Archive | Past Matters

Painting at Audre’s: Part I

Once when I was 9, a mother and her two kids disappeared from our neighborhood. It wasn’t a kidnapping. It was just that for years they lived down the street from our house, then one day they were gone.

The husband was still there, but when my mom took my sister and I around to visit his wife and kids, he said they were out. His normally polished appearance was unruly—clothes rumpled, face unshaven—but he offered no further explanations and shut the door before my mother could ask any more questions. When we went back the next day, he didn’t answer the door, though his orange Volvo was parked in the driveway. Nor did he answer it the day after that.

For a full week my mom kept finding reasons to drop by. A cutting from her favorite fern, an invitation to take all the kids to the park, cookies she’d just baked, a mug that seemed up the wife’s alley. My mother liked to collect things for people, like a mother bird dragging treasures back to her chicks safe in their nest.

But no matter what time of day we stopped over, no one ever answered the door. The orange Volvo was always there, each day covered with more leaves, but the mother’s car never reappeared.

The real reason my mother kept looking for this woman is she was one of the few people in our neighborhood whom my mother liked. Having spent her young adulthood in downtown Boston, she’d never cottoned to the suburban town to which my parents moved after I was born. She never said it directly—my mother said almost nothing directly—but even as a kid I could tell she found the other mothers in our neighborhood grating or phony or both. She relaxed around this woman–told jokes, pulled faces, lingered over coffee.

I liked this woman too. Let’s call her Audre, because it’s close to her real name and she possessed the practical, large-hearted lyricism of Audre Lorde, whom she liked a lot.

Back home we spent a lot of time wondering where Audre might have gone. Was she sick, I wondered. Does she not like me anymore, wondered my mother. It was my father, surprisingly, who came up with the right answer.

Maybe she left her husband, he said. Continue Reading →

Aries Season Is Growing Season

Here in New York, this weekend’s weather promises to be cool and rainy—growing weather, my grandmother would have called it. These sort of weekends are ideal for the deep-root work that liberates us to bloom like the most fragrant peonies, the loveliest lilacs. In Aries Season, intuitive readings are led by our littlest selves— the parts of us who must be re-integrated into our daily lives if we’re to activate the practical magic that is our birthright. Some of these parts aren’t easy but it’s my honor as an intuitive to reflect how endearing they also are.

All nature is absolutely beautiful art and so are we.

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The Gorgeous Weirdness of Easter

Easter is a weird holiday for me–as it is for many others, no doubt. Growing up in Greater Boston with a Jewish father but not mother, the only people who thought I was Jewish were the gentiles. The Jews of our neighborhood literally lived on the other side of the tracks from my house– the right side, if you want to delve deeper into the metaphor, up on West Newton Hill–and with my blond hair and messy small house I no more felt I belonged there than in my Irish-Italian neighborhood, known as the Lake.

During bar mitzvah season and the high holidays I felt left out; on CCD Tuesdays (the Catholic kids’ equivalent of Sunday School) I felt equally left out. But the worst was Easter, when Jews were blatantly maligned by the local priests, some of whom were later outed as pedophiles in the Boston Globe’s Spotlight investigation.

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"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy