Category: family

family · growth · intimacy · love · school

The climb

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

A friend said recently that perhaps I’m on the part of the
ride where you’re going up the roller coaster. That all the work that we’re
both doing, as she’s too doing A LOT, that this is the cranking up of the ride.
That it’s hard because we are fighting
against gravity, and we are scared because you can’t see over the crest of the ride – but even though
it’s a mildly alarming metaphor, it’s nice to know that I’m at least on a track
of some sort.
My brother asked me recently what I was planning to do after
graduation. If I was planning on coming back to the East Coast now, or not. I told him a few sort
of vague deflective-y things, and then finally, in the end, I said, I have no
idea.
Likely, as graduation is in a month – holy lord, have
christy mercy. It literally is a month away…! May 12th … isn’t that
the Mayan Doomsday? Maybe I won’t have to worry about any of this then in the
end anyway!! HA! as in, please lord, let the universe not explode or implode on
that day – I have a roller coaster ride to attend to.
But, as that is only a month away, and I’m still in the
formative throes of trying to cobble together a sustainable living and habits
and patterns that support that living, likely not. Not immediately at least. My
brother said that others were asking him, which is normal – and I don’t have to
take on their pressure, as it’s not pressure, it’s curiosity, normal and kind.
But, not yet. When? I don’t know.
My brother’s girlfriend just got placed in a post-graduate
internship at Johns Hopkins in Delaware – and my brother said his company has
another branch he could easily transfer to in Baltimore, MD, so, they’ll
likely do that sometime not too
distant. (She’s wonderful, by the way – I hope and think it’s a long haul kind
of relationship) 🙂 Point being, Mom in Manhattan. Brother on the mid-seaboard.
Dad in Florida. Seems like if I want to be anywhere near my family, I’ll have
to go back to that coast at some point.
And the truth is, I want to. I don’t want to live with any of them(!), but, within 3 hours driving distance
is what I’ve labeled as close enough, but not too close. I’d especially like to
live nearby to my brother.
It took a long time for us to come to the place in our
evolving relationship that we are. There were the awful, physically and emotionally
violent toward each other years of our early childhood. Then there were the
let’s get messed up together years. Then there have been the reparation years
from the fallout of all of that as we’ve both gotten older and more sane by
degrees.
We’re somewhere on that part of our journey now, and the
truth is that we are closer now than ever, even though that just looks like a
phone call every month or so, and random texts to each other with quotes from Bill
& Ted or Back to the Future. This is our bonding. And I/we dig it.
So, I’d like to be able to be near to him, to continue
forming a relationship with the people who we are today. Trauma and addiction
don’t really allow for intimacy, and we’re just getting there, slowly, over
these few years. Reaching out, being honest. Laughing. I care more for him than
I’d ever let myself admit before, and the older we get, and the closer we are – even
though we’re not butt buddies, and I don’t know if or think we need to be –
well, I just get teary sometimes thinking about how much I love him. Which is
something I couldn’t have predicted, and am beyond grateful for.
It’s another way in which I’m shown that I have no idea
what’s over the rise of the ride. But the clinking and clunking sound as the
cart hoists itself up the hill is the sound of the work we’ve each done to get
to this place of commonality and connection.
So, not today, but soon perhaps, I’ll be in driving distance
of my brother, his wife, and their children. 

