Stop. Rewind...

Earlier this fall, I set out to run at the local high school outdoor track. The darkness was settling, and a mesmerizing, brilliant sunset was just before me. Oranges, yellows, pinks, and reds streaked the sky; the air was so crisp it burned in my throat. A perfect winter-preview evening that most would undoubtedly enjoy.

I, however, burst into tears. As I rounded the first curve on the track, deep, heaving sobs escaped me. Emotion poured from my heart, and I gladly let the tears flow.

I knew where this outburst had come from. It wasn’t a surprise. It was only a matter of time before the simmering pot boiled over.

I’d just turned 35.

My mind flashed to a time in my life, twelve years earlier--some fifty miles away. I’d found great pleasure in locating a great running track near my new home, and I religiously used it as my escape. Throughout my life, I’d always run…or walked…or found another outlet to clear my head.

At 23, my whole life stretched before me. I had my first real job, my first real apartment. I’d had my first real heartbreak, and my first taste of real true debt. I was in great physical shape and was poised to make promotion after promotion at my publishing company. I was also poised to make a series of poor decisions regarding the opposite sex. Truth be told, my 20s was not only the best time of my life…but also the hardest. And as cliché as it sounds, it was a decade of complete floundering and growing.

Now here I was…five whole years ‘til 40. Where had time gone? How did I get steps away from being…old?

Norman Vincent Peale said, “Live your life and forget your age.” Hard words to live by.

After each lap I found myself wondering what happened to some of my life plans. Long before Sex and the City became every girl’s vision of a dream life, I’d wanted to escape to New York City to explore a career…and an utter assortment of endless dates. I never did. I’d also fancied a pipedream of holing up on Nantucket or The Vineyard for a summer of waiting tables in return for room-and-board and a whirlwind summer romance that would make even Danielle Steel jealous. Never happened. In my mid-twenties, I’d wanted to embark on an Outward Bound adventure in Colorado with the hopes of kicking my own ass and pushing all boundaries. A trip never taken.

Now here I was, weeping on this track, staring wasted time in the face.

I think it’s fallacious when people say they live with no regrets. I have plenty of them. Some I hold so tightly to my chest that it’s hard to embrace the present.

Why had I let time pass by in relationships that were stagnant and fruitless? Why had I stayed loyal to a career that had ultimately become unrewarding? Why hadn’t I spent more time with my mother, taking her to lunch and the beach, before she’d become too sick to do so? Why had I let fear hold me back? Why had I stayed immobile for years, when I could have been pushing forward, achieving goals…making my dreams a reality?

Why does time pass so quickly? Why can’t I press STOP? Then Rewind. Or maybe even just Pause?

As we get older, we come to accept that time is a companion that accompanies us on our journey. It is there to remind us to cherish each moment, because these moments will never come again. We also realize that what we leave behind is not as important as how we have lived. But why is time so fleeting?

As each mile ticked my on my run, I came to some powerful realizations. I want more time to live. Time to read all the books I want to read. Time to run the races I want to run. Time to nurture my friendships and make new ones. Time to love my husband. Time to love myself. Time…period.

Before my mother passed away she firmly stated her wishes that she have a simple obituary. “None of that business about me being a member of the Gardening Club or anything like that. Simple…to the point.” I didn’t agree with her then, and I still don’t.

When I die, let my obituary detail all of my accomplishments…no matter how minute. Let it cost a $1.00 per word, and let there be thousands of words.

Looking back, I realize that a very special person passed through my life these past 35 years—it was me. And as my wrinkles appear, the laugh lines set in, and the gray hairs outweigh the blonde, let time be on my side…and let me live.

Pay it Forward

The last Christmas my mother was alive, she did not want to put up our tree. Granted, it was a ramshackle semblance of the tree I once thought of as glorious and grand...but it was still Christmas, and I thought she deserved some spirited decorations.

