Hereafter: Compelling, heartwarming
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Hereafter: Compelling, heartwarming

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At some point, during the birth of my last child, I passed.

My now 5 year old munchkin’s head was too big for my pelvis, something my doctor and I only reluctantly concluded after a long span of fruitless pushing. I’d delivered two babies properly, after all. We were confident I’d be able to do it again.

It was supposed to be a 1 hour c-section. It turned into a whole night affair. After my daughter was pulled out, the doctors brusquely hustled her and my husband out of the operating room. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up once when I wasn’t supposed to, asked a question, and watched a group of doctors jump, startled. In retrospect, that was funny.

I was told that there was a lot of bleeding that couldn’t be stopped. A surgical team was called in, not once, but twice. I was given a transfusion. Later, a few times, I asked my doctor what really happened. All she would say is, “There was more blood than I’d ever seen before.”
How do you know when a medical procedure has gone terribly wrong? When doctors clam up with a sick expression on their faces. They don’t want to say a word because they fear litigation. I wouldn’t have sued. I had a healthy baby. I like and trust this doctor, she delivered my older girls, too.
On some level, I know what happened, and not because a team of surgeons showed up the next morning, demanding to operate because they’d never found the bleeder. I refused. I intended to nurse my infant. Another operation jeopardized that. They got pushy and I pushed back, and we called in my OBS, who brokered a deal: if my blood pressure didn’t drop over the next several hours, there’d be no operation.
My blood pressure remained stable, as I’d known it would. During the worst part of the previous night, when the doctors wouldn’t tell my husband what was going on and then he suddenly felt my absence, he phoned my healer friend Thomas. “I need your help,” Sabin said. “I don’t want to raise this baby by myself.” Thomas called Gerda, she called someone, and a healing circle was set up. And not just any healing circle: my friends are powerful, long time healers–healers of healers. And I was lucky they were.
Before the circle worked its magic–and the surgeons and transfusion worked theirs–I experienced something. I haven’t spoken of it much because it wasn’t the classic tunnel-and-white-light experience that gets a lot of airtime. Also because I didn’t know what to say about it. Even I, who have spent serious time and effort researching the far bounds of mysticism and consciousness, I didn’t know what to say about it. Also because it was a deep thing. It’s hard to discuss.
But my experience is clearly alluded to in Clint Eastwood’s new movie HEREAFTER. I listened with shock and relief as the Swiss doctor described exactly what I experienced. It was an electrifying and humbling moment.
But I wouldn’t have needed the personal validation to enjoy the movie. HEREAFTER is poignant, sweet, intense. Three people deal with death and the afterlife in ways that are somber, human, and deeply affecting. There are some funny moments; the boy Marcus’ journey to make contact with his dead twin has some painful comedy to it. There’s a rumor about Matt Damon and an Oscar run. I think he deserves it. His reluctant psychic is pitch perfect. The French journalist Marie is extremely appealing, and the French language scenes work exactly right.
I liked the brief mention that researchers into the afterlife face pressure and even censorship by religious groups. That rings true to me. What I experienced the night my daughter was born–and what I’ve experienced in altered states during meditation–has nothing to do with any religion. I mean, I don’t mind religion, mostly, except when one religion is persecuting another. I just think that Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, etc. have almost nothing to do with the life and existence of the soul. They’re just taxonomy seeking expression.
The screenplay feels classically screenplay-ish, by which I mean that it’s well structured, follows all the rules, and will be analyzed to death by screenwriting classes. But that’s not a bad thing. I like structure. When it works, it gives a story its power. The interweaving of these three arcs, and the redemption that the three protagonists experience because they come together, is cathartic, transformative. I was deeply moved. Everyone in the audience seemed to be, also. Perhaps my husband Sabin said it best, when we walked out: “At last, a Hollywood movie that’s not for retards.”
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A Day in Florence

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So much has been written about Florence that I find myself intimidated… Also, I can’t figure out how to post a picture using my iPad. The little critter is great to travel with, but its functionality, hmm.

