Head Down, Blinders On

Although it doesn’t feel like it here in the Midwest, the calendar insists summer is winding down.  I am skeptical.  Each day my inbox is flooded with shopping offers and pictures of scarves and sweaters, as I stare at the thermostat and contemplate turning it down one more degree. Despite the humidity and soaring temperatures, I find myself taking a deep breath and settling in.  The summer for me has been a whirlwind full of longer than average work weeks dotted sporadically with weekend trips to see friends and soccer matches.  I remember a girl’s weekend in June, viewed through a telescope as if it were distantly in the past, perhaps a year ago instead of a mere two months.  My 30^th birthday the same month seems a fuzzy memory, clouded through a haze of disproportionate time.  The July weekend spent in Chicago visiting friends and family and watching soccer stars while sipping overpriced beers is a little closer to the surface, but only sporadic moments of it. This summer for me was all about work.  Regular jobs, new freelance opportunities, and expanding projects crowded together to fill my waking moments.  I read a quote in a business magazine once about a start-up and the phrase they used to motivate and drill the importance of the task at hand: Head Down, Blinders On.  By May I knew I was in for longer hours, later nights, and consequently bigger paychecks.  I alerted my family that I would be doing little else. Side projects and hobbies fell to the wayside.  I stopped reading and writing, stopped watching television, stopped sewing.  Head Down, Blinders On.

That’s not my normal method.  I enjoy working from home for the diversity and casualness it allows my day, I can bounce from one thing to another, take a break from a project to sit outside with a notebook or rip out a crooked seam in a sewing project. Blinders are as foreign to me as Celsius temperatures and the British Pound.  I neither use nor understand how to use them.  But without planning or consciously trying, I found myself with near tunnel vision.  Another person might say they had bitten off more than they could chew, but for me, the full days, the near constant switching between three major projects, the Head Down-Blinders On mindset was invigorating.  A sign of success in my chosen path, I was being paid to do things that I was good at from whatever place I chose to be.  I was not tied to a cubicle or a business casual dress code.  I could do what I wanted, and this summer, what I wanted to do was work.

For months work was almost all I did.  Until August hit and I decided I’d had enough.  I released responsibilities I no longer cared to hold.  The fact that I made the choice, and it was followed through, was just as empowering as the extra paychecks I’d been receiving.  Just as I began to lift my head, and remove the blinders, as soon as I began to miss the evenings spent in bed with a book, or a Saturday with nothing to do, the pressure lifted and the work flow lightened. And I breathed deeply the end of the summer air.  I sat and did nothing. And soon I began to fall back into the loves I left behind in May, the click of keys as I typed, the sound of a record as I read, the simple joy of going to sleep at the same time as my husband.  I don’t believe absence makes the heart grow fonder, but returning to my favorite things has reminded me to be grateful of the many ways they nurture my soul.

A Love Story

When your best friend is falling in love, you want to hear every sweet, sappy thing. You want to know that the object of her affection values her as much as you do and understands how lucky he is to be dating such a girl. Every little gesture, told through email, text or phone, about how he sent her flowers, or paid for her drink, about how she cooked for him, or they spent a quiet evening on the couch watching a movie, each little story begins to illustrate the relationship. I’m not sure I remember the exact email when she said she had met someone new, but I remember the anticipation of their first official date.  I remember talking on the phone as she described him.  I remember how her eyes had a twinkle by New Years and how the corners of her lips turned up ever so slightly every time she said his name when we skyped. I remember hearing about how they texted each other every night when they were separated during the holidays, visiting friends.

I remember remembering the start of my own love affair ten years ago.  The late night phone calls, the silly New Year’s jokes as we talked when the clock struck midnight on the east coast, and again in central time. I remember the lightness inside me that I didn’t know if anyone else could see.

My friend and object of her affection didn’t jump right to boyfriend and girlfriend.  They waited awhile, preferring to stretch out that early period of bliss.  They didn’t throw around L words before they wanted to, preferring to use cutesy terms like ‘puppy luv’ and the incredibly accurate ‘smitten’.   My friend was the first to say "I love you." As her friends squealed like school girls she shrugged and in her perfect way explained her decision to use the three biggest words in the English Language:  “It’s true.”

By the time I visited in March and we met the man who swept our friend off her feet, it was clear that this was something special.  We were seeing something beautiful and important unfold in front of our eyes.

Not everyone falls in Love.  Not everyone is smitten with their partner. In the world at large, I believe these things to be a rarity.  More precious than gold or oil and more rare than the gemstones buried beneath our feet. I believe love is a gift to be treasured.  To see such a gift, to watch my friend falling in love, to be a witness to the wonder, reminded me to treasure the special guy in my own life.

When I fell in Love, I fell fast, it was puzzle pieces clicking together, and we’ve been together ever since.  After ten years, it’s easy to feel the routine.  I still dwell in bliss, and I’m still grateful every day for my husband, but I forgot the miracle.  I forgot how incredible it is that we found each other.  I forgot the wonder.  Luckily, my friend was there to remind me.

In June my best friends and I sat at a small town bar, raising our voices over the jukebox as we sipped from our bottles of beer and talked about relationships. We talked about how quickly things sometimes move, and how they don’t seem quick at all.  We talked about steps and future conversations.  We talked about all the things you talk to your girlfriends about.  And my friend sat there and told us how happy she was, how in love she was, and then she turned to me and said “Are you really going to cry right now?” But when your best friend is in love, when you’re reminded of all the wonder and beauty in the world, when the joy rises in your chest, really, what else can you do but shed a tear in joy and thankfulness.

The Volume of Silence

In 2010 Marina Ambrovonic had a retrospective show at MoMa, as part of the retrospective she performed a new piece: The Artist is Present.  I don’t know why I was unaware of this show while it was occurring, but I only recently heard about it.  The Artist is Present invited attendees to sit across from Marina in the gallery and share a moment of silence.  Just sitting in silence.  The piece spawned facebook groups and blogs devoted to photos of the participants.  People smiled, people cried, people looked confused.  Marina was serene.  She was present.  It’s amazing and beautiful even to read about.

