The Golden Door

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

– Emma Lazarus

My father is first generation American. 

Italian, born and bred. 

So, when I graduated high school I asked for proof. 

In other words, bring me to them. 

My relatives.  

We traveled first to Rome. 

A hotel, he’d booked online.

We’d spent exactly two nights ever together in a lifetime and suddenly, 

we were residing in a closet.

On to Naples, Pompeii and Calabria: the place of my grandfather’s birth. 

Rich with olive trees, oil and seven-layer fresh lasagna. 

Here, I bonded with my foreign relatives as I screamed “Aye! Aye! Aye!” on motorbike 

through winding streets, experiencing food like it was the first time.  

Eating “al fresca”, pretending I followed their animated conversation. 

Next, to Sicily where we knocked on many a neighbor door 

until we stood in the room my grandmother was born in 1898.  

I looked around and wondered, “how?”. 

And here I am.

Standing in my father’s hospital room wondering, “how?”

If there was ever a man to give to the tired, the poor, 

Those that needed to breathe and required refuge, 

He’s right here. 

Beside the golden door.

And here I am. 

Standing in my father’s hospital room wondering, “how?”.

Gray

I used to feel so uncomfortable 

With Gray. 

Black and White were concrete, comforting. 

But Gray, blurred the lines. 

And I sought certainty.  

Anyone with children will explain how humbling it is to feel powerless

Be it the pregnancy, the birth, the unexpected complications or simply the milestones

All of a sudden, you are no longer in control. 

I spent a long time fighting the current

But started to enjoy the ride once I let it lead.

And that’s my approach to life these days. 

There’s no need to know what comes next; 

Instead, let’s wait and see. 

Destination unknown. 

Gray. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Emmett Turns 50

Let me tell you about this man:

My husband, Emmett, who turns 50 years amazing today. 

If you’re lucky enough to know Emmett, you know ease and joy

Because that is what he embodies.

Life is fairly simple, when you allow it to be so.  

The only other man I knew to be just like him was his father. 

Happiness and joy begets the same. 

Spending time with his family is like a warm hug. 

And so is spending time with my husband. 

My love, our joy. 

Happy Birthday, my darling. 

We are all lucky to have you.  

Gift

There’s a reason the stewardess instructs you to put on your own oxygen mask before your child’s. 

You are no good to anyone when you’re passed out. 

So, today, when I told my therapist that my doctor explained I was anemic at my latest physical, she chuckled, “Well, that’s telling, isn’t it?”

As a universal donor, I’ve been donating roughly every 8 weeks until recently, when I was turned away for low iron.

There’s always a shortage and since I have the blood everyone needs, I always say yes.

But the theme of “taking care of myself” has been commonly discussed during therapy so it came as no surprise to my therapist to learn I had once again, run my well dry. 

It’s all about setting healthy boundaries.  

Pouring into my cup first, before sharing with others. 

“I can write a letter, if you need.” My doctor offered. 

I laughed, “No, I’m a big girl.  I can tell them No.”

A hard word for me to ever say. 

There’s always a need.

But I want to be here for the long haul, not just the present emergency. 

So, I set boundaries. 

I say, “No.”  

I take care of myself.  

And in the end, that’s my greatest gift to others. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Moms

“You’re such a good mom.”

They say to me with awe and pity.  

And I wonder, 

If you were me, would you do anything differently?

I’d like to think not. 

My child, with food allergies, gets invited to a birthday party.

Of course I bring her own cupcake- dairy, egg, peanut and wheat-free. 

This is our normal.

And yes, it’s hard. 

But if it were you . . . 

You’d do it, too. 

We’re Moms. 

It’s what we do.   

Camille Vaughan Photography

Hide

“Are you going to hide them?” My friend asked. 

Well, shit.  

That hadn’t even occurred to me.  

Top of the closet?  Under the bed?

Um, actually, no. 

I have nothing to hide. 

The bottom drawer of my bedside table is full of awesome adult toys and if one or more of my four daughters has the audacity to peek, well then. . . . be careful of what you search for. 

“That’s private.”  I explained to my daughter. 

Case closed. 

But much like when my eldest was no longer content with the minimal basics of procreation, I will never choose to keep my children in the dark. 

We are a home that uses correct terminology. 

Penis.  Vagina.  Breasts.

NOT- wee-wee, hoo-ha, or boobies.

There’s nothing shameful about our anatomy. 

And the sooner we embrace that, the sooner we set ourselves free. 

Fun fact:

After teaching elementary school, I was a Pure Romance Consultant for four years. 

My company’s motto was:  Empower, Educate, Entertain.

And I thrived. 

I walked into a room full of women and quickly thawed the tension with humor. 

I enlightened them with facts I had learned from professors at conferences at Indiana University, the leader in Sexual Health. 

And then I empowered them to own their bodies.  

To ask me questions when we were just one-on-one

And release their fear and shame.

I won’t stop now. 

My daughters will be well-informed.  

Empowered.  Educated.  Entertained (later). 

Nothing to hide.  

Grief

She called it what it is:  

Grief. 

I had never associated that word with what I had been feeling but it all clicked into place. 

Grief can be due to a loss of any kind: a loved one, job, marriage, friendship or a major life change.

What I had been feeling was grief!

I described how desperate I had been to make sense of it all and store it neatly in its box. 

I’m a writer:  I like a good ending.  

And this . . . this just carried on.

I described it as spilled slime.  

Here I was, frantically trying to return the contents to its original container and no matter how hard I tried, it lingered.  

Grief has no blueprint, no timeline.

It’s messy and ugly and nonsensical.

It does not wield to your plans or box. 

It takes its time and you are merely a companion to it.  

Many try to escape its grasp- be it denial, alcohol or busyness.  

Others drown in it. 

And then there’s me- failing to recognize it for what it is. 

Well, hello grief. 

I relinquish my need to control.

I let you take your time. 

I identify you. 

I respect your process. 

And I walk with you 

Until you move along.  

 It is what it is. 

Grief. 

Camille Vaughan Photography

Resolution

Hello 40th year. 

I have been waiting so impatiently for you. 

And already, you are not disappointing my anticipation. 

I’ve never understood the desire to reverse the clock (my knees may disagree). 

Instead, I am so thankful for the time you’ve provided to figure out:

Who I am becoming. 

[Exhale.] 

I feel like I can finally breathe.  

As I let my past self go 

And inhale my future. 

Resolution: 

Let go of what was and look forward to what is to come. 

Cheers to a new year! 

Camille Vaughan Photography

A Life Well Lived

We were born 20 days apart with just 2 houses sitting between our own.  My dad taught him how to swim; his dad taught me how to ride a bike.  

We were always outside, waiting for the tell-tale whistle from his parents at dusk, letting us know it was time to come in for dinner and bed. 

In our early teens, he would climb the tree in front of my house, clamber up the roof and knock.  There was a landing just outside of my window and we would sit there, contemplating life until we were caught.  

His parents had been married just shy of 45 years when his mom succumbed to cancer this past September. 

The funeral was held in late October and just 5 days later, with the fragrance of the funeral flowers still permeating the living room, his dad passed away from sudden cardiac arrest, right into my friend’s arms.  It was two days before their 45th anniversary and we all collectively knew, he had died from a broken heart. 

My mother and I had wept during Mr. White’s eulogy for his wife.  He spoke of their first date- when Mrs. White had invited him to lie underneath a Christmas tree to watch the twinkling lights. 

Mr. White then compared those twinkling lights to the thousands upon thousands of prayers family and friends had sent up to God as cancer ravaged his beloved’s body.

And then, just like that, he was gone, too. 

My friend and I stood in the kitchen where he had administered CPR to his dad, just hours before and we hugged, screamed and sobbed.  At 39 years-old we still felt like children, never ever having been in his parents’ house without them there.  

Shocked and numb, I drove away, contemplating the loss. 

Mr. White’s eulogy had been full of love and awe for his wife and the life they had shared. 

And I wondered, 

“What is a well-lived life?”  

Have I lived one? 

Am I living one?

In this distracted day-in-age, it feels all too easy to lose sight of the most important part of life:

Our connection to others. 

And if that is the meaning of life, 

Then I’ve lived it well.  

Let us all lie under the Christmas tree and watch the twinkling lights. 

The First Step

Have you ever had moments in your life when you feel like time stops?

It’s remarkable. 

It happened once when I was eleven.

And it happened again today when I read a line from an advice column:

“Children of alcoholics are often on high alert trying to anticipate other people’s feelings, so they can try to head off problems or incidents before they become overwhelming.”

The camera of my life came into focus. 

The dots connected. 

And for a moment, time stopped

As my mind rewinded

To the friendships I had ruined by suffocating them with my need to control

And the relationships I had endured because I expected no better.  

My desperate need for security. 

My present-day Type A personality. 

I am a child of an alcoholic. 

And it shows, still today. 

It’s not an excuse. 

But it does help to explain how I came to be. 

And for me, that’s the first step.

Time starts again.

New Leaf Parenting.

Every Day is a Fresh Start.

Original Article: https://www.pilotonline.com/advice/ct-aud-ask-amy-20221215-mgo2iskwwfehneze7tiqqapi6y-story.html