Tamarika

A sense of self

Yesterday I closed the bank account that I have had for eighteen years. It was in a little branch - the only one - about seven miles from where I live, with people I have never met before. It took me twenty minutes to drive there what with all the lights and traffic in Philadelphia. The woman at the bank said she was sorry to see me leave them. "Well," I explained, "There are so few branches of your bank. I have to travel many miles each time I need to make any type of transaction that isn't on-line." The manager nodded understandingly. I continued, "In Buffalo, there are so many of your branches. I set up my account 18 years ago when I first came to America. This is sad for me." The woman looked up at me and smiled kindly. "We are truly sorry when an excellent customer leaves us," she said gently. Her fingers moved swiftly across the keys as she gave the computer instructions to close the account. She smiled, "I have to give you back one penny," she said. My eyes filled with tears. "I shall keep that penny because this is a bit emotional for me." She gave me the penny. I tucked it into a special place in my wallet as a keepsake. We shook hands and I drove home.

I've been thinking about what constitutes home for me, since Ronni started her new blog. Actually, I have been thinking of it for some time. Ever since we arrived in Philadelphia in December last year. I have moved many times in my life. Within cities, across continents, countries and states. Mostly I did not think of it very much. I packed my bags, boxes, said goodbye and moved on. When I came to the United States from Israel many years ago - in addition to leaving a job, friends, and home, I left a husband and all my family. I came to a new country but also to the very different culture of academia. In fact, I emigrated to America to find my self. I needed to move physically far enough away from my family to establish new boundaries of self. It took years of formal study as well as therapy for me to understand this.

And yet, this time my recent move from Buffalo to Philadelphia, from the State of New York to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, has seemed difficult indeed. Sometimes I wonder if it is because of my age. After all, many things have to change each time I move. The phone, cable, electricity, gas, water companies; supermarkets, garden stores, gas stations, take-out restaurants, favorite sushi places, banks; doctors, dentists, where to have a mammogram; streets, roads, avenues and the 7-11 on the corner. Not to mention, friends, work place and the new route for my power walk.

For me a sense of place is connected to my sense of self. I realize that it really does not matter what my home is. I have lived in the tiniest of apartments, houses, rented or bought spaces. Once I lay down my worn rugs, hang up my old pictures, spread out my plants, and connect up the computer the place becomes home. I am a lot like my cats. Litter box, food and water, familiar blankets and carpets and they are on their way. Me too. It does not matter who the people are, either. Wherever I go people are the same. Wanderers on a life journey with me, no matter their culture, color, creed, gender, abilities, life style, age, socio-economic status, ways of expressing themselves - suffering, enjoying, loving and hating, desires, jealousies, disappointments, anxiety, fears and joyfulness. Everywhere I go it doesn't take too long before I make friends with people in my new housing project, apartment building, village, town, city or country.

I realize that it is the feeling of anonymity that is the hardest to overcome. It is as if each time I move, pieces of my past have been wiped out. People seem to stare right through me not knowing where I come from or what I have experienced. I am invisible. And in order to gain a sense of self, who I am right now, I have to tell my story over and over again. This has been the most exhausting part of my recent move.

As I create stories about me and my history on this blog I renew my sense of self. I go to a new store, or walk around the aisles of an unfamiliar supermarket and start to feel weary. But when I come home to my blog there you all are, with comments and encouragement. When I visit your sites you are telling your stories and we share our selves in intimate ways. I shore up a sense of self to go out into the newness of my neighborhood again.

After I left the old bank yesterday, I drove home fatigued. My eyes were burning and head was starting to ache. I lay down on the couch feeling oh, so tired. And then I remembered the blog. I ran out to my patio, computer under my arm, cup of tazo chai in hand, calling Molly and Ada to join me.

As I tell you all my story, I weave my sense of self together once again. Fatigue, headache, and burning eyes all fade away. I am home.

