The triad of talk, food and wine: Ah, Love

Pablo Neruda in a poem I love "Every Day You Play" said, "Every day you play with the light of the universe." Each day we live we choose to light the way for others, to help another, to present their words, to read their work and say something about them, to them. These are the ways of giving that I hope for and so I try here to highlight the work of others.

Occasionally, I get lucky and am found.

Caren and Leah

Two terrific women understand the gift of light: Leah Odze Epstein and Caren Osten Gerszberg, co-editors of the fascinating blog, Drinking Diaries, where you'll find the interview they did with me. Their questions led me to the rediscovery of love in my family and the bond I shared with my father through talk, through a conversation that illuminates my life and that laid the groundwork for my love and work.

Today, I thank Leah and Caren for finding me. You two play with the light of the universe.



Read about these two generous women who are definitely making news: Leah and Caren in the NEWS!

The light of a benefactor: A heartfelt thank you

Derek Walcott said in a 1997 lecture, “All art has to do with light.” The light that comes from the work is often not seen unless a benefactor comes along and tries to help shed that light.

I write here a love letter to Robert Reich, to his wife Caroline Reich and to Lori Welch. Rob and his wife are lovers of the arts and they read my memoir (Re)Making Love, believed in it and wanted to shed light on the work. Lori Welch, a columnist herself on life as a single gal, also owns a company JCL Services, a concierge and party planning company. Rob and Caroline hired Lori to help shed the light. And Lori knows something about how to do this.

With my deep thanks, I offer this toast and a glimpse into the gift they gave: Please, raise your metaphorical glass  to Rob, Caroline and Lori. May they be my Flo Ziegfield, my Simon Cowell or my Sylvia Beach! Whether we who paint, photograph and write are chorus girls, American idols, or poets is for others to decide. But one thing is for sure: The light shines from Rob, Caroline and Lori—and all the folks who attended and heard me read.

Two professional photographers took the stills. My thanks to Tom Kochel and Gedyion Kifle.

Here's a short clip of my reading:


Mary L. Tabor reads from (Re)Making Love from Mary Tabor on Vimeo.

The Benefactors:

Rob Reich to the right (photo by Tom Kochel)

Lori Welch (photo by Gediyon Kifle)

The Crowd

photo Kifle

photo Kifle

photo by Del Persinger

(photo Kifle)

photo Kifle

photo Persinger

 The Afterparty

Photo Persinger

Gediyon Kifle, right Photographer (photo Persinger)

Photogragher Tom Kochel, photo by Kifle

My thanks to all,

Lavender and dreams: Aspiring actor James Green

I virtually met James Green through the magic of Facebook. He began writing to me and so I introduce you to him with a brief essay on his dream. What we have here is one man’s dream, a bit of his life story, and the hint of lavender.

This blog’s purpose has been to discuss the arts, creativity, the process of invention. Most who visit here are writers and painters, artists all. For the first time here, I present the voice of an aspiring actor, who dreams what some say is the impossible dream.

As I present this bit of admitted autobiography by James Green, I’d also like to discuss with you the role of dreams in the process of invention.

John Cheever in an interview in The New York Times, put the question: autobiography in works of fiction in its place—and with that, gave some solid advice on dreams and invention:

It seems to me that any confusion between autobiography and fiction is precisely the role that reality plays in a dream. As you dream your ship, you perhaps know the boat, but you’re going towards a coast that is quite strange; you’re wearing clothes, the language that is being spoken around you is a language you don’t understand, but the woman to your left is your wife. It seems to me that this is not capricious but a quite mysterious union of fact and imagination one also finds in fiction. My favorite definition of fiction is Cocteau’s: “Literature is a force of memory that we have not yet understood.” It seems in a book one finds gratifying, the writer is able to present the reader with memory he has already possessed, but has not comprehended … .

Perhaps here in this brief piece by James Green you will see that dreams and the need to reinvent ourselves throughout our lives is “a force of memory that we have not yet understood.”