She refused. Even after I told her that I'd trudge up the rickety attic steps, wrestle it down, decorate it, and stuff all the bent branches back into the box come January 1.

She didn't budge. Looking back, I think she realized it would be her last Christmas holiday, and she simply didn't want to relive all the memories. Each ornament would have brought about reminisces of years past, and with that, tears and heartache. I finally relented.

A few days after the tree standoff, my uncle arrived at my parents' doorstep. He awkwardly carried something swathed in green garbage bags. It was a present for my mother.

She sat in her recliner, perplexed and bewildered, and proceeded to unveil what turned out to be a handmade wooden Christmas tree. My uncle had carefully crafted it in his woodshop from pine, painted it a lovely hunter green, and had even made sure to include a golden star at the very top.

My mother was thrilled...and tearful...and, ultimately, so touched that her brother had gone to such great lengths to try to make her last Christmas (did we all know it then?) a festive one.

We strung some soft white lights around the new tree, placed it atop a sturdy table, and my mother finished the decorating with one silver ornament...something new and not tied to years of treasured, but painful, memories.

It's been almost four years since my mother passed away, and the painted Christmas tree has been sitting in the attic all this time. Simply collecting dust.

December rolled around this year and my co-worker, Lynne, set off to cheerfully trim the Special Olympics office with holiday garlands and ornaments. Last year, we'd suffered a serious seasonal debacle, and watched our Christmas tree crack in half and fall to the floor when a member of our cleaning crew accidentally backed into it with the vacuum.

Lynne tried valiantly to assemble the tree again this year...but it, and Lynne, had lost the battle. The tree found its final resting place in the town dump.

I could see Lynne's disappointment, and my mind raced to try to conjure up some type of solution.

There it was. In my parents' attic. Long forgotten...but much loved.

That evening I pulled the tree down from the depths of the cold and dark attic, and with a little dusting (and permission from my thrilled father), I paid that tree forward.

We've all been enjoying the little-tree-that-could for the past few weeks, thanks to some dedicated stringing of popcorn and cranberries that really gave it some cheer.

Several days ago, Special Olympics' CFO, Mike, knocked on my door. "Liza, I have a favor to ask you. Would you mind if, during the Christmas break, I took your mother's tree home to put in Loretta's room for her to enjoy?"

I've known Mike for just about two years now, and during that time, I've found a mentor and an individual who, on a daily basis, displays kindness, generosity, and patience. I would have said "yes" to probably anything Mike needed from me...but this particular request struck me deeply. Not just because the request involved my mother's tree, but because it also involved Loretta.

Loretta Claiborne is somewhat of a Special Olympics celebrity, and Mike invites her to spend each Christmas holiday with his wife and three young boys. I met Loretta last year, and I found myself humbled in her presence. She is kind, gracious...salt-of-the-earth. The kind of person who makes you want to strive to be better than you are.

Loretta was the middle of seven children in a poor, single-parent family. Born partially blind and mildly retarded, she was unable to walk or talk until age four. Eventually, though, she began to run. And before she knew it, she had crossed the finish line of 25 marathons, twice placing among the top 100 women in the Boston Marathon. Disney has recounted her life in a documentary, and her biography has also been published...and she's only in her 50s.

Loretta also holds a black belt in karate, communicates in four languages--including sign language--and holds honorary doctorate degrees from Quinnipiac University and Villanova University, making her the first person with mental retardation known to receive such honors.

I hadn't been feeling the Christmas spirit this year. Monetary struggles are hitting everyone hard, and the news isn't exactly broadcasting the most uplifting stories. My momentum for gift shopping had hit a all time low. Something just wasn't "right".

Then came Mike's request.

I was beyond touched. As cliche as it sounds, I found myself thinking, "This is what Christmas is truly about."

Loretta being able to enjoy the tree that had made my mother’s last Christmas so joyful had finally made things "right". I couldn't imagine a more perfect fit. These two inspiring women, both of whom had struggled greatly in their lives, would never know one another. But this simple tree had united them for me.

