Tag Archives: gratitude

Decisions

Environment, Inspiration, Uncategorized, Writing, , , , , ,

Dear Readers,

IMG_9108I adore Mary Oliver and her poem, “I Have Decided” (from A Thousand Mornings, Poems). When I read this  (or much of her other work), I feel understood. Yes, that’s  what I mean to say  —what I think  —what I believe —want to believe… Yes, I’m following you. This is a precise capturing of  complicated thoughts and feelings  distilled into what feels to me like having the best ice cream sundae with a cherry on top on a  sunny day where everything is clear and you’re with your favorite people.

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I love that such big ideas are expressed in so few words. There’s nothing like reading something that resonates and feels true at exactly the moment I need to receive those words. They swirl around in my head, reaching into things I need or want to think about, or work on. They inspire me and answer questions I have and raise more questions, too. Gratitude to Mary Oliver.

Love and peace,

Elana

Ihavedecided

 

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Sadness and Gratitude Holding Hands

Inspiration, Parenting, Uncategorized, , , , , , , ,

Dear Readers,

There I was, writing about Kindergarten fears, when news of the shooting near the Empire State Building in NYC on Friday stopped me cold.

I started to write about that.

Then I learned that Jerry Nelson, longtime Puppeteer for the Muppets and Sesame Street, had died.

I started to write about that.

Then yesterday, the news that Neil Armstrong had also died.

I stopped trying to write and let it all sink in. I tried to focus on the good.

Two great men. Two kinds of heroes. Both figures that entered my world when I was just a toddler and have been around my whole life. Gone.

Jerry Nelson was immensely talented. He brought joy and learning to countless children and grown ups over his long and marvelous career.

I thought about watching Sesame Street as a child in 1969 when it first aired.

I found myself furiously sketching this:

Then I reached for a book, Sesame Street Unpaved, scripts, stories, secrets and songs by David Borgenicht

I thought of my friends who work at  Sesame Street and how sad they must be.

I thought about how incredibly fortunate I was to work there (on and off) in a variety of jobs for over 20 years. I first started working there in the early 90’s, just a few weeks before the late, great Jim Henson died. At that time, I was an intern, answering viewer mail. I’d never seen so many condolences letters. So many lives were touched and changed by his work. And we continue to enjoy his greatness even though he’s long gone from the planet. I think Jerry Nelson will also be remembered for a very long time, especially through his remarkable body of work as a masterful puppeteer, most notably as the creator and original performer of The Count, among many other characters.

How do you quantify or measure that?

I’m reminded of a quote attributed to Albert Einstein:

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

 Jerry Nelson’s  work and legacy lives on in the many characters he created; immortalized on film and video. It’s all there for us to enjoy for years to come. What a great gift we’ve been left with.

I thought about relationships and work colleagues. I met my husband at a party on the set of Sesame Street in 1995. Tomorrow, we’re celebrating our 12th wedding anniversary. I couldn’t be more grateful for that life changing moment when my friend, a writer for the show, introduced us. I love and admire her for many reasons. That moment, which has led us to 17 years together, is certainly one of the biggest reasons. That isn’t something I can quantify. It’s immeasureable. At the same time, it counts as a HUGE moment that altered my life for the better and in ways which I could not have imagined for myself.

Makes me think of when Andy plays the Elton John song so beautifully on piano, “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters” (Lyrics, Bernie Taupin):

“And I thank the Lord for the people I have found.”

Oh, yes, minus the Lord, for me, but yes, deeply thankful for the people I have found. And what a beautiful song that is.

I thought about how when loved ones die and leave behind a family, friends, colleagues, those people will never celebrate another living anniversary or milestone or ordinary day together ever again. Life can be gone in an instant. I’m grateful daily for the people in my life. Gratitude helps with my sadness. It grounds me in what is here now and it lives along with the sadness. It isn’t one instead of the other. It is both. Sadness and gratitude holding hands.

I thought about respect, talent, and a love of children. And a belief that all children have a right to a decent, good education that is free from war, violence, and sorrow. They have a right that we do our best to provide that. They deserve that we don’t stop working towards that.

Here, two great men, one from the arts, one from science–both made remarkable contributions to our country and the world. I think about science and the arts and that they’re equally important and they’re both connected by imagination, exploration, and discovery, by hard work and requiring an attitude of humility, and open minds that creates a pursuit of life long learning, which in turn creates progress. I want Max to have role models and heroes in every area of life. And I want him (and all the other children in this country and beyond) to grow up in a place where both science and the arts are recognized as being of value.

