Sound Track of My Life


The past few weeks have been a delight of musical immersion. Three theatrical presentations in San Diego have focused on the compositions of well-known artists. I have shimmied to the scat singing of Ella Fitzgerald in a show entitled Ella! at the San Diego Rep, swayed to the melodies of George Gershwin in a production of Gershwin Alone at the Old Globe Theater, and hummed along to the vocals of Billy Joel tunes in the Broadway touring show of Movin’ Out.

The music was diverse and yet in each show there were one to two compositions that transported me back to moment, a time period or pivotal experience in my life.

I started to think about the music in the sound track of my life.
What would I choose to download to my i Pod play list from the thousands of songs, jingles and instrumentals that I have heard over my 47 years?

My hand could not keep up with the revue of titles that spilled out from my pen. Hearing the Muzak playing in a store, rearranging CD’s, flipping through the pages of my high school yearbook or reminiscing with my sister Margaret, tunes, chords and orchestrations swirled and mixed inside of me.

Enveloped in a magical memory movement, I decided to record my imaginary sound track in chronological order.

My childhood home was full of music. Old 78’s and later LP’s of classical instrumentals such as Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” or the imposing big percussion “Peer Gynt” by Edvard Grieg spun on the turntable. From our old fashioned in the cabinet record player, the notes hovered in the living room as my sisters and I danced around or used it as background music to dust on a Saturday afternoon.

Opera and classical orchestrations were intermingled with show tunes, the primary recordings that made up my parent’s meager collection. My Fair Lady’s: “I Could Have Danced All Night”, “O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A… Oklahoma Ok,” “ If Ever I Would Leave You” from Camelot or the tropical offerings of South Pacific: “I’m As Corny As Kansas In August, “ and “Some Enchanted Evening…” allowed us to sing soprano on the high notes of the lovely innocent heroines and belt the tenor tones as we acted the part of the gentleman lover.

One favorite show tune that traveled from the record player to our bedtime ritual was “Seventy-six Trombones” from the Music Man. With pot lids clanging, my Father would march us up the steps to bed and continue the sweet dream serenade with a combination of war songs such as “Oh, The Coffee That They Give Us.” followed by old fashioned ditties such as “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer True’ and always ended with “Palm Trees Are Gently Swaying, My Heart Is Saying How Much I Love You.” But the one song that holds the memory of my Father in its reprise is “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Each daughter in turn on her wedding day danced the Daddy-Daughter dance to that old standard.

All my sibs followed the lead of my older sister Mary Grace and became thespians in our high school days. The show tune collection continued to grow as the record container space became crowded with “Company, Lots of Company”, “Send In The Clowns, There Ought To Be Clowns” from A Little Night Music and “One Singular Sensation, Every Step That She Takes,” as we would high kick and imagine ourselves dancers in that revolutionary style musical of the late 70’s, A Chorus Line. “Corner of The Sky” sung by John Rubinstein on the cast album of Pippin, became an anthem I would return to over the years whenever, I felt misunderstood or lost my way.

Since there was a range of ages in our house through my growing years, children’s songs were counterpoint to the longing for love that flowed from the Broadway musical lyrics. A beat-up little record player was in constant motion spinning 45’s with kiddie classics like, Shirley Temple’s “On The Good Ship Lollipop” and Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Greenjeans singing, “Hey there captain do you see, there’s a horse in stripped pajamas. “No, that’s not what it is at all, that’s an animal people call a zebra. “I see, but it still looks like a horse in stripped pajamas to me.” Later, Mary Poppins joined in with her “Spoon Full of Sugar”.

When the last of the Nowak clan, my brother Mark, was born, Disney songs became the tunes to tap to, “Cinderella, Cinderella, night and day, it’s Cinderella” and “Look For The Bare Necessities,” Baloo’s Jungle Book bass rumbling in our chests as we wiggled and stuck out our butts in big bear fashion.

Summers were car trip time for yearly family visits. We went from Claymont, Delaware to Buffalo, New York and then over to Kalamazoo, Michigan. To keep the sibling bickering to a minimum, my mother would sing. The most memorable car songs were, “Bingo”, “Little Peter Rabbit Had A Fly Upon His Ear”, “Rose, Rose” and the round, “Walking, Walking”, which had a verse in German. I felt so international!

1966, age 8, I begged my mother to let me buy a 45 of “ I Want To Hold Your Hand” and the B-side, “Do You Want To Know A Secret”. That began my love affair with the Beatles, a songbook of melodies that weaved in and out of events of my life. Of course my favorite Beatles song is “Michelle.” I’d curl up on the couch hugging the album cover, wistfully imagining Paul singing “Michelle, ma belle” only for me.

