The Things You Think You Want

George Gershwin is my favorite songwriter. His mother Rose wanted him to be an accountant, but at sixteen, he dropped out of school to play music. “How wrong can a mother be?” she said.

At five, I was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” A shy child, I looked to my mother. “I’m a nurse. It’s a good job.” So I answered, “Nurse.”

At eleven, I wanted to be an Olympic track star. I ran faster than all the boys, but in 1962, my school had no girls track team. I switched to years of cheerleading and loved it, but I didn’t make the varsity team. That night I cried, my dream shattered.

The next day at musical try-outs, the drama teacher made an announcement. “Is there anyone here who plays a sport? Any cheerleaders? You can all leave now.” My cheering loss led to leads in the musicals and a chance to sing the National Anthem with the band at a football game. Way better.

On Thursday, my ten year old piano student Sarah said, “I have to tell you a two minute story. I didn’t make the A team for soccer. I’m on the B team.” I told her I thought she didn’t really want to grow up and play soccer for a living, and it might have opened a spot for someone who did. She admitted she loved acting and singing, but only a little more than soccer.

We all have a list of what we think we want. It’s a fluid list, so the best thing is to stay fluid in our desires. “Take what comes,” my grandma used to say. Or as I say, “Take it easy…or any way you can get it.”

Fear and Intuition

Sickness and death surrounded me these past few weeks. I’m 65 so it’s to be expected that friends will pass through this life into another. As those I love disappear off the earth, I will be brave. The weight I lost from worry means more ice cream and cheese, and I will eat. When someone I admire gives up the fight and commits suicide, I must accept.

I cut some daffodils from my yard and put them into a gorgeous cut vase, and this morning my throat tightened from their pollen. I should have let them be. They would have lived longer to enjoy.

It shouldn’t be so hard to let go, but it is. I need to work at a wave goodbye and a sense of acceptance.

I’m still happy, so don’t worry about me. My firm belief in optimism and in the flower shoots that spring from the earth will carry me through. Negativity is now behind me. Pessimism is fleeting and I won’t be afraid, since fear is a trapdoor that stands in the way of intuition. I won’t fall down that rabbit hole and neither should you. 

Do I Tell My Dreams?

Last night I had a dream about a woman I’ll call Kasey. It seemed significant enough that I wanted to share it with her. If it had been bad news, I probably would have kept it to myself. Since it concerned another woman with romantic overtones, a scruffy male friend, and a surprise announcement that her roommate was going to move out, I decided to write to her.

It could have gone badly. Maybe it wasn’t my business, even though she’s a client. I tried to figure out my ethical stance on it, and I even tried to research how I should react. I found nothing to guide me but my own moral code: when in doubt, help a friend out.

She was pleased to hear my dream-take on what had been happening in her life, so my information was well received. The next day a bit of heartbreak arrived for her, and she asked if I could recall any more details of my dream. Void. My memory had flown like a new wind.

I dream every night, often two or three times, but I usually remember one. I seldom talk about them since I think dreams are truly personal. Last night I had a dream about a warm and inviting cabin. The interpretation in my dream book is that I can look forward to happiness in domestic affairs. Was that a portent that I would find those three pairs of jeans at the second hand shop this morning? Or did it mean I’d find the energy to spring clean my house? Dreams are perplexing. Decisions concerning friends are perplexing. Ice cream selection is not. I guess I’ll have chocolate.   

Be Who You Wanna Be

Everyone has an artistic bent. Jeannie paints, Judy cooks, Denise connects as a volunteer, and Pat sewed her granddaughter’s wedding dress. The last time I sewed and painted was in middle school. When I cook for my grown children, I keep my fingers crossed that it’ll be one of my rare, good result days. When I volunteer, I’m in action mode rather than connection mode.

 

All my life I’ve felt like everyone else knows how to act but I lost the map. In elementary school, I studied the popular girls to glean what to say and when to laugh. With no pets, I couldn’t mimic Walt Disney, who lost himself in the world of his farm animals. He gave them names and said each one had a distinct personality all its own. Every day, he talked with them and made up stories about their lives. That’s the way he fit in.

 

It’s possible that many of you wonder how you fit in. On Wednesday, I had an answer to my own question when three year old Annie came for a piano and voice lesson with her mom Jo. Annie nudged her mom.

                                                                                                     

“What’s your name?” Jo asked. She writes my checks, so I thought it might be a game.

 

“Jan,” I said.

 

“See?” said Jo. Annie looked stricken, ready to cry. I got down low so we’d be face to face.

