Friday, December 22, 2006

A Tree Stands in Copenhagen

December 18, 2004. After the funeral, she thought it had been laid to rest. The inexplicable pain she felt over not being able to save her father had tormented her for so long. Almost all her life. She thought it would become easier after he died, as she wouldn’t have to worry about where he was in the world. No longer would she wonder if he was home with his wife, or somewhere out on the streets of Philadelphia feeding his addiction to alcohol.

And when he died, a week before Christmas, the entire family gravitated over to Aunt Dot’s. They danced, sang, cried, and cleaved to each other in a way they hadn’t in decades. Instantly the usual suspects fell right back into place; Bobby dj’ed, Lana and Sahn danced in the mirror, and everybody else cut up, telling jokes and catching up on lost time. Aunt Dot played her life’s masterpiece on the piano, which she entitled “The Garlands”.

Then it was over. Processed. Fully expressed. At it’s logical conclusion. Or so she thought. Everybody went back to his or her life and the new year ensued. Another year passed, and by the end, she was absolutely, positively shocked over the grief she felt the next Christmas. Why now? What ghosts were still haunting her? She was obviously confused and decided to spend Christmas alone, by herself in the midst of her grief.

However, the following year she was determined to not repeat the madness. As November came around, even her mother-in-law reminded her of the incident the year before, saying that she hoped to see her in attendance at this year’s Christmas dinner. “Oh, of course. Please. I’m not going through that again!” she said heartily. Still, there were specks of lingering doubt.

But the Christmas season had gone well. She and Kaj had bought a tree and decorated early in December. Friends came over for dinner, commenting on all the lovely Christmas decorations in the apartment. The only remaining thing to do was to find a picture to put in the tiny picture-frame ornament.

The anniversary of his passing came without incident. She was busy all day and had even called her good friend to wish her a happy birthday. Then she got an email that changed everything. It was from Bobby who had sent a link to a sight that allowed people to light a virtual candle. Bobby had wanted her to light a virtual candle for their father. She clicked on the link and found it to be a brilliant idea. But with each successive page of the website, she was asked to do things she wasn’t prepared for. Take a deep breath. Quiet your thoughts. Reflect on the reason you’re lighting the candle. Add a few words of dedication. By the end, she was reduced to shreds.

The sobs were profuse, reaching far beyond reason and logic. The pain was so deep and deeply disturbing that she let it rip because to hold on to it would ultimately be damaging, she reasoned. And when it was over, Kaj came home from work. She told him of the anniversary. Of her grief. He promptly swept her out of the apartment to the city’s oldest amusement park, Tivoli, for an evening of Christmas beauty and splendor. They walked around, bought half-priced tree ornaments, drank gløgg, and ate æbleskiver. She was happy.

But when they got home, Kaj told her that his mother had found a picture of her father sitting in the scanner. Today of all days. A picture Kaj had scanned two years earlier and emailed to her for the funeral. Slowly, it began to dawn upon her. It was at that time that she finally began to understand. He wanted his due. Her father wanted to be acknowledged during this time in a way that she was trying so much to disregard.

All this time she thought it was about her inner-child needing to mourn. But she had done that again, and again, even more. That’s why it didn’t make sense to her. But no. It wasn’t about the inner child. It was the dead man’s need - his desire to contact the sensitive middle-child who would understand his calling.

The picture sat on her sofa until the next day. She was watching tv when she, during the commercial break, turned to the left to see him staring at her. She turned to the right to see the picture-frame ornament. She laughed as she put it together in her mind. She got the scissors out and carefully cut out the picture and set it into the frame.

She teased him. “You think you somethin’ just because you an ancestor and all. Uhmm hmm. ” She could hear him chuckle. Finally, he had his place. A place he couldn’t inhabit while living. He was now sharing Christmas, with family, as he be would be for years to come.

They were both at peace because a tree stands in Copenhagen.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

Smoke

Curling, lilting, and wafting its way through ether, smoke, particularly cigarette smoke, has a nature that can be incredibly seductive and lethal at the same time. As a child I watched old black-and-white movies where Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis, and numerous other women worked a cigarette like a lion tamer works a whip. At the time I knew that I wanted to be that type of women, tough as nails and a heart of gold with yet an underlying sensuality. This ultimately led me to first fascination, and then habit, and finally disgust with smoking. Finito. End of story. Chapter closed. Or so I thought. After moving to Europe I find myself, once again, a victim of its allure-- or worse yet, my own stupidity.

When smoking was banned from New York City bars and restaurants in 2003, I thought it was very un-New York. I could see this happening in L.A., but not New York. This is a town that knows life is tough, and if someone chooses to shorten their life span by taking on smoking, then so be it. We New Yorkers are not afraid of death! After enduring smelly, noisy streets, crack-addicts as next door neighbors, and being felt up by strangers on the subway with an impending MTA fare hike, for God’s sake we deserve to be able to self-inflict by lighting up once in a while.

But I also welcomed the changed. I consider myself a “non-smoker” - meaning someone who doesn’t smoke consistently. I’ve been irritated on numerous occasions by smokers who do not know how to smoke responsibly. People who live in a world of “me” with the rest of us as extras in the scenes of their lives. Never do they develop socially responsible smoking habits such as turning your head so as not to blow smoke in someone’s face. They are lacking in such skills as the “mouth-slide” where, instead of turning one’s head, the entire mouth shifts to the other side of the face upon exhalation. This may sound weird, but in practice I’ve seen it performed with dignity and grace, particularly by women who I would call ghetto-fabulous. Thus, I welcomed the change in the law.

But it’s different here in Europe. Most Europeans early on in their lives have a social orientation around the dining room table, or at the pub, bar, or cafe. They are no stranger to the head turn, the mouth slide, and other smoking conventions. So in a scene repeated on any given day, I am sitting with Tanja, Celeste, Agneta, or any other friend who is a cocktail smoker. We’re in a restaurant, cafe, pub, wine bar, or any other setting involving eating and imbibing. At the point of the 2nd cocktail, one of the aforementioned women pulls out a cigarette. I try to ignore it, but after a while it begins calling my name. Ultimately, my friend asks if I’d like one, and I say yes.


Cigarettes are great because they give you the opportunity for an expanded level of expression. It gives color and nuance to a pause in a conversation, or to a moment of silence as a handsome man walks by. It also gives a certain type of stability as it allows me to drink without getting frightfully drunk so that I can just simply enjoy the moment with a friend.

However, I haven’t completely lost my mind. I’m writing this blog entry to “out” myself. Cigarettes are horrible because it aids in my lack of judgment while in a slightly inebriated state. My decision to do something to my body with no beneficial outcome flies in the face of how I live every day. I am a Pilates instructor and I live for the most part a life of healthy eating, meditating, and working out. My occasional cocktail smoking probably comes from a place that says, “You can’t be too good”. Everybody knows all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.

But even deeper than that is what I think is the need for human beings to have addictions. Whether food, alcohol, tobacco, sex, or any other object of obsession, it serves to numb the senses so we can tolerate just how hard life can be (even outside of New York). It stunts the growth process by delaying the pain associated with overcoming weaknesses, shortcomings, negative attitudes, broken hearts, etc., etc.

I am no saint. I will not go on to say that I will never pick up a cigarette again. But I do know that this personal acknowledgement of exactly what it is will make me take pause during the time of the offer at the second cocktail. This observation couldn’t have come at a better time. Denmark has decided to ban cigarette smoking from bars and restaurants in 2007! Finito. End of story. Chapter closed.