It was back in college that my friend Bruce first gave it a name: “Star Spangled Banner Syndrome.” It is that feeling you get when someone sings the Star Spangled Banner, when you are standing there innocently, just saluting the flag before a sports event, or a special ceremony. Even though you are not very patriotic, all of a sudden there is this lump in your throat and you can’t sing anymore, and for some of us, real tears are sneaking out of the corner of our eyes.
This syndrome, where tears come creeping up on me from some unknown source, remains a mystery to me and others who have it. We have tried to decide if it comes from a deep well of sadness, or joy or some mixture of the two. Is it related to the current event, or one long forgotten? Is it an event similar in happenstance or just related in feeling? Is it an indication that we are so completely in touch with our emotions that they can come spilling out at any time, or is it that our feelings are so buried that it takes a completely unrelated circumstance to allow us to truly feel them?
Until Bruce spoke about it, I thought I was the only one who felt this way. It is something I have only recently begun to share with other friends. I was heartened by seeing in church, first hand, that others suffer, or enjoy this syndrome. I see it when people share their joys, not just their concerns in church. I note it when someone pauses quietly before continuing to read a moving passage.
There are those who know I have it, and only have to look over at me during a variety show, or presentation by the children, to see my tears. There are those who don’t know I have it. They don’t know that the simplest words can bring on the tears, the simplest melody sung, a sad or even happy story shared.
Sometimes it feels like a relief to cry softly about something, whatever the reason. Sometimes it feels like a terrible reminder that much as I like to think so, all is not right with my world.
My father had this syndrome. He used to cry whenever I played “Climb Every Mountain” on the piano. He was a quiet man and rarely showed how he felt. But when I would play, he would rise from his chair in the living room where he spent the better part of every evening reading, and stand beside me singing, as much as he could through the lump in his throat. It makes me cry to think of it now.
It is a little like Betty Friedan’s “Problem that has no name.” To call it “Star Spangled Banner Syndrome” trivializes it some; it is much more complex than that and occurs far more frequently than at sports events. But it is a start at definition of a phenomenon that occurs during happy times and sad, or just during the ordinary every day times when we least expect it.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Stepping onto the tile
Stepping on to the deliciously cold, smooth tile with my hot feet after their half hour on the treadmill.
Two sons
The early evening in September was cool. We had already had a full day of sailing with our neighbors on their boat. It was a beautiful day, but rather than the wind slowly dropping through the afternoon, it had gotten stronger. I was not comfortable on this boat, didn’t know its capabilities and tired with worry, I was the one to say “Let’s go in.” But my oldest son, Charles, age 16, hadn’t had enough sailing, or more importantly, hadn’t had enough excitement.
The wind was up to 15 to 20 knots. He decided he was going sailing on our boat. It wasn’t something he asked if he could do. He informed me, made it fact. The momentum of his decision felt impossible to fight against. I wished him well and chose not to protest, give warnings or cautions. I knew that I had to trust that he was making the decision with all the knowledge I had given him about sailing. I knew that to say "no" would satisfy my need to be a parent, and would harden his resolve and make him leave angry. He would have been delighted to have me go with him, but I had had enough.
I laid down briefly to rest on the queen-sized bed upstairs in the island cottage. The waves outside the window were soothing. I felt refreshed. I decided to walk down to the dock and see if I could see Charles sailing. My youngest child, Sam, age 12 joined me. As we walked down to the dock, we could just see the white sail leaving the cove. It looked lonely in the waning light against the dark water full of wind. I could see that Charles had selected the smaller jib for his solo sail. I hoped too that he had reefed the main.
Sam suggested we sit on top of the granite boulder at the corner of the beach. It provided a full-view of the tiny beach as well as the cove with the fishing and pleasure boats on their moorings. The tide was low, the loose seaweed thick at the high-tide mark. Interspersed were bits of twine, old cans and bottles. Closer to the water was an open spot, more mud and clay than sand. As we sat, Sam first noticed mini geysers, two-feet high, intermittently shooting from the sand.
