portrait of me
it's never too late
a portrait of ileta
her tiny 4'11" frame belied her abundant love for life and radiating warmth of spirit. she had piercing blue "bette davis" eyes. a warm, playful smile. and she was infinitely glamorous in her love of simple things—baking pies from the ripest fruits of the season, catching fish in the rivers and lakes of michigan, admiring the colorful birds from her living room window, and spending time with family doing everything or nothing.
though she looked like a movie star from the golden days of hollywood, she chose a simple life in a small town, and devoted herself to the one thing that mattered most: her family. she fell in love with paul, a gentle, kind-hearted soul who shared the belief that there was no better place in the world to be than with ileta, the love of his life. together for more than 50 years, they were blessed with two children, five grandchildren (including my husband, curtis) and 12 great grandchildren. they lived life to the fullest, weathered the seasons and life's changes, always together, until it was time for him to say goodbye.
in the ten years after paul's passing, she was surrounded by the family she cherished. watching the constant swarm of babies, toddlers, tweeners and teens parading through her house and playing with her first-edition fisher price barn and metal tonka toys became a favorite pastime.
often i would see those sea blue eyes well up—no doubt because of the joy and gratitude she felt for her loved ones—but it also felt as if there were something more. that despite the flurry of activity, the boundless energy around her, there was loneliness too. a longing for that special someone who completed her, made her whole.
then one fateful day, ileta took a fall. she broke her hip in several places and she was faced with some dreaded news: she would have to leave her condo on the river, the picturesque view from her living room window, the beautiful birds, the stacks of family photo albums, the barn and tonka trucks, and the last place she shared with her beloved paul.
she was devastated...and the family was horrified at the thought that her will to go on, the twinkle in her eye, would extinguish almost as soon as the wheels of her blue oldsmobile drove away from the condo parking lot for the last time.
the royal view assisted living facility looked warm and welcoming: a large white colonial facade with several fountains spouting gentle streams of water into the manmade pond out front. the idyllic scene failed to impress. she stared out the window silently as they brought her there. and we all collectively held our breaths, gazed up to the heavens, and prayed that she would be ok.
after several weeks, we got the call.
"so we went to visit her this week."
"yeah, how's she doing?" [fingers crossed]
"oh you'll never guess."
"what do you mean? is everything ok?" [heart starting to race nervously]
"oh yeah, it's not only ok. it's...amazing. grandma's got a boyfriend."
"a WHAT??" [mouth gaping open in complete and utter shock]
his name was huson. clad in suspenders to hold up his khaki pants, with a checked flannel shirt and a hearty handshake, he was a simple man from a small michigan town, warm, gentle-hearted, and seemingly familiar.
they were smitten. i hadn't seen those blue eyes sparkle with such affection since the many meals with grandpa eating his "bread with dinner as a rule" and hearing him reflect on how lucky he was to "land such a catch" as ileta.
seeing them together reminded me of the scene in the robin williams/de niro movie "awakenings" in which catatonic patients are awakened from their paralyzed states through stimuli that stirs something deep within them—whether a certain type of music or poetry or even human contact.
for ileta, at 90+ years old, the catalyst was finding love again. a partner. a companion. a gentleman to hold the door open for her. an arm to grab onto while she walked. an ear to listen to her stories and share his own. a person to sit quietly with her on "the davenport" for hours on end. a "we" to her "me."
ileta was an amazing woman. a wife. a matriarch. a mother. a grandmother. a great grandmother. an even greater human being.
she also taught me an indelible lesson: it's never too late. to find love. to start over. to take the first step in a new direction. to let go of old habits and safe routines. to ultimately embrace change (whether you're forced into it by circumstances or diving toward it feet first).
sometimes we live. we go through the motions. we feel trapped by choices, by roles, by work, by expectations, by fears. but if you're truly passionate about something, if it's been lying dormant for months, years, even decades on end, if it feels true to who you are and what is most important to you, be open to "awakening" it...and trust that the rest will fall into place. it's never too late.
a single moment?
in advertising, you meet a lot of colorful characters. the brooding creative. the militant project manager. the awkward but lovable techie. the self-entitled intern.
and then there's joseph. the overachieving eccentric, resident enfant terrible and also a good friend. he's utterly impatient with the status quo, yet unlike many, arms himself with laundry lists of ways to make things better. joseph and i worked on countless projects together, from a cayman islands website to the branding for a chicago skyscraper, with a little oprah and motorola sprinkled in along the way.
before major presentations, he could often be found "scrambling" at his desk, leg shaking as he put the finishing touches on the 50-pages of documentation he'd have to present. once saved, he'd click print and send a couple trees off to meet their maker at the printer that was steps away from his desk. as he stood up to collect his masterpieces and prepare to impress the client with his thinking (and his pseudo-British accent that would make Madonna proud), he'd often mutter a question that would always strike a chord—or rather more like a nerve—within me.
