Long Distance Calling

LONG DISTANCE, or a half hour with Jesus

March 1996, Uptown Newsmagazine

Ursula’s letter laments that our friend Joe died alone while traveling in New York. In response, I write that Joseph’s ICU nurse, knowing death was imminent, was with him all night and held his hands as he let go of life. In truth, we all face that moment alone, even though someone’s arms may be around us, and someone’s hands may hold ours.

Ursula also writes she envies my freedom to do what I want; and then in the same paragraph she writes she’s put her retirement off till the year 2000 because she wants the security of her job and its medical plan as well as the financial remuneration that allows her to continue traveling to exotic places. I tell her to stop beating herself up. If travel makes her happy she should continue working so long as the company allows her to do so.

“What are you going to do?” asked my tax accountant when she toted up 1995’s income and outgo.

“You must understand,” I replied, “that this is a leap of artistic and creative faith.”

“I’m an accountant,” she said. “I don’t understand ‘leap of faith.’” Then she added wistfully, “I almost wish I did.”

   If security were more important than fulfillment, I’d still be working for someone else and making ten times what I earned during the past year. If security were more important than freedom, I’d have remained in a long-term relationship with a man who was absent emotionally.

Friends are my most precious gifts these days. Erik lies on the floor, propped up by pillows, while we watch the video of “Moonstruck” he’s brought over. He reaches out several times during the film and squeezes my ankle affectionately. I realize suddenly that there is more intimacy and love in his touch than I received during the final ten years of my marriage.

Do you address fear in your work,” asks my friend Tom, “admit to it?”

Perhaps not. Perhaps I paint my life and myself too brave, too resilient. In many ways I am frightened. I do worry over the future, but I have to put up that brave front; it is all I have to protect myself against the possibility of failure.

What is failure? Isn’t it the time for expression that matters?

I admit that in the middle of the night and I am alone, fear sometimes assails me. I waken and murmur prayers of thanksgiving—for friends, a warm apartment and for the beauty that surrounds me. Surely something that feels so right, that brings such happiness will eventually sustain me.

I face uncertainty. Who doesn’t? What could be more exhilarating? I weigh each opportunity as it is presented, then choose to pursue the prospect or not. My decision is influenced less and less by how much money I’ll earn and more and more by what will satisfy me creatively and feed my soul.

   This morning in Balboa Park, a man stood near the Moreton Bay fig tree across from Old Globe Way. His attitude was that of a man talking on a cellular phone; his attire told me otherwise.

After I’d passed I could hear his voice. “So, you say I’ve got a half hour with Jesus? Put him on.”

 

 

 

About New Older Woman

November 1995

I was suddenly single at 60
I just ended a love affair with a man 20 years my junior
I'm exploring the Internet and making connections with others young in spirit, several of them victorious over illness and adversity
I'm coming to my own place of desperate confrontation and acceptance
Yes, I have been to an Elderhostel. It was a grand experience, but certainly not a place to meet a man. (Photo by Ken Howard)

That was then, this is now

 

I've been on my own for 15 years, and I love it. My publications currently include www.sdtheatrescene.com, La Jolla Village News, Performances Magazine and occasional publications elsewhere, including Downtown News and North County Times. In addition, I am a much published poet with a chapbook titled Winter Roses, the title poem and others set to music by composer Jake Heggie. They are frequently performed and one has been recorded by two prime-time opera singers, Frederica Von Stade and Susan Graham. 

The first New Older Woman column, February 1996

Sharing 'Ria'

When you go through life with an open countenance, interesting things happen. It was a full-moon morning, and quite obviously the tide had drawn me to the surf, which crashed close to the shore.

At the foot of Grand Avenue I followed my nose south along the boardwalk, toward Mission Beach, watching the myriad shades of green and blue as the waves curled to meet the sand, whitecaps and foam illuminated by the early morning sun.

On the other side of the wall, a huge yellow Caterpillar piled up the seaweed deposited by the foment of high tide.

Also on the sand side of the wall, bundled up against the bluster of early morning, an older man saluted my smile with a wave of his cane.

"Break any of your New Year's resolutions yet?" he asked merrily.

Upon closer inspection the head of his cane was that of a serpent, studded with inlays of darker wood that looked to me like chocolate chips.

"All of them!" I replied. "Did you find any treasure this morning?"

"I'm not out for treasure," he said, "just sharing 'Ria' with others."

"What's Ria?" I asked. He pronounced the first syllable as if it were "rye."

Just then some passersby turned, raised their arms and jubilantly shouted, "Ria!"

"Well, at least they know what 'ria' is," I said.

"It's 'air' spelled backwards," said my new friend. "By the way, everyone calls me Bamboo Ben."

"Okay, Bamboo Ben."

"I was walking alone here one morning, kind of lethargic in the legs, when the idea occurred to me. I said it a few times and it made me feel better. Ever since I've been sharing it with others. Want to try it?"

"Sure," I said.

"It works best if you raise your hands over your head," he said, demonstrating. "Then, inhale deeply and say it."

"Ria!" I shouted at the morning. "Ria!"

"My goodness, you do that well," he said. "You even raised your palms upward."

Ben told me he lives on Beryl Street and was born the year Woodrow Wilson was inaugurated. That would make him 83 by my reckoning.

"I used to be a house painter," Ben said, "but now I just share 'ria' with everyone. Air is the first thing we take in and the last thing we let go of. I'm also the sole member of the SSS."

"The SSS?"

"The Soft Sand Shuffle," he said, smiling. "But you have to come over on this side of the wall to do that. It's hard at first, but there's no hurry."

"I've got all the time in the world," said I, swinging my legs over the wall.

What with the waves, the "ria" Bamboo Ben and the SSS, I realized I felt better than I had in a long time.