Erica Orloff's Blog

The web has gone rabid over the whole Abercrombie and Fitch debacle. I don't need to rehash it much. Weirdly unattractive CEO cites exclusionary reasons for not making XL sizes for women. There was the requisite backlash, some well-written responses.

But since it is a brand for teens, and since I write YA and middle-grade fiction, and since I speak at schools and am the writer-in-residence at a  high school, I spend a lot of time thinking about being a teenager--and I have contemplated this whole PR explosion. And while I find the CEO strangely creepy . . . and his comments obviously unkind, I actually feel like he is so obviously a jerk that his comments didn't bother me very much. They are almost cartoonishly ugly. No, what bothers me much, much more are real-world situations with women and size, the insidious ways women themselves send the message to other women and young girls--and themselves--that they are a number.

A dress size.

A set of digits on a scale.

Every single day--every day--on my FB feed, I will see at LEAST one woman write as a status some variation of: "I ate a cupcake and feel gross--looks like I'll need to hit the treadmill for two hours tonight after work" or "I just ate a Hershey bar and feel SO guilty. I had been doing so good on my diet.#FAIL." Those are the obvious ones. Then there are the status updates about diets and trainers and hip sizes and waistlines and skinny jeans and fat jeans.

What message does that send to our young girls?

I feel like I know this firsthand in an extreme way, in a way that has stunned me more than once recently in particular. For years, thanks to steroid treatment for Crohn's (first-line treatment, before biologics, is often prednisone, which has a side effect of rapid weight gain), I carried on me an extra twenty pounds, easy. Because I am very tall, close to six-feet with my cowboy boots on, I could carry it OK. A size 14. Not a "small" woman because of my height. I also had a baby after 40--the now somewhat infamous Pirate Boy. And so the "baby" weight remained as stubbornly as the "prednisone" weight. I frankly never cared. I had a healthy baby. And since all my pregnancies were extremely high risk--and since I had lost a baby before I had him . . . pounds were insignificant. I created a LIFE, people. One look at his dimples and my brain turned to mush. "Fat jeans? What fat jeans?"

Then two years ago this June, the Crohn's disease that has plagued me since my twenties came out of remission in a BIG, splashy, show-stopping, miserable way. It attacked my eyes for the first time. It attacked my joints. I haven't slept through the night in two years because of joint pain. Some days, I literally hobble to the shower, turn on the hot water so no one hears me sobbing, and climb in, hoping it loosens things up enough that I can get through the day. And in the last two years, I've lost, as of this morning, about 55 pounds.

I've dropped 6 sizes or so.

And women--not men, but WOMEN--say things like, "Is Crohn's contagious? Because I'd love to have it for three or four months." They're joking, so I don't take it personally. But really?

Picture the last time you had food poisoning. The clutch-your-gut, doubled-over-agony kind. That's Crohn's. Ten times a day--on a good day. Fifteen on a bad day. Add joint pain so bad you feel like someone is stabbing you in your hips, your knees, your ankles. Thanks to prednisone, you ruptured the tendon in your right leg, so any time you walk for long, that leg aches. Your vertebrae are bone on bone. The prednisone that you took at age 28 is now destroying you like the Wrath of Khan. Your fingers are frozen in the morning, so that you can't even open your childproof medicine bottles without pain. Your eyes are blurry and burn. I could go on, but I'll spare you the details. You DON'T want this disease, ladies. Not even for three months so you can drop a dress size. Yes, I can eat cookies every night. But no, cookies in NO WAY make up for the pain.

But more than that . . . why are women so fixated on a number? No man has ever jokingly asked if he could rub my arm and get Crohn's disease for a couple of months. Not once. Women I find utterly BEAUTIFUL, but who might carry a few pounds, fixate on their pants size. I want to--and DO--tell them, "You have your HEALTH, so enjoy. You are gorgeous!!"

At the end of your life, we all know that line that no one is going to say, "I wish I'd spent more time at the office." They're also not going to say, "I am so sorry I had dessert. I wish I'd turned down the cheesecake."

Life is too short not to have the cheesecake.

And yes, I do understand that we are facing an obesity epidemic in this country. So it is about moderation. While I joke about eating cheesecake (and really, I'm from NY, so I don't ever joke about real NY-style cheesecake, but I digress), my disease makes eating difficult. I eat very, very small meals, if at all. And so the heaping portions, enough for three people, that I see at restaurants for ONE person kind of make me queasy. But for me, it's all about being at peace with the food you eat. Eating when you are hungry. Stopping when you are full.