Here is James Green:

 I was born in Detroit, Michigan. My father worked at Hitsville as a recording engineer, which later became Motown Records. I've also lived in New York, Atlanta and Los Angeles which is where I spent my formative years, I grew up in a world being surrounded by many great entertainers: The Jackson 5, Smokey Robinson, The Drifters, Rick James and many others. My father worked in the music business, and my mother worked for the Screen Actors Guild in Hollywood. My jobs over the years have been doing extra work in a few films and stand in/model work when I lived in Los Angeles. I moved to Wisconsin and have been a chef for a few years and dabbled in the manufacturing industry. I have a 14 year old son and am trying after all these years to get back into the entertainment business, my true calling I strongly feel. I currently live in Appleton, Wisconsin, and enjoy reading, coaching youth sports, hiking and on occasion playing basketball while pretending every joint in my body isn't screaming in agony.

Three Hours in a Day

by James Green

Three hours of sleep in a day. That’s the average amount of sleep I have had in the last ten years, give or take an hour here or there. I existed in a zombie like state while also enduring a lifeless and loveless marriage. I would go to work, come home and watch the kid, sleep a little and repeat. My only respite was to escape into a Walter Mitty world of fantasy and film.

I jumped into Rick’s trench coat and fedora in Casablanca, and ran for miles as Forrest Gump!

Hmm, also on occasion imagining a little gnome whose arrival was preceded by the smell of lavender...

Two years ago I finally decided to file for divorce, leaving my soon-to-be ex to her own devices in finding a babysitter while she entertained her many male companions.

This month I turn 45 years old. The ink has not quite dried on the divorce papers and thus far shoes still outnumber boots 6 to 1.

After leaving the ex, like a dog realizing its leash is not on, I ran with glee and a newfound hope! I couldn’t wait to get back into the dating pool after 15 years… or so I thought. I have discovered the hard way why certain people are still single. I have met some interesting, entertaining (whether they knew they were or not.) and odd individuals. There has been a rendezvous or two with a couple of nice women, but nothing too substantial.

In the year and a half to two years I have been living by myself, there has been much self-analyzing and introspection. They say if you take a good, hard look in the mirror you may not like what you see—or the opposite? When I was younger I was always the tall, gangly kid trying to blend into the background. I was reserved and painfully shy. Even into the adult years the baggage of youth dragged behind. I have found out who the heck I am.

Punctuality is still an issue, but stopping and smelling the roses is not a crime, yet.

I recently drove to Las Vegas and back! It was almost 4000 miles of bliss and adventure. Steve, a friend, lives out there and has his own film production company. I had been toying with the idea of getting into acting or something film related. The “new” me has decided to take chances and rather than dream, make something happen.

Over lunch I posed the question to Steve about my sudden inspiration to live the dream. His response was honest and disappointing. He advised me not to pursue it. Valid points: Everyone and their mother wants to be an actor. Competition, age, and plus he knew me as the shy kid 20 some odd years ago.

Well, that stoked the embers. One thing that I can call myself is stubborn. In 20 years I had grown mentally and physically, scarred, toughened, and an extrovert by my standards. Let no one tell you what you can or cannot do. I have since returned to merry Wisconsin, and my drive is magnified tenfold.

I will find my path and make my dream come true. I’m not saying that this guy is going to win an Oscar (it is possible!), but there is no such thing as failure if I’ve tried and given it a shot. I could walk away knowing at least I attempted the journey. I will look into getting headshots, overcoming an aversion to getting my picture taken. Ha! This isn’t Hollywood, but there are some smaller theater and stage productions locally. As well as acting, singing and dancing (hmm, let’s not go too far) classes. Baby steps. I’ll do it my way.

A fuzzy photo of James at age 8: dreaming as we all do when we are children

A few years ago, another friend of mine gave me invaluable advice to getting my life together. “James, be eight years old. Remember when you were eight? You dreamed, laughed and played? Where’s that James? It’s time to let him out.” Yes!  At eight I could run into the girls’ bathroom! Of course if I tried going into the ladies’ room now that would carry a hefty fine and a possible sentence. I’ve outgrown some things.

Hmm…do I smell lavender?

Coming through better after 50—even after 60

I've discovered a great ever-changing, fast-paced blog that discovered me. It's all about discovery and, as Yogi Berra told us in his wisdom that remains so quotable, "It ain't over till it's over."

