So let’s talk about time today.

I understand that we need the chronology of time in order to navigate this world, in the same way we need gravity.  Without either, things would be, well, a mess.  Hunger alarms can tell me when I should eat (yeah, like I wait that long) and heavy eyelids let me know when to sleep.  But how would the showing of Star Wars, The Force Awakens and I hook up?  See, I understand we need the concept of time.

But the more I accumulate of this chronology thing, the less I understand the value. What I particularly don’t understand is our tendency to hold on to it, to try and hit the pause button.

I write this as I sit at a desk that was mine for eight years, in a community that was mine for twenty.  But in the past seven years and ten months, my life has been elsewhere.  And by this evening, it’ll be there again.  So today I think backward and in a few hours I’ll begin to think forward, while in each case, trying to gently bring myself back to now.

Why is it so hard to think in the present?

And in the Cause & Effect department,  “time” produces an even more perplexing concept:

Age.

Tomorrow I turn 62 and I think that’s partially driving this post.  It isn’t my “age” per se.  I mean, yes, I’d prefer to forego the wrinkles and creaky joints and yes, I’m wondering if I should do some future care planning.  But for the most part, I’m cool with my age.  It took about a year, but I like being in my 60s.  It’s like having permission to gleefully not give a shit about unimportant stuff on so many levels.  Or more specifically, to have the clarity to see how increasingly unimportant so many of those things we value really are.

The part that has me totally flummoxed is —

WHEN DID 62 YEARS HAPPEN??!!

And that’s the part I just can’t grasp. Seriously. It seems like about 30 years or so have passed. I have maintained friendships with people I’ve known since my childhood and teen years and when I talk to them, without consciously thinking about it, I feel no different from the person I was at seventeen. Or seven. Or whenever.

I’m about the hit the 400 word mark, so it’s time to tie up these somewhat disjointed musings.

What’s the bottom line?  Well, it’s not very original, but still resoundingly true:

The passage of time is a constant in this life.  It doesn’t stop, it keeps moving, and there’s nothing we can do to change that.  But the hard-to grasp good news is this – that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.  Not only can I accept 62, but I also accept that next year will be 63 and – if I’m still here – ten years from now will be 72.  And that one of those years, I won’t be any longer.  The clock is running and eventually I will get a big “DING! Time’s up!” And that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.  I don’t exactly know what’ll happen next, but I know something will, and it’ll be some kind of adventure that I couldn’t possibly grasp yet.  But good.  I know that.  So what the heck …

My wish for you and for me, today and within all these crazy increments of time is simply to keep reminding ourselves to be present and to keep remembering to enjoy the moment, big or small, tender or funny, intense or easy.  It’s ours. And it’s ours to do with what we like.

Happy 2016, gang.

(click for James Taylor, still singing about the Secret of Life, 2010)

James Taylor, from JT CD cover. 1977

Around January 3rd-ish, my goal was to try to post a weekly blog.  I blinked and it was February and I thought, “Okay, monthly then.”  One-third of the way closer to March and I ask myself, “So … you got a plan C in there somewhere?”  In the past six weeks I’ve had at least ten blog ideas that pop into my head while driving, standing in line at Safeway or in the shower (never mind that one), but they’re only one short thought that has to be fleshed out in order to become a REAL BLOG POST.  Hence, plan C: Short, one thought, shallow blog posts.  Case in point:

Long Hair

Right now my hair is longer than it’s been since Denver in the 1970’s  When wet, my hair goes about an inch and a half past my shoulders, so it’s actually just longish.  And why do I say “when wet?”  Well, as every curly-haired person knows, only wet hair is measured by length. Dry hair is measured by width.  To whine further- when you have a long neck, it takes FOREVER for the length get down there far enough to officially register as Long Hair. But I digress…

Longish hair takes some getting used to.  First of all, when getting dressed it gets caught under my bra strap and I never figure that out until I’m fully clothed and have to fiddle around with where it is and how to unleash it.  Same principle for trying to turn my head while driving or when leaning back in my office chair.  The worst, though, is when I wear something sleeveless. A fast turn to the right and I am immediately startled by whatever or whomever gave me such a light touch on my left shoulder.  And then I remember: Oh.  Right.  It’s the hair.