I also do know there is fat-hatred in this country. I used to follow a fitness guru on social media. One day, she posted the Dove plus-size real beauty ad as an example of "thin-shaming."(Who knew?) Suddenly dozens of women chimed in that they were very thin and were sick of people commenting on their thinness, when no one would comment on being a bit plump (which I disagree with--people DO comment on plus-size, but no matter). I commented that I think the point behind the ad was media misrepresentations of real women, and unrealistic expectations for our daughters--body sizes that are not attainable in post-pubescents without extreme dieting, for example. The claws came out. The guru, rather shrilly, said the campaign was a fake and she wanted to see "stretch marks" and the "gross" side effects of being overweight. Many women chimed in agreeing with her--a chorus of fat-shaming. And so there it was. Again. Women shaming other women.

So what DO I want to say to my daughters? To the beautiful teen girls I see in the classrooms I visit? What do I want to appear on my Facebook and Twitter feed? What do I want to SAY to young women?

Have a cupcake without punishing yourself.

LET GO of the guilt you have about food.

Stop and consider--there really are people who cannot eat, who have illnesses that rob them of the ability to eat food without pain. ENJOY your food. Eat mindfully. Appreciate the spectrum of foods you get to enjoy. Go ahead. Enjoy it for me. Have the cheesecake if it brings you joy at the end of your meal. Have it INSTEAD of your meal if that makes you smile on occasion.

Love the body you're in.

If you've veered toward the unhealthy end of the spectrum, start with little steps, healthy replacements of one habit at a time. But don't HATE yourself until you get to where you want to be.

Keep it about healthy.

Don't give a crap what some CEO says or what anyone says about your body--and sadly, that may include your own mothers who may not have made peace with their own bodies.

You are NOT A NUMBER.

Life is too short for the scale or the cheesecake or the size of your jeans to have any correlation to your happiness. Your self-worth.

Love yourself for the beautiful that is INSIDE. And the outside? It's awesome too, whatever the size.

Namaste.

I've learned a lot mothering this strange and wonderful creature. In fact, choosing just ten was difficult. But here they are:
Life is not lived in a straight line. We do not go ANYWHERE in a straight line. All paths are meandered and sometimes pulled along. However, along the way, we will see things we might have missed like bird feathers dropped on the ground, or rocks that he is convinced absolutely come from the moon. And who knows? Perhaps they did.  Life is best lived out LOUD. Life isn't quiet. It isn't meant to be quiet. It is meant to be loud and messy and silly sometimes. And even when we fight--loudly, too--then all the better for bear hugs and kisses to make up.  Be thankful for the heartaches a soft blanket can fix. Right now, he has five soft, furry blankets. Life is better with soft, furry blankets--particularly for kids with sensory issues. But oh, if life could just stay frozen for a little longer  . . . that all problems could be solved by rolling yourself up in a nest of soft blankets.  Fall asleep holding hands. Look, he isn't going to college falling asleep like this. So for now . . . you know, there's no better way to fall asleep . . . Someday he'll fall in love and someone new will take my place. But for now, yes, falling asleep saying, "Good night, sleep tight, and don't let the bed bugs bite--but THEY MIGHT!" and then holding hands . . . well, enough said. Because . . . of the next number. Life is short. No further commentary needed.  Fret not about the mean people. Pirate Boy has an uncanny ability to see the world with vivid clarity. There are the nice people. And the mean ones. And when the mean ones do you wrong, don't look backwards.   Love your cat. Love your dogs. Love your hamster. Love the weird tri-ops that hatch and are descended from dinosaurs that you got in some weird kit. Just love them. Love the birds we feed at the feeders. Hate the squirrels. Yeah, we have some standards.  No matter HOW BAD YOUR DAY IS, no matter how sick, no matter how much you hurt, no matter, no matter, remember a Pirate Boy loves you. That is enough of a reason to pick yourself up and keep going on. If only all of you reading this could have a Pirate Boy of your very own.   Believe. Believe in things other people don't. Believe that streaks of clouds across the sky are dragon plumes. Believe in talking animals. Believe in places like Narnia and Middle Earth. BELIEVE with every ounce of your being--even more when the rest of the world wants to tell you they are nonsense. Just believe. Because you can.  Life is lived better naked. All right, maybe not all the time. But really, life is lived better BEING WHO YOU ARE. Don't ever, not for a minute, pretend you are someone else for another human being. Just Be. Who. You.Are.

The man lied.

I am not sure at what point someone crosses over from "someone who lies" to "liar." I actually looked up the definition of "liar" on Webster's while sitting here, and the dictionary is pretty clear-cut: "someone who lies."

But I think if we each search ourselves, we all occasionally lie. White lies. Maybe we're put on the spot. Liars, in our lexicon, tend to be the ones we think tell the insidious lies. Or they lie all the time. They lie to hurt. They lie for self-preservation despite knowing they hurt.

In the time I knew this man, he lied. More than once. With devastating results.

But out of those events, there are two truths.

