Thank You Mrs. Silberglat

by Gareth Mann Sitz

I discovered my way with words when I was in third grade. My teacher, Mrs. Silberglat, a rotund woman with a friendly toothy smile, pale hazel eyes, and very short non-descript mousy brown hair, gave us an assignment entitled “A Pleasant Odor,” instructing us to write about our favorite smell.  Always marching to a different drummer, I did not choose a typical subject for a third grader, like the smell of chocolate chip cookies or pizza.  Instead, I chose to write about  the smell of my grandmother Kiki’s beef barley soup wafting through our tiny New York apartment on a cold winter’s day. While I have misplaced that half page of pencil printed creativity, I do remember the exact words I used to describe the wondrous aroma that greeted me when I came home from school:  “It was a salty tangy smell.”

At that time, I was placed in a regular third grade classroom at PS 87, one of two students from Mrs. Silberglat’s room who would be selected to begin the three year program in IGC, (Intellectually Gifted Children) at the start of fourth grade. In third grade, during the time when the rest of the class had reading, Linda Sommerfeldt and I were assigned to work in a small room with a machine that cleaned blackboard erasers.  Teachers would send their chalky black felt erasers to us while the messenger would wait patiently for one of us to put the eraser in the machine to get it clean.  I guess there must have been a lot of blackboard use at PS 87, for Linda and I spent almost every afternoon between 1:00 and 2:00 sitting in the hallway waiting for someone to come to us with a dirty eraser. We had a lot of down time, and we would enjoy talking to one another, an activity severely restricted in our classroom of 27 students.  Mrs. Silberglat had singled us both out as students whose reading time would be better spent cleaning erasers and chatting with one another. As I had been able to read since I was three years old and Linda at four, we certainly were better served by the opportunity to be together than to sit quietly in the back of the classroom during reading time.  Gifted children need desperately to have regular social interaction with one another, and I remain grateful to Mrs. Silberglat for identifying our giftedness and giving us our unique afternoon activity.

Many years later,  when I became a teacher of gifted middle school students,  my primary thrust during the once weekly 90 minute pullout sessions was to provide ample opportunity for socialization with their peers. My students would look forward to being with me and one another, not because I would be providing them an academic challenge, but because they craved the companionship of other gifted children and being with a teacher who understood them as individuals

How fortunate I was to be able to be with them in the moment, being intuitive and flexible enough to change my lesson plans without skipping a beat to meet the needs of my specific students on a particular day!  Using a multi-disciplinary approach with heavy emphasis on interactive games and hands-on activities, I challenged my students to use their creativity while providing them a safe haven where they could enjoy one another’s company.  Recognizing the crucial importance of meeting the social and emotional needs of gifted students, I intentionally applied this principle and made it a cornerstone of my middle school curriculum.

Most gifted children can absorb what they need academically with little effort.  When they are not successful and become underachievers, it is often due to boredom or discomfort with their peers.

Mrs. Silberglat was a wise woman.  She took two bright little girls and let them have much needed social interaction, avoiding what would have been monotony for them during reading time.  Sometimes, the simplest solution is a good one.  I’m saddened that our current educational emphasis on standardized testing and “back  to the basics” neglects the social and emotional needs of all students,  not just the gifted ones.   Children thrive when they feel understood and accepted by their peers and their teachers.  To put these basic human needs on the back burner in the name of “improving education” is a moral injustice.

Philosophy #2: Parenting

by Gareth Mann Sitz

 

Nothing in my life has given me more pleasure than raising my children. Now that they are adults, I thoroughly enjoy them as people and continue to be their cheerleader in the game of life.  

I think parents need to be intentional, knowing what values they wish to impart to their progeny. Twelve years ago, when I wrote these statements, my youngest child was fourteen years old; the other two were eighteen and nineteen. Amidst the challenges of raising teenagers, it helped me to encapsulate  my parenting philosophy on paper.

Parenting doesn’t stop when children become adults; the basic tenets expressed here remain the foundation of my parenting style. 

 

 

I believe that the most important role we have on this earth is to be loving parents, to our own children and those of others.

 

I believe that encouragement is a better teacher than criticism.

 

I believe that children are our most precious gifts, but they are not our possessions.

 

I believe the best gift a parent can give children is to love them the way they are.

 

I believe parents must keep a positive vision of what each one of their children can become, even when their children can’t see the best in themselves.

 

I believe that parents’ role is to nurture children to human wholeness, and part of that process is separation and independence.

 

I believe that to be a parent is to discover our greatest strengths and weaknesses.

 

I believe we are models for our children; what they see is what they often become.

 

 How did your parents raise you? What values did they impart? If you’re a parent, do you agree or disagree with the above statements? What can you add to my list?

