What arises

 

We gathered at Hav & Mar, Chef Marcus Samuelsson's fine dining establishment in Chelsea, for our anniversary dinner last night. There's our former Dallas contingent at the end of the table, now part of the New York crew. My husband took that group photo of us and I love it. I was telling someone the other day that I'm so glad my children have some of their cousins living nearby. I often wish some of my close cousins lived in the same city as me. In my family, I am an isolated outpost, not a single other one of my generation currently living in New York, and I miss the particular camaraderie of cousins in geographic proximity who I can be with regularly. That bond is really one of a kind. Sure my closest cousins and I talk by phone and text often, but it's not the same as having them live where you can be in their company and experience the restorative presence and comfort of a familiar who knows you deeply and with whom you can simply just be.

Now it's Monday again, a new week, and I am at loose ends. My current book project is on pause, because even though I have completed my edit, I wont be able to go over the draft with my subject till the end of next month. He's on location overseas till then, directing his new movie, in which he also stars. It's been very exciting and a new experience to see up close how it all came together, and I suspect it will be a wonderful film, a heartfelt indie project with the stellar names attached in lead roles, and a new young actor as the teen protagonist. But since I still have rounds to go on the book before it is turned in to the publisher, I don't feel quite ready to pick up a new project, though I have a nagging feeling that I should be turning my attention to beating the bushes for new work. 

Instead, I spent the last week, in between getting some overdue legal documents over the finish line, feeling bored. My mother didn't believe in her children being bored. She considered it a lack of industry and imagination. At the very least, there is always a book one might be reading, closets one might be reorganizing, creative or self-improvement opportunities one might explore. A dear friend encouraged me to lean into this period of having nothing I have to do, to let myself experience just being with myself, without judgment, and see what arises. And so today, I am trying to do exactly that, to let the minutes tick by and do whatever calls me moment to moment. For a while this morning, I meandered inside my thoughts, chasing questions online and contemplating the metaphysical aspects of physics concepts, parallel timelines, the way our collective consciousness co-creates our reality, the possibility of quantum leaps, yes, this is where my thoughts roamed today, with no fixed destination or concrete truths arrived at, nor did I feel the need for them, I was content with the open-ended what if? and could it really be? 

Later, I watched a few episodes of The Bear, and wept in front of my TV as Chef Carmy and his wildly dysfunction mom, newly sober and doing her level best to emotionally regulate, tentatively approached each other with a spirit of forgiveness after years of family trauma. The acting by Jeremy Allen White as Carmy and Jamie Lee Curtis as his mother Donna was wrenching, breathtaking. Alone at home, my husband at work, the tears felt like a release, and for those moments I escaped myself, moved by stories of other human lives, transmuted into art. 

This is a love story

 I met a boy, fell every which way for how his eyes danced.

He asked me things no one else had ever asked me. I answered everything. And learned his heart.

After three years of long-distance, we set up house in the same city.

My family loved him right away. Only half joking, my father warned, "Rosemarie will spend and spend till she spends her last dime, but it's your problem now." My new husband laughed, hearing him. My mother said, "Never measure your love. Sometimes it will be sixty-forty one way, sometimes it will be seventy-thirty the other way. It works itself out." He nodded, hearing her.

After a single revelatory session in year one with my then therapist, whom the man dubbed Saint Eleta, married life was mostly easy. Saint Eleta showed us the childhood genesis of our conflict styles, and once we understood the why of my tendency to lob dynamite at his cave, I could choose to not light the explosives and he could choose to come out of hiding.

We had kids, the perfect pair. He was the absolute best Papa Bear.

The kids grew up, blessed with cousins as siblings, family at the center always.

Adolescence, then college, came and went. Despite bumps and missteps, and with a huge helping of grace, we all made it through. Our children became lovely, capable, opinionated adults.

They found and married their true loves, with whom we also fell in love.

Our New York family expanded, our circle of heart children grew.

And while all that was happening, forty years went by. And now here we are, celebrating four decades of marriage today, and looking ahead with wonder, realizing the golden one is well within view. Happy ruby anniversary, my love. I'd do it all again with you.

Coming soon: Fast and Slow

Allyson Felix's new memoir was announced on The Today Show yesterday, so I can share it here now, as it's officially out in the world.

I'm so excited for this, because Allyson is the whole truth. I got to work with yet another exceptionally gifted and extraordinary human, who opened her whole heart, shared the hardest, most painful parts of her journey, as well as the thrilling, history-making, mountaintop moments, everything that forced a reckoning, that forced her to grow and become a champion for others, and through it all, a beautiful trust was forged, allowing this wonderful book to be born.

From Dial Press: "We're thrilled to reveal the cover of FAST AND SLOW by Allyson Felix. The most decorated track-and-field athlete of all time shares the story beyond the finish line—from the harrowing birth of her daughter to her fight for maternal protections for women athletes, to her evolution as a mother, advocate, and entrepreneur." Discover how Allyson changed the world for female athletes, mothers, women, and all of us—and she's still going strong. 

