understanding – A Wandering Jewess

With gratitude for those who have supported my Go Fund Me campaign, “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — a post-divorce narrative of how 52 Artist Dates healed my heart and pointed me in the direction of my dreams –- and my goal of manifesting blog into book deal. Those who inspire me. Those who unselfishly prod me toward my one, precious life.

August 14

Among my many 20-something gripes was the idea that I didn’t “have a thing.” A passion. A commitment. A “thing” that defined me. Drove me. That people associated with me.

A medium of creative expression.

Like Sherrod Blankner with paint. Over the years I watched her toil outside my house on Liberty Street in San Francisco and at Artist Residencies in Mendocino. I watched her put on shows in Berkeley and sell her work to patrons everywhere. She was (and is) a “working artist.” A description she once laughed at … “If that means I earn enough to pay for my supplies, I suppose I am.”

Like Julie Brown with a lens. We met on assignment for the Jewish Bulletin of Northern California in 1995 — the camera to my pen. Portraits. Projects in Guatemala. Even my wedding — she wanted to be a guest, but wanted me to have beautiful photographs even more — Julie captured, and continues to capture real life from the other side of a piece of glass.

Thank you, Sherrod. And thank you, Julie. For inspiring me with your work and your commitment. And for your generous donations to my “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” campaign.

Turns out I did “have a thing,” and a medium … I always did. Words. It took the aftermath of divorce, sans romance, to wrangle them out of me and onto the pages of “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain.”

liberty-street — Liberty Street in San Francisco … where I logged many hours with both of these ladies.

August 19

In Jewish tradition, the number 18 represents “chai” or life. And it is customary to give gifts in denominations of $18.

So it seems only appropriate that my friend and “sister of choice,” Julie Kupsov, would so generously donate to my “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” campaign in this way.

Not only because we are both Jewish. But because we have experienced so much life — the birth of her son, for which I had the great, good honor to be present as her doula — and death — the passing of her parents Irv and Carole, who provided a safe, loving home away from home for me for more than 30 years — together.

And everything in between.

Julie pushed me to accept a newspaper job in San Francisco more than 20 years ago … thus leaving Detroit and our standing Thursday “date night.” And she loaned me money to volunteer in Rwanda in the midst of my divorce. … where the seeds of my book and my Spanish sojourn were planted.

Muchas, muchas gracias, Julie. (We learned that much in high-school Spanish class, right?) For your generous support of my campaign and of all my journeys.

(By the way, Julie is a genius writer in her own right … keep your eyes peeled for her name on Amazon!)

me-julie-and-jaron — With Julie and Jaron … just before leaving for Spain.

20 August

Math was never my strong suit.

“I don’t get it,” I’d sigh, slightly exasperated, plopping my textbook down on Mr. McClew’s desk in high school.

“OK,” replied the ever-patient instructor of snotty, privileged teens. “Tell me what you don’t get.”

“It!”

“I can’t help you, Lesley … You have to tell me what you don’t understand.”

I’m not sure I ever could. That I ever got “it.”

But I’ll tell you who does … my mother.

Because of her generous contribution to my “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” campaign, I’m more than half-way to my goal. And over-the-moon delighted and grateful.

What?! Fuzzy math? Lesley logic? The campaign says $1,956 to date. The goal is $4,250. Huh?? My mom is old school. She wrote me a check.

Thank you, Linda Park. For your contribution. And for always supporting me …

Pink hair. (“Not a word,” she’d mutter to my father after a trip to the hairdresser.) Bad behavior grades. (I once received an “unacceptable” conduct mark. She told the teacher in no uncertain terms this was preferable to me cowering in a corner. And afterward, convinced Coach Downs to give me a passing grade in gym class.) Pillbox hats to high school. (Enough said …)

Moves to San Francisco. Chicago. Seattle. Chicago. Spain. And Chicago again.

My choices may not have been her choices. But she “got,” and still gets, that this is my one and only life. And she bolsters me in any healthy way she knows how.

