A (very little) pause in the action November 22, 2017

I am sitting on the window seat in my cozy kitchen to take a break from the intensity of this semester.   I have shoved aside the Building Energy homework, the papers to be read and written for Architectural Theory, the drawings for Analysis, and the renderings for Studio.  For a few moments, I want just to pause and to reflect.

My “post-retirement” journey as a student of architecture continues.  This past summer, under the auspices of California College of the Arts, I spent three weeks drawing in Rome and two glorious (but hot) weeks exploring architecture in Japan.  Then followed a three-week intensive studio, which proved dissatisfying for a number of reasons.  Yet all of this got me pumped up for the fall, so I put in a request to take the full set of courses, including Studio 3.

This year, the theme for Studio 3 is collective housing for seniors.  Each of us had to choose a very narrow demographic, and I selected single, female visual artists.  I designed a neighborhood of detached individual living pods with shared dining, wellness, and studio centers.  It is a rather complicated scheme but seems to be panning out.

Studio should be the centerpiece of the architectural curriculum, but Studio 3 is my least favorite course, and I attribute that entirely to the instructor.  He and I butted heads on my very first “desk crit”.  As it happened, that evening my book club met and they sympathized when I lamented that I was going to drop out because, "If I can’t survive Studio, what is the point?"   But I needed another ear and reached out to my ex-husband.  He is a surprisingly good listener, and by the end of our conversation he said, “You can’t let one guy ruin what you’ve set out to do and worked so hard for.”  I got back on the saddle, and now the end of Studio is in sight.

But it has not been easy.  I do not feel intellectually or emotionally safe with this instructor, and as it turns out, none of the other students do either.  He is abusive, either through design or cluelessness, and we are all suffering.  Indeed, one young student has even developed stress cardiomyopathy.

Fortunately, the other three classes are superb, and with each of these I’m on an incredibly steep learning curve.  My theory teacher is a goddess and my analysis teacher is a god.  My energy teacher is whip-smart and lots of fun.  And so I will continue in the spring semester, looping back to take Studio 2 in addition to three other classes, and hoping for inspirational and kind instructors.  Perhaps next summer will bring another opportunity for study abroad and a chance for an internship.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  Later today I get on a plane for Minneapolis to spend this holiday with my sister Mary and my daughter Annie, who is living in Minnesota, in and out – and back in again - of yet another rehab.  Our visit, like this little respite to write, will be all too brief.

Jeannette's Wisdom July 11, 2017

I am often struck by how my friend Jeannette can hit the nail on the head.  I have known her for more than thirty years, and I can turn to her when I just need to let someone know I am struggling.  She is the kind of person who is in touch with her own feelings.  She also pays attention to sage ideas of others, such as  “as we get older, we shift from doing to being”, or “when we near the end of life, we may have to be content with just looking out of a window”. 

Well, I said to myself, this will have to be one helluva great window! 

And this all brings me to Point Reyes Station, a speck of a town on Route One, north of San Francisco at the junction of the American and Pacific Plates and the epicenter of the 1906 earthquake.  Thirteen years ago, in my quest to have a home in the country, I bought a plot of land and built a simple home on a horse pasture in this little community.  I also included a small guesthouse, built initially with the hope that my father might move there (he had a stroke, unfortunately, and never could), but also accommodating friends and family who could enjoy this magnificent wilderness with me.  I am off the information grid out here – no internet, no TV, no phone, and no cell phone service.  It is my own little Tassajara retreat, complete with endless hiking, daily yoga, swimming in Tomales Bay, and deep sleep.

In the ten years since the house was completed, my stays out here have typically been very brief, as I was always juggling work, school, and Annie’s commitments.  But in the past year, I have spent longer and longer stretches of time.  I settle into someone else, it seems. I talked to Jeannette about this, and her insight is that when I come here, I let go of my achievement side, the need to perform, to succeed, to push new boundaries.  Indeed, I am being and not doing. 

And talk about view!  I have that helluva great window!  I overlook a large pasture with horses (not mine) and a few farm buildings, with the Inverness Ridge and its attendant fog looming in the background.  Herons, badgers, bobcats, hawks, foxes, and frogs come by.  The grass in the breeze is mesmerizing. I have everything I need.

Just back from Rome, I have settled in here again, and as I plunk myself down on the deck, I realize that my decision to purchase this land and to build this house, as stressful as that whole process was, was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

On Agassi July 9, 2017

You might think that Andre Agassi and I have nothing in common, and you would be right, almost.  But for a short time, he and I were under contract with the same literary agent, and that was how I became aware of his memoir “Open”.  As readers of this blog know, I tend to follow men’s tennis, but I hadn’t picked up his book until I happened upon a used copy from the library’s book sale a few months ago.  It is an open-hearted and compelling account of this champion’s struggles, and I couldn’t put it down. 