Change of name

Today I changed the second part of my blog's name. It used to be: In and Out of Confidence: Fear the Final Frontier

Now it is: In and Out of Confidence: A Pause for Reflection

Ronni, I'm on my way: When the time comes, Tamar - and you'll know when that is - you can just change the name of your blog... Posted by: Ronni Bennett | April 27, 2005 08:21 PM. 

Thank you, Ancient Mariner.

Odds and ends (Update)

Quote of the day:

Realization: Vivir es siempre habitar una tristeza. Never Neutral

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Over at Never Neutral today I checked out my Star Wars Horoscope and was delighted to find that I am like one of my favorite characters:

Like most Geminis, you are a playful little creature. You tend to be extremely curious, craving knowledge but sometimes having a short attention span. For the most part, you are charming and loveable. But at times, you can seem scattered and high-strung.

Star wars character you are most like: Ewoks

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This just in as an e-mail from a friend:

I like Ike!

"Should any political party attempt to abolish Social Security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again in our political history. There is a tiny splinter group, of course, that believes you can do these things. Among them are...a few other Texas oil millionaires, and an occasional politician or business man from other areas. Their number is negligible and they are stupid."

President Dwight D. Eisenhower, 11/8/54 (Whatever happened to Republicans like him?)

And a second e-mail from another friend re: the Ike quote:

There's an interesting discussion of this quote, and the battle over the center of the party, here.

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Roast Duck and Never-Never Land

There are one or two bloggers out there who might be interested in my duck cooking experience. And so I plan to tell the story here, after I have crossed off Number 8 on my Never list: never made roast duck. People, allow me to proclaim: yes indeed, I have, in fact, made roast duck!

Of course as you probably already know, it never is just the roast duck. There's the endive and watercress salad sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts and a honey, sesame oil, grainy mustard, orange and lime juice dressing; plus steamed sugar peas, and the apple, onion, blueberry, vinegar relish that go with it.

So, in fact, it starts out with the first trip to the supermarket to find all the correct ingredients like Astringent Vinegar, for goodness sake, and toasted hazelnuts. There were plenty of hazelnuts - just not toasted. The second and third trips to supermarkets came after I had checked out on the Internet what Astringent Vinegar was, and called around for the toasted hazelnuts, which I finally found in a store up the road.

And then the recipe suggests that one prepares the relish the day before "because a day's mellowing makes the sauce just a little better." So, now we are well into a two day deal!

Okay. Okay. All that done, yesterday afternoon, finally, I settled in to prepare the duck, salad and peas. I followed the instructions to the best of my ability although the recipe does not give any specific measurements: "some" sugar and spice; "some" grainy mustard, honey and "a touch" of sesame oil! This was particularly terrifying for me because I have not cooked anything more serious than chicken soup for the past seventeen years. How could I trust my sampling techniques? How would I know which was the right amount of "some" and "a touch" or "a sprinkling" of thus and such?

Half way through and as I heard the duck popping and sputtering vigorously in the oven, I became excited. The kitchen was full of dishes, chopped endives and watercress, relish bubbling away on the stove for a quick warm-up and some additional sugar, and Ada, head moving side to side as if watching a tennis match, was sitting high up on a stool observing this new and different scene - Tamar was cookin'! I pulled out fancy table mats, the special cutlery and crockery we only use for guests, and raced out to buy some wine.

When I returned everything was smelling really, really good. My mouth began to water. Chewing on some watercress to tide me over, I decided spontaneously to make a small soup out of the duck giblets, an onion, half a green pepper, a couple of tomatoes, three crushed cloves of garlic, "some" spice and "a touch of" salt and pepper.  I was on a roll. As I set the table with flowers and candles I started up a CD of Aimee Mann singing her songs from Magnolia (my favorite movie of all time).

Results? A perfectly crispy duck with soft, tender, delicious meat falling off the bones. A spicy sweet and sour relish and crunchy endive, watercress salad with the finest of citrus, sesame oil dressings. Sugar peas? Perfection!

