Life, Love, & Time

 I was young when we met,

somewhat naive,

not knowing about life

and its ups and downs,

only wanting to know love.

He was young too,

not so naive,

life for him had been

more demanding.

more difficult.

We married and began

our life,

a new life, a good life.

Together we made plans

and strived to make them

our reality.

Together we loved, cried,

laughed, worked,

argued & made-up, and

then loved some more.

Time and happenings

caused us to mature,

to be more knowing

of our surroundings,

of each other,

of our likes & dislikes,

of our joys and sorrows;

we were not so naive anymore.

Yet in the midst of all the

doings & undoings of life,

we continued loving,

some days less,

most days more.

Today I’m not so young,

I know a bit more about life & love,

the sacrifices & rewards,

the disappointments,

the satisfactions,

the companionship.

Most of all,

I am glad to have met him,

I am glad to have loved him.

With him, I know my life

has been so much better.

Daydreaming

 

On my better days,

I love the window over my kitchen sink

from where I can watch

the going and coming of neighbors, their

kids running and screaming, having fun;

it takes my mind off the mundane task

of washing cups and dishes,

scrubbing pots and pans.

Then, there are the other days when

I hate the window over my kitchen sink

and wished it was a brick wall instead.

Those are the days my mind wanders

and enters the mystifying

paths of the imagination.

Those are they days I see my own kids,

unbiddenly gone before me.

As if by magic,

I see my firstborn, twelve years old,

sitting on the porch across the street with her friend.

I’m sure they are talking about boys.

Sometimes they whisper, other times they laugh.

I remember when I was twelve.

My second daughter is ten,

she’s somewhat of a tomboy.

I see her riding her bike with the next door boys,

There she goes,

yelling and racing, vying for first place.

Then there’s my youngest,

a healthy, robust boy who plays on

the neighborhood Little League Team.

I see him coming home, face grimy & sweaty,

uniform covered with mud

from stealing bases to win the game.

What a rascal!

Suddenly,

a cup slips out of my hands and

crashes into the sink!

As it breaks into a thousand tiny pieces,

my wandering mind comes back,

back to my reality of

a house without children,

a house that is quiet & tidy,

a house that is painfully barren,

a house with a window over the kitchen sink.

Mildred Santiago

My Secret World

There is a world,

somewhere deep within me,

where I am safe,

where there are no fears,

no misinterpretations,

no manipulations,

where I am me.

There is a world,

somewhere deep within me,

far from my reality,

where the impossible is possible,

where I am not young or old,

just me,

ageless & vibrant.

In that world, that secret world,

I need not worry

if I am good enough, smart enough,

or even pretty enough.

It is a place without concerns

about who likes me, or even

who loves me.

In that world, my secret world,

I find peace & tranquility,

the shackles of must do and

must be, magically disappear,

allowing me to be that person

I know is there,

deep inside of me,

so strong & confident.

There is a world,

somewhere deep inside of me

that allows me, from time to time,

to escape my reality

and for a fleeting moment,

I am simply me,

uncomplicated & quietly content.

I am free.

                                                      Mildred Santiago

What Is Love?

What did I know

when I was so young,

so naive?

I believed in fairy tales

and princes and  castles

and happy ever afters.

What did I know

that life could hurt so much?

That life is not perfect,

that joy brings pain,

that giving can cause

an emptiness so profound

it seems impossible to fill?

But I learned.

Life taught me through

disappointments, loneliness,

pain, and tears.

I learned about the

risks of love,

I learned about the

sacrifices of love.

I learned that love

needs the kiln of life

with its high temperatures

and flames that purify

disappointments, pain

and tears

until they are but old memories

that one can bear.

I learned that the love

which survives

the trials and imperfections of life

provides the strength and

courage needed

to laugh and

be happy again.

Lost and Not Found

Somehow and still a mystery to me, this past weekend I lost my wedding band right here in my house.  I discovered it yesterday when I was getting ready to go have my bimonthly manicure; I had misplaced or lost the platinum ring with diamond baguettes set in a unique diagonal pattern.  I searched for it in all the logical places I may have left it: on top of my dresser, in the jewelry drawer, on top of the bathroom cabinet, but it was nowhere to be found.  My heart started beating faster at the prospect of having lost the ring; I ran out to the garage to tell my husband Eddie.  When he saw the distress on my face and the tears about to start flowing, he immediately stopped working on his project and came inside.  We both searched all over; in probable places and totally improbable nooks and crannies, but to no avail.  I have to admit that at that point I broke down and cried. 