Available for preorder now.

"I'm touching the sky!"

She was here with us today, having spent yesterday and last night with her Grandma Lolo who lives in the building across from ours, very conveniently in my own Mom's former apartment. Today, as her grandma rested for a spell, I happily trailed the little one to an imaginary beach in the middle of the courtyard, where we snorkeled and saw rainbow fish and pink sparkly treasures, then had a picnic with a whole chorus of loved ones, never mind that they were present in our imaginations only, the conversations we had with them were rich and lively regardless. She also rode her bike, pausing now and then for us to build a castle made of twigs that we had gathered, then we went to the playground, where she had more adventures with a little girl named Nylah and a boy named Gabriel. On the seesaw with Nylah at one point, she said, "Look Auntie Rosie, I'm touching the sky!" I chatted with Nylah’s Mommy and remembered when my own kids were that small, all the playground friends I made, the parents and grands following their littles around, as I did today. After her Dad came to take her back home to Brooklyn, I was grateful all over again for the hip surgery I had in January, because this time last year I could not have followed this precious girl around for hours this afternoon, engaging in her free-flowing imaginary play, on my feet the whole time, not in pain, able to enjoy such simple yet extravagant pleasures of the world once more.

At our family reunion in Jamaica last month, my children talked among themselves about how I didn't ask anyone for help with anything anymore, I just sallied forth and did it myself, how when the van met us at the airport to take the seven of us who had traveled from New York together to our villa at Silver Sands, forty-five minutes away, I just climbed right in, exhibiting no hesitation or anxiety about how I'd embark and disembark the high entry step, though my husband, my son, and my son-in-law were all right there, getting ready to help me up. I didn't even notice them, they told me later. I didn't give the moment of getting into the vehicle a conscious thought. Such a small thing. And yet, it was huge. I don't know if you can understand how major it was. But I and my beloveds, who for so many years had been there for me, bless them, truly, were now free.

More than one of my cousins remarked on how my just being able to move comfortably under my own steam had given me a different aura, a brighter light around me. My son said I was more relaxed overall, and that he realizes that before, every single move I made, every action I took, had required an internal calculation about how to achieve the motion and manage the pain, and a cost-benefit analysis of whether the thing itself was worth it. Now, he said, I had a new spontaneity and independence and it quietly thrilled him. I have a video of us dancing at the reunion the night of the white party. I am odd looking duck, short and stumpy and wide in ill-fitting clothes, and can't twirl a whit, because there's still the issue of my wobbly knees. But they mostly don't hurt, so I'm good now despite them, and hey, I'm dancing with my son, having a ball, and so very grateful for all of it.

Like touching sky.

Family reunion 2026

My crew, one half of the House of Gloria 

One month later. I am only now able to write about the absolutely fantastic time we had at our family reunion in Jamaica in mid July. I think I couldn't post about it before because I knew there would be no way to really do it justice. We flew in from all over to join our relatives in Jamaica, seventy five of us all told, staying in villas at Silver Sands on the north coast, smaller family groups sharing the rental of each house, with all the groups coming together each day and evening for reunion activities at the beach bar and open air patio adjacent to the swimming beach. It was perfect. My niece Leisa planned the whole thing over the course of the past year and she pulled off a deeply restorative and joyful event for all of us.  

The first night we had a big group dinner and greeted family we hadn’t seen in years, met all the new generations we didn't already know, and introduced our tribes anew, each “house” representing one of the original nine Stiebel siblings. My mom’s offspring, the House of Gloria, showed up in force, with all my kids and my brother and all but one of his kids and all our loves there with us. We all stayed together in a sprawling beachside villa called Tallawah, fourteen of us in all in a beautiful sea breeze swept place, plus my cousin Carla and her wife Jackie, all the way from San Francisco, who as lone representatives of the House of Beulah, folded in with us. House of Donald and House of Maisy were almost fully represented as well, and House of Percy and house of Terrence had strong contingents too. House of Winifred had a decent turnout, but House of Grace had only one member present, due to some sadness I won’t get into. Only the House of Fay was unrepresented. We missed the ones who couldn’t make it, and kept them close to heart. (None of this attendance tally will mean anything to anyone reading here; this is really for my own record.)

Day 2 we did multigenerational Survivor games on the beach in the morning and karaoke in the evening. Day 3 we went rafting on the Martha Brae river and had a white party with a DJ and danced under the stars till the wee hours, with exuberant conga lines and the like. Two other family groups were also doing reunions at Silver Sands and we ended up mixing festivities with a lovely camaraderie. Day 4 we lounged in the morning at our various villas and then gathered at our house in the afternoon to watch the World Cup soccer final (Spain over Argentina all the way!) before dispersing to dress for the final night’s group dinner at the beach club. We all departed the next morning, with Leisa, Grant, and little Harper traveling back to New York City with us to meet the truck with all their belongings that had driven from Dallas while they were at the reunion. They have now officially moved to the city and are ensconced in their new digs in Brooklyn.

