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One moment of generosity can change a human heart.
These days, here in America, are hard right now. Folks are suffering, folks are mortified, folks are feeling disconnected, folks are feeling the unbearable weight of anger and frustration and worry and scared to fucking death; fear running through their veins.
Folks need love, compassion, understanding, generosity, sympathy and goodness.
Let’s give what we have to all those who need a bit more; let’s not hoard kindness, let’s give that away.
Kindness is meant to be shared not owned.
Today I get to read about my mom here at Writers Conference – thank you so much Victoria Zackheim – and I want to share with you how I came to know that I had become the woman she always wanted to be.
It was the last time I saw her. She was in an Assisted Living facility; I now refer to our last visit: Assisted Loving.
I went to spend 10 days with her. I stayed at a hotel nearby, walking distance. Our visit was hard. Some days she was feisty and difficult and irritable, and on others she was tender and frail and gentle. Some days she had no idea who I was, one others I was her Amy; some days she was filled with rage and howling noises, other days she was silent and watching cartoons – her favorite. She wore a soiled nightgown and her hair, once coiffed weekly and curled, was now full on gray and stick straight.
She had once been a beauty – a beauty queen – she was now small and shrinking into her own skin; disappearing physically and emotionally.
I spent time down at the bar at the hotel I was staying at, and went back to my room. Undressed, washed up, got into bed, called Ken and chit-chatted for a while. In the middle of the night I got up to pee. I stopped at the full length mirror, and I looked at myself – full on – naked; and I saw myself: a woman who never had kids, a woman who followed her heart even when her heart was cracked & chipped & yes, broken; a woman who was feisty and crazy-ass and yes, often testy and impatient; a woman who went for her dreams and never gave up even when it felt wholly fucking impossible, a woman who chose a creative path – writing; a woman who chose unconventional and rebellious and shaky as her foundation; and as I stood there looking at my body – a body that was slender but not tight, a body that was strong but not muscular, a body that had so many hidden scars that had turned into stardust, and I knew in that moment, in that hotel, in front of that mirror that I had become the woman my mother always wanted to be.
And in that moment, in that hotel, in front of that mirror I let go of much of the anger & much of the disappointment & much of the bitterness I held onto for so very long and replaced that with a profound appreciation that she – a woman who gave up all of her dreams of being an artist and all of her hopes of living a creative life and her desire to be unconventional – that she brought me into this world.
***Thank you Amy for these beautiful words. They reflect so much that is in my heart about my own momma!”
I am so proud and excited to be introducing you to a new podcaster who will begin with us in January 2020. Her name is Sherry Amatenstein, LCSW, who is an NYC-based psychotherapist and author. Sherry will be creating SHERAPY, and you can read all about this right here on the website.
In keeping with the theme of awareness and finding the path to travel or detour in life, this nationally known psychotherapist will be sharing your stories with our listeners. Sometimes it is easier to be anonymous (faceless, nameless) when you begin to open up. I agree with Sherry; we must not be afraid of what we think our frailties are; instead, we must strengthen our inner selves to love life to the fullest.
If you have a story or want to share issues, please contact us here at newclevelandradio.net, and your information will be sent on to Sherry Amatenstein. You need not reveal any information to us other than a name and email so Sherry may connect with you.
2020 is going to be a big year for all of us at newclevelandradio.net, and you don’t need to be in Cleveland, Ohio, to become part of the big picture, your PORTRAIT!
There is so much I wanna say right now, but I’ll keep it short & sweet:
Do your life, do it up, do it big, do it fucking epic; do it with everything you fucking have – everything – it’s your life: love it, cherish it, treasure it, hold it dear and hold it tight, do not let it go.
Make art, create beauty, be messy – messy is so sexy.
Hold another human up, champion another human, support another human, ignite hope in another human; and do not give up on your dreams. Do not. Keep going.
None of us are gonna let you fall.
Have a grand day, people, live & wear your life to the nines.
You will soon get to know Amy Ferris if you don’t know her yet. I am her Goddess Sister, and she is Mine! She posted this on Facebook today and it is a reminder that life has detours, obstacles, and shit along the way but we can survive if we are compassionate, caring, and loving humans!
The Words of Amy Ferris – Please, bear with me.
Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death; 20 years today; November 2.
This is one of my very favorite pieces that I wrote about us, and in honor of him today, I share it again.
Every Saturday we took the Long Island Railroad from Bellmore to Manhattan. New York City. The train ride was about forty-eight minutes, station-to-station. At the candy store in Bellmore, he got a newspaper and a coffee with a little milk; and I would get chocolate milk. On the train, we would find seats – two together, side by side – and we would sip and he would read, and I would stare out the window watching the world swish by.
He had been arrested.
A bribery case – the United States vs… my Dad.
He didn’t expect to be caught. He didn’t expect to be arrested. We didn’t expect life to change. She didn’t expect to pawn all her jewelry. I didn’t expect to be bullied and harassed, and to have imaginary friends. We had never known that kind of fear and sad before, and now they had moved in with us, constant companions, tagging along where ever we went.
You don’t expect that kinda shit when you’re 8 years old.
He needed a job; to feed us, to pay the bills, the mortgage, the car, the clothes.
He got a job working at Melvin’s Frame Shop in the West 30’s. Or maybe it was the West 40’s. We would walk from Penn Station, the LIRR, to the shop. His friend, Murray, got him the job. Melvin was Murray’s cousin. Melvin made frames for Museums, and Art Gallery’s and was pretty well known in that world. Elaborate frames. Fancy frames – gold, and silver, huge frames. My dad was hired to sweep the floors, and clean the place. A janitor. He would sweep, and clean, and label frames, and organize things, and I would sit on the wooden table, my little-girl skinny legs dangling, and I’d watch – mesmerized – as my dad swept the wooden shavings from under the tables with a huge broom and dustpan. And Melvin would berate him, in an accent sprinkled with angry. “Sweep here. HERE. This. This. Here. THIS. This dust, and this sand, and these wood chips… and the mess… sweep, god-damn-it, sweep, you lazy man, can’t you see where you’re sweeping, Goddamnit?” And my dad would shrink right before me – right before my eyes. He would shrink, and disappear, and I was so scared he would disappear forever. He was a tall man – six foot one – but Melvin could make him disappear. Melvin had the same tattoos that Phyllis and Henry had. The same exact tattoos. I called them cartoons. I didn’t know what tattoos were. Numbers – like a telephone number – on their forearm. Melvin had the same tattoo as them. I knew about those numbers. I knew that Phyllis and Henry had lost both sets of parents. All four. They had burned to death in an oven. I knew that story. I had heard that story over family get-togethers, dinners. Incinerated, was the word used. I watched, witnessed, as Melvin spewed at my father. Goddamn you, you lazy man. And I would sit on the wooden worktable, my little skinny legs dangling, and watch my dad lose whatever faith he was clinging to while I was clinging to him. I wasn’t sure why he brought me with him on Saturday’s. Maybe he wanted me to know that he loved me. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe because it was a Saturday, and he never needed to work on Saturday’s, and that was our day. But our days were different before the arrest. They were filled with hope and possibility; museums and plays, and theater, and movies and Aunt Jemina pancakes. Maybe he needed to know that no matter what, no matter fucking what, I would love him. We would leave the Frame Shop right on the dot: Five O’clock, and we would walk down Broadway to Penn Station. Stopping at the automat. He would get a hot steaming cup of coffee, and I would get a milkshake. Chocolate. And we would sit at the counter, and I would watch my dad stare into his coffee, a million miles away. And I would make believe that I was a Princess from the Island of Long, and we were having a day out and no one – no one – could find us. I liked that game. And then, we would stand up, and almost on cue, we would both exhale, and then he would leave a tip, a few coins for the waitress behind the counter, and we would walk to the train station, a few blocks away, and climb down the stairs into the station, and find the track number, and go to the platform, and wait for our train, and the train would swish into the station, loud and steamy, and when the conductor said: all aboard – because back then they did – we stepped in, and found our seats, and I grabbed my dad’s hand and didn’t let go.
I didn’t let go.
