Nancy Alvarez Writes

Fall/Winter Time Of Life

Nancy — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 21:31:16 +0000

For the past couple of years I have been a member of a listserve for my class at Sarah Lawrence College. The daily/weekly/monthly sharing has been awe inspiring to me: the depth of it, the warmth, the support, the caring. Last week one of the women I didn’t know well at college, but have come to know through the list serve, told us all that she had been having trouble breathing, discovered she had liquid in her lungs and had to go into the hospital to have it drained. She, herself, has been an alternative health care provider since graduation. A few days ago she received her diagnosis: advanced stage lung cancer. The outpouring of love and offers of help has been sustaining for all of us, but for me much more has surfaced. I find myself thinking about this woman when I am falling asleep, and she is often the first thought on my mind when I awaken. Talking to a close friend in Port Townsend last night I mentioned that I feel so helpless living three thousand miles away, and don’t know what kind of help I can realistically offer. This PT friend has suffered with multiple and serious illnesses over the last few years so it was comfortable to talk about the seriousness of the diagnoses without immediately jumping to ‘she can fight this’. What if she doesn’t want to? What if she is numb, or terrified, or needs to find a way to make peace with the last part of her life so that she can leave this plane with a clear and open heart? How would I even ask? Our friendship is new. Then my close friend from town called back and said she had a suggestion. ‘It is often very difficult to talk to friends about what you’re really feeling, because your friends are so frightened they have a hard time listening. You are a perfect person to offer emotional support: whatever she needs to talk about or share, you will be there. If you can,’ she added. I didn’t have to think about it long. I knew it was the right suggestion for me, and one I could gladly offer. If I don’t know how to respond to what she shares, I know I can say that, as well as I’m glad she is able to speak about what is in her heart. I will listen, without judgement, and without solutions. That is something I am good at. Last night I sent an email offering to be that person for her, if it feels comfortable in a week, a month, or not at all. She has just returned home from the hospital, and is seeing the oncologist today, taking along a fellow graduate from SLC, one of eight boys who graduated with us, so that someone can hear what the doctor says. Several of us suggested she have someone with her, since it is difficult to remember much when we are frightened. In my own life, I am a worrier, although I know it is useless to worry. The things I worry about come to pass or they don’t. I have no idea when life-threatening illness might strike. I am of an age where it could be anytime. The illness of my new, old friend on the East Coast brought this issue home. How do I want to live this last third of my life? What do I want to let go of, like worrying, or doing activities because I should don’t enjoy, or sitting at this computer long after I am ‘done’ emotionally – the list goes on. Can I retrain myself, so that every day is filled with more joy than not, more pleasure than not, as well as the people I want to be with and the activities I really love? Most important, how do I come to terms with the face that life is finite, and that I am closer to the end point than the beginning? I need to learn about acceptance, and how to reach that place within myself so that I am less fearful about many things, not just end of life. I will probably be writing about these issues with some frequency because for me writing is a way ‘through’. I welcome your thoughts, because I always gain a great deal from the perspective of others. Perhaps we can open a dialogue about this difficult part of life and find peace with one another.

Grandpa Walton Surprises Us All

Nancy — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 19:21:06 +0000

The first time I went to a set to see my words come out of the mouths of actors in front of a camera was amazing in more ways than one. Grandpa Walton’s activities turned out to be illegal, and unforgettable.

