Packages
Carpe Diem
Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi
Finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
Temptaris numeros. Ut melius quidquid erit pati,
Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
Quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum: sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero
Which translates into English as:
Don't ask (it's forbidden to know) what end
the gods will grant to me or you, Leuconoe.
Don't play with Babylonian fortune-telling either.
It is better to endure whatever will be.
Whether Jupiter has allotted to you many more winters or this final one,
which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the rocks placed opposite.
Be wise, strain the wine, and scale back your long hopes.
While we speak, envious time will have {already} fled.
Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.
Recently I was looking for a multi-ring detachable key chain to separate my house keys, from my parents' keys, car keys, and membership cards to the library, gym and grocery stores discount clubs. It seemed like it would be a fairly easy item to find and indeed there were multitude of options ranging in price from $10 to $100. I stumbled onto a website that offers such key chains for only $3.99 (shipping included) with the added bonus that one can personalize items with uploaded photographs or a multitude of graphic designs. After little thought I placed the order on September 8th and customized my keyring to include one of my favorite phrases in a nice shade of teal. Shortly thereafter an automated e-mail notification confirmed the order and informed me that the shipment would arrive within a week or so.
Imagine my surprise when a small package from Kowloon arrived in our mailbox today. Indeed, an enterprising Chinese seized the day and managed to customize an order, ship it from Hong Kong, have it clear customs and arrive to the end user across the world within a week. A WEEK, for $3.99! I'm sure this little key ring has an enormous carbon foot print...
Many years back I had the good fortune of working with Chinese manufacturers back in the day when Honk Kong was still under the Brits. The changes we've seen since those days in terms of manufacturing, supply/demand, and the early trade agreements negotiating tariffs and quotas (i.e. NAFTA) are mind boggling. To quote Friedman the world is indeed flat, hot, crowded, and getting smaller every day. I find it odd and equally terrifying how while we have more information resources than ever before, our minds and worldviews are narrowing instead of expanding.
I don't fear the future; having been properly admonished by the ancient Greek poet. But damn, I'll be looking behind me to see who is nipping at my heels as soon as I find my keys and see "Carpe Diem " staring me in the face.
Awareness
I'm about to hit the 4th year of "survival" since my diagnosis. I see the scars across my chest every day and don't give them a second glance anymore. You see, the real scars are on the inside. The surgical scars are hardly visible anymore, and thankfully the emotional ones have helped me to grow up a little. Having a whole month dedicated to breast cancer awareness is supposed to be a good thing. But is there really anyone out there who has not heard about breast cancer, or cancer in general? Please... How do other cancer survivors feel when they don't have a whole month dedicated to them? To add insult to injury they can't even buy spatulas at Target to match their cancer colors.
So here's my contribution to the F*cktober Pinkfest... breast cancer happens, it sucks monkey balls when it does. Please completely disregard whatever you hear on the news about the recommended guidelines for mammograms and breast self exams. You know your body, if something does not feel right, have it checked out. Trust your gut. The younger you are the less likely it is that you will get breast cancer; but if you do- it will likely be aggressive and kick your ass. So push for the mammograms and biopsies if you really feel you want to know.
A dear friend sent me a text yesterday: "Just talked to 2 ladies at Starbucks who were on their way to a memorial service for their dear friend. 39 yo, 4 kids, breast cancer. Made me think of you, and just had to tell you how thankful I am to (still) have you in my life." WOW, I'm so glad to STILL be here, and in such good company too!
'roid rage over, for now anyway...
Your mother doesn't work here
I’ve been at this job now for only two months and the feedback from my superiors is positive. I love my job, enjoy the people I work with and believe in our organization’s mission wholeheartedly. The juxtaposition of my professional and personal life is schizophrenic at best.
As a stay-at-home mom I often felt overworked, overwhelmed, drained, unappreciated and tired. I would lay down my life for my children and my husband could care less if the house is a mess, we are eating leftovers (again) and I have book club that night. Still, there were times I longed for an annual performance review from the good old days in the corporate world. I had my goals and either met or exceeded expectations, got a raise, a pat on the back and feedback on how to continue to grow. If someone were to ask my children and husband today about their mom’s and wife’s job performance I wonder what they’d say, because I still works here- on a compressed schedule. Perhaps they would begin their assessment with: bad tempered, cries all the time, and not much fun to be around. Drill sergeant in the morning to get to school and work on time, post-menopausal shrew at dinner at bedtime. Grief isn’t pretty, and it does not bring out the best in me. I frequently pray to God that He keeps His arm around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.
