And in a minute it’s quiet. One went up to her room. The other took the baby outside. And with them, went that dog, and my husband. One is still at work. And, no one seems to know where the recycling bags are kept or how to open a dishwasher. I practice my breathing. Breath – I am breathing in – my mind knows the drill.

Sitting at the kitchen table facing the window, my back to the mess. The late afternoon sun filtering through the trees, they seem to have grown into a jungle from the rain, and just enough of a breeze to present the squirrels a more unreliable trapeze. I must remember to cut the lilac husks off the tree this weekend. Six years, it should have been much bigger, must have bought a dwarf, pretty though. Two white iron chairs angled in conversation at the back of the garden. I took the backrest out when we adopted them from the kitchen of the elderly couple advertising on Kijiji. The pink Swiss dots definitely cramped the style carried off by their charming curvy legs.

I feel the mess glaring at me. The box and cellophane of the organic date and lemon crackers, a plastic wrapper peeled off like a stocking from the cheese, the pile of recycling that didn’t make it to the curb this morning. The foil tin from the Ratatouille that I brought home yesterday so the girls would have something to eat, of which she said, “That was a good movie, remember it Mom?” “Yes, it had the mouse.” I think I have mice.

The white mug on the counter, half full, with the string and tag of the tea bag wound around the handle; the tell tale sign. Her signature. I know who left that cup advocating Paris is always a good idea stacked in lines of cursive. Let’s run away. The curvy legs of two chairs sitting across a round table that’s just big enough for our elbows, small strong cups of coffee, and one plate with pain au chocolat that I try to order with a French accent.  Remember the flower shop we found?  Jacqulines and you took a photograph of me after I had gathered an armful of lilies, roses and peonies. Like a corny film.

                                                             ***

Details of the mundane become relevant in the light of something we cannot control. Last week I was immersed in a writing workshop at UFT. Each night we were to write and send a piece around to the class by 7:00 pm  so we would have a chance to read the work for critique the next morning.  I wrote the above on Thursday July 14^th  after school, and pressed send. Then, Lorne and I got in the car to go grocery shopping. We turned on the news, and heard about Nice.

I had just written the words; Paris is always a good idea. It hit me hard. Just minutes ago I was escaping the minutiae, imagining being in Paris, one of the world’s most iconic romantic fantasies. Just moments ago families were strolling along a beautiful street, enjoying the end of a day of celebration. And, then. Life changes. Irreparably. In a moment. And, we cling, to all the silly, irrelevant, lovely annoyances of our lives.

The moon was full. It lay a path across the lake – a glistening lane in tranquil ripples. A night for travelling on a boat with a billowed sail, for pirate ships, treasure and painted wings, sealing wax and dragons that lived across the sea. It was a night for wonder. It was also game seven with the Cavs and Warriors. Moon gazing would have to wait.

My husband and I had run away from the children for the weekend. Yes, our three adult children. It was a spontaneous decision. I left them on Friday morning. I didn’t make dinner. I left them money. It was entirely against my grain. I did pop out and buy a Challah before we left. We threw our belongings in a case, as if caution to the wind.

My shoulders notched down, like the tin man with a swig from the oil can with each ‘Oro line’ we passed heading to the lake. I needed some space. Some calm. A reprise from all the meanderings in my head – all those should-haves, things to do, wishes for things that are not mine to wish for, contemplations and mingling notions. And the practice of  that proverbial monkey, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, or some rendition of that. I needed a re-set. A moment to set the dial back to me, to only be concerned with my own happiness ~ who said that our happiness depends on the happiness of our children.

Back to game 7.  My husband was rooting for LeBron James and was wrapped up in the Cleveland story. I will cheer loudest for my home teams, but I do like Steph Curry. Also, I really have a pet peeve about the word deserve. Did the Cavs ‘deserve’ this win because no team had won in 50 something years? Did the fans ‘deserve’ this? Sometimes we do feel entitled, and deserving.

I don’t feel entitled to this time, or deserving of it, even though there could be a long list that would support that notion. I am however allowed to give this time to myself, to maybe be a little selfish. To know that it’s okay at this point of my life to be good just to myself, even though I love spending time with my kids, and doing whatever I can do help and enrich their lives, as they enrich mine.