I vividly remember the day we purchased that wedding band.  It was a Saturday about fifteen years ago when we were still living in Puerto Rico.  Every month Eddie and I  had the habit of visiting Old San Juan just to walk around the beautiful streets of that charming colonial city and browse in a few of our favorite shops.  One must stop for us was the Puerto Rican Arts & Crafts shop on Calle Fortaleza.  The owners of that shop honor the artisans of Puerto Rico by only carrying locally made pieces of art.  They sell ceramics, oil and acrylic paintings, watercolors, silk-screens, jewelry, and even some gourmet foods (http://www.puertoricanart-crafts.com).  It was always a joy to walk through the store for they usually had new displays and the salespersons left us alone.  The day customarily ended with a late lunch at a well-known restaurant, La Mallorca, on Calle Tanca.  Two pages on their menu were filled with the day’s specials of traditional Puerto Rican foods that were tasty and fresh. Another aspect of this restaurant that called my attention was that the waiters, who had been working there for years, took the orders without writing them down and successfully served them without blunders.   

            Another attraction of Old San Juan for locals and tourists alike are the many jewelry shops that line both Fortaleza and Tanca streets. This seaport town is well known for offering the best deals in jewelry. There are diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones set in rings, bracelets, necklaces, or earrings that are either gold, platinum or silver based and which glitter in the window displays.  I loved to stop to admire some pieces while Eddie cautiously maintained his distance.  However, on that particular Saturday he was not so reluctant to look in the store windows with me, especially at wedding bands.  I knew why.  About a month earlier we had been victims of a home invasion during which three young men cleaned out my jewelry drawer and took with them earrings and bracelets that not only had monetary value but most of all, sentimental value.  Also gone in the heist was my first platinum and diamond wedding band.  Again, it was not only the value in dollars that I lamented, but that it was a special gift from Eddie during a weekend getaway we had had in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands years earlier.  That Saturday in Old San Juan I was not asking for a replacement, it was that he knew how much I loved the stolen ring and he wanted to please me with another.

            We looked at many, many wedding bands in jewelry store after jewelry store and not one called my attention.  We were already walking down Calle Tanca toward the restaurant when we saw a small, insignificant jewelry store and skeptically decided to take a look.  To our surprise, there we found my second wedding band; another platinum and diamond ring that was different in the way the baguettes were set.  I loved it immediately.  I tried it on and it fit; it was made for me.  Without hesitation, my sweetheart husband purchased it.  That is the ring that I lost this past weekend.

             Eddie went back to the garage and I kept searching my bedroom and the other rooms of the house over and over when I suddenly stopped and had a reality check moment.  I reminded myself that I had suffered greater losses in my life on three different occasions. They were irreversible, irreplaceable losses.  Jewelry can be replaced. In addition, no matter how special the ring may have been, it did not measure up to the forty-six years of love, care and happiness that Eddie and I have shared nor the many ups and downs we have weathered together, always together.

In calm retrospect, I relate yesterday’s emotional state to the stages of grief, yes, grief.  I grieved for a lost piece of jewelry that had meaningful, sentimental value.  At first I was in denial (it’s not lost, it’s somewhere in the house); followed by anger (how can I be so stupid to lose something like that); then sadness (crying); and finally acceptance; it was lost and I had to let go and move on. I even spoke in an audible voice: Stop it! You have lost something greater than a piece of jewelry, stop this nonsense, get a hold of yourself and move on.

            I admit that I still thought about the ring a few times today, but not as painfully as yesterday.  It may show up or it may never show up, those are my thoughts and I am okay with that. Who knows what can happen in the near future, after all, we do have a trip to Puerto Rico coming up soon.

MEMORY IS EVERYTHING

Memories are an important part of our lives. They are so important that Dr. James McGaugh, who has dedicated years to the research of memory, declares that “If you don’t have memory, you don’t care about anything else” (McLeod).  I have always treasured my memories of some past events. Even though some may be construed from very traumatic and painful experiences, I know how important memories are and how they have contributed to who I am today.  Life experiences, both positive and negative, help us develop a profound and vibrant sense of self.

As I think about memories and their importance in our lives, I also think about how over the years, as we mature and grow older, there are moments we choose to relive in our minds and we may even convince ourselves that we can still do the same things we did twenty, thirty, or even forty years ago.  Sadly, most times our bodies are not in agreement with those thoughts.  However, it does not matter; somehow those memories make us feel good all over again; the emotions seem real and if for just a brief moment, we are young again.  That thought went through my mind this past weekend as I watched the movie Stand Up Guys with Al Pacino, Christopher Walken and Alan Arkin.  The story is about a gangster, Val (Pacino), who is freed from prison after serving twenty-eight years for accidentally killing the mob boss’s son in crossfire.  His friend, Doc (Walken) is his gangster buddy from those years who is waiting for him at the prison gate; together they embark on one final adventure.  Val is in his 70’s and wants to do in one night what he had not been able to do in the past years.  He has memories of his life before prison, a life of sex, booze, drugs, and violence with his mob buddies.  Some who have seen the film claim that that is all there is to the story and the reviews have been unfavorable.  I watched the movie from the perspective of a woman who is approaching seventy way too fast for her liking; I was able to see other aspects of the film.  Here is a man who has missed so much living for years and who needs to cram into his short life of freedom (Val knows he is marked for death by the mob boss), many of our basic human needs: affection, understanding, fun, food, a sense of belonging and friendship.  After a few humorous and bittersweet capers, Val and Doc spring Hirch (Arkin), their third mob buddy, from a nursing home. The three seasoned gangster buddies manage to relive moments of their past knowing that this is their last opportunity; they also rekindled their bond of friendship.

