Maman - A Tribute

I am sitting on the back porch of the house I grew up in, feeling rays of sunshine kissing my face as I sit here and wonder how I'm going to distill 28 years of life experiences into a short reflection on the life of the woman who brought me into this world. It's no easy task. But I'm glad the sun is here to keep me company as I type, as the sun was a good friend to my mom, who grew up with it shining down on her Mediterranean skin during her first 26 years in Beirut, Lebanon and who missed it dearly every time summer rolled around and the fog rolled in over our Bay Area home.

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When I was a baby my mom nicknamed me "screech owl" because of my affinity for temper tantrums that reached impressive decibels and pitches higher than her poor musician's ears could handle. My dad always joked that if I'd only screamed in tune, life would have been a lot easier for both of us. But as it was, my one-year-old self hadn't yet digested music theory. So my mom was out of luck. 

But somehow, we made it through those years (my mother's ears intact), and we found many different ways in which to harmonize with each other that didn't involve me wailing over a stubbed toe or a smooshed ice cream bar.

We had so many adventures together; there was always something to do. In fact, growing up, the word "bored" was like a bad word in our household.  "How could you be bored when there is so much to explore all around you?" To my mother, being bored was evidence of a lack of imagination. So I grew up in a world in which boredom didn't really exist. 

We read mysteries set in far-away places... we ate out at delicious ethnic restaurants... we wandered down Telegraph Avenue and through colorful booths at the Himalayan Fair... we spoke French together... we told inappropriate groan-worthy jokes together... we received hugs from Ammachi and went to yoga classes and drank chai together -- my mom would often make a huge pot of it and leave it simmering on the stove for hours, causing the whole house and whatever you happened to be wearing to smell like a glorious middle eastern market... We explored the red rocks of Sedona, wandered through cobblestone streets in Paris, and stayed in cinderblock cabins in Lake Tahoe while collaborating on creative ambush techniques for the local mosquito population... we went to the Christmas Revels and theatrical productions and concerts at the Freight, and sung carols through December. 

Boredom wasn't an issue growing up. 

And to this day, I still can't bring myself to use that word. In part, because I don't really need to. Most of my friends would agree that I definitely got the Hadidian gene for throwing myself into life at a mile a minute. And while I'm learning bit by bit -- just like my mom did -- how important it is to occasionally slow down and truly be present, I'm thankful that she showed me, again and again, how to look for opportunity around every corner. And just... dive in.

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I received a letter this December, a few days after my mom passed away, from a woman named Alexandra, who had been my mother's high school math teacher in Beirut, Lebanon, nearly 50 years ago. In the letter, Alexandra explained that she’d recently come across an old “friendship” album from her Beirut days in which, following in a Greek tradition, friends had been invited to answer questions every few pages to form a sort of memory book.

It turns out my mother had written in this very album back in 1964, a wide-eyed 15 year old toward the end of her 9th grade year, and Alexandre had typed out all of the answers she could find written by Eileen to send along to my dad and I.  It was amazing to read, like a little portal into my mother's adolescent mind. Alexandre wrote "As you look at the answers of this 15 year old girl, and subsequently at Eileen's whole life, from her responses you could pretty much see the Eileen that was to emerge as an adult"

She was right. This one, in particular, stuck out... it was originally written in French... but don't worry, I've translated it.

The question posed was this:

Write three things that you would ask of your future, your life

My mom’s answer…

1. My happiness and that of everyone around me

2. Courage

3. Faith in any situation

That was my mom at age 15. And that was also my mom at age 64. I think anyone who knew Eileen can say that those three points remained primary tenets in how she sought to live her life. 

I was only 10 when cancer came knocking at our door for the first time. It came again and stayed when I was 13, all the way up through last December. It was like this shadow sibling that moved in, unannounced, which we all had to make room for, and who tagged along on all of our adventures, completely uninvited.

If there was ever a time when those three tenets would be tested, day in and day out... it was during those years. Happiness... courage... and faith in any situation. 

Those of you who knew Eileen well can attest to the fact that when she believed in something, she stood by her belief and advocated for it 110%. "No" was not an acceptable answer. “Tenacity” was her middle name. This could make living or working with her tedious at times, but my mom really had a way of bringing people along, inspiring you to believe what she believed. Cause she believed in some pretty powerful stuff. 

Rather than just focus on how cancer was ruining the life she’d envisioned, my mother used it to open new doors. She dove deeper into her musical passions and founded Healing Muses to bring soothing harmonies into the noisy hospitals that had become her second home. She began to explore alternative therapies, pushed for more holistic health options at Kaiser, and became a dedicated advocate to other women going through cancer. Around every corner, she found new avenues through which to build community and cultivate gratitude in her life. 