I am conscious of these days. Aware of the passage of time. The quickness. And, I can sometimes get pulled into ‘the stuff’. It’s really important for me to see the beauty in my life. Find happiness. Appreciate the now. These are the messages I say to myself, that sustain me, create my equanimity and equilibrium.

After the game, we did go outside to look at the most beautiful illuminating moon. The summer solstice was indeed dancing on the warm, dreamy breeze. We went to the road to find the darkness that could see the stars. There in a meadow I saw tiny flashes of light. Fireflies. Remember the nursery rhyme about the Teddy Bears Picnic, “If you go into the woods today you’re in for a big surprise… watch them, catch them unaware….” Well, I felt as if I was opening a storybook to the firefly ball. We watched the flight patterns as they signaled across the sky, between the tall grasses, amongst the trees.

As I closed my eyes that night, and my mind felt clear, as if a kaleidoscope revealing it’s magical configurations and bracketing into a shape. I could see. The moon was full. The water rippled ever so gently. The seven stars that I think must have been the little dipper, and the lights of the Fireflies that enchanted a summer’s eve.

I’m taking a social media course at the AGO using the exhibits as food and fodder for our foray into this foreign land of communication. Those were a lot of unintentional ‘f’s’ in one sentence, although it works somehow. Somewhat how I feel about the social media.

We learned Twitter. Opened an account, added our headshot, a background banner, and spoke our first tweets. It took this class of ‘over 50 something’s’ two full hours to get this far.  Then we went to the gallery to explore the Abstract Art exhibit and experiment with how to see things in an interesting way. How to photograph the works of art, making them intriguing, perhaps taking the piece out of context, exposing the underbelly, predicating a social comment, or finding humour etc. Who knew that gaining an ‘online presence’ was such a calculated enterprise.

I mean, I’m sure it’s not that complicated for everyone – like the people who like to ‘share’ with their ‘friends’ every meal, coffee and cat. But, for those of us with general indifference for Facebook, and a flippancy to 140 characters of dribble, welcome to this ‘30,000 leagues’ of what to us is the same as an ‘under the sea’ exploration of communication. And, by the way, we may as well embrace it for all of its irreconcilable charms.

Lynn Crosbie is teaching the course. Lynn – poet, journalist, author, pop culture aficionado. First class. She intuitively has her finger on the pulse of what’s going on, what we are or should be interested in, and what is current before we even know it is. For example, when we were photographing the art she took a picture of Claes Oldenburg’s ‘Floor Burger’ and tweeted about it. Only a couple of days later, on Saturday morning there is the burger on the front page of Globe Arts, as this pop masterpiece returns to the floor of the AGO.

If I were a work of art on display at the gallery, I would probably put myself amongst this exhibit of Abstract Art of the 60’s and 70’s. There is certainly more historic and current art that I relate to, but, I am a product of that time period. It influenced my life, and continues to resonate. So, it is with a giant step that I embark on my moonwalk to social media.

I only have 5 followers. It makes you feel bad about yourself. So, follow me. I’ve posted 8 tweets, and even used hashtags, although still not exactly sure what they are, but I can  #JacquelineMarkowitz #recipeforlifeclub # AGO and  #JackBush …

I’m a work in progress.

When they were young the voice of Barbara Coloroso was in my head; don’t fight with them to put on the mittens. If their hands get cold they will put them on, or have cold hands. And, the day to day decisions of parenting were somewhat ruled by the underlying lesson of that example. Is it going to harm them?

I’m a worrier. It’s true. I was the mother who walked her kids to school and waited by the crosswalk until the bell rang. If they were anxious before they left for school for one thing or another, I was anxious until they walked back through my door. I felt their highs and lows, the joys and tough times in my gut.

My daughters have grown up. They wear their mittens in the cold weather. My eldest is pregnant. She will soon understand. I take comfort in that. And, knowing that she will see me in a softer light, for some of the decisions we butted heads about. Motherhood is like that.