What Makes It Work

Nancy — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 00:25:22 +0000

I am sitting on the Washington State Ferry after picking up my Mac which crashed in Seattle. Good news: I didn’t lose any data; bad news; a four hour round trip, twice. There is no Mac service place on the Olympic Peninsula. I have a warrantee, and certainly wasn’t going to pay a tech to fix it, since I had no idea how costly that might be. On the drive today I found myself thinking about why the relationship with Wonono has gotten so much easier over these past six years. Once we adjusted to how different our upbringing has been, and how that upbringing shaped some of our attitudes, life became easier. But what seems most significant to me is that for each of us, how we treat other people, how we deal with one another, how we handle problems as they arise – has been similar from the beginning. I have been told I am ‘too honest’; I would suspect he has been told the same thing over the years. I would prefer blunt to beating around the bush, or worse, fabrication. So would he. For both of us, connection to others, connection to what is live in everything, is of paramount importance. He can be abrupt; I often explain what I think and feel over and over, from every angle, so that he will understand. As the years have passed, I do less of this, because I trust that he knows where I am coming from, and often, now, what I am going to say. When he first moved here and read my memoir, he reached the part where I described the kind of man I had come to believe I needed, and the personal traits that were important to me. I will never forget hearing him exclaim, “Hey. That’s me!” He was right. I believe we recognized this similarity of world view in each other. It has held us in good stead, and made our relationship grow stronger over time. We know who we are; and we know who the ‘other’ is. IN a lighter vein, we have a very similar sense of humor. Perhaps Jewish and Indian humor, and the wry way we view ‘funny’ is similar. It is certainly similar for us. We both are very affectionate, and need touch on a daily basis. We both enjoy sex, and sex with each other, even at our advanced age! We both love to eat, and to eat well. And more and more we trust that we will weather difficulties with each other because we both really value what we have with each other. We both feel seen. Our interactions are relatively easy. Sure we get annoyed with one another; but the annoyance passes quickly. Even when we can’t reach agreement about something, that’s alright. We each are comfortable allowing differences. Bottom line, we truly appreciate one another. And that makes all the difference.

Difficulties In Love

Nancy — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 22:26:03 +0000

Obviously this is a topic that will take more than one paragraph, but I thought I would begin to tackle it today. My partner, Wonono, and I have been together for six years. The first one was extremely difficult, for many reasons. First of all, if you don’t believe our society is made up of different ‘classes’, I beg to differ. Our relationship has made this abundantly clear. I grew up middle class in Roselle Park, New Jersey. My mother was extremely progressive. When I was in elementary school she and my friend Kenny’s mom were glued to the television at our house watching the McCarthy hearings. I doubt that anyone else in that conservative little town was watching them, but both mom’s were pretty upset by what they were seeing. I knew my family was not ‘typical’. Wonono grew up in a poor Chicano/Native American family in Santa Barbara, California. His home life was chaotic, with drug and alcohol abuse and all that goes with it. Finances were always tight; gifts rare if non-existent. Though we have a similar political and personal perspective in how to ‘be’ in the world: how to behave towards others; what matters and what doesn’t; what to work for; as well as a very similar sense of humor – we also entered the relationship with definite preconceptions about money, about our place in society, about what ‘work’ means – about lots of things. I suppose most of my friends over the years have also been middle class. So I had assumed that my belief system reflected reality. He and I struggled a lot that first year, and it was very painful because in some ways we had very differing views on what was real. I believe education matters a great deal; I have always planned ahead: what do I want to study, what will I ‘do’ with my degree; and how will I improve my lot and that of my children. He certainly wanted to protect his kids, but he also felt compelled to work for his tribe, for no recompense, and dropped out of college because of familial issues but never went back. Graduating and planning were not in his lexicon; he didn’t want to join a system that had repressed him and his people for centuries. It took me a long time to let go of the notion that his beliefs were self-destructive. I have read widely in the past few years in both black, Indian and Chicano literature and found that he is not alone in this view. Of course there are non-white Americans who want to ‘move up’ in the national hierarchy, but there are more who believe the cost is very great. I’m sure this gives you some idea of what we faced, joining together. I have learned that my reality is just that: my reality. It comes from my background, what I have lived through and learned, and what I have been taught, as does his. And there’s the rub. Over these years I think we both have learned an enormous amount about acceptance, and because of that, our love has grown and matured. More about that another time.

Cleaning As Therapy?

