Can’t get comfortable

Death is a storm
whether a flash flood
that catches by surprise
or a long time coming,
and stays for days;
gray as far as I can see.

Mourning comes
and I can't get comfortable
between the bouts of tears,
like sitting on the river bank
in unexpected rain
in clammy, cold clothes,
or itchy and fitful
on the edge of sleep
that never comes
sheep or not
twist and turn
to find the position
that will help me forget
his absence.
My legs tangle in the sheets.
and again I weep.

We attempt to prepare
for the unknown
(ready set go)
but death surprises
like a Trojan horse
and tramples like a whole herd;
a hoof beat to the heart,
and it’s tough to catch a breath.

As a kid I body surfed - like he did -
and occasionally misjudged the size
of the wave that rolled me
and smeared sand in my eyes,
no idea which way is up,
made of salt!
Lungs gripped a final hold
just before finding the surface.
Bruised but chastened,
I was gifted with
a healthy respect for the sea;
for the present that exists for one
but is stolen from another.

Philip Toll Hill
April 20, 1927 – August 28, 2008

Dear friends and family,

Today, my stepfather Phil passed away in Monterey, California. I am writing to commemorate his influence on me, and because writing is good therapy. I hope you will join me in prayer and celebrating the memory of his life. Yesterday, loved ones surrounded Phil, held hands, and spoke about his life and all that he has meant to them. He listened, aware of it all. After the sacred ceremony, everyone engaged in the more mundane activity of eating and feeding Phil his favorite: ice cream!

Life may have been the only trip Phil Hill did not want to make in record time without any stops from A to Z. Mostly, he lived at top speed – perhaps living several lives within one – and often driving away before we had both of our legs in the car. MSA (multi system atrophy), a relatively unknown, refractory offshoot of Parkinson’s, slowed him down; he experienced a rapid decline in the last two years – but only physically. His mind remained sharp. It was disconcerting when people responded to his body and not to his mind, but that was to be expected, and he quickly forgave the misconceptions.

For those closest to him, these last couple of years have been a sweet period. He did not resent his immobilization the way some people would. He stepped bravely into intimacy and took an interest in the details of everyone’s lives. That’s the thing about Phil. He did not play games, and was the most authentic human being you will ever meet. During his life, he made the most of his passion achieving many awards besides his most famous honor, first American (and only American born) Formula One Champion with Ferrari, and during his final years, he focused on loving and appreciating the people around him. While he did not display his vulnerability easily or openly, it was obvious that it instilled in him great compassion for others. He did not tolerate whining, but if someone were faced with a serious decision or experienced a major blow, he knew what to say and how to help.

Phil was more to me than what “stepfather” implies; he became a second father. Both of my fathers are very different in complementary ways, and so, I am very lucky that both men played, and continue to play, a large role in my life. Two men walked me down the aisle on my wedding day.

There never seems to be enough time on this Earth with the people you love. Phil and I were going to discuss The Piano Shop on the Left Bank by Thad Carhart when I was finished with it. As I read, I understood why Phil treasured it – it unfolds slowly with rich detail like a foreign film. It describes the technical, historical and magical aspects of the piano as an instrument and a symbol, and the book offers a glimpse of what it would like to be an American living (and accepted) in Paris. Phil owned three grand player pianos, each distinctive. Carhart explains the history and nuances of certain pieces of music, as well as the subtleties of a musician’s style and technique, which Phil appreciated with an expert ear. The book is informative, but endearing and engaging. I have not finished The Piano Shop because I was afraid if I did, Phil would die. I am enjoying it slowly coming up on the last quarter, and now I am free to finish, although I regret the conversation will never happen – at least in person.

Phil is a craftsman and an artist. He appreciates art in all of its forms and understands color, with an eye to detail as he restored the antique and classic cars that passed through our garage as well of his business Hill and Vaughn with Ken Vaughn. One day in 1974, when I was 14, Phil brought home a big boat of a car – a baby blue and white 1958 Belvedere Plymouth. Immediately, I fell in love with its lines as well as the push button transmission, sprawling bench seats, and shark fins. Unlike other models from the same era whose radiators grills resembled sharks’ teeth, my grill smiled; more akin to Thomas the Train. I did not see the car again until I turned 16. Phil took me out for ice cream (If you knew him you know of his affinity and passion for all things sweet). When we returned home, my family was dressed in 1950’s attire and dancing to Elvis around the Belvedere, stretched across the front lawn. Phil had saved the car two years for me without me knowing.

Phil often chose meaningful cards and unique gifts, having them wrapped in the most beautiful papers available. He presented me with my first tiny diamond on my 13th birthday. But, the best gifts had nothing to do with material things. I did not like Phil all that much when my mother first married him. Given the whole traveling from A to Z rapidly scenario, an 11-year-old’s frequent bathroom stops were greeted with: “How many liters does your bladder hold anyway?” And, I liked to sleep in, a concept foreign to Phil until his last years when he was forced to stay in bed. He was forthright and incisive and I had learned to please adults by being a chameleon, so I did not appreciate having my mask yanked away from me, or being asked to stand up for what I believed. But, as time passed, I developed an appreciation for honesty. Phil taught me never to take anything at face value and never to agree with the group just because it was the easiest route. He wanted to hear my argument to support my belief.