I still feel the angst of their choices.  Mittens were easy. Cozy. Now the scope of things for me to worry about has broadened. Even though, I know they are smart and independent. Even though, I know that it is their lives, and their decisions to make. Their choices of who to love, careers to navigate. Those of us who parent adult children understand that we are not at liberty to direct their lives. We can encourage and support, we can be honest, and we can talk. It is their choice to listen, heed, agree or deny. Even so – I still feel it all in my gut.

But.  A mother knows things. It’s instinct. A bird senses danger and hides amidst the branches, the balance of still and flight. Our instinct is extremely powerful. I believe this. And, I think it’s a power we have to listen to, not always act upon, but to weigh, to balance.

Instinct. We need to understand and covet its mystique and know when to take cover or take flight. And, always when it comes to those things that fall outside the mitten metaphor, we should, I believe, listen closely. Toss rational thought, and the opinions of others to the wind, and follow our gut.

We are all storytellers at heart.  We are always recounting the events of our day, the people who touched us or irked us; we listen to our children’s joys and tribulations, and provide advice from our collection of wisdoms. Our foundations are built from the experience of our mother’s and father’s and their stories. What have been the stepping-stones of our lives? What junctures were significant? What changed us? There are moments, places and details that set our lives upon various paths. It may be an innocent conversation, look, touch that otherwise might have gone un-noticed.  Or, perhaps a complicated instance with layers upon layers of fact and innuendo that are seemingly relentless; a tragedy, a joy, an implication, an unexpected surprise, a twist of fortune, a turn of events, a time of great happiness, a period of deep sorrow. These are all pieces of our stories.

Natalie Goldberg, author and writing advocate, says in her book, Writing Down the Bones, that she believes we “all have a dream of telling our stories – of realizing what we think, feel, and see… Writing is a path to meet ourselves and become intimate.” She is talking about the idea that we can all write, we may not be interested in creating the next best seller, but it is an intrinsic form of our expression.

Over the years I have attended many writing workshops. They open me up to possibilities. It’s like a trip to the spa for my mind, soul and imagination! I am infused with ideas, and often walk away with  something that is refreshingly new to me. It’s because during those hours I completely give myself over to the process, and my focus is intensified. Surrounded with like-minded people, their energy and sincerity is compelling. I discover parts of myself that I wouldn’t un-shelve on my own.

Next month I will be teaching a writing workshop, alongside two inspiring women, Vivian Saffer, an Integrative Coach and Michelle Katz, an Iyengar Yoga Therapist and Mediation teacher.   We will discover how to deepen our awareness, embark upon meditation practices, and immerse in contemplative writing. Through writing we find our intimate selves and dare to dream of telling our stories. Sitting around Vivian’s reclaimed table in her beautiful and welcoming kitchen we will provide a safe space to take a chance on writing, to laugh, feel, and share in a meaningful and unique experience.

I have known Michelle for a very long time and our paths keep intersecting. Her grace, spirituality and wisdom are such that I feel grounded and peaceful in her presence. When we discussed the possibilities of this workshop we connected on the transformative power of combining meditation and writing. She says, “ My passion as a teacher for the past twenty years has allowed me to pursue my life’s work in helping others nurture their dreams, and nourish their bodies, minds and souls through the physical awareness of yoga, meditation and Jewish spiritual tradition. Meditation directs our awareness to an object of focus, and is a way to nurture the creative aspects of our life.”

Vivian is my sister-in-law, a gift for which I am very thankful to my brother! She has taught me so much over these years. Gratitude, acceptance, awareness have become the tenets of my daily life. I am deeply grateful for these lessons. They have served me well, and carried me over many hurdles. Anyone who attends our workshop will be touched by her compassion, insight and knowledge. She says, “Deepening our awareness deepens our feeling of peace. This peace is always there but is clouded by emotion and judgment. When we are present and aware, we have the ability to choose. This is where our true power resides.”

Our life journey is our greatest teacher. Self discovery does not have times and places, it is ongoing, and takes detours, maneuvers in surprising ways, hits obstacles and sails smoothly into the sunset; all at any given moment.  Join us for an extraordinary evening where we will deepen our awareness, engage in inspiring conversation and write and share our unique stories.

Thursday November 6^th from 7-10. RSVP before October 31 to Jacqui@recipeforlifeclub.com to secure one of our 12 spots.