Forgiveness

Like cooking and sex, some people are better at forgiveness than others.  I count myself among the deficient crew.  Up until recently, I’ve taken a backwards approach to forgiveness.  My philosophy was to hand out many “get-out-of-jail-free” cards, but once they were used up, so were the offers of any more.  There was a threshold of betrayal and once crossed, there was no going back.

Part of my problem with the concept of forgiveness is my strong belief that people should be held accountable for their actions.  Moreover, people should pay for their mistakes.  Forgiveness seemed a foolish concept—a way of erasing another person’s slate.  Go ahead and dump on me.  It’s okay, because I forgive you.  Ugh!

Then I started to look at forgiveness from a different angle.  Maybe my job isn’t to dish out punishment.  Maybe forgiveness means realizing we are all human and inevitably, we will all mess things up.  But what about the epic screw-ups?  Are there some things in life that are beyond forgiveness?

You only have to forgive, but you don’t have to forget.  How cliché.  How convenient.  But how right.

Maybe forgiveness is all about letting go of the anger and sourness—like pouring the grease off of cooking meat.  Maybe forgiveness is an internal process.  I toss aside the hurt, but that doesn’t necessarily dictate what I do next.  It doesn’t strictly imply that I allow someone whom I know is dangerous back into my life.  The process of forgiveness doesn’t mean I have to reach out to the person I forgive.  I just have to let go of the poison.

So I tried it out.  I opened my heart and shed feelings of bitterness and resentment.  In some cases, I reached out to those against whom I have held a grudge.  In other cases, common sense told me to stay away.  Either way, I feel lighter and more at peace than I have in a very long time.  Maybe forgiveness isn’t so bad after all.

Mother’s Day

 

One of my best friends recently lost her mother. A few years ago, another very close friend nearly lost her child to cancer. Yesterday, I discovered one of the surgeons with whom I worked suffered an arrhythmia after a tennis match, collapsed and is now in a coma with no brain activity. She is in her 40s with three young kids. My mother lost her daughter over twenty years ago. That daughter was me.

My parents divorced when I was six and my sister was three. We lived with my mom and visited my dad every other weekend. My memories of childhood are scattered. I recall watching Bugs Bunny on Saturday mornings until my Uncle Bud picked us up to take us to my dad’s. I remember asking my mom if I could live with my dad. She would say no, I would cry and ask again the next day. One day, she said yes. The experiment lasted about two years, and I moved back. By that time, I was a teenager.

As far as being a teenager goes, I was good at it. I drank. I partied. I did things with boys that I pray my daughter never does. I ditched class. I stayed out all night and lied about my whereabouts. I shoplifted. I was a nightmare.

But I wasn’t the only nightmare. There are more images of my childhood. Beer cans piled under my mother’s bed. My mom’s open ‘travel beer’ in the car. Her advice before I left on Friday nights: “keep your knees together.” The booze she bought for me. Doing the grocery shopping and forging her signature on checks. Being the only one who ever cleaned house. Embarrassment.

What I don’t remember are the things my daughter complains about now, but will treasure in ten years. I don’t remember her telling me to do my homework. I don’t remember her asking me details about my friends. I don’t remember ever feeling like I couldn’t get away with something. I don’t remember her teaching me about love.

What precipitated my break up with my mother is less important than how it could happen in the first place. How could a child walk away from the person that gave her life? I look at my friends and their experiences and wonder how I could be so cold as to shut this person out of my world. Am I really that heartless?

I try to look at my mother through the eyes of an adult. I know she had little education beyond high school. I can only imagine how hard being a single, working mom must have been. I’m sure she tried. I can’t blame her for her lot in life. But I also know, as a mother myself, that parenting is hard. It takes constant focus and energy and tenacity. Not for a second can you let your guard down. Parenting doesn’t require a college education. It requires commitment. On that level, sadly, my mom let me down.

In the end analysis, I don’t believe I’m heartless. Otherwise, why would my heart ache so much when I reflect on my childhood? Sometimes in life, we fail. My adolescence was an epic fail. Or maybe it wasn’t. Sometimes the lessons of what not to do are just as important as what to do.

What a Trip

 

In the past two weeks or so, I have driven across the country with my daughter, flown to Kauai, and moved into a new place near Nawiliwili Harbor (try saying that three times fast).  And along the way,,, the things I’ve heard and the things I’ve seen:

1.  “Kick me in the nut sack.  $20.” ~ Cardboard sign held by a guy sporting a speedo outside Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas.

2.  “What do you mean the valet didn’t give you a card when you checked your car?  Here’s a lost form and a pen.” ~ Female valet at Caesar’s Palace.