And where they intersect–in places like Sesame Street, counting, numbers, and math delivered in a fun, playful, accessible way. Art, math, and music together! Do you remember that Slimey the Worm also went into space? Sesame Street pretty much covers it all. Then there is flight, courage, space exploration, walking on the moon, and from that we have heard and seen some of the most poetic words and images. There was an opening up of imagination and expanding limits beyond what was possible that still inspires today:

 “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

–Neil Armstrong, First man to walk on the moon

I get goosebumps every time I see that footage. I was three when I saw it happen live for the first time. It never gets old.

I thought about a disgruntled worker, killing another. Someone lost their job a year ago, and on Friday, killed a man, and created panic and fear in the heart of NYC. The news says what it says. The same story spins around again.

I thought about guns and why our country is hell-bent on self-destruction, so heartbroken, fearful, and angry. Quick to pull the trigger. So desperately sad. I watch neighborhood children with their toy guns and their water guns, and I wonder why their parents can’t (or won’t) find them something else to do with their natural, human aggression? Why the guns?

Then I thought about people like Jerry Nelson who brought light and laughter into the world. Our world needs people in it who bring fun, light, color, movement, creativity, and music. Then I think about those who suggest the arts, physical education, foreign language, libraries, and classroom aides are lines that should (and are) cut from the budgets. They are deemed unnecessary. Really? Imagine a world without art, music, film, tv, theater, or books.

We need to give children a fighting chance to grow up by making our country safer and healthier. We need people who inspire learning and play. We need science and math and ALL of it. We need people to end hunger. We need people to fight poverty. We need people to teach in ways that support and nuture children, not just test them into oblivion.  We need business, too, of course, but not instead of people and their basic welfare and health. There’s a way to have both. Not all businesses are evil, far from it. But priorities must shift. Maybe remembering these two men will remind us all what people can become and accomplish if they’re nurtured, educated, and fed both literally and figuratively.

I see people are incredibly unkind to one another. The anger is spraying bullets through easily purchased guns. I came across this:

 “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

 —Dalai Lama

I can’t say I’ve never been unkind, I know I’ve been unkind, and I know I’ll likely be unkind again, because I’m human, and sometimes people are unkind.  But what if we made this our goal? Something that we work towards. At least something we attempt to do with our children. Each other. Our city. Our town. Our country. Our planet. The only thing I can come up with for today:  to the news of the violence, to the news of death, to the news of endings–is to send  out words, colors, love, and wishes for peace.

I choose a rainbow of colors, fur, monsters that don’t hurt, but teach us how to be human.

I choose marveling at the moon and the men who walked on it.

Thank you, Jerry Nelson for the years of amazing characters,  voices, and songs. I hope you rest in peace. You have made a difference in so many lives, including mine.

I love this quote from him I found in Sesame Street Unpaved:

 “Don’t give up, no matter how far away you are from the mark.”

 –Jerry Nelson

For my friends who knew Jerry Nelson personally, and who worked with him, some over a lifetime, you have my deepest sympathy and I’m sorry for your loss.

For Neil Armstrong, American Hero, I’ll see you in the moon, there to remind me what is possible when dedicated people work together for the greater good.

A long time ago, a little girl saw images on TV and they lit a spark that continues to inspire  today. Thank you.

With love,

Elana

all words and images copyright 2012 Elana Halberstadt except where noted otherwise.

A Graduation Letter to Max

Parenting, Uncategorized, , , , , ,

Dear Readers,

I’ve still got some graduating preschool/pre-K business to get off my chest. I’ve been wondering if I’m overly emotional or too sentimental or what. Last week, while signing cards for the teachers, I found myself crying. It really hit me that school is ending. There were several other parents in the room. No one laughed at me. I spotted tears in at least one other mom’s eyes. They said they felt the same way. One said that leaving preschool and moving on to Kindergarten wasn’t easy. That it can often be just as hard for parents, as it is for the kids, possibly even harder. She used the word, milestone.

So, because of that, I wrote this second post on the topic.  Maybe there are other parents who share some of my feelings. I hope so. If not, then call me  emotional, sentimental, whatever it is. I’m OK with that.

I won’t be showing this letter to Max anytime soon. But this  is inspired by, and for him, his friends, the parents and the teachers. This is my way of saying thank you to all the people who’ve brightened my life  the past few years. Thank you for everything.  