Philosophical Statements, Part I

 

by Gareth Mann Sitz

 

 

Short and sweet today–just sharing some statements reflecting my philosophy of life.  I wrote a long collection in 2000, and I found them while cleaning.  I’ve got lots more, so consider this a first installment. Please chime in with some of your own reflective statements. 

 

I believe that kindness to others makes us feel better about ourselves.

 

I believe that when we do what is right and just, we internalize the best part of ourselves.

 

I believe that self-love and love of humankind are linked to one another;  you may start loving at either end,  and both will feed each other.

 

I believe that introspection is good for the soul, but rejection of relationships kills the spirit.

 

I believe that if you crave friendship, you need to be a friend to those who need you.

 

I believe that we heal ourselves when we heal others.

 

Yes, I’m a Show-off

by Gareth Mann Sitz

I’m not quite sure why I’m a show-off,  but I definitely am. I adore an audience, no matter what I do.  I’ve been this way as long as I can remember.

When I was nine,  I wanted to be in the choir at Stephen Wise Free Synagogue in New York. You were supposed to be at least eleven before joining the choir,  and I was small for my age on top of being too young.  There was no way I could have passed for eleven.

So, undaunted, I went to synagogue at a time I knew the choir director, a kindly middle-aged man with thinning hair and glasses, named Mr. Binder, would be in his office.  Luckily for me, Mr. Binder kept his office door open. I then proceeded to walk back and forth in the hallway, singing in my sweetest voice. Before long, Mr. Binder came out of his office.  We had never officially met before, so he didn’t know who I was. With warm smiling eyes, he asked “Now who is this child with a beautiful voice?”

Looking at him earnestly,  I sputtered out my name and my mission. “I know I’m only nine and you’re supposed to be eleven to join the youth choir,  but I’m hoping you’ll make an exception and let me sing with you.”

Without skipping a beat, Mr. Binder said, “Of course you may be in the choir.  We’ve been needing a soloist for the upcoming Chanukah service,  and I think you might be just the person for the job.”

I couldn’t believe it!  Not only would I be able to join the choir,  but I would get to sing a solo for Chanukah.  I was ecstatic!

So, from an early age,  I learned, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”  I never would have been admitted to the choir had I not had the chutzpah to show my singing talent to Mr. Binder. My gutsy gesture paid off.

As I grew up, I continued to find ways to be recognized for my abilities. Frequently labeled a show-off by my peers, I suffered my share of teasing and humiliation.

Part of my “showing off” has made me a compulsive sharer.  I always want to share my thoughts, feelings, ideas, and my writing.  I also love to share books and movies and food—you name it.  As a teacher,  I derive great pleasure from sharing my handouts and curriculum ideas.  There have been settings during my long teaching career when my efforts to share my teaching materials have not been appreciated—other teachers perceived me as acting superior to them, of being, you guessed it, a show-off.

At sixty-five,  I still have a tendency to be very pleased with myself and need to share what I have to offer with other people.  As a foreign language teacher,  I’m proud of my authentic French accent and relish having my students learn pronunciation by repeating after me.  I love having friends and family over to dinner and having folks compliment me on my cooking.  Acting in plays, I treasure audience response;  it feeds my spirit and affirms my talent as a performer.  Above all, I seek to share through my writing. I truly get a charge out of reading my own words,  and I often assume that others might enjoy my work as much as I do.  I want to sing all my songs, recite all my poems, and lure folks into reading my blog.

Those who love me understand that I don’t mean to be overbearing or obnoxious in my efforts to share the products of my creativity.  I feel a deep need to have impact on the universe, and if I am perceived as a show-off in the process, I guess I’ll have to live with it.

As wise and mature as I think I am, part of me remains a nine year old girl with chutzpah who wants a place in the choir.  Please, will you accept me?

Failure: My Large Truck Full of Lemons

In the summer of 1999, I took an intensive course in drama therapy in Boston. That ten day experience was transformative, and I decided I wanted to become a Registered Drama Therapist.  As I already had my Masters in Theatre, I was eligible for “Alternative Track Training,” which meant I would be able to meet the requirements by taking a prescribed series of university classes and intensive workshops.  I knew it would take me several years to attain my goal,  but I embraced the challenge with excitement and enthusiasm. At the time, I felt becoming a drama therapist was a perfect fit for my abilities.  I always loved facilitating the emotional growth of others, and my skills as a theatre practitioner would allow me to use my intuitive gifts as a counselor.  At fifty-three, I looked forward to a satisfying second career when I retired from teaching.   I mapped out my required curriculum with my mentor, Dr. Penny Lewis, the inspiring leader of my summer intensive in Transpersonal Drama Therapy.