There is the "truth." If you had put a tape recorder in the room on that day, there was what he said on tape. How do I know I didn't misunderstand? Or maybe misinterpret? Aside from an aural photographic memory--ask anyone, have always had it--what he said was SO chilling that my teeth chattered. It hung in the room, and I thought the temperature dropped a few degrees. I knew that what he said was going to hurt someone (another person) deeply. There was no mistake. But then he walked out of that room, and went to a meeting two days later and denied--outright--that he said what he did. And the fallout from that lie, like toxic dominoes falling down, resounded through quite a few lives, including my own. So there was "truth." What was said.

But then, there was Truth. The search to make sense of the aftermath.

Truth--with a capital T--is a winding journey. It's ongoing, in every single aspect of my life. It isn't confined to that event, or one event, but to all events. My blog, actually, has been a mult-year, nearly 1,500-post (holy CRAP, have I really posted that many times?)  search for my own Truth. In fact, over the last couple of years, a few times I have had people challenge my Truth, try to take it away from me. Perhaps it would be more convenient if I didn't say what I did on this blog or in life. Or maybe I should view things differently--whatever it is. But the thing about Truth is it's your own.

And mine is utterly unwavering. A gift of growing older, I sometimes think, though age is no guarantee of knowing the Truth.

Which is not to say someone cannot change my mind. No, that's being close-minded. I will try to listen to others' perspectives. Sometimes if only to try to understand how the heck it is they can believe what they do. Or, as a novelist, to try to understand motivation. I have often asked myself how certain people can look at themselves in the mirror. I don't know. And so I do study people. All the time. Occupational hazard.

It's also not to say the man who lied didn't have his own Truth. That lying was a faster way to accomplish what he felt needed to be done. Or maybe he hated women. Or maybe just me. Just because we might not like someone else's Truth doesn't mean it's not theirs.

For Truth is the bedrock of who you are. For me, it is absolutely a commitment to be kind. It is a sureness in the fact that my children are the center of my Universe. It is knowing what I value. Knowing who I love.

I often quote a scene in the movie Adaptation, in which one brother cannot understand how his sibling told a woman he loved her when he knew damn well she didn't love him back.:

You are what you love, not what loves you, I decided that a long time ago.

I know what I love. That is my Truth and always will be.

And that is what I hope to teach my children. Peers are so influential, but deep, deep inside you know the Truth. You know right from wrong. You know it. So hold tight to it.

You can't control the world around you.

People lie. People will hurt you. That is human nature.

Good things will happen. Wondrous things. Riches may land at your feet, or fame.

But Truth is something you must constantly seek. Your Truth. No matter how painful. No matter how uncomfortable it might make you sometimes. Know thyself, and you won't lose your way. Or even if you do, you will find your way back again.

I don't plan my blogs. Ever. I don't write them in Word and edit them and then paste them in here and press Publish. 

I sit down. I write. And what comes out is my Truth. 

I don't self-censor. I don't censor. Period.

I'm working on a memoir--part Mommy Memoir (from my adventures as a Pirate Queen with Pirate Boy), part spiritual quest in my journey through chronic illness. Part funny. Part poignant. All True. Over time, from my Pirate Boy Tweets and Facebook quotes, I've heard from at least a half-dozen editors and agents about it. The proposal is ready . . . and one thing I kept in mind while writing was advice from a wise agent. "Don't bother writing a memoir if you aren't going to be honest."

My guess is a couple of people won't be happy when they read it. Well, they should have conducted themselves a little more nicely. A lot of people, I think, will laugh and cry. But in the end, what ended up on the page was Truth.

I own mine. It's my most precious treasure. And it is my hope that those I love know theirs. That you know yours.

Thoughts?

There are times when there are no words.

Pirate Boy and I have been on a news blackout since last Friday. It started, quite accidentally enough, with him coming home sick and glassy-eyed on Thursday. By Friday, the two of us had made a fort of my king-sized bed while his fever knocked him flat--but he wanted mommy near--and I worked from a laptop. It was there I learned of the tragic events and decided I had no words. Every time I ventured out of my Pirate Fort, what I saw upset me too much. Oh, the news was horrific enough to make me sob. But it was the rush to say, it was the media's "fault." Or This is what happens when you take prayer out of schools. Like a moment of prayer each day would prevent this. I don't pray. But I teach compassion to my children. There were other pundits and other comments in social media that defied common sense. The idea that it's any ONE cause is simplistic. Anyway, whatever it was I saw in social media, much of it upset me even further. So we stayed in our Pirate Fort and read Narnia . . . we watched Arthur Christmas (Pirate Boy: "Four gold doubloons!" Mom: "Fabulous for kids and adults alike!"), we worked on the novel we are writing together. We cuddled under a furry blanket. A PURPLE furry blanket I won in a Christmas gift exchange at my book club. For a kid with sensory issues, (fake!) fur is a very good thing. We told bad jokes. We played Where's Waldo. He ran fevers of 103. I worried. He slept. He kicked me in his very fitful, moaning sleep. It's now three nights and I've managed a grand total of seven and a half hours sleep spread over four days. I am starting to sound loopy when I speak. I look like something our cat dragged in. Last night his dad was supposed to take over so I could rest. Didn't happen. Now I look like something our cat dragged in and REJECTED.