I started my high school years fearful and lonely. I graduated from an intimate group of 13 in a Catholic elementary school to a freshman public high school class of over 400. I don’t recall where I heard my first Jim Croce song, but I was instantly touched by his deep, mournful voice. I bought every album he had. His handlebar mustache and thick cigar poking out of the corner of his big smiled face, was my first serious crush on a musician. “Time In A Bottle”, “Photographs and Memories”, and It Doesn’t Have To Be That Way,” those lyrics of lost love spoke to the melancholy heart of a 14 year older. In retrospect, I imagine I was drawn to the sadness of his life, the fact he died young leaving a wife and child behind. Was that a secret connection with my future life of losing two husbands, one at the young age of 31? One of my first thoughts when moving to San Diego was that I now lived in the same town as Jim Croce’s widow, Ingrid. Ingrid Croce had established herself as a well-known restaurateur, with her San Diego downtown eatery, Croce’s.

James Taylor’s Gorilla album with “How Sweet It Is” and “You Make It Easy”, his time with Carly Simon, duet singing “Mockingbird” or his honest, unencumbered rendition of Carole King’s “You Got A Friend,” filled the score of an adolescent daydreaming afternoon. Carly, Elton John, Linda Ronstadt: “When Will I Be Loved” and “That’ll Be The Day’, played along side John Denver’s “Sunshine On My Shoulders” and “Rocky Mountain High.”

College opened me to Simon and Garfunkel, “Hello Darkness My Old Friend” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, John Melloncamp’s “Hurt So Good”, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA.” Being a Jersey girl, Bruce and his E Street Band, belting out the pathos of the working class, made me proud. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Our House” was the vision I wanted for my future home.

When I met my husband John in my freshman year of college, he opened me up to the riffs of a jazz guitar and the improv of a saxophone jam session. Miles Davis, Houston Person, Thelonious Monk, Coleman Hawkins, and Branford Marsalis LP’s now lined the shelves of our living room bookcases. He taught me how to properly remove a record from its inner lining to avoid too much contact between the vinyl and the oil from my fingers. When John died I had a Jazz band play at his memorial, we ended with a New Orleans style “When The Saints Go Marching In.”

The song for the first dance at our wedding was Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.” Coles “From This Moment On”, Irving Berlin’s “Let’s Face The Music and Dance” and “ Always,” were the song’s we waltzed and dipped to around our first apartment in our best Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire style.

Carole King’s album Tapestry provided accompaniment to grief crying sessions after John died. “A Natural Woman”, “Where You Lead”, “I Feel The Earth Move” brought the tears rolling, over love I thought I’d never find again. “Way Over Yonder” offered a sweet spiritual style song, my dear friend Brendan sang touchingly at John’s memorial.

But I did find love again in the unlikely twinkle of a much older Jack’s eyes. Our song, Frank Sinatra’s rendition of Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” matched perfectly to the tug and pull of our May-December love. Our dancing sessions were less waltz and more free form bogie with songs like, “ Chain of Fools”, “In the Midnight Hour” and “Treat Her Right”, from the soundtrack album The Commitments. The gutsy belting of female singers such as Bonnie Raitt, Bette Midler or Aretha’s “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”, brought us evenings of off key singing and body twisting shimmies.


The ache of Jack’s passing reconnected me with the comforting words of “Amazing Grace” and the mournful rich tones of an oboe, which with the piano, saxophone and violin are my favorite instruments. The a cappella lament called “Osinilshatin” from the movie The Business of Fancydancing, allowed me to bring my grief for all those I’ve lost out in a howl and chant of pain and remembering.

Jane Siberry’s “Calling All Angel’s” has been a wink from the beyond.

As I read back over this list, I realize how many styles of music I’ve yet to record on the soundtrack of my life that have influenced who I am today. The allegro of a gypsy guitar, the dolce of a Hindu chant of meditation, the delicato of new age instrumentals I listen to when giving a massage, and the crescendo of an Italian tenor. But now I’m eager to actually listen to all these songs again, instead of writing about them.

I imagine an afternoon with the furniture pushed back to the living room walls, the CD player turned up loud, the front door open to let the sunlight and breeze fill my make shift song and dance hall. And I, with each note, prancing, spinning, crying, laughing and singing in lung expanding loudness as I relive my wild ride of an existence to the soundtrack of my life.