action · community · family · Jewish · joy

Jew: Part II

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Sorry for the brief interruption of the daily blog, folks.
It was part intentional, part not. I’m not sure if I’m going to declare
Saturdays a non-internet day – at least throughout the day, before night. It’s
partly as a result of having spent some time with Jews on Friday, who take
Saturday off from electronics, and partly, just because I have a hard time
moderating my internet use – I’m sure you can’t relate 😉
It was also unintentional in that I was up and out till late
on Friday night, with said Jews, and slept in till my Sat morn commitment and
was off and running – more like galumphing – for the day.
Friday night was the first night of the Jewish holiday of
Passover. The first night, Jews all over the world come together for a ritual
meal called a seder, at which we retell the story of the Jewish slaves’
liberation from Egypt. You may remember this from such movies as “The Ten
Commandments,” or Disney’s “The Prince of Egypt.” 😉
I have heard, and don’t quote me, that if you do nothing
else Jewish for the whole year, if you participate in nothing else, do a seder,
and all-ish is forgiven. Basically, it’s another way of saying that the most
important holiday and event of all, is the seder. The retelling of the escape
from slavery to liberation.
I was invited this year to a friend’s not-a-seder seder,
which was to focus on social justice themes related to items on the seder plate
– i.e. there’d be a stand with an egg, and then all kinds of social and food
justice issues that currently surround egg production. There would be a focus on how are we today slaves to things, and talk about liberation from them. Where are people in the world actually in conditions of slavery, and what could we do. Etc. The room would host the
elements of the seder, but there wouldn’t, in fact, be a seder – the telling of the story.
I was surprised to find myself telling my friend that,
actually, I sort of wanted to go to a seder.
There are very few ways in which I still feel connected to
the Jewish community. I had worked at a Jewish non-profit for a little while
before school; then I’d taught at a synagogue Sunday school last year. But this
year, save the one time I went with my friend Barb to a “Young Adult” Friday
night service, and then was invited to her house for Rosh Hashana (New Year’s)
dinner … well, I’ve been pretty a-religious.
I am not religious. Haven’t ever been religious, and don’t
have a hankering to be religious. What I
do have a hankering for is the community. The stories, the mishpucha – family.
On Friday night, at this table of probably 40 people, even
though the majority of us didn’t know one another, we were family. There was a
moment when a particular part of the story was recited by 5 “extra” languages
around the table – English and Hebrew, of course, then Yiddish, Russian,
Spanish, French, and Japanese. It was the melting pot of Jews. The family next
to me was in town on holiday from Argentina. This gorgeous couple and 3
gorgeous children, and we all sang the songs the same. We read the Hebrew the
same. We banged on the table along with the songs, the same. That’s a hard
thing to get in most circles of life — that feeling of connection, belonging, and connectedness to a shared history.
I recently registered for the online Jewish dating site,
JDate. I’d really rather drink piss than a) admit that, or b) do it. But about
2 weeks ago, following a few more conversations with friends of mine, I signed
up, and actually paid. I’d been registered on this site for about 2 years,
apparently as it told me when I logged in this time, but I’d never paid for it,
and so I could see when people had emailed me, but I couldn’t read the emails
or reply. I was very unwilling then.
Problem is, I’m still unwilling now. But, I think it’s
causing me to see the absurdity of registering and demanding that the person I
date be Jewish when I have such a tenuous and almost laughable connection with
my own Judaism and my own community. What does it matter if the dude is Jewish
if I’m not participating in Jewish stuff anyway? Who cares, then, if it doesn’t
actually impact or change my life in any way. You’re Jewish, great, so am I –
let’s go get a cheeseburger. …
Not to say that I have an intention to go kosher, but just
to notice that I’m looking for a Jewish mate, but not looking for a Jewish
community. This seems counterproductive, or somehow just doesn’t make sense to
me.
If I want Judaism in my life, personally and romantically, I
ought to get out there and go participate in Jewish things. There are fun
things to do – I know there are – I mean Jews are comedians – there’s gotta be something to that.
I am not sure what I’ll do with my JDate account for now –
it’s rather depressing and makes me feel like there’s scarcity in this world,
or that if I were wittier, I’d get more replies, or lied about my height, or
something. If I want to be my authentic self, then I ought to start with being
authentic to my desire to participate in a community that I love – and whatever
happens from that will happen.
For me, Judaism becomes something that when I’m there is part of my blood – And when I’m not, I forget how important it is to me. When I’m there, listening to the “long time ago, Rabbi so and so was talking to Rabbi other so
and so, and they were arguing about chickens.” I want to hear that. I want to hear that this thing here represents this about
the earth, but this about the spirit. I want to hear the ironic laughter and the punchlines of
moral tales passed down through ages. I want to learn and I want to be a part
of. I don’t and can’t do that online,
But I can make an effort to do it in person. 
family · love · maturity · recovery · self-care

Family Planning.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

(oh, who doesn’t love a little tongue in cheek!)
I spoke with my mom yesterday. It’s a new record. Twice in
6… well, more like 9 months. It went well. Better than with my dad at least,
but I know part is that she was simply excited to talk on the phone with me and so was on “good behavior.”
I’ve had to watch my balance between “maintaining boundaries” and silent
scorn/punishment. Because I can tend to tip the scales toward the latter, still
making my parents make up to me things they don’t know need to be made up, and
punishing them for things they do naturally, as if punishing someone for
breathing.
But, it’s becoming, and had become, time to step back into
our relationship, and hope that this is a dance floor not a boxing ring. I’ve
needed to time to cool off, to solidify my ability to say things like “That’s
not my business” or “I’d rather we didn’t talk about that.” And, as yesterday
at least was proof of, I am becoming better at it.
This isn’t to say there weren’t the few tinges of the same
old, but, they were few, and I wasn’t thrown by them, as I’ve been so easily
thrown into the drama of despair and self pity that my family is nuts, always
has been nuts, and ever thus shall be, amen. Including myself.
There’s been a lot of need for differentiation work. My life
being mine, and not a carbon copy of hers, or dictated by the mandates of my
father. Coming to believe that the life I’m living is actually my own …
well, it’s been harder than … it is for some people.
It’s something I’ve been repeatedly told over the last few
years. Don’t you understand that you are
the one doing the living? Don’t I understand that these are my decisions to make?
It’s been hard to take that ownership. To believe that I actually am the captain of the ship, or the one
doing the breathing of this body. When much of early life is focused on the
needs of others and falling in line with those desires, the questions as, “What
do I want?” take on magnum
proportions.
Although the aim of school was to accomplish a number of
goals, one of them was to really do what I
wanted. This decision, let me tell you, was NOT supported in some corners of my
nuclear family, and they were very
vocal about that. About telling me that I was making a wrong decision, that I
was making a mistake. That I couldn’t have what I wanted. And that I was stupid
to think something I did want was a viable option. … Only the first two were
actually stated – the others were interpreted by me, and my fear brain which
loves to tell me much the same thing.
I will here state, however, my mom has always been in my
corner around school. She hasn’t always understood what I’m doing creatively, she
hadn’t always supported it (or been aware of it, is more accurate), but she is now. And she has for a few years.
And part of my untangling my knot of self-sabotage is to
begin to see the support in my life around my creativity – and although it’s a
“nice to have,” not a “need to have” that she supports me, … well, it’s
*really* nice to have.
She’d contacted me earlier this week, perhaps the day after
I had my activating conversation with my dad, to ask about coordinating for the
graduation – my graduation. And, so, I told her I’d call her. And I did. And we
talked, and when it was getting a little maudlin, I kept it light and aimed
toward getting off the phone. And when she mentioned her retarded work schedule
(by which I mean 12 hours straight with no breaks, so that she sits with
clients while eating a Clif bar as lunch… <– no judgment there, eh?) I didn’t tell
her what I thought. I didn’t make suggestions. I didn’t, in fact, tell her she
was doing it wrong.
The thing which I so despise being told.
There were a few other minor things like that, where I
wanted to say, WOMAN you are marvelous and talented and beautiful and
intelligent and hilarious and creative and brilliant – OF COURSE you can find
something nice to wear for the graduation day. Of course you deserve to treat
yourself better than your work schedule. Of course … Well, Of course I love you.
Which I suppose is what it boils down to for all of us. All
of us, in this nuclear family, and all of us, us.
So, yes, it is nice to be having my mom coming out to visit.
To celebrate. She agreed she and my father (and his fiancé) will be cordial,
and that’s all they need to do.
I’m looking forward to putting that phone call in my
experience bank, diminishing the deficit of my negative thinking around both of
our “brokenness,” and letting myself live my own life, as I begin (continue) to let go of hers. 
anger · family · integrity · letting go · self-care