I wrote my final paper in my Modern Art class on one of Marina’s performance pieces.  I can’t honestly remember which one anymore, it was second semester of my senior year and I was more focused on my thesis than any other papers. But I remember parts of the research; I remember reading about her previous pieces, notably walking across the Great Wall of China to break up with her longtime boyfriend.  Marina and Ulay were/are both artists, they performed and worked together during the 70s and by all accounts were a passionate pair. When the relationship was no longer working, they decided to set off on a journey: they each started at a different end of The Great Wall and started walking.  In the middle the met, hugged, and said goodbye. The second half of the walk was the start of the next Journey.  After that moment in the middle of China, the said goodbye and didn’t make contact with the other again.  Until Marina’s retrospective, when Ulay came to participate in The Artist is Present.

This is one of the most beautiful, most touching things I have seen. It brings tears to my eyes every time I watch.  I’ve changed my desktop background to a still shot, to remind me.  Remind me of the beauty of passion and the importance of the journey.  Remind me to look into someone’s eye, to try to truly see. Remind me of the volume and multitude of things that can be expressed without speaking a word. It touches my heart.

Embarking on a new decade

This week I'm celebrating a birthday, my 30th birthday in fact.  I long ago discarded the idea that I should be at a certain pinnacle or milestone by a particular age; I remember vividly watching the Olympics, and seeing teenager after teenager accomplishing ‘what they had worked their entire lives’ for, and a little voice in my head reasoned ‘screw it’. But starting a new decade has brought a sense of introspection as I consider the years before, those to come, and particularly, myself. A lot of great stuff happened during my 20s.  I lived with my two best friends for a year, graduated college, moved away from home, got engaged, moved back towards home, got married, visited 5 countries, moved out of the country, moved to the middle of nowhere, started writing, and most recently, put pink highlights in my hair.

But then there’s a lot that hasn’t changed, my family is still as awesome as ever, I have the same best friends, I’m still ridiculously in love with the same boy, I still email my sister random things I found on the internet, and I still have more shoes than most people I know. These are things that are not likely to change with birthdays.  And in many ways, neither am I. I’ll be the 30 year old rocking plaid together with polka dots because they make me happy.  I'll be the 30 year old who gets excited about stickers and never misses a chance to dance in the rain.  I’ll be the 30 year old who thinks making the bed is a waste of time and photo booths are the best thing since sliced bread.  None of that changes when the calendar ticks over.  So I’m good with 30.

I’ve never had hang ups about the number of candles on a cake.  Maybe it’s because I have great role models, women who age with gusto and grace; maybe it’s because each year seems better than the one before; maybe it’s my natural optimism.  Whatever the case, while 30 is just a number, it’s also a step into a new decade; a new period, one that I’m terribly excited about.  As the anniversary of my birth draws closer and closer I’ve been thinking more and more about the woman I want to be.  For the most part she looks pretty much identical to the gal in the mirror, but there’s little things I’d like to get better at, more habits I want to develop to really become the best version of myself.  And I’m excited for that.  I’m excited to push myself, to learn more, to keep growing while I keep laughing.

A few years ago one of my friends told me about something she had seen on the internet---a blogger made a list of 30 things she wanted to do before she turned 30.  It seemed like a lovely idea, so I started making a list. Now, days away from the deadline, most of the items remain undone.  I never learned how to tie a bow tie or brushed up on my Italian.  I didn’t visit a national park or bake a pie from scratch.  I haven’t read Shakespeare and I haven’t learned all the dance moves to my favorite Blues Brothers song. But that’s ok, because there’s a lot of things that I’ve done in the last couple of years that weren’t on that list- things like writing this column and finding a job I love.  And the most important thing, regardless of what’s written on any list, I’m headed into a new decade happier than I’ve ever been.  So maybe next year I’ll bake a pie.

Thirty is, of course, not old, but then I don’t know of a number that is, unless you choose it to be. My grandmother is 90 years ‘old’, but she’s got quite of bit of youthful spirit.  For me, age is a number, and a blessing.  Not everyone has the opportunity to age, so I’ll always be thankful for another candle on my metaphorical cake.  Who knows, if I’m lucky enough to get to 90, maybe I’ll celebrate the same way as 30, with silly hats, silly straws, cupcakes and champagne, and the most important---with people I love.

Cheers to 30.

April Showers and May Flowers

Growing up spring always meant a trip to the nursery or garden shop to pick out flowers for the raised beds in my parent’s backyard.  My little sister and I would wander through the rows, navigating bags of mulch or potting soil and make suggestions to my mom about what we thought looked nice. My suggestions were often refuted as I almost always failed to pay attention to the sun/shade requirements.  In the end we’d each pick out a couple of pansies or black eyed susans that we particularly liked and then it was back home to plant.

Even as a child I never enjoyed playing in the dirt.  When it came to digging holes and placing our flowers in the raised beds, I always wanted work gloves and a large trowel.  Heaven help us all if I dug up a worm.  Our pansies and mums always looked so small, almost lonely in the large beds- spread apart and dug in.  But of course as the summer went on, they bloomed and spread out in a colorful sea.

I guess that’s why whenever April and May roll around and the stores begin putting out displays of flowers for planting I get a tiny tingle and start to consider.  Maybe this year I’ll put a couple flower pots out on the deck.  Maybe I’ll grow some herbs. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with the skill of Martha Stewart.  The truth is I have a black thumb.  I have exactly one plant in my house, a bamboo that requires little to no care and only an inch of water.  Even that I’ve had some close calls with.  So I’ll continue to leave the planting to my parents who have moved on from flower gardens to vegetable.  I’ll gratefully enjoy the salsa and fresh asparagus when I visit and I’ll admire the flower displays from afar.

