the place of remembering my purpose and my blessings. My feet are unwashed but they are fine. They move on.

Ides of March - My Mother's Birthday

March 15, 2012

Happy Birthday to my mother, Florence Conlon. Had she lived past 2001, she would have been 96 today. It was really in everyone’s best interest that she didn’t stick around for the occasion.

I had a very low esteem day today, and I would imagine that on some level, it was related to this ghostly event. I work hard on forgiveness nearly every day. I really do think about it deeply on some days. But then, on a day like today I can hear my mother saying, “Ann, I deee-spise you, I absolutely deee-spise you” and my heart crumbles to bits. Forgiveness then flies out the window of pain. Although I have no visible tattoos for the world to see or to proclaim my coolness, I do have that one emblazoned on my heart. It is right next to the one that says, “Ann the worst day in the history of the world, was the day you were born.” Yep, that’s my loving, borderline personality mama…. These are some of the pearls she left me with.

My sister texted and reminded me that today was my mother’s birthday. I knew I felt odd all morning and could not figure out why. I was in the middle of a meeting at Panera in Durham, with a table full of very successful lactation consultants. I already felt quite inferior, quite under-educated as it was. It is typical for me to feel “less-than.” And then, when I realized the date, I felt worse.

I tried retail therapy after that. Stopped into Nordstroms Rack and browsed. Wandering around retail like that usually helps. I even bought a pair of out-of- character green heels. None of it helped.

As I often do, I make bad, get worse. So, from Durham, I hit the interstate and went to Hillsborough, NC to the assisted living where my friend, Jen has ended up following a stroke. Jen was one cool woman. I have always been intrigued by her. She was one of those church friends who really helped me out when I my twins were born 13 years ago. We laughed for years because Jen could never get over the fact that I had no cribs for the twins. We co-slept, so I saw no need for two cribs and Jen was just shocked by this. Whenever she would see me at church, she would hug me and say, “Oh Ann, how are those cute twins of yours? I still cannot believe you don’t have cribs!” Jen is about 20 years my senior and we would often talk about how much she disliked old people and preferred to be around young people. She got great haircuts, wore natty clothing from Belks and great leather shoes and bags. I think she loved when I commented on her fashion sense and great hair.

I always had intentions of having a cup of tea with Jen, but somehow, as life goes along, it never happened. We had this mutual appreciation for each other that felt good and kind, and full of admiration. We laughed a lot too when we met at church on Sundays. I knew she had a daughter who struggled with depression and another daughter and a son. None of her children seemed overly close to her or she with them. It was rare to see them with her and I wondered why. The thought crossed my mind more than once that they did not appreciate her. One must be careful with that train of thought, because I often imagined that many people thought that about me and about my relationship with my mother.

Unbeknownst to me, Jen had a stroke in her home a couple of months ago and lay there for who knows how long, until someone found her. Isn’t this all of our worst dread? Following a hospital stay and a stint in rehab which she disliked, she ended up in the Carrollan Assisted Living facility in Hillsborough, NC. I made the long trek there and came in hoping, as I always do, that I would come upon a hip and humane senior residence. Instead, I met with the usual nightmares of the propped up, nearly dead, wheelchair bound vacant humans, being spoken to in loud, condescending voices of staff members. “DO YOU WANT A SNACK NOW? LET’S GO. WE ARE GOING TO BLOW BUBBLES NOW.” Blow bubbles??!! One lady tried to rise up from her chair (if you don’t need to, why WOULD you want to sit all the time?) and an alarm went off from the chair which met with the admonishment, “Nadine, you will fall if you get up! Sit back down, right now.” Got to prevent that potential lawsuit at all times, even at the expense of human beings. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why does it always have to be like this? Is there a cool facility in say, Berkley, California? In Austrailia? In Iceland? There must be some one place, somewhere that they do not think that blowing bubbles or eating screaming green cake with colored flecks in it to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day is the thing to do with old folks. It was dismal. Jen was thin and frail and barely a shell of herself, propped in a wheelchair with wide eyes glazed over with glaucoma. She was happy to see me and held my hand throughout our visit. We talked about folks we knew from church. She randomly used the wrong words in sentences but used the cover up technique I have often seen memory loss victims employ. It’s a smoke screen and easy to see though, but there’s an “A” for effort. She thought my home was beautiful and said twice, “What a nice place you have here, Ann.” I would respond with, “No, Jen, I don’t live here, you do.” “Oh no, she said, I live in the park.”