Looking around this room now, I'm still blown away by the number of lives my mom touched. And I feel so incredibly grateful to each of you for the many roles you've played in creating this amazing community, which supported my mom all the way through her final days. And which continues to support my dad and I, with your memories, your love, your friendship, your generosity. You've been incredible, and we wouldn't be here today celebrating, if it weren't for you.

This overwhelming belief in the power and the importance of community was one of the biggest gifts my mother passed down to me. Eileen loved her friends deeply and it was evident that her "chosen family," as she liked to say, was just as much family as my father and I. And beyond her immediate friends, she felt a strong commitment to play an active role in her larger community -- whether it be the musical community, the breast cancer community, the healing community, the Albany community. She believed in the power of coming together, of helping one another. And she wasn't afraid to ask for help when she needed it. Because she knew she couldn’t do it alone.

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There's an amazing Ted Talk by a woman named Brené Brown called "The Power of Vulnerability" which I would encourage everyone in this room to go home and watch if you haven't already. I won't go into all of the details because, really... you just need to watch it. But one of the core principles Brené talks about is what differentiates people who have a strong sense of love and belonging... from people who really struggle for it.

She says, "There was only one variable that differentiated these two groups and that is... that people who have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of love and belonging. That's it. They believe they're worthy."

My mom believed she was worthy. 18 years of cancer is a ridiculously long time to keep pushing forward, to keep living life against the odds. But she believed she was worth it. 

She believed she was worthy of laughter, of success, of happiness, of love, of deep friendships and heartfelt connections. 

And she believed all of us are worth it too.

I think that's part of the legacy that my mom wove... helping others embrace their own worth. 

Whether it was through her teaching, helping her students tap into their creative worth to find their musical potential... through her cancer advocacy, empowering women to become informed, to know their options, to fight for themselves through the pain and the bureaucracy and the unfairness ... through her work with Healing Muses, supporting that belief that we are all worthy of moments of beauty and tranquility during stressful times...

Or through her role as my mother, telling me through countless words and actions that I was worth it. That the three failed pregnancies before I came along were some of the worst doldrums she'd ever experienced... but that, in the end, it was worth it... because she’d had me. That all those sleepless nights of screetch-owl tantrums and unending tears were worth it... because they were part of my becoming. I was worth it.

We’re all worth it.

We are all worthy of love and belonging. We are all worthy of that happiness that a 15-year-old Eileen wished for herself and for everyone around her. 

But we have to believe that we're worthy. My mom stood by that belief. And because of it, she pushed through and lived to see me graduate middle school, and high school, and college, and cheered from the sidelines as I found my own footing, working at a nonprofit job that I love, and building my own community up in Portland.

I hope that after sharing food and music and our favorite Eileen stories during this wonderful celebration, each of us can walk out of this room tonight honoring my mom’s legacy… believing that we’re worth it. I can’t think of a better tribute to one of the most courageous and worthy women I know.  

Thank you.

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May today there be peace within.
May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.
May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content with yourself just the way you are.
Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

I cried in shavasana

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, 2013.

Today is the day Barack Obama was inaugurated for his second term. And mentioned equality for gay people in his speech. Which feels kind of incredible.

Today I woke up at 6:30am, caught a ride to Beaverton at 7:30am, helped sew five out of 158 blankets for kiddos as part of the bi-annual Bink-a-thon I've helped put on now for the past four years, stood on a chair in front of a room of 100 and welcomed everyone while the camera rolled, returned home by 3:30 thoroughly spent, collapsed into bed after a bowl of yogurt, and made the mistake of reading emails before trying to take a nap.

Five emails about my mom's memorial. Logistics, planning, questions, ideas, asking permission. I am holding the reigns.

I fell asleep with a fluttery mind and dreamt of my mother in moments. And for a moment, dreamt her alive. Waking up felt familiar. And then the feeling was gone.

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Awake. Out of bed. Chit-chat with Cristina, have a cup of tea, pedal to the grocery store, pick up vegetables and Umcka, pedal home, chop, chop, chop while listening to Radiolab on Bliss and Heredity and drinking red wine (bought for the recipe, so why not pour a glass?). And the clock ticks and the pot bubbles and I pull out yoga pants and a mason jar to fill with stew for a sick Jordan and write a quick note and put my matt in the bag and I'm off.

Pedal, pedal, pedal.

I feel the wine. Crap.

Drop the bag with a housemate, lock up my bike, send a text, change into my pants, go to the bathroom, enter the studio, adjust to the dim lights, feel the warmth of the place, unroll my matt.

I am tipsy. Crikey.

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The first half hour is me trying to find my edges. My head is fuzzy. The wine is pulsing. I am not fully present. I sink into child's pose and feel the pressure on my forehead.