Memories of Bangladesh

On April 24^th a building housing shops, a bank, and garment factories collapsed in Savar outside of Dhaka.  As of the first week of May, the death toll has risen to 650.  This first week of May has also seen a resurgence in political and religious unrest as reports indicate that 20 people were killed as part of protests.  My heart aches for this place that sits so close to my heart.  I’m still trying to find the words to express what I think and feel about the tragedy and developing situations.  In the meantime, I’ve been reading through my old journals and archives, re-reading and remembering moments of my life in Dhaka.  Below are some snippets. I hope they add to the picture, add to the face of a nation that’s struggling. The more I learned about Bangladesh, the more interested I become.  This is a young country, partitioned from England in 1947 and independent from Pakistan in 1971.  The events of the 1970s (war, natural disasters, famine) seriously depleted the population.  Corruption and poverty are crippling the nation, but there is a pride and a backbone to Bangladesh that shines through.   I lived in Dhaka, one of the loudest, most crowded, most polluted cities in the world.  People are flocking to the capitol looking for work and an income to send home to their families.  Around every corner, there seems to be a new story.  The rest of Bangladesh is sprawling flood plains, beautiful rice fields, and little corners where time seems to have stood still.  From Dhaka, it only takes a few hours and you can find yourself exploring Buddhist Vihara from the seventh century, indulging in a cup of tea at a tea plantation, or walking along the world’s longest continuous beach.

Everywhere I look in Dhaka, street vendors are selling their wares.  In the morning I pass the first:  The cucumber man.  He is in his thirties I guess and sets his rickety table up by the bus stop.  In the afternoon the line for the bus will wind down the block and I imagine he will do a brisk business with those waiting.  His table is full of cucumbers.  Half peeled, half not.  I’ve been tempted by the vendor, but I’ve seen the flies landing on the peeled vegetables and turned away, I’m terrified of the so called ‘Dhaka Belly’ and will do anything to avoid its curse.  At first I thought the veggies were just sold as they were:  plain crisp cucumbers that the customer could just bite into.  But as I paid more attention, I noticed the process.  A customer comes over and makes their request.  The vendor then starts shaving an already peeled vegetable, placing the thin pieces into a small bowl.  Next he adds spicy mustard which he keeps in a water bottle.  The two are mixed together and then scooped into a cone made of newspaper and handed to the customer.

In the afternoon the Cucumber Vendor is joined by a man selling roasted nuts.  The new vendor sets up his small table across the street, near a small kiosk selling cigarettes (by the pack or individually) and phone cards.  The small table is covered with six bowls; five hold various types of nuts the sixth popcorn.  In the evening another addition appears on the cart: a small butane flame used to freshly roast nuts or pop more popcorn.  The smell reminds me of Christmas in the states ‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.’

New Habits

I’m not very good at forming new habits.  Certainly not good ones.  I talk game and make plans: Eating Better, Waking up Earlier, Writing More, etc. But then I hit snooze, let the spinach go bad, and my notebooks lay empty. That last step of summoning up will power and pushing myself to do the thing, create the habit, that’s where I fall flat. I figured I was just bad at it.  I lack will power.  Some people can pick up languages with ease, some can see patterns in chaos, some people have will power, and some of us don’t.  But then I started a new book.  Maybe you’ve heard of it: The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.  Within in 50 pages I was reconsidering my assumptions.  Perhaps I could learn to create habits and perhaps I just needed to start with one.  Just one habit.

It seems like a simple idea, obvious even, to choose one habit. But as we all know, sometimes it’s the most obvious ideas that elude us. I couldn’t think of a habit I wanted to form without thinking of five. The five would lead to five more and so on until I was overwhelmed and threw the whole metaphorical list out of the metaphorical window.

This time, I’m doing things differently.  Instead of looking at a laundry list of new habits I should create, I decided to choose one thing; one action I wanted to make into a habit.  I ran through my options and put off the decision until a co-worker told me about Mindful in May.

I’ve been toying with meditation sporadically for about six months.  I believe strongly that moving from occasional to daily meditations will have profound positive effects for me---physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, etc. But as with the rest of my list, I had yet to make the jump from ‘want to’ to ‘done’.  By participating in Mindful in May I will not only (hopefully) develop a habit I’m keen to lock down, but I can also (hopefully) begin to train my psyche to form new positive habits.  Just like an athlete has to practice to throw a ball just right, I will exercise my brain and try to create new muscle memories and patterns of behavior.  At least that’s the plan.

Look to the Best

I was a freshman in college when the twin towers fell.  I didn't know anyone in New York then, and I hadn't yet met my husband who has family throughout the boroughs and an uncle who worked at the WTC.  I watched news reports with my roommates, in shock like the rest of the world. My university didn't cancel classes that day or the next---the decision was left up to the individual professors.  Many professors called off their lessons, but not mine; the next morning found me taking my seat in my art history class.  Before she turned on the slide projector my professor stood for a moment and spoke briefly about her decision.

'Sometimes' she said 'After seeing the worst humanity can do, it's important to take time and look to the best we can do'.  And then she started class, launching into slides and a lecture about great painters and the masterpieces that still awe us centuries later.

I don't watch the news, it's a personal choice and the reasons are longer than I will get into here.  I prefer to seek out written reports and monitor my consumption.  But Monday evening I was feeling like most people---wondering Why, and so I turned on a national broadcast, searching for answers.  I watched for about 20 minutes---long enough to realize that no matter what was said, the television could likely never answer that question to my satisfaction.

As I turned off the television, I remembered those words from my professor, more than ten years ago.  I sat in my living room and listened to a record and the rain outside.  And I thought of the coverage I had seen, the videos I watched, the stories I read, the photos I saw.  The images and words that I kept circling back through.

Soldiers pulling down barricades to clear the way for medical help.

Medical staff prepared to treat muscle cramps and fatigue launching into action against injuries they could never have anticipated.

Police officers in florescent yellow vests running towards the smoke.

It's important to take a moment and look at the best humanity can do.

