Relationships Archives - Page 6 of 7 - Stephanie DelTorchio

Be Thankful For Special People

Another nice thing about growing older (there are many) is to clearly understand the separation between the material accoutrements and the truly good stuff–the special people in your life who make it rich, in immaterialistic ways.

Parents, siblings, friends, co-workers, acquaintances and even people we don’t know personally, each have contributed positively to our lives. Something they’ve said or done, an impression they’ve left us with, a lesson taught, inspiration or encouragement given, a parting word, a tender lesson or mercy imparted at just the right time. This person may have caused a shift in our thinking or altered our perception of a long-held belief system. And we love them for that!

Then again, it could be a truly fantastic tip, or that they introduced us to a small café that makes the most amazing triple layer chocolate cake! No kidding. It’s slightly materialistic, but let’s agree to count this one. I mean, it’s chocolate, okay?

Being in love, whether it’s the friendship, family love, or that deeper, personal, soulmate love, is an intangible gift. We know this intellectually. We’d give up all our stuff in a heartbeat to save one of these precious souls. To thank our special people, privately or publicly, is to give a voice to those who make our life worth living.

I am thankful for the security that my “old” love delivers each day. The coffee he delivers to me in bed. The beach walks we take that require few words other than: “Wow. Beautiful. Lucky. Grateful. Blessed.”

After all these years there’s lots of conversation we don’t need. How refreshing!

We don’t need much, a few staples, like wine, good cheese and toilet paper! We don’t subscribe to commercially designed expressions of love.

To honor our simple brand of romance is to sit on opposite sides of the couch while he watches a ballgame and I write or read. Content. Happy. In love. Occasionally we let our toes touch. (A nudge usually means: Hey, who’s getting the coffee or is it too early to open the wine?)

I am thankful for the love and stability of my “old” friendships. No matter how much time goes by in between, dear, sweet friends pick right back up and continue the conversation. I am blessed with a handful of incredibly special people, each charged with feeding my soul for different reasons, and me theirs.

The joy of my children has no material equal on this planet. They represent the cycle of life, extensions of me.

Just at the moment we tire from tedium of childrearing, we celebrate with renewed energy the possibility of the next generation: grandchildren. And those little darlings trump their parents!

When all the homes, cars, boats, stocks, bonds, jewels, fancy décor, awards, and the lot are stripped away, it comes down to the people in your inner circle. Because of them we laugh a little bit longer, sing a bit louder and love much more deeply.

Original graphic and prose: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Mayur Gala/Unsplash

Let There Be Peace on Earth

Let’s sit down to an old-fashioned potluck dinner and open a few bottles of wine. You bring your favorite dish, the special one you make for your family during your religious holidays or regional celebrations, and I’ll bring mine. I hope you will love the Mudiga steaks – breaded and fried beef cutlets. I’ll spoon on homemade tomato sauce, grated Parmesan cheese and serve it on a fresh Italian bread roll made by a local baker, who also happens to be a relative of mine.

While we pass around the dinner plates and open another bottle of wine, I listen while you tell me everything about your life -– your parents, the house you grew up in, the kids in your neighborhood, your longtime friends, your siblings, and crazy relatives too. I learn how you spent summers, places you’ve traveled and places you hope to visit someday.

You tell me the music that makes you want to dance and we agree that 70s music still holds up. You tell me about a particular song that gets you every time you hear it on the radio. The artist must have crawled inside your head to write lyrics. Every word, every note, perfectly reflects the feelings of the day you lost someone close to your heart. I reach out and take your hand; the same song speaks to me too.

What do you like to read? Historical fiction? Courtroom drama? Satire? Biographies? What kinds of movies do you watch? Goofball comedies? Anything with a Superhero? Sappy Rom-Coms? Really? There’s so much we have common!

We tell a few funny stories about our work life; from the first job we had as a kid to our secret dreams to start a business.

You tell me a joke I don’t get but once you translate it we come to the conclusion that knock-knock jokes are terrible in any language, in any country on Earth.

Our meal is ended, our bellies satisfied and the wine bottles empty. We have run out of conversation for now except to admit, to our surprise, that we are more alike than different. We are both sensitive, kind, conflicted, fallible, loving, vulnerable, engaging, needy, compassionate, interesting human beings trying to live our lives in the best way we know how.

