The Magical Mystery of Musical Memory

Listening to Sirius Radio is a special treat for us nowadays. Once Scott and I became work-at-homers, it was an expense we couldn’t justify so we cancelled our subscription. On Monday, Scott and I took a 40-mile-each-way road trip with his mom. The long ride to and from afforded us some serious time with her Sirius radio and Scott, riding shotgun, was in his glory, in charge of music selection. Deep Cuts, carefully curated classic rock and, of course, the Beatles station, were in rotation.

On the way home, we heard a version of this song on the Beatles station. Obviously it was performed by the Beatles but, although the arrangement was similar, I recognized it as a song sung by another voice whose identity I couldn’t immediately put my finger on. I also didn’t know the name of the song. Just a vague but certain memory that I’d heard that song before. When I mentioned it to Scott, he said he wasn’t aware of it on any original Beatles release – maybe from the BBC sessions? he mused.

Once back in front of my laptop, I embarked on Internet expedition to find what recording of the song I remembered, based upon just a few words I could string together and “Beatles recording.” (What would my “satiable curiosity” do without Google?) I found the Beatles’ version right away (sure enough, they’d recorded it in a BBC session) and then, the answer to the mystery: The Honeymoon Song, on Mary Hopkin’s album Postcard, produced by Paul McCartney. Alas, I had solved the mystery of why I know a version of a song associated with the Beatles – but not recorded by the Beatles – that Scott (the ultimate Beatles fan/encyclopedic Beatles expert) didn’t. 

Here’s the backstory: In ~1974, my brother gave me his copy of Postcard. I listened to that album night and day! After each listen, I’d place the LP back in its sleeve and carefully stash it in my bottom dresser drawer for safe keeping. Then came the black, black day when, as I shut the drawer, the album became jammed and, as I pushed it closed, was crushed. And so was I. I cried for hours and had a lump of sadness in the pit of my stomach for days. Mourning. It was as if I’d lost a friend. My Mary. My first music.

Many of the songs on that album have stuck with me and come bubbling up to the surface of my awareness from time to time: The Puppy Song, Inchworm, Happiness Runs, No Business Like Show Business, Young Love, Someone to Watch Over Me, Those Were the Days. Upon listening today to the rest of the songs, they’ve washed over me like an auditory time capsule. I remembered bits and pieces of some and the rest simply transported me back to the soundtrack of an 11 or 12 year old Gina. Imprinted on my brain, etched in my soul, a part of my being that I’d nearly – but not actually – forgotten. I feel reconnected to that youthful version of myself through the magical mystery of music. It’s wonderful to be able to access a little bit of that time when I was coming into my self through these songs.

The miracle of a girl falling in love with an album produced by Paul McCartney growing up to fall in love with a guy who fell in love with the Beatles is not lost on me, either. In fact, it gives me shivers.

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…And I Am an Analytical Girl

(This post is part of a series chronicling my Women on the Verge journey. Read all updates in the series.)

“Analytical.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means you think about things deeply and try to figure things out,” Mom replied.

Her reply was the answer to my question, “What is one word that describes me?” It was posed as part of a ninth grade Home Economics class assignment to ask someone who knew me well to describe me in one word. Who knew me better than dear old Mom, I thought.

Photo by Tookapic

Being such a sensitive girl, insecure and with exceedingly low self-esteem, I was initially horrified at the mere prospect of asking the question, not knowing what kind of answer to expect. Would it be complementary? Insulting? Revelatory?

I didn’t expect my reaction would be stymied. “I’m what?” And even after she explained the word, I was confused. I supposed that it was accurate, but I’d never thought of myself in that way. Was analytical a good thing to be? Kind-hearted, creative, loving, patient, intelligent, sweet, quick-witted, hard-working, curious, tenacious, honest, funny, interesting, cooperative, introverted…hell, even awkward would have been apt descriptors and something I could have immediately recognized about myself. Wouldn’t you know – just like the quirky kid I was, I couldn’t be described, even by my mom,  in simple, straightforward terminology. 

Of course, being the analytical person I was/am, I ran to the nearest dictionary and looked up ‘analytical’ to gain some further insight into the one word that Mom thought described me. I’m sure I read something like what Vocabulary.com says today: “If you are analytical, you are good at taking a problem or task and breaking it down into smaller elements in order to solve the problem or complete the task.” So, b-o-r-i-n-g… even my mom thinks so.” That was how my 15 year old self interpreted the word. I was all up in my head. It was my mind that ruled my being.

I never questioned the accuracy of Mom’s assessment of me. Indeed, I believed that she had recognized something that she herself admired in me. Because she wasn’t the type who frequently offered feedback in such a direct, verbal way, it made a deep impression on my psyche. In fact, I embraced it as a badge of honor. I incorporated it into my self-concept: “Analytical Girl” whose superpower was figuring things out. Able to leap tall problems in a single (or several) thought(s)! She’s Analytical Girl!