Looking ahead, I decided that it would be beneficial to gain an Illinois license as a professional counselor.  Drama therapy was a relatively new field,  and I recognized that having an official license as well as my RDT would allow me more flexibility in my career.  My husband was supportive, assuring me that I would be a fine counselor and drama therapist.  Eight years older, he was soon to retire from teaching; he agreed that my income in a new career would be helpful to us in retirement and in paying for our children’s college tuition.

In the fall of 1999, my daughter went off to college, and I began my Masters program.  At the time, I was still teaching full-time; I had two sons, ages 19 and 13 living at home; I was the power of attorney for my aging mother, suffering from dementia in a local nursing home.  In spite of these conditions, I was convinced I had made a wise decision to seek certification as a Licensed Professional Counselor.

From the beginning, I was very successful academically, receiving A’s in all my courses.  Periodically, I would trot off to a workshop in Boston to continue my studies in drama therapy,  and each summer I would do several intensive workshops or university classes.  From psychodrama to puppetry to drama therapy with special populations, I relished my studies.  I took “Creative Arts Therapy” and “Drama Therapy with Adolescents” at Kansas State and two intensives in poetry therapy in New York and Cape Cod. I attended yearly conferences of the National Association of Drama Therapy.

By the spring of 2001, I had fulfilled almost all my requirements except my internships for both my Masters in Counseling and my RDT.  Feeling the end was in sight, I took the National Counseling Exam and passed it.

I found a summer internship placement using drama and creative arts therapy. The site was far from where I live, taking up to two hours of driving each way  depending on traffic.  My on-site supervisor was an RDT who was the chief administrator for a day program for senior citizens.  We had met at a national conference and hit it off.  She was thrilled to have an unpaid person on staff and had confidence in my ability to provide interesting programs for her clientele. As I was an older student, experienced in both teaching and theatre,  my supervisor gave me free rein in planning activities at the center.  From the beginning, she gave me a minimum of supervision, much less than was mandated by the university.

Six weeks into the summer, having completed over 200 hours of my internship, I received a call from my advisor at the university, telling me that my supervisor at the center was dissatisfied with my work and wished me to leave. Totally blindsided, I was in shock.  My on-site supervisor had not indicated her concerns about my work; indeed she had rarely observed me herself, relying on an older, rather conservative colleague to look in on me.  Being conventional, some of my more “outlandish” behaviors, like taking Alzeimer’s patients outside on a hot day with water pistols, rubbed her the wrong way, (Actually, the patients loved this activity.  After happily squirting themselves and the garden,  we went back inside to discuss childhood summer memories, and the activity was very successful.)

Discouraged and mortified, I left my internship position.  My university supervisor was displeased, and I had no other leads on an appropriate placement. I had spent close to $30,000 on my university program and my drama therapy training, and the rug had been pulled out from under me.  I had failed. To make matters worse, my on-site supervisor was friends with my mentor in Boston and indicated that my work was unsatisfactory, essentially blocking my approval as an RDT.

When fall came, I threw myself into my teaching and tried to forget my summer disaster, but the sense of failure permeated my being.  I knew that I had been treated unjustly, that I had not received sufficient supervision, and that my overzealous creativity had rankled the powers that be.  I had no recourse at the time but to accept my “unsuitability;” for the first time in my life, my goal setting had fallen flat.

It took me over two years to regroup and return to my university supervisor, this time asking her to approve a more conventional placement with a local social services agency.  In the fall of 2004, while working full-time teaching gifted middle school students in four different schools, I began working 15 or more hours per week doing conventional individual and family therapy.  The work was challenging, and I diligently wrote out treatment plans and careful notes after each session. My supervisor, an energetic and warm young woman, was helpful and supportive. In spite of my exhaustion working two jobs, I plodded on, and things were going well.

After clocking in about 150 hours, the stress of working so hard overcame me.  My teaching job was demanding, and my family obligations were being neglected.  I was suffering from depression, and I knew I couldn’t continue at the agency.

I wrote a letter, asking for a leave of absence, hoping I could return in the summer to complete my internship hours.   I regrouped, concentrating on my teaching job and my family, with an eye towards returning to the agency the following summer.

In February of 2005,  I made a decision to retire early from my teaching career.  Although I loved my students, the job was very demanding, and the past three years had been difficult. My plan was to complete my internship hours when I retired, no matter how long it might take.  I looked forward to a part-time career as a counselor, hoping to facilitate occasional workshops using my drama therapy training.

Yet, the local agency was hard pressed in terms of funding and could not afford the necessary supervision time to have an intern.  I could not return there to complete my internship hours.

My university supervisor told me point blank, “Three times and you’re out.”  Even though I lost the second internship through no fault of my own, she essentially told me that I had little chances of completing my degree.  So, with 48 hours of straight ‘A’ course work and having passed the National Counseling Exam, I gave up my dream and did not seek a third internship placement.  I had spent an inordinate amount of time and money on what proved to be a lost cause.