My mom will transfer to hospice tomorrow. As sad as that is I know she will be well cared for. Her pain will finally be under control and her mental suffering will stop. When the time comes, her death will hopefully be a peaceful one. I have a soft spot for hospice workers and nurses. It was a hospice nurse who took me under her wing after Eddie died and taught me how to grieve. She took away my fear of death and taught me compassion. Little did I know that what Sheila taught me would help eleven years down the road, but I thank God for ensuring that our paths crossed.
The children are doing assignments for All Saints’ Day and we gathered around the kitchen table to finish them tonight. Jacob had to make a list of loved ones who have passed. Our cat, Irulan, topped his list. Grace had to pick a saint from a list and write a few sentences about his/her life. She chose Teresa of Avila, after whom my mom was named. We learned today that among other things, Teresa of Avila is the patron saint of the sick and of people in need of Grace. Not only that, but one of my favorite prayers which hangs on my office wall, was penned by her. Holy crap!
On the way home I listened to Dr. Maya Angelou speaking on her radio show. Today she said that courage is the most important of all the virtues; as without courage one cannot consistently practice charity, faith, prudence, hope, and justice. How true… Dad and I have faltered at times but because we are faithful to my mom we are finding the courage to follow through with prudence and charity. We are faithful that she will go Home to our Lord. Our world will never be the same but we are better people for having her in our hearts. Nothing is left unsaid between us. She knows me best- the good, the bad and the ugly and nevertheless loves me unconditionally. I am one lucky girl. Dad has a new set of health challenges to face and I will be steadfast at his side for the next leg of the race.
Our family lore is full of stories of ordinary people who pushed through harsh circumstances. My maternal grandmother, America Ventura, left Cuba after being widowed and took my dad to New York. She wanted a better life for her son and despite coming from a charmed upbringing and a marriage to a diplomat she took a job at the Waldorf Astoria as a chamber maid. When she died a few years later, it was her sister and my dad’s Godmother, who took the helm. She supported his studies and provided the love and inspiration he needed to live a good life. Orphaned in his teens, my father finished high school, joined the Army and went to college on the GI Bill. Self-made, through and through, but with the backing of extraordinary women.
My mom was the second youngest of 6 children. My grandmother was widowed when mom was only two years old. She gave birth to her youngest on the afternoon of the day she buried her husband. My mom was raised part of her early childhood by an aunt as her mom could not handle all six children and had to farm some out to family. When Castro started making noise in ’59 my mom heard him speak, got suspicious and shortly thereafter migrated to Puerto Rico with a cousin for whom she worked as a book keeper. Prior to that she worked and put herself through school, in Cuba, in the 1950’s. As she was preparing to leave her country of origin, she bought her mom a Frigidaire and hid her small savings underneath the fabric of her coat’s covered buttons and the hem of her skirts. My, sweet little mom sure has a big pair of brass balls. She boarded her first flight alone and scared while looking forth for a better life.
I have many early memories of relatives, friends of relatives, and friends of friends passing through our home in Mexico on their way to freedom from Cuba. My mom and dad are directly responsible for a whole underground railroad of people who are now living in liberty because of my mother’s tireless efforts.
As best as I can figure, I have got to find the way to bring the professional home and clean up after myself. The same woman who gets the accolades at work HAS to do the work at home. I come from a strong group of people and they’ve taught me well how to push through life’s tough times without developing a hardened heart.
Jacob shared his two favorite stuffed owls with me last night. He said they’d keep me company so I wouldn’t be so sad. Grace drew me a picture of a daffodil. The beautiful spring flower that reminds us that life begins anew. My children have their grandma’s heart. They have her kindness. They have her love. Like her, they intuitively know how to reach the broken pieces of my heart.
I hope to one day live up to my parents' example. They are simply among the most courageous and kind people. I am indeed blessed to be their child.
St. Teresa of Avila’s Prayer
May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received,
and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God.
Let His presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.
Allergic Epiphany
For a long time my readiness state has wavered between DEFCON 2 and 1. The stress of a decade of loss, grief, pain and illness has had me at a point of surrender many, many times. In some situations neither fight nor flight seem like good options but the adrenaline flows nonetheless. Perhaps to my detriment, I have not learned yet to give up. The blame falls neatly at my parents' feet; they failed to teach me to bow down, submit or surrender. My dad once told me that when life knocks you down; you get up, breathe in and out, put one foot in front of the other and keep going. I was in high school at the time, and remember that moment vividly. My mom didn't quite verbalize the sentiment, instead, she lived it. She still does.
Even while I wallow in shit, from dust mites and my lot in life, I take comfort in the example of my parents and in Scripture.