It’s not always hearts and flowers and sunshine and lollipops, this world of ours. But our children and the generations that follow deserve a place of kindness and peace, a place where their dreams and hopes and aspirations are given a fertile foundation to grow. We both believe in the future. We know we can do better. We must.

Before our dinner, before we laid eyes on each other, separated by miles, it was easy to mistrust you, despise you, and misunderstand you. We feared who and what we did not know. But sitting across from me, sure, we look different, wear strange clothing; you smell unique, our speech has a lilt or a twist that takes a bit of concentration to understand.

During this dinner you served me and I served you, like we would any friend. When I spoke you listened to me; then I listened to you. And when I didn’t understand your point of view, you explained it. When you disagreed with me, you were polite and allowed me my position and I yielded to you. Like real friends.

After this dinner we concluded that we want to live in peace, in harmony, in tune with one another, to accept each others flaws and points of view with the respect humans offer each other. Because we are all people on the same planet. Because that’s what humankind does to keep the planet alive and well.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio

Believe in Christmas Magic

To the best of my childhood recollection the first time I believed in Christmas magic happened the night the bells jingled outside our bedroom window.

I was four, maybe five years old.

Walking home from visiting our grandparents on Christmas Eve (they lived around the corner), my parents each carried a bundled-up child while safely guiding my older brother and me around the snow banks.

As we turned onto Summer Street, the falling snow hit us sideways and prickled our cheeks. Mom ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at the neighbors’ pretty light displays that drew squeals from the smaller children as Dad wondered aloud if Rudolph’s nose would help Santa through the ‘terrible’ storm.

My brother took my hand and pulled me along. The snowy blast added to our growing anticipation and concern. We kept a watchful eye to the sky, you know, to see if Santa had passed by.

Arriving home, we rushed up the stairs to change into our pajamas and snuggled straight under the bed covers. I don’t recall ever setting out milk, cookies and carrots. I do remember lying very still in bed, willing myself to sleep, but sleep was not my friend.

Except for the light ticking of snow against the window, all around the house seemed extra quiet and dark.

The faint sound that woke me came from a distance, like trying to wake from a dream. I stirred. Then I heard it again. Louder. Coming towards me. I sat straight up and focused with all my might, like eye squinting but with my ears. First I willed the sound to come again, then begged.

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Then I heard it again.

My old brother leaned in through doorway. “Did you hear it?” he said.

He had heard it too.

We went to the window by his bed where he wiped the fog from the glass. Pressing our noses against it, we looked up to the sky and below to the ground. We listened as hard as possible, barely breathing. Expecting. Hopeful.

Then we heard the jingling bells. Santa’s Bells — clear and musical and beautiful. My mouth hung open; my brother’s too, a pair of wonder-eyed bookends.

If that night is chalked up to a child’s imagination of Christmas, so be it. It’s my memory to hold and cherish. And like many childhood memories the night of the Christmas bells faded.

Until…

My son was five years old. The book was Chris Van Allsburg’s The Polar Express. Published in 1985, it was the hot holiday book of the season and today, a Christmas classic.

Briefly the story is about a skeptical young boy who takes a train ride in the middle of the night to the North Pole. There he is selected by Santa to receive the first gift of Christmas. The boy chooses a bell from one of the reindeer’s harnesses. He places the bell into his bathrobe pocket, which later he learns has been lost through a hole there.

I read to the end of the story, with my son snuggled on my lap, to the part where on Christmas morning the boy opens a gift box from Santa.

Mind you, I’m into this wonderful story, my son is engrossed, too, waiting to hear what is in the gift box.

He and I gasped together.

“It’s the bell!” said my son.

Truthfully, my mouth fell open, all over again.

The boy and his younger sister marvel at the sound. The parents, unable to hear the sound, believe the bell is broken.

The book ends with the following:

“At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”*

May your Christmas be filled with magic.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Source: The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg. 1985. Houghton Mifflin.

No Regrets

We’ve all got them. Those pesky shouldda, wouldda, couldda decisions we didn’t make and now regret, or we DID MAKE, and now regret. Can’t win, right?

If there’s time to fix your past regrets, do it before there’s no time. If your regret involves people no longer alive (or worthy of your time), make your peace, wish them well, and move on. Regretting a relationship that’s literally dead helps no one, especially you.

Fix the regrets you’re still hanging on to that matter to you and your happiness.

You get to rewrite the end of your story, remember? You get to decide if the regrets on your list are UNFIXABLE or FIXABLE. If the regret is UNFIXABLE, make amends with this reality. If the regret is FIXABLE, move on it soon.

