Category Archives: adult children

Mid-day at the Oasis*

29 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in adult children, environment, friendship, health, inspiration, travel

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My son’s home in Morocco is right on the edge of an oasis. You only have to walk out his front door and turn right to step into an amazing landscape.

Karsten walks through the oasis on a daily basis. On this day, we were going to a friend’s house for lunch. We walked across a streambed, alongside an irrigation trough, and underneath a grapevine. Paul was a bit under the weather, so I had my son to myself that afternoon. After a year of missing him, it was treasured time.

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We passed groves of date palms and olive trees.

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Like every other meal we were invited to in Morocco, this one included extended family. Our host’s parents, sisters, and nephews all joined us. A shy, but impish 4-year-old giggled as he rolled around on the floor with his djellaba-clad grandfather. After a delicious lunch of cous cous, we went outside and into the family’s walled garden.

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The small figs that go into savory dishes, like cous cous, grow here. (Click on the photos for a closer look.)

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As do dates. In the U.S., dates come separated in a plastic tub. In Morocco, you buy them in boxes and they are still attached to their stems. Until this garden tour, I had no idea what they looked like on the tree. These dates will be ready to pick in a few months.

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There were almond and pomegranate trees. The red flowers are pomegranate blossoms.

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At the end of the day, our host and his father walked us back across the oasis and home.

*I couldn’t resist.

Essaouira Blues

21 Sunday Apr 2013

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It has been a little more than a year since we dropped our son, “Karim,” off at Boston’s Logan Airport where he began his journey to Morocco as a Peace Corps volunteer. While modern technology has kept us well-connected, we yearned to see him in person and experience a slice of his life there.

Our reunion took place in Marrakech, a crazy, bustling place. We walked to the old medina through unmarked streets that were filled with scooters and exhaust-spewing cars — this is a developing country after all. Between the sights, sounds, and smells, and the joy of being with our son again, it was a lot to take in. The camera stayed in Paul’s knapsack.

The next morning, we climbed into our rental car and headed to Essaouira, a beach town. Much less intense than Marrakech, it was a good place to start our journey. Karim has friends there, who are also in the Peace Corps.

The name of the riad where we stayed, Les Matins Bleus, reflected the town’s color scheme.

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Tourists’ jackets also reflected the decor.bluecoats

The blue carried to the waterfront, where Paul took over camera duty and captured the fishing boats.

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At the docks you can buy fish directly from the fishermen. Then, back in the medina, stop at the market for vegetables, before taking these purchases to a restaurant where they grill your food to perfection and serve it to you with bread – which also functions as your knife, fork, and spoon.

Eating in Morocco is a communal event: not a lot of cutlery or plates required.

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The next leg of our trip took us back towards Marrakech and over the Atlas Mountains to my son’s site in Tinghir, where the real adventure began.treegoats1

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Goats grazing in a tree on the road to Essaouira.

“marhba bikom” — Welcome to Morocco

11 Thursday Apr 2013

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upstairs

It’s a long way from Massachusetts to Morocco, and I’m not just talking about flight hours and time zones. The sounds and sights are a world away from my daily life at home.

As I sit in my son’s apartment typing this, I hear him conversing in Arabic with Abderhamane, his landlord. Earlier this morning I awoke to the eerie sound of the call to prayer reverberating throughout Tinghir, the small city where my son lives and works as a Peace Corps volunteer.

In a little while we will be joining Abderhamane and his family for lunch. In fact, my son’s fantasy of doing a lot of cooking with us while we are here may remain just that as we have similar invitations for almost every day of our visit. Friends, neighbors, and parents of students all want to welcome the “mama and baba” of Karim — the name he was given when he arrived here.

I have loads of photographs to share that show many of the colors and textures you have come to expect from Morocco.

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There’s that special shade of blue covering the boats and doorways of Essauoira, a beach town where we spent an amazing two days…

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Photo by Paul Syversen

Photo by Paul Syversen

…and that you see every time you look up…

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or down.

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Then there’s the food.

Moroccan picnic

Moroccan picnic.

All of that is easy to share through photographs, but what will be more difficult to describe is the feeling of welcome I have had from all the people we’ve met here.