If you haven't already, I encourage you to read Roxanne's essay, Boston: Stories of Compassion and The Atlantic's post Stories of Kindness

But then things took a turn

If you know me, or have been reading this column, you know that I spent a year living in Bangladesh.  It was wonderful and fantastic and a hundred other adjectives.  Bangladesh is close to my heart not just because of my time spent there, but it’s also the place where my husband grew up and where his family lives today. Bangladesh has not had a peaceful spring.  In early February, masses of people gathered in central Dhaka to protest what they felt were light sentences given to war criminals. The protest grew and became a hub of music and thought and peaceful demonstration.  Parent’s brought their children and it seemed the country was really banding together.

But then things took a turn. Political parties started shouting about favoritism and unfair practices, and the strikes began.  Countrywide strikes, or Hartels, have been used for decades in Bangladesh as political bargaining tools.  In their early days, they were a way of making those in power take notice and negotiate with other parties. By virtually shutting down the capital city, the organizers gained a chip to bargain with: Meet with us, hear our demands, or nothing gets done.  It’s not pretty or particularly practical, but it worked.

As time moved on, the hartels became more and more symbolic; a way to be seen as doing something and being present, flexing political muscles.  When we were in Dhaka, strikes were called about once a month, sometimes more often if there was a particular issue at debate. But they were relatively tame and never reached our corner of the city, home to all the embassies.  In recent months hartels have been called on an almost weekly basis and with increasing violence.

What was originally a political debate about justice has been taken by some and made to be a fight over religion.  A ‘with us or against us’ mentality has spread as more and more people feel slighted. As the original protest is drowned by shouting, fear, and a mob mentality, the future is unclear. Many of us who hold Bangladesh in our hearts are anxiously watching and hoping for level heads and peace to prevail.

I’m not an expert, just a writer with an opinion---for further reading and other opinions see here and here, or check out the Guardian, The Daily Star, or The BBC 

[gallery columns="2"]

A Year

I’ve been in the same place for a year.  I know because the lease is up.  It’s one of those weird tricks of time that it feels shorter and longer all at the same time.  Shorter because I can vividly remember the beginning: Slowly moving in, unpacking things I hadn’t seen in over a year, little treasures and mementos, my furniture unpacked from storage and graciously carted the hour and a half journey by my parents, the elation at being in our own place and the shock that we ended up here in the middle of nowhere. Longer because there’s been so many memories made between then and now: visits from family, traveling around the state, eating at the local diner.  There’ve been new jobs and adventures, afternoons spent playing video games and sipping cocktails and quiet nights sitting and reading together.

A year ago I dropped my husband off at work, and drove the thirty miles to our new home. I found the key where the landlord said it was hidden, unlocked the front door and walked in.  I walked through all the rooms, making sure they were just as I remembered. I open and shut cabinets, peered into the refrigerator, flipped light switches, and then I danced around in the living room like a total spaz.  My husband and I had been living with family members for a year and a half, having our own place again was Christmas morning to me.  Family (both his and mine) are amazing, but there’s so much freedom when it’s your own.

[gallery columns="5"]

A year ago I was excited to be moving into a place of our own.  But I was also a little lost.  I didn’t know what I wanted to do or what I was going to do, I was still job searching, scouring the internet for a job I could do from my new home. I was also still a little broken; I hid it well, but deep down things weren’t peachy. I was upset about the way I came to be back in the states, I felt the universe had forced my hand and I didn’t understand why. I was afraid to examine the feelings too closely so I shuttered them deep within and ignored the fact that I couldn’t speak about the fact that our plans, my plans, went up in a cloud of smoke. I ignored the fact that I wasn’t sleeping well.

Soon I found a job, one that I could do online with a company I respect.  Not long after that I found the Equals Record, summoned up my courage and sent a fan-girlesque letter to Elisabeth and Miya. Slowly I started hanging pictures on the walls and setting out knick-knacks. I settled in to this strange new existence and accepted that maybe things do always happen for a reason, and maybe this was the reason. Maybe I needed time away, time spent in a quiet rural area, time spent with just my husband for company.  Maybe I needed the time to slowly heal and accept, and then I needed the time after that to celebrate and see the possibilities again.  I needed mornings spent sipping mimosas, afternoons full of video games, and evenings spent writing thoughts on a page.  I needed the room and the place. I didn’t know it, but I found both a year ago.

Landmarks

I’m pants at directions.  I’m pretty sure that’s British slang for really bad, if not, well I’ve never been to Great Britain so you’ll just have to excuse my ignorance.  International colloquialism aside, I’m really pretty terrible at directions, both giving them and following.  If you’re ever giving me directions, and you hope to actually have me make it to the destination, kindly avoid saying things like ‘Turn North after two miles’.  I have no concept of either which way is north or how far two miles is. The only time I know which way is east or west is if the sun is either rising or setting. There’s an old scene in a Muppet movie when someone tells the Muppets to turn left at the fork in the road.  You can probably guess the next part, the Muppets drive a little ways until they see an actual fork, a giant utensil sticking into the ground, and then they make the turn.  Those are the kind of directions I could follow.

I like landmarks.   They’re how I make my way from point A to point B and how I describe where I’ve been. My memory records locations like others remember dates.  I may not remember the year or even the month, but like any good wanderer, I can remember where I was.  When I heard Mother Teresa died: in the parking lot of my grade school. When the twin towers came down: College at mandatory language tutoring.  The first time I slow danced with a boy, my first taste of alcohol, the first time I kissed my husband.

I remember the where; like little snapshots in my brain. Polaroid pictures of significant moments that have made up my life and likely quite a few insignificant ones.  I can see the view, where I was, who I was with, and my surroundings. The images often have invisible aspects too, how I felt, my perception of the event or moment.  Perhaps there is some deep psychological or physiological reason or correlation; a left brain versus right brain debate.  Maybe Katherine’s research into memory and narrative would have an explanation.  Or perhaps all the artistic talent that I see in my family tree filtered into my DNA after-all, leaving my brain to prefer visuals and images over statistics or dates.