Gaslight

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

*spoiler alert*
Gaslight is an old black and white suspense movie in which a
wife is tricked into thinking she is mad. Things disappear from her dressing
table. The lamp lights in her room dim and brighten without her touching them.
And her husband tells her she’s crazy, and says here’s your purse, you left it
x, even though she could have sworn she left it y. She is basically told that
the things she thinks are happening, which we as the viewer see happening, are not, in fact, happening. This, one can
imagine, produced fear, worry, self-doubt, and eventually a crack-up. This is gaslighting.
It’s funny that I’d been telling someone else about that
term yesterday morning, which made itself into regular parlance (like
“catch-22” from the book title) or at least made itself into my mom’s parlance
from whom I learned it, because later that day, I was gaslit.
On the phone with my dad, who’s wanting to coordinate about
my graduation, etc., as you may recall, I’d been anxious about him and my mom
being at the same place at the same time. So, I let him know this. I told him
that I know that he and my mom don’t have the most communicative relationship,
but that I hope we can all show up with a spirit of celebration. I told him
that I was anxious about them being here together, and that I hope they can get
along in a civil way.
He said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.
He said their relationship is fine; there’s no hard
feelings; that I must have gotten the wrong idea, and that, in essence, I was
wrong and there’s nothing wrong.
I reminded him of asking me to tell my mom about his
mother’s passing because they “aren’t talking,” and he had no recollection of
saying this. I said that he asked me to tell her, but I said I didn’t feel
comfortable doing so, and he said okay, Ben can tell her.
He has no recollection of this.
So, I got defensive, feeling like I was being told that what
really happened hadn’t happened. And he got defensive feeling, I imagine, that
I was attacking him for behavior that he doesn’t recall. I got a little
offensive in my “lightly insistent” reminder of his recent behavior, and he got a little offensive
accusing me of making things up.
And, so we got off the phone after reverting to the
“everything’s fine here” light, fake, cover-it-up tone.
I’ve never been divorced. And it became, now, less about my
parents’ interaction than about my interaction with my dad. This is usually how
it goes – it’s either, Everything’s fine, or it’s antagonistic. It’s either,
Gee my life’s swell, or it’s Oh wait, I’m not in control, I better use my vast
resources of rage and anger to intimidate it back into order.
This is the way it’s always been. To varying degrees of
each. He can barely ask a waiter for more water without it sounding like a
threat.
But, I’m also hyper-attuned to it, as his daughter.
So, moral? I told him what I hoped could happen at
graduation, he said things will be fine. So, needs voiced, needs heard. 
I know what my experience has been,
and I know the truth of things as I see them. And I have to have enough value
in my own experience that it doesn’t matter whether it’s verified by him, or
anyone else. It is not my job to break through someone else’s denial; to
instill in them proper manners of communication that do not swing from hot to
cold; it is not my job to change my dad. It’s just my job to not be gaslit by
him; to allow the conversation to hold contradiction, not have to “be right,”
and to let it go.
Not sure I have all of the “moral” here yet today, but I’m
pretty sure this is a lifetime process.
Next, it’ll be time to tell the same thing to my mom. … I
may need to do some work before I take that phone call on! … Or maybe I don’t need to call her on this at all. ?
abundance · courage · family · forgiveness · fortitude

