When I was a young attorney, I lived with a man who had been a gymnast until he became too tall to qualify for such acrobatics.  He kept himself in good shape, and often strove to embarrass me by wordlessly lifting himself into a hand-stand while riding down escalators.  I stood mutely beside him, somewhat amused, pretending everyone’s boyfriend traversed to the lower level of Oak Park Mall upside-down.

I weighed about 90 pounds back then, and wore my hair in a frame around my face.  I favored skinny skirts and clunky shoes, and wore purple eye-shadow on the weekends when we went dancing at One Block West.  I served as a foil for his deft moves under the disco ball.  We drank til we felt tipsy and didn’t care who saw us or how we looked to anyone.  We played Hearts on Fridays with his best friend Larry and Larry’s wife Jill, and on Saturdays, the four of us went clubbing, on the Kansas side or in Westport, shunning any quality performers for the DJs spinning LPs and calling us to the big squares in the center of the crowded tables.

These days, when I can’t sleep, I stand outside on our deck beneath the starlit sky.  Quieter music fills my head, the memories of songs which have meant so much to me over the years:  James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt; John Prine and Emmylou Harris.  As the stillness calms me, I find myself dancing in the dark, slower now but with just as much abandon.  Just as much joy, and maybe, a great deal more serenity than thirty years ago.

A friend recently called and asked what a cryptic reference in one of MYWOC posts meant.  “What challenges,” said she.  “What’s happening?”  We talked for a while, first about my year, then about hers.  As our long-overdue conversation wound to a close, she asked me, “Why don’t you write about this stuff?”

I told her it would violate the Bashevis Singer Rule.

As any young person, early to mid-twenties, who went to pre-school or grade school or high school with my son can tell you, in our household “back in the day”, we lived by the Isaac Bashevis Singer gauge for defining a catastrophe.

Rumor had it that Mr. Singer gave a fledgling magazine the right to publish one of his short stories to help them gain credibility.  A while later, his publicist called, giddy with triumph.  “Mr. Singer!” she cried.  “Great news!  I sold one of your stories!”  Upon learning which one, the man himself quietly said, “I’m sorry, madame, but I’ve already promised that story to a new magazine that cannot afford my rates.”  The publicist gasped.  “Oh Mr. Singer,” she moaned.  “This is a catastrophe!”

“No, no, madame,” said he.  “It is not a catastrophe.  No little children will die from it.”

I cannot say if this story is true, though I read all of his works and feel that the person capable of penning such extraordinary tales, filled with compassion and tenderness, surely also could have held the sentiment that only the death of little children could be considered catastrophic.  What I can say is that once upon a time, I shared this sentiment and taught it to my son and the children who played, slept, swam, rode bikes and dined in our home and neighborhood.  I lived by the Bashevis Singer Rule, once upon a time.

I lost my way.  As I allowed myself to sink into the petty depths of a life plagued by half-spoken regrets and suppressed self-loathing, everything assumed monumental and superlative importance.  Any slight deserved scorched earth and vicious retribution.

This journey concerns, more than anything, my desire to regain a sense of proportion.  I strive to separate the critical from the trivial; the noble from the nagging; the catastrophe from that which merely annoys.  In other words, I want to reclaim my choice to govern my life by the Bashevis Singer rule.

And by that rule, unless little children will die, there is no catastrophe.  On this journey, my challenges have little relevance unless I allow them to dissuade me from my course.  Oh, I must overcome them; and yes, they often rattle my rest and tense my shoulders.  But the details of them need not concern any but my closest intimates, who share their own troubles with me over coffee, or in the early hours on my beloved porch.  As for this venue, suffice it to say that I have not yet met a hurdle which convinces me that I should not continue on my quest to live without complaining.  And so I shall continue, and I shall succeed, being a woman of great resolve, and very little shame.

