I discovered that I'm hygge

So I read that book. You know. The one everyone is reading. It's like the new Kon Marie but with books allowed. All things "hygge" by the CEO of the Happiness Research Institute in Denmark, the happiest country in the world, and aren't they the lucky ones?

While living in a welfare state will not be a part of my existence anytime soon or ever, I did discover while reading this book that I am pretty good at hygge. Hygge works best as an antidote to whatever is stressful in life. It's finding - and deliberately creating - little pockets of security and comfort to get you through your daily life - your daily existence. It's not a "big fix" - it's everyday happiness, which apparently is what we should all be prizing a lot more than those big events/goals/rewards that we so avidly seek. Hygge needs the storm to be the calm inside the storm. It doesn't really exist without something to be sheltering FROM. And it helps if you already live somewhere where the weather is shite. As this naturally inclines you to stay indoors and practice hygge, to like warm clothes and warm drinks, and etc.

I do live in a place where the weather is perhaps similar to that in Denmark, yet a big thing not hygge about me is that I do prefer summer. Summer is less hygge but it is not impossible to be hygge in summer as you can still find those precious moments, still take in the beauty of the natural, still spend quality time with a few close friends or family. (Hygge is introverted not extroverted and Denmark is an introverted country compared to the U.S. which is highly extroverted. Therefore, the best hygge occurs with an ideal of 2-3 companions, no more).

To go along with my preference for summer, I am not hygge in that I prefer summer clothes. I love flip flops and summer dresses. I don't care about cozy sweaters or woolen socks (sorry happiness dude). In fact, please keep wool as far away from me as possible. If I can go without socks, even in winter, I will. I have a collection of soft socks, and I find them imperative to life, so that's hygge, but I'd rather take them off.

That's it though. Apart from that, I'm pretty hygge.

I love coffee and the smell of coffee. For the Danes, the number one hot drink is coffee and hot drinks are the number one way to enjoy hygge. FYI.

I combine landmark events with special purchases. Heck, these days, as my budget is extremely condensed, nearly every purchase is a special purchase. As in I plan for a month at least before buying something. In this book about hygge it is recommended to save special purchases for a time when you can associate them with something special that happened to you - so that ever after you will combine the two things in your mind. Every time you sit in that favorite chair, you will remember how you won that contest or made that big deal or whatever. I'm big into rewarding myself, which is how I would call it instead, so I make a purchase as a reward for achieving some goal post in my career, for instance. So I can indeed look around my house and associate a large number of my belongings with important events. Hygge.

While I don't care about winter clothes, I do love a cozy blanket. Cozy blankets and fireplaces are big in hygge. Fireplaces are a bit of a no-brainer and we are fond of them in the U.S. I have one now, and do spend hours sitting in front of it and playing with it. I'm a fire sign and I believe that women are attracted to fire as the outward manifestation of the fire inside of us. I once watched a little girl approach one of those garbage can fires around which several of us were gathered during a winter art festival. The fascination. The hypnotic pull. The wonder. The glee. It was all there. Then her dad pulled her away. I was so pissed. At that moment, grumpy stick-in-the-butt dad put out her fire.

Keep your fires lit ladies!

Anyway. Moving on.

I love quiet. Quiet is best for hygge because you can HEAR. I know, right? Hygge likes music, of course, music is cozy, but quiet is good for hearing the birds, the water, all the good noises. In the reverse, I require a lot of white noise assistance to block out the crap. The airplanes, the loud cars, the sirens, the talking, the dog barking, the TV....I love quiet and am very sensitive to noise. Complication arises since so many noises don't sit right with me and because, I think due to a maternal instinct, and apparently due to the lack of boundaries other people displayed around me when I was growing up, I need to listen in order to protect myself and others. I'm often conflicted between the need for quiet and thus the need to turn on a fan to block out the crap and my need to hear if anyone is sneaking up on me. Sigh.

I put wine in anything I can and enjoy sitting down for a glass of wine, in a corner, with a book - and a cozy blanket. If possible, by a window. Apparently, this combination is like the grand prize of hygge. Hygge prefers sweet food and adding wine to your entree counts for this. You also often add wine to a dish that has to simmer a bit - hygge likes food that takes time to cook. Now, I'm not that big into dishes that take a long time to cook. I don't care about sourdough or anything else you have to baby or monitor over a long period of time. So in that sense I'm anti-hygge. And probably just American. But I do add wine and I do drink wine, one glass, around dinner-time.