"But now, this is what the LORD says—
he who created you, Jacob,
he who formed you, Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior;"
~Isaiah 43:1-3
And, yes, I know that "shit" and "Scripture" don't look pretty in the same sentence. But I can't get through one without the other.
Press 1 for English
I attended a meeting recently where the main discussion was about ensuring that a welcoming and inclusive atmosphere prevailed in an organization. Regardless of the noble purpose of the meeting and of the organization itself, I spent the entire time distracted and seething by a T-shirt someone wore which stated something to the effect of "explain to me why I have to press 1 for English."
Issues pertaining to immigration and the integration of cultures are not a new cultural phenomenon, and are certainly not unique to the United States of America. However, perhaps due to the unique nature of our geography and history, we have a very narrow and short view of worldwide population shifts and migration patterns. Mayflower pilgrims came seeking religious freedom; British subjects later came seeking land and successfully usurped it from the Native Americans; and today a myriad of peoples come legally and illegally seeking opportunity- to work, to worship, to live in safety, and to secure a future for their kids. What brings us here is pretty much what has always taken people to foreign lands- hope and opportunity. So I just don't get the patriotic vitriol against the immigrants- legal or illegal (the wetbacks, the Hindu engineers, Pakistani doctors and Chinese whiz kids)... particularly when just about every second and third generation American will proudly rattle off their ancestry as some algebraic computation of part Irish, part French, some German, Dutch, Greek, Polish or 1/16th of whatever. Why is it that there is a certain cachet associated with having familial ties to the Old Country going back two or three generations, but it is shameful if it is your immediate family that just hopped into the melting pot? People often forget that I am kinda sorta not one of them, so I am privy to conversations peppered with incredibly racist and immensely ignorant commentary, which I try to ignore under a well practiced poker face.
Is there a huge cost to assimilation? Yes, for sure there is. But that cost is borne by every developed nation in the world; as is the pain suffered by the souls who can somehow escape dire circumstances and begin anew in a foreign land where they are neither welcome nor wanted. Except of course, if they happen to do the crappiest of crappy jobs; then our corporations and tax or immigration attorneys will look the other way for the sake of the almighty shareholder and a bottom line printed in solid black ink.
What ever happened to E Pluribus Unum? It's still on our currency, right? And, what's happened to the noble sentiments immortalized by Emma Lazarus' poem The New Colossus on our Statue of Liberty monument? I hope we are still mostly a nation who proclaims:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Emma Lazarus, 1883
If we are no longer this nation, then perhaps we can become one who can recognize out of economic need that it simply makes good business sense to take into account that Hispanics are now the largest minority group with an annual buying power exceeding $1 trillion. This figure alone makes this American minority, if accounted separately, into the 15th largest world economy... So we must press 1 for English because those waiting to oprimir el numero 2 are in line to spend their dough on American goods and services.
Teresa's Kitchen
There is a small magnet on the stove of my Dad's Miami kitchen. It reads: "Teresa's kitchen, satisfaction guaranteed." My mom was a great cook, though she complained about the daily burden of cooking, she truly enjoyed expressing her love by providing sustenance.
In the year and a half since she died I have not felt her presence as much as has been the case with others who've passed on. I see now through the benefit of time and perspective that I failed my mother and father in significant ways during her last days on earth. Instead of providing quiet and calm; the sounds of my work and the clatter of my marriage falling apart invaded her sacred space. It was a tense time made worse by the anger seeping from old wounds and betrayals. Her last moments with us were quiet and she had her husband, sister, best friend and daughter present. When I was a kid she chided me for tracking dirt in the house when I failed to wipe my shoes at the door. I see the wisdom now of entirely removing one's shoes before entering a home or another sacred place. Leave the crap outside.
I am of course contrite for the additional pain I caused her and my dad. But it is only after reflecting on this and claiming responsibility for my own failings that I can once again feel my mom's spirit. Since we are visiting my dad, I spend some time in Teresa's kitchen. Truth be told, I spend as little time as possible cooking and focus my efforts on creative reheating. Nevertheless, I feel her with me when doing dishes or when spot cleaning the impossible white tile floor.
She's with me as I retrace our steps from decades of walks on the beach to the lighthouse. Mom and Eddie are there in every breath of ocean air and in the gentle lapping of the waves. So much is different now, yet the love stays the same. Every day the kids, dad and I add new memories. Sure, we all feel her absence; but more significantly we enjoy our prescence and the forging of a new dynamic between our three generations.
Ⓒ 2012 Patricia Vivó-Aucoin
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