Because my son has lived here for a year and has many friends, we are meeting the real people of Morocco — not just those who make their living from tourism.

Their warmth and generosity is unlike anything I have experienced anywhere else. I hope to share those experiences — which can’t be summed up by photographs — in future posts.

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“If It Were Up to Me”

16 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, meditation, music

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reflections of grief

Most likely everything that can be said about Friday’s tragedy in Connecticut has been said. Since Friday, I have been weighed down with a sadness that is punctuated by moments of extreme anger and disgust.

There are candlelight vigils to attend and petitions to sign, but nothing will undo what has already been done. As singer-songwriter Cheryl Wheeler sings below, “If it were up to me, I’d take away the guns.”

Right now, though, the one thing that has made me feel better at all, besides signing petitions and communicating with my own kids, has been to give money to organizations that advocate for children. There are plenty of them out there, but here are two that are near and dear to me.

Mom’s Clean Air Force: Like the proliferation of guns in our society, clean air is a public health issue. Air pollution hurts the most vulnerable among us. By pulling together the voices of mothers, fathers, and other engaged citizens, this organization works to counteract the lobbyists in Washington who fight for polluters’ right to dirty our air. The site provides up-to-date information and lists ways we can act in the interests of ourselves and our children.

Donate now, and for every tax-deductible dollar you donate by January 1, 2013, a dedicated funder will provide two additional dollars tripling your gift.

The Strong Kids Program at the McBurney YMCA in New York. I have a special interest in this program. My younger son taught these kids life skills for several years, helping them learn how to advocate for themselves, and my older son has done some academic tutoring there.  I was often privy to dinner table discussions about how much potential each of these kids—who hail from every borough in the city—have, and how, with some consistent, adult attention, their lives could be improved.

Click here to donate.

“Do we have the courage to stop this?” asks Nicholas Kristof in his column in today’s New York Times, where he makes an excellent case for gun regulation. I hope we do. And I hope that our leaders will exhibit the kind of heroism we need right now, and stand up to, and defy the all-powerful gun lobby.

Christmas Traditions Aren’t Just for Kids

13 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in adult children, aging, friendship, mid-life transition

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A hint of light. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

A hint of light. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

Every year since he left home, a  few weeks before Christmas, our younger son, our very own Kris Kringle, sends us a message. And every year, he asks the same question, “Have you bought a tree yet?”

For a Jewish girl growing up in a decidedly WASP town in Massachusetts, a Christmas tree, and not a Chanukah menorah, on display in the living room was an object of both scorn and envy.

Scorn because part of me liked being different, it somehow made me wiser, more sophisticated than my Christian classmates. Envy because I also wanted to be part of the group. In truth, my classmates weren’t very sophisticated, and a few of them viewed my Jewishness as a “weird” difference.

Luckily, I was able to partially resolve this conflict during my teenage years by showing up at my next door neighbors’ house on Christmas morning. They always made me feel welcome as I sat next to their daughter, my best friend, and watched as presents were handed out and opened one-by-one.

I didn’t care that there were no gifts for me under that tree, I just wanted to soak in their yearly ritual, along with the love and togetherness that they shared with such ease.

Christmas Tree Tradition

That experience is why I agreed to a Christmas tree when it came time to celebrate the December holidays with my own family. My husband is not Jewish, and like me, not religious. But his family did celebrate Christmas. And so the yearly tree entered my life.

Given my Jewish roots, having one on display in my own living room felt embarrassing the first few times. The embarrassment eventually faded, but my ambivalence toward the pine needles everywhere, the disruption to my orderly house, the Christmas chaos, has not. Each holiday season, my inner protest — before I grudgingly give in — is as predictable as Kris’s query.

Born in the dead of winter, Kris (not his real name) is a hard core Christmas enthusiast. The cold air, the snow, the gifts, and the tree, resplendent with lights and ornaments, and emitting its piney scent, have always excited him. In adulthood, his appetite for gifts has diminished— this year’s list was comprised almost entirely of necessities — but his love for the Christmas tree has grown stronger.