So, instead of becoming a counselor when I retired from teaching, I returned to my roots as a writer and theatre practitioner.  I had essentially stopped acting, directing, and writing to concentrate on my studies.  Although the cloud of my failure was incredibly painful, retirement gave me the freedom to pursue a creative life.

I had become a teacher to have  “a real job,” cognizant that making a living as an artist would be risky.  In looking forward to retirement, I had convinced myself that I needed another income producing career.

What have I done with all my training?  Was it a complete waste of time and money? Should I have realized that I should have directed my energy into creative rather than academic pursuits in 1999?

Training to be a therapist helped me to know myself, crucial for an artist.  More important, the multitude of skills I gained during those five years of study was applicable to all my human interactions.  I became a better teacher, parent, and friend, and a much more worthy partner to my wise and supportive husband.

Sometimes, while using my  “active listening skills” with a friend or family member, I step back for a moment and recognize that my studies were not in vain. When I find myself able to facilitate the personal growth of others in a variety of settings, I know that those five years were not wasted.

Somehow, I managed to make lemonade out of a truck full of lemons. I will savor its sweet and tangy flavor for the rest of my life.

Mantras to Live By

 

Today,  I thought I’d share the mantras I’ve distilled from  years of struggling to “get it right.”  The list is by no means exhaustive,  and I don’t always listen to my inner voice.  When I forget any of these simple concepts, I invariably run into trouble.  As time is at a premium for me right now, I will keep today’s entry short and sweet.  So, it’s up to you to expand on this piece.  Which one of these notions resonates with you and how does it manifest itself in your life? I invite your reply. Feel free to chime in with your own mantra as well.

 

Nothing good comes easy.

 

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

 

It’s okay to do nothing;  you don’t have to be productive all the time.

 

Be gentle with yourself.

 

Follow your bliss.

 

 

 

Pathway to Happiness

by Gareth Mann Sitz

 

The pathway to happiness is accepting my gifts and using them.  When I don’t write, perform, teach, or speak foreign languages for any length of time, discontentment brews, and I become depressed.

Energy breeds energy.  When I apply myself to a specific goal with purpose and enthusiasm, I find myself wanting to do more.  Writing feeds my spirit; I get a kick out of my own words, and I find them soothing and spiritually healing.  After I’ve written a poem, song, scene for a play, chapter in a novel, memoir piece, or philosophical essay,  I inevitably feel a deep sense of accomplishment.  The process of reading and re-reading my words energizes me and makes me feel emotionally content.  I pat myself on the back at an adept turn of phrase or fine insight, and I wallow in the product of my mind. It seems miraculous sometimes, the way words just seem to spill out of me.  When I’m in the zone, revision comes naturally and is a pleasure. Moving words around to make a sentence sound better is an intellectual challenge, and the process makes me feel smart.

It feels good to use my gifts, and my epiphany in 2010 was that my only path towards lasting emotional and mental health was to use my time and my talents on a regular basis.  Artistic people are prone to cycles,  and I am no exception.  Ever since I can remember, I have had times of heightened creativity and times of being unable to produce much of anything.  When I’m on a roll, my whole life seems full and rich, and I relish every moment of the creative process.  My creativity colors my entire life:  not only do I write with abandon, but simple acts, like developing new recipes and cooking a wonderful meal, take on a creative life of their own.

Most of my dearest friends are people who recognize their gifts and use them.  They are inspiring teachers, dedicated theatre practitioners, exceptional artists and accomplished musicians.  Still others are committed community workers,  fine leaders, superb nurturers, or receptive listeners. Some are meticulous crafters,  fabulous cooks, excellent housekeepers, or enthusiastic gardeners.  What my friends have in common is a sense of who they are and what they need to do on this earth.  Our friendships feed one another’s gifts, and we appreciate and value our individual differences.

Sometimes, I meet a lost soul, a person who doubts her worth or is stuck in negative behaviors.  When that happens, I see my role as one of acceptance and encouragement.  I don’t reject a person’s friendship because she is unable to use her gifts or is bogged down with emotional baggage.  Instead, I aim to help my friend find herself.  Underneath the desperation of alcoholism or behind the cloud of self-doubt, there lies a person who needs to be valued, a person craving self-actualization .

If I have even a small part in helping another find her gifts and use them, I  am filled with an overwhelming sense of my own worth.  For you see, one of my gifts is the capacity to see the best in everyone.  Far more valuable than my tangible talents, I am so grateful to be someone who truly cares about the welfare of others.  As the opening lines of one of my recent songs says:

 

It’s the giving in the living

That is what we’re meant to do

Yes the giving in the living

Deep inside I know it’s true.