This is tough for me, too, you guys. After listing twelve regrets, (12!) I settled on my top four. In lieu of New Year’s resolutions, I’m going to tackle my regrets:

1. Losing touch with friends.

Especially former college roommates. We had fun together, thirty years ago, and today we send each other Christmas cards. The saying that we see old friends at weddings and funerals is true, and sad. If you haven’t seen this Christmas commercial yet, please do.

Regret=FIXABLE

2. Not following my gut to become a writer.

Early decisions we make from a place of immaturity, ignorance (lack of knowledge), fear and insecurity perpetuate throughout life. It gets easier to forget we ever had dreams and desires to do something BIG. Our hopes and dreams become burrowed down deep until the weeds grow over and the effort to unearth them becomes moot. That’s when all of the excuses kick up: I can’t. I’m too this. Not that. Etc. Lost time can’t be made up. But age teaches us that time is finite, so as Nike rightly marketed: JUST DO IT!

Regret=UNFIXABLE/FIXABLE

3. Not forgiving people sooner.

I carried anger against people whose opinions and thoughts would never match mine. And today, I’m cool. I’m at peace. Only for a long time I wasn’t. I regret the time I can’t get back. Time I shouldda, wouldda, couldda spent on prosperous ideas, fun projects and new relationships instead of harboring anger.

Regret=UNFIXABLE

4. Traveled more.

I worried about the cost. The dog. The language barrier. Who would water the garden? Silly and totally fixable issues. We throw obstacles in front us that aren’t really obstacles. These are excuses. I had to rely on somebody for help for the dog or the tomato plants, or dip into the “just in case” savings account. My goal now is to travel until I physically can’t. Someone will watch the dog. Someone will water the tomatoes. The rainy day fund will get replenished. And if it rains, I’ll get wet.

Regret=FIXABLE

“Regrets, I had a few.
But then, too few to mention.”*

Here’s hoping the end of your story has few or NO REGRETS!

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

*MY WAY
Songwriters CHILD, DESMOND / STANLEY, PAUL / TURGON, BRUCE
Published by Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC, S D R M, S U I S A, COOPERATIVE SOC. OF MUSIC AUTHORS & PUBLISHERS

Image: New Line Cinema

Bake Some Memories

Italian Fig Cookie Recipe

Many years ago my aunt and uncle shared their recipe for Italian Fig Cookies (Cuccidata) with me.

Her cookie dough recipe with its time-tested measurements and instructions ensured perfect results every time. His fig filling recipe caused me difficulty year after year.

Truth be told, I’m a decent baker. But for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why my cookies didn’t equal theirs. Mine tasted okay but missed that something special thing that made theirs sooo good.

Every year, a week before Christmas I’d call my uncle to whine about the latest filling failure. It was either too runny, or thick, the flavor was off…something.

He took great pleasure mocking my baking abilities – did I follow the recipe correctly? Measure right? Not rough handle the dough? My answers were ‘yes’ to all and then he’d tell me I’d done something “stupid”.

We’d review the recipe again. While I scribbled notes he’d brag about the twenty batches already baked, decorated and wrapped for gifts. I couldn’t match his production.

On or about year fifteen my uncle and I came to an impasse over these cookies. We agreed I’d bring my ingredients to his house and work out my problems together once and for all.

The first thing I learned: this competition of ours was rigged. He cheated.

My uncle used fresh figs from a tree he nursed in his yard (for the record, figs are not native to New England). The tree, originally shipped from Italy, grew in a large plastic barrel in the corner of his impressive vegetable garden. Come fall, he harvested and dried the figs, I swear, to taunt our cookie bake-off. Then he wrapped his baby in layers of burlap and moved it to the garage where it received his tender administration until spring.

Fresh figs.

Hands down, no comparison to my figs. Dried, cryovaced and shipped 5,000 miles from Messina to Stop & Shop.

While my Cuisinart produced a slurry mess, the old contraption he used ground the figs, dates and raisins into a glorious chunky texture. Perfection.

As I worked the grinder’s hand crank, Italian music played on the Hi-Fi fighting against the timbre of my uncle’s directives. His normal speaking tone was at least thirty decibels higher than mine on my best screaming day. No matter how many times I insisted his yelling didn’t make me understand the recipe better, he insisted, louder, it did.

