Posts Tagged ‘family life’
Cindy on July 23rd, 2008
Lately I’ve been thinking about Sam Lamott, son of best-selling author Anne Lamott. I don’t know of many women who haven’t read Anne’s Traveling Mercies, her collection of candid essays on her long road to sobriety and conversion to Christianity. For many moms in my age group, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, was their introduction to a whole new literary genre: the tell-all “momoir.”
Sam (who’s now 18) is often at the center of Anne’s writings. We’ve all watched Sam grow up on the page, from his first smelly diaper to the brutal arguments over his driving privileges.
Legions of us are forever indebted to Anne for admitting aloud that motherhood isn’t one sweet series of Hallmark moments. Still, I can’t help but wonder how the Sam Lamotts of the world — kids who’ve literally grown up in print — really feel about all this. Is Sam scrutinized more closely because of his famous mother’s writings? Is he held to a different standard of behavior? Do his friends understand (or resent) his position? Is the rest of the world also secretly wondering how he’ll turn out? Is it really any of our business?
For years, I’ve wrestled with this issue on a much smaller scale. And I’m still conflicted. My own son, now 22, recently asked me to remove a post I’d written about him on my own blog last month. The post was innocent enough. And the photo of my son was flattering. The verbiage was confined to a very short paragraph about how grateful I am that my son helped me redesign my Web site, and how much I’ll miss him when he leaves the state for his new job.
Problem was, I used his name, he said. The large corporation that had just hired him out of college was in the process of doing an in-depth background check on him, he reminded me. Therefore, he did not want his name or his photo floating around on my blog, no matter how flattering. A little paranoid? I’d say so. But at the same time, I understood my son’s point of view and why he was worried.
We’d been around and through this before. Years before I began blogging, I wrote a weekly column for our local daily newspaper. My assignment was to write about my family life — which naturally included funny or poignant moments involving my son and his friends. No matter how careful I was, my son was hurt or humiliated more than once by what was published in my column. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.
But I haven’t. In fact, I’ve been at work on a memoir about preparing for the empty nest, and there’s no easy way to write it without mentioning my son’s first name throughout. Euphemisms like “my son” or “the kid” sound awkward in a longer work of nonfiction. For now, I’ve put the project on hold, despite the fact that an agent and a publisher are interested in it — and despite the fact that I believe my book would be of help to other women facing the empty nest transition.
So I deleted the offending post immediately. My son told me it would have been OK if I’d simply removed his name. But I wanted to prove to him that our relationship is far more important to me than a blog topic. I’m guessing he’ll outgrow this particular sensitivity, once he feels at home in his new job and settles into his new life on his own. But I’d sure love to talk to Sam about this. — Cindy La Ferle
–A shorter version of this post originally appeared on 50-SOMETHING MOMS Blog. Check the June Archives for “Sam Lamott” on the 50-SOMETHING MOMS site, and to read comments prompted by the original post.–
Cindy on July 9th, 2008
In Florida this spring, I finally made my pilgrimage to the tiny island of Captiva, where Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote Gift from the Sea during a brief ocean-side sabbatical. With our only child away at college, it was the first time in years that my husband and I had flown to the Sunshine State by ourselves. And with no plans to tour Disney World. To commemorate the visit, I bought the 50th anniversary edition of Mrs. Lindbergh’s book and a few souvenir shells from the island.
Over the years I’ve collected at least five different editions of Gift from the Sea, and I can’t think of a friend who hasn’t received a copy from me.
First published in 1955, this slim little book spoke volumes to women on the brink of social change â women who were primarily responsible for raising families and conflicted by the “new career opportunities” opening up to them. Using seashells to describe the various stages of a woman’s life, from early marriage to the empty nest, Mrs. Lindbergh gave voice to the ache of the feminine spirit.
Years ahead of its time, Gift from the Sea became a classic among inspirational best-sellers, yet its success always baffled its author. âThe original astonishment remains ⦠that a book of essays, written to work out my own problems, should have spoken to so many other women,â Mrs. Lindbergh admitted twenty years later.
A thoughtful friend suggested the book when I was in my early thirties — when everything in my small universe was spinning faster than I could keep up. I was raising a preschooler. Working as a travel magazine editor and community activist. Learning how to be a wife. And all the while attempting to make a home out of a 1940s handyman special. As much as I’d welcomed so many options and opportunities, I was always too exhausted to understand why I felt something was missing.
Mrs. Lindbergh knew how to explain my dilemma.
âThere are so few empty pages in my engagement calendar,” she wrote. “Too many worthy activities, valuable things, and interesting people. For it is not merely the trivial which clutters our lives but the important as well. We can have a surfeit of treasures â an excess of shells, where one or two would be significant.â
Reading those words again nearly 20 years later, I recall the tremendous sense of relief — the real epiphany — that struck when I first read them. Like most young mothers I knew, I wanted to have it all, but didn’t realize the price I’d pay until I actually got it all. It’s not that I was ungrateful for the life I’d crafted. I loved my husband, my child, my home, my writing career. But I desperately needed balance. Spiritual balance.
Up until then, I’d assumed the contemplative life was the sole province of nuns, monks, or religious hermits. Thanks to Mrs. Lindbergh, I learned that finding time to feed my spirit was a necessity, not a luxury. And it wasn’t simply a matter of reordering my priorities in a day planner. I had to teach myself how to be still in the midst of suburban chaos — if only for a few moments between meeting deadlines and driving my carpool shift.