 

Intrinsic in the Judeo-Christian heritage is the notion of giving back what we have been given.  Imbued with the devout commitment of my Lutheran husband and buoyed up by the tenets of Judaism, I have become strong and wise.  And though I certainly have lapses into the land of self-centered behaviors and self- righteousness,  I feel pretty grateful to be who I am.  I once wrote a poem that ended as follows:

 

I taste God’s gifts in my own mouth

Standing helpless in His grace

He owns me

And I am finally

A willing prisoner

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

What are your gifts and how do you use them?  What personal qualities do you most value in yourself?  What contributions do you make to your community and to the lives of others?  Brainstorm about your best qualities, pushing humility and false modesty aside.  Self-affirmation is a good thing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miracle Babies

by Gareth Mann Sitz

My maternal instinct, intense since I first started babysitting when I was eleven, was thwarted when my husband and I tried to start a family after four years of marriage.  Eight years later, after innumerable frustrating tests, we adopted a son, and I settled into the joy of nurturing. I cannot begin to describe the pain and sense of longing I felt in being childless. Month after month, test after test, I had become more and more discouraged. Paul was almost forty years old, and adoption agencies didn’t want to place a child in a home where one of the parents was over forty.  When I got that life-changing phone call telling me a little boy had been born, our paperwork had been completed for only two weeks. We had expected to wait years, yet miraculously, our name had moved up the list because no one wanted a Puerto Rican baby. How sorry those couples would have been if they had seen our precious blond-haired blue-eyed son!

David was born in August of 1979, and we brought him home straight from the hospital, at five days old. Upon seeing my husband at the hospital, the nurse had exclaimed, “Look at the coloring on that father!.” And it was true; David’s fuzzy reddish blond hair and complexion echoed my husband’s, and from the beginning no one doubted that he was our biological son.  We had no need for a child who looked like us;  David was half-Puerto Rican, and we fully expected a brown-skinned black haired baby. Yet he was blond and blue-eyed like virtually everyone in my husband’s family.

As he grew, David developed a head of phenomenal blond curls. With his dimpled face, long eyelashes, and muscular strong body,  he was an adorable child, engendering compliments wherever we went.. He was an energetic and playful toddler, and from his earliest social interactions, he had an outgoing and forceful personality.

When David was an infant,  I took him everywhere. I remember directing a production of Godspell when he was two months old, carrying him around on my shoulder during rehearsals.  At church, he was routinely passed around from person to person, everyone thrilled at the new addition to our family.  Our young female pastor would visit us during breaks from her duties, taking him for a stroller ride in the park.  Several of our friends had older children, and David was cuddled and fussed over by several little girls between the ages of seven and twelve. Across the street, a family of five girls, ages ten through sixteen, quickly became fixtures in David’s life.  Because David was a bottle-fed baby, we were able to leave him with a trusted babysitter from an early age, and we frequently went out to dinner or to the theatre on the weekends.

Making friends came easily to David, and his social skills helped him sail through childhood with a swarm of little boys who sought his company. He was a natural leader when it came to creative play and an excellent team player on the soccer field.  Like me, connecting with others was always important to him.  He wasn’t at all like his quiet and intellectual father, but a boisterous and physical child, always on the move.  He  climbed to the top of the huge slide in Lord’s Park when he was eighteen months old, mastered his big wheel when he was two, and learned to ride a bike without training wheels when he was four. His doting father was thrilled with our son’s athletic prowess and daredevil personality, encouraging him every step of the way.  When I would cringe seeing my little one roar down the hill on his big wheel and later my teenager handling a skateboard and snowboard with abandon, my husband would assure me that David knew what he was doing.

Gifted with excellent gross motor skills, David was different from both his father and me.  Paul had been a fair athlete, but I had been a total klutz, the last one chosen for any team.  We took pride in David’s skill in soccer and marveled at his early ability to handle anything with wheels. Even today, David readily acknowledges that he was “born to drive,” and he delights in driving a flat bed tow truck with ease.

Adopting David changed my world. I took a year off from my whirlwind life of teaching and nonstop theatrical activity, settling happily into maternal bliss. Friends noticed immediately my incessant joy,  and I knew intuitively that my body chemistry had changed.  My husband marveled at my natural mothering skills, pleasantly surprised at the ease with which I adjusted to taking care of a newborn.

Nine months after David’s adoption. after eight years of infertility, when I was thirty three years old, I became  pregnant.  It was a rough pregnancy, with me on bed rest for the first four months due to spotting.  I refused to take any medication designed to help me keep the baby, knowing in my heart that I would have a healthy baby if that were my destiny.  When Kyra was born in February of 1981, a full-term baby weighing only four pounds fourteen ounces,  I was ecstatic. The first thing my husband said when he saw her was, “She has your chin!” Looking back, that was my first indication that it would be different having a biological child.