Nancy — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 20:55:26 +0000

Today at 9 AM I began a thorough cleaning of my house. I do this every third week, and have for years. Although many will tell you that I am a neat freak, which is true, I loathe cleaning my house. It is tiring, boring, takes too much time if you do everything, including dusting, and just plain unpleasant. Or at least that’s how it feels to me when I’m doing it. After I’m done, however, I always feel a sense of exhileration. The entire house smells great, table tops shine, the kitchen looks used but spotless, and the shelves behind the bed have no dust balls on them, merely books. I take pride in how well I clean, even if I don’t enjoy the process when I’m in the middle of it. So every three weeks I keep on keeping on. This morning while I was slaving away a woman I don’t know very well stopped by with some papers for me to sign. She seemed a mused when I answered the door mop in hand. I told her I hated doing it, but thought it was silly to hire someone as I’m still fully capable. If my partner wasn’t tending our garden on a weekly basis, which is quite large and take hours of his time, I would ask him to clean with me, rather than hire someone. Maybe when I’m seventy I will decide to change my tune. Do I feel I’m not entitled to the help? I don’t know. When my kids were little, I did hire someone, and advised my younger daughter to do the same a couple of years ago. Taking care of two toddlers is work enough. I don’t know how you could even clean with them underfoot. I loved having someone else do the heavy lifting, as it were, although I also felt kind of guilty I had handed off ‘my’ job to another woman. Which didn’t stop me. What surprised me was what this woman said with a big smile: “I really like to clean.” She continued, “If I can’t clear my mind, and meditation doesn’t even work, I clean.” By the time she’s done, she explained, whatever was bothering her is a thing of the past. And then she repeated, “I actually like to clean.” I will try to take her words to heart in three weeks, though I think I will still find the three-hour chore unpleasant. I would rather take a walk through the fort near my house to clear my mind! Even on a gray day! But as I’m vacuuming next time I’ll at least ponder her words, and try to clear my mind as I work. Maybe it will make it feel less unpleasant. It’s worth a try. How about you? Do you clean your own house? Do you let ‘mess’ accumulate? Do you enjoy the task, or hire someone else to take care of it? Even in this mundane realm I’m reminded that we’re all different, and there is no ‘right’ way.

Becoming A Hollywood Writer

Nancy — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 19:05:19 +0000

See the wacky road I took to get my first job in Hollywood writing for The Waltons.

First Video: Becoming A Hollywood Writer

Nancy — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 00:09:04 +0000

I spent hours today creating my first, two minute plus video, on how I became a Hollywood writer. It is a little over two minutes long, but wouldn’t upload onto my blog because it had too many MB’s. I have an email out to my web designer/expert on what to do about this problem since it seems silly to only be able to create one minute videos, and will be able to surmount this problem by the time I create another one. When I do create a video, it will take the place of that week’s blog, and should post as a blog. If you want to see the edited version (the original was a little over 3 minutes long), go to www.facebook.com/NancyAlvarezWrites and there it will be. Enjoy. Next week I’ll just blog.

Health Scares

Nancy — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 16:28:43 +0000

First news is that I have chosen to take another week off! Said I would and I now have a plan. My birthday is at the end of February, so I will take that week to coddle myself – a novel notion. The very idea makes me smile. Why have I taken so long to realize I need to do this? Other info. Last week my youngest grandson had diarrhea and a fever of almost 103 for over four days. We all began to worry that something was seriously wrong. My daughter took him to the doctor several times, but he didn’t even have his typical ear infection. I went on line, and the stuff I found was terrifying. Another visit to Urgent Care on Friday, and then by Sunday, he was behaving so oddly – sleeping fitfully for twenty minutes, awake for twenty, crying – that the doc told Leah to take him to pediatric urgent care to rule out a few serious possibilities. Reassuring news! We waited for hours, first for the place to open, and then to hear from my daughter. It’s amazing where the mind goes, but I admit to being a worrier. Not quite as bad as my father, but not good. The doc there thought he had a rotavirus, and the little cutey seems to be getting better. We drove down here yesterday, and watched him toddle all over the house. His fever had broken. Holding him has never felt as sweet. Playing with his older brother was a real treat. I look at my daughter and have to hold back tears. When she and her sister were little I sometimes wished I could keep them inside always so they would be safe, and nothing horrible could happen to either of them. Now I want to corral both daughters, their husbands, my grandsons, my partner Wonono’s daughters, and his grand daughter. Of course I can’t. I tell myself worrying about their safety is a big waste of time, which it is, and mostly I don’t even think about possible dangers. But something like this brings up all the old anxiety, the downside of all this love in my extended family. Today I am grateful for them all, every last one. A wondrous thing, health.