When I was a kid I thought bay windows were the gods' gift to mankind. I'm a reader so that's natural. Like any avid reader I seek out little nooks, and I do love to sit by a window but it doesn't need to be a bay window anymore. I'm over that. But I am still keenly aware of design - and good design. I haven't made a concerted effort to include good design in my life (apparently the Danes call their TV shows "furniture porn" and will happily drop over a thousand bucks for a good lamp), but I am painfully aware of its absence and I sure do know what it is. I think fluorescent lighting is a curse and I understand that natural is better than artificial. Everything around me doesn't need to be made out of wood, I'm not that into "the rustic," but I can wabi sabi you all day long. And I get that those artificial flickering candle things a friend just gave me for Christmas are fun - but they are not hygge. We are using them anyway cuz glitter and sparkly lights can still make you feel cozy and secure - Christmas is the favorite hygge holiday - so Christmas-y type lights must be ok (the Danes tend to light candles instead). Hygge is what makes you feel secure in an insecure world. So if it's artificial colored lights then what-have-you.

Also, pockets of light. My boyfriend is unconsciously hygge in that he has stocked his apartment with standing lamps versus overhead lighting. Hygge prefers diffuse and indirect light.

Books. Now, the CEO of happiness did not mention how many. I am guessing being messy with your books is not hygge. A well-stocked and artistically laid out bookshelf is probably best. Kon Marie only allows 30 books, or so says the latest meme. That's crazy to a book lover. So while I doubt hygge promotes having sloppy piles of books or tons of books you will never read, I'm probably hygge in that I have a healthy set of bookshelves that are arranged attractively - and I have read all of them or only have a handful waiting to be read.

It's a challenge to be hygge in an extroverted world. A lot of people need noise. My boyfriend has just come home from a breakfast run to Chinatown. That's hygge, I think. Making a special trip to get a specific thing for breakfast because you wake up craving it and because that food brings you comfort. He's gotten me a pastry that I like, totally hygge, and he got it ready for me. I made my coffee. And I will join him. My boyfriend has to have the television going at all times (yes, I said "television," the snob version of TV). On my own, I never watch TV. Many years I didn't even own one. So the constant TV is a constant threat to my hygge. I will go sit with him, because sitting next to him is my hygge. I will enjoy my pastry and coffee and get as cozy as possible. Probably I will try to zone out some other way by playing a game on my computer* (I never use sound), so that I can block the TV out; but eventually, I will retreat to the bedroom, turn on the air filter so I can get some white noise, get under the covers, sit in my pocket of warm light, drink my coffee, and be as hygge as possible.

*technology is not very hygge by the way. Hygge needs in-person social contact and technology generally promotes being alone. Facebook can make us happy but it's on the bottom of the list.

Sometimes I look forward to going to bed so I can wake up and have my coffee. Reading this book made me realize that hygge can get you through life. Give you something to look forward to.

Damn. I think the Danes are onto something. And I thank goodness that I was able to get onto it myself.

My hygge reading nook is coming along. I don't use it all the time, yet it's comforting to me just to know it's there.

Things you don't know until you know

It has come to my attention over the past year or so that one of the irksome things about being a human being and the challenge of the hundreds of decisions we make on a daily basis - is that oftentimes we don't know if we've made the right decision until AFTER we've made it.

Do you know what I mean?

Let's start with how do we make decisions in the first place? Some are obvious, obviously. We rely upon past experience, what has worked and what hasn't worked, what we like and don't like, what we need and don't need. But there are a lot of gray areas. And how do we have integrity within those to both ourselves and to the people with whom we may or may not have obligations?

For a certain period I studied martial arts and one of the main tenets we were taught in my dojo was to follow through. What I took this to mean was that if I agreed to do something, I should do it. Period. Regardless if I change my mind later or "don't feel like it."

Yeah. Well.