My Life is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

My Body is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order

My Home is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order
My Finances are in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order
My Time is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order
My Family is in Harmony and in Perfect Living Order
Now that you’ve vomited, gagged, or simply stopped reading,
this is the phrase that occurred to me this morning. Particularly around my
family.
These are affirmations, which means that they may not be
precisely “true” at present, but the point is to work at believing them, and to
bring them into being. Affirmations have a long history, with me too, of being
thought of as poppy-cock, and nonsense, and sooooo gushy icky lovey for only the really far out
hopeless cases of wishful, magical thinkers.
And, be that as it may, what harm can they do.
It’s like the removal of the paintings of women hidden from
the viewer. What harm can it do? It’s like seeing a holistic chiropractor who
recommended gargling with (diluted!) apple cider vinegar because I was getting
sick. What harm can it do? It’s like believing that my parents will behave themselves when they see
each other at my graduation.
Like the anxiety/control bug will do, this parasite will
glom onto anything to maintain its existence. And, currently, now that it looks
like I may well graduate (WHEW!), it looks like my parents are coming out to see me
“walk” for graduation.
I’m… anxious in advance. My parents were not the fighting
kind when they were married. They were the not talking kind, speaking, toward
the end especially, only about who has a dentist appointment that day, or when
they’ll be home, etc. So, it’s difficult to imagine a reality in which they
talk less, but, I’m in it. We’re in it.
In fact, it’s worse. Because now, there’s rancor and
distrust and dislike. There’s resentment basically. And for the most part,
since their divorce ten years ago, a) they do not talk, email, communicate
(except through my brother and me), and b) if they mention each other, it’s
with bile.
So, my anxiety bug has been glomming onto the event of their
being in the same place at the same time, and how uncomfortable their tension
makes me.
It’s been suggested that I can let each of them know that
this is on my mind, and that I look forward to a happy occasion. They don’t
have to be best friends – they never really were – they just have to get along
enough to celebrate a happy occasion. My happy occasion.
My therapist said yesterday that it’s typical for people who
have had to take on adult responsibilities prior to adulthood to get a little
paralyzed and fearful when faced with adult rites of passage, such as
graduation. That we have put on such a show and action of being adult before our
years that when we’re actually faced with real acts of adulthood, we don’t
really know what to do with that. There’s a feeling that we haven’t in fact
grown up enough to take on the responsibilities we’re being asked to take on.
The fact is, I didn’t graduate undergrad with my friends and
roommates. I was in a mental institution at the time, coming off a combination
of drugs and alcohol, most of which noone knew I was abusing so much. I
remember my fear of what would happen when I graduated. This fear of going home
to live with my dad (my parents had only divorced that year) and knowing that
he and I were at odds. Seeing that my roommates and friends were all getting
ready to prepare for it, and I was in some bar, occasionally some bar in Philly, miles
away from school and responsibility.
And in a final act of “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing
– H E L P!!!,” I shaved my head – bicced it – in a moment of defiance, rage, and desperation.
I didn’t know why I was really doing it then – it seemed … logical? It seemed
like my only recourse. It felt like I was on that electric walkway at the
airport, and its moving along underneath me, but I’ve lost my footing, and its
dragging me, scraping me apart as others stand so calmly heading toward their
future.
I did graduate, and “walk” a year later, once the chaos all
settled. But, certainly, it’s been on my mind as I set to graduate this May. The
same sense … or maybe it’s just a similar sense – of not knowing what I’m
doing; that I don’t know what’s on the other side of this change; that don’t
you know how lost I am still, and I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
However, the truth is much different. It’s different than my
fear, and it’s much different than the reality of 9 years ago. The truth is, I’ve
been told by my academic advisor that this fear is normal. I’ve been told by my
therapist that this fear is normal. And, I’ve been told that I am certainly not
who I was 9 years ago. That the resources and foundation that I’ve worked to
build is actually quite solid, and my fears are no more than that. Just fears.
Just worries that Molly doesn’t know how to do it perfectly.
That Molly is at a different place than some of her high school and college
peers with their children, spouses, and minivans. I’m just worried that I’m
still a foundering vessel – but I’m not. I can let myself be. I can let myself
fall into the abyss of despair, worry, and self-pity. But that really doesn’t
take into account the facts.
The fact is, I’m much more capable to take care of myself
and my life than ever before, and I have a host of people to help me when I
feel like I’m failing at it. And, the fact is that whatever happens between my
parents when they come visit is not a reflection that I have somehow failed. That their tense relationship is an
outside reflection of my inability to have a normal, sane, happy life.
Not true. And, so I will repeat the above mantras, in their
purpose to solidify from wish and desire to truth. And maybe even get a little
excited and proud that I have accomplished something rather remarkable. 🙂
adulthood · family · honesty · love · self-care