Agassi’s journey is wrenching and inspiring.  Forced to play tennis by his ambitious and athletic father, he was then sent to a Florida tennis academy, which he also loathed.  His escape was to break into professional tennis at a young age and to coalesce trainers, coaches, and friends into a team that enabled him to survive the grueling rounds of training and tournaments.  He speaks to the issues of family, of meaning, and of retirement.  Of course Agassi’s retirement came at a young age, but the transition for someone whose entire life is a professional sport must be much more difficult than it is for us boomers!

Turns out, it wasn’t.  He had met and married Steffi Graf, had children, and started a foundation to launch a charter school.  He was ready to let go because he had built a life that was far more meaningful than tennis competition.  (I suppose it didn’t hurt that he had won seven Open championships as well as a gold medal in the Olympics and had made one of the most spectacular comebacks in the sport.)  He quotes Nelson Mandela, “No matter where you are in life, there is always more journey ahead.”  When I despair of this or that, I will meditate on these powerful words.

Back from Rome July 8, 2017

For two years I looked forward to taking a three-week study-abroad course called Drawing Rome, an elective offered by my school.  My drawing ability isn’t that great, and this opportunity to gain some proficiency in free-hand architectural representation, whilst learning about one of the most historically and architecturally important cities on earth, really appealed to me.  Plus – Italy – what’s not to like?  

Yet I found myself somewhat disappointed, and now that I’m back I’m trying to make sense of the whole experience.  Was it worth the time?  Yes.  The money?  Not so sure.  What lessons can I draw from this?

I was actually expecting to improve in my artistic skill – fancy that! – and I had assumed that evolution would happen through a course of instruction, constructive criticism, and practice.  But there was no actual drawing instruction (save one guest lecture) and very little criticism until the final project.  We did practice several hours a day, but it often involved subject matter that held little inherent interest for me: statues, sculptures, fountains, or the interiors of Renaissance villas.  I am a slow draftsman, and rarely was I able to complete something to my satisfaction in the time allotted.  It was very frustrating, though I admit I’ve probably gained a little facility and a smidgeon of confidence despite my complaining.

I also hoped to learn a lot about Roman history, and this I did, as both instructors were very knowledgeable about Rome.  Still, that aspect was underplayed and disjointed.  I kept wondering what all the younger foreign students were gleaning from this.  To quench my thirst, I did extra reading and made independent side-trips to some of the sites I found most compelling: Ostia, the imperial fora, and the Mussolini monumental buildings in a district called EUR. 

I loved perusing the historical maps of Rome (by Nolli and Lanciani) and visiting the ancient aqueducts and the Aurelian Wall.  I enjoyed sharing an apartment with my artist friend Gail, who is not a student but allowed to join us.  I looked forward to our morning coffee in the Jewish Ghetto and our warm outdoor evenings of wine, Roman pizza, and grilled artichokes.  I liked getting to know my classmates and teachers better.

When it comes right down to it, Rome is intense.  (Of course, the daily 6-mile walks in 90-degree heat added to the oppressive feeling.)  With its 2700-year history, its layers of ancient buildings, cleverly crafted out of concrete, brick, and marble and buried under other layers from subsequent centuries, it is all hard to take in.  It is also a contradiction: while the Roman Empire built baths, theaters, forums, libraries, and sports arenas for the benefit of the common man, its violence toward people and animals was almost unspeakable, and I came away with a very bad taste in my mouth for the “glory that was Rome”.  Granted, this was an empire of amazing infrastructure and creativity, but at what price to humanity?   

Grandchildren, not mine May 25, 2017

Most folks who make it to retirement age have grandchildren on the brain.  They either have grandchildren and dote on them, or they want grandchildren to dote on.

I have to confess that until recently the idea of a grandchild was not something I spent time pondering.  After all, my own daughter is only 23 and not yet in a position to take on this challenge.  But I am starting to appreciate how powerful this draw can be, and I am letting in a little hope - just a little - that maybe someday such a blessing will come my way too.

My sister Mary has two grandchildren now, Misha, age 4, and Sula, about to turn 1.  Mary lives about 15 minutes away from them, by choice, and is able to see them several times a week.  I see how these little ones have taken hold of her heart and how such joy has enabled her to weather a divorce when it moved her to be closer to them. 

Last weekend the nephew of my first husband visited Point Reyes with his wife and their two-year old son.  How fun to see the little guy pet and feed horses for the first time, to go to the ocean, and to run away from the waves.  And how odd a feeling it was to be there with my first husband, with whom I had no children, waving goodbye to that next generation and the next after that – not ours to claim as our own, but with love and hope for their future.