I cannot exude fake joy at a situation like this. I say things like, “It must be confusing for you being here” or “I bet you miss driving.” I want the same treatment for me someday, which seems to be coming sooner and sooner. Don’t hand me platitudes or false cheerleading. Be real and be honest. My own delirium will protect me as needed.

My eyes filled with tears more than once while I visited. When the aide came and said that it was “time for Jen to have a whirlpool bath”” and Jen said, “I don’t like taking baths. I have never been a bath person” the aide responded with, “You don’t have to do anything, just let the water do it for you.” I spoke up and said, “Miss Winslow does not want to take a bath right now so we will continue visiting instead, thank you.” We hugged and kissed and I left, but of course, I cried all the way to my car and most of the drive home. This is how it happens. One day you are shopping in Belks, driving yourself home, having lunch with friends and attending an evening Lenten series at church. The next day you are laying on the floor drooling and barely functioning faculties. The following day you are in a facility, in a wheelchair, watching someone blow bubbles while eating screaming green cake. Like I said, “Shit.”

So, things weren’t bad enough and then I came home, to my chronically ill son, who no longer lives with us, but was visiting. He had spent the day in agony and misery, feeling a level of hopelessness that scares me to death. I stared at him with this fleeting vision of him in his black cashmere coat, having graduated from Harvard, home from his work at the NFL and owning the world, feeling on top of it. My Golden Boy who I always felt everything came to with ease. Did I jinx him? Did my bragging about him go over the top resulting in a crash to hell? Can I blame myself for this or simply the randomness of the universe that had a bug, this damned tick, the size of a poppy seed, bite him and change history? I ache for my boy, believing in the day of redemption and recovery still coming, but wondering how much longer the wait will be. His eyes are also blank and hazy and hopeless. Please God, restore his hope. At the very least, restore some hope….. keep him going…..

So, Happy Birthday Flo May. It has been a stellar day of reflection and feeling deeply sad. Tomorrow, we begin anew. I will work with five newborns and five newly created mothers. I will do my best to bring them to their bliss, so that I can renew my own hope in a more rewarding and encouraging day and in my own vague self worth.

KVETCHING

I’m pissed this morning.
Irritated. Sad. Angry. Feeling used. Disappointed. Edgy. Anxious.
Chomping really hard on my all-natural mint gum from Vitamin Shoppe.
Drinking more coffee which I don’t usually do.
Too early for wine, which I don’t want anyway.
Sam and Will didn’t get out of bed on time.
Sam and Will didn’t go to bed on time last night.
Rushed around yelling at them because we had to pick up the sweet, carpool girl.
Though late, we drove to pick her up but she never came out of the house.
Her mom had texted me that she was driving her instead, but I never read the text.
I wondered, if she was driving, why she didn’t pick up my kids instead of the other way around.
Whatever.
As a result of going to get her, I had to drive on the road I hate.
I quit the carpool.
My kids can take the city bus from now on. $4 a day roundrip is better than $55 gas weekly and 10 hours driving a week.
I sent an email to the carpool moms and quit. That’s that.

Fell madly in love with a house this past Sunday.
An historical landmark.
A schoolhouse from 1912 with 12 foot ceilings,
Perfectly and creatively renovated.
Crazy.
You can see the pics.
It was a true work of art, done by an incredible artist.
It is almost indescribable, as I have never seen anything like it.
The colors. The layout. The floors. The storage. The history. The openness. Amazing, completely amazing, breathtaking for both of us AND the kids too.
Though it was a stretch for our budget, it was very underpriced for the area.
Went to see it twice and we HAD TO HAVE IT.
Plenty of space for us, for my clients, my office – ALL!
Were willing to do just about anything.
In 3 damned days on the market, 4 damned offers came in.
We came in third place!
What was the winning bid?
Should we have stretched further above the asking price?
I suppose we should have.
But just how much, and how?
This was truly a one of a kind place, never to be found again.
I am deeply disappointed. Heartbroken almost.
And yes, I know, I know, I know, this is only a house.
It is not illness or devastation, in any way.
I know that. I know the difference well.
But, still I feel like crap and too disappointed to even cry.
Feel gypped.
For a while I felt like I was not entitled to live in such a nice house.
Now I feel like I am, and should have been able to.
Not sure there is any point in even looking at other downtown houses.
I’ll just keep driving back and forth commuting downtown 6-7 days a week.
Eeeew, I hear a martyr.