Christmas tree in the storm. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

Christmas tree in the storm. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

This year, however, Kris won’t be coming home. He’s in Morocco with the Peace Corps. His older brother enjoys the holidays too, but his is a more relaxed attitude. He doesn’t make it his job to call in and check on our progress with holiday preparations. He and his girlfriend, whose family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, will arrive on the 24th.

So I wondered whether we could forgo the tree. After all, Kris won’t be here to keep us in line. Then, the first week in December, this chat message popped up on my computer screen:

Kris: hey! christmas tree made

me:  wow, cool! send a photo!

Kris:  it’s more like a christmas pile-of-twigs-and-branches ….

Olive, palm, and fig. © Karsten Syversen

Olive, palm, and fig.

As soon as I saw this photo, I knew that I wanted a tree in our living room this year.  And not just because Kris will be looking for it on his computer screen during our Christmas Day video chat. His makeshift tree made me realize something.

Empty Nest and Family Traditions

Those family traditions aren’t just for our kids, they’re for us, too. If we discard them, our empty nest will feel even emptier. It doesn’t matter that we ultimately went for a tree, and not a menorah in our living room. The point is that we did something every year and we did it with joy and open hearts.

No matter how far apart and different our Christmas trees may be from year-to-year, putting them up in tandem will help us feel close — even when there is an ocean between us.

This year’s tree will honor the nearly 30 Christmas trees we’ve had as a family, and the 25 or so we’ve had since Kris was born.  And it honors the love I felt in my neighbors’ home all those years ago.

I’ll think of that family as I do every Christmas morning. The parents are elderly now, and the kids live in separate states, but each of them will be gathering around a tree this year too.

Photo Credits:

“A hint of light” and “Christmas tree in the storm” by Cheryl Fuller Sparks.

“Olive, palm, and fig.” by Karsten Syversen.

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This piece was written as a guest post for Second Lives Club.

This Year Will Be Different

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by in adult children, friendship, mid-life transition

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This family of turkeys has been patrolling our neighborhood for weeks. There are five in all, and lately, they have taken to roosting outside our ground-level basement window.

We first spotted them over the summer: two adults, three chicks. Now we can’t tell who is who.

They stick together these five. And when they appear in our yard, I always check to make sure each one is present and accounted for.

They remind me that this year, Thanksgiving will be markedly different for Paul and me. Like other years, we will be sharing the meal with friends, but for the first time ever, neither of our sons will be at our table.

Older Son will be celebrating with his girlfriend’s family in Connecticut, and Younger Son will be cooking and eating dinner with a group of fellow Peace Corps volunteers in Morocco.

While this change makes me a little sad, I’ve begun to embrace the new order. Planning a meal and hanging out with friends —without the pressures of family— is a lot of fun. And this year, just like our sons, Paul and I will be doing that too.

I know I will miss them. Especially Younger Son, who is so far away and won’t be home for Christmas either. But I also know that the love they feel when they sit at our table will be with them on this day too.

Both of our boys have grown into loved men. They carry home with them wherever they go.

For that, I am truly grateful.

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This post was published today on Women’s Voices for Change.

Fall Forward

12 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by in adult children, aging, environment, inspiration, mid-life transition, writing

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There’s a definite chill in the air. Last night I layered two wool blankets on top of the summer one. Before long I’ll have to pull out the down comforter. Outside, the garden is making its yearly journey from the sunny yellows of mid-to-late summer, to the richer, more textural pinks, reds, and purples of my fall bloomers.

As the garden makes its turn into fall, and we pile on the blankets, it’s easy to wax nostalgic about the days when there were four of us rushing out the door each weekday morning. But I’m resisting that temptation.

Instead, I’m focusing on what I will make happen — as opposed to what might happen — next.

It’s been two years since I lost my job, and during that time, I have created a framework on which to build my days.  Daily walks with the dog, thrice weekly swims, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons working at a local store, provide the bones for my week. In between each of those activities I work on my blog and other writing assignments.

The transition from the formal structure and demands of full-time employment and parenthood that I’ve clung to for most of my adult life, to the looser requirements of freelance work and empty-nest living, feels like a chasm that I will continue to cross for some time to come.