So yesterday I stood in the National Museum of the Bargello and quivered. Michelangelo’s Dionysus, Giambologna’s Mercury. A few Bernini pieces. Giambologna’s Oceanus, which I liked much more than his jokey, overexposed Mercury–though I will say that the Mercury in its three-dimensional concrete presence is much more beautiful and powerful than FTD gives it credit for. And isn’t that just the quality of sculpture that makes it so compelling: its presence, the way you bring yourself to it, take a breath, and be here now. And do you know, they are showing Leonardo’s St John the Baptist at the Bargello?! There is another piece of art whose beauty and mastery demand that the viewer shows up and be present.

I am a few minutes from jaunting off to the Uffizi, where I will be ravished by Botticelli! Later today to Santa Croce for the Giotto frescoes. Maybe I will have time to track down the Michelangelo crucifix which, with its elongated physique, is so different from the rest of his work, which shows always the stress and compression of powerful downward anxiety and anguish.

The day really started the night before, at the most delicious restaurant il Santo Bevitore, just over the Ponte alla Carraia, which served the most beautiful glass of Brunello di Monticino. It was dry, round, smooth, rich, luscious–everything wine, like life, should be and seldom is. Last night I had a wonderful meal at the restaurant Buca Mario. I almost left because of a group of 26 American tourists swarming ahead of me, but I hung in there, and I am so glad I did! And I would be remiss if I did not mention the wonderful Hotel Albergotto, where they are incredibly pleasant and helpful and my room has a large bathroom.

Pictures to come later…

WALL STREET: Money never sleeps
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WALL STREET: Money never sleeps

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I liked this movie. Michael Douglas is at the top of his game: creepy, smart, likable, predictably unpredictable as slithery, unrepentant Gordon Gekko. I even like Shia LeBeouf. This current generation of 20 year olds adores him, and I sort of understand it–way more than I understand their fascination with Michael Cera.

The movie didn’t break any new ground. But it did portray the interesting tensions between the need to make money, the desire to make lots of money, the honor in work that pays enough but not lavishly, and the seduction of astronomical amounts of money, of MORE money, without end or purpose except in itself. These tensions are much in the collective consciousness right now.
One friend claims that derivatives trading is the root of the current economic wobbling. She’s a smart lady, so I tend to think carefully about what she says. “Nothing is created,” she says.
But I’m not sure it’s as simple as what is or isn’t created. Take pharmaceutical companies. They create things. They create drugs. And then they lie about their test results, test illegally on unwitting people in 3rd world countries, and go to extreme and slimy lengths to get their drugs approved by the FDA and to knock out the competition. Take the CODEX initiatives, sponsored by pharmaceutical companies.
Those initiatives are strangling Europe’s rights to buy vitamins, minerals, and supplements, initiatives which will surely sweep over the US because so many Americans are unthinking sheep who think that as long as we have a president of color, we will be okay. In fact, Obama is in bed with Monsanto–check out the way Secretary Tom Vilsack jetted around in Monsanto’s private jets. The point is: big pharma talks a good game, but what they really want is to prevent people from healing and treating themselves with vitamins. That might cut into big pharma’s profit$.
Is there any business more corrupt than big pharma? Other than big government? Americans have bought the line that “the business of America is business,” and, in so doing, they have set themselves up to be screwed. Because the government is big business, big pharma is big business, and they care more about their own agenda$ than about the welfare of human beings. The FDA, often staffed by scientists on temporary leave from their employers the pharmaceutical companies, is nothing but a shill for the chemical, pharmaceutical, biotech, and medical establishment companies.
But I digress. Back to the movie. Which is about the corruption rampant within business, even within ‘good people.’ It was a sweet notion that cold fusion might be possible and the evil empire shut it down because of that very real possibility.
I keep thinking about Martin Seligman’s work with positive psychology, and his notes on living a life of meaningful purpose, based on doing something we’re good at. But does that really mean that Susan Sarandon’s character has to give up her dream of affluence and return to nursing? Even though it’s an absolutely crucial field of work, and her character is obviously a wonderfully people-oriented soul.
Why have we as a culture given more monetary value to things like stockbroking and real estate than to nursing?
I know, I know, we can’t live without water, and diamonds cost more.
So is it human nature to devalue what we need, and to obscenely over-value what is essentially frivolous?
All questions provoked by the movie.
Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life
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Eat, Pray, Love: the movie; Pray, Stay, Love: the life