Since words can't really capture how magical the whole experience of being together was, especially (for me) watching the younger generations of us bond and carry on the warm familial relationships our parents instilled in us as paramount to nurture, even down to little Harper with her little cousins, all the children racing around among the grown ups, the way I remember doing with my cousins when I was a child myself, since I can't truly evoke how that fed my very soul, I'll just put up some more pictures, in no particular order, and let them hold this space instead. 

What we saw when we walked into the house where we stayed.

Fifteen of us ate our meals together poolside.

Where we swam.

The beach was right there.

Survivor games, green team!

My brother with his daughters and granddaughter.

Cousins

Days before their second anniversary

Me in paradise (with an incipient sunburn)

Harper with one of her many doting aunties

Night of the white party, a time was had!

Sharing the last breakfast muffin

The House of Gloria

Little lifeguard

Survivor games, blue team!

Survivor red team (he was the youngest at our last reunion).

 

Survivor games, yellow team flag bearer!

Cousins

It was his birthday!

 

White party beauties

Cousins

My berry girl and me.

Seventy-five Stiebels strong

Randoms

Another of my daughter's Day One crew, known since first grade as "The Six," got married in June. That's four of them hitched, now. My girl, here with her forever date, was resplendent in red.

I did the magazine's cover story for its "America at 250" special issue. I don't think they could have chosen a better cover subject to illustrate this moment. She dropped some wisdom, too.

Still living the puzzle life over here.

The rest of the photos in this post are from the July Fourth cookout that my daughter's in-laws hold every year. My son in law is born on that day and so is one of his cousins, so it's more a double birthday party than anything else. More and more of our side of the family joins the festivities every year, though my son had to work this year. He picked up a side job doing crowd control at a World Cup watch party at Brooklyn Bridge park, not a bad overtime gig if the crowd stays controlled, which it mostly did.

My beautiful girl, the wide blue sky, and me.

The birthday boy and his mama got the dancing started.

My lovely bonus children. 

Aren't they adorable? I swiped that last photo from one of my nieces' posts on Insta. The beaming couple is weeks away from celebrating their second anniversary. We're headed to Jamaica on July 17 for a family reunion, my mother's side of the family, the offspring of the nine Stiebel siblings, all of them gone now, but hoards of their offspring still kicking. These two plan to to stay a few days longer at an all-inclusive resort on the island to celebrate year two. Love that for them!

Oops, had this in drafts and never pressed publish.

 

Sunday again

Meant to post this on Father's Day, along with a carousel of photos of our dude who abides. That's his resting bitch face, but don't be fooled. He's not fierce, really. He's a boy dad and a girl dad and his boy calls him "Yo Pops" and his girl calls him "Papa Bear," and they both have his number. We'll have been married 40 years this summer, where did the time go? So much love for the man who's done this parent walk with me, beautifully.

It's Friday night at twilight as I write this, a hard hour for me. Since I was a little girl, I get restless, lonely, especially if I’m inside the house as the light starts to fade. I need to be outside at the in-between time, the spacious sky overhead, wide air in every direction. Otherwise I feel as if I in the wrong place, the wrong body, in the wrong time, as if I’m supposed to have done something more with this one precious life but I missed the turn. Tonight I’m thinking I have no friends I can call and say let’s go sit outside and talk or not talk. Everyone is always busy. Or just not up for being spontaneous. And for some reason it doesn’t feel quite the same to go sit outside alone. It’s lonely. I feel the void keenly. 

Another day. Sunday now. I’m done writing and editing for today so now I’m here with myself again. The man is watching World Cup Football in the living room. I’m in the back room contemplating the fact that being a mother to grown children means not calling them when the impulse strikes, knowing they’re out living their lives, as you once did, and you’d just be interrupting their flow. Wait for them to call you. It’s okay to miss them and feel sorry for yourself while you wait, as long as you never guilt them with it, because this is just life as it ever has been. How well I understand my own mother now. 

I read something this morning in a piece titled “How To Be Old” by Roger Rosenblatt in the NY Times. It said never ask others to share your despair. It’s simply not fair. I get that. It’s amorphous and existential anyway, so how do you even explain it? It’s just a state of being that arrived bit by bit as you aged and now it travels with you, a part of you, a melancholic nostalgic yearning for what is past, and will never again be, and how fleeting it was in the end. This is why I am endeavoring not to distract my children from one moment of the days they are living now. How much more despairing I’d be if I didn’t have those days to miss, to yearn for again. I had them once. There is that. 

Melancholic nostalgic yearning. All three together. And somehow not redundant. This is how it feels on Sundays before the light starts to fade. Maybe I’ll go lose myself in another episode of Blue Lights. It's a police procedural set in Belfast, plays on BritBox. I find it riveting.

Wrote this a week ago, while my blog was private. Now it's public again. I can't decide what I'm doing here, it seems.