Whatever the case, the snapshots of my memory are there to show me where I’ve been.

They are the Landmarks of my life.

Lessons of Loss

This week I had the unpleasant task of mailing a sympathy card.  It was destined for one of my dearest friends whose grandmother had recently passed away.  I addressed the envelope and signed my husband and my names beneath the pre-written message. That was the easy part. Writing a personal note was harder. What words could I write that would give comfort?  Were there any?  If not, what could I write? In the end I settled for a simple note of friendship and tried to convey the two messages that I felt were the most important: I love you & I’m thinking of you. I mailed the card, but kept thinking about loss. That’s normally a subject I avoid contemplating at all costs. I know most people don’t dwell on grief or death, but my avoidance is, I think, a little more profound and includes even abstract or philosophical consideration. Without sounding like I crawled out of a Victorian novel, I can at times be prone to melancholy. It’s easy for me to sink into the dark and grey and wallow there, hence the avoidance. But last week, I didn’t wallow or sink, even as my mind kept spinning back, touching on two stories and their accompanying lessons about loss. I figured the lessons wanted to be written.

When I was in junior high, my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. There were blessings hidden in the diagnosis and many moments of joy and laughter and memories that I would never trade. But there were also moments of pain, sadness, and confusion---especially for a kid like me with strong emotions and no experience with loss. I remember one such moment, sitting on my yellow canopy bed and crying out my sadness and confusion. My mom was there of course, consoling me as mother’s do and generally talking me down.  I don’t remember what I said, only her response.  I imagine my line was something inane about being sad that my grandmother was sick and might die, but I really don’t know for sure. What I remember with extreme clarity was the next moment as my mother said: I don’t want granny to be sick or die either, she’s my mom. I understood the working of our family tree, and I knew that my grandmother was my mother’s mom, but until that moment, I hadn’t considered anyone else’s grief. In the way that your world view can shift in an instant, I remember that moment as the clouds parting and a light bulb shining as well as a ton of bricks falling. I suddenly had a new understanding and a different way of seeing things beyond my own emotions or grief.  Almost 20 years later, that memory and the accompanying lesson as still so clear, as is the only response I could make in my stunned state: I never thought of it like that.

A decade later when my paternal grandfather passed away that earlier lesson was not forgotten.  I was an adult by that time, a college student in love with my boyfriend, a man who would later become the Mr. to my Mrs. Perhaps that’s why so many of my thoughts and a great deal of my empathy was focused on my grandmother. Throughout the days of preparation and then the visitation and funeral she was stoic, focusing on the next task and what needed to be done.  Her eyes were dry right up until the moment a soldier placed a folded American flag into her hands. Thinking of that moment still stings my eyes. I thought then, as I do now, the simple question: How?  How can you possibly say goodbye to someone like that, someone you spent so much time with? My grandparents were married for 59 years. How is it possible?  I know the platitudes ‘One day at a time’ and ‘You do what you have to do’, but I truly have no understanding of how.  In the moments as my grandmother held that flag in her lap and watched his casket descend into the earth, I can’t imagine she knew either.

As I sent off my sympathy card, I thought of these two stories, and the small lessons they taught me about loss.  No one really understands, there are no magic words, but there is empathy.

Lessons from My Dad

In 1950-something in Alabama, my grandmother gave birth to her second child.  Exactly thirty years and three months later in a town in Tennessee, that son, now grown and married, became a father to the most adorable baby ever born: Me.  This week is my dad’s birthday, and as I can think of only one other person (that would be my mom) who has helped me ‘Make My Way’ as much as he has, it seemed appropriate to dedicate this column to some lessons he taught me.

Ask Questions.  My dad is a scientist, so it’s probably no surprise that he encouraged questions.  Of course he also encouraged me to find the answers myself, like when I got a flat tire the first time and he suggested I read my car manual to learn how to fix it.  My dad taught me that knowing how things work was the key to fixing them.  As a kid I dissected telephones, radios, and once a camera---I think, all with my dad's permission. Our house always had a dictionary, at least one set of encyclopedias, and for many years was also home to Mona---a life size paper cut-out showing the bone and muscle systems of the human body.  Mona hung on our living room wall. It may seem odd, but Mona was just a part of the bigger picture. Education and knowledge were always prized.  In college when I finally declared my major as Art History, my dad never asked what I thought I was going to do with my degree or what the ‘real world’ applications might be. I could have studied business or communications or something else that might be more marketable, but I grew up believing that knowledge was the end goal, not a job title, so I chose to spend four years studying something I enjoyed and found interesting.  He never questioned it, and I never regretted it. Knowledge for Knowledge’s sake, my dad taught me that.

Carry an extra $20.  Growing up, if I was going out with friends to a movie or the mall, my dad always made sure I had a little more cash than what I thought I would need.  Just take it, just in case, he would say. You never know when you’re going to need $20. There were bigger financial lessons, but I think most of those stuck better on my little sister, at least so far, there’s still time for me. The other lesson in the $20 though is generosity. As an adult, there have been times I’ve gone to my parents to borrow money. It’s not a particularly grown-up thing to do, and if they had a different attitude about it I might be a little ashamed.  But I’m not, because we’re all here to help each other. Someday I might have a little extra in the bank and lend it to someone else who needs a hand, and when I do, I’ll adopt my father’s attitude: I have it, you need it, it’s fine. Both of my parents are generous with their time and their money. They give to charity and to causes they believe in. That spirit is the reason my sister and donate to NPR, just like our dad.

Have Fun. My dad used to toss me into the air when I was a toddler. Apparently it was great fun; scared the daylights out of my mom though. He’s the person I probably get my wit and sense of humor from. Both of my parents are hilarious, but my dad’s humor is more of a smart biting wit, like mine, while my mother’s is a gentler, kinder joke. He also has a loud laugh. Something I’m sure I picked up along the way. We’re not the folks who will chuckle quietly; we’re more of the L-O-L type. Beyond laughing, my dad taught me to have fun and do things that are interesting to me. Whether in work or at home, there’s no point in being bored. That’s a lesson that has influenced my adult life in profound ways and lead to great joy. I don’t particularly care what my job title is or if I have a fancy office. My life is what matters, as is my joy. If I’m having fun, then great, but if I’m not, then it’s time to move on, my dad taught me that.

