Heading west on a whim in my early thirties. Coming back east for a cool job seven years later. Buying an old house with my new man at 40+. 

Major moves are inevitably stressful, but mine always had an element of excitement. Except for the most recent, which was more about duty than adventure. When my strong, independent mother entered her hundredth decade, my husband and I decided to sell our home and live with her.  It was the right thing to do—better than waiting for a serious health-related incident to befall my mom and then having to scramble for a solution—but challenging for all three of us.

Part of the challenge, for me, was location, location, location: My parents, who’d raised me in Brooklyn, New York, pulled up stakes for the suburbs long after I was out on my own. I’d never lived anywhere but a big diverse city with virtually everything I’d need within walking distance—including friendships formed over nearly two decades in the neighborhood we just left. I felt marooned in Long Island, wondered about making friends at midlife there, and, moreover, found myself unprepared for the level of my mom’s cognitive decline, which became my mission to develop unconditional compassion for.

Beset by confusion, frustration, and loneliness, I picked up my pen to process my emotions. It helped—in an entirely unexpected way.

Pumping out Poetry

Yeesh, ugh, yuck: I started writing poetry. Had I regressed, turned into a tormented teenager again? While I consider myself a wordsmith as a journalist and author, I never studied poetry in school, rarely understand the stuff I read in The New Yorker, and basically don’t know my elegy from my elbow. That didn’t stop the flood of verse pumping out of me. More articulate than a good cry yet equally visceral, it proved cathartic, even soothing, not to mention selfish, since I had no intention of sharing these poems with another living soul.

I never studied poetry in school, rarely understand the stuff I read in The New Yorker, and basically don’t know my elegy from my elbow.

Still, other living souls (i.e., those not in my immediate family) were very much missing from my life. People I could relate to, people who would accept me, respect me, get me. Social media? Please! I craved post-pandemic, face-to-face human contact—and doubted the likelihood of finding it in my current environs.

Sure, I knew how grownups make friends. Take my cousin Aileen, a middle school special-education teacher (perhaps the hardest job on the planet) who just wanted to have fun when she retired. So she quickly learned canasta, then hooked up with women who welcomed her into their circle. Now she’ll play two or three times a week, the activity mostly an excuse to socialize. “They’re smart, they’re funny, they’re aware,” Aileen says of her card clique. “We talk.”

Then there’s my pal Gia. After her divorce and her job going remote, she felt isolated in suburban Connecticut.  Until she discovered pickleball—through which, so far, one relationship has progressed off the court. “Whether or not we become besties, it’s great to have met someone in my town who doesn’t drive an enormous pickup with what I consider a politically reprehensible bumper sticker!” Gia says.

Aileen and Gia motivated me. Trouble was, I had no interest in sitting around a table trying to remember who picked up the ace of spades. And I’m pretty uncoordinated, so competitive sports — uh, no. I’m a full-on nerd. So I did what nerds do. I hit the nearest library.

Reveling in Reading

Perusing the library’s “events” page online, I saw a monthly creative writing workshop. There was some inner eye-rolling: me, a publishing professional, among amateurs in the provinces! But, hey, if it would get me out of the house, I was so there. And there I encountered about a dozen scribes, mostly seniors older than I but a few folks around my age and younger. Each participant read aloud and then received gentle, supportive critique from peers and the workshop leader, an accomplished poet. I just listened. Some pieces I enjoyed, some I didn’t, but I loved everyone for doing it.

So I checked out the “events” at the library in the next town over. No workshop—but an upcoming open mic. With a “whatever” attitude, I stuffed a few poems in a folder. Attendance wouldn’t require me to read, but somehow my name got on the sign-in sheet. This was in a larger space, a proper auditorium. A bigger crowd, more interesting and less homogenous-looking than at the workshop. Under the chairs were tambourines, maracas, and other tools of cacophony. I took a seat in the back, near the exit.

Then, from the stage, I heard: “Ready to get lo-o-o-o-ud?” from one of the workshop leaders. She had sparkling eyes, a salt-and-pepper bun, and a rich, distinctly resonant voice.

We all answered heartily with our noisemakers. 

A name was announced, and greeted with more raucous encouragement.

One after another, people climbed the stage and shared.

One after another, we shook and rattled, hooted, and hollered.

It was a blast.

One after another, people climbed the stage and shared. But I was petrified.  Then I heard my name called.

But was it cold in there? Because I was freezing—I was petrified.

Then I heard my name called.

My Moment of Truth

Quelling my nerves, I stood and approached. Confessed that I’d never done anything like this before (and was rewarded with a rallying racket). Opened my folder, pulled out a page and bared my soul, with this:

Flotsam and Jetsam

Won’t you be at sea with me,

Bob along upon the swell?

Makeshift misfits such as we

Belong together, can’t you tell?

If only I knew where you were

Amid the madness of the blue,

The madness we have watched occur,

The madness we have seen accrue.

I am alone and long for you

Although we haven’t ever met;

There’s really nothing I can do

But drift into an open net.

We’ve never smiled, we’ve never kissed,

We’ve not exchanged a single glance,

And yet I know that you exist

Afloat in this vast circumstance.

The deep so deep it knows no end,

It calls my name without a sound.

So save me, save me, save me, friend,

Or I am surely sunk and drowned. 

The Poetic Payoff: Making Friends at Midlife

It. Was. INCREDIBLE.

I guess I expected the din that ensued post-poem, since everyone gave it up for every reader—there were no crossed arms, slack jaws or sly phone-feed checking with this crew. But

it wasn’t just the sound, it was the look I saw on quite a few faces, of connection, of empathy, of understanding.

Fast forward about a year. I’m a regular now, at workshops and open mics hosted by various literary societies. Participation keeps me accountable to my creativity: I’ll have a fresh piece to present every time. Reading is a lot easier; my stuff is fairly straightforward, so even when it’s dark, folks generally respond.

But Paula is more than a huge poetry talent: She’s my first real friend out here–face-to-face human contact at its finest.

Plus, I’ve totally found my tribe (yes, here in the ‘burbs). There’s Theresa, Peter, Fran, Pearl, Jim, Sharon, Barbara, Doreen, Rita and Ralph. And, especially, there’s Paula Curci, she of the bright eyes and resonant pipes. Running the “It’s a Shore Thing!” open mic at the Long Beach Public Library is among her functions as Nassau County Poet Laureate, 2022-2024. But she’s more than a huge talent who always inspires and never intimidates. She’s an expat Brooklynite who loves seagulls and fiddlehead ferns, thrift shops and historic sites, coffee and pizza. She’s got her share of personal drama, and it’s her art (“word dancing,” she calls it) that sees her through. I know this about her because she’s my first real friend out here—face-to-face human contact at its finest.

As for my personal drama living with my mom, things at home have settled somewhat. I practice patience, seek presence, and try not to take too much personally. And when I need to vent or escape, I’ll pick up a pen—or reach out to a friend. 

(bio)