Breathe.

His voice encourages me into a forward bend, into downward dog, into cat, into cow, into a deep lizard pose that hurts my pelvic muscles until I give up and release. I keep my eyes open to remind me where I am.

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An hour in, we practice breathing with one nostril and then the other. Inhale with the right, close both nostrils, hold, relax, exhale with the left. Inhale with the left, close both nostrils, hold, relax, exhale with the right.

"It's like the moon. Let it fill you, gently. And when you're ready, let it leave."

I try and imagine my breath and the moon as one. I'm not sure what he means, but it works. I soften. I finally find my rhythm. I am here.

And I remember the story of my mother and father, and their first yoga teacher. "Breathe through both noses," in a faux Indian accent, my father's impression.

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We sink into a hip-opener -- we can choose regular pigeon or reclined pigeon. I choose to lie on my back, my poor pelvis still sore from lizard pose. I find the pose. I find my breath.

And I remember again -- "Breathe through both noses."

My parent's yoga class.

Doing yoga with my mom.

My mom.

Restorative yoga with my mom on fourth street. Barbara is up at the front of the class. My mother is there on the mat next to me, lying on her back, one leg crossed over her body, wearing teal leggings and a bright t-shirt. I can see her warped spine, the permanent hunch, slowly stretching, lengthening.

I hear her breath.

I am there, in the wrinkles in her forehead, the slight downturn of her lips as she focuses, concentrates on the pose. Concentrates on the pain. Breathes through it.

I am there as we leave the studio and walk to the 4th street market nearby to grab some wholesome 4th-street-priced deli food. My dad is there too. The three of us. We eat.

I am there as my mother unwraps her sandwich and eats. I can see her chewing. Her square jaw, crumbs at the edges of her mouth. Large detached earlobes moving slightly with each bite.

I smell her purse as it opens, as she reaches for a balled-up kleenex to dap at the crumbs.

I am the lipstick as she reapplies it to her lips, one coat, then another, pieces of it balling up at the edges where her lips are chapped. A muted tone. A glossy reminder of the color they once held.

I am in the middle of a hug. I feel my dad on one side. My mother on the other. Small. But there. Holding us. Her family. Her two favorite sweeties.

My mother.

My mother.

My mother.

I miss my mother.

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I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, my eyes beginning to pool.

My mother.

Tears begin to roll silently down the sides of my face as I am reminded to deepen into the pose. "Take it deeper. Go deeper if you can."

I remember. My mother.

I watch her cooking in the kitchen. Smell the pots of "working mom's dinner" bubbling as she flits from  stovetop to counter in her jewel-toned outfit.

I hear her voice, slightly strained, calling me up in my room... "Melia... Melia... dinner's ready."

I can see her left hand, holding the fork, small and skinny, but the first joints of each finger slightly swollen and bent with the beginnings of arthritis.

My mother.

I want to hear her laugh.

My mother.

The tears begin to roll faster, pooling in my hair as I try to keep my breathing steady, deep, unobtrusive.

"Go deeper if you can..."

I watch her, hunched over her wheelchair at the dining room table as I pass her the memory book. I am there when her eyes light up. When her eyes twinkle and her smile is so large, larger than I've seen it since the moment I walked in the door and she saw me. Her daughter.

I watch her as her eyes twinkle and glow and her breath gasps as she looks through the pages and she comes alive and I can feel the emotion rising in her throat and I look down because I know the book was the right thing, I know I feel proud, I know I feel happy to see her happy... and a part of me feels shy. I am her daughter. I am her only child.

My mother.

Her eyes twinkle and mine leak. I feel my chest swelling, my breathing loosing its cool, the hot tears rolling fat and free over my temples, into my ears.

And I wimper.

I didn't expect it. It just escapes. A small, high-pitched inhale as I try to catch my breath before it hiccups. A tiny, distant, audible moment of sadness.

I have no idea how loud it was. Or what it sounded like to those sinking deeper into their poses around me. I just know that these tears feel necessary. This sadness feels real. My body finally softens.

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This was the first time since the day after she died that I allowed myself to be there with my mother in the memories. The first time that I was truly there. Feeling alongside her. Feeling her. Feeling her details, feeling her presence, feeling my mother next to me, very much next to me.

Not watching from a far and distant place, from the safety of a third-party observer. From the vantage point of those who knew her as a musician, as a friend, as a mentor. From the vantage point of an event planner. From the vantage point of some one else. From the vantage point of not-her-daughter.

But I am her daughter. And she is my mother.

She is my mother.

And I need to allow her to be here, with me. And for me to be there, with her. Present in those memories.

Alive.