Try New Things.  When I was about 9 or 10 my family went to Disney World. At an evening dinner my dad asked if I wanted to try his dinner, I asked what it was and after hearing a bland answer (Pasta), took a bite. But it didn't taste like normal pasta, so I asked again. Pasta with Calamari my dad told me. When kid-me finally figured out that calamari was a fancy word for squid, I was less than thrilled. But I tried it. And I'm still telling the story 20 years later. New experiences lead to great stories. My dad is a great story teller, even if he's telling embarrassing stories about me (like the time I tried to crawl through a rocking chair and got stuck), you can't help but listen and laugh along. Sometimes you have to lean in and go for it without knowing what the outcome will be. Even if its totally gross, chances are you'll still have a story to tell.

Take Care of those Around You. My dad is kind of a rock. He takes care of everyone in our family. When I came back from Bangladesh suddenly, and barely knew which way was up after 48+hrs of travel, I went home to my parent’s house. Both my parents gave me big hugs while I cried, my dad then gave me some chocolate and poured my wine into a plastic glass because I was afraid I’d “drop it and then step on the glass shards and die, because that’s the kind of day I’ve been having”. In a dramatic moment like that, it’s the little things, like wine in a plastic glass, that start to make it ok. My dad may be the most responsible person I know. Whether he’s answering questions about a weird sound someone’s car is making or doing my grandmother’s taxes, he's always a rock. I aspire to be that solid, where other’s know without question that they can count on me and I’ll step up without pause, just like my dad. 

There are many more lessons: Don’t ever decide what you want to be when you grow up; be open to change; create things; never stop learning; you can do anything you want if you set your mind to it, and more.  I could never write them all out.  So I’ll close by saying happy birthday to the guy who gave me my first stereo, let me stay up past my bedtime as long as I was reading, and, as he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day, said ‘Take your time. We’ve got all the time in the world’.

Love you, Kid 1

Searching for Dragons

A few Saturdays ago, I was sorting through a box of greeting cards when I came across a Bon Voyage note given to me by my two best friends a few days before I hopped a jet plane for Bangladesh. Inside, beside the typed hallmark message, was a hand written note and two signatures. ‘I hope you find your dragons’ it said.  In the back of my head I had only an inkling of remembrance.  Dragons.  Why were we talking about dragons?  I searched the encyclopedia of my life, otherwise known as my gmail inbox, and found what I was looking for.  A list of quotes I considered adding to our new address/just-moved-to-the-other-side-of-the-globe card.  On the list, among the profound and the spiritual was this quote:

“Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.” Sarah Ban Breathnach.

So of course the question I’ve been asking myself is this: Did I find my dragons?  While I did have a couple of close encounters with lizards, I don’t think that’s what my past self meant when she said she was looking for dragons.  A dragon is a story to tell, something confronted, overcome, or experienced for the first time. It’s a quest of self discovery.  It might seem scary or insurmountable if you look at it from afar, but once you’re there, it’s a grand adventure.

I’m proud to say I found many dragons during my year in Bangladesh, and each taught me a lesson.  All the good dragons do.  I came back more confident in myself; more sure of who I am as a person, more aware of my flaws and my strengths.  I am more unapologetically me than I have been at any other point in my life.  And that feels awesome.

Maybe it was the quiet or the new environment.  Maybe it was the writing. I can’t identify the how or the why, which is a little bothersome.  I would like to be able to map the changes, to see the shift on paper.  Where did it occur, when did it start, what was the trigger?  The daughter of a scientist, I like things to fit into boxes and graphs. I want to look back and point to a moment so I can say, ‘See that day, that’s when it began to change.’ Everything would feel more real if I could break it down into cause and effect.

But I can’t.  I know how I was before Bangladesh. I know how I was in Bangladesh. And I know how I am now, after Bangladesh, but how one affected the next I have no hypothesis.

All I know is that I most certainly found Dragons.

More Wishes

Over the weekend one of my dear friends gave birth to her first child.  She and I grew up together and were nearly inseparable throughout grade school and junior high. Neither of us is at all biased, so believe me when I tell you her baby boy is pretty freaking perfect.  I’ve had acquaintances from college start families, but she is the first friend to become a mom. So it’s understandable that I may have gone a wee bit overboard when it came to buying gifts for the new baby, including six pairs of shoes.  But it was so much fun, and so exciting to think of that little dude rocking a pair of superman sneakers that I just couldn’t help myself. Now he’s here, and although I haven’t met him in person yet (his mom has been gracious enough to frequently text me pictures), that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about him, his parents, and all the great things life holds for him.  As you may remember, I’m a fan of wishes, so here then are my wishes for little baby ACE.

I wish for you grand adventures.  Whether it’s travelling the world or getting accidentally locked in a closet (ask your mom or your Uncle Jason about that), adventures make the best stories. Decades later the memory of a great adventure will still be worth telling, and re-telling.  And adventures always teach you something, it might be a philosophical truth, or an as yet-undiscovered aspect of your personality, or it might be something less deep, like the fact that some closet doors lock from the inside. Regardless, have adventures, have lots of them, and tell me stories.

 

 I wish for you a sense of humor.  Both of your parents are hilarious, so I don’t think there’s any danger that you won’t have a great sense of humor.  Your dad is laugh-out-loud funny and your mom has the patience to wait 45 minutes for the perfect moment of comedic timing.  I hope you laugh together as a family, I hope you laugh with your friends, I hope you laugh at yourself.  Just never at someone else’s expense.  Be kind in your humor and laugh often.