Go to Better after 50 to take a look at the piece I wrote for Felice Shapiro based on my memoir and more (Yes, I tell more ...) and to discover the amazing Felice Shapiro who owns this blog and runs conferences that may interest you. These occur in both Boston and Manhattan.

Felice gets around.

Community is everything. Connecting helps us maintain our humanity. This is a site men and women will want to visit. This is a site where women write and tell what men need to know.

Although Felice (Bless you!) found me, you can find her. Read about Felice's mission.

Mary Tabor to speak about the writing journey

The Wednesday Morning Group  has invited me to speak. The WMG is a weekly meeting of professional women, men and parents who gather in a spirit of mutual support, camaraderie, and intellectual curiosity to hear and interact with stimulating guest speakers and each other.

When: March 28, 2012, from 10 to 11 a.m., coffee and bagels are served at 9:30 a.m.

Where: Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
             9601 Cedar Lane, Bethesda, Maryland 20814-4099
              Tel: 301-493-8300    Fax: 301-897-5713
               e-mail: office@CedarLane.org

What I'll talk about: Raising the Curtain: The story of my journey to my life's work though love and loss. Two books have been part of this process and a third will be published this summer.

Buy the book and read more about it

Buy the book and read more about it

The third book is a novel, Who by Fire, ten years in the making and it's coming soon...

I look forward to an exchange with all those who attend. I like to dialogue, not lecture, and I like to cut to the bone, raise the curtain on the process and get to the heart of the matter: Living, loving and working.

Book party for (Re)Making Love: A Memoir

A night of "Wine, Women & Writing" for (Re)Making Love: A Memoir. If you like any of the above and would like to attend, let me know... Wednesday, March 14, 7 pm at my place. Write me at mary@maryltabor.com to attend. Guys and gals, lots of goodies, including great wine, and a talk about writing, loving and living.

The party is being given by Caroline and Rob Reich and Lori Welch. Lori Welch writes a column for The Alexandria Town Crier. She has read and discusses the book in her March column. This link will be good for this month, but then you can read her newest column. Here's the link for Singles Space.

Janis Greve tells the truth about Breast Cancer and bras

I have the pleasure of introducing you to Janis Greve. We met on, of all places, Twitter. She bought, read and loved (Re)Making Love: A Memoir. We decided to talk and talk we did. Our minds and hearts met. Janis is writing a memoir and posting on her blog. She writes the underbelly of her journey with cancer.

In humor and in pathos, Greve invents herself. Part of that process must crush the self in order to reveal.

I offer in introduction, and for all who stop here to read and consider the writing process, the wise words of writer, philosopher and teacher Hélène Cixous:

Between the writer and his or her family the question is always one of departing while remaining present, of being absent while in full presence, of escaping, of abandon. It is both utterly banal and the thing we don’t want to know or say. A writer has no children; I have no children while I write. When I write I escape myself, uproot myself, I am a virgin; I leave from within my own house and don’t return. The moment I pick up my pen—a magical gesture—I forget all the people I love; an hour later they are not born and I have never known them. Yet we do return. But for the duration of the journey we are killers. (Not only when we write, when we read too. Writing and reading are not separate, reading is a part of writing. A real reader is a writer. A real reader is on the way to writing.)            —Hélène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing

 

Janis Greve is a professor of autobiography and advisor of English majors at UMass Amherst. She’s written and published both literary criticism and poetry, though presently she channels her writing into her blog. Among the things that have shaped her personhood, she has had breast cancer. She writes about this and the tribulations of growing older as a woman, conveying, she hopes, some truthful things.




Goodbye Secrets, Goodbye Bra
by Janis Greve

I had no business shopping at Victoria’s Secret. After all, I eschew their catalogues, the sexed-up models, the soft-porn poses luring young women into seeing themselves as objects of male desire. The stores have always seemed strangely discordant—all those impeccably trained, fresh-faced sales clerks whose job it is to mother you, a middle-aged woman, into a new bra, fooling you into believing that the pink and red lights and shelves of slinky panties were the natural setting for such an undertaking.