He asked what they were. I could only guess they were from clams. I had been coming to this island for literally my entire life. I’d shown my children all the secret places to find starfish and crabs, the best places to skip rocks and secret trails through the woods. But I had never sat still enough to see geyser’s shooting from the sand. I knew mussels grew abundantly at this spot. I knew clams buried themselves in the sand. But this sight was new to me. I blessed this quiet child for sitting there with me and helping me see something so new in this familiar place.
The fountains were fun to watch and for several minutes our discussion was only about them: how odd a spectacle, what purpose could they serve? In the background, was the lone sailboat, tacking speedily across the open space outside the cove. I knew that Charles was having a thrilling ride. We’d had several sails like that together. But I know they were often tempered by my worry and my inability to let go of all that “could happen” and just enjoy the thrill. I hoped that he could enjoy it all by himself and not take on my worry or not miss someone to share it with him.
It was getting cooler and there was no protection from the wind. Sam and I huddled together on the boulder and searched the beach for other topics of conversation. I had come prepared in a fleece-lined over-sized anorack. Sam had on his sweatshirt and a windbreaker. He tucked his arms all the way inside his jacket and his one bare foot in the wrist of my sleeve to warm his toes.
There were four logs, somehow attached together making a rectangle. Sam reminisced about a similar raft-like structure all three kids had built on the beach one April when we first opened the cottage.
He marveled at his brother’s courage to take the boat out by himself, especially in such conditions. I suggested that when he was older, he might have more confidence and want to do the same.
We noticed a group of four people start at the other end of the beach and work their way toward us as they hunted beach glass. They chatted lightly, moving slowly with an ease among them. Sam commented that they seemed like nice couples. How astute that he would make such an observance of human relations with so little data supplied.
We watched the sea gulls. He wondered aloud “You don’t ever see birds mating.” And our conversation switched to sex. I could talk frankly here, and ask him what he knew and supply some details and vocabulary for things he didn’t understand. I marveled that even though he’d had his “sex education” class in 5th grade; he knew very little about sexuality; he only knew mechanics. A drawn out “Uh, huh” with an upward inflection was his response to most of the information. I cherished this time to be able to provide frank discussion on a sensitive subject, hoping he would remember it and come to me in the future.
In between, we watched Charles head into the cove. Knowing there is much to do at the last minute when making a landing, we speculated on how he would make it on to the mooring by himself. It was Sam who observed that Charles had taken down the jib before making his final approach.
We waited while he put the boat to bed on the mooring and rowed to the dock. We greeted him there and listened to the story of his adventure. He did enjoy it. He’d had a few second thoughts before deciding to cast off so he’d taken the time to prepare the boat and himself, slowly and carefully. He’d reefed the sail tidily and rigged up a special line to raise and lower the jib from the cockpit. He had done all that I’d taught him to be safe and then more.
We walked back to the cottage, Charles’ arm around my shoulder as we walked up the steep drive from the dock. Then they switched places and Sam walked lock-step with me down the road to the house, our hips moving in rhythm.
I reveled in the experience of my two sons, only five years apart in age but much farther apart in temperament: one content with the adventure of sitting and seeing the world, the other testing its limits.
The wind was up to 15 to 20 knots. He decided he was going sailing on our boat. It wasn’t something he asked if he could do. He informed me, made it fact. The momentum of his decision felt impossible to fight against. I wished him well and chose not to protest, give warnings or cautions. I knew that I had to trust that he was making the decision with all the knowledge I had given him about sailing. I knew that to say "no" would satisfy my need to be a parent, and would harden his resolve and make him leave angry. He would have been delighted to have me go with him, but I had had enough.