But the negatives of longish hair are far outweighed by one major advantage: I can toss the whole thing into a maintenance-free ponytail and forget about it all.  Unless I’m driving, or sitting in a high back chair, that is. [Picture someone seated with her head pitched two inches forward] Then it’s low pony all the way.

Yeah, this was a pretty pointless blog.  But that’s how we’re gonna roll this year.

This illustrates the flat iron magic of Salon Bella Maui’s Kim Willits. Six times a year, I have “normal human” hair.

I see a lot of year’s end “letting go” posts as I scroll through my Facebook page and I decided this time I’m going in the opposite direction.  So last evening, a friend and I had a conversation that we called The Best of 2013. We casually and without a lot of direction compiled our own list of Favorites from this year that is ending.   Starting with the usual Favorite Movie, Favorite Song (I couldn’t come up with one) type stuff, we eventually wandered into increasingly more specific and ultimately more meaningful terrain.  Just a few of our 2013 Favorites were:

Favorite new toy

Favorite phone pic

Favorite Facebook post (neither of us really came up with one)

Favorite thing to wear

Favorite holiday experience

Favorite new friend

Favorite event

Favorite moment.

That last one gave us each pause.  What was my favorite moment in 2013?

The funny thing was, it came to me instantly.  In a year that held a million wonderful memories during a great mainland vacation, my favorite moment took place only one island away.  I was at a restaurant with a friend, listening to a jazz trio after a killer great meal.    The lead guy invited his niece up to sing “When Sunny Gets Blue,” one of my all-time favorite songs and I was so happy.  Could this night possibly get any better?  She took the mic, opened her mouth and … totally SUCKED.  We were about five feet away from the band and I tried my damnedest to keep a straight face.  It took a great evening and made it absolutely perfect.

Now the memory is a little bittersweet, as the past is – well – the past.  So what’s the takeaway?  What, from that moment (as well as the other Favorites)  do I take with me into 2014?  I guess it would be along the lines of:  Be present.  Surround myself with the people and environment that I truly enjoy.  Allow myself to feel that all is right in my world.  And above all – don’t take any of it TOO seriously.

Wishing you the same in 2014.  And hoping you get to bring your “favorites” along for the ride…

xo,

Marti

“Hey, did you guys see this thing for POW bracelets?” Cathy came bounding into 14D with a mail order flyer. “We should order some.”

It was November of 1972 and I was a college freshman at an expensive but academically mediocre all-girl junior college in Miami, Florida. I took the paper from her and began to read aloud. “Over a thousand American soldiers have been held as Prisoners of War in North Vietnam. Our goal is to make sure this stays in our awareness until each soldier is returned to us. Please order a POW/MIA bracelet and pledge to wear it until your soldier comes home.” I checked the cost – only $2.50 for the standard bracelet and $3.50 for the copper one – which, even by 1972 standards, was really cheap. The idea appealed to me instantly. “Yeah, let’s do it!”

So on that day, several young women from Bauder Fashion College marched up Flagler Street to the post office, got our money orders for $2.50 each, slapped our 8 cent postage stamps on the envelopes and ordered our bracelets from the address on the somewhat amateurish but passionately produced flyer.

Several weeks passed before I received the small lumpy manila envelop in the mail. In it was a bumper sticker : POW/MIA: I WANT THEM ACCOUNTED FOR!, a multi folded sheet of white paper with program information, and a silver plated cuff type bangle bracelet with an engraved rank, name and date. The point was to clamp the bracelet onto our wrists, and keep it there until the person whose name was on the bracelet came home. I studied the inscription:

Wow, my guy (as we thereafter referred to ‘our’ soldier) had been missing since I was in eighth grade and less than a month after Bobby Kennedy died. Bummer, I thought. My fantasy of celebrating his homecoming by triumphantly removing the bracelet lost a little steam. Nevertheless, a deal is a deal. “Okay, E. James, here we go.” I put the bracelet on my right wrist, squeezing the ends together.

