Setting my own pace

Adventures around the city and contemplation of my emptying nest.

Over the last month, a series of small adventures brought me to MOCA to see the gorgeous Jennifer Packer exhibit and to the Rendon Gallery Pop-Up for the opening of Susan Feldman’s M.O.C. (My Own City.) My dear friend Brad and I took in the immersive Van Gogh installation is the building that used to be Amoeba Records. I was particularly struck by the size of the space. Back in the day, I’d spent a fair amount of time bumping around in the narrow aisles, thumbing through bin after bin of used vinyl. There was a comforting dusty smell to the place and also the murmur of conversation under the store’s eclectic soundtrack. That kind of intimacy did not immediately present itself when I entered the Van Gogh installation. Classical music pounded through crackly speakers while giant, whirling images, seemingly pulled like squirming fish from the original paintings, flooded the empty walls, floors, and ceiling. Spectators were corralled onto ottomans or benches enclosed in white circles. Everyone was masked, six feet apart, unable to hear a word. I fought my urge to run and, instead, looked for signs of connection and communion. I sat and put out some metaphorical feelers, letting the presence of my friend and the presence of my fellow humans work to settle me in space.

My nearest neighbors taking in the projected Van Gogh sky.

In a few days, I’ll drop my son at college to begin his sophomore year in person. His sister started her senior year of high school a few weeks ago, and, depending upon my ever shifting point of view, my house and life are either emptying or becoming more spacious.

I’ve been defining myself as “a mother who sometimes writes” for the better part of two decades and, though I have managed to produce a fair amount of my own work, my schedule has been built primarily around the kids.

“What is your pace?” The question was posed by my therapist in a recent session. My answer changes daily.

On the day my daughter drove herself to school, I sat in the kitchen with a second cup of coffee and read about the death of Charlie Watts. The dapper drummer had been continuously keeping the beat for The Rolling Stones for 58 years. What would the band do without him? I got a little weepy and then I was up and out the door, walking to the post office in the bright sunshine. Moving away from emotion? Moving through emotion? A little of both?

Once I’d dropped my package, I kept going. I walked the route I used to take when I linked hands with both kids before crossing the street. Now, I walked with the dogs (one very small and one a little less small.) One dog is always a bit ahead, the other often lags behind. My task is to balance in the middle.

One of the largest paintings by Jennifer Packer on exhibit at MOCA.

As we passed the library, the elementary school, the ice cream shop, I wondered if I’d done enough as a parent. I berated myself for not being a more productive writer. Maybe I should have gone to graduate school? I hummed a few bars of “What I did for Love.” I might have let a few tears slip.

Had I done enough?

What is your pace?

Could the answer to a question be another question?

There’s time to find out.

My son designed this image on the iPad and my husband turned it into a linocut and printed it on 20 lunch bags. Over the last 18 months, together, they’ve made 1260 lunches. Distributed by The Hollywood Food Coalition, these lunches help provide meals for our unhoused neighbors all over the city.