I laid down briefly to rest on the queen-sized bed upstairs in the island cottage. The waves outside the window were soothing. I felt refreshed. I decided to walk down to the dock and see if I could see Charles sailing. My youngest child, Sam, age 12 joined me. As we walked down to the dock, we could just see the white sail leaving the cove. It looked lonely in the waning light against the dark water full of wind. I could see that Charles had selected the smaller jib for his solo sail. I hoped too that he had reefed the main.
Sam suggested we sit on top of the granite boulder at the corner of the beach. It provided a full-view of the tiny beach as well as the cove with the fishing and pleasure boats on their moorings. The tide was low, the loose seaweed thick at the high-tide mark. Interspersed were bits of twine, old cans and bottles. Closer to the water was an open spot, more mud and clay than sand. As we sat, Sam first noticed mini geysers, two-feet high, intermittently shooting from the sand.
He asked what they were. I could only guess they were from clams. I had been coming to this island for literally my entire life. I’d shown my children all the secret places to find starfish and crabs, the best places to skip rocks and secret trails through the woods. But I had never sat still enough to see geyser’s shooting from the sand. I knew mussels grew abundantly at this spot. I knew clams buried themselves in the sand. But this sight was new to me. I blessed this quiet child for sitting there with me and helping me see something so new in this familiar place.
The fountains were fun to watch and for several minutes our discussion was only about them: how odd a spectacle, what purpose could they serve? In the background, was the lone sailboat, tacking speedily across the open space outside the cove. I knew that Charles was having a thrilling ride. We’d had several sails like that together. But I know they were often tempered by my worry and my inability to let go of all that “could happen” and just enjoy the thrill. I hoped that he could enjoy it all by himself and not take on my worry or not miss someone to share it with him.
It was getting cooler and there was no protection from the wind. Sam and I huddled together on the boulder and searched the beach for other topics of conversation. I had come prepared in a fleece-lined over-sized anorack. Sam had on his sweatshirt and a windbreaker. He tucked his arms all the way inside his jacket and his one bare foot in the wrist of my sleeve to warm his toes.
There were four logs, somehow attached together making a rectangle. Sam reminisced about a similar raft-like structure all three kids had built on the beach one April when we first opened the cottage.
He marveled at his brother’s courage to take the boat out by himself, especially in such conditions. I suggested that when he was older, he might have more confidence and want to do the same.
We noticed a group of four people start at the other end of the beach and work their way toward us as they hunted beach glass. They chatted lightly, moving slowly with an ease among them. Sam commented that they seemed like nice couples. How astute that he would make such an observance of human relations with so little data supplied.
We watched the sea gulls. He wondered aloud “You don’t ever see birds mating.” And our conversation switched to sex. I could talk frankly here, and ask him what he knew and supply some details and vocabulary for things he didn’t understand. I marveled that even though he’d had his “sex education” class in 5th grade; he knew very little about sexuality; he only knew mechanics. A drawn out “Uh, huh” with an upward inflection was his response to most of the information. I cherished this time to be able to provide frank discussion on a sensitive subject, hoping he would remember it and come to me in the future.
In between, we watched Charles head into the cove. Knowing there is much to do at the last minute when making a landing, we speculated on how he would make it on to the mooring by himself. It was Sam who observed that Charles had taken down the jib before making his final approach.
We waited while he put the boat to bed on the mooring and rowed to the dock. We greeted him there and listened to the story of his adventure. He did enjoy it. He’d had a few second thoughts before deciding to cast off so he’d taken the time to prepare the boat and himself, slowly and carefully. He’d reefed the sail tidily and rigged up a special line to raise and lower the jib from the cockpit. He had done all that I’d taught him to be safe and then more.
We walked back to the cottage, Charles’ arm around my shoulder as we walked up the steep drive from the dock. Then they switched places and Sam walked lock-step with me down the road to the house, our hips moving in rhythm.
I reveled in the experience of my two sons, only five years apart in age but much farther apart in temperament: one content with the adventure of sitting and seeing the world, the other testing its limits.
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