Passing.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

I found out yesterday that my grandmother died in the middle
of the night before. My dad texted me after I’d gotten out of work to call him,
and I knew, or expected that to be the information he’d give me. It was. And
he’s alright. He’s, well, he’s not an emotional guy, but in the last few months
of his mother’s sharp decline, he’s been pretty roller-coaster about it – which
has been a little ungrounding for me – to see stone cry is a little … weird.
It’s been coming. She’s been in decline for a while, and has
spent the last month or so in a nursing home/hospital. Which has been like a
blessing. As some of you may recall from previous blogs, she and her husband
and other son are sort of (no, not sort of, badly) hoarders, who live in chaos and
desperate filth. So, it was a blessing that she got to spend her last month
having her basic needs of food and cleanliness taken care of. She was losing
her marbles, and sort of didn’t know where she was, but, I was glad for it.
Two things are sticking in my craw about yesterday, though.
I called a few people after I talked to my dad – got several voicemails, and
one lovely friend. And after wandering around the commercial street near where
I live, sort of meandering aimlessly, I called my brother. To find out how he
was, and just to tell him I was thinking about him. He feels similarly, that it
was a blessing, and I told him that I wonder what will happen to the other two
(her husband and son), and Ben said angrily, “I don’t really care.”
When she went into the hospital/nursing home, it was around
the corner from where they lived in Queens. And yet, the reports I heard were
that the other two were not visiting her at all. The reality is that they have been
shut-ins for a long time (getting groceries delivered to the house), and I imagine that having the linch-pin of their family
trio dying in the hospital was more than these fragile, broken people could
handle. I have a shit-load of compassion for them. They are sad, doing the best
they can people. And the best they could do was not to go to visit her.
This pissed my brother off, who seemed completely happy
enough to write them both off. There will not be a service, my dad said, and he
and his fiancé are having a shiva (sort of like a wake, without the body) at
his fiance’s house on Sunday, and he’s invited his and her various social
communities. But, for Ed and Randell, my grandfather and uncle, there’s
nothing. A cremation, I heard.
The reality is that Ed (my dad’s step-father) and Ran (my
dad’s half brother) have been in my life since I was born. We spent Christmases
there; Ran set up all the small little lighted up villages; Ed wrote all the
cards for the presents as riddles, giving clues to what was inside, sometimes a
series of gifts with strange rhyming clues to get to the final “answer”
present. For all their descent into disturbia, they loved my brother and I. And
my dad, and my mom.
And that’s the other craw-sticker. After talking with my
brother last night, I bought a few needed groceries, and came home. I’d spent a
long time in the used bookstore before I called him, looking at titles from
authors like Thich Nat Hahn, and Chodron, and Cameron, looking for comfort, I
suppose. But I didn’t buy anything. In fact, I didn’t buy my way out of my
feelings, climb into the movie theater, go to blockbuster, the ice cream shop,
or over eat. I felt sad. That feels like a normal reaction. The “both/and”:
relief for her release from suffering (one hopes), and sadness for losing the
last blood related grandparent.
In any case, I bought some apples, eggs, and oatmeal, and
came home. I made some of my new favorite tea, and sat down, and cried a bit.
Then I called my mom. She and I haven’t spoken on the phone
for over 6 months, for reasons which again made themselves evident last night,
but for which I had better tools to handle them. I left her a voicemail, as it
was close to 11pm on the east coast. My dad had asked that I tell her, and I
agreed before saying that actually she and I weren’t in the best of touch at
the moment, and he said okay, he’d ask Ben.
My parents do not speak since their divorce over 10 years ago.
At all. It’s not like they’ve erased, ignored their portion of life together;
no, rather they each feel indignant and rageful and affronted toward the other.
It’s awful. And I have had to spend a lot of time working up the boundaries to
say, “That’s not my business,” when they each separately want to talk about the
other.
My mom called me back last night. And we spoke for a little
bit, and I told her about Ben’s reaction. I mean, she is my mom. It was finally
who I wanted to talk to. Not to tell her, as Ben could have and would have done
it (as inappropriate, perhaps, as that may have been), but because sometimes we
just want our mom. My mom is not the mom I want, but she is the mom I have. And I am coming to grips with trying
to not change her. (And, I won’t enumerate her assets here, but she is also one
of the brightest, funniest women I know, and has shown me a great deal of love
in my life to the best of her ability to do so.)
That said. When she began to say that if it weren’t for me
and ben, she wouldn’t know anything that’s happening, and Dad’s stopped talking
to her, that he’s been—
I cut her off. I said that I didn’t want to talk about that.
And she paused, and said, well the point is that thank you for telling me.
(Perhaps you can gather what a less-able-to-put-up-boundaries Molly was subject
to in last year’s conversation. Narcissism is not just a river in Africa.)
So. Yeah. I’m going to call my grandfather today and offer
my condolences, as that’s really all that I can do from here, and it’s what I
want to do. It doesn’t matter how the other members of my immediate family are
reacting to this passing, or the remaining alive members of my grandmother’s
immediate family. I am able to show up with love. And so I will.
Too, I can accept that the same compassion I am able to show
them, I could extend to my immediate family – because anger, indignation,
narcissism – these are actually the best they are able to do. This, right here,
is my family’s best, and I won’t try to ask them to be or do more than that.
What I will do is allow myself to show up at my best, and leave the rest alone. 