We left last night to go to our fancy downtown church
For a very moving and helpful Lenten series, called Faith Matters.
Loved the movie. Loved the message. Loved the messenger, aka priest.
I no longer fret about how different I am from the others there.
It doesn’t matter really. What matters is feeding my soul.
I bravely wore my jeans, actually.
Came home to a trashed house, homework not done, tv on, texting galore, dog not walked,
All the “Yes ma’ams, will do” texted to me, were untrue.
Pissed. Yelling. Bad way to end the day and boys in bed way too late.

Cannot lose the 20 pounds I need to lose.
Cannot convince myself to walk each day.
Not sure why.
Makes me mad, ashamed and disappointed in myself.
Used to be easier. Yeah.

Business is down.
Not a good thing.
Where are the babies?
No consults this week.
Rental pumps pouring in
Instead of out.
Yikes.

Gotta get our house ready to sell.
Scared. Overwhelmed. Where to begin?
Not looking forward to this project.
Start this weekend?
Still want to move downtown?
Less sure.

Peter’s still so terribly ill.
I hate it.
I don’t know what to suggest anymore.
I really don’t.
It makes me feel awful,
But oh how aware I am,
Of how much worse it makes him feel!
If I forget, he reminds me.

Nick’s good. Oliver’s good, I think, but don’t know.
Twins are good. Shep is good. I am good.
So, why the kvetching?

Not sure, just am.

DEATH OF DREAMS OR DREAMS OF DEATH

Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by death. I mean the whole concept of being here today and potentially gone tomorrow, is something I struggle to wrap my mind around. I suppose we all do. Flipping through recipes this morning, I found an email with an asparagus recipe from my dear friend and mentor, Mary Tully. In the email I am asking her to send me the delicious recipe for the asparagus we had at her husband’s birthday party months earlier. My son’s wedding was coming up and I wanted to make this dish for the rehearsal dinner. Mary says in her response that she is so honored and gladly shares the recipe. I renamed it Asparagus Tully for the event and everyone enjoyed it. The email was dated March 2009. The wedding was in May 2009. In July 2010, Mary was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In December 2010, we attended Mary’s funeral. I still have the recipe but I always miss Mary.

Listening to NPR today on the way home from carpool pickup, I heard about the American photojournalist, Marie Colvin being killed today in Syria. She was originally from Long Island and then lived in France. She lived to tell the story in photos of the atrocities of war and despite losing an eye in her dangerous profession; she forged on until she was killed in the fray today. She served us by sharing the visual story with us, but we lost her anyway. I am sad for her mother and father, for her friends. It is just deeply sad.

I am even sad about Whitney Houston, whose four-hour funeral was completely over the top a few days ago. It had all the elements of a tent revival meeting and when it came to comparing her to Mother Theresa – well, that was really a bit much. I feel she really did kill herself, despite professing deep love for her daughter and an evangelistic love of God. Nothing was enough to keep her from the drugs she also loved and depended upon and no amount of rehab or cleansing could keep her from drowning in a bathtub, overtaken by too many prescription pain killers. Nothing really could kill her pain and she too, entertained us and thrilled us like no one else, but we lost her anyway.

And then again as I am reorganizing my recipe collection, I came across an old Thanksgiving Day suggestion for a new tradition. It involved asking each family member to write down one thing they were thankful for and then bake them into crescent rolls. Then, each person would break open their roll and read the blessing aloud. Well, the year I found that suggestion I thought it was great and so when my sister and her husband and kids came for dinner, we got right into it. Except for my brother in law who said, “I have nothing to be thankful for.” We all were angry with him and never forgot his lack of gratitude. In reality, he was an unhappy man and years later I watched him take his last breaths in an ER where he succumbed to the maladies of morbid obesity. His young daughter held his hand as he left this world that caused him so much pain. It still makes me sad every time I think of him.