But there are no words. Nor should there be, really. None of us have words for what is unimaginable. For those parents. As someone who processes the world through my writing, there are simply no words. I can't lift up prayers. Words fail me. I shed a lot of tears. And sometime in the night I thought of what I do have as my words. As the names were released . . . I saw 6, 7, 6, 7, 7, 6 . . . these age numbers that were so tragic. And my sleeping Pirate Boy? He's seven. It's a magical number. Or should be. And so for my own solace, I decided to write about how beautiful seven is. He is not every child--far from it. He's Pirate Boy, after all. He's my child. How I feel about him is uniquely our love story, just as every parent has his or her love story with his or her child--or should. It should have a natural progression of things. It should be loving. But I know that's not always the case. And I know the natural order is too-commonly not so. But this is my seven.

At seven, his Santa is real.

"Some of my friends don't believe."

"That's absolutely insane."

"I know. They don't believe in dragons either."

"Don't they see dragon plumes across the sky? Their smoke?"

"They think that's from airplanes."

"How sadly mistaken they are. Well . . . I'm really old, and I still believe in Santa. I believe that deep down there is a child in every person. And sometimes that gets lost. But for the lucky ones, the ones who believe, Santa lives on forever."

"He's like thousands of years old, right?"

I nod wisely.

"I believe. I really want that wolf puppy. But I'll be happy with a cotton candy machine."

I believe too. The wolf puppy? Not happening. But shhhhh . . . the cotton candy machine? Wrapped! By elves!

At seven, there are no straight lines. Anywhere. Walk outside with Pirate Boy and you will meander. You will find worms and ladybugs. You will find pennies on the ground--magic wishing pennies discarded by busy people who didn't know their real worth. You will find perfect autumn leaves and rocks that have flecks of REAL gold on them. You will see strange patterns in the muddy ground left by aliens. You will see bear tracks on the front lawn. You will see magnificent dragon plumes across the sky and know lurking nearby must be wizards and knights. You'll know that while wishing on the white seeds of blown dandelions may ruin a neighbor's yard, those wishes will most certainly come true.

Even in the supermarket, straight lines do not exist. With Pirate Boy, there is a meander toward the Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and Krispy Kreme donuts, even when those items aren't on your list.

At seven, the mysteries of the Universe know no bounds. How do we get to Narnia? If everyone in the world leaves Santa cookies won't his stomach eventually explode into a huge mess? What about the reindeer? All those carrots! And do they poop on your roof? What causes a shooting star? Is there really life on other planets? If I plant this apple seed, how fast will I have an apple orchard? Like . . . one year or two? I speak cat but not dog--can cats and dogs talk to each other? Why do teenagers sleep so much--what's wrong with them? If I flush ice cubes down the toilet, will that make it snow? Why do people get sick? Why are some people just mean? Is "Youstinkistan" a real place? What about Middle Earth?

At seven, Pirate Boy tries to pin me down. Do I believe in angels? Ghosts? God? Leprechauns? Fairies? Dragons? Unicorns? Big Foot?

Seven is innocent mixed with naughtiness. It is armpit farts and passing gas on command. It is mooning his sister, and saying "shut up," even when he's been told a thousand times not to. Only . . . this week, one of his little friends said it to HIM and he realized how "not nice" that is. So now he says he won't say it ever again--except to his nemesis--his fifteen-year-old sister. It is swearing to me that he has NO IDEA who wrote on the walls. No IDEA who appeared to use the front of his shirt as a napkin. No IDEA who used an entire bottle of shampoo in the shower to make bubbles. None whatsoever!

Seven is possibility. It is when you think you really might be President of the United States and declare every Sunday as "free Dunkin' Donuts Glazed Munchkin day!" You might fly to the moon. You might be Pope, even though you aren't Catholic. You might break the world record for fastest talker. Or maybe the one for collecting the most pennies. You might become a world-famous rockstar and buy your mom a house, even though your guitar is currently missing one string--and you don't know which one it is.

Seven is knowing--because Mommy has told you--that no, you can't go wandering off alone by yourself in a store because the world isn't always a safe place. But it's just a concept. And Mommy is glad it's just a concept. Beyond grateful even. Seven is now, being told that when you go back to school Monday, you may hear that at another school something bad happened. But that you are safe. In our Pirate Fort. And can't we just stay here a little bit longer? Oh that every child had a Pirate Fort.