This doesn't always work. Perhaps I participate in a committee for a few sessions and then I determine that we do not really have shared goals. Or that, no matter what my input is, the head of the committee is determined to push the project in a certain direction - in other words, my input is practically meaningless. At that point, I am just a name on a program - if that. Do I keep attending? I sort of kind of have a "gut feeling" that I don't want to. I hem and haw wondering if this commitment of mine will payoff "one day," what impact it will have on public relations related to my work, and various other way too heavy thoughts. But the kicker is that until I actually say "I am not attending the meeting today" and hit "send" on that email - I have no idea if I made the correct decision.

Afterwards, I feel good or bad, depending. Usually good. Thankfully. I do trust my instincts.

Sometime after that stint in martial arts I started a different practice which was this: if I am more than 50% in doubt, I don't do it. This seems selfish at times. You just don't do the things you don't "feel like" doing? Actually yes. I'm a damn grownup! Surely there has to be some benefit to that sometime! And guess what it is? You can say no! You can change your mind! There are so many unwanted things that as adults we already "have" to do over the course of our days. Why do more?

But again, until we actually take the plunge and make the decision - and share it with someone else - we don't know if it was the "right" decision or not. It's like when you decide to give something away to the thrift store. You think you maybe want to get rid of it. You know you haven't worn that shirt in years or that you never will. You know that it was given to you by someone with whom you are now estranged and that just looking at it, never mind wearing it, makes you unhappy. But until you actually hand the item off to the guy at the back door of the thrift store and step on the gas, you have no idea if it was what you needed to do.

Weird, isn't it?

Walk a mile or live a mile?

People say you won't understand someone until you "walk a mile in his shoes."

I don't know if I ever really knew what that meant. I thought it meant "try to imagine what it would be like" to "walk a mile" in someone's shoes. What else could you do? You aren't that person. I supposed it was a mild platitude espousing sympathy. And that it is. I was even irritated at organizations that won't hire you unless you have experienced what they are treating - drug abuse and whatnot. I thought, I have brains, heart, and sympathy - why can't I help? But now I get it. Walking a mile only gets you so far. What walking a mile doesn't get you is empathy. Living the mile is something else. No matter how imaginative you are, no matter how smart, how sympathetic, you will never fully understand what someone else has gone through UNTIL IT HAPPENS TO YOU.

And the thing is - it could happen to you. Anything could. But we don't realize that.

When something happens to you that you never imagined could, that's living the mile. You are no longer at a distance from that person whose life you previously thought was so unlike yours. You are no longer imagining what his or her life is like. You're not intellectually appreciating what certain factors in someone's life lead to, the genetics plus the upbringing plus the economic demographic plus gender, education, and on and on. We can all be sympathetic (even though a lot of people aren't). We can all nod and listen and say, "How bad for you." We can even help someone to get out of a bad situation. But we can't ever "get it" unless we go through it ourselves. That's the thing. You know how people watch a scary movie and they admit that, while they might like to think they would fight back, they wouldn't really be able to know how they would respond in a situation until it happened?

That's true. Which is why it astounds me that so many people are so judgmental against those in dire circumstances. As if somehow we choose to be molested by our parents or beaten by our husbands. That kind of thing. You hear so often, "but how could she/he stay with him/her?" Or the total lack of not just empathy but even sympathy towards those forced into prostitution. As if it's just something a person chooses to do. As if she could have done something else.

The thing is we are part choice, and then we are part circumstance, and we are part unconscious. We can end up in a place and a position we never thought we would - but now we are.

Now don't get excited. I'm not going to tell you I was a prostitute. But for two years or so, I experienced a lot of what might be termed subtle abuse in my relationships and during that time, I was made aware that it's a slippery slope. And you don't know - YOU HAVE NO IDEA - if it could happen to you. But it could. You could think you are "above" all that and the next thing you know you are behind a bush with a pervert that wants you to touch his dick. And you are not a child.

That abused person. It's not something he or she chose. And getting out of something is very difficult when you are barely aware of it in the first place. It takes a tremendous amount of self-awareness and self-confidence to extricate oneself from a bad situation. I had just enough. But many don't. And it's not their fault. So don't judge. If not for the grace of God - and my own heightened sense of self-preservation - there go I. There go YOU.