Guilty Pleasures

Nancy — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 18:42:25 +0000

I’ve been on self-imposed vacation for a week and a half – the way I started this should give you an idea of where my head is about ‘taking time off’. ‘Imposed’? What is that about? This morning I woke up feeling guilty that I had been away from my website all this time, had barely looked at Facebook or Twitter, and had spent quite a bit of the time on my couch. Why do I have to push myself so hard? And why are pleasures, like reading, guilty? I read good books, not just the mysteries I love. Actually I didn’t read one mystery. See, I’m good! I read “My Song” by Harry Belafonte, a must for our generation and those coming behind us, to understand where we have come in this country, especially to those of us who think change is so so slow. I saw him in concert several times, and never thought about where he might be staying after he was done entertaining me. Even when we think of ourselves as ‘informed’ in many ways we are oblivious. Even me. Next I powered through “Conversations with Jacqueline Kennedy”, a good choice with the other bio, because it’s about the same time period and Belafonte had quite a bit to say about the Kennedy’s. I was surprised at how clueless the Kennedy’s seemed about race. Or about the fact that their way of life was just that: their way of life. And definitely not the life many folks lived or live in this country of ours. I also read Scott Turow’s book, “The Laws of our Fathers”, oddly enough about the same period, though that was not my intention. My son-in-law gave me two books by Mumia Abbu-Jamal, which my partner has been reading. My turn next, though my reading will be curtailed by all that I have to catch up on. I am sitting on the other couch now, watching the fire to make sure it doesn’t go out, so that it will heat the house the way it is supposed to. Every now and then I glance at the other couch, the one I lie on when I read, with some longing. I must take another week, and not wait so long to do so. When was my last ‘time out’? I am such a ‘do-er’, I have a hard time slowing down and taking a breath. to say nothing about letting myself enjoy it. Surprise surprise, I have several friends who are always in constant motion, and have a hard time with physical and spiritual rest as well. One of them doesn’t even seem to know what that means! What will happen if I stop for a month? What a concept. It makes my stomach turn over, just thinking about it. I used to think I was afraid of becoming a slug. I am sixty-eight! I doubt there is much chance….and I should know that by now. By next Monday when I blog, I promise I will have chosen the week of my next ‘break’. Hold me to it.

What I’ve Done For Men

Nancy — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 18:01:42 +0000

In-between my two divorces my women’s group signed up to do a weekend challenge course in the mountains above Los Angeles where I was living. Afterwards, I signed on to date the guy who ran the course, much to the amusement of the other women. He worked at a drug rehab place up there; I was a writer who worked at home. Somehow it seemed obvious to both of us that I should be the one to move if we were to ‘grow’ our relationship. One of my daughters was in elementary school, the other in junior high; his daughter was in elementary school. We both shared parenting with our ex mates. In my case, at that point, there wasn’t much sharing: the lion’s share of the job was mine; the shopping, all but two weekends a month, the cooking, the cleaning, the after school activities, even when it was his turn, etc. etc. Maybe it would be easier up in the mountains, I thought. I leased my home for two years, paid for the moving van, found some kids to help him load the van, and down he came . A few months into our live-in life together my older daughter said, “You seem to be working much harder now than you did when we lived in LA, Mom,” disappearing into her room to do her homework. When I moved out with my daughters a few months later, not only did he refuse to help pay for my move, he didn’t help. I couldn’t move back to my home in LA because I had leased it for those two years. When a friend said she was moving out of her apartment in Santa Monica, I jumped at the chance to get closer to home. On one side of the apartment our windows looked out on an apartment wall; the windows on the other side faced cement block. We stayed there a year. The day we moved back to our house, I had the pictures up on our walls by the time we went to sleep. The reason I had more to do up in the mountains was because I took on cooking, cleaning, and food shopping because I ‘had more time’ – remember, I worked at home – and he had a job. Not only was I doing all of this for my kids, I was doing it for him, and his. Just thinking about it makes me hold my breath. What was wrong with me? Why was I trained to think all of that was ‘my job’? Why did it take me years to realize the women’s movement was meant for women like me. Young women today seem better off, but they haven’t been freed. I watch them take on jobs that really aren’t necessarily theirs, just like I did. Would they move cities, and expect to pay for the move themselves? I don’t think so. Hopefully my daughters have learned from my mistakes as well as my successes. More on this another day. I won’t be blogging for the next two weeks, but will return in the New Year. Have a good holiday! And let others do for you….