I don’t know if I will ever feel I have “landed” again. In fact, it’s possible that I’ve never felt that way. Not really. What I do know is that my current writing assignments, both paid and unpaid, feel more authentic, are more satisfying, and bring me more joy than anything I’ve done in the past. And, much to my surprise, this new work and lifestyle have brought me friends and supporters from some unlikely and even far-flung places.

Although I’m still working on how to turn this more joyful work into a decent income, I am grateful that I no longer have to fake excitement or passion when I don’t feel it. I can say what I mean and mean what I say. The ability to just be myself has been one of the most rewarding aspects of my ongoing transition.

This fall, I’m putting on some new shoes, and adding to my my already existing framework. My new DIY structure will continue to evolve. It may never be fully finished, but it will be strong enough and flexible enough to feed my brain and nourish my psyche. With luck and hard work, it might just sustain me through the ever-changing, always surprising, journey ahead.

On Luck, Gratitude, and Wild Turkeys

13 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, friendship, inspiration, pets, travel, writing

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Last week I joined 5000 other women at the 2012 BlogHer conference in New York City. To make the event more affordable, and to have a little family time, Paul and I drove down together and stayed with our son in Brooklyn.

The thought of rubbing elbows with people I’d only known through online exchanges was pretty thrilling. And I was looking forward to making some new connections and taking home some helpful tips and inspiration from the sessions.

But I was also nervous. There’s nothing to make me feel more like a country bumpkin than a trip to the Big Apple.

Because I generally travel with my extremely competent male entourage, finding my way from Brooklyn to the conference on my own would be a new experience. In fact, when my son heard my plans, he joked about making me the kind of placard that kindergartners wear while on a field trip. “My name is Judith, if lost, please call….”

Jokes aside, his excellent directions enabled me to arrive at the conference without a hitch.

Well almost.

Sadly, he didn’t give me any fashion advice that would enable me to survive a 45- minute subway ride without looking like I’d slept in my clothes.

I’d agonized for days over what to wear. And I chose my two favorite summer dresses, both with fabulous belts. The problem was that one was cotton, the other linen, and no matter how well they traveled when carefully folded in a suitcase, they both became a wrinkled mess after I’d sat in them for any length of time.

But my dress worries vaporized when Paul and I came back to Brooklyn after meeting for dinner in the city. Our car was not where we left it. It had been towed — a front wheel was allegedly outside of the legal space. When we got it back, it was making an ominous new noise.

Which leads me to the string of bad luck we’ve had over the past couple of weeks. A few days before our New York trip, Paul was driving his van home from a job. It was raining hard and his windshield wipers suddenly went dead. He had to pull over and wait for the storm to pass.

After our trip and the second car fiasco, my prescription sunglasses and then my swim goggles disappeared in quick succession. Like the car, they were suddenly gone from where I surely had left them. Apparently there’s a black hole for eyewear.

Then, when it seemed like we’d lost or broken everything we could in one week, I saw a family of turkeys crossing our yard. “Get the camera!” I whispered to Paul. He brought it over, turned it on, and announced, “It’s dead.”

Luckily, my iPhone was handy and still working (for now at least).

I was transfixed by this momma and her five babies as they made their stately way across our yard and into the garden.

Karina was transfixed too.

So here’s the current tally: two broken cars with one very expensive repair, two pairs of lost eyewear, and a deceased camera (did I mention that the electric toothbrush is also on its way out?).

So yes, we’ve had a run of bad luck. But the fact that it’s the everyday, garden variety kind of bad luck and not real trouble makes me enormously grateful.

Grateful that my husband can fix a lot of things.

Grateful that my friends are willing to step up and provide help and advice. (Thank you Jane and Heather for the camera recommendations. And huge hugs to Kathleen who made sure I attended the conference with nice-looking business cards.)

Grateful that lost items, unlike people and friendships, are easily replaced.

And grateful that we arrived home safely and can sit on our deck and enjoy Mother Nature’s daily parade.

Vase by Elizabeth Cohen (http://elizabethcohenpottery.com/)

Now and Then: A Visit to Cape Ann

13 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, friendship, inspiration, meditation, pets, travel

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Last week my friend Erica announced on Facebook that she was hankering for a lobster — with lots of drawn butter. “Anyone want to join me?” she asked.