Time to Travel May 15, 2017

I made a commitment to myself for 2017 that I would travel, no matter what else was going on in my life.  The prior three years had been fallow, but Peru over the winter holiday reacquainted me with my wanderlust.

Over spring break, my artist friend Gail and I journeyed to Mexico for a week.  We began with four days in Mexico City, followed by two days in the Yucatan.  The plan from my point of view was simple:  architecture, architecture, architecture. 

I don’t know why it has taken me 60+ years to get to Mexico City, but it won’t take that long to return!   What an amazing and exciting city this is!  With only a 4-hour flight from San Francisco and a 1-hour time difference, visiting is as easy as going anywhere in the US, yet more exciting because of its different language and culture. 

Gail and I made the pilgrimage to three Luis Barragan structures, including his home and studio and the very impressive Chapel and home of the Capuchin sisters.  We went to the obligatory Frida Kahlo blue home and the amazing anthropology museum.  I dragged Gail to the Unesco World Heritage site of UNAM, the University, with its 60s architecture and glorious murals (not to mention Candela’s Cosmic Ray Pavilion!).  We schlepped out to Teotihuacan on what proved to be the equinox, accompanied by half the population of Mexico City who came too to climb the Pyramid of the Sun on this important day. 

Perhaps the most fun of all, I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, was our inn, the Red Tree House, located in a lovely residential section with good restaurants. Each morning we were greeted by mouth-watering breakfasts and other guests as we discussed our plans for the day, and each evening we returned to a few glasses of wine and conversation.  We made new friends.

From there, we flew to Merida for two days of Mayan ruins –Uxmal and Chichen Itza – and some obligatory last minute, late-night shopping. 

A few weeks after the Mexico junket, my friend Janie and I drove down to LA to meet our buddy Chieko for the weekend.  This trip was art, art, art!  Actually, there was quite a bit of food too, and of course, a lot of talk. 

Now I am gearing up for two big architecture trips, first to Rome (drawing) and then to Japan to study residential architecture.  I’m very excited and very grateful to have these opportunities. 

Taking it slow April 6, 2017

After reluctantly dropping out of Studio 2, I met with my advisor Andrew to plot out a strategy so that I might stay on track with my class.  I had already deferred for one year to recover from my daughter’s trauma, and I was hoping to not lose too much more time.

He said that perhaps I should take it more slowly, that the turbulence of my daughter’s disease might continue, and that fewer courses could be enough to handle. 

I think this was very wise advice.  I am now slated to take only three classes in the fall, and I will not be joining my classmates with Studio 3.  I will be a year behind as they charge ahead.  But I am beginning to think that Andrew has thrown me a lifeline – indeed this is exactly what I wanted, a way to study architecture at a slower pace that dovetails with my full life and my responsibilities as a parent.

Thank you, Andrew!  Thank you, CCA. 

Living a life imbued with grief March 6, 2017

There is a lot on my mind, and it has to do with grief – protracted, relentless, soul- and sanity-piercing grief.  Few among us who have reached retirement age have not come face to face with human loss, and in my particular path, dealing with loss or the threat of loss are sadly recurring themes.  These thoughts and feelings, and my need to write about them, stem from the recent relapse of my daughter.  They are heightened also by two books I just read, which I’ll get to in a moment.

A little background:  my daughter had been clean and sober for about a year and a half, and we were living together quite contentedly for four months while she worked at a good job and took one college class.  But in the new year, I became concerned that she was not holding her own.  Her comings and goings became erratic, she occasionally evaded my texts and calls, she opted not to enroll in the spring semester, and she started losing her patience.  In early February, I sat her down and said, “I get the sense that you are not very happy, and I am suspecting that it has to do either with a boy or drugs, or both.  Do you want to tell me what is going on?”

She rolled her eyes in that “Mom, you are such a dick” look that I have come to associate with teenage denial of an obvious truth, so I knew, sadly, that I was onto something.  Eventually, she came clean, revealing that in December the ultimate bad-boy drug dealer had re-appeared in her life and that she had “engaged” with him and started back in on her toxic assortment of drugs, including meth and heroin.  To those of you who might feel that I am betraying a trust with my daughter in posting her personal life online, I assure you that her own posts on numerous social media outlets tell the same story.

I was quite calm when she told me, since I had suspected it anyway; also, she said that she was working hard to get back on track, surely an exaggeration, but one I chose to take as hopeful. However, the very next day she main-lined a mix of heroin and meth – twice! – during her breaks at work.  I lost it, but I needed to take some time, as Suzuki Roshi wrote, “to discover how to respond”.   