As we clinked our glasses of red wine across the candle-lit table with perfume of the lilac bush out in the garden wafting through the dining room, I looked deeply into my awe-struck, extremely astonished life partner's face, and said softly, "Just don't get any ideas that this might ever happen again!"

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Talking of odds and ends, I just have to add this, which I found over at Sandhill Trek. And I know that some of you are going to be very mad at me for thinking this couldn't have been said any better.

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This e-mail just in from the life-partner in the Never-Never Land Duck Story:

Tamar: ... the duck piece is brilliant. I could enjoy the experience all over again. But one problem.

PLEASSEEEE MAKE IT SOME TIME AGAIN??????A!!!!!!!! Love, T

Quack Quack...

Just to quote another blogger buddy: "This blog is not dead - it's just resting"

And I am starting the cooking of the duck!

Be back shortly.

What's a poor bloggy person to do?

Older and Growing and Sandhill Trek recently have talked about anonymity or how much to disclose in one's blog. I certainly have wondered about this from time to time.  In a post What Could Be More Personal, Ann asks and replies:

What could be more personal than witnessing your daughter give birth, then blogging about it?  How about: witnessing your daughter give birth and not blogging about it.

Before that Ann talked about an Anonymous You where "there have to be some things you can think of saying that don't seem to belong on your official blog, burdening your actual name. And you've got to sometimes feel nostalgic for the days when you wrote for yourself, with just a twinge of excitement that somebody might be looking in. "

True Ancestor describes feeling like Dancing Around Naked when telling 100 things about himself.

Richard calls it: getting "confessional" and as starting "on one’s own guts."

Each time I read others writing about how much to disclose, I feel uncomfortable, and for awhile censor myself in some way. How much I want to say is always tempered by how much I should tell you.

The should is arbitrary, relative, subjective, biased, cultural, based on experience, determined by gender, society, whose society? need, desire, rules, whose rules? norms, mores, ethics, principles, values, beliefs, and as you know I can probably think of more to add here. And of course how much a person discloses could lead to someone being fired or sued, I suppose.

For me it is always a balance of how much of myself to give away. I tend to want to give it all in an attempt to let you know who I am and how I feel hoping that you will share as much of yourself with me. It's what Amba describes as being "completely, mutually in love." Invariably in my personal life I was always left wanting more and feeling depleted, empty or foolish as if I gave away too much.

Recently, when I visited the university of my future employment, I genuinely and enthusiastically shared with the people I was meeting how much I was looking forward to join them. I felt my heart was open, joy spilled out, but my expression was met with cold stares, a pause and then continuing on with scheduling plans. I gave away too much.  And that's all right. That way I learn the cultural mores of an institution, a community, society, or different country. I am used to that. It is acceptable to me. I find a way to balance who I am with what is expected and it becomes complex and interesting - a challenge!

Writing on the blog becomes personal and intimate quickly, easily. Words roll away from me up onto the screen as my insides spill outward. I enjoy expressing, sharing, telling, describing all that is me. And before I know it I have given it all away. Some days I click on the "publish now" button and suddenly all around me like the red knight in Fisher King, my demons rise up as two, strict, judgmental censors and settle heavily on my left shoulder breathing deeply into my brain. On other days I feel exhilarated to the point of literally losing my voice.

I think it has something to do with that "twinge of excitement that somebody might be looking in" because their looking in just makes the ride, journey, experience, past, or present a lot less lonely.

Never

Who knows why this appealed to me to do today, over at Althouse!

But it did. So, anyway, here goes:

Ten Things I've Never Done

I've never ...

1. Been to India but I still want to go there.

2. Been to Rhodes Island, Greece where my father was born. I have been to Cyprus and Athens but never Rodos. I dream of traveling to Rhodes with my son, nephew and second cousin.