Dear Santa:

The barefoot boy at right is what happened when I tried to take Christmas pictures two years ago. Time flies. He flies. He ran out of the photo frame every time I tried to snap. I was lucky he was dressed anyway. Shoes aside.

Everyone around here has a Christmas list. I thought I would write mine. My list has a lot of things on it that you don't have in your bag. At least I don't think you do. But that's OK. Kind of like giving "God" a wishlist, I don't think the Universe--or Santa--works quite that way. But I'll play along.

First, it's about time. I need you to slow it down. You see, I can't believe how much that little Pirate Boy has grown. There's got to be a law against that. To keep him little for just a bit longer. His oldest brother is going to head off to college next year. I get it. It's the natural progression of life and all that, but . . . damn, the house is just not going to be the same without him.

While you're at it? An extra day in each week. I just can't get everything I need to done. My to-do list is way too long, and I just shuffle my list from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday . . . to . . . you get the idea. It's a mother's lament.

A laundry elf? Come on. You must have them up there.

Now, here's the thing . . . I used to want a cure. For Crohn's. But I realize you live at the North Pole and not the Mayo Clinic. I'm a realist. Each morning--or usually the middle of my night--I wake in brutal pain. And every, single solitary day--I am talking no days off--it's a choice to get up. I consider maybe staying in bed. But it's a choice. And I will even go so far as to say it takes a little courage. Maybe not running-into-a-burning-building courage. But it takes peering in the mirror and deciding to go on. Every day. I'd like that choice to be easier. To BOUNCE out of bed just once--even with my pain meds. But damn if I haven't learned I have an iron will. So . . . for what it's worth, I don't ask for that anymore. I get along.

I think that's why the Universe gave me Pirate Boy, Santa. I really do. If he was an easier kid, I might assume someone could take care of him if I wasn't here. But no one gets him. Not his father. No one. So here I am. He's stuck with me.

I'd like guitar lessons this year. I know. Silly, right? But I realize I am getting lost. Yes, I know, I know, you gave me a GPS last year. I AM directionally challenged. But my to-do list is so utterly overwhelming, largely because I'm exhausted and it's hard to get through that list. So it grows. I'm drowning in list, dude. And I don't know where I am anymore. I can't remember the last book I read for pleasure. The last bubble bath I took (all right, yes, the tub is broken and I need a handyman--preferably one with ripped abs). My significant other asked if I want a day at the spa for Christmas. I laughed in his face. On WHAT DAY does he think I can go to a spa and not come home to fifteen crises that occurred? Nope. But I think I can manage one hour of lesson every week. For me. With a cute guitar teacher. Hey, you know . . . I have priorities.

I would like a day where I don't have to pick up after anyone. But then I remember, Santa, to be grateful for my rotten little urchins. They keep life interesting. They love me. Fiercely. And I love them.

So in the end, Santa . . . I don't think I'm going to get anything on my list. Chances are there won't be anything under the tree with my name on it.

But that's, OK. 'Cause in the end, like special ornaments on the tree, I have all these amazing memories hung of Christmases past. Of my kids being little and dancing to the Peanuts Christmas music. Of the year Oldest Child got the Barbie pool and the Barbie car and the . . . you get the idea. Of meals shared. Of wrapping 'til all hours with my bestie while watching Christmas movies. Of my own childhood Christmases and people long gone but always near in my heart. So thanks for all that.

Love ya, Big Guy,

Erica


P.S. ONE MORE IMPORTANT THING: Pirate Boy has asked for a wolf-dog. Under NO circumstances should you feel obligated to bring one.

P.P.S. Oh yeah, Peace on Earth, for people to be kinder to one another, for people to remember the lonely at this time of year. All of that stuff too.

My mother raised me in such a way that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

Seems a relatively simple philosophy. I tell her all the time she's a Buddhist but just doesn't know it yet. But so many people can't even follow that one simple thing. Be nice. Play nice. Share. Don't say unkind things to each other. Speak nicely. Say please and thank you. Apologize if you mess up.

So on Sunday Pirate Boy and I were driving around. We ended up getting behind a bunch of traffic leaving a church.

"Where are all THOSE people coming from?"

"Church. That church over there."

"Oh."

But I always worry. Does he NEED a church? Even if I HATE church, should I give HIM one? So I asked, for not the first time, and likely not the last, "Do you WANT to go to a church?"

He shrugged. "Didn't we try that already? Didn't we used to go to one?"

"Yeah."

"Why'd we stop?"

"It's complicated."

"That just means you don't feel like telling me. Tell me. I can handle it. I'm seven!"