Within the week she disappeared completely, and it was then I knew how to respond. 

First, unlike my previous numerous Annie rescues, I made the decision to simply not track her whereabouts.  I did not look into where her texts and phone calls were going.  I did not call her place of work to see if she was still showing up.  I did not look at her FasTrak record to see if she was in San Francisco or Marin.  I did not hack into her account to “find her phone”.  I did not contact any of her friends.  I did not look at her facebook or instagram.  Letting go of “need to know” was incredibly powerful and allowed me to maintain my own calm.

Second, I had to decide whether to let her continue to live with me.  A month ago, I had hoped that allowing her to stay at home while she tried to get back on track would at least prevent a desperate relocation to the drug dealer’s lair.  Giving her the opportunity of a stable and safe home, as the mother of another recovering addict counseled me, is the “least bad of a list of bad options”.  But as her yoyo life continued, I had to acknowledge that attempting to live with her was not good for me, and maybe not good for her.  She needs to take full ownership for her choices and actions.

I am done.  I have spent 22+ years of my life nurturing, loving, teaching, supporting, and ultimately rescuing a daughter who now seems hell-bent on her own self-destruction.  Yes, I know addiction is a disease.  But I also know that she knows how to get well and how to keep well.  Two years in rehabs and intensive therapies have given her all the tools she needs to heal, if she chooses to do so.  And as she is covered under my health insurance, she can access any psychiatric/psychological or de-tox assistance she needs.  As one of the many sage parents in my Alanon support group commented recently, “I cannot love my child to wellness” and “I need to stay on my side of the street.”  Another said, “Never do for your child what he can do for himself.”

So I am now fully letting go.  I am no longer checking in with her, or buying special foods she enjoys, or nagging her about seeing her shrink, or reminding her that it would be a very good idea to get that broken car window (smashed while she was out doing drugs in the Tenderloin) fixed because we are in the midst of the rainy season.

And yet, as those daily sores of worry start to heal, the grief is ever present.  I grieve the daily pain she must feel.  I grieve the loss of the person she could have been.  I grieve the loss of our relationship.  The questions for me are no longer what to do for Annie, but rather, what to do for myself.  How can I weather this grieving process?

Twenty years ago my husband, Annie's father, died.  After six months, I took off my wedding band and that had a profound effect on the healing process.  No longer was I reminded of my loss every time my hand passed before my eyes.  And so, I recently set to work on putting away the many photographs I have of Annie, most of which were taken when she was younger, as a way of simply letting go.

This putting away of the photographs isn’t just a practical move, it is symbolic of the larger shift that I need to undertake for my own happiness.  And now to the books:

“Designing Your Life” is one of those ubiquitous self-discovery books on the market, and I have been checking it out.  About half-way through, the authors recommend keeping an activity journal, while noting whether you feel “flow”  or are energized in the process.  I did so, and after two weeks I realized that although my individual activities were plenty “flow”-ful, the whole thing was wretchedly depressing!  I was alone about 95% of time.  I was deadened into solitude – reading, doing challenging cross-word puzzles, working on school projects – all of which were interesting and meaningful, but the steady diet of which was simply not so healthy for repairing a wounded heart. 

I started to wonder where the younger me had gone.  I was unrecognizable even to myself!  Whereas earlier I had felt joy and even exuberance at life, I now felt shriveled up, defeated, and sad.

So I started to think about letting go of the current me and cultivating a “restored” me by tapping into the roots of previous happiness and meaning.  I signed up for a day-long choral festival – and went!   I watched a performance of Rusalka on live-from-the-Met at a local cinema.  I went to the symphony one night and the ballet the next.  I had dinner with friends.  I joined a yoga class that I hadn’t attended in a very long time.  I spent a little more time at school to work on projects and hang out with fellow students.  I registered for a painting class.  I decided to write this blog post.  Indeed, I started to feel more alive, and I was grateful.

The other book that provided some insight into my grief and a way to move forward was “The Little Paris Bookshop”.  This short novel is a story about a man who runs a bookstore on a Dutch barge in Paris.  He calls himself a literary apothecary, doling out books to heal his customers like doses of medicine.  I immediately fell in love with this fictional character, tall, green-eyed, neatly dressed, compassionate, and intelligent.  The trouble is that he too needs to be healed, having grieved for 21 years by the end of a relationship.  The bookseller impulsively untethers his barge from the quai and heads south on the Seine, following canals and rivers on a journey of discovery. 

I’m not quite ready to pull up anchor altogether, but reading about another human being in a perpetual state of grief was impactful to me.  I now appreciate how much of my own life has been hijacked by grief.