I once posted on Facebook that I wondered what I would carry if all I had in life was one shopping cart. Everyone - and I mean everyone - thought I was making a joke or playing a game. No. Really. I walked by a homeless person, and I KNEW that could easily be me. One missed bill. One health emergency. One destroyed relationship. You could be on the street. Yes, YOU. I know. I almost was.

Do I wish everyone would get to that edge? So that more people would be less asshole-ish about the misfortunes of others? So that more people would realize how ridiculously difficult life can be sometimes? No. I don't wish bad things on people but take it from me. You don't know until it happens to you whether it could happen to you. So you might as well have a healthy understanding that the possibility is there. And live accordingly. Don't judge. Give not just your ear and a fake smile but also your heart to those who are experiencing bad times. They didn't bring it all upon themselves. They wouldn't know how to - and they might not know how to get out. Maybe you think there is no way you could relate - and you don't want to find out - but yes, it could be you. Any of you.

I lived that mile.

How I became a vegan more or less

When I was about 10 years old, my mother and some of her friends slaughtered 100 chickens in our back yard. There were vats of blood. There were chickens literally running around with their heads cut off.

Chicken never tasted the same to me after that.

I grew up eating a lot of "alternative" foods in the first place. We did not eat staple American "meat and potatoes" fare in my family. My parents and grandparents had lived in Asia and Latin America. Rice was a regular on our menu. My palate had an early introduction to the flavors of the world. After multiple visits to foreign parts myself, I developed a long-delayed appreciation for both soup and hot tea. In college in Hawaii, my favorite lunch on campus was cold tofu salad.

I'm telling you these details because these are the kinds of things that make it easier to go vegan.

I sound so un-American already. How can you be an American and not eat beef?

It's weird that we have this concept that Americans eat a certain way when in general Americans are very experimental in their eating habits. But the backlash against veganism, well, we do know where it is coming from. The beef industry, the milk industry, the cheese industry - the COW industry - and its devotees who feel threatened, financially, and apparently, personally.

Because it's a threat if you have to think about maybe some of the things you love to eat are bad for you or that cultivating them, processing them, and you eating them is helping kill the planet.

Or that the cow you are eating felt scared when it died.

It's a threat when you are losing business because consumers are trying to be health conscious and ethical. And your business is neither. And you might have to think about running a different business in order to be a better person and in order for us to have a better planet. People don't like to make sacrifices for long-term benefits. They want the feel good now. They want the money now. They want the hamburger now. The excuse, "people will lose jobs if the beef industry becomes less important" is a lame-ass excuse. I'm sorry for everyone that won't have a job. I've lost many a job myself.

EVOLVE.

And do we even need to talk about methane and greenhouse gases? Oh yeah. Global warming is a myth. Sorry about that. My bad.

Then there are the mean-spirited jokes that plants have feelings too. So what are you going to eat now, vegans? I guess nothing! You got me! Wait, are you saying it's bad to eat things that have feelings? Oh no! Cuz I think that turns this back around to you eating that terrified cow!

Maybe plants have feelings. But it must be less painful for a piece of celery to die than for a lamb so you can have that lamb chop or a baby calf so you can have that veal. I am only guessing.

About five years ago, I watched a movie that made the crossover complete. I had already deduced that milk didn't feel good. My husband I had been lactose-free, milk-wise, for some time. I had already figured out that eating beef felt HEAVY and that fast food made me tired and FAT.

In this movie, pigs were squeezed into cages at least one size too small for them. Workers with lifeless eyes handled slabs of beef while blood streamed around them. Panicked chickens were beheaded en masse by automated machetes. Of course, I have learned many more stories since then. Of the cows that try desperately to escape slaughter, running into nearby towns. Once in awhile, one of them is "saved" and "adopted" by the town. How sweet. Meanwhile, farms and factories that claim to follow FDA regulations refuse to allow visitors and that sticker that says "organic" or "free range" is often a lie. And don't even get me started on gluten. Oh, do you have celiac disease? No, I don't. Our food is processed and full of dangerous chemicals. When I eat fake white bread crap I feel bad. That's why I don't eat bread. Basically, I couldn't trust food anymore. That was a big part of it. And I knew that animals suffer when they die. And that there was no way to guarantee to me that they don't.