When we moved from San Antonio, Texas to Hampton Bays, New York in the winter of 1982, I was still a Catholic but had already baptized my first son in the Episcopal Church. There was no particular reason for this other than that my husband was an Episcopalian and our childbirth educator was married to an Episcopal priest. It seemed like the thing to do. Living in Hampton Bays, I was drawn to this quaint old Tudor looking church called St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. It was Easter Sunday when we first arrived and when I went to the communion rail and found the chalice was filled with jelly beans and the priest, Father Dan Harris was giggling, I thought I might have found a church with a sense of humor. Week after week Fr. Dan delighted us with his sense of humor, his engaging ways with kids and a weekly show and tell type of God Box that he invented. I was hooked and in the spring of that year, I became an official Episcopalian, having been received by the bishop. I really loved this priest of ours but when he wound up cheating on his wife with a young woman he was counseling and planned to leave the parish with her, I was a bit taken aback. I remember sitting with him in the church kitchen one day following a hurricane that had knocked out the power supply. We sat at the dimly lit table and he said, “This time I want a piece of the pie. I’m leaving so that I can have it.” We lost touch with him over the years although he attended my son’s funeral at St. Mary’s years later. After a hiatus in New England for many years, he moved back to Hampton Bays with four kids and his newish wife. We visited with him but left feeling like he was not all that excited to see us. Perhaps he had a lot going on himself that day. But, I learned last week that he died four days after Christmas this year. It feels like the end of an era and in many ways it is. I often thank my father for giving me my faith. I thank Fr. Dan for bringing me into the open and loving arms of the Episcopal faith.

We all walk on eggshells. Will we find the lump in our breast today or tomorrow? Is that pain in my back, really a silent heart attack? Is the clearing my throat, really throat cancer? Esophageal cancer? Lung cancer? Is that what my shortness of breath is stemming from? Is my back aching because the osteoporosis has made complete Swiss cheese of my bones? Did I forget where I parked the car because I need Aricept to minimize Alzheimer’s? Is my knee hurting because all the cartilage is gone? Is that sunspot on my face changing or darkening? Will it be a simple skin cancer or full blown, life threatening, Melanoma?

This is how we live. There is so much fear and so much illness and death around us. Combine that with way too much information, and one could easily slip into somaticizing everything. As Dr. Christiane Northrup once said, “Hey, those are not lumps on your chest waiting for chemotherapy, they are your healhty breasts!”

Fear has a mind of its own though. Sadness can take hold of any normal, sunny day when you begin thinking about those who have died, wondering if they had any idea of when their last day would be. I mean did Whitney have a funny feeling as she stepped into that tub or was she too stoned to have any feeling at all?

Anyway, it ain’t easy…

The New York Love Affair Especially at Christmas

I don't know that I can really put this into words. It's sort of how it is when you are deeply in love with someone but cannot really explain the feelings precisely, simply because, they are feelings. That's how I feel about New York. Oh, it is not all love and glory by any means. New York is about as tough as it gets and no, the residents are not particularly kind or nice. In fact, most of the time, they can be irritable and unforgiving. They dislike being bumped into and when you apologize they don't respond with sweet forgiveness. The weather is cold and often gray. The crowds make getting from one spot to another a complicated labyrinth of sorts. Most things are expensive, though there are ways around that. It isn't a clean place if that is a priority of yours, and that by the way, does include restaurants. And it is very challenging to the handicapped or moms with strollers. There is no way around an expensive hotel room. And yes, crime rates are still fairly high despite the wand waved by Guiliani some years ago. The subway is really ugly and noisy and its stairways up and down and down and up again make no sense much of the time. Most things are harder to do than anywhere else in the world, but one really comes to believe "it's harder because it is better." There are many downsides.

But, having just returned from New York City for four days during Christmas week, my heart and soul have been renewed beyond expectations. To me, the beauty in New York is literally endless. The art is staggering. The creativity is like none other. Fashions are sublime and original and over the top. And, short of Bethlehem, there is truly no more Christmas-y place on Earth. Shep and I walked around for four days and nights except for one stop at a glorious New York wedding in the NY Health and Athletic Club on tony Central Park South. I also got to the ever corny Christmas show in Radio City Music Hall, which despite having lived in New York for most of my life I had never seen! I loved it. I wish we had worn pedometers because I figure we covered some 15 plus miles on foot this week.

The amount of black clothing in New York rivals a funeral in Rome. It is staggering really to see an endless sea of black coats, shoes, hats. And by the way, fur, not of the "fun" sort, but the serious "animal rights violation type" is back, big time. No protestors arrived with red spray paint either. All those Blackglama (What Becomes a Legend Most?) full length minks, red foxes, bright red or green furs and the like are around everywhere. It is disconcerting to me for sure, but seems perfectly acceptable once again amidst New Yorkers. The coat de rigueur though still tends to be the black puffy down coat that reaches the knees or beyond. Smart women have them belted with a cinch belt which I bet keeps them even warmer. Lots and lots of scarves and beautiful high leather boots with ear muffs abound. Waiting for a bus last night for nearly an hour, I got to appreciate the idea of a longer coat as my legs were freezing!