I wish for you a questioning mind. The world is full of people who want to tell you what to think and believe; people who know with all certainty that they are right and others are wrong.  The truth is things are more complex than these people would often have you believe.  There are shades of grey and degrees of truth, and what is true for one person may not be true for another.  I hope you learn to take it all in and think for yourself.  Beware of anyone who claims to know everything.  Except your parents. They really do know it all.

I wish for you best friends. I wrote a couple weeks ago that there is nothing in the world quite like a best friend. They’re simply amazing.  Best friends will have your back in the hard times and be there to laugh and share adventures in the good times.  They (along with your family, and if you’re lucky their family) will be your rock.  I was lucky enough to have your mom as a best friend, after meeting her in first grade and immediately engaging in a philosophical discussion about Crayola colors. As we grew, our families became friends, and all five of us kids played together all the time. Your mom and I went to school together for eight years before attending different high schools and then living in different states. But we stayed friends; we were bridesmaids at each-other’s weddings and when she called to tell me she was pregnant with you, I couldn’t possibly have been happier (unless of course she had told me at the beginning of the conversation). Never underestimate the power of a best friend and don’t take them for granted.  You’ve already got a best friend ready made in your pal Liam, I’m sure you two will have lots of fun playing together and causing mayhem. Be kind to one another and try not to give your parents too much grief.

I wish for you a fantastic imagination.  I hope you create games and characters. I hope you run through the back yard with your friends, screaming about invisible lions hiding behind trees or dragons in the sky.  I hope you read books and fall into the world’s they create (this one’s a little selfish, as I can’t wait to give you books), I hope you color (I’ll send you some crayons too!) and draw and dream vividly. An imagination is the key to so much in life, it can serve you later on as an adult in ways you wouldn’t expect, but for now, I just wish for you to have play and have fun.

Finally, I wish for you kindness.  I hope the world is kind to you and I especially hope you are kind to the people you meet.  The simple act of showing kindness to a stranger or classmate has far reaching consequences, not the least of which is it’s good for your soul.  Don’t be mean.  I know it’s easy to do, especially once you get older and into school.  But kindness shows strength and character.  Think of other’s and be kind. And while we’re on the subject, be nice to your parents.  They’re crazy in love with you. Even when you’re a teenager and you could swear that they’re out to get you or just being mean, remember how much they love you and be kind.

Grow big and strong baby ACE.  I can’t wait to meet you in person

Hugs, Renee

Expressing Adoration

I adore my life. Adore.  I try to say so frequently. It’s part of a personal commitment of mine to say what I feel, especially the good stuff.  I never want those close to me to think that I don’t/didn’t care or wasn’t grateful for the moment or experience we shared.  I’m the girl who will break the silence to say “I’m glad we’re friends” or “I love my life”; I’m the wife who calls her husband in the middle of the day to say ‘I love you’.  Nothing has done more for me in my adult life than this habit of expressing joy and thanks. I haven't performed any scientific studies (these guys have), but it seems to me that the simple act of saying, or even silently acknowledging, a positive emotion amplifies the same.  I know that I am a happier person since I've adapted habits of gratitude and celebration.  I've always found the 'live-each-day-like-its-your-last' mentality to be rather morbid, I prefer to live each day like its a holiday or a party, I celebrate the everyday.  My grass is quite green, so much so that I find I'm immune to the always-greener syndrome. There's always something to high-five about, maybe its a gorgeous sunset and a glass of wine, maybe its writing something I'm proud of, maybe its making a perfect omelet, maybe its spending a quiet hour reading in bed next to my husband.  The what doesn't matter nearly as much as taking the time, the moment, to smile and say 'Today is a Good Day, I adore my Life'.

[gallery columns="4"]

And so, as I write this, I’m standing in my kitchen. It’s a lazy Sunday. I stayed curled under the covers this morning while my husband went out for breakfast, we played some games and watched a James Bond movie and now I’m in the kitchen with an afternoon glass of wine, a tourism brochure for a summer vacation, and a Rolling Stones record on.  As a smile touched my face the word Adore popped into my head.  I adore my life, without question, hesitation, or exemption.  I adore my life and I’m ever so grateful, and I think both are important things to express.  I could go on, but Beast of Burden just started to play, so I’m going to stop writing and go dance around the living room, today is wonderful after all. What better way to celebrate than with a dance?

A love Letter to my Friends

This Valentine’s Day, I could tell you about my husband, but we’ve never been big into the holiday, and besides I already penned my sweet romantic column on our anniversary. Instead I’d like to discuss another love, the wonder that is a best friend. How awesome are best friends? Is there really anything better? I don’t believe there is.  A best friend often knows you just as well as a spouse or partner, they’re certainly just as vital to your sanity, and of course, deserving of much love and chocolate.

For me, best friends come in pairs.  In first grade I made first one then a second best friend. For eight years if I wasn’t talking to one of them, I was probably talking to the other. The countless sleepovers, passed notes, birthday parties, mall pretzels, and phone calls that followed us from My Little Pony to first crushes created a history so tight and filled that even after years of not being in constant contact, we’re still connected. This weekend I traveled back to my hometown to attend a baby shower of one of my childhood best friends.  It was amazing to me that even not having seen each other for several years, and even with our different lifestyles, I could sit and talk for hours with either girl. I think that really shows what a bond friendship is, especially best friends. It’s a bond capable of stretching through time and space without breaking.

In college, I met two more best friends.  These girls I studied with, ate midnight pancakes with, went to parties with.  We saw each other through boyfriends and breakups and the pressure of deciding what we wanted to do with our lives. We visited each other’s homes, met the respective parents, and even shared an apartment.  When graduation rolled around, we were happy to be moving on to bigger and better things, but deeply sad that we wouldn’t see each other every day.  Today we’re still thick as thieves even though distance may separate us.  We talk on the phone, text silly stories, and send a flurry of emails.  When I lived out of the country, the daily emails always brought a smile to my face and made me feel connected with my home even though I was on the other side of the world.