More. I felt better. Completely better. I lost weight. I gained energy. For all those haters, my blood levels are fine. My cholesterol is fine. My bones are fine. I get plenty of protein. I get plenty of calcium. Ya'll, all these companies know that people have gone off meat and need nutrients. These alternative products, the almond milk and whatnot, are packed with what we need. Being vegan doesn't make you weak. Weight lifters are vegan. Many entire cultures or societies have been at least vegetarian and/or vegan. So why all the hate? Why all the disbelief? Why all the naysayers?

I can hear the denials. What hate? Vegans are the ones who are annoying, people will say. They're so preachy, people will say. It's hard to be quiet when you want to save the world, yes. And yes, there are some wack job vegans. There are some wack job any type of person. Yet when you have been convinced, through doing it yourself, that your dietary choices WORK, it's hard to not be obvious about it. You don't even have to say anything because you look and feel better and everybody that knows you knows that. And they know that they aren't doing what you do. The grief that comes from the other side is palpable and constant. The nasty posts in Facebook groups that have nothing to do with food. Or the reverse, the constant postings about BACON. Ya know? I don't say anything. I laugh too. I don't say, you know bacon is bad for you. I don't respond with a photo of a pig in a cage.

I cause discomfort by saying NOTHING. People hear that I am vegan and all of the sudden they are beside themselves with what to do if I come over - or the opposite, they could give a shit and I should fend for myself (ie. starve). I never try to make a fuss. I always say I will make do. And I do. Being vegan is almost a form of self-ostracization. Sitting on the sidelines while everyone else eats that Thanksgiving turkey. There's no denying how important food is to anyone's culture, to having fun, and to celebrating. It's so important. That's why it's important to think harder about it. Being vegan is so threatening to people who don't want to change or even think about changing. Automatically, it's as if people think I think I am "better than them" because I am vegan.

I'm just a person whose life and life decisions brought her to a certain point, and found it good, and you can be that person too. You can join me anytime. I'll be sitting over here by myself trying really hard not to make a face while you eat that salmon and the orcas are dying.

Kon Marie This!

One of the biggest pieces of advice we seem to get from the world is to "let it go."

At the same time, we are urged to "make connections" and "stay connected."

The internet and cell phones make this ridiculously easy, forcing daily dilemmas upon us as to whom we actually want to stay connected with, and if it's a good idea. Didn't I stop talking to that person, or her to me, for a reason? Thanks to the internet we are constantly challenging our own decisions. But it's so easy to say "Hi!" Or to ask an old flame, "How you doing?" Should I allow this total stranger on LinkedIn to connect to my profile? Maybe one day he will offer me a job! (Hahaha!)

And so on.

The latest craze is to "Kon Marie" things, based on the bestselling tips by well-meaning neat freak Marie Kondo. One of her primary tenets is to remove everything from our lives that doesn't "spark happiness."

Nice one, Marie. But let me ask you. What do you do when the world doesn't let you remove those things from your life?

Start off with the fact that if you aim to be a conscientious tax payer there is a requisite number of years you are required to keep all of your records, and when you think about the bills you get every single month for say, five years, this is a damn lot of burdensome and burdening paperwork.

Then maybe one day you get a job that requires you to pencil in all of your addresses and jobs from the past ten years, and all of the related contact info. How do you do that if you haven't kept every scrap of paper from the past ten years? Okay, alternately, you could take the time to keep some kind of list of just such items. Marie would probably approve of that. Ok, you win that one, Marie.

Now let's say you worked for the government for about two seconds, and you want to get your retirement money back. (This is a true story). You are required, if you ever want to see your money, to contact every spouse you ever had for more than nine months, no matter when it was. Yep, that's right. So the person I divorced over ten years ago, and to whom I have not spoken since that date? I am required by the government to send that person a notification that I want my retirement money - in case he wants to dispute it! Now, I get it. I am the last one to deny someone what is rightfully his and if it's a chunk of my retirement money, so be it. But holy crap. I was not married nor divorced during my time in this government job - and anyone I was previously married or divorced to has a right to my money? Not to mention having to unbury the past??? I don't know where this person is. I Kon Marie'd that guy! WTF? What if my ex-spouse was a murderer? What if he hated me? What if I didn't want him to know my new address, my new name, not to mention my social (there is a blank on the form where I have to put my social - which he would see!). How is that ok?