family · holidays · letting go · love

Origins.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

My Christmas was as it’s been the past four years now – In
San Francisco, with my great friend Luke, at the posh Kabuki movie theater, and thai food on Fillmore, followed by meeting up with some of our
fellows. We saw the new Sherlock Holmes and it was just as fun and satisfying
as the first – as my mom once put it around movies of this caliber, they’re the
kind of movies that just make your popcorn taste better 🙂 They’re not going to
change your life, but they are fun – just what one wants on a Jewish Christmas day.
Before converting to Judaism to marry his first wife, my dad grew up in an Irish Catholic family in the Bronx & Queens,
and so I also have a “real” Christmas tradition and memory of all of that. We
used to drive to Queens each year on Christmas eve and decorate the tree, and
my dad’s mom, step-dad, and half-brother would always have this elaborate and
wonderful Christmas village set up. All the little stores and shoppes 😉 We’d
put on tinsel, and the clothes-pin reindeer every kid made in school. It was
always a wonderful tradition.
Over the years, though, as things have gotten worse with
them, the tree and the village stay out all year round, and are now covered in
many years of dust and filth. And although I have a great deal of love and
compassion for them and their increasing mental illness, shut-in ways, I can’t
help but feel a little cheated at the loss of my connection to a family
history.
My grandmother is in the hospital, her leg recently
amputated, and finally her other son and husband have agreed that their house
isn’t safe for her (the only bathroom is on the 2nd floor). So, to
me, it’s a blessing – she’ll be in a nursing home till she passes, and it’s a
little bit of dignity she’ll get back as she’s cared for in this way.
However, with the loss of her, …
My last name is not really my last name. I mean it is. It’s
on my birth certificate, and it’s on my father’s. But before that, it didn’t
exist.
My grandmother got pregnant at 15 by a “Spanish electrician
named Joe.” This was all I’ve known, all my dad’s known until very recently
about his father. Irish Catholic family? 1950s? Unwed teenage pregnancy? This was not okay, and my dad’s
first few years of life were actually spent on a farm in upstate New York. The
last name was “borrowed” from a family friend from whom my grandmother’s family
asked if they could use his last name on the birth certificate. And so, our new lineage was born. With a
big fat question mark on my dad’s dad’s side of the family tree.
More than a question mark, however, were cloaks of secrecy and
shame, and a large edict to never mention this. I can’t imagine how it must
have been for my grandmother.
A few years ago, while in her kitchen, helping to prepare
the Yorkshire pudding for Christmas dinner, I asked her more questions about my
unknown grandfather. Besides saying what she would come to only say about it,
“It was a long time ago,” (end of conversation), she also said that years after
my dad was born, my grandmother’s mother showed her letters Joe had sent
her during the pregnancy which her mom had intercepted and kept hidden – letters which said that he wanted to help and be involved.
Crushing. I imagine. I told this to my dad, and he was
stunned – he never asks, or talks about it.
I’ve done a little research, and in the Bronx in the 1950s, the
“Spanish” population, not knowing if that meant Spain Spanish or Latino
Spanish, it is likely that he, my dad’s father, was either Puerto Rican or
Dominican.
The last information I’ve gotten from my grandmother was
when I sent her a letter about 2 years ago, asking politely and nicely and just
… a little desperately, for more information. And she wrote back, It was a long
time ago, times change, we move on.
And now, she lays in a hospital bed, losing her memory, and
dying with the last of any secrets or clues to my lineage, my brother’s
lineage, and that of my father. Her husband married her when my dad was 6, and
they had another son. And that’s that.
It was years before I
knew any of this about my dad’s dad. I knew that the man I knew as my
grandfather was my dad’s step father, but I was always told that there was a
real Daniels, with a backstory – a descendant of a Scottish clan – and everything.
So, Christmas. There’s a bit of acceptance I’ll just have to
work on around this. Some people really don’t know their heritage at all. Some
are adopted, or were taken from their homeland generations ago, entirely divorced from their origins.
I don’t really know what else to say about it. It feels like
a loss, like a sadness. And I’ll always be curious, and I wish I knew more, and I often assume that my nearly black hair and dark eyes like my father are from this Latin lineage, and
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever find those letters from Joe in the packing up
of boxes once they’re all gone. 
But I do know that over the last few years,
when I’ve been in spiritual circles during which we’re asked to name our
ancestors, I name him, Grampa Joe, and call him into my circle. 
dating · family · fun · holidays · joy · laughter · responsibility · self-care

Best Date Ever.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So, if, as has been said to me, a first date is simply an
interview for a second one, then I totally nailed this interview.
The date began with ice skating. Now, I almost talked myself
out of it, seeing that there were mainly families on the Union Square Ice Rink,
but after checking in with my date, I knew this is what we were there to do.
And I had a blast!!! It was so much freaking fun. I didn’t
fall, but I certainly flailed. I laughed and grinned and was a terrible skater
having a wonderful time. It was incredible. The Christmas music on the
speakers, I barely heard over my squeals of delight and intense concentration to not knock into anyone. People
standing outside the rink watching laughed and smiled at me as I laughed and
smiled. They were as delighted to see I was having such a good time at being
awful as I was. 🙂
After making it for only about 40minutes though, having
worked up a bit of heat, and my ankles not nearly as strong as they needed to
be, we called it quits, but we were both cool with it.
I’d promised my date that we’d go see Hugo in 3D, that
Martin Scorcese kids’ film that was supposed to actually be pretty good. But
what we needed first was … hot chocolate.
After trying to corral my date into being okay with stopping
in Ross (the discount clothing store) for a minute for some socks, I agreed
this was not what I wanted to be doing either, and we left, to get hot
chocolate with whipped cream. Now, I would never normally do this, the sugar
factor for one, and the cool factor for the other. I was in line very tempted
to get a chai latte with an add shot – seasonal and fun, but adult, you know?
But, when I went up to order, hot chocolate it was. It was delicious. I really
felt like the old days.
My “crazy cat lady aunt” as I’ve been fond to call her, but
realize perhaps it’s time to stop calling her that. It’s pretty mean. But, you
get immediately the type of person I’m talking about. Well, she lives in
Manhattan, as she has all of my life, and each year growing up would take me to
Rockefeller Center. There, was Teuscher’s Chocolates. And in Teuscher’s
chocolates were something called Champagne Truffles. Now, I haven’t had them in
a few years, I had one about 4 years ago, but wasn’t sure if that was “okay” on
the whole sobriety front, so I don’t have them anymore, but that one was as
divine as I remembered them to be.
My aunt, for all of her foibles and human fallibilities,
really loved/loves me and my brother. She took us to see the famous tree, to see the Radio City Rockettes, to
stand on the lines to go see the holiday windows at Sak’s Fifth Avenue – which
were monumental in our day – themed and mechanized and just opulent. 
She, in fact, wrote me an email about 2 weeks ago entitled
“The Return of Kevin,” and said she was flipping through the channels and came
across Home Alone, and remembered
vividly, though I don’t, when she had taken me for tea at the Plaza hotel (she
loved to do these totally chi-chi things, like we went to the symphony, and she
took me on my first airplane ride). Apparently, standing out front, I said “I’m
standing where Kevin stood”, with such a look on my face of joy and radiance
that she remembers it to this day. Now, sadly, I know this must mean that I was
referencing Home Alone Two,
because that one takes place in NY, and loathe though I may be to admit it, I’m
sure this story is completely accurate.
So, I love all the shlock of Christmas, holidays, even the
pushy crowds. When I left the ice rink yesterday, the smile and sheen of joy
coming off me was palpable. I was so happy I went.
My date ended after Hugo in 3D with buying a package of
sugar-free hot chocolate on my way home (the invasion of sugar from earlier was
not kind to me), rented a comedy and came home to curl up
with some tea, and, hey, here’s honesty, to “spend a little time with myself,” to quote Tom Waits.
You may have guessed much earlier than this, that my date
was with myself. And it was awesome. Part of the whole Calling in the One thing and my path in general is to become a woman I’d want to date. And, judging from the careening,
fanciful, contented joy of yesterday, another date is sure to follow. 
compassion · crush · family · forgiveness · generosity · joy · love