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My rascally and delightful middle daughter wanted some daughter-mom time, so we went together to see EAT, PRAY, LOVE. I haven’t read the book. The movie was charming, often poignant, touching enough to forgive the places where it was too facile. Julia Roberts was wonderful in the lead role. What could be more delectable than staring at creamy warm spaghetti carbonara, or more uplifting than watching a seeker wrestle honestly with the Guru Gita, or more heart-warming than watching love come to a supplicant studying with a Balinese priest?

It left me with a feeling of longing, for the quests I can not take. When Liz/Julia rented her apartment in Rome, I leaned over and whispered to my daughter, “That’s what women who aren’t mothers get to do.” Her big eyes widened: she hadn’t considered such a thing, hadn’t anticipated that I would articulate it.
So I had some envy, too. I had my oldest daughter twenty years ago, and my littlest is only 5. I will be almost 60 when she goes off to college! Here I am, with wanderlust in my soul and my passport always in my purse, just in case today I get to fly to Paris or Sydney…
Yet I have remained faithful to my commitment to be a present and caring mother. Not a perfect mother. That was never my goal. But present, loving, supportive, caring, involved: that was my goal as a mother. To be someone whom my children know they can depend on. When they’ve had mono and Swine flu and bad grades and drug issues, I’ve been there. When they need to hear a lecture about the importance of writing thank you notes or of following through on promises or of doing the right thing when their peers are operating otherwise, when they need to hear a pep-talk because the latest poor choice in guys has dumped them, when they need to hear that they are loved and valuable no matter what–I’m there. If they ever get Ebola or a divorce or need a kidney, I’ll be there, to nurse them or give them my kidney. I never had that kind of support so I made damn sure my children did. From me.
Of course, it matters little to them right now. The older ones are entangled in teenage stuff of great importance: separating, provoking, blaming, individuating. They want to assume adult prerogative without taking on the responsibility that goes along with it. They don’t want to think about the impact of their actions on the people around them. The little one is in that blissful “mommy is wonderful” stage, but she has a cussed independent streak ten kilometers wide. I’ve been around the block. I know where that will lead. They have charmed lives and don’t know it. I haven’t done everything right as a mother–why should I have to?–but I’ve been true to this commitment: to be there for them.
Which often means that I haven’t been able to be there for myself. There’s a kind of …noxious myth… toxic fantasy… of post-liberation feminism that women can have it all: sexy loving marriage, children, dynamic career, fulfilling friendships, self awareness, a full night’s sleep. How awful to scourge ourselves with this chicanery. Was this what our mothers and grandmothers intended, when they battled for us to have equal pay for equal work, and the right to choose which work we want to do?
I have made choices. Other things came second because my children come first. I have a friend who made zillions of dollars and is raising two kids; she is scornful when I say that I would have written more books if I hadn’t had children. But there are things in her life I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Let her turn her nose up.
So I’ve done what questing I can, internally. I’ve made the trips I can, abbreviated though they are. I’ve explored every possible avenue I can, under the constraints that I’ve taken on. Love is not merely a big oceanic feeling. It’s not just the deep erotic merging with a romantic soul-mate–though I enjoy both of those facets of love. Love is also the dignity of steadfastness. It’s waking up every morning to a daily grind of commitment and responsibility, and still finding something to laugh about and enjoy.
I couldn’t love a man that way, but I do love my children that way. And what I’ve learned is that I must love them that way without any expectation of gratitude or acknowledgment. Because chances are, no matter what a mother does for her children, they will not appreciate it. At least at certain stages of their lives. This is why I’ve come to revere the Bhagavad Gita: “Do the best you can and release the outcome.”
An old friend of mine periodically sends me emails… Meet me in Maine, meet me in Budapest. As if I weren’t married. As if I weren’t tempted. As if I didn’t enjoy my time with him enough to consider it rather wistfully. But it’s not even about him. If I ran off to Bali by my lonesome, would I find a hot young guy to get naked with in the water, or a soul-stirring companion like gorgeous Javier Bardem?!?
But this week, as my husband and my littlest daughter and the dog and I drove to Cape Cod, and the dog freaked out and my husband had to remove him from behind the car seat and doing so, ripped his (husband’s) fingernail completely off his finger, and so I had to drive, which became 8 hours in traffic with my daughter barfing and my husband bleeding profusely and criticizing my driving, I thought to myself, Good times. Would I trade this life for Eat, Pray, Love?
The answer was, Maybe. And then, later on, when my husband’s finger finally stopped oozing crimson goo and he kissed me and thanked me for my patience, and my sweet little one wove her arms around me and told me I was the bestest in the whole world, and we ran along the Cape Cod Bay laughing as the dog chased seagulls, and then when the aforesaid husband and daughter got into an indignant argument that tickled my appreciation for the absurd so I couldn’t stop laughing–the answer was: Maybe not.
Daniel Silva’s THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR
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Daniel Silva’s THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR

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THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR by Daniel Silva
The Rembrandt Affair by Daniel Silva: Download Cover

My former father-in-law, whose qualities of intelligence, groundedness, and sanity have caused me to appreciate him more over the years, called me a week ago to discuss his grandchildren, my daughters. He thinks they’re great, and isn’t that the sweetest gratification for a mother? At the end of the call, he inquired about my writing. Then he brought up Daniel Silva.

“Why can’t you write more like him?” asked the father of my former beloved.
Or maybe he didn’t actually say it straight out–though I never mind when people talk straight to me. Maybe I projected the question into a heavy implication, out of my own writerly envy. My former in-laws, much as I admired them, had a talent for minimizing my accomplishments. Whatever.
Either way, Silva remains one of my favorite writers. This is no small feat: I read everything, literally, everything. I sat once with a literary agent, who, after running through, well, all of the pop culture authors, said, “Yikes, you really do read everything!” I could claim that it’s market research. I could say I’m keeping an eye on my competition. Both are true. Truer still is that I just love BOOKS. BOOKS ARE LOVE.
And I love story. Here is my current working definition of story: story is how your protagonist doesn’t get what he or she wants. The transcendence of story is how we attain enlightenment. In which case: I’ll be seeing you around for another 10,000 lives, because story rocks!
Daniel Silva tells a good story, and he tells it well. Line for line, his prose is wonderful, and it’s getting better with every book. I’ve been following his Gabriel Allon character for years. With every book, the characters get more sharply drawn, the prose gets more musical yet always accessible, and the plot gets more interesting.
Silva is growing with his craft. I love to see that, and I admire it. There’s a lot of drek out there. Most bestsellers are mind-numbingly badly written. If people are reading less, it’s the fault of publishers: why would anyone eat when they are being served crap? They lose their appetite.
Which makes Silva even more of a pleasure to read. Great characters, great story, great writing. And I’m not just saying that because he deals with one of my other passions, the Old Masters. Sure that gives Silva an additional 100 IQ points in my estimation. But I’d read a well-told story about something I dislike–like the IRS. Oops, did I say that out loud? I totally admire the IRS.
Pick up a copy of THE REMBRANDT AFFAIR and be fascinated. Be swept away. It’s compelling reading.