Like saying “yes” to my book “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — a (mostly) happily-ever after, after divorce tale. The story of how 52 Artist Dates healed my heart and helped me to step into my one and only life. The life I always dreamed of.

mom-in-70s — Feeling held … now and then.

Want to know more about “They Don’t Eat Alone in Spain” — how 52 Artist Dates saved my soul after divorce and landed me smack in the middle of my own life — or how to contribute to my Go Fund Me campaign? Click here.

I stopped calling my ex by his name in writing.

It happened a little while ago, when a friend casually asked me if he minded being named. I didn’t know. So, I asked.

He said it didn’t matter. But I stopped anyway. As a show of respect. To allow him to retain his anonymity among those who don’t know him, or me, or “us.” And quite possibly, as another way of letting go.

I have a habit of inserting lost loves names into conversation, just to make them real. To keep it, them, alive. I didn’t think I was doing that with my ex – but maybe I was.

I started thinking about naming people. I don’t do it often. When I do, I ask myself why, and how they might feel about it.

Some people love it. It brings attention to their art. Or it feels like an honoring of our relationship. On occasion, it has led to a burgeoning friendship, like with a local actress to whom I owe a phone call.

But for others, it has caused pain.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend took exception to the moniker I had assigned him. He called me out on it – citing the sometimes negative connotations associated with it, per Wikipedia.

I was devastated. I adore him – perhaps too much so, sometimes. After receiving his email, I phoned him immediately.

I did not pause – even though I know better.

I got his voicemail and I left a message. I said I regretted causing him any pain, that it was never my intention. I shared my interpretation of the moniker. I told him that he was my teacher. That he inspired me. And I told him I loved him.

That was about a month ago. I haven’t heard a peep. I am letting him have his space, his own experience. This is new for me.

Something similar happened between my mother and me.

I had written about my over-emotional nature as a child – recounting a story that took place in the dollar movie theatre. She remembered the situation differently than I. She too called me out on it.

This time I did pause. And because the harm was done electronically, I made amends in the same way. I told her I was sorry that my writing had caused her pain, just as I had done with my friend.

This time the result was different.

It led us to a conversation about memory. How tricky it is. How three people can see the same accident and yet each remembers a different color, a different make car.

A few weeks later I received a package in the mail from her. Inside was a vintage copy of Black Beauty that she found in an antique store. Actually, it is two books in one. Black Beauty on one side. The Call of the Wild on the other.

The memory in question was in regard to The Black Stallion, but I got it. Completely. I was touched by her sweet gesture, her way of letting me know we are more than fine.

A couple of days ago I posted a blog about exs. One of them commented – favorably.

I wrote to him, “I trust you recognized yourself.” He did, and we began chatting — online.

We too talked about memory. About the last time we saw one another, on Venice Beach. I had just returned my roller skates.

I remember him calling my name. Going to him. And him asking if he could see me. I remembered him kissing me. He didn’t. He remembered me angry. I didn’t.

I asked him what happened between us. I never understood. I had asked before but he never answered, and I didn’t push it. This time he told me.

He told me that I awakened something in him.

He told me how he remembered me. Kind. Open. Dirty. Loving.

He told me our time together mattered, that I mattered. That I was important in his life, as he had been in mine.

I asked him if we might speak. Moments later we were.

I had forgotten what his voice sounded like. Seventeen years had passed since we had last spoken. I felt a strange sense of relief mixed with joy. As if to say, “Oh, there you are. Of course.” As if he had been there all along. Which in some ways, he had.

A flood of memories came rushing back. Hazy. Not completely formed. Together, we tried to put together the pieces.

We talked for about an hour, tripping down memory lane. Talking about our lives today. The time in between. Slipping in the occasional flirty quip. We were always like that.

I wanted to tell him I loved him, but I didn’t. Instead, I let him know that he is in my heart and I am grateful to know I am still in his. It is more accurate.

I feel like a piece fell into place in my life. And a peace, as well.

A Wandering Jewess

My Journey Back To Self

Tag: understanding

Gently Nudged

When You See Yourself…or, Memory is Tricky