June 19, 2012

Dear Max,

Today is a big day for you and your class of friends, your teachers and assistant teachers, the staff, and the parents. Today is your graduation day.

It’s  been quite a ride. We’ve had our walks to school on sunny days. Sometimes we held hands. Other times you ran  ahead of me. I’d call out, “Max, stop at the corner… wait for me!” But you’ve worn your light up sneakers with super sonic powers and ran faster than me. We’ve had our walking chats and our in-the-car-chats on rainy days, too. We noticed things and said hello or good morning to them: flowers, trees, birds, stray cats, dog walkers.  We’ve skipped over cracks. You jumped in puddles. We talked about the sky, about everything and nothing.

 

You’ve come home with sand and wood chips in your shoes which I emptied out (and often forgot to empty out). Your clothes were caked with mud, dirt, and paint—proof that you’ve played well. You’ve told me about your days and kept secrets, too. Most days, you’ve played well and had fun. Some things remain mysteries. You’re more of your own person now. You have a separate life with details I can’t know.

As we neared this day, I watched the classroom walls become almost blank as your artwork and projects have been taken down and given to us to bring home. I’m adding these pieces to the enormous stash I’ve been collecting for years. Maybe one day, maybe when you’re in college, I’ll figure out a way to organize and store your art a bit better. Just so you know, I’ve kept everything. I love our walls covered in your art.

 

I noticed the class growth chart. I’m amazed by how many  inches you’ve  grown  since you were measured at the start of the school year, since you were born. You and your friends are taller, bigger, and stronger.  You’re growing  every day. Overnight, the sneakers which I bought for you just last month, suddenly don’t fit. Neither do the rain boots and of course it’s been raining a lot lately, so I yelled at myself for not having the next size ready. It’s time for new shoes, new boots, new everything. But it’s perfectly fine to want to keep mementoes and reminders of all the people you knew and loved, of places, of things that sparked your imagination or made you happy or made you  think.

I’ve made you the best lunch, the worst lunch. I’ve seen you come home with  no food touched, or everything gone. You’re hungry. You’re full. I feel like I never have the right food. If I have the right food in sufficient quantities, you immediately stop eating it. I can’t win.

 

I’ve dropped you off on time and congratulated myself on the effort, but we’ve been late a lot. I’m going to have to work on that schedule thing when it’s time for Kindergarten, but I know we’ll get there. I’ve managed to pick you up on time, but often it’s not the right time according to you. In your mind, I’ve picked you up too early or too late. I’ve learned to laugh that off. I couldn’t win this one either.

I learned to let some things go a bit easier. I forgive faster. Sometimes I needed help. But a parent/friend, or a teacher would help me see the light. There has been a village here. I’ve loved the come as you are, no judgment days. The doors held open for me, the doors I opened for others.  The comings and goings. The looks  parents gave each other to say, “I’m with you on this.” Or “I know what that’s like.” Or “I can see how hard this moment is for you and I completely understand.” Or “You look great today. New haircut?” Those glances and two-sentence-long conversations were soul saving and changed the course of my days from feeling desperate or alone, to hopeful and connected to others. You’re not the only one who can do an eye roll, mister. There have been hugs, and working out problems together. People have listened to me. I hope I listened to others.

 

You’re  writing. You’re learning to read. You’re jumping and leaping higher than ever. You  do somersaults and hand stands and climb up and down the playground fire truck, monkey bars like a spider, like a monkey, like yourself. You and your friends move like lightning. You’re all colorful, bright, shiny. You all sparkle. You make noise. You’re silent. Your laugh is the best sound on earth. You have also been my teacher.

You  dress yourself, use the bathroom, and clean up after snack or play time (you do this much better as long as I’m not around). Maybe one day you’ll also help clean up more at home, too. I need to work on that one. You  push me. You  test everything. I get that. I love you.

 

You still need me and your dad.

I know this because sometimes you curl up in my lap or reach for my hand. Because you say so using your words. I do my best to hear you and see you —”listening ears” and “detective eyes.” You’re proud of yourself for all the things you can do on your own. It’s still OK for you to come to us.

You and your friends have wonderful imaginations. You’ve started a band, written songs, put on shows, and have shared with us tales of Bartholomew Butterpants. The imaginary class friend, who, because of your marvelous descriptions and tales, has become real to us, but we can never see him because he’s only visible to you and your pals and only while at school and most certainly is not visible to mommy or daddy. Ever.