The tree. Ahh, the tree. I always start to quiver a bit as I turn the corner on Fifth Ave, knowing that Rockefeller Center is about to be within sight. And suddenly, magnificently, there it is in all glittery, glowy, glory. There resides the sparkling, golden Prometheus above the soaring ice skaters. I am not sure which part of the scene it is, or if it is all of them together, but darn it, I cry every single time. My whole childhood flashes in front of me (the good parts) and I am thrilled to the core by the historical nature and the official Christmas scene that it is. For some unknown reason, I feel close to God in that place. I stand there watching with freezing tears the whole time until I can take no more, then, take some photos and leave. My typical next stop is Saks where I stand in awe of the best merchandising around (you WANT everything in the store and part of you believes you NEED to have it all as well, BELIEVING it will make you hip and happy). I have never purchased a thing there, except for the one time my friend and I had our makeup done at the Bobbi Brown counter and bought mascara. Makeup costs the same price everywhere, so it makes no difference where you purchase. Then, I head to St. Patrick's Cathedral every time. This time, we walked into a Christmas concert, SRO, every seat in every pew taken. "The First Noel" sung by choir did me in of course. I struggled some more to keep my voice from cracking amidst the throngs. I couldn't sing and resist crying, so I stayed silent, listening to the cavernous recital.

All of Fifth Avenue blows me away. I mean Tiffany, Cartier, Gucci, Vesace, Henri Bendel, Hermes, Elizabeth Arden's Red Door, Bergdorf Goodman not only look beautiful dripping in lights and building sized bows, but they exude all the best that a store can offer. The F.I.T. Buying and Merchandising major in me comes alive once again, burying the stodgy lactation consultant in exchange for a damned good display. I love it. The cutting edge fashion. The buttery leathers, lighter than air silks, shiny taffetas, plush velvets, the hip home items, the highest shoes and the diamonds, oh the diamonds. One whole entire street, both sides of nothing, but millions of diamonds. 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues is the diamond district. Not for the faint of heart, this is an event where you really need to know what you are doing and the competition for your business is fierce. You can be physically pulled into a jeweler's kiosk where he insists he knows just what you are looking for. This used to be a field for only the most religious and mostly Hassidic Jewish vendors, but no longer it seems, as we were accosted by all nationalities desperate for our business. My intention was to have my engagement ring reset, but even I, became completely intimidated and untrusting. After all, do I really know the difference between a good diamond and a bad one? Nope. Going into Tiffany's is so much more civilized, more trusting albeit completely unaffordable. The sales clerks in Tiffany's used to bang on the glass cases with their key rings whenever they made a sale and then a runner would take the buyers money to be processed. I always loved that, hearing all that glass tapping, but they don't do that any longer.

We got to skip going to FAO Schwarz this time because we were kidless for once. But, my forever thrill is The Plaza Hotel. I instantly picture Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford in my all time favorite movie, The Way We Were. Usually, I brush Shep's hair back and say, "Oh, Hubbel!" Again, I usually get teary. I think I love this area of the city most of all as to me, with horses and carriages and Central Park and Fifth Avenue, it is perhaps the most glowing epitome of New York. We forced ourselves to bear witness to Ground Zero with which its new fountains and engraved names may be even more heart wrenching than ever.

Bryant Park is the loveliest place now, with chairs and tables for anyone to rest upon and at this time of the year, an ice skating rink with wonderful music. There were dozens of kiosks with artsy, fabulous gifts that we loved. And then, in the gorgeous twinkly lighted restaurants was a private party going on. Everyone looked amazing, mostly of course wearing black and seeming to have the most romantic, happy time by candle light. Lucky office workers for whomever was throwing that soiree. We contemplated trying to slip in, but realized we could never pull it off. Jealousy arrived. And, we saw many other private parties on that Friday night before Christmas, each one looking more delightful and warm than the last. I find it impossible to describe how in love I am with those scenes. It's magic and always, black magic.