I pulled out of the parking lot the other night, heading home, and saw my mother's tree in the window, still lit.

I welled up a little...feeling so good about paying my gifts forward.

The Glimmer and Sparkle...

"In your soul are infinitely precious things that can never be taken from you."– Oscar Wilde

It sits in a dark place, quiet now, tired from holding in so many memories. Lifeless, yet still glimmering with the remembrance of the happiness, emotion, and passion it once experienced.

The color resembles sparkling champagne in a crystal flute and the softest pale ivory...like the keys of a well-played piano.

Recollections of the day are embedded in the carefully crafted threads and ornate fabric, like precious pearls worn dear to the heart.

A bit frayed and mottled from endless hours of spirited dancing, it still holds the gleam of bliss and contentment.

It remains fragrant with the perfume she wore that day, and the tenderness with which she was held—not only by her beloved, but by others who love her—can still be felt.

The man she loves had cast his eyes upon this garment—and her—with the utmost affection and adoration, tears spilling from his eyes. She will never forget the moment his breath was taken away.

From time to time, she gazes at its beauty (so pretty, still!) and remembers every smile and nuance of the day. Perfect in every way, each moment a sparkling jewel. A glance, a secret smile, a child’s laughter ringing out with pure joy. A kiss, a cherished dance, a tearful exchange amongst friends. She takes great care of these memories, knowing she can never relive them again.

It hangs tranquil. Yet it is full of promise and hope, representing the future and all that it holds. It represents a link to the extraordinary past and the promise of a remarkable new life.
Her wedding dress exists now to symbolize the glimmer and sparkle that life now offers…

Treasured Possessions

Ever hear the old expression, “If you haven’t used it in more than a year, you probably don't need it”?

Really? Could that possibly be true?

Last week I began the daunting task of preparing for a tag sale. The Ultimate, Clean-it-Out, Clear-it-Out, Throw-it-Out Extravaganza. If I hadn’t used it in a year, I probably didn’t need it, right? This would be easy! Oh, the glorious space I envisioned I’d have in my walk-in storage closet!

I began my clean-up by standing in the closet, hands on hips, staring up at three tall stacks of plastic totes—each stack, four totes high. Did we really have this much stuff? I walked out and closed the door. Ah, maybe I’ll begin in my own bedroom walk-in closet. Start small, right?

I walked back upstairs and into the bedroom. Everything that could quite possibly make the “tag sale pile” was three feet over my head and the closet floor wasn’t exactly in viewable condition. Ok…solution! I placed a step-stool on what looked like the closet floor, and for an hour, precariously balanced myself atop the mound of shoes that threatened their escape from the depths of the abyss. An hour later, jubilant and smug with progress, I had myself a small pile of saleable items. A few old belts, a few pairs of jeans, a few blankets, a few handbags. That was easy!

With my enthusiasm for the Ultimate Clean-Out renewed, I felt ready to tackle those menacing totes! But first, I actually needed to haul them down from the leaning tower they’d morphed into. Hmmm…where to rent a crane? Ah, even better, I thought…I now have a husband! Better than what any heavy-equipment-rental-facility could offer me. And free, too!

After much cajoling and quite a few expletives, my husband released the totes from their uncomfortable positions. I could almost hear their lids sigh with relief. Kinda like morning commuters do when they finally reach their subway stop.

As I opened the first tote bin, ready to dig in and throw out, something took hold of me.

There I sat, thumbing through old pictures: me with huge 80s hair (God bless that decade); me at my college graduation—everyone else in beautiful dresses and high heels—with cut off shorts and black converse sneakers (God bless the 90s grunge era); and me with my platinum blond hair with two long jet black streaks running through it (God forgive me for that one!).

The pictures…I’ll always keep. Photographic representations of what life was like during those times. But it wasn’t the pictures that struck my sentimentality chord.