And there he stayed. I only took it off once – to emcee a beauty pageant- because the designer thought it “ruined the lines of my silhouette.” All evening James flashed into my mind and I vowed to never take it off again. And I didn’t. Through my college years…through graduation…through my return to Ohio and job interviews, job placement and through my wild and crazy early 20s social life. Day or night, professional or partying…when I slept, showered or even while “doing the deed” the bracelet never left my arm. Until one night in 1977…

I was in a Columbus area night club with friends. A man with whom I had an intense to-the-depths-of-our-souls type of relationship, and hadn’t seen in months, walked into the club. I saw him, gasped and the bracelet broke off my arm into two pieces. No kidding; it really happened just like that. I placed both pieces in a secure pocket in my purse and turned my attention to the situation at hand. The next morning I was scheduled to make a quick visit to the warehouse of the clothing chain for which I worked and while I was counting Jones of New York jackets, someone slipped into the break room through an open window and stole my handbag. Money, license, keys – replacing all that was inconvenient, but what could never be replaced was E. James Broms.

I’ve often wondered about the cosmic implication of those events and the only thing I can come up with was that it’s not about a strip of metal and it’s sure as heck not about me. It’s about one soul honoring another. It’s about a man who put himself in harms way – either by choice or by draft – rolled the dice and lost.  Honoring such a person transcends politics or our opinions about war, specific or in general.  Could I have done what he did?  Nope. I simply do not have that type of mindset.  But I sure appreciate those who do.

The last contact anyone had with James was while he was piloting an A4C Skyhawk over the Gulf of Tonkin. He was flying the fourth position in a four plane airstrike, and his last transmission was “Puffs all around me.” That’s war, I suppose. He was 24 at the time.

In the mid 80s I was able to visit his name on a traveling replica of the Vietnam War Memorial. When I finally visited DC in 2004, I couldn’t wait to visit panel 50W of the memorial and etch/rub his name as a keepsake. Unfortunately, the wall was being renovated and I was unable to view that portion. “It’s not about a strip of metal, it’s not about me” echoed through my thoughts.

If James is still alive, he turned 68 earlier this month.  I know it isn’t likely.  But when my thoughts shuffle past the “stuff” of bracelets and walls and self congratulatory ego, I know what’s important. The spirit, the essence of who this young man was is definitely rattling around the cosmos somewhere. And to that spirit I say, “Mahalo, James. And Godspeed.”

LTJG E. James Broms MIA.8/1/1968

UPDATE: If you’re reading this for the first time, you MUST read the conversation that transpired because of this post.  Just click on “comments.” 

While rummaging through the estate sale booth – my favorite stop at the Lahaina Swap Meet/Craft Fair – a familiar item caught my eye.  The silver artist’s palette charm on the crowded table was exactly like the twin charms that Debbie Frantz’s mom bought us for Christmas in 1962, along with our brand new bracelets. It was the year we joyfully shared the same second grade home room, lived for all things Barbie, and saw ourselves as immensely talented artists-to-be.  With names from the opposite end of the alphabet, sharing a home room would only happen one more time in our twelve years together.   I wondered about the reasons and recipient behind the charm in front of me.

I reached for the sterling chain bracelet in order to further investigate.

Unlike my own bracelet now crowded with mementos that span more than half a lifetime, this one held only  six items.  In addition to the artist palette, there was a graduation owl with a pearl body, a flat mortarboard charm, a typewriter, an engraved disk and a slice of sterling birthday cake.  The mortarboard announced 1971 – only a year before the inscription on my own graduation charm.  The disk was inscribed with a name and date on one side:

Sandra – July 26, 1968, with a simple inscription on the back:

Love, Susan.

If she graduated in 1971, what was the significance of 1968?  The end of middle school?  An important birthday?  What could it be?

Sensing that folks were not-so-patiently waiting for me to move on, I checked the price of the bracelet.  Thirty-five dollars.    Not practical.  Returning the bracelet to its black velvet cubby, I stepped aside to dig through the section of art deco earrings.

But thoughts of the bracelet returned.  How might a personal keepsake end up on a swap meet table?  Is the owner deceased?  Or did it get lost in the rush of early twenties wanderlust, like the bracelet that  Jim gave me in the summer of  seventy-eight, his last night as Freedom’s lead singer?  And if she’s still alive, does Sandra think of her bracelet and long to hold it once again in hopes of reactivating the juju from a magic of her youth?