3. Visited a Buddhist temple. I have been inside numerous churches of many different denominations, mosques, and synagogues. Perhaps I might do this in July in Taiwan - perhaps.

4. Really gone skiing. In 1988 I tried but fell down and never got up to try again.

5. Gone white water rafting.

6. Given birth to a daughter.

7. Been married in a white dress.

8. Made roast duck.

9. Had straight blond hair.

10. Had the courage to say what I feel, face-to-face, with my nemesis.

We are not alone

Quote of the day:

But as we break the patterns and taboos to talk about what's happening inside us, emotionally, physically, spiritually, we discover we are not alone, and we bless other travellers who are beside, ahead or behind us in the journey of life.  Seedlings and Sprouts

New wrinkles

Quote of the day:

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. Henry Miller (from Never Neutral)

Ronni has a new blog out. She had me learning, thinking and sharing at TGB.  I can't wait to see what happens to me from A Sense of Place.

While reading Ronni's blogs this morning for some reason I remember my father.

[From left to right: My father and me as a baby. In Africa, I am 18 and soon leave for Israel. I sewed that dress I'm wearing]

My father was 55 when I was born. He always seemed like a kind, gentle and charming grandfather to me as I grew up. Even though he and my mother were divorced by the time I was four or five, he saw me every other weekend, took me on short vacations and when I moved to Israel at age 19 he corresponded with me every single week until he became too ill to write in 1980. He died in June 1981.

I cannot believe that I never kept a single letter of his. In fact, the only pieces of his writing I have are short inscriptions, for example in a French-English dictionary he gave me when I was 13: "To Darling Tamar - with love, Dad" and this one at the back of the photograph below:

A few days ago I looked into the mirror and noticed wrinkles had formed on both sides of my lower lips going down to my chin. At first I gasped and thought, "I have just been way too sad lately."

But then I looked at some photos of my father when he was young and when he was older (probably his late seventies), and I noticed similar wrinkles.

Last summer I was at the airport in Israel having coffee with my son, and Trimurthi as I waited for the plane back to the United States.  Trimurthi looked at me across the table and said, "You know, I think you look a lot like your father lately." I was pleased he had noticed as I had been wondering about that too.

Every six months or so I have a recurring dream. Come to think of it, I had it a few days ago. In fact, it was the night before I noticed the wrinkles. In my dream my father comes to visit me. He sits in a chair in the corner of my room and asks me how I am doing. We talk together awhile. The dream is vivid, intense, short. When I awake I feel sadness, a longing.

I like to think that I am looking more like my father as I get older. I say to my newly acquired wrinkles: "Welcome."

The pleasure of a warm afternoon

Today I mastered the self service cashier at the supermarket. How proud I was. All my items checked in without a hitch and I was through, groceries packed in bags within six minutes. Managed the talking screen, swiped the credit card and signed electronically. I did it all myself.

Yesterday I invited my neighbor for a walk by the creek, and to tea on our sun-porch. Recently I fixed it up with plants, a water fountain, pale blue throw rugs, and our old bamboo chairs from the sun-room in Buffalo. Molly and Ada sleep there now and I think this might be home.

This morning I worked in the yard, digging up weeds, transplanting flowers and bushes, mowing the little patch of lawn, and creating a small rose garden.

Yesterday I drove out to the University where I will be teaching in the fall. The Chair of department , a colleague and I talked about my schedule and which courses I will be teaching. I became excited when they mentioned my new office space and asked which computer I would like. I could feel work approaching, envisage students coming into my office space for advisement and talks of assignments, and imagined standing in a classroom lecturing once again. It almost felt good sitting in the traffic jam on the way out to the campus. It felt like I was back out in the workers' club soon able to make a contribution to the education community once again.