(There are ways to do this without compromising my safety and security, but it doesn't seem the government gives a shit about that. Why can't I just show them my divorce decree? -- which, Marie, I still have, even though it doesn't spark happiness, and THANK GOD I do cuz I had to check if I owe this guy money after 10 years! Why can't the government send him some type of notification that does not include my social security number, and in fact doesn't mention any of my current information. "Your former spouse, name of X, wishes to receive her retirement money. Yay or Nay?")

You see, I try to Kon Marie people and things, but I'm not allowed. I try to keep only things that spark happiness, then something like this happens and I get to relive the past thanks to what you call bureaucracy. Marie and bureaucracy probably are not friends. Don't get me wrong, I very much appreciate and endorse Marie's idea. Spark Happiness. Throw shit away. Do not re-contact that ex friend or lover. They are ex for a reason. As much as the world allows you, Kon Marie that shit.

Books ruined me for sex.

Books ruined me for sex. Books and movies. But especially books.

Jitterbug Perfume was one of the biggest culprits. If you know the book, then you know what I'm talking about. The couple discovers that the key to eternal life is frequent lovemaking. The only thing is, it's not just that it's frequent, it's GOOD. And they are in love. So just having sex all the time won't do it. It has to be mind-blowing orgasmic sex with your true love. EVERY TIME.

I'd like to know how much luck the author is having with that.

The first book that unfortunately I can't forget, and that gave me false expectations for sex forever, was Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was famously scandalous in it's time and to some people, perhaps it still is. The wanton woman having sex with the woodsman in the woods. Whatever. What stood out to me was SIMULTANEOUS ORGASM. What a crock. And that is the gift that keeps on giving. Every movie, every book, every porn - you name it - simultaneous orgasm. Cuz that happens all the time.

Not.

Don't even get me started on how "easy" FICTION make it seem like it is for people to even HAVE an orgasm - or all the LIES real people tell about how easy it is for them. But I guess there are also plenty of movies and books about women faking it - so maybe it evens out. Maybe.

But the pressure, right? That's where that comes in.

I fell in for awhile with the polyamorous crowd. Gimme a break. All that is is another - rather wily and successful - framework for men to have their cake and eat it, too. I don't know what the statistics are, but I'd be willing to bet that the number of men who consider themselves to be SUCCESSFULLY polyamorous is wildly larger than the number of women who say the same. It's just another harem. This is absolutely what I witnessed in person. I thought maybe if I could be more "free" then I would learn to "express" my sexuality and thereby gain more pleasure from sex. It might have gone that way, I suppose, if the current concept of polyamory weren't such a farce. If they didn't still have so many RULES. If everyone didn't fall into disappointingly TRADITIONAL roles. Women still fighting over men. Wringing their hands, pulling their hair, and crying over men. Women having HUGE difficulty getting more than one partner and on the contrary, settling on and doting on that one - devastated if he left - while men filled up their calendars with who gets Mondays....who gets Tuesdays...who gets Thursdays...AND NO DEVIATING!

The FOUNDER of the polyamorous movement of which I was a part is a woman with ONE PARTNER for something like FIFTEEN YEARS. But her partner has multiple women. The founder! Her man is not polyamorous, folks. He is a cad and a cheat and no matter what she says, I would be willing to bet that she is NOT okay with it. Just look at her eyes.

The more things change the more things stay the same.

But anyway, you would think "free love" might have worked. Didn't. Could've. Didn't. As, sadly, humans are not really capable of coming up with a truly new and creative system that is equal.

I'm back on my own trying to figure out how to cultivate happiness in sex and love and partnership. Not trusting any book or movie or "guru" about it. Following my own way. It's hard, right? The flush of new love wears off and where are you? Maybe you can't afford to get your nails done so your guy is less turned on than before because you are not as visually exciting. But WTF? It's not just him. I start to dial down too. Probably, deep inside, it's those old traitorous expectations kicking in, and wondering:

Why Isn't It Like That?