The thing that amazes me most about best friends is the pure chance and luck involved.  I met my two best friends when we all happened to live on the same floor our freshman year of college. If anyone of us had chosen a different school or even a different dorm, would we have met? We had nothing else in common so I’m not sure that we would have.  And if we hadn’t met, would I still be the same person I am today?  I doubt it.

Who you click with and who you don’t is obviously subjective.  Just like romantic partners, some folks look good on paper, but in person there’s no spark.  But to my knowledge, there’s no such thing as an e-harmony for best friends; there’s not speed dating or blind dates.  It’s much chancier. Maybe you find someone who understands you to the depths of your soul, who will tell you in the kindest possible terms not to wear that dress, who will make you laugh until you can’t breathe.  Maybe you’ll find someone who protects your emotions and understands your fears without you having to speak them.  Maybe you’ll find someone to banter with to question the world with and to ponder the plural form with; someone to talk you off the ledge when things are bad and give you a high five when they’re good.  If you’re lucky enough to find that person, well then as the saying goes, you’re lucky enough.  If you’re lucky enough to have two best friends, I truly believe there is nothing you cannot fight through and nothing you cannot accomplish with that power at your side.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all the Best Friends out there, and a special shout-out to mine: You guys are crazy fantastic and I don't say it often enough.  Thank you for always being exactly what I needed, having my back without question, never being bothered by my nuttiness, riding through the crazy vortexes that life brings, and making me laugh for 10 years (yes, we are that old). I am so grateful the universe put us in each-others paths. Happy Valentines Day L & L, I love you bunches.

Taking a Moment

  When I get run-down or particularly stressed out, the sunset is always a good reminder to breathe deep and let it all go.  I like to stand outside, if its nice enough, or at a window and just be still and soak in the amazing beauty.  It never ceases to soothe my soul.  If you're feeling stretched a little thin, I recommend the same.  And if you can't find a sunset of your own, or need the peace right now, here's one of mine. Breathe deep and be grateful my friends.  Life is a lovely gift.

A Little Lesson

I struggled with what to write this week.  After writing about equality and love for two weeks in a row, I subconsciously set a bar for myself.  I didn't know what I was going to write this week, but I felt it had to be important.  I kept acting like I had big shoes to fill, which is silly since I wear a 7 1/2. I found myself with Writer's Block, or maybe more appropriately, Writer's Intimidation.  I had intimidated myself. How is that even possible? I kept trying to come up with something important, something big and meaningful. And it got closer and closer to the deadline and my pen stayed still, my brain kept running a loop of questions, what to write what to write what to write.

Finally while waiting for my tea to steep, I admitted the truth.  I was being ridiculous.  Screw it, I said to the tea kettle, I'm writing about Tootsie Roll Pops.

This week someone sent me a box of Tootsie Roll Pops.  A really big box of Tootsie Roll Pops.  This happened days ago and I'm still smiling about it.  The thing was, I didn't even really ask for the Tootsie Roll Pops. They were a total surprise, sent for no other reason than I mentioned in passing that I liked them.  Its a little thing, but it made my week.

So I guess the lesson I needed to learn this week is that the little things are sometimes just as important as the big things.

The Same but Not Equal

I’m a big believer in asking questions.  Lots of them. Ask until you understand or until the person you’re talking to runs out of explanations, then ask some more. There’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a few years now. What’s the difference between marriages and civil unions and why is it important.  From the outside looking in, I just didn’t understand, not really.  Was it a name thing, like you say potato I say potahto? Was it an injustice, a matter of civil liberties? Was it black and white or shades of grey? Was there a right answer? I just didn’t know. And I didn’t ask enough questions.  I didn’t push for answers or ask the folks who would know, and I had opportunities to. I accepted that it was different, that it was less than, and that was a bad thing. But I didn’t really get it.

Sometimes you experience something and it strikes you to your core.  Maybe you read it, maybe you saw it, maybe you heard it, but all of a sudden there is a wealth of knowledge and emotion that wasn’t there before.  That’s how I felt this week when I read This.

I have a cousin who lives in Illinois.  She’s quite simply amazing, and when Illinois passed legislation allowing civil unions she and her equally awesome girlfriend joined thousands of other couples and got unionized (no, that’s not a real word). They’ve been a couple for longer than my husband and I, so as I was reading the article I couldn’t help compare, my relationship to hers.

For example, I’m married everywhere I go.  Alaska, Hawaii, Texas, Mount Rushmore and Disney World.  Always Married.  My cousin is legally committed only in the state of Illinois.  Only.  If she so much as crosses the border into Indiana, poof, she’s single.  Her legally recognized partner is now her girlfriend.  And those rights she has in Illinois, don’t apply in Indiana.  She has no legal claim, no legal responsibility, no legal anything with a woman she has committed to.

If my husband and I are (god forbid) in a car crash in Tennessee, I have rights. I can talk to the doctors, I can make decisions for him and about his health if he were unable to do so himself.  My cousin and her girlfriend might as well be college roommates for the legal rights they would have in such a situation.  I cannot imagine the pain and helplessness of such a situation.  I think of my husband. I think of the unthinkable, if something happened to him, and I was told I had no say, no rights, no voice. I don’t know how I wouldn’t live in fear of that every day.  I don’t know how that wouldn’t break me, the mere thought of it.

I hesitated before writing this.  I hardly ever talk politics, even with my closest friends and family, for several reasons---one of them being I believe people have the right to make choices, and just because someone makes a different choice doesn’t mean that they’re wrong and I’m right, it just means we made different choices.  Did I really want to get political on the Equals Record?  Then I realized two things: one, just because this has been made to be a political issue, does not mean that is all it is. And two---this is the Equals Record.  So maybe it’s a good place to talk about equality.

I believe my cousin is equal to me in every way but those she surpasses me.  I believe her heart and her brain are roughly equal to mine as are her abilities to reason, to make decisions, and to love.  She and I are both the same in that we love another.  But that is where the similarities end, at least for now. One of us is married, and one is not.  I don’t have the words to express how wrong that is. To express the injustice. To express the pain and the fight.  I just don’t have them. I hope someone else does.