One moment stands out for me and it was then that I realized the film has a deeper meaning; it is when Val convinces a young woman at a bar to dance with him. He tips the disc jockey and asks him to play a song from the 80’s titled When Something is Wrong With my Baby (Sam & Dave).  It is a slow dance filled with soul and as Val dances he holds the girl with respect yet at the same time with lots of feeling; he closes his eyes and savors the moment. The girl perceives the emotional moment Val is living and one can see how her look becomes mellow and she allows herself to enjoy the dance. As a spectator I saw that moment as one when Val is reliving his past through the memories of a younger Val dancing with a girl he cares about a lot.  For a brief moment he no longer is a seventy year old man, in his mind and heart he is thirty years younger.

 It was a sad moment for me; I even got teary-eyed.  Perhaps I realized that this is how many seniors feel; their minds are still young, their memories are still young, but reality says something else which is what the younger generation sees.  Perhaps I felt sad for myself because I know I am walking that same path. Society places limits across the board on what seniors can and cannot do without considering them on an individual basis, without taking the time to know them and what their lives were like years earlier.  Perhaps that is the advantage of living in a community of 55-plus residents where we take the time to get to know each other and we are able to demonstrate that we are alive and can forge new friendships, have fun, enjoy food, dance, sing, write, play softball or golf; we cultivate a sense of belonging and no one questions or mocks our need to continue creating new memories.

In this process of creation, we have the freedom to repress events, rearrange others, and even invent false memories of events that in turn will reshape our image of self.  That is another dimension of memories; they are to be “understood as creative blendings of fact and fiction, where images are alchemized by experience and emotion into memories” (Neimark).  In other words, our memories are not all a collection of true events, rather they contain both truth and fiction; it is our way of making meaning out of life. The following poem presents a snapshot of such a moment:

MEMORIES, MEMORIES, MEMORIES

One day, as I helped mother clean out her overflowing closet,

She reached into a deep corner and pulled out

a shabby photo album, one I had not seen before.

We stopped our mission for a bit and sat on her bed

to look at pictures, memories of years ago;

memories of summer afternoons, family & friends,

forever young.

She remembered most names,

without hesitation she matched them to faces

preserved over time in this unfamiliar, old album.

Page after page, I listened to stories, moments & memories,

that is, except for one picture:

A handsome, smiling young man in military uniform

is standing beneath a flowering flamboyán tree,

next to mother, so young and also smiling.

I asked: Who is he?

What is his story? Do I know him?

I sensed unwillingness, reticence.

Mother claimed he was a family friend, unimportant;

no use trying to recall his name.

Who is to question her memories?

Who holds the truth?

Memories are what we make of them.

Sometimes they hurt and it seems

the years cannot completely erase heartache.

Other times our perceptions of the past

do not conform with reality.

Instead, we recreate them to our liking,

and convince ourselves they are true.

Memories, memories, memories.

Decades have passed,

mother holds on to her secret truth;

I acquiesce.

No sense in arguing with memories.

                                                                        Flamboyán – Poinciana tree

Dr. Eric Kandel, Nobel Laureate of Physiology or Medicine 2000, states that “Memory is everything...it allows you to have continuity in your life” (McLeod). Therefore, I say, let us continue creating and recreating memories, mixing fact with fiction, experiences and emotions.  Let us continue to make meaning of our lives no matter our chronological age.  We are the storytellers –“heroes of our own narrative, a tale that illumines that precious and mysterious self at the center.  That ‘I am’ cannot be quantified or conveyed precisely and yet it feels absolute....Memory is malleable – and so are we” (Neimark).  No memory is insignificant to us because they are our memories, no one can censor them and no one can take them away.

"Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these."

~ Susan B. Anthony

McLeod, S. A. (2007). Study of Memory in Psychology. Simply Psychology.    

            Retrieved from http://www.simplypsychology.org/memory.html

Neimark, J. (1995). It’s Magical, It’s Malleable, It’s ...Memory. Psychology Today.

            Retrieved from http://www.psychologytoday.com