Wherever you go, there you are.

Wherever you go, there you are. I’ll just go ahead and say it: I live in New York, but I am not entirely at home here.  When the question of where I am from comes up, my answer tends toward the knee-jerk and almost always mildly defensive: “CALIFORNIA, I am from California.”  This is said as if to distinguish myself somehow, as if to say ‘I really belong somewhere else.’  To wit, it seems the question of where you are from is most often posed when you are experiencing some particularly regional inconvenience, hazard, catastrophe or maltreatment and you find yourself having to explain to either your perpetrator or the person with whom you are being victimized that this sort of thing is not tolerated elsewhere.

Cliché but true---there is something about this place that not only draws you here, but keeps you here and pulls you back.  I managed to get out once, a few years ago, but somehow I am right back here in an apartment that I swear is “totally huge for New York.”  Like so many people who have come before me, when I left the first time, I lifted off at JFK and thought, ‘Well, I survived THAT and it sure was zany, but Hello Civilization!’  I dreamed of my triumphant return to parking lots, customer service, clean public bathrooms, a revitalized regard for my fellow humanity and a host of other benefits associated with escaping the concrete jungle.

Inside, I feel immutably “Californian.”  I prefer a slower pace of life.  The beach is my favorite place in the world.  I am always cold.  I eat avocado in some form almost every day.  I like living in a lot of space.  I actually enjoy chatting up a stranger, sometimes.  I refer to every highway as a “freeway” and will always describe it as “the” 95, instead of 95.   I might never have a totally appropriate jacket for any of the seasons.

Still, I lie to people all the time when they ask how I ended up moving back.  I tell them I came back exclusively for love.  I tell them my husband was living here and there was no other option.  While this is all technically true, when it became clear that a return to New York was in the offing . . . I felt a little dazzle.  There is some part of me (possibly a self-loathing part) that feels vaunted by surmounting the daily challenges involved in making a life in this punishing place.  I feel smarter here and weirder here.  If I had more time or energy (maybe I’ll get to it this weekend) I would be able to avail myself of quite literally any variety of artistic, cultural or intellectual happening.  Plus, the food, THE FOOD!  New York won’t ever let me out of her dirty grasp but I know I will never feel like I am of this place.

The question of identity as it relates to where you happen to be born or raised is truly fascinating to me.  I obviously didn’t choose California, my parents did.  But I feel like a Californian through-and-through.   Meanwhile, my parents are New Yorkers who described feeling out of place in California much of their adult lives.  Then they watched three of their adult children eagerly move to New York at various points.

Most of the people I know are thrilled to slough off whatever city or town shaped them and adopt the personage of the place they actually had the good sense to choose.  I’m not sure whether it is because I am nostalgic or loyal that California stays with me. I have never quite understood how to integrate the part of me that wants to remain unaffected and the part of me that seriously considers a dinner reservation at 10:45 PM.  Aside from all the garden variety letting go of childhood, end of innocence themes to explore on the couch, I am also reluctant to succumb to a place where people disappear into their own perceived uniqueness.

Some time last year, I was leaving on a trip to California with my husband and I said, “I can’t wait to go home!”  Immediately, he looked crestfallen, “But, New York is your home.  That is where your husband and dog (and now baby daughter) live.”  This is when I started thinking more genuinely about reconciling my bicoastal identity.  For now, I rack up JetBlue mileage points, burn through my iPhone battery chatting obsessively with friends and sprinkle a little California Love around the five boroughs whenever I can.  Eventually, I hope to toggle seamlessly between welling up with tears over the Manhattan skyline at sunset and flipping my very best bird at the guy behind me honking his ass off because the light turned green and he can’t wait another nanosecond.

(images: dbaron & rakkhi on flickr)  

The Best Marriage Advice I've Ever Gotten (From my Mother-in-Law)

I remember, early on in my relationship with Jordy, my husband, when we were still in the throes of courtship and absolutely batshit for each other, drawing a picture explaining my feelings for him. Earlier that day, we had been walking along the beach in San Diego on a road trip to Mexico, as cheesy as it sounds, talking about what it was like to be together. For him, being with me was like having his watch. Whenever he wasn't wearing his watch, he said, he was half-looking for it until it was safely back on his wrist. For me, being with him was like having lived my life with one thumb, and now having two. I imagine that if you had only one thumb, you could do most of the things that a two-thumbed person could, and wouldn't notice the difference unless you then magically grew another thumb, in which case it might feel like a huge relief to finally be able to give two thumbs up, and break yourself out of the world of mild enthusiasm.

It turns out that