I glance over at him as we're stuck at the light.

"We went to a church, but then some people in that church did some very, very mean things. They said mean things. Hateful things. So I left. And I took you with me."

He put his fists up, ready to fight some unseen bullies. "People said MEAN THINGS TO MY MOM?"

"Yes. Horrid things I will not repeat to you. Because it would make you sad."

"Okay, so didn't other people stop them?"

"Nope. The bullies won."

"Let me get this straight," he said. "There are MEAN people who go to church? And the nice people left? Isn't that against the rules of churches?"

"You would think so. But not always. Hence we spend Sundays with you in your underwear and me in my sweatpants."

"That shouldn't be. In church everyone should be nice. And if they're not nice, they should say they are sorry. And if they aren't sorry, they should be kicked out. And on top of that, people should fix it. They should fix what they did to you."

"All of this is moot. It won't be fixed. But I could find you a different church. If you wanted. Really. Like don't you think you might like Sunday School?"

"Nope." He made fake vomit noises. "That's what I think of church."

"Try not to do that around other people."

More fake vomit noises. He's really good at it.

"People should just be nice."

"I know."

"Is there a church of nice?"

I sighed. "I don't know. Maybe. I haven't found it yet."

"We'll just have our own church. And if you're mean, you're just kicked out."

"Deal," I said.

"Gimme a fist bump," he replied.

We fist bumped. The first secret handshake of the Church of the Pirate.

Our rules are simple.

Be nice.

Speak nicely to one another.

Share.

If you screw up or say something mean, say you're sorry.

Bullies are put in time-out until they can learn to behave.

Simple enough.

As the Dalai Lama says. My religion is kindness.

Eye patches and swords on Sunday are optional.

I used to pray.
Probably not the way you pray--who knows? Prayer is so personal. But I would just, rather unceasingly, chatter up to the universe each day. This or that. Nothing of importance. Everything of importance. And I was rewarded with messages. Like Paul McCartney. Getting into the car and PRECISELY at that moment, "Let It Be" coming onto the radio. Signs.

I saw signs all around me.

A perfect cloud in a pristine blue sky. A finch at my bird feeder. Rain on the roof on a cool autumn day while I was snuggled in bed. Pirate Boy's grin. Pirate Boy sleeping. Miracles in each day.

Signs.

And then I stopped praying. I could go into why, but the short version is the unkindest people, as a group, I ever encountered, were at a church. Jesus H. Man-in-the-Moon, I am so done with organized religion I have forbid my children to say prayers for me at my cremation. I would rather they play Springsteen. But other things too. One of my children converted to Islam and is the most loving peace-abiding hippie-sweetie I know--but you can bet I heard it from relatives (not friends--only relatives). The ones who don't know me well. I just saw and heard enough veiled and not so veiled unkindness related to the issue of God for a couple of lifetimes. And so, by the time I got very, very sick again two summers ago, when I would pray, all I heard was silence. Where was Paul McCartney when I needed him?

I stopped lighting my Buddha candles. I forgot about my little St. Jude candle here. (I'm nothing if not a smattering of faith, hope, and love). I was honest about it. When someone would post on FB or Twitter, "Please pray for . . ." whatever it is they were facing, I would write back, "I don't pray, but I will think good thoughts." I would light candles for others, but never myself. Ever. Still don't.

The silence at times was deafening. One of my best friends . . . her mom got very sick. I prayed for HER. I was extremely rusty. So the prayer was more like, "You know this woman is special, and her daughter is so dear to me, and she needs her mom, so look, Dude . . . if you could intervene . . . um . . . you know, just wake her up out of this coma she's in." Now the woman is DRIVING again. Miracle? Did God say, "Holy crap, I heard from Orloff again after a two-year silent treatment, I better take care of this"? I don't know.

In the Silent Years, the McCartney-less years, it was easy to be cynical. Oh, I saw a lot of love, but then the election cycle came. If I had to hear one more man make national news for not "getting" what "real" rape is, I was gonna vomit. The cacophony of UGLY and hate was so loud, I had to take news breaks. I like to be informed but . . . nope. I was done. Toast.

So where am I now? Oddly enough the photo above is a show of support to the Single Dad Laughing blogger, who came out of the closet this week. He lost over 2,000 subscribers that day. He gained many more. He believes Love is Louder. I don't know that it is. There was a time when I did. The McCartney Years. Now I tend to think it isn't but it CAN be. The thing is . . . we can't be complacent about it. We have to make the connections, tell someone we love them, pick up the phone. Reconcile. Make the first move. Speak up when we see someone being treated unkindly. Find our voice. Use it.