From the beginning, people would look at Kiki and call her my “clone.”  With her dark eyes and facial structure, there was no doubt that I was her mother.  Because she was so tiny, I nursed her on demand. For the first two months, we bonded every two hours in my rocking chair. She was two and a half before she stopped nursing, already speaking full sentences and potty trained.  David was still on the bottle at eighteen months when his sister was born, and I would blissfully sit on the couch with my newborn at my breast and my precious son cuddled next to me happily drinking his bottle.

Because my daughter needed so much physical contact with me from the outset, my husband took over and became the primary parent for my son whenever he was home. David was his father’s constant companion, and to this day, he prefers his father to me, often calling on the phone with his very first sentence being,”Is dad around?”

As my daughter grew,  our attachment became more and more intense.  I still adored my adorable curly-headed son,  but I would be lying if I said it didn’t feel different having a daughter, especially one who shared my genetic traits. I know that most women long for a daughter just as most men desire at least one son.  Yet,  I was blessed with a little girl who fulfilled all my maternal fantasies. She was loquacious and inquisitive, loving dolls and books and pretty clothes. I was her parent of choice, and although she loved her father, she was definitely a “mama’s girl.”  Her talents in acting and writing were evident at an early age, and she attended every session of the children’s theatre classes I taught at Elgin Community College.  At nine, she had her first leading role in a play; at eleven, she won a writing award;  she showed an early aptitude for mimicry and foreign languages. And, because my mother had been so close to me, I naturally reveled in our emotional intimacy.

David and Kiki adored one another.  They helped me bake cookies and danced together around the living room. Because Kiki was an early talker, they were able to communicate well before she was eighteen months, and I spent many happy hours enjoying their creative play.  Childhood photos attest to the depth of their loving relationship.  As Kiki was a blond little girl, no one doubted that they were natural siblings.  Though David was aware he was adopted, he knew how much he was cherished and a part of our family. I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world, with two such wonderful children.

Four years later, to our total surprise, we were blessed with another pregnancy, and our youngest son was born in 1985.  Kiki had actually requested a new baby in the family the year before.  When I told her that babies were hard to come by in our family, my three year old daughter looked at me with conviction and said, “Well, I’m going to pray.” From the time I knew of my pregnancy, Kiki was convinced that she was responsible for my conception.   Her total joy is reflected in the picture she chose for her facebook profile, of the two of us wearing mother-daughter dresses I had made from a print with tiny strawberries on a navy background.  In the photo, I am serene and eight months pregnant, and my little daughter is animated and gleeful.

When James, whom we called “Jamie,” was born, David was six and Kyra was four.  From the beginning,  both siblings doted on him.  David was thrilled to have a brother, and Kiki thought of Jamie as HER baby because she had prayed for him.  They fussed over him and cuddled him, taking turns holding him and handing me diapers.  My husband and I, at  thirty-eight and forty-seven, had three children, gifts beyond our wildest imagination. Each one of our children was an unexpected miracle.

Raising  two biological children with our first child created a fertile ground for the study of  heredity and environment.  When Jamie, like his sister, looked like me and exhibited obvious genetic characteristics in aptitudes and intelligence to both my husband and myself,  I know that David sometimes felt as though he didn’t belong.  No matter how much love we showered on him, no matter how much attention we gave him, David grew up feeling different from the rest of our family.

We did not seek to have children to produce images of ourselves.  We merely longed for the joy of parenthood, for the opportunity to share our love and create a family.

I truly believe David was destined to be my son, and without him, I would not have the rest of my family.  I have compassion for his struggles with his identity growing up with two biological siblings, but I am confident that we provided an environment in which he could thrive.  I regret that we bent over backwards to prove our love, often spoiling him and being lax with discipline, but overall, we did our best.

Only now, when David witnesses our total devotion to his three children, is he finally convinced how much we have always treasured him.  Watching him delight in his progeny is a source of constant pleasure.  He has the biological connection he has always missed, and  we have amazing grandchildren to love.  Never for a moment do I think about blood ties, only of how very fortunate I am to have these children in my life.

Yes, my home has been a laboratory for the study of genetics and environment.  How grateful I am to have been part of this experiment!

.

Generosity

by Gareth Mann Sitz

 

One of my favorite original songs is called “The Giving in the Living.”  Initially written in 2010 as a wedding present for widowed friends, I recently revised the lyrics as a vision statement for my synagogue.  (Now, my task is to re-work it once more so that I have a more universal version.)  My friends are devout Christians, he a pastor and she a graduate of a Lutheran college and a long-time choir member. In writing the wedding song for them, I honored their Christian faith, using the teachings of Jesus in more than one of the verses.  When I re-wrote the song with my synagogue in mind,  I adjusted the words to suit Judaism.