"do you ever feel like your life is leading to a single moment?"
it was a rhetorical question (he was usually whisking his way out the door by the time he uttered the last word), but it summed up the importance of the moment: the potpourri of anxiety, excitement, simultaneous pride and insecurity of putting yourself out on a limb...and not knowing what the outcome would be. every single time, he acted as if this moment, this was the big presentation that would finally catapult him to greatness (whatever that meant).
in agency life, those moments happen to be more the rule than the exception. but every time he'd ask the question, my thoughts would go to life. my life. in roughly a minute of contemplation, it would all rush over me, scenes of my life in fast forward.
"is my life leading to a single moment?" and if so, "what was it?"
falling in love? buying a house? having kids? landing my dream job? buying a bigger house? winning the lottery so i can quit my job and travel the world?
do you ever find that when you finally achieve the "moment" that you've been striving for, there's another one waiting right around the corner?...and another one?...and another one?
we've been brought up to believe that life is linear, a collection of milestones that assemble perfectly on the path toward that "one defining moment." but i believe it's a fallacy. a quixotic exercise in "tilting at windmills."
the truth is there's no such thing as a "single" defining moment. life is messy and chaotic and your path, like mine, has probably taken many a detour along the way. the key is embracing the now. and not some ambiguous, unattainable moment in your distant future.
appreciating the little moments as well as the big. the small victories and knock-it-out-of-the-park successes. the ones that propel us forward, whether in work, in our relationships or in life. not moving toward a finite "end" but rather a continual path toward self-discovery.
there's a wonderful piece by alan watts called "music and life" that equates life to a symphony. it's not about the build-up to the dramatic climax at the end. rather it's about something much more profound:
"...we thought of life by analogy with a journey, with a pilgrimage which had a serious purpose at the end. the thing was to get to that end—success or whatever it is, or maybe heaven when you're dead. but we missed the point the whole way along. it was a musical thing and you were so supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played."
finding your inner zen
a portrait of domingo
they say "eyes are the window to the soul." if that old adage is true, my dad must know a secret that many of us would love to be let in on.
in my mind's eye, and in every picture i have ever seen of him, he has what can only be described as "smiling eyes." from major milestones to mundane events, whether he's singing pavarotti-esque nursery rhymes to his grandkids or slaving away in the kitchen for hours on end or emceeing the umpteen weddings, funerals and fundraisers in his local community or tending to his garden in the blazing summer heat, his eyes—and in fact, his entire face—exude peace, inner contentment.
if someone cuts him off while driving, that's okay. he's probably going slow anyway, stopping to admire the neighbors' landscaping or practicing his best rendition of andrea bocelli. if someone gossips or gives him the cold shoulder, he shrugs and says "well, you know how people are" (while i think to myself "yeah, i do" and fantasize about the list of expletives i'd shower upon them). when "friends" take vegetables from his garden (without even informing him of their impromptu harvesting sessions), he says "oh i hope they remembered to grab some tomatoes too."
don't get me wrong. dad is far from perfect: he can be stubborn, even obstinate. sometimes his political views lean a bit too right of center. and, truth be told, he even has a touch of hubris (his biggest fan—in the mirror and on the microphone—just happens to be himself!).
but the dreaded "crow's feet" that hollywood a-listers pay millions to eradicate, my dad wears like the stripes of a heroic general—battle-tested, with a wisdom gained through decades of living, and yet with a quiet honor and dignity that can make anyone feel at ease. or in my case, in awe.
during a random visit home to cleveland, i made a remarkable discovery. tucked away in the basement, in a tattered shoebox, was the photo above: an amazing image of a group of buddhist monks, robes artfully draped like a valentino fall collection, and right smack in the middle of the group, was my dad.
he taught english in laos at the beginning of his career and i'm tickled at the thought of these fine monks giving him a course on "zen 101" in exchange for pointers on pronouns and punctuation. instructing him on how to detach from desire and unhappiness by “turning the eye inward” and through meditation and mindfulness letting go of the logical way we order the world and developing insight and wisdom to see the true nature of things (enlightenment).
in reality, i think my dad was born with it: a joie de vivre. the gift of gratitude for life and every moment, large and small. of seeing the good in people, not the bad. in being generous of heart and humble in spirit. to him, the glass is not only half full, he's happy to fill it for you, with songs, stories, laughter, and a heaping serving of sinagang (his signature filipino dish).
my dad has always been an endless font of knowledge (...and when i say endless, i mean endless!). but in realm of character, he leads by example. a perpetual student of philosophy. a modern day renaissance man. a chef du cuisine. a poet. a troubador. a master at finding his inner zen.