It was the personal mementos that I’ve held close year after year. Ten totes worth.

Sure, I made piles of things to throw away. I mean, who needs old pencils, melted candles, and tape with pushpins and thumbtacks sticking to the dispensers. I even made a recyclable pile (gotta be green!).

But when it came to assembling a pile of things to sell…well, I was stumped. The phrase kept running through my head, like a bad 80s song (God bless that decade, again), “If you haven’t used it in more than a year, you probably don't need it.” Well, what defines need?

Some of these items had been carefully placed in these totes not because I necessarily needed them, but because I wanted them. So what if I hadn’t “used” them in a year. They were part of my past, a glimpse into my history, and I “use” them when I need a reminder of a past I’ll never relive again.

As Oscar Wilde stated, “No man is rich enough to buy back his past." So true. I think we hold on to items from our past—treasured possessions as I like to call them—as a means to hold on to the past itself. It's surprising how many memories are built around the things that go completely unnoticed at the time. And perhaps these possessions aren’t necessarily what we deem so important, but rather the memories each item invokes. For these memories are a way of holding onto the things we love, the things we are, and the things we never want to lose.

What are some of the items I couldn’t seem to part with?:

The SCRUM Sweatshirt:
My brother once handed down a sweatshirt that he’d accidently brought home from a college rugby game. The opposing team was from North Adams State, and the sweatshirt stated that in clear, bold yellow letters across the front. Across the back was the term “Scrum of the Earth”. When my brother gave me this sweatshirt, it was a beautiful, dark navy…crisp and new. What a steal…literally.

I found this sweatshirt in the closet. It is no longer an appealing navy color. More like the color of the clay that masons use on school buildings. Those bold yellow letters? Gone. The front reads NO…SE. Nose? Huh. You can still read the SCRUM on the back, but the rugby ball that used to be replicated now looks like a half moon…or maybe a piece of cheese. And there are more holes in that piece of clothing than the aforementioned cheese. I guess it didn’t help that my former track teammate once ran over this sweatshirt with his sprinting spikes!

Why does this piece of material (can I even call it a sweatshirt now?) mean so much? I’m not sure. Rugby doesn’t mean anything to me. Neither does North Adams State. The word SCRUM is pretty funny. But that’s not why I’ve hung on to this sweatshirt for almost twenty years.

It’s my brother that means something to me.

We haven’t always been close. Haven’t always known the ins-and-outs of each other’s lives. But wearing that sweatshirt somehow brought me closer to him during those years. Whenever I wore that sweatshirt people would say, “Wow! That’s seen a few miles” or “Where on Earth did you get that?” Each time a comment was made about my sweatshirt, I was able to talk about its history…and with that, my brother. Over the years, as the sweatshirt broke down and became threadbare, my relationship with my brother actually became stronger. And that’s something I’m not willing to part with.

My Concert Stubs:
Music has always been of utmost importance to me.

Guess it all started with me being the first owner on my block of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album. From that point on, I’ve always been avid seeker of new music and new varieties of artists. Music is an outlet for me, and as cliché as it sounds, an important manner in which to express myself.

Along the way, I was able to find a friend who appreciates my taste in music…and my sense of humor. She and I have probably been to well over 50 shows together and even began our friendship with a fake I.D. and a fervor for a certain cover band or two.

I found most of my concert stubs held together with an old hair elastic. I hadn’t arranged them neatly in a scrapbook or even stored them in a memory box. They were held together just the way they should be…with a make-do approach and a no-care-in-the-world technique. It reminded me of our attitudes back then.

The concerts and shows we saw back then? Indescribable. But saving these little paper stubs meant more than the actual music. Each one held a hilarious story or an inside exchange amongst two friends. Stories of laughter and the building of a lifelong friendship. There are several other trinkets from this period (the Aloha Mr. Hand T-shirt, the AG hat, and the KH poster stolen like a sleuth), and I’ve saved those, too. But none compare to the tickets that allowed me entry into a priceless time of my life.