I firmly believe that all the world’s great religions lead to the same place—to make us better people and to guide us to live a moral life. The golden rule, often thought of as unique to Christianity, has its base in the Jewish faith,  and I know that Buddhism and Islam offer the same admonition.   When I do unto others as I would have them do unto me and love others the way God  loves me, my life is full and rich.  It simply feels good to live this way.

You don’t have to be a believer or a member of organized religion to live  a life of gratitude and generosity. Some of the most generous people I know are professed atheists, including some mental health professionals and inspiring teachers.  Whether or not a person is overtly religious is not the determining factor in becoming generous with one’s time, talent, and financial resources. Indeed, some of the stingiest people I know are pillars of a church or synagogue.

My desire to write about generosity is a direct result of a simple act I performed yesterday.  One of my new friends is looking forward to the September marriage  of her only child, a beloved son. In getting to know her, I discovered that finances are tight and that she had not yet purchased a dress to wear to the wedding.  Looking at her,  I surmised she was about the size I was in 2010, when my daughter got married.  Knowing that I had a stunning navy blue beaded dress I wore for my daughter’s special day,  I asked my friend if she might like to try it on and see if she would like to borrow it.  Without skipping a bit, she replied “Yes” with enthusiasm, and within minutes, she was stripping off her clothes to try it on.  Imagine her delight when the dress was a perfect fit, flattering to her overweight figure and a perfect color for her light blue-grey eyes.  As my friend approved her image in my full-length mirror, she waxed ecstatic about my beautiful dress.  She looked gorgeous, and she was brimming with joy.

When my friend left,  with my navy crepe and chiffon dress carefully covered in a plastic bag on a hanger, I felt absolutely wonderful.  My simple act of generosity gave me an inordinate amount of pleasure.

Recently, my daughter and her husband were preparing for a trip to Africa over Christmas break, where her best friend and her husband have been serving in Africa as a public health nurse and a school administrator.  Her friend works in an orphanage in Tanzania,  and the children there have many  basic material needs.  Being a public school teacher,  my daughter is not a wealthy woman, and the airfare to Tanzania is quite expensive.  Yet, before she went to Africa, she went to Target and bought over five hundred dollars worth of gifts to donate to the orphanage, based on a list her friend had given her.  She purchased a large collapsible duffle bag to transport her purchases, packing them securely for her long journey.

My daughter didn’t think twice about giving so much to the Tanzanian orphanage;  she was simply following her heart and doing what she needed to do.  I know how much her donations meant to these children, and I’m sure her generosity was paid back a thousand fold when she saw the looks of excitement and disbelief in their young eyes.

Pride in my daughter’s accomplishments is not new.  I have watched her develop into a gifted actress since her first leading role as “Lucy” in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe when she was nine years old.  Her writing talent was evident in grade school, when she won an award for a pop-up mystery with an Amish setting, and she became a writing tutor to her peers when she attended Carleton College.  Having graduated Phi Beta Kappa with a degree in English, she went on to receive her Masters in Education.  It has been amazing to watch her become a dedicated teacher of English and drama, and I am thoroughly humbled to see her following in my footsteps.

Yet, nothing makes me more proud than to witness the person my daughter has become.  Her thoughtful and generous nature makes me puff up like a peacock.

My sweet mother was generous to a fault.  When my husband and I needed to remodel our kitchen, she sent me a check for $11,000 to buy the cabinets, and  once, unsolicited, she sent me $40,000 to  make a movie.  She was not a wealthy woman;  she simply enjoyed sharing the money she had squirreled away with her only child.

Yet, her smaller acts of love stand out most in my memory:  welcoming my friends at our dinner table,  sitting for hours with me as I revised every writing assignment,  and listening patiently as I shared my childhood dreams, even if she was exhausted after a long day at work.

Generosity is a learned trait.  Unlike our innate talents, we learn to give from those who have given to us. Yet, I firmly believe that everyone can teach themselves to reach out to others in love, sharing their time and their treasure..

As for me, I just do it because it feels so damned good!

 

Coping with Reality

by Gareth Mann Sitz

I am not a proponent of false modesty, and I hope I don’t offend my readers when I  sometimes glorify my assets.  When I do so, I am  making lemonade out of lemons, accepting the bounty of my God given traits and dealing realistically with my shortcomings.   I am well aware of my limitations, and I thought it might be instructive to catalogue some of weaknesses and how I’ve dealt with them.

I am a lousy athlete. At summer camp, I learned early on that team sports and I didn’t get along.  I could never throw or catch a ball; softball, volleyball, and basketball found me the last one chosen for any team.  I wasn’t even good at kickball or dodgeball.  Tennis was a little better, but not much.  I had to face the harsh reality that any game with a ball would always be a source of frustration.  I couldn’t play catch or monkey in the middle without  being ridiculed by my cabin mates. Summer camp is not a good place to be poor in athletics.