Prosperity Bowl


I love pottery. I love the solid weight of the earthy material in my palm as I hold a beautifully hand crafted, glazed creation. I enjoy looking for the slight imperfection, the mark, the out of proportion shape that makes it unique whether the design has been rendered a hundred times. I cherish that a pottery piece holds the imprint of its maker, the oils from their hands mixed with the mud of the earth and that their spirit and intention lives on in each piece they produce.

After attempting to learn to throw a pot myself, I have gained an even deeper respect for the patience, tenderness and gentleness of touch that is needed to coax a work to life.

I’ve collected pottery for many years, visiting local craft shows, farmer’s markets and artist’s studios. I have plates, mugs, teapots, vases but my favorite piece of late, to collect is bowls. There is something about the continuing circle of life shape of a bowl, its expansive openness waiting to be filled and the sides that reach up to cradle its contents.

My most recent purchase is a simple 5" round dish of medium weight with an internal depth of about 3". The finish is a satiny glaze of dark blue seeping into light purple, with undertones of pink and delicate soft green flecks. I take pleasure in running my fingers from the center to the outside ridge of the bowl, feeling the subtle change in the clay as the bowl expands in size.

I’ve dubbed this hollow dish my Prosperity Bowl. This simple vessel represents my present day quest to focus on the flourishing aspects of my ever-changing life and my gratitude for the increasing abundance.

The likeness of a Tibetan monk in his flowing harvest moon orange robes shuffling through the ancient streets carrying his begging bowl, trusting that it will be filled by the generosity of his fellow man, enough to satisfy his hunger, has imprinted itself in my mind’s scrapbook of images.

I, like the monk, bare bowl in hand, intend each day with conscious direction. My mind is eager with curiosity. With what will Today fill my bowl? My soul whispers in my ear to be patient in the allowing. My time schedule is not necessarily the best schedule for the realization of my desires. My spirit dances the melody of trust inside me, with each willow-like sway it’s rhythm hums in me not to be obsessed with the result I think should fill my bowl.

And in those moments when I turn from the curiosity, let doubt and impatience almost raise my hand to smash my bowl to the ground, in that pounding, pumping push of blood rushing in my temples, my heart calls to me. “Love, love yourself, know you are worthy of prosperity. Know you are the essence of prosperity itself. By the very fact that you are here, searching, growing, thriving, prosperity lives in you.”

My bowl, like that of the monk, is brimming with more than enough to satisfy my hunger. Sated by what Today placed in my dish, with the gentleness of the potter’s touch, I wash and dry my prosperity bowl, eager with imagination about with what Tomorrow will fill it.

Bathtub Closet


The private massage appointment is confirmed. My client will be here at 5pm. It is 3:30pm now. I stand in the door to my office, with arms akimbo, legs slightly apart, a fierce look of determination on my face. My eye sweeps across pile after pile of papers, books and art supplies that cover all surfaces in the office.

I wish I could click my heels three times or twitch my nose like Bewitched and have everything put in its place. Ah, but there lies the true challenge. Everything shares the same space with everything else! I haven’t enough room to accommodate all my projects, teaching supplies and massage equipment.

My 1950’s size closets; the whole two of them in my cottage, have been carefully arranged but can hold no more. As I pick up each pile of papers and lay them one on top of the other, layering them, vertical and then horizontal in a rising tower to the ceiling, I grumble about how after the massage, I will spend another hour rearranging all my piles once again along every surface of my office before I can actually get back to planning my classes, writing my book or paying my bills.

Where is Mary Poppins with her “get down to business” English attitude? I imagine her singing me a chipper tune as she snaps her fingers and the walls of the room spin to reveal a parallel space, all tidied in that fantasy movie kind of way. And then with just another snap of her fingers, the room returns to my neat pile after pile décor.

But daydreaming about fictional characters saving me from my task at hand, is not stopping the second hand on the clock from ticking away the time. When I moved into my cottage after living in a much larger home, I knew storage would be an issue. I purged and recycled like a true simple living guru. And yet my challenge persists. I am a creature of many interests that each requires a certain amount of paperwork, supplies and equipment.

I guess it wouldn’t be as big an issue if I were fine with leaving stacks of papers on my desk. But I prefer as uncluttered a look as possible to my office, when I’m giving a massage. People come to de-stress, let go of the disorder in their bodies and lives. I want my “room used for many purposes” to reflect, a relaxed, open, and, serene feeling. I also want to keep the rest of my life as private as possible. Having your bank statements, personal journals and overscheduled calendars lying around offers easy reading material as a client sits in the office chair, next to the desk and puts on their shoes after a massage.