Now I sit out on my patio, glorious sun shining on the lilac bush where Molly lies sprawled in the shade. Ada sits at my feet and very now and then rolls over with the pleasure of the warm afternoon, chirping at robins and chickadees hopping in and out the branches. Tibetan Prayer Flags wave up and down and chimes ring out in the gentle breeze. I think to myself, "Soon I might go out and buy us a grill." Summer is on its way.

In a couple of weeks I will enter the second half of my fifties. I sense a new era in my life. I think I am almost ready to take it on.

You detect me

If I had had a daughter she would have been named Clara after my father's mother, the wife of the Rabbi of Rhodes. Every time my father would remember and talk of her to me, tears would well up in his eyes. As it goes with the twists and turns of life and such, I was unable to have a Clara. However, throughout my life I have had a few surrogate daughters. Young girls or women who became close to me for one reason or another. I took them under my wing much like surrogate mothers and mentors did for me during my life.

One of these young women has been a type of savior for me these past months alone in Philadelphia. With her home of origin in Taiwan, she came here from Buffalo to continue her doctoral studies with Tom. Like me all is new for her in Philadelphia. Recently, her friend, Nian, had read my comment wondering if there is a Mother's Day cake, and called her to make sure to bring one to me. And so, on Mother's Day Leanne arrived later than we had planned for our outing because she was dutifully searching all over Chestnut Hill for a cake for me. She was as disappointed as could be when she could find not a single one, and loudly proclaimed about her frustration, "Not a single one, Tamar! Not a single one!"

Leanne brought me flowers and a charming card with the words: "Thanks for all you do." She wrote on the envelope: "To someone like a Mom to me," and inside the card inscribed:

Dear Tamar, I am very grateful to have a friend like you. Those blog articles and comments, our Friday grocery shopping and creek-side walking, and your TAZO CHAI (how can I forget it!?) occupied a large part of my happy memories of landing in Philadelphia! Thank you for your spirit-life, words and friendship. Wish you laughter, happiness, and energy on Mother's Day and always! Leanne

That night we all went out to dinner celebrating Mother's Day. It was a joyous meal filled with much laughter as it so often is with Leanne. At some point in the conversation she asserted that she is a serious person. Perhaps she thought we did not know that because she likes to joke around and act happy-go-lucky. I said, "Of course you are! That's why you joke around so much - to cover it up."

She smiled and replied quietly, "Ah, you detect me."

I clapped my hands in delight. "What a wonderful expression!" I exclaimed. Then I shared with her that I had been feeling uncomfortable during the evening when she had been talking about her mother's anticipated arrival to visit in June. I realized that I was starting to feel a little jealous, "Hey! I thought I was Leanne's mother!" I explained.

It was Leanne's turn to clap her hands and exclaim in delight, "Ah, I am beloved!"

Today I realized how lucky I am. These past months while I have been bemoaning my fate and cherishing my alone time inside my cave, I have not acknowledged the kindness, support and company of dear Leanne. Yes indeed, Leanne, I do detect you.

I detect our shopping for groceries as we seek out places that feel familiar all the while missing our old Wegmans; I detect the laughs we shared as I ordered 15 boxes of TAZO CHAI from the Internet, for fear that in all of Philadelphia I would never find my favorite tea again; I detect you as we walked by the Wissahickon Creek worrying about the large black duck and helping little Noah find his Dad; I detect you for the elaborate and delicious meal you prepared for us; I certainly detect you for calling me when you found a Wegmans 40 minutes away so that you could share the joy and delight at having found our favorite store again; I detect you for always drinking TAZO CHAI when you come to see me so that I can use it all up since I have found a million different stores selling my favorite tea; I detect you for bringing me back to Tibet in my next life; I detect you for the beautiful Mother's Day flowers; and I detect you for the Mongolian exhibit we will go and see together when you return from Buffalo.

Indeed, I thank you for "your spirit-life, words and friendship. [and I] Wish you laughter, happiness, and energy." More than that, I thank you for "occupying a large part of my happy memories of landing in Philadelphia!"

And, yes, Leanne, you are beloved!