 

You’ve  learned (still learning) to make better choices (less throwing things, hitting, hurtful words). You’ve learned from your mistakes. You seem to have the capacity to forgive us parents our daily mistakes.  Overall, you forgive quickly—your friends or situations. Disappointments and  frustrations are a bit easier for you to handle. Some days are hard for you, though. Things are too much and you need more help. You’ve got big feelings. Everyone  at your school has helped you and your friends.

You might not even remember any of this when you’re older. But if you do, I hope you’ll remember the parts where you laughed a lot. We laughed a lot. There have been magical moments. I promise you, the fun isn’t over.

 

You went from needing The Goodbye Window, to a peck on the cheek and a “see you later.” Sometimes you ran to me as I left.  Running for one more hug and kiss. You’ve been comforted and  joined your friends in the “I miss Mommy/Daddy Club.” You’ve cried when I left. You’ve recovered. I’ve cried when I left. I’ve recovered. I missed you. I needed you to be at school so you could play and learn with friends and so that I could work. Think. I needed this time to get stuff done. I’ve had plenty of guilt about it. Less guilt about it. And on a handful of rare days, zero guilt about it. You’ve  run to me when I picked you up. You’ve run away from me when I picked you up, begging to stay longer. You win, Max! My timing sucks and probably will suck as long as I’m your mom because I’m your mom and that’s how it is.

You’ve said, “Brain match” when you and your friends wore the same color or exact same t-shirt or had a similar idea. You said, “It’s my choice.” I’ve said, “Use your words.” You’ve said, “Mommy, listen to my words!” and  ”This is my creation in my style.”

And you’ve made beautiful creations: drawings, paintings, necklaces, bracelets, light sabers, books, wishing wands, trees, hearts, flowers and so much more. You’ve collaborated with your friends on team projects and helped people by bringing food to a food pantry. I’ve loved  your enthusiasm for your school, teachers,  friends, and cubby. You’ve celebrated holidays, danced around the Maypole and splashed in  sprinklers. You’ve gone on field trips to the pumpkin patch, zoo, a grocery store, a fire station, the park, a pizza place, and to the pool. You’ve had jobs: line leader, snack helper, animal feeder, door holder. You’ve sung, danced, rolled around, and sprung up and down. There have been turtles, rabbits, a female bearded dragon lizard named Harvey, various insects, growing things.

 

You’ve come home full of ideas,  declaring, “We must get this special kind of bead.” Or “Mommy/Daddy, I know that already because I learned about it at school.” You’ve stated: “I love school/ I hate school/I want to go to school/I don’t want to go to school.” Being 3/4/5 has its ups and downs. It isn’t always easy or cute and it doesn’t always make sense. It hurts sometimes. I’ve tried to be there for you. I hope I’ve been there enough.

You’ve come home crying and laughing. You’ve fallen, scraped or bruised your knees, elbows, forehead, chin. You’ve been angry at me for so many things: leaving you, getting you, the wrong food, the weather, existing. I’ve tried to keep up with your needs, wants, and dreams. I missed the mark sometimes. I tried harder to get it right. I’ve let go of feeling that I’ll ever get it right. I learned Good Enough. I learned do your best, then let go.

You’ve begged me for play dates with your friends. We’ve had some. Not enough. Scheduling them is tough. But that gets into grown up schedules and boring stuff like work. Your friends have asked for play dates. We’ve had some. But again, not enough. Not as many as you would have liked. The ones we’ve had were great.

Today, you’re taking a big step forward and there are probably lots of thoughts and feelings  swirling around in your head, in the room, in this place. I’m  proud of you as I am every day. Yes, even on the days you give me a ridiculously hard time. Even as you dilly dally and postpone doing something I’ve asked you to do 3959 times. “Brush your teeth!” Or when you don’t listen when I say stop jumping off the couch (because you could  hurt yourself and I’m not feeling like a trip to the emergency room)—PLEASE STOP! I love you. I don’t always love  your behavior. But I’ve seen that it’s how it is for everyone. I understand that you’re doing everything you’re supposed to do for your age. I’m frustrated by you. I learn from you. I’m grateful for you every single day.

 

I  want to remind you that friends can stay friends even when they don’t see each other every day.

We can keep in touch with your friends (and my friends) and we can have play dates. We’ll always have good memories. Our friends are in our hearts.