That is why I have come to love my bathtub closet. What an under used space the bathtub is! Since I live alone, and shower on average once a day, this roomy space, actually bigger than my closets, goes unused. I have devised a quick and easy way to line the tub with an old shower curtain, before placing my piles, hanging my clothes or loading in the cat carrier. With a sweep of the shower curtain along its pole, my stacks are neatly hidden, my office now transformed into an unadorned, soothing healing space.

The massage is over and as I reassemble my office to its original, navigate through the piles to get to the desk functionality, I muse once more about Mary Poppins. I love the way she has the massage sheets dancing their way down the alley to the communal washing machine.

Back Flash


The nip in the air at the ebb of day swirls memories in me with each subtle rustle of the leaves on the Jacarandas, Sycamores and Moreton Bay Fig trees, which crowd street edgings and peek between buildings on my walk downtown.

Jack is thick in me tonight. I pass innumerable haunts of our time together, coffee shops where we tried to find the perfect muffin for him and scone for me, the building where he used to teach his acting classes, benches for a moment to rest on our wanderings around San Diego.

I’ve strolled this way a few times by myself since he died, and often the light sweetness of those moments spent, add a bounce to my step. But this twilight time has brought on a condensed soup of dark emotions clogging my heart. I gasp for breath, the tears ragged in my throat. And I realize I am experiencing a Back Flash.

I am transported to a moment in my past with Jack, three months before he died. We have just returned from a trip to a wellness clinic in Mexico where we spent 4 days exploring alternative methods to deal with his health challenges. The trip was a strange mix of strict diet, high tech tests and downing supplements and wheat grass, all in a paradise setting overlooking the Pacific ocean with winding walk ways and palm trees swaying.

His anger-crusted fear about being ill had gotten the best of me. I had tried to hum through his need to tongue lash the doctors. Enter the dining room a few minutes later, so as not to hear his on-going complaint with the kitchen staff about how he needed more protein then they were willing to serve. His approach to dealing with things had always been at odds with mine. He had a Bronx brashness and I, timid “good Catholic girl” rigidity. That oppositeness of him was a major attraction for me. I know throughout our relationship, I relied on that
“ New York attitude” in many circumstances where I was too shy of confrontation to be effective. And yet as it seems to be the case for me, sometimes I wanted him to tone it down a bit.

We came home scared about what the doctors said, happy to eat whatever we craved and encapsulated in our separate scenarios of what the future would bring. I pulled in and away. I was polite and helpful on the outside, but inwardly seething with each breath he exhaled. And in that moment of withdrawal, I knew that a day would come when I would regret this decision. I had been through the death of one husband already. I had spent many hours crying with regret about attitudes I had held, posturing I had performed, and victim hood that seemed so important at the time. And yet in that moment with Jack, I just couldn’t offer more. I became mute. Jack and I found our footing again but I held in my heart that I had wasted precious moments.

Here I am walking toward downtown San Diego on a night of such God-touched beauty and I am feeling wrenched. I am living the moment I knew would come back then when I chose to be mute. My Back Flash is complete. My longing for Jack is overwhelming and I can only repeat over and over in a quiet muttering to myself as I walk, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I wasted a second of my limited time with you.”

It is then that I look down a side street to the east and in the dusk gathering sky, see the full moon. She is round and luminance and so low to the ground, as if she is a silver play ball. I stop and say my usual greeting each time I see the moon, “Hello Moon. How are you tonight?”

As if my greeting is part of a child’s playground ball bouncing singsong, I hear her respond to me, “I’m fine, but how are you?”

And this moment, I realize that one reason back then that I became mute was to brace myself for another loss. And this moment, I realize I did the very best I could at the time with who I was then. And in this moment, I know that the bringing up of these memories no matter how painful keep him alive in me and are a way to deal with the out of control aspect of life.

And with my arms wide open as if I’m waiting for the big, full, bouncy ball moon to hop into my grasp, I singsong back, “Sweet Moon, I’m fine too and I am forgiven.”

The Eating Itch

A subtle snacking yen passes through my brain bundled together with worry-layered assumptions, contemplations to ponder and wild disconnected notions. I give the yen a moment’s too long consideration. It takes this as personal endorsement, detaches from the rest, and travels down to settle in my upper abdominal area.

Cozying into a space a bit below but under my sternum, the snacking yen now mutates from a simple passing thought into a prickling sensation. With each pulsing jab, the snacking yen sends its droning chant of “nibble, nosh, munch, chew,” back up to my brain to swallow any other thoughts. The irritation in my body now has my full attention. The snacking yen has transformed into the Eating Itch.