I took all of the potted plants out into the rain this morning, tip-toeing around the drops in my pajamas.  The rain misted my hair, raising the curls to a frizzy mess.  I stood and surveyed my efforts, and I swear I could see the plants stretching to drink the heaven’s nourishment.

I spent the day preparing for an oral argument that I have tomorrow, reviewing everything that I’ve written and everything the other side has written, and a whole bunch that the Courts of Appeals have written.  I browsed the record, checked the legal file, and between times, munched on a few random things from the fridge.

Late in the afternoon, I heard from my stepson, whose strong and vibrant voice announced his impending arrival to get his car which had been parked in the back all summer while he rocked an internship at the Center for Hellenic Studies in DC.  Just after I moved the flowers back to their normal spots, on table and shelf, he bounded up to the house and folded me in his arms, greeting me with the warmth and enthusiasm that I so love about him.  I hear about his summer then send him on his way, a little sparkle of his youth lingering in the smile on my face.

As evening draws to a close, I feel ready.  The twenty minutes during which I will hopefully answer the Court’s questions will happen, and by and by, we’ll get a ruling.  I’m hoping for a good week, and gathering my angels around me.  I sit for a few minutes, in the calm serenity with which I strive to surround myself, as the sun sets, and the breeze lifts the tree’s leaves and sends a shimmer of lingering rain down to the sidewalk just beyond.

Be well, my friends.  Be at peace.  Mama Corinna loves you all.

As the rain starts, I step to the back door and let the little brown dog back into the house.  She’d been enjoying the cool morning air.  I had broken down and turned on the AC last night, not because it was unbearably hot but because the pressure had dropped, or risen, or whatever it does, and my asthma responded with its own signals:  Too close in here, get us air.  But I rose at six and when I went out to feed the cat, I felt the misty chill of impending rain and threw the windows wide open to capture the delicious wind.

Now I stare at the stacks on the table which I resist perusing:  Appellant’s submissions; respondent’s filings; research; legal file; transcript; notepads.  I have an oral argument in the morning and though I prepared once before now, I’m going to spend the day looking at everything with fresh eyes.  I apologize in advance to any friends whom I might neglect today.  I feel this day of renewed understanding of the record and the applicable law is necessary.  And it’s raining; what better day for staying indoors, playing some classical music on Spotify, and looking over the long history of one of my thankfully few trial losses?  Happy Sunday, every one.

My long-time friend Marcella Womack came to visit me today.  She lived next door to the Holmes house where I live in Brookside during Patrick’s toddler-hood.  She moved 17 years ago, and we lost touch.

Four years ago, or maybe five,  I bought a second-hand book in which a small piece of paper had been left.  That paper had been torn from the page of a scratch-pad and bore the printed words, “FROM THE DESK OF MARCELLA WOMACK”.  I recognized a sign when I saw one. I tracked her down, and we have been able to visit several times since, including today.  We keep in almost daily touch through social media.  She reads what I write; and I have read one of her four self-published books and plan to read the others.

She brought me an angel.  After she left, later in the day, I hung the angel on my porch.  It watches over me, as I know her spirit also does.  I feel safer.  I feel lighter.  I feel blessed.

When I got to the deck this afternoon, in a stolen hour between work and visiting my favorite curmudgeon, the sun had tucked itself behind a flimsy cloud.  Its rays pour down on me full force now.  I feel a bit sleepy, warm and indolent.  A long week trudges to a close.  The days have challenged me, sometimes clubbing me with their iron fists, sometimes touching me with the rising memory of other summer sunshine.

Out in the summer sun, I stop to wave at a neighbor and bid him good day, teasing him a bit about his banker’s hours.  On the other side of the street, I hear a couple who has lived here as long as I have calling to each other, from porch to car.  The edges of our sewn flag raise in the breeze.  I lift my face to the sun’s caress.  It’s Friday in Brookside.  What bothers me might lurk just out of sight, but for now, I can ignore it and let the heat woo me to a gentle drowsiness.