As Mrs. Lindbergh wrote, my real challenge was âhow to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life….It is the spirit of woman that is going dry, not the mechanics that are wanting; certainly our lives are easier, freer, more open to opportunities. But these hard-won prizes are insufficient because we have not yet learned how to use them.â
On Captiva Island, I had time to revisit these issues from a different perspective. Even now, settled in midlife, I tend to overbook myself with work or social obligations. I often neglect the call of my inner spirit, and make the mistake of confusing my self-worth with my achievements. I need to be reminded, all over again, to slow down long enough to savor what I have.
Fifty years after Gift from the Sea was published, women are still overwhelmed by the banquet of choices available to us. Anne Morrow Lindbergh asserted that we must be the âpioneersâ in the movement toward re-creating lives of grace and harmony. I’m grateful to her for illuminating the trail ahead of us, and for her Gift from the Sea. — Cindy La Ferle
—This essay originally appeared on ReadTheSpirit.com—
Cindy on June 29th, 2008
“If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man, but deteriorate the cat.” — Mark Twain, Notebook, 1894
Last fall, a very nice reporter from the Detroit Free Press called to interview me for a story he was writing about one of my programs at the Royal Oak Public Library. His first couple of questions skirted along the lines of, “Do you have any special writing rituals?” and “What things do you keep on your writing desk or in your office?”
I’m never quick on my feet during interviews, so the only thing I could remember to tell him was that I always brew a strong pot of coffee before I start working. Later, after the piece appeared in the paper, it hit me that I neglected to tell the reporter about Jack (pictured above) and Emma, the cats who keep me company in my home office.
Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to have cats because my mother was allergic to them. I had dogs as pets — and enjoyed them — but was always seriously drawn to the contemplative nature of the cat. Later, after I began writing professionally, I discovered that countless writers throughout history, including Ernest Hemingway, kept cats as muses. (Two years ago I visited Hemingway’s historic home in Key West, where descendants of his six-toed feline still roam freely.)
Over the years I’ve been owned by more cats than I can list here. So, speaking from experience, I can tell you that kittens can seem more like nuisances than muses. They’ll crash-land on your paperwork and send your favorite Cross pen flying across your desk. They do calm down and become more Zen-like as they mature — but some remain decidedly meddlesome. When I’m in the middle of repairing a badly tangled paragraph, for instance, Jack paces in front of my computer monitor to remind me that it’s time to crack open the Fancy Feast. For the most part, though, he and Emma are content to nap on the floor next to me, or stand vigil at the door to my office while I read my work aloud. Seriously, they’re the best coworkers, ever…. Got any good cat stories? Jack is all ears! — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on June 14th, 2008
“It’s a funny thing about life. If you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.” â Somerset Maugham
âOh look, you’re using your good china,â my mom said as we gathered at my table for dinner. The winter holidays were long past and there were no anniversaries or birthdays to toast, which is why Mom was so surprised to see my grandmother’s gold-rimmed dishes and goblets gleaming by candlelight on an otherwise ordinary evening.
I’m not by nature a fussy hostess, and excessive formality makes me nervous. Over the years, my mother and other family members have gotten used to being served on casual ceramic dinnerware â or even on leftover paper plates stamped with birthday balloons and purple dinosaurs.
So why the fine china? I think it’s because I’m getting philosophical in my middle age. Why save my best dinnerware for company or so-called special occasions? Doesn’t my family deserve to enjoy the nicest things we own?
Likewise, I often wonder why we reserve our “good clothes” for special occasions. If you’re like me, you have at least one terrific outfit you’re saving for a time when you’ll be invited to some momentous affair — maybe a banquet at the White House or a reception at the Vatican. Outfits like this droop on their hangers, unworn for years, until they go out of style and end up at a local resale shop. Meanwhile, we spend most of our time in sloppy jeans and sweats. After all, our best friends and family love us as we are, and it isn’t as if Harrison Ford is going to ring the doorbell.
You’ve doubtless heard the popular catchphrase, âLife isn’t a dress rehearsal,â which is printed on everything from inspirational posters to shopping bags. But there’s poignant truth in it. Good china and candles aren’t just for fancy dinner parties: We should use them to honor and brighten our everyday meals. And we ought to at least try to look nice for the people whose homes and lives we share. There’s little merit in saving our best for a precious event that might never happen.
This occurred to me last week when I reorganized my files and found an old birthday card I’d purchased for my dad (and quickly forgotten) not long before he died. âI’m so glad you’re my father,â it began in sentimental, greeting-card prose. Because I missed the chance to give that card to my dad, it has remained unsigned in a drawer for several years. But I still can’t manage to throw it away.
While browsing in an antiques shop recently, I found a charming Quimper plate that would fit perfectly in my mother’s collection. (Had I been looking for it, of course, it wouldn’t have been there.)Â So I bought it on the spot, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to save it for her birthday or Mother’s Day. Those occasions seemed too far off in the nebulous future, and I wanted Mom to enjoy her gift right away. Later that afternoon, I drove to her house and gave her the plate â without ceremony, wrapping, or ribbon.
It could have been just another uneventful Saturday on my calendar. But it felt like a real celebration. – Cindy La Ferle
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This essay was originally published in Mary Engelbreit’s Home Companion and is included my newest essay collection, Writing Home, distributed to bookstores by Wayne State University Press and available on Amazon.com