In my teen years as hormonal-induced emotionality surged, feelings of “out of controllness” frightened me. Another lesson learned from Mom, less directly but no less potently, is that sensitivity is the enemy. Crying is a sign of weakness. When emotions crop up, stomp them down and carry on. Wisdom is thought, not felt. And so I went on for years, ignoring, kicking away my emotional being, as if it were a pesky child, clawing at my heels, impeding my progress through life. I became quite adept at squashing any emotional component that may have had the audacity to try to poke its nose into my modus operandi. I could think myself into or out of most anything. 

Photo by Alexas Fotos

Until I couldn’t. 

An interesting thing about having taken an analytical approach to life is that it has served me well…up to a point. Then came the reckoning. Decades of emotions unwelcome, unacknowledged, unheeded. Their wisdom untapped; their intuition ignored. The realization that I’d been missing some crucial input was gradual at first; little nudges of awareness that feelings and the emotions they illicit are another side of me. In recent years, emotions have done more than nudge – they’ve taken me by the shoulders and shook me vigorously. Longing to be heard, they assure me of their validity and value. 

I found it amazing that the Vocabulary.com definition of analytical continued with the following: “The opposite type of problem-solving is called the intuitive approach in which a person senses the correct action to take without proof or reasoning.” Nowhere in that description does it say that an intuitive approach is invalid or ineffective. It’s simply another way of looking at things that deserves my attention. My non-analytical self has been here all along, waiting for me to notice and appreciate the treasure it contains. As I learn its language and its many manifestations, I trust that it is differently wise and I am more fully me when she is incorporated into my psyche.

Photo by ElisaRiva

I am doing a better job of listening to my emotions, my intuition, lately – figuring them into the equation of my life. It’s becoming more of a habit with every passing day – to tune in to the emotional channel to see what’s playing. Usually it’s something I want to hear – often some golden oldies I haven’t heard in a very long time.

Posted in The personal development of Gina, Women on the Verge | Leave a comment

For Better, for Worse, in Sickness and in Health, and Beyond

August 21, 2019… not a day that occurred to me on August 21,1993 (when it first became a significant date) that would be significant in the future. But fast forward and here we are at our 26th anniversary! 

Those wedding vow promises about forever, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health… sure you agree to it – but in such an abstract way. It’s all very theoretical. You want to be there for your spouse. You want your spouse to be there for you. So you affirm your intention and willingness for all to witness.

Then life happens. Years float, fly, drag… by and there’s lots of those “for better or worse” moments, hopefully tilting decidedly toward the better. The best marriages (among which I count our own) see the two of you growing stronger; your love deepening into something you can’t even imagine from the altar.

And this seemingly magical transformation happens imperceptibly, day by day, as you both change, grow, mature, become more wholly yourselves. Are we the same people we were on our wedding day? Yes. And no. We are the same in the sense that we are still excited by the mere existence of the other, by the love we share and at the prospect of living our days together. No, we’re not the same in the sense that we’ve wizened, experienced and faced things separately – and together – that we couldn’t have known would come our way. We are now those people instead of the less-experienced, more innocent versions of ourselves. 

We are those people as we celebrate August 21 of this year. This has certainly been one of the more challenging of our years together – I dare say the most challenging – but I’m quite thrilled to say that, despite that (and even in some ways because of it), it’s been one of our best. Why? How? You may ask… I contend it’s so because it presented the biggest test of our relationship. And we passed that test with flying colors! We rose to face obstacles, relied upon and clung to one another and navigated our way forward. Scott’s cancer diagnosis, surgery and chemotherapy, instead of breaking us, ultimately inspired us. Even through the fear, fatigue, anxiety, sadness… we persevered. And now we’re stronger. Thanks to our abiding appreciation for and admiration of one another. Thanks to an unparalleled degree of connection and silliness… we did it.

So today we have so much more to celebrate than simply the culmination of hanging in there for 26 years. Today we celebrate our resilience, our ability to cope with adversity and our dedication to making a life together – no matter what shit gets thrown our way.

Here’s hoping that our life calms down a little for a while and we get to enjoy the other side of the coin: the better – at least for a while.

And now for wedding music memories!

We each chose a song to dedicate to one another at our wedding reception. Scott chose And I Love Her by the Beatles for me: 

I chose George Benson’s Love of My Life for him:

I feel like I’d like to dedicate another song to my Scott today. It’s touched me through the years and I’ve even wished that I’d chosen it instead back then. Well, better 26 years late than never. So here’s Songbird, by Fleetwood Mac.

Posted in For this I'm Grateful, Life | Leave a comment

My Hair, My Self: A Lesson in Self-Love

or

Dr Strangelove: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Hair

(This post is part of a series chronicling my Women on the Verge journey. Read all updates in the series.)