While initially he scared me, to some degree, it didn’t take long to realize that he had the biggest heart. If I experienced troubles with friends, he knew just what to say to cheer me up. He was quick to apologize if he was out of line and willing to ask insightful questions to help me make an important decision. An animal lover, he bought me Lord Chalmondley of Sandringham, a Clumber Spaniel, whose coat deemed him a failure in the show circuit, but won first place in all of our hearts. Phil took great pleasure in our cats: Enzo, Velvet, and now, Minue who will wonder where her companion and great love has gone to.

Phil taught me to think critically, which enabled me to thrive more effectively and happily in New York City (and life in general), and he helped me develop a sense of humor. I was far too serious, which Phil sensed long before I understood what a bore that is. He taught me to laugh at life’s ridiculous drama and often played practical jokes, like the time he stood outside my window one night as I cleaned my bedroom. Because my room was elevated all I glimpsed from the corner of my eye was a floating head and I screamed. He would laugh heartily and his laugher was infectious. I attended his alma matter, Santa Monica High School, and he said he’d pay me to get a C if that’s what it took to lighten up. I finally took his advice my (second) senior year of college and proudly called to tell him I got a D! Fortunately, after five long years in college draining my patient parents’ bank accounts, the school dropped the grade and let me graduate.

Despite the many beautiful presents he gave me, he instilled in me a work ethic. I made sure I retained a job consistently beginning when I was 15 years old – stuffing candy in a factory for $5 cash under the table, although my first real job was a barista at age 16 at one of the only coffee bars in the Marina del Rey (long before Starbucks).

Phil taught me to be aware at all times – to have a sense of not only what my eyes could see, but what was behind me. He instilled in me a power and assuredness that I carry to this day. He taught me “the science” of parallel parking, which I still like to show off to friends, measuring the distance from bumper to bumper (in Europe, he explained, they are able to park with only an inch in front and back!). He advised never to trust other drivers, but to read the direction of the tires and not the turn signals, and to expect drivers to run red lights. “Always drive with an element of fear,” he admonished, echoing the philosophy that may have helped him survive his career.

When I found dance, he encouraged me to follow my bliss and enabled me to study dance in college and in summer school programs around the country. Phil influenced me as a writer too. His memory is impeccable and stored myriad entertaining stories in full detail, and, more importantly, he knew how to tell them well - with timing and wit. His support extended to all aspects of my life: he loaned Brian and I money for our first house and took us on many trips, including the Modoc County Tours and to the Mille Miglia in 1984. Phil was there any time we needed – emotionally and physically.

These are just a few of the reasons I owe so much to Phil. I am deeply grateful we crossed paths in this lifetime; he lives in my heart forever. I love him dearly. I know that memories that haunt me now as I deal with my loss, will become my solace. After all, he is not so far. Thank you for sharing in the memories with me.

Jennifer

After reading the Sunday NYTimes today - a day late - I realized what an insular life I lead as a writer - insular as in "characteristic of isolated people" as opposed to "narrow and provincial." (At least I hope.) That's why I have friends - to give me perspective, challenge my beliefs, deepen my understanding, and broaden my horizon. I suppose we all lead lives with more restricted interests based on what we are required to do most of the day. Maybe writers have more responsibility to keep a finger on the pulse, to explore territory they might not otherwise broach, to question and ponder, turn over rocks and prod a little.

Speaking of insular, I can't believe we are one of only three nations who elect our judges. "In the rest of the world, the usual selection methods emphasize technical skill and insulate judges from the popular will, tilting in the direction of independence." (page 13 NYT) The French model seems admirable and less prone to cronyism - their judges take a battery of tests and study years at a special school. Echoing the political scientists quoted in the article, I wonder how we have enough information to elect qualified and trustworthy judges. Of course, we wouldn't want our judges managed by Congress or the President either, so how do we maintain the separation of power? If not friends, it's good to have the newspaper pull me from my limited perspective... and anyway then my drama feels insignificant compared to earthquakes and typhoons!

When I was a little kid, I wished for two things: to fly and for magic. Lately I've been having the best flying dreams ever, so I think that might qualify, and synchronicity brings magic into my life big time. The most obvious example occurred about 3 years ago. I was cleaning out the garage and came across my high school yearbooks. Some cards fell out of the yearbooks and I read them. One was from an acquaintance - one of my boyfriend's friends. He wrote the loveliest things about my positive attributes, and I was touched years later by this boy I might otherwise never have remembered. THE NEXT DAY this boy, now man, emailed me: "Hi... I don't know if you'll remember me but...." He was married and had kids and was "just saying hi." What the? I wrote back and told him my story and never heard from him again. It must have seemed too weird. And it was. I hadn't talked to him let alone thought about him in 27 years. We are all so interconnected in ways unseen.