It is hard to say goodbye.

I have a feeling that we’re gonna figure out this ending and the new beginnings as we go along. Just like we always have.

An ice cream sundae seems like a good way to start celebrating.

Congratulations, Max!

Love,

Mom

From the ending of a beautiful book:

The boy looked out toward the horizon.
The star glowed steadily, reminding him that
he still had a long journey ahead.
But it was his own journey,
his very own wonderful journey.

The Beginning.

Excerpt from The North Star © Peter H. Reynolds 2009, Candlewick Press. 

From the ending of another wonderful book:

And whatever you do—
now or later,
big or small,
loud or quiet—
whatever you do,
don’t worry.
Just try it.
Whatever you do,
whether near or so far,
I know you’ll be great.

You already are.

Excerpt from: Yay, You! Moving Out, Moving Up, Moving On  © Sandra Boynton 2001, Simon &  Schuster.

A Graduation Letter to Max, words and images © Elana Halberstadt 2012 except where noted otherwise.

I Want to Let Go But Not Give Up

Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , ,

On Wednesday, the eve of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, 5772, I heard the sharp buzzing of a neighbor’s leaf blower. I shut the window.  I turned to apples and honey and Max. The buzzing was a reminder that there will always be external noise. So, how to quiet the mind? The home?

Max tells me about his day. Little snippets of stories, just enough to make me wonder about all the things I don’t know. Just enough to imagine what his whole day was like (there was a prayingmantis, a popcorn party, and a page with typewritten letters, including m-a-x). I only know for sure the before and after. The clinging to me in the morning. The anger when I picked him up. A day book-ended by tears and soothed with snuggles and kisses. We dip more apples in honey. “This is sweet and good.” Yes, Max, sweet and good.

I’m feeling uncertain and fearful about so much that’s going in our country and world. On the flip side, I’m also determined and hopeful. For today, I want to believe that if I focus on what is directly in front of me, I can at least create peace here in our home corner. Nothing fancy, just our family, love, food, music, and being together. Removing ourselves from the world of chaos and what appears to be insanity at every turn. I don’t know what else to do, but allow this space. These few days to stop work and the ordinary routine. To slow down. I want to let go of all the mistakes I’ve made this past year (and years past). I must make room for the new ones to come. I need quiet.

If I’ve hurt you, knowingly or unknowingly, please forgive me.

Maybe I’m just a hopeless hippie who belongs on a farm picking flowers.  But should we give up on flowers? Air? Water? Our planet? I’ll pick flowers for the dinner table. It is a beautiful day.

Then there is pure joy. There is love.

Maxbarrow=Joy

I want to accept who I am and accept others for who they are, where they are. I want to get Max to school on time more often.

What comforts me: Music, dancing, reading, being near trees or water. A nap. Getting and giving hugs from my family and friends. Doing something to help someone else gives me an instant boost. Laughing. If I can make you laugh, my day is made.

Peace happens

I hope I live up to the promises I make.

For myself, I wish:

  • To have more patience.
  • To not let fear stop me.
  • To listen better.

I hope we all find a way to get through and around what the world throws at us. I wish, truly and sincerely, for peace everywhere. I mean peace in our hearts, families, work, and also peace on the streets, in our governments, and other seemingly crazy, tall order wishes that I harbor. Peace in Jerusalem. I’d like to believe. I want to believe, even when I don’t. I want to give up, and not let go. I want to let go, but not give up.

Peace Stamp

Max helped plant this apple tree given to him by his Saba (Grandpa) Jerry in April, 2011.

Newly planted Apple Tree, April 2011

It’s grown quite a bit, as you can see here.

Checking growth, September 2011

If nothing else, change is inevitable. Max and his tree are proof. I hope we all continue to grow and move forward, each with our wants, needs, and dreams. One day at a time, one moment, one pile of laundry, one sunrise, one sunset, one tantrum, one drop, one tree, one word at a time.

Beach wonders

I love my family, I love my friends. I love life. I think our planet is a beautiful place. I don’t want to give up. I hope we can keep the world spinning for one more year. I think it’s up to us.  And in the meantime, I look around and see what is beautiful and good right here and now.

I am thankful.

Love and peace,

Elana

PS. Up until the recent protests on Wall Street, I’ve been wondering,  where are all the hippie – young people protestors?  I really liked this post from Toni Nagy (on Huffpost Parents). “Wall Street: A Reason to Rethink Parenting.”