 

“You thought my name was Princess, right?” Annie nodded.

 

I explained to Jo that young children don’t understand the word introduction, which is when I play the opening notes before my voice students sing. I always tell the little ones, “Now remember, the princess goes first and I am the princess.” It’s the only time I feel like a princess, and I enjoy it. I decide who I am, and I am her. I even imagine the beautiful dress I have on.

 

So anytime you feel like it, you can be the princess, the chef or the high fashion designer. Go on. Just be who you wanna be.

 

A Psychic's Oath of Secrecy

My first good psychic loved to gossip. When he did readings for me, he bled juicy facts about his clients. Who slept around, who shoplifted, and who spent way more money than her husband realized. At first, I thought I was part of his inner circle, but later I realized he just had a big mouth. He put those confidences out on the table, along with his beat-up Waite-Rider tarot cards. I vowed I would never be a read-and-tell psychic. No blabber mouthing for me.

Once in a while when I do readings, something comes out of my mouth that shocks me and I remember it, but most of the time I have no recollection of what I say to my clients. My brain doesn’t generate the information I give. It just facilitates it.

Two women came for a consult yesterday. They said they’d been to see me twice before, but I remembered nothing. Only one of them even looked familiar. I have a quick brain that recalls a lot, but in this case, nada. Maybe my vow of secrecy wipes out sensational or sad disclosures. I believe I’m just a radio, a conduit with my brain as the motor.

I’ve always taught music to children and I keep their little secrets safe. I guess I follow those same rules with my intuitive readings. It’s just not my business to share their intimacies. I wouldn’t want them to share mine. 

Kindness in the Big Apple

Earlier this month I spent three days in New York City. Back in 1973, when I finished United’s flight attendant school in Chicago, I was almost assigned Newark, New Jersey as my home base. I was happy to get D.C. because I had been to NYC in the early 70’s and I found it rushed and unfriendly. I know now it was me, not the people.

This visit I went into a shop to buy a loaf of gluten free bread to take home. The young Hispanic man asked if I wanted a plastic bag. The bread was wrapped in plastic so I felt confused, like I couldn’t hear him.

“Maybe it’s my age, but I tend to drift off sometimes and I don’t hear,” I told him.

“I can’t ever hear my mom, so I don’t think it’s your age. She calls me and I actually don’t hear her. I don’t know what it is,” he said.

I decided to use my intuitive skills. “Maybe you were meant to have another name, and you would respond to that one. Something like Jim Bob. That would get your attention.”

We had a laugh and off I went, only to return for lunch. As he handed me my take-out, he leaned forward and smiled. “Have an amazing life,” he told me.

Oh how wrong I was about New Yorkers. From the helpful girls on the subway, to the tourist family by Rockefeller Center, to the older man who told me the city was covered with elm trees until the blight, to the maintenance man who leaned on his broom and laughed when I told him I’d been walking in circles. Their friendliness enveloped me like a warm coat. And with 40 mph winds and temps in the low 30’s, I needed it.

Love and Intuition

I often wonder, “Who loves me?” I don’t have a pet, but I do have a caring family and a bunch of sweet friends. Outside of that, I have to think long and deep.

At the beginning of my pro bono work with police, before I had a plethora of contacts, I had to convince skeptical detectives of my skill. I had a set question for them, “Do you love your wife or girlfriend?” Yes, they’d say, and I’d say, “Prove it.” Every time they were stumped.

I felt stumped yesterday when a record snow fell into my life and onto the long lane that starts outside my front door. I didn’t think about how the only sounds I hear on this hill are a distant train whistle or bird songs. I didn’t think about how much fun I have when I drive in my yard and no one cares, and the thrill when wild turkeys come to visit. I only felt sorry for myself, alone at the end of the world. Or rather, my world.

My pity party lasted through cocktail hour and Netflix. As I sipped my potato vodka, I heard the roar of a snow blower. Low and behold, my three strong neighbors came to my rescue. I bundled up, gave them tissues for their snow tears, cheers for their bravery, and a bunch of cold hard cash. They would have done it for free but luckily, I had money to spare.

Today my tunnel of shoveled snow felt like love. A phone call from an old friend and bright sun through my new windows felt like love. Plans for spring felt like love.

I need to work harder to see my friendly encounters as love. Friendship is love, and stuff can’t matter because it all gets old and worn out.

My new year’s resolution was to not use so many swears, as the kids call it now. I added another resolution today. I will use my intuition to feel love, and love feels young.