After a full week of immersing myself in the Ultimate Clean-Out process, I realized that the leaning tower was going to become a fixture in my life. These totes? They’re not going anywhere…no matter where my life takes me. I hope when I’m gone, people might say, “Boy, she sure had a lot of stuff…but, boy, she sure lived.”

As Irwin Shaw once said, “There are too many books I haven’t read, too many places I haven’t seen, too many memories I haven’t kept long enough.”

And, and damn it, I’m keeping mine. Even if I haven’t “used” them in a year…

The Scarf...

When my mother found out that her cancer had returned, and that she would have to endure endless rounds of toxic chemotherapy, she was overcome with dread.

She didn't dread the inevitable nausea and the complete exhaustion. She didn't dread the needles piercing her skin. And she didn't even dread the daily trips to the hospital that she would have to make for weeks on end. She took all of that in stride—it was her burden to bear. The price to pay for a glimmer of hope.

What my mother did dread was losing her hair.

I remember seeing tears in her eyes when she told me that this new form of chemo would not only cause her to lose her hair on her head, but her eyebrows, too. Everything...rapidly.

I immediately suggested that she look into purchasing a wig, no matter what the cost. I also proposed that she shave off all of her hair before she started to lose it in large clumps. My mother agreed. In a sense, this was her way of taking control.

A few days before my mother took an electric razor to her head, she visited a boutique that specialized in providing wigs for those battling cancer. My mother brought her best friend, and together they found the perfect match.

The day after my mom bought her wig, I visited my parents' house. My mother and father had just returned home from a shopping trip, and when my mom walked up the stairs to the living room, she broke out in a radiant smile. I can still remember that smile...

It had been ages since my mother had looked happy...a by-product of this horrible disease.
Her wig was perfect. She looked terrific...and, for once, everything seemed to be "normal". Life was perfect in that moment.

A few months after this "perfect day", the wig stood on a stand on her bureau. There it remained; a constant reminder of how this disease can change a life at a moment's notice.
My mom's health rapidly decreased in the months to follow, and a new headscarf took its place on my mom's head, and in her heart.

Too embarrassed to be seen without anything adorning her bare head, my mom invested in a colorful patchwork fleece scarf. It was a rare moment when she didn't have it on. It was serving a special purpose: to keep her warm, but more importantly, to keep her dignity preserved.

The night before my mother passed away, she was wearing her scarf. As she clung to life in that dreadful hospital room, she was still clinging to her dignity. In the breaking light of morning, after hours of sitting by her side, my brother and I agreed that it was time to remove the scarf. Without it, she was vulnerable and exposed...yet, there seemed to be a beautiful truth to this picture.

In that moment, my mother was real, and true, and human, and she valiantly showed her scars and the effects of cancer to the world. I couldn't think of a more fitting tribute to her dignity.

The morning my mother died, I left the hospital with her scarf in my hand. On the way home, I used it to wipe away my tears. Later, when I lay in my bed, I clutched that scarf in my hand.
It's an amazing fact that certain smells can call to mind powerful memories.

My mother's scarf carried a certain smell...and even without holding it in my hand at this moment...I can pick up the scent. It's almost impossible to explain the particular scent. The scarf doesn't smell like roses, or perfume, or a floral lotion. It smells like the years of a long-fought battle and the struggle that existed for so long. It smells like sleep, and hospitals, and pain. It smells like tears, and fear, and hope. It smells like courage and bravery. It smells just like my mom.

For months, I kept that scarf in bed with me. It then moved to a drawer by my bedside. Now, its permanent home is in my mother's memory box. The other night I opened the box to make sure that the scent was still there.

As I brought the scarf up to my face, my heart pounded with fear that I wouldn't be able to capture the fading smell.

Awash with relief, I realized that it was still there. And while it is fading, I know that the memory of my mother never will.