Why, two years ago, I chose Victoria’s Secret for my new bra I can’t quite say. I dislike driving that stretch of interstate to the mall—too much merging just where the traffic thickens and the road bends right precipitously—so I must have had some other purpose. Likely I was there to ransack H & M or the sales racks at Macy’s, propelled to brave the highway—white-knuckled all the way—by my perpetual craving for something new. 

What I do know is that I had my own secret. I had mixed feelings about sharing it with Victoria, who already had one, or Janelle or Hillary or whoever attended me that day. In the end, I didn’t have to. I was grateful for the discreet knocks and bras dangled through the crack of a door that are the ritual of a bra-fitting, exhausting me in no time with all the putting on and taking off and near-total dearth of anything without an underwire except for something that came only in polka dots.

Since I tried on so many bras, I lost all sense, and ended up choosing the marked-down cotton bra, a big mistake, since it was really made of cardboard, which I discovered only after I brought it home and wore it around some. But my secret was still intact: my small, rippled implant, that misshapen twin of a breast that is just the simple fact of me and the breast cancer I had. I’m not ashamed of my implant, and I don’t exactly love it. It just didn’t seem right for Victoria’s Secret, nor Victoria’s Secret for it.

A cardboard bra is intolerable, so back I went to the mall, placing myself in the hands of another cool and unflappable attendant. This time I succumbed to the ubiquitous underwire tyrannizing women’s lingerie stores everywhere. Many in my life, including my own lovely and ample-breasted daughter, have nudged me to take the underwire plunge. “Try it, you’ll like it!” they said. “Don’t worry about the wire! You won’t feel a thing!” I was doubtful. “Doesn’t it dig into your skin sometimes, like when you’re sitting on the bed reading?” They’d looked at me strangely.

Maybe their breasts were already numb. Because the black, underwire “Gorgeous” or “Incredible,” or whatever I got that day—the bra I consign to the shabby, dark pockets of my closet floor—does just that. It digs. Not all the time, but just enough to make the tender skin surrounding my implant all the more tender.

Yes, there are special stores for women like me. Open the door, a bell tinkles, and a clerk calls out to you kindly, asking if she can help. Calling you honey, she settles you into a dressing room, then chooses a dozen alternatives for a special-needs breast, grabbing pads that round out a cup like a perfect hill, making no one the wiser for looking at you.

That’s how I think it goes, anyway. I’ve never stepped into our local, much-touted lingerie store that makes mastectomies a special niche because I can’t get past the Frederick’s of Hollywood side-show in the window—all corsets, garters, and, just possibly, whips—rivaling the self-esteaminess of Victoria’s Secret.


Even if I hustled past those frights into the safer, maternal lap of the store, I’m not sure I’d want all that attention—it’s too intimate. On top of that, I detest padding: built-in or slipped into pockets, I don’t need to enter the world cushion-first.

Both my regular oncologist and radiation oncologist take turns asking me a strange question, forgetting they’ve already asked it.

As I lie on the examining table with my sweaters and camisole bunched around my neck—no secrets here, nor ceremony, just straight-up flesh—one of them will ask cheerily, in between probes, “Are you happy with your implant?” I always feel incredulous. Happy? Does it matter? What part of breast cancer was about my happiness?

They want me to be pleased with my purchase. I’m not pleased, but I’m not displeased, either. I believe my surgeon did the best job she could stuffing a pillow into a smaller-sized pillowcase.  It was a very tight job, so much skin had been pared away in small surgeries. I know she wanted to do better.

I was wrong when I said I didn’t quite love my breast. I love it in precisely the way one loves a deformity, in precisely the way one loves her own skin. What is a mastectomy, after all, but the hollowing of a fruit—the pulp removed, the skin left intact? How can I not claim my skin, my kin, my blameless, funny face?

Mostly I go braless now, which is one of the perks of aging: my breasts have become smaller, more aerodynamic. I’m enjoying a boyhood I never had. At night I shuck off my shirts as though I were an ear of corn. It’s been liberating thumbing my nose at the brassiere industry, that circus of pre-packaged notions, though sometimes a hand of cold air slips up my shirt, making me shiver. I hate that. But it’s not the worst thing in the world. 
You can visit Janis Greve at her blog Losing Farther