I absolutely cannot draw.  I married a man who reeks of artistic talent, and  I can barely draw stick figures.

Although I’ve been writing songs since I was a child,  I seem to have a mental block when it comes to music theory and reading music. I’ve tried twice to learn how to play the piano, and I find it very difficult.  I play the guitar using chords, but I have not become a good guitar player, even though I had my first lesson when I was eleven years old. It’s almost as though I have a learning disability when it comes to becoming a “real” musician.  I write lyrics and improvise melodies with ease,  but that’s as far as it goes.  In terms of singing,  I am also limited.  When singing harmony,  I have trouble at times holding my part,  and it requires an inordinate amount of concentration for me to do what comes easily to my more musical friends.

I am a lousy housekeeper.  No matter how hard I try to keep things in order, clutter collects around me in no time.  My office can be perfectly straightened up one day, and by the next afternoon look like it has been hit like a cyclone.  How I envy people who naturally put everything in its proper place!  I’m a lot better than I was, but my inability to keep a tidy home has long been a major frustration. When company is coming,  it’s a major effort to get ready, and I’m grateful I married a man who’s a better cleaner than I am.

Math and I don’t get along. While my husband and both my sons can add up numbers with ease, knowing exactly how much the grocery bill will be before reaching the check-out counter,  I am hard-pressed to balance my check book.

When it comes to remembering trivia,  I am a total loser.  While concepts remain clear in my brain, facts tend to escape me.  I marvel at my husband’s ability to retain a wealth of pertinent information on a variety of subjects;  as a high school history teacher,  he was known as the scholar of his department

As to my appearance,  I am  too heavy., and I have been this way almost twenty years. At age 47, health problems overtook me, and the medications prescribed made me gain a great deal of weight.  I became a fat person, and I  have stayed that way .

Dealing constructively with reality,  I have always tried to accept my failings and move on,  making lemonade out of lemons whenever possible.

Being  a lousy candidate for team sports and lacking coordination when it came to handling a ball,  I gravitated towards individual sports and became a good swimmer.  I loved horseback riding, canoeing, rowing a boat, and dancing of any kind.

While I cannot draw,  it didn’t stop me from becoming an excellent seamstress and clothing designer, making my own clothes from the time I was thirteen years old.  I learned how to knit and crochet, make potholders and beaded earrings—indeed any craft activity that did not require the ability to draw. In recent years, I have enjoyed learning to use graphics on my computer and improving my skills as a photographer, art activities I can do without “real” artistic ability.

As to music,  my greatest joy is to sing my heart out, improvising songs whenever I’m moved to do so.  I’ve been known to churn out a song a day when I’m in my most creative time, and I never worry about my inability to write down the notes I produce effortlessly.  Certainly, my greatest strength as a songwriter is my lyrics,  but many of my melodies are quite lovely,  and I often surprise myself with the tunes in my head.   While I could have rejected music as an option for me,  I leaned towards my strengths.  At this time,  three of my full-length musicals have been produced,  and I have two more in progress.  I rely on other musicians to write down the notes I create,  and I manage to move beyond my limitations.

I still hate housekeeping and have absolutely no aptitude in this area. It’s a constant battle to keep my house presentable, and if I had the money, I would definitely hire someone to come in on a regular basis to scrub my floors and make my kitchen sparkle.

My lousy math skills have not prevented me from doing a good job paying my bills online and keeping track of my finances.  At this juncture,  I don’t need a lot of math, so I don’t worry about what I can’t do.  When I had my “Welcome to Medicare,” pyhysical and test of mental acuity,  I had to think very hard to do simple math questions,  but I was slow and steady and came up with the right answers.  My total score on mental acuity was 30/30.

Not being able to recall facts makes me a lousy candidate for Trivia Pursuit, but since I rarely am asked to play such games, I happily muddle through life with my limited memory of details.

Funny enough,  I rarely think of myself as fat.  I ‘ve been known to say jokingly “I’m not fat; I’m voluptuous!” I accept myself as I am in all my abundance. My blessed mother instilled such a strong sense of self-esteem in me that I still think of myself as good-looking.  Luckily, my dear husband has never berated me for my weight gain,  although I barely resemble the 120 pound beauty he married forty-four years ago.  Since June  2010,  I have lost 35 pounds.  I am far from thin,  but I no longer wear plus sizes for the first time in many years.  My goal is to lose another 30 pounds in the next year or so and then keep myself at that weight for the rest of my life.  At this point, I’m aiming to be healthy.  If in the bargain, I am more attractive,  so be it.

Coping with reality means looking at myself honestly and doing the best I can under the circumstances.  I am gratified that I am able to accept myself as I am and also to work towards self-improvement.  Of course,  some lemons are so rotten, there’s no lemonade to be made.  When that’s the case,  I pull myself together and settle for a good cup of coffee.