We measured, mixed and baked cookies. Wine got poured, then coffee while we enjoyed the sweet confections of our labor.

My uncle remembered his mother and aunt making these same cookies in the “old country”. His version couldn’t compare to theirs, he said. The memory of his departed family softened his face, but did nothing to quiet his voice.

I left his kitchen with a ginormous tray of the best cookies I’d ever made.

Maybe it was the fresh figs. Or the old-fashioned grinder. More likely it was the channeled love that made his cookies so delicious.

Today I took out the recipe which is now immortalized in a fundraiser cookbook. It’s not his recipe, of course, but the one he and I worked out together. To me it’s perfect.

As I channel my aunt and uncle I’m both happy and sad. Happy for the memories of our years baking together, and sad, missing the friendly banter between batches.

I put on Christmas music, pour a glass of wine and tear up with joy. These cookies taste stupid good.

Be F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Take Small Steps

Don’t make light of the small achievements on your way to the bigger goal.

Lost 2 lbs. on your new diet, three consistent days at the gym (previous record was 2!) or dedicated time each day to work on your craft/project; little milestones represent the pat on the back you need.

Your small victories may be more of the mental or spiritual realm. Spend time in prayer, in meditation. Be good to yourself; don’t beat yourself up for not measuring up.

A fall backwards, a slip? No problem. Dust it off. Start again.

You only need to be accountable and honest to yourself. Little by little. Bit by bit. Step by step. Inch by inch. That’s how the little molehill becomes a mountain.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Original quote and graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio

Chasing Perfection

Achieving perfection is nearly impossible.

The other day I got a hair-brain idea from Pinterest to make scented candles poured in reclaimed mason jars, embellished with rustic details. All the comments made the process seem monkey easy.

Let’s just say I’m satisfied when the day ends and I haven’t totally burned the house down. Note to friends on my holiday candle list: Expect a nice box of packaged chocolates. Perfect!

Being called a perfectionist (which I am kind of when it comes to bathroom cleaning, not candle making) isn’t about things being perfect in your life. It’s the perception that you’ve got it all together and therefore everything in your life must be perfect, which is rarely true.

A social perfectionist yields to external pressure to get everything just right. We can thank Martha Stewart, Pinterest, and every HGTV and Food Channel show host for making us believe a kitchen renovation or the perfect meal can be completed in thirty minutes, with commercial breaks.

Perfectionists cite past mistakes, criticism and expectations from parents, teachers and supervisors for driving their need to perform better than the next guy or gal. In reality nobody’s perfect.

Self perfection is the breed of perfectionists who set their own bar high. They’re motivated to get it right and not make mistakes. They avoid failure by claiming to give 110% and if that doesn’t get the job done they’ll work until the skin on their fingers chafes and bleeds. It’s a never ending treadmill which if unchecked, leads to burnout, or worse. For a perfectionist, at stake is the dissolution of self-esteem.

Supporters of perfectionists see you as someone to emulate which further keeps you motivated to fulfill their perceptions of you. To a perfectionist “average” is a failure.

This perpetuates a cycle of doing for self satisfaction. Nothing is ever good enough, no matter what physical evidence, achievements and accolades a perfectionist earns, they can always do more, be more. Just ask them.

For the rest of us mere mortals, we are unfairly judged by perfectionists. We can’t (please tell them we don’t want to) compete in their arena. For that we are judged as less than.

If perfectionism is unobtainable, is chasing it a bad thing? Absolutely not. I hope my doctors and tax accountants are perfectionists!

But perfectionism is not a badge of honor if it drives you to the point your physical and mental health suffers. That goes double for the non-perfectionists on your candle list.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Tony Wallstrom
Lyrics: Leonard Cohen

Enjoy the Unexpected

Christmas greens, 60 degree sunshine in New England!

It’s almost sixty degrees in New England, a mere three weeks before Christmas. I’m lazing in flip flops on a beach chair unpacked from the garage. Sheltered from a wispy breeze it’s about 74 degrees on the deck. My dog joins me, stretched on the warm boards, twitching in a dream.

This time of the year we’re normally clinging on a ladder, and throwing out a few F-bombs while our fingers go numb wrestling with an uncooperative string of lights. Instead we’re slathering on sunscreen and thinking about taking the dog to the beach.

We hardy New Englanders understand the mood swings of Mother Nature; she’ll do what she’ll do.