Synchronicity seems to occur in waves. There are periods where life is "as usual," and then phases where it all seems like a dream - the coincidences are so strange. Lately I've been going through one of those worm holes. I work on a chapter that includes a group of white American pelican and a red hot air balloon, and the next morning when I step out onto my deck - not so far in the distance is a red hot air balloon with the design: 3 white birds that could be seagulls - or perhaps - American white pelican. I am out feeding the goats in the morning when the balloons rise, so I have a good idea of their pattern. In the summer, they fly every weekend and occasionally on weekdays, but I have never seen only one balloon mid-week and there wasn't another balloon in the sky days before or days after that sighting. But this isn't so amazing in itself. It's always the string of events that seems to create the feeling that I am dreaming.

The other coincidences are even more incredible, but too convoluted to write about - i.e. it would take too much time to write the back story, but suffice it to say, if enough of these things happen in a short amount of time I begin to wonder if the fairies aren't playing with my head... the universe has a major sense of humor and life is magical!

And, by the way, it is my beautiful and powerful mother's 70th birthday today. She is the one who taught me how to be aware of synchronistic events and to believe in a universe that supports us. Her name, ALMA, means "soul" in Spanish and she is soulful and big hearted - an angel for us all.

I’ve always believed that suppressed feelings can get me into a lot of trouble – or rather, if I stuff them deep enough then I will develop a physical ailment, but every time my back hurts or my digestive system acts up, I forget the connection and resort first to meds. To give you an idea of how deeply I am entrenched in denial - the other night it was the fourth time in a row that I woke at 3 a.m. cursing at my kids for turning up the thermostat on the heater, and I finally realized I was having hot flashes. Duh. Okay, this has nothing to do with feelings, but it does demonstrate my serious DENIAL. (Isn’t 47 way too young for hot flashes?)(j/k)

At any rate, as Christmas approached and my ex-husband was happily celebrating the holidays with 14 relatives and his new girlfriend, I knew in my mind that I should be feeling something, but when I checked in with myself – there was nada, zip, nothing. Even an echo. I felt absolutely fine! I mean, not that I have regrets. After all, I did initiate the divorce, but everyone knows that it is still painful no matter who initiates, and a new girlfriend (no matter when she comes along) indicates a certain finality, a loss of a best friend and dreams – the dream of having a united family. I should have been feeling like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, but instead, nope. I was fine! Really I was.

Ha! Christmas morning I head out to feed the goats and pony and I decide to move one of the 350 lb trash cans full of poop closer to the end of the driveway. I tip the can and lug it 15 or so feet when my feet flip out from under me and everything goes into slow motion. I crash down on my tailbone and the can careens down on top of me. “Oh no!” I say as it is falling, more worried than angry. It lands across my knees and thighs. The lid opens on my face and a huge bag of horse dung bounces out and smooshes the lid against my nose and lips. I am pinned. The light, early morning dusting of snow evidently hid about four inches of ice on the driveway. If I called for help, no one would hear. The girls are at Brian's until later in the day. I eventually wriggle out and stand gingerly, grateful that nothing is broken, although I will be walking slowly for days and my knees blow up to look like those strange bubbly kids' toys that light up when you slap them against a hard surface.

It looked like an accident, but my Karate Kid childhood mentor taught me that there are no accidents. There is always a reason. I thought about it as I dragged 50 lb bags of poop out of the can so I could stand it up again. I needed a reason to cry and it was so much easier to cry about the poop on top of me than it was to cry about the shit going on inside. Although you would think I would learn my lesson, I did not. I sniffle a little, but the feelings remain safely locked inside my head.

Two days later, I develop severe digestive issues any time I put even a bite of food into my mouth – everything from gas to diarrhea. By the evening I was tired of fasting. I was driving home from some event and when I pulled into my garage, I asked myself: “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Obviously there’s a pouty two-year-old living inside my limbic system.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I sit in silence a while until the kid relents. I start balling. "Waaaaaaa." At long last, the information in my head had seeped down to my heart. Pain sucks – it really does. It’s sort of like running. I never look forward to it but after I do it, I feel so good. The last thing on earth I want to do - ever - is cry so hard that I drool onto my shirt, but the pay off is that within minutes my digestive system cleared up and I was able to eat a hearty dinner.

I’m on a roll. ‘tis the season. Hohoho. The body likes to trick me into denying that physical pain has ANYTHING to do with feelings, so it changes tacks regularly. Yesterday, I woke up with back spasms, but that’s a whole other long story I won't get into. Usually my feelings give me a couple weeks between being stirred up, but maybe we’re getting a lot over with all at once. I figured out why I was getting the back spasms and they went away, but this crying and drooling - while healthy - is really an annoying way to begin the New Year. Happy New Year!

(By the way, if your interested in this feelings/physical pain theory – it’s medically supported by Dr. John Sarno, and explained in The Mindbody Prescription or Healing Back Pain. It effects not only the back, but includes many conditions that cause chronic pain - from Bells Palsy to migraines and carpal tunnel to sciatica. He is a hero!