It sounded good to me, and before you could say “summer day trip,” Paul, Karina, and I were in the car driving north to meet her in Rockport.

The lobster was a bit small and a little disappointing, but it was followed by a memorable walk in Halibut Point Park. The park is home to a quarry, which borders the ocean.

While I held onto Karina’s leash, Paul took aim with the camera. His photos show why I think Cape Ann is one of the most beautiful and unique places on earth.

(That’s me in the blue hat.)

Karina handled the rocks like a mountain goat, and she surprised us all by lying down on a bed of green seaweed at the bottom of a tidal pool. I wasn’t quick enough to catch her La Dolce Vita moment, but the seaweed was more patient.

The waves were mesmerizing and I stood rooted to the spot, just watching and listening (that’s Paul and Erica discussing cormorants in the background).

When we got home, I remembered something I’d seen while scanning some old photographs. We’d been here before.

These were taken on a September camping trip circa 1990, when the boys were still boys, my hair an unfaded red, and Paul wore ’80s sunglasses before they were considered “retro.”

Happy weekend everyone!

Contemplating a Mid-Life Migration

04 Monday Jun 2012

Posted by in adult children, aging, environment, friendship, mid-life transition, travel, writing

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Last weekend we shared homemade pizza with friends on our back deck while a great blue heron sailed overhead. Throughout the course of the meal, we heard orioles singing and saw flashes of orange as they flitted across the yard between their nest in the willow tree and the fruit trees in our garden. A grosbeak, hummingbirds, and various other winged residents also made appearances as they went about their evening business.

When you aren’t confronted by the ticks, poison ivy, and mosquitoes, and don’t have to cut the grass, weed the garden, or shovel the driveway when you’d rather be doing something else, this place can feel like paradise.

We moved to Concord almost 20 years ago, and Paul and I still remember a day that first spring when we looked out a window to see our 10-year-old son trailing a pheasant across the back lawn, nearly stepping on the end of its long, sweeping tail.

Our pheasant-follower and his younger brother grew up here. They went to school here. And now they have both moved on to make their own homes and create their own exciting adventures. And as hard it will be to leave this house and yard behind, Paul and I are ready to move on too.

At least we think we are.

In an ideal world, we could create an oasis like this one in the middle of some city. A city that has sidewalks, public transportation, and a rich cultural life —all things that are missing and are sorely missed in our current location.

I want diverse neighbors, a corner store, a local cafe, and a bit of nightlife. I’d love to attend a movie or a concert and then walk home afterward while discussing what we’ve just seen or heard.

In his recent op-ed piece for The New York Times about New York City’s new bike-share program, David Byrne captured my idealized version of city living as he described the different routes he takes on his bike to pick up groceries, commute to work, or visit friends. And he talked about making his home in the big city.

“I just turned 60 and have no plans to retire to the suburbs,” he writes. “I love it here.”

“That’s what I want,” I thought. “A place I can fall in love with, a place that stimulates my intellect and fosters my creativity.”

But then, just below his paean to urban life was another op-ed by his daughter, Malu, who described the optimal environments of young artists like herself who have left the city because of its high cost and many distractions.

“I might have to escape New York to keep my artistic spirit alive,” she writes.

Somewhere between Byrne’s viewpoint and that of his daughter lies the crux of my dilemma. I want the bustle and excitement of the city but not the noise. I want to be able to move around freely even when—especially when — I am too old to drive, but worry that the constant press of people will grate on my introvert soul.

While any place that Paul and I are together will feel like home, I also want to find  my own niche. I want to write in my office and then meet friends for coffee at a neighborhood cafe, or spend the afternoon wandering around a nearby museum.

I know that there is no ideal place, there are only places that you make idyllic. Paul and I will take a few trips, and maybe someplace will click for both of us. Maybe no place will, and we’ll decide that this is the only home we want.

In the meantime, it’s fun to weigh our options and examine the possibilities. That’s the joy of being middle aged. Even with financial restrictions, we are as free as we’ll ever be to do what we want.

I will be sad when/if we leave this house and town that has become so familiar and where we have lived so much life. And I’ll miss those birds. But I’m also ready to follow their example. Yes, they return every spring, but in the fall they leave that empty nest without hesitation. They move forward.