3.  “No, the ride’s not broken.  It’s just malfunctioning.”  ~ Worker for roller coaster at the Stratosphere in Las Vegas.  She uttered these words before attempting to push the launch button and send us 110 stories above the ground without seat restraints.

4.  “Stop being such an asshole.  You’re always an asshole.  I can’t stand all this unnecessary drama.” ~ Blonde princess on Mission Beach, California.

5.  Obese Chinese man fondling his ear hair like a little girl playing with her ringlets. ~ Waiting in line for hostess in California.

6.  “I like your hair.  I like your braids.  I like your eyes.” ~ Surf bum looking to join my daughter and me for breakfast at Kono’s on Mission Beach.  My daughter’s hair was in one braid, but apparently he saw more.

7.  “Everything comes out of a woman.  You respect your mother and your auntie, because everything comes out of a woman.” ~ Drunk, but harmless, and very nice man speaking to my daughter and her friend at Kalapaki’s Beach, Kauai.

8.  “You failed.  Try again next Friday.” ~ Lady at the DMV after she graded my driving test.

9.  The prior tenant in our new house was a lovely woman named Almond.  Her friend Joy was visiting.  (Note: read this one a couple of times.  You’ll get it.  And no, I’m not making this up.)

10.  “Don’t piss off the aunties.” ~ Advice from a guy on the beach.

Yep, that pretty much sums it up!

Maryellen’s Monday Morning Musings

This week’s review: Bread & Butter by Michelle Wildgen

Three brothers living in the outskirts of Philadelphia, in a town called Linden, two brothers already own and operate a successful and upscale restaurant called “Winesap” and the younger brother is about to open his own restaurant. I love these brothers! LOVE THEM!

Leo is the oldest brother. He is part owner of “Winesap” with his brother Britt. Leo handles the “back of the house” in the restaurant business. He’s not as personable as Britt, nor as handsome, but he’s brilliant when it comes to running a restaurant. Leo has been divorced for a time and he’s about to cross a line that he swore he’d never cross.

Britt is close in age to Leo, younger by just a bit, and he runs the “front of the house” at their restaurant. Britt is handsome and dynamic and fabulous at keeping the customers feeling like they’re special. Though, there’s one particular customer that he’d love to get to know a lot better.

Harry, oh Harry, he’s the youngest brother by about seven years making him just a bit out of the loop from his two older and more experienced brothers. Harry has been a perpetual student of just about anything and is finally settling down in Linden and opening his own restaurant. Harry wants nothing more than the approval of his two older brothers.

The relationships between the brothers are fascinating. Author Michelle Wildgen gets sibling rivalry right! What she also gets right is the love between brothers, the basics, the bread and butter if you will.

This book is filled with the inside scoop on what happens in the restaurant business that we diners never see as well as descriptions (nearly recipes) of food that I’ve never dreamed of trying (I’m a pizza and burger kind of a girl and they serve lamb’s neck!) and decadent desserts. I loved the focus on the restaurants, both the established “Winesap”, and the newly started restaurant that we get to see built from the ground up. And the rivalries between the restaurant staff, both in house and with staff from other restaurants~~I had no idea!

This is the first book I’ve read by Michelle Wildgen and it certainly will not be the last.

4.5 Stars

Thank you to the publisher for an ecopy of this book via NetGalley. The opinions above are completely my own.

Maryellen is a 47-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats. The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her. Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer. I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.

Maryellen’s Monday Morning Musings

This week’s review: THE ROSEWOOD WHISTLE by Pat McDermott

If you’re looking for a book to get you into the Irish spirit, look no further! Author Pat McDermott will take your straight to Ireland with her romantic novel, THE ROSEWOOD WHISTLE. With historical references and musical musings you’ll get swept away to the green pastures of beautiful County Mayo all the while hearing the haunting lilt of the whistles and violins.

Gemma Keenan Pentrandolfo is spending the summer in Ireland doing research for her next book. Gemma’s husband Larry was not the best husband that he could be and when he died, he left behind emotional scars so deep that Gemma can almost hear his belittling of her even from the grave. She’s staying in County Mayo, in a small town called Westport where everyone knows everyone and everyone’s business too! On her way home from market she sees a McHunk watering his garden. Doesn’t hurt to stop and look for a second, does it? Well, when she ends up sopping wet and thoroughly embarrassed, she is hoping to never have to run into McHunk again.

But it’s a small town.

In a familiar pub Ben Connigan, a retired tech expert who is now a tourist guide, is meeting up with his friends. He comes to the pub to listen to traditional Irish tunes played by his extended family and friends. Long ago, before Ben’s now deceased wife took his heart for music away, Ben was a dream to hear playing the whistles. If only he could get past the demons of the past and get back to his music.