circa 1994

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

So, I have a new crush. Not that the maroon 5 singer wasn’t
delish (see “pulling a carmen” blog), but, I just finished watching “Junebug,” a movie with amy adams and
alessandro nivola – and I dunno folks, but something……. Y-u-m. Lately, I feel
like there’s 15 year old girl inside me who’s been making these choices for me,
as it’s been a while since I’ve had “star” crushes. Although, of course, the
billboards for crazy stupid love (not steve carrell – sorry steve!) and the
new Sherlock Holmes have been lovely head-turners.
When I was home in NJ packing up my room, I found my stash
circa 1993 1994, so I was 13ish at the time. … Johnny, and Keanu. I had pages
and pages of them each taped over my bed. On the wall above my head was Johnny,
and to my right was Keanu. In the mornings before school, I would watch a half-hour of either “Speed” or “CryBaby” – yes, very different movies. And at night, I would
kiss each of the gentlemen on their paper lips. Ha! I was a girl. It was great. The
Johnny pools of deep luscious brown, and Keanu in a crumpled suit in a claw foot
tub in the middle of a field of weeds.
It’s funny what we remember. Like how much our music tastes
are concretized when we’re young. When I was getting ready for the dance party
last night, I threw on the LIVE album, Throwing Copper – also 1994 as it turns
out – and although it wasn’t as uptempo as a party prepping moment and I
changed the cd, I still knew all the lyrics. The things we touch back to. The
nostalgia that becomes a part of our persona. It’s interesting.
At 13, however, I was a frizzy haired gangly girl with acne,
coke bottle glasses and a gap between my front teeth. (Like many middle
schoolers!) And so we cling to idealized images from Bop! magazine, and
the tortured melancholia passion of a rock album.
Hm. It’s sorta nice to look back with compassion for the 13
year old, to hold on to some of the things she liked, to hold them today as
funny stories and taste values.
To undeftly switch gears, but surely related in some
stratosphere, I sent Chanukah presents to both my parents this week. As some of
you have read, I have been working toward some semblance of reconciliation with
my mother after our 6 month incommunicado status. And though we have been
texting, and though she sent me a card on my birthday in October, well, I
finally shipped to her her birthday present – from June. Our final conversation
was around then – I’d already bought these very “mom” presents – an old
fashioned magnifying glass with a beautiful fake mother of pearl handle (it’s
funny cuz she’s old) ;P and a set of red painted coasters with a bunch of
different roosters on them – to match her red couch, a self-identified marked
leap for her into color a few years ago. The presents were perfect. Then we
careened into the minefield of our relationship and I got indignant and
punitive and never sent the gift to her. It’s been in my closet since June.
So after talking with Patsy last Sunday about sitting with
the idea of what it would be like to send her a Chanukah present without
expectation, I took the present out of my
closet. And sat it on my desk. ! Two days later, I picked up an empty box from
work. Two days after that, on Thursday, I brought the box into the city and
shipped it to my mom. In the box, I’d wrapped the gifts in white and blue
tissue paper (Chanukah colors, naturally), and put in the watercolor “giraffe in a scarf”
card I’d painted, with a note on the back that I thought she’d like these
things and I love her, and happy holiday. (btw, there’s a cellist somewhere in
my building or the one next door, and he’s really good – and he’s practicing
right now – it is so gorgeous.)
I wrapped the box, and was conscious of letting all of this
go out across the country to the Upper East Side with love. With the spirit of
giving – which demands no return, which doesn’t even demand she like it – but
just truly to say, these reminded me of you, and I love you. Yeah, it took 6
months to get there, but, I am here now. And she should get them soon.
To my dad, I sent something similarly freeing. As I feel it
now, it’s miraculously powerful to get to give these gifts to my parents – not the
gifts, but the freedom, if only momentarily, from my judgment of them. To my
dad, I sent one of those LL Bean canvas tote bags that literally can hold a
small child. I had it monogrammed: “D & B”. My dad, Drew, and his fiancé,
Barbara.
My dad has recently begun signing every email to me, “Love
Dad and Barbara.” This has pissed me off. That my relationship with him is now
no longer with him, it’s with a pair, with an entity that is “Dad and Barbara.”
But, as I’ve almost always said over their 10 year courtship, I respect her
because she makes my dad happy. And that is true.
So, I sent it with a card, To Dad and Barbara, May you use
this well in Florida, Love Molly. Because guess what, my dad loves her. He
wants to be identified together with her. He wants to be one of a pair, and
it’s none of my f*ing business how he wants to be identified. It’s like a
person adopting a gender pronoun that they prefer to be called. Who cares if
you have a penis, and want to be referred to as “she.” I would call that person
whatever the f they wanted to be called – it’s not my call. And, so, neither is it my call to exclude Barbara,
even in this way, from my life, or from my Dad’s life. So, to D&B. And off
it went. And truly, I do hope
they use it well in their new home in Florida. I know it’ll mean a lot to her,
and it means a lot to me to see this stubborn, snide child give way to an
inclusive, loving adult. It’s pretty huge.
So, like I said, I don’t know how these topics relate, but
they’re what’s on my mind. A 13 year old girl-like crush, and no-strings-attached
consideration for parents. I can live with all this multi-faceted nonsense,
because it’s human, and whole. And 13, or 30, I still think this man is delish.
😉
family · gratitude · love · service · tradition