Or perhaps it’s just meaningless pieces of metal for which her interest ended in 1971; Owl and the gang tossed aside, never to be considered again.

Returning home later that afternoon, I dropped my handbag on the sofa and went immediately to the small wooden jewelry box on top of my bedroom dresser.  Opening a tiny drawer, I saw it right away – my own charm bracelet that began forty-seven years ago and continues to – though very occasionally – chronicle random bits of my life.

Exhaling an unexplanable degree of relief, I examined the nearly forgotten piece of jewelry.  The state outlines, the phone, the shiny OZ, even the Betty Crocker Homemaker Award (the most “Wrong Call” accolade of Senior Awards Day, I sheepishly admit) and yes…the artist palette.  All safe and securely attached to the sturdy silver chain.

I smiled as I held the most recent addition up to the waning sunlight.  I designed three of them that year  – one for me and one for each of my Debbies – tiny containers filled with bits of slag, the meaning of which could only be understood by those who grew up in steel mill country.  Carefully returning it to its place of honor next to the gold Hawaiian bracelets inscribed with the names of my son and step sons,  I gently touched the jewelry box – itself a high school graduation present – and left the room.

Thirty-five dollars is nothing to be taken lightly this year, particularly for something that I would never use, wear or display.   Had I bought that bracelet, it would have gone straight into that bottom drawer, with my own unworn treasures of the past.  Not a practical purchase at all.

Nevertheless…

If I return to the Craft Fair next week and if I have an extra thirty five bucks and if it’s still there, I will probably buy it.

I feel like I owe it to Sandra and Susan.

It was quite a week. Intense, but good intense. So I treated myself to a vacation day.

Started the morning on my deck with a lovely, lovely meditation. Then I wandered around the apartment, emailing, chatting until I finally got whacked with a sudden inspiration to hit the gym – first time in nearly two weeks.

I took life’s “stuff” out on the Elliptical Machine, from deadline concerns to thinking unkind things about whomever the gym member is that insists on the TV being set to Fox News. I marched furiously forward into nowhere, while that damn screen mocked me. Hoping the culprit was there to see me take a swig from my Obama08 water bottle (take THAT, Conservative Gym Guy) I changed course and decided to laugh at my silliness and own it. On to the weight machines, headphones in place…

Ever notice how often a random song matches the external situation? From Beatles to Rascal Flatts to Transiberian Orchestra – it all fit. Digging on the synchronicity … kind of like my own little Life Soundtrack…I got into the movie of it. Gawd, I love music.

Yes, I tend to live in my head. But even I have to admit – there’s nothing like a physical workout. It’s tough and sweaty and occasionally monumentally unpleasant but when those endorphins kick in….

Finished.

Happy and tired – blissfully so – I left the gym and walked towards my car. Catching a glimpse of something shiny in my peripheral vision, I turned to look. It was the sunlight dancing across the turquoise blue Pacific. Twenty some years later it never fails to take my breath away. Forgetting that my tunes were still plugged in to me, I walked across the lot to fully enjoy it.

I was hot and sticky but felt oddly cool. Know that thing that happens when the breeze wafts across wet skin? Yeah, that.

Just as I was being swept up into yet another island girl moment, a familiar piano riff began to play in my head. WTF??? In my head? Oh that’s right – the headphones. Listening to that solitary and deliberate prelude, I knew what was coming–

“Some folks want to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood…
Hop a flight for Miami Beach or Hollywood
But me, I’m taking the Greyhound on the Hudson River Line.
I’m in a New York State of Mind…”

Followed by that sax…

Oh, there is something about a slow, bluesy saxophone that touches me like only it can. From the very first note, it insinuates itself into a place within me that nothing else can reach. Don’t know why or what it means. It’s just so.

So there I was…lost in the paradox of tropical breezes and saxophones and breaking waves until the song about the City played itself out. Made my way back to the car and drove home, slowly, deliberately. Just the way Billy played it, I guess.

I walked up my stairs, thinking about doors – closing, opening, closing, opening…There is a wistful magnificence to life sometimes. A little melancholy perhaps, but oh, so exquisitely beautiful.

(Here it is … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ol0dPJdzm1M )