The Women on the Verge experience is intense to say the least. I’m challenged more profoundly than I’ve ever been to question and step out of my comfort zones (which have a nasty habit of holding me back). At the same time, I’m learning to live with what is, discover and embrace my true self for its purity and beauty. And that brings me to the topic at hand… my hair.

Heady stuff, you say (and I applaud you for your pun, intended or otherwise…). Way to go deep, Gina, writing about something as mundane and superficial as your hair. Fair thoughts, yet I  hope you’ll indulge me because I think I’ve happened on an insightful analogy that may resonate with you too.

Nice bowl! Gina 2nd grade school photo

Kindergarten curls aplenty!

My hair has always been an… issue. I have fine hair strands, but there’s a lot of it. In its natural state, it’s wavy and has a wild mind of its own. This was unacceptable to my mom and older sisters, who thought I should sport a tidier hairstyle. As a result, as a young child I was shorn in a bowl cut by my dad’s best friend, Jonesy, who’d been a barber in the Army. Between Jonesy sessions, Mom took the scissors to my bangs and, well, try as she might, never got them straight, and always cut them too short. My hair would be set in rollers which resulted in a massive amount of curl deemed acceptably polished for church, holidays and school picture day. But it was the late 60s and the “pretty girls” all had long, flowing locks – usually straight – and of course I wanted to be considered pretty too. One look in the mirror, though, and I could see that my short-cropped wavy hair definitely did not fit the times. This was one of the first times I remember feeling unattractive because I looked different than what society was telling me was desirable.

As I got a little older, I somehow convinced the powers that were in my family to allow me to grow my hair a bit longer. Stern warnings followed about the importance of keeping it “under control.” I was to learn how to manage it myself and make sure that at no time did it appear “witchy” – in other words, unkempt or messy, lest it be cut short again against my will. 

Needless to say, I made it a point to learn how to make neat pigtails and braids and to set it in rollers myself. Although it was a little longer by this time it still would be considered short hair – especially by the standards of the day. Growing it beyond a certain point presented issues for my elders who were firmly convinced that the attributes of my fine hair made it the “wrong” kind of hair to grow to any greater length. 

To appease my begging for permission to have longer hair, my mom would give me permanents to create the body she felt it lacked. EEK! Instant frizz. It seemed there was no solution to my hair woes: It was always a bone of contention – with my elders or me. My hair was a curse upon my head; I became convinced that I was doomed to be out of style and unattractive for all eternity.

At the age of 13, mom convinced me to have a professional haircut – a shag, a la Carol Brady of The Brady Bunch. Never mind she was a grown woman well into her 30s – mom thought the look would suit me and so it was done. Hmmm… Awkward photos bear out the fact that I could not carry this look off AT ALL. At least the experience resulted in me acquiring some experience with a blowdryer and eventually a curling iron. The next few years included feathered bangs and wings as that damned shag grew out. I even remember a failed attempt at a “Dorothy Hamill” style. Nope. (And of course it didn’t work – my hair isn’t straight!)

The last years of my teens, I employed the tools of the trade as best I could trying to add a little current style to my “doomed to be awful no matter what” tresses. Then I met a boy who had a lot of opinions about my hair – and my entire look – for that matter. My first boyfriend (who became my first husband) decided that my undistinguished hair needed to be “defined” with full-on curly perms. And so for the next decade, my curls were artificial, but definitely present.

Eventually, the marriage dissolved – and so did my propensity to perm. I cut it really short again, tried three or four different colors, then grew it a bit, still the Holy Grail of hair satisfaction eluded me. I longed to feel that the hair on my head belonged there – and to love it. Other women seemed to have this; why not me?

Years later, serendipity struck. I developed a relationship with a REAL stylist. Not one in a chain in a strip mall but a talented, highly educated professional with her own studio. She had a way of making me feel beautiful every time I sat in her enchanted chair. What magic did she wield that no one before her had? The answer: She treated my hair like it was already beautiful. She didn’t refer to it as unruly, problematic or lacking in any way. She just trimmed it every five weeks and styled it. That’s all it took to make me feel okay about my hair – having it be regarded not as an abomination, but as okay.

Gina’s hair today – au naturel

I felt so okay, in fact, that about four years ago, we decided to try growing my hair – just to see what it would be like with some length to it. And you know what? As it grew, its natural curl came out – yes, curl. Turns out, that when my waves are properly cut and supported with the appropriate products, they manifest into glorious curls. Rather than taming, or fighting my hair’s natural proclivities, we embraced them. For the first time ever, I realized there was nothing inherently wrong with my hair. And I’ve never been happier with it. It’s as if we’ve finally met one another in our natural, unafraid, unthreatened, fullest selves.