On Thursday night we finally snuggled into a great Turkish restaurant and both splurged on some good red wine. It was 9 pm, and we were mighty hungry. No sooner had we sat down and ordered than my friend, the mother of the groom called and asked where we were as she was waiting for us at her son's loft apartment where we were supposed to have arrived at 7 pm! Disaster as we realized we had gotten the nights mixed up and thus, chugged our wine, grabbed our food to go, jumped into a cab, totally in inappropriate play clothes and got there a mere two and a half hours late! It had been a pizza and beer party, but the pizza was gone and so we now sloshed more red wine into our empty tummies quickly becoming trashed. When we left there, we were both laughing so hard that we could hardly walk. But mostly, we did walk and walk and walk and went down to Soho for drinks following the rehearsal dinner the next night. This was in a real southern style rib place (irony) where again, everyone was having a rip, roaring good time. We stayed awhile chatting with the family, then, left and walked some more on that warmish December night. As Shep said, "There's just so much to say." Indeed there was.

Suffice to say, the wedding in St. Ignatius Loyola, Jackie Kennedy's Catholic church where she was baptized and eulogized was magnificent. For most of the mass, I thought I was in Florence in one of the churches there. Ironically, the bride, Kim looked identical to Carolyn Bisette (John Kennedy Jrs. bride). The reception at the NY Athletic Club where the groom is a member was classy and understated. For once, I was one of the attendees at a New York event and I loved every minute of it. My attempt at wearing high heels was disastrous as we had to dodge into a Duane Reede pharmacy for some foldable slippers. The Club was on fire when we arrived! Typical New York with many fire engines, ladders up to the windows, and people running outside with just a towel wrapped around them as they rushed out of the sauna. It was an amazing site and we were all displaced in the cold but in true New Yorker fashion, no one fell apart, many laughed, some got angry, but after wandering into the Essex House for awhile, the reception was able to begin, though quite late.

We stayed in a classy hotel, a first for us who usually reside in cheap motels with kids crammed into sleeping bags. Used up all my flyer miles and it was well worth it as we stayed in The Warwick Hotel, home of the first stop for the Beatles in 1965! What a thrill and what a lovely room. Loved it. We took a few cabs but mostly subways and buses including the long arduous bus ride from Manhattan to LaGuardia airport. It's slow and tedious, but always a fascinating experience through Spanish Harlem with a fare of $2.25 all the way to the airport!

"We were tired, we were merry, we had ridden all night on the ferry..." from an old poem my mother wrote. Well, it wasn't the ferry, but it was a completely joyful experience being in the hubub and the magnificience of New York at Christmas.

It makes me feel love and well loved. It reminds me of all that is still good and sweet in this world. It makes me be ever so grateful for all that I have and for all who I have ever been loved by. I don't know why this happens to me more in New York than anywhere else I have ever been. Perhaps, there are many of my ghosts there including my young successful self in fashion design and retail and all the jobs I had in Betti Terrell Children's Wear, Peau D'Ange Bridal Designs, Coco Creations, Michael Murray designs, Valentino, Benton and Bowles Advertising, New York Hospital Gift Shop, B. Altman, Macy's. Then, my father as a court officer on Chambers Street and in later years, as a messenger darting around the city and my mother as an employee for Esquire magazine's advertising department along with my aunt in children's wear. I can picture my mother's best friend Bill as a New York-o-phile when we met for coffee in Macy's Cellar a few years ago before he took his life, and my friends who had various jobs around Manhattan. The wealthy women, mostly doctor's wives who volunteered under my direction at New York Hospital from whom I learned everything I know now about good manners and taste, who I still wonder about. The apartment sitting I got to do on Park Avenue and on Sutton Place. The tall ships I got to go on in July, 1976 and the sailors I spent that fun evening with from all ports. The Macy's fireworks every July 4th. The pizza that remains unduplicated anywhere in the world. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parades. The food, the food, the food, including the newest star on the block and completely overwhelming at that, Eataly. The Statue of Liberty. The completely unforgettable dinners I had at Windows on the World served to me by someone probably no longer with us. The friends I had who lived across the street from the UN. My stint as a coat check girl in a disco on Second Ave where I brought home so much cash and change at night, it would spill from my pockets in my cab rides home.

When Shep and I moved into New York City we lived on the Upper West Side first until we were robbed and then, moved to the Upper East Side where we felt safer. My friend just reminded me of the night we had our farewell party as we were moving to Texas. The singing messenger sang that night, "Good bye to Shep. Goodbye to Ann. Off you go to San Anton-io. Good bye to New York for you two. We'll miss you lots and hope you will come back but for now, it is time to pack." Poor rhyming, yet well said. But, thank heavens, I can still come back for visits like this one for as long as I am able.