I would not be surprised if black and gray clouds roll over us and the temperature dips thirty degrees in the next hour. Our credo around here: If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.

I’m calling the nice weather a tease, knowing any minute, without warning, Mother Nature will change her mind. Winter is whispering on our backside and as sure as the grass is green today, a thick layer of snow will soon cover it. That is to be expected.

But the unexpected surprise is when an old friend from Atlanta calls to say he’s in town. Our unseasonably good weather gives little credence to my “this is not normal” speech when he arrives overdressed, expecting chilly temps or a few snowflakes. That was the day before.

There are no rules for weather forecasting where we live. We expect the unexpected and roll with it. No biggie. For friends who show up when you least expect, we call that surprise a gift.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio. Thanks to my sister-in-law for making the beautiful green arrangement.

Meet a Friend for Oatmeal

Oatmeal is as arbitrary as coffee when you meet up with a friend. It’s the catching up, sharing, laughing and reminiscing you enjoy. That’s the reason you made the time to be together. Have coffee, or tea. Or a doughnut. Or a beer. It’s totally fine.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Be The Best Thing To Someone Today

Without you being aware of it, you could become the person who changes someone’s life today for the better. In fact you most certainly may be the best thing that happens to someone today. That’s how powerful you are as a human being.

It might go undetected by you, but the person you grace with your presence (intentionally or not) will be forever changed. And grateful that you showed up in their life today.

***

I sat in a tiny waiting area. Tense. Afraid. Sick to my stomach. Again.

In this one there were six chairs, two side tables topped with a variety of magazines all battered and torn. A coffee table centered between the chairs held a gratuitous plastic flower arrangement. Why bother? Someone had tried to cheery up the room with honey-colored walls and unremarkable framed prints of forests and wheat fields. I hated this place just like I hated the place before it.

Across from me sat a little old man, maybe in his 80s, the only other person in the room. Where I hadn’t acknowledged him at all, he offered a kind and friendly smile.

I dug out my nearly-filled notebook and scribbled in today’s entry: date, location, doctor, procedure. Keeping notes was my sanity, a way to control the uncontrollable. It gave me a sense of purpose; that I was doing something to help, to be productive, to keep a handle on the only thing I could manage. Notes. Names. Medications. Lab reports. Specialists. Surgeries. Chemo schedule.

I wrote with desperate intensity; fast, in a panic, worried I’d forget something, one tiny detail that once having escaped my brain could never be retrieved. And that detail would end up being the important clue and I’d beat myself up again for not having recorded it.

This was my purpose as a caregiver. A meticulous keeper of notes.

What started as a “just the facts m’am” reference grew into a filled journal of raw emotion. Writing became the only trusted reliable friend on the dark days.

Feeling angry and pissed, I had no trouble telling off everyone and anyone on paper, including God Almighty. Sometimes I punched people in the face. On paper.

Writing kept my sanity especially on days when I felt the entire world around me had gone insane.

This was one of those days.

I pressed the pen so hard my fingers trembled until the point tore through the page. That’s when the old man laid his hand on my knee making me flinch.

He smiled without showing any teeth and, with a surprisingly firm grip, took both of my hands in his. “How long have you had cancer?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “It’s my husband.” He nodded as if he only saw my lips move but didn’t hear my words. “My husband.”

“Yes,” he said. “How long have you had cancer?”

I repeated “my husband” again but louder, in slow motion, so he could read my lips.

He massaged my hands a moment.

“My wife,” he said, his eyes looking to the door, “she’s in there too.” He turned back to me and smiled. A full set of rather nice old man teeth. “We’ve been married sixty-two years. This is the second time we have had cancer.” Emphasis on the word “we”.

His eyes, mocha colored like my Dad’s, softened. He went on to tell me that he is present for every appointment, blood draw, chemo and radiation treatment. Holds her hair back when she throws up then wipes her face. Spoon feeds her when she can’t do it herself. Wraps his arms around her when she is too tired to cry or weak to walk. “We” meant they are so close and bonded, what happens to one is felt by the other.

He palmed my cheek, still smiling. “How long have you had cancer?”

“Two years.”

We talked a short while before he retreated back to his chair and worn out Yachting magazine to wait for his wife.

I thanked him when he and his equally sweet wife left, then returned to write in “our” notebook with a more peaceful stroke.

BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!

Image credit: Unsplash

Original graphic and quote: Stephanie DelTorchio