The Eating Itch often doesn’t care whether the urge to scratch is answered with the scrape of a salty pretzel going down my throat or the grazing bite of a high sugar sweet aching in my stomach. The Eating Itch just wants the hankering to be soothed.

If I could only reach down my throat, find that one bitsy spot and give it a good rubbing, my hips and thighs would be much slimmer, my mind much clearer without the chanting in my head and my mood much brighter from less judgment about every morsel I put in my mouth. But since scratching an itch inside isn’t as simple as attending to a mosquito bite on my arm, I’m looking for alternative answers.

I understand enough about myself to know that most times my Eating Itch has nothing to do with hunger but is a result of nervous energy about something I’m passionate about, scared to face or that I’m unhappy with a choice I’ve made.

Making that distinction is key for me. If my nervous energy comes from fear about the future or about my past then taking that power and increasing my activity by taking a walk or dancing around the living room to turned up Aretha Franklin, will reassure my urge that it has a purpose, without adding extra calories to my diet.

But sometimes when I’m high on a developing new passion or celebrating the happiness of just being me and the Eating Itch is tickling away to the joy beat of my pounding heart, the salty sweet mix of dark chocolate covered pretzels is the perfect scratch.

The Giddies


The sip of water I swallowed is now dripping out of my nose. I can barely catch my breath. My face is a kindergartener’s Christmas ornament red. Snorting water and barely breathing is a sure sign that I am in the middle of a GREAT giddie!

The experience is body total. My toes tingle from gripping inside my shoes, my rib cage aches a bit from trying to breath and giggle at the same time, my mouth is a bit dry from gaping open for so long and from the loss of fluids by the bit of spit that projects out with each guffaw of a laugh, and my head has a slight buzz from the sheer release of it all.

The subtle mix of silliness, relaxed attitude and joyful intention for fun, are needed to have a great giddie. I can have a satisfying chuckle on my own, reading a humorous passage in a book or watching comedy on TV or in the movies, but to have the true experience of a great giddie you need to have at least two people. It’s that community of silliness feeding off of one another that creates a great giddie.

A true giddie is never demeaning or at the expense of another person. The main subject of a giddie is usually based on a shared memory or experience, observation in life or the joint invention of a scenario for a future event or practical item needed.

Some people are more attune to giddiness than others. My sibs and I are well schooled in the way of a giddie high. My mother and her sisters were old school models for how to create a great giddie. They sat around my grandmother’s table, remnants of a home cooked Italian dinner lingered. Splashes of tomato sauce dotted the white starched linen tablecloth. Bits of grated cheese jumbled with breadcrumbs caught in tiny piles near salt and peppershakers or the butter dish. Each sister had a cup of coffee in front of her, the tiny good silverware spoon resting on the best china saucer.

The conversation was loud, a pigeon mix of English and Italian, each sister tripping over the words of the others, with peals of laughter punctuated by broad hand gestures. The sisters each, held in one fist a crumpled tissue needed to dab at the corner of their eyes to stop the tears from rolling down their cheeks.

My sisters and brother could easily get my mother into a giddie. My father was a befuddled, sporadic contributor on the sidelines. It was fascinating to observe the newest boyfriend or girlfriend that came into one of my sibs or my life. Sometimes a look of panic would wash across their faces as the family slipped and slid through a great giddie. Others found their sea legs faster and handily rolled right along with us.

When going back east for visits, one item of top priority on my list is to have a great giddie with my family. Even when the situation is of the grieving nature, as if to cement our common bond of experience and love for one another, we find a way to squeeze in a giddie. It’s something I’ve come to count on from my family.

When I come back to the west coast, I often go through a mini giddie withdrawal. I become desperate to get a giddie going. A giddie can’t be forced even though I have tried it a few times. Often when forcing a giddie, the people I’m with scrunch up their noses and wrinkle their foreheads as if a blaring warning message is sounding in their head, “Michele is being weird and inappropriate. Bale now!”

For many years I didn’t show my giddie creating ability with everyone. I projected a much more restrictive side. Laughter yes, limited joy but rarely to the point of outright silliness. Maybe that’s why my west coast giddies were few and far between.

Today, as I enjoy a giddie with a circle of friends, I savor the unbounded joy in it all. I titter away the thought of how I must look with water snorting out of my nose. I observe through my mirth, the one or two friends that seem less eager to giddie it up with me, but I don’t feel as if my giddiness is out of place. I allow the openness of my being to move me. And I am in deep gratitude because a great giddie is a precious gift.