Ben and Gemma are both broken spirits who just need some hope and encouragement to break free of their past and move on to a future of beautiful stories and sweet music.

There is a particular Irish folk song that plays a part in this lovely book. It is called “She Moved Through The Fair”. I never heard the song before but found myself so curious about it that I looked it up. What a beautiful and haunting song. I found a rendition of it on YouTube performed by Josh Groban https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMxIDuRBYmc . You’ll love the song and you’ll love this book.

✰✰✰✰✰

Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats.  The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her.  Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer.  I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.

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As an aside, please help me in wishing our lovely Maryellen a Happy Birthday this week!  For my BFF, a calorie-free cyber cake with fashion and bling.  Happy Birthday, my friend.

May your special day be filled with happiness!

Dear Diary . . . Gone Bad

dear jiji, 

i screwed up.  i should have known the second i poured the color into the tray.  it’s never been red before, but this time it was red.  red.  like a stoplight.  like, hey dumbass, don’t take this any further.  but i did.  i slapped that crimson crap on my roots.  fate tried to give me another clue when the skin around my hairline turned a purplish hue, but i ignored the warnings and forged ahead.  even though the directions say twenty minutes, i kicked back and played plants vs. zombies for forty whole minutes.  (my roots are very stubborn—i have no idea where they get it.)  finally, i rinsed. 

out of the shower and into the spot light.  my roots are friggin burgundy!  like a fluorescent merlot! they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  well, thank God i’m not nuts.  i’m just seriously mentally challenged.  and i have the roots-of-shame to prove it.  i’m staying indoors until the color fades.  i tried covering it up with an all-over dye, but for once the color stuck.  i’m a plum-root freak!

besides that, i’m feeling restless.  last night, i think i figured it out.  my 45^th birthday is on the horizon.  for some reason, this one feels big.  i can’t say “early forties” anymore.  at least i don’t have to say “late forties,” but i can’t avoid the “mid” word.  well, i guess i could avoid it.  i could lie.  but that seems so superficial and vain—like dying my roots purple.

i’ll talk to you next week.  right now, i’ve got to google “how to fix purple roots.”  wish me luck.

Love,

S

Maryellen’s Monday Morning Musings

This week’s review: THE INVENTION OF WINGS by Sue Monk Kidd

It was Sarah Grimké’s eleventh birthday and she was given a slave by the name of Hetty (“Handful”) as a gift. In Charleston, South Carolina in 1803, owning slaves was a way of life. Even at the gentle age of eleven years, Sarah was vehemently against owning a slave much to the displeasure of her parents, the esteemed Judge John Grimké and his socialite wife, Mary Smith Grimké. Judge and Mrs. Grimké were not about to let their opinionated daughter Sarah express her dissent. Southern women just didn’t do that.

Handful “Grimké” (slaves were given the last name of their owner) didn’t want to leave her Mauma, Charlotte, to be handmaid to Sarah any more than Sarah wanted a slave but circumstances beyond their control threw them together. In spite of their positions in society, the two became more than slave and owner, they became friends.

Both Sarah and Handful would dream of something more for their lives. A dangerous thing to do in the South in the 1800’s.

Just two years later in 1805, Angelina Grimké would be born. Looking for some meaning for her life, Sarah would ask to be Angelina’s Godmother and as such the two would forge an unbreakable bond. The two sisters would leave their indelible mark in history.

Angelina and Sarah Grimké

And all three women, Sarah, Angelina and Handful would know suffering, heartache and courage.

Sue Monk Kidd (http://suemonkkidd.com/) writes an incredible book blending true history with compelling fiction. Much to the delight of this reader, she includes an explanation of where history ended and fiction began. This is one of those books where you find yourself turning pages as quickly as you can and then stopping to just feel the words. And when I finished the book, I found myself wanting to know more about these women, Sarah and Angelina Grimké. What I fail to know about history is shameful. Thank you to the author for the enlightenment.

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Thank you to the folks at Shelf Awareness for sending this book to me. The opinions above are completely my own. THE INVENTION OF WINGS becomes available for purchase on January 7, 2014.

Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats.  The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her.  Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer.  I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.

Happy New Year’s!

To all my old friends and followers (from thewritemd.com and thewritemd.net), thank you for your loyalty and your interest.  I am humbled and grateful for both.  To new friends, the same applies.  I wish each and every one of you boundless success and happiness in the year to come.

As for me, look for a new focus, new optimism, and new insights.  I hope to keep you all entertained.

Love,

Sherry