Letter to my Brother

Do you love me?

More.

Do you respect me?

Love, I've come to find out the hard way, is not enough.

And it doesn't excuse...so many things.

I thought you loved me. The quick, spasmodic hugs. The winning flash of your smile.

Family. What is family? A prison. A haven. Why are we obligated? We aren't. Call it my French background, or my French blood, but the French have a penchant for challenging accepted norms about family. I have long held the belief that family is who we choose, and might not be, in fact often is not, composed of blood. Maybe it's just that I refuse to be bowed down by guilt.

All the times we sat beside each other, yet each within our own cyclone, as our parents raged. I thought, foolishly, that we shared that. It was the more precious for the tight tension of silence that I thought bound us. I thought that finally, on the day I said goodbye to Father, you were with me.

I was wrong. Years later when you said, "I knew that one day I would be the victim of your silent treatment," I realized I had been mistaken. You hadn't understood at all.

Why had I tried so hard? I had in some way worshiped you, even though you are the younger. Your pan-like dancing bright eyes and tightly curled hair. Maybe you kept us all in thrall with the constant threat of your anger. When we were little you used to chase me. You slapped me. Then you blamed it on me when Mother came home. You tore the posters from my door when I shut it to keep you away. When we fought, you would never stop. That I remember most of all.

You, who always ate too little as a kid and I, who ate too much. How miserable you made me feel about my weight. When I would visit you, you wouldn't feed me, and I always wondered if it wasn't just your horrible lack of hospitality, which was legendary, but your way of imposing your judgement on me. When you visited me, you had no desire to socialize over a meal such as, I don't know, lunch, and I again felt chastised. You would ask me, a look of concern on your face that was also one of embarrassment - for yourself - if my health was okay. Guess what? It was. When I finally lost weight, no thanks to you, I loathed to share that victory with you, but it was inevitable you would celebrate how "great" I now look. Your smile of amazement and relief made my blood curdle.

Yet you drink like a fish and when you do eat, you sit down like the King of England at table and gorge yourself on meat and cheese. WTF?

The time I came to see you, and got lost. I got hysterical on the phone, and that made you angry. I was crying by the time I got out of the car. You said nothing and grabbed my bag.

That was our hello.

The jealousy you felt whenever I came around you and your friends. I grant that I earned part of that when I slept with your roommate in college. Probably you were afraid that would happen again. And what, by the way, in hell was that all about? Were you upset for me - or for him?

Get over it. It was college!

But gay men? The looks you shot me in Hawaii when I shared a pineapple drink with Fernando. Or when Alfredo and I shared a bed in the hotel because we had to! How threatened you were.

Am I somehow cooler than you? That is laughable.

And me feeling so inadequate - so ugly - surrounded by all of your beautiful bodies.

When your marriage came, and I asked to please not be roomed next to Father at your Italian wedding that none of us on Mother's side could afford - you refused. Then grudgingly - yes, very grudgingly - you allowed me to attend your small, stateside ceremony. "Don't bring too many people," you said. What was I, a gypsy caravan? There was only me and my husband.

I was so proud of you. Photos of you, articles, programs, are littered around my home. They spill out of boxes. I purchased your paintings.

Have you ever read a single one of my articles?

And you looked up to me, I thought. I felt terrible about my divorce in case it somehow led to yours. You had seemed so charmed by my marriage. As if I'd proved that marriage could work. Then I didn't.

I was the only person in the family who understood what you do for a living. You were constantly bemoaning that none of us did. I was the only one. The art of it. Did you even know that I taught the history of dance in my classes? You always acted surprised if any of us knew anything about it. It was your personal domain. I get that you needed it to be. That none of our attention was good enough.

We would never be artists.

I would never be an artist.

And yet, you denied me the chance to see you dance your final dance. "Don't even bother coming to my final season," you told me. "I don't want you around with your cloud of negativity."

You would have thought, at our age, just for a second, it would have occurred to you that was something you could never take back.

How wrong you were.

How long I withstood your torture.

It's not about negativity. At least. Not mine.

It's about HAPPINESS.

Mine.