The saga of discovering that my hair is lovable reminds me of the transformation my psyche is going through as I immerse myself in the healing seas of Women on the Verge. I now see that I’ve been wasting energy trying to be someone I’m not. After decades of disliking and disapproving of myself and being disillusioned with my life, I’m learning to assess the roots of those feelings. After countless changes of “style” and different approaches to my life, I finally realize that I was fine all along – it was only my perspective that was flawed. It’s been an opportunity for me to sit in that magical chair and experience feeling beautiful on the inside. I can now look in the mirror and love, rather than loathe, the real, authentic me. Why? Because I’ve stopped trying to be something I’m not; stopped trying to jam my round peg into that square hole. I am perfectly okay the way I naturally am.

And when I finally could see that – things got SO FUCKING MUCH EASIER! I don’t have to feel bad about who I am. There’s no reason to be ashamed to be myself. As with my hair, it has taken a good portion of my life to come to this conclusion. Hell, everyone who mattered to me had an opinion about the way things should be – it’s no wonder I incorporated their thinking into my own. I wanted approval and to be admired, like anyone else. In the end, it was recognizing their viewpoint as theirs and not necessarily mine that has set me free to love what is authentically me. 

What it took to bring out the best in my hair – and in me – ultimately, was the courage to weather  some “awkward stages.” Armed with knowledge and support, there’s no way we’re not going to reach great heights – or lengths – to keep with the whole hair analogy! So I believe I’ll keep on growing!

Posted in The personal development of Gina, Women on the Verge | 1 Comment

An Ode to “Almost”

On August 29, there will be SUCH a relief, a conclusion, a mic drop in our life. It will be the day that Scott’s chemotherapy regimen, which began on February 13, is FINALLY completed. All the appointments, worry, chemo – and emotional – exhaustion will all be over in three weeks from today. Twenty one days until we can catch our breath and call this ordeal we’ve been enduring – and trying to incorporate into our life – OVER. 

Yes, the end is nearly in sight – It’s almost here. We can feel it creeping into reality day by day. The closeness of it really hit home when we were scheduling our next haircuts a couple weeks ago. We usually schedule them five to six weeks in advance and when our stylist mentioned an available date, my first thought was to count to see if it was “pump off” day (the day that the wearable pump that delivers chemo to Scott for 46 hours after his “in chair” treatment is removed). But you know what? By the time we have our next haircuts, chemo will be over. There will be no more “pump off” days to work and plan around. In that sense, the end is right around the corner. 

Scott in the chemo chair for Treatment #4. Feels like last week – and forever ago.

This living with chemo experience quickly becomes the norm. It’s nothing short of amazing how the routine of chemo treatments becomes, well, routine. But as I said, it’s almost over. Three measly weeks. So close…and yet so far away from today. The fact that we can see the finish line with greater clarity, yet we’re not there is, honestly, a weird place to be. It’s still too early to celebrate the conclusion of chemotherapy because there are still two more treatments to endure. Even though he’s been told he’s tolerating chemo well, it’s not over yet. Two more times facing the chemo chair and thinking about the awful stuff they’re infusing into my Sweetie’s body. Two more times seeing him turn pale and develop dark circles under his eyes. Two more times of post-treatment fatigue and nausea watch.

How, I wonder with considerable regularity, have we gotten through this? This past year has been incomprehensible in so many ways and on so many different levels. We’ve faced things we’d never conceived, much less feared. One. Fucking. Day. At. A. Time. But gotten through we have – almost.

That’s not to say that there haven’t been dark, desperate minutes, hours, days… Even with the end in sight, we’re weary from the continual state of shock and fright we’ve been living in for the past six months: Times when one or both of us has wanted to scream, retreat, curl up into a fetal position and/or cry until there are no more tears in us. We’re often sad, scared, overwhelmed, confused and lost at sea all at the same time. We’ve been living with our breath held – and that part of the journey is now almost done. 

Sure, “real life” carries on as much as possible, and we’ve soldiered on as best we could, with our spirits buoyed with our ever-present irreverent humor and unwavering love. But we are forever changed, having been challenged, humbled and made keenly aware of our strength and true priorities. Difficult life lessons have been learned firsthand, whether we welcomed them or not.

So on the 29th, the pump will come off, he’ll receive a liter of intravenous hydration and be equipped with a Neulasta to boost his white blood count – same as the previous 11 pump-off days. Yet how will it be different knowing it’s the last time? It’s such a strange place to be almost done, yet not done. We want it to be over, but it’s not and we can’t know what that will feel like until it really is behind us. 

In the interim, we will celebrate our 26th anniversary on August 21. Who thought there’d ever be a day that rivaled our anniversary for personal significance? I’d say this date is almost as important – the day we put chemo behind us!

Posted in Life, Observations a la Gina | Leave a comment