And I could feel every bit of his sad and his unhappy and his burden and his disappointment and his humility and his anger and his disgrace and his embarrassment and his shame and his worry and his fear and his doubt entwined in my fingers. Our hands. I could feel it. And when I finally caught his eye – when he finally looked down at me – his little girl, his princess – my eyes were saying, you’re my hero, Daddy, you’re my hero. And I think maybe for a few seconds he believed me, and I think that maybe that gave him just a little more courage. A little more hope. At least enough courage and hope to get us home.
After months – day in, day out, day in – my dad was acquitted on a technicality. And our life came back, piece by broken chipped cracked piece. He stopped working at the frame shop and my mother stopped pawning her jewelry and I stopped having imaginary friends and we never, ever talked about that time.
It was taboo.
That huge, massive cluster of shame was hidden deep, tucked away, because that’s what you did back then – when something bad, awful, horrible happened – and it was swept under the wooden table along with all the wooden chips and all the dust and all the shavings; into corners and crevices and cracks and under rugs – hidden and buried deep.
Originally I was scheduled to work double shifts this weekend, but due to a migraine that came out of the woodwork, Rich was kind enough to step in so I could just work my single shift. The pain and blinding effects started to subside on Friday night but this morning I woke up to a dull feeling on the right side of my head which is a typical indicator of what is yet to come. The Amivig has been working but I am getting a breakthrough this month so I will need to monitor things.
As my friend and life coach shares in her bi-weekly podcast, it is all about being intentional in our thoughts and actions that will help us identify the fork in the road we travel. Candace Pollock has taught me a lot through the Intentionality GURUS! https://www.spreaker.com/show/the-intentionality-gurus-candace-2018-19 now heard on many platforms including Spotify, iHeart, iTunes, Google, and more.
Being Intentional has brought awareness of the beauty of life that surrounds us. I hear my voice when I speak and if I don’t think it sounds kind, in the manner in which I would like others to speak to me, I adjust my tone and take a deviation in the path I was traveling.
Today is the day I begin my dream. Dreams are not just for sleep or zoning out in the middle of the day. Although that form of dreaming can be inspirational if we focus on what we want and set goals to reach it. If we don’t, we can be stranded in the what if’s of life. I refuse to be trapped in my thoughts as I have spent a large portion of my life dreaming, wishing, and wanting. I have ventured out into the what appears to be the cold dark world with doubters. This time, I will not be stopped by those who chose to impact me negatively.
When I elected to take this venture into writing, I began with blogging. I believe the best blogs I have written are based on self-reflection that others may associate with. When I receive feedback, I experience an overwhelming sense of wellbeing that I am not the oddity I thought I was. Blogging, journaling, or writing a book can give me/you a clear picture of the meaning of life. (Don’t worry I am not going to get deep and dark here.)
So, have you guessed my dream? It is writing a book based on my blogging journals that may not only be my story but yours as well. I am beginning the climb up the mountain, and I will continue forging ahead.
I am looking forward to the feelings of achievement that only I am capable of producing for myself. I hope you will join me on my climb while I reach for the apex
To find all our shows in one place go to https://www.spreaker.com/user/newclevelandradio – SPREAKER
However, if you want a specific show go to https://newclevelandradio.net/podcast-replays/ Use the drop to select a specific show or episode on the format of your choice – Spotify, iHeart, iTunes, Google or Castbox.
If you want to podcast with us please email Karen at newclevelandradio@gmail.
Good Morning World! Although we all may feel safe in the cocoon of our own home, family, and friends, there are many outside forces producing unrest and fear. It is necessary for us, you, me, and all those we know to take a step out of our comfort zones and begin challenging the odds.
Whether you watched the ABC special last night of the “Flying Wallendas” crossing over Times Square, it was fearful as well as amazingly exciting. Although this is not a feat for most of us to attempt, the concept of facing one’s fears and taking one step at a time is something we all can and should do.
Despite our political beliefs, we must find a way to collaborate and communicate. The art of communication is listening and dissecting fact from fiction. If we do not confront our distress of the real news and listen only to the fake news, we will not be capable of moving forward and growing.
On this first Monday of Summer 2019, find the sunshine behind the clouds, and be the change you want to see in this overwhelming world. Take a deep breath and smell the roses, the rain, the freshness of life. If it feels musty and moldy, this is your opportunity to light the way and clean up the remnants.
Empower yourself while lending a hand to those who may need guidance.