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

(My thanks to my friend with amazon prime who ordered me a
new power adapter to be delivered overnight.)
That said, it was … ironic(?) that my computer went down on
Tuesday night, as I’d just been thinking about taking a quasi-Sabbath this
Saturday – to take it easy, maybe not be all electronically connected (do my
homework!) – but apparently the cosmos had a different time frame in mind for
my power-down day. It was nice, honestly, not even having the option of
trolling online, checking anything at all. I had internet at work on Wednesday,
and internet at The Dailey Method this morning. I’m not going all Luddite here,
but I did feel freer in my time when I didn’t feel like my few moments could be
packed with checking,looking,clicking.
I also questioned what my motives were in this whole
blog-a-day thing. This arbitrary rule and deadline that I’ve given myself when
I’m considering how I’m using and misusing my time. But, really, I do enjoy it
– I think about what I might write about (though it usually ends up WAY off
from where I intended), and I also really do know that it’s a good way to keep
any interested parties updated, and finally – I get to track my own progress.
Writing a few days in a row or in a week that I still have to contact that guy
actor friend, I get tired of writing that – it’s sort of like a daily tally
sheet, only public 😛
Tonight I ushered at the SF Opera. I’ve been doing it for
about two and a half years I think now, after my friend who is a ballet fanatic
told me that he ushered for the Ballet (they’re in the same building, the opera
and ballet). I’m a ballet fan – sure there are tons of unique modern dance, and
some modern ballet too, but give me some old time Balanchine and Tchaikovsky,
and I’m sold.
The ballet is expensive; ushering is free. 🙂 However, it
has become logistically much harder now that I’m in the East Bay, and it’s
really not quite worth it to travel via BART to and from, especially at night,
just for an opera. I had never seen opera before I began ushering, and I
resisted doing the opera shifts for a while, but finally I went. I went to three in succession
when I was still in the city, and I LOVED only one of the 3. The rest, meh. The
sets – incredible; the symphony – world class; the story and the acting (which
is now expected of the singers)? – meh. I’m really glad I saw the one I loved
first – Tosca.
I loved the costumes, the EPIC sets – all the SF sets are
epic – it’s radical. But, I’m not huge on opera which is good to know, i guess. In any case, I downgraded myself from regular House Usher
(I even had the little gold pin “Usher”) to a more irregular/by request usher
when I moved. But Nutcracker season is coming up.
The Nutcracker was surely where it all began for me – My mom and
dad used to have season tickets to the New York City Ballet, and my dad would
actually fall asleep during the performances, so I suppose my mom finally gave in and let me come
instead. It is pretty magical. The SF version is way different than the NYC,
but they both have merit. There’s nothing like watching that Christmas tree
rise out of the floor to become several stories high – it’s enchanting.
In any case, I chose to go tonight to usher cuz I sort of
miss it, and opera season is closing, and I thought I’d give it another shot. I
did leave tonight before it ended – opera is three hours – but I got what I came for: to help other people on their sometimes
one and only adventure to the opera, to listen to world class musicians and
vocalists, and to people watch.

Like most places, there are categories of folks – the regulars, the ‘i can find my seat on my own, thank you very much’, and my personal most favorite – the couples where the guy walks in with his super dressed-up girlfriend and has that wonderful “i’m so going to get laid tonight for doing this” grin. i love that one.  😉
(See, I had a whole blog about gratitude, humility, a
leather coat, and raccoons going in my head as I brushed my teeth that you may have liked it better than this – alas, till
tomorrow). Gnight.