There is nothing more uncomfortable--and believe me I have been there--than being in a group of people who believe you are "one of them." Happens to me all the time. At a cocktail party, for instance, three years ago, when a woman was railing against the idea of gay marriage, just going on and on. It wasn't that I had a problem with her politics--they were her politics not mine. But it was that she felt completely safe "going off" on the topic, confident that here in conservative Richmond, Virginia, at a cocktail party of all-white middle- to upper-middle-class people, likely all church-goin' folks, that she was with a whole host of people who believed as she did. And so I spoke up. Quietly. Then I left the party. I remember my heart kind of pounding. And I thought, "If this is hard for me, then how hard is it to be in high school and speak up when kids are hating on whatever it is they are hating on"--pick a minority, an Other, gay, autistic, geek, loser, stoner, whatever. I saw that at the church I once went to. Love was NOT louder. It was SILENT.

These are still the Silent Years for me. I don't pray. I light candles again. That's sort of a prayer. I garden. But then I realized, maybe I've been praying all along. I just didn't realize it.

Because I've been LOVING all this time. I love. Out. Loud. I sing loudly too. Off-key Christmas songs. I love deeply--my kids and my friends. With a Mama Bear fierceness.

Love is louder. It's louder than the silence.

The theology of Paul McCartney is true. 'Cause he wrote:

 And in the end . . . the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Thoughts?

Is love louder in your life?

He transformed a theatre into a party. I was, without a doubt, the oldest person at the Macklemore concert, having camped out for hours in the encroaching cold to stand at the stage, front row. I've been to countless concerts. Like a lot of music lovers, I mark events and years--first time I saw Springsteen at the Meadowlands, first time I saw Bob Dylan, first time I saw R.E.M.--by the music I went to see. Like those for whom life has a constant soundtrack, the passage of years is traced by songs and mix tapes and CDs, and whole decades can slip by when I hear the first bars of Your Dad Did by John Hiatt because I remember the strange mix of deja vu-type awe and excitement the first time I heard it. But without a doubt, the Macklemore show in Charlottesville, Virginia, was the best concert I have ever been to. Me, the white-haired lady in the front row amidst a writhing mosh pit of kids waiting for the guy to crowd surf, stripping down to a tank top in the heat of the place. But best of all, it was a first. Not only because I had never been to a Macklemore concert before, but because I took my youngest daughter and her best friend, who has become like my other daughter, to their first--but undoubtedly not their last--club concert.

I love this rapper for a lot of reasons--his storytelling, weaving his struggle with sobriety through his lyrics, his sense of humor (he did write "The Penis Song")--one of which is his adoration of baseball. Like music, for the fan of the Boys of Summer, you mark the passage of time by games. My first World Series game--I was THERE . . . times you saw homers hit by your heroes. I would never have imagined, in my adopted city of Richmond, Virginia, that I would become a fan of minor league ball. This is the team that plays toss the toilet seat on the plunger between innings. But taking in a game now means going with my dad or one of my kids and sitting in the evening sun, the beer and the pretzels, the noise, doing the wave, talking about nothing, yelling at the ump for bad calls, aimless nights of companionship. I don't think my dad can even see the ball anymore, but it doesn't matter. In the stadium it's about something more.

Live long enough  and you mark your life by firsts. First time you fell in love, first time you were kissed, first prom, first baseball game, first concert, first Broadway show, first  . . .  first. Live and love long enough and you have other firsts. First death, first dead body (Irish wake), first heartbreak, first time you shaved a dear friend's head because they have cancer, first eulogy you deliver, first marriage (some of us do it more than once), first  . . .  first . . . first. I've battled Crohn's disease so long, I mark time by the passage of my disease, first hospitalization, first surgery, first time I . . .

But it struck me, there watching Macklemore crowd surf, that as long as you aren't marking your lasts, that it's a good thing. You're still living. It's the people who withdraw from life, who start marking their lasts, who don't ever go to the ballpark anymore because hell, it's just easier to watch on cable, who stop living and seem to just pass time. My doctors always seem surprised--just a little--that I haven't stopped fighting. Most people, I think, would be tired of the battle. But I keep on. I'm not done with my firsts. Maybe I'll be seventy and crowd surfing.

I realize, too, there are some "lasts" that you prefer to bid farewell to. Sobriety for those in the throes of addiction is marked by the last drink. Lord knows there are aspects to my battle with Crohn's I don't want to repeat. I'd like to not have my heart broken again--but I know that one's not in my hands. I'd rather not bury anyone I love. Ever. Again. I'm done with religion because of some "lasts." Life hands you "last times" you'd rather not have.

But as long as you pick yourself up and go searching for new firsts, you're still in the game. Firsts and lasts . . . and all the living in between.

Hear the music live.

Do the wave.

Crowd surf.

Dance.

Dance harder.

Laugh louder.

Love. Out. Loud.

Any new firsts in your life?

Once or twice a year, with a nod to Esquire, I write a "What I've Learned . . ." blog. Because if you're not learning new things, you might as well be dead. And because, frankly, life will sometimes come up to you with a two-by-four and beat the crap out of you and everything you THINK you've learned will be undone and you start from a whole new perspective. So without further introduction, this is what I've learned.

That there is a reason children look so innocent and beautiful while they sleep. Because some days, that's the only thing keeping you from running away from home.That mastering the art of a perfect hard-boiled egg is a life skill every human should have.That the cruelest people I have ever encountered I met in the guise of a church, and that no cross, no Star of David, no temple, mosque, or cathedral will ever guarantee even the most basic of human kindnesses. So look for good people in all walks of life and in every disguise.That I no longer pray. But that gardening comes close. I love cheese. Even stinky cheese. I should live in France.My most prized possession is some weird cross-dressing chicken cookie jar with a sailor cap. It belonged to my grandmother. And that pretty much everything I value most is monetarily worth nothing. I will never master the art of a clean and tidy desk. I should stop trying. But I can't help aspiring to it.My least favorite household chore is emptying the dishwasher. So now I make my kids do it.My father is never going to be friends with my cat.Neither is my mother. But she will feed the dogs leftovers and they love her.I have fought Crohn's for most of my adult life, and this year has been brutal. I don't know where I get my fight from. Really. When I think I'm "done," somehow I am not.That the MINUTE I get the carpets cleaned, as I am writing the check to the carpet cleaning man, Pirate Boy will spill something.Same goes for painting the walls and scuff marks and crayon.I am comfortable in silence.Sounds I adore are Pirate Boy laughing, wind rustling the trees, and rain falling with the windows open so I hear the drops pelting the leaves and the roof.When I am in the hospital, after many days without food, and the nurses say, "You can try to eat now, so have your family bring your favorite comfort foods," I immediately think "warm sushi rice."That my biggest indulgence is sushi rice means the nursing staff thinks I'm strange. Apparently, most people think "McDonald's."That mastering the art of making my own sushi rice is more complicated than one might think. Apparently, using only wooden utensils and fanning the rice are part of it.I'm going through a poetry phase.Like all phases, who knows how long it will last.I think in words, and the nonstop dialogue keeps me up at night. I guess this makes me a writer. Or insane. Or both. So what have you learned?

Today I was too sick to walk Pirate Boy to the bus stop. It's a difficult thing to mother when you have a serious illness. Aside from the exhaustion and pain so bad your eyelashes hurt, you don't want to be so bitchy that you eat your young. (Though with Pirate Boy, I am tempted.) So you force yourself to be as normal as possible. As I tell my doctor, I just need you to prop me up enough so I can be a mom. If I screw up THAT job, not much else matters. So I spend tremendous energy hiding how sick I am.

Not that I fool them.

Oldest Son spends a lot of time asking me how I am. Every day. Multiple times a day. He does anything I ask--from emptying the dishwasher to taking out the trash--without ever, ever, ever sighing, complaining, or asking for allowance.

And I know the girls worry, too, my sweeties.

But Pirate Boy . . . well, most of the time he frankly doesn't give a crap his mom is ill. The other kids can be screaming at him to behave because mom is sick and you don't want her to have to go back to the hospital. But damn it all, he was born to raise hell, so he continues without regard for me. Which is as it should be.

But this morning, I was literally in a fetal position on the floor, and he had to get ready on his own. I somehow managed to get up and walk him to the end of the driveway--but not all the way to the bus stop at the end of the block. It was a combination of me being unable to at that moment . . . and him not wanting me to. So he walked down there alone (now this is about three house lengths maximum). And I was ready to cry. I mean, that's it. One day they walk to the bus stop alone, and next thing you know they want to borrow the car keys (or in his case hotwire the car).  How could he walk there and not need me to hold his hand? But there he was. Waving to me from the corner.

I blew him a kiss.

He waved.

I waved.

He started jumping around like a monkey for my amusement.

I waved.

He acted like he was going to moon me.

I wagged my index finger at him.

And then I stood there because of COURSE I was going to wait to make sure he actually got ON the bus when it came. But this didn't sit well with him. He started gesturing for me to go in the house.

"GO!" he screamed.

But I stood there in my pjs.

"GO!!!!! I'm fine!"

So I did what any mother would.

I hid behind a tree.

And waited until the bus came. And THEN I went in the house.

You would think this was my first kid and not my fourth. But it doesn't get easier.

And you realize life is a series of letting go's.

With him, because he is so fiercely his own person, I suppose I want to hang on tighter. But he's having none of that.

Just go, Mom.

And for today, I was grateful for the shelter of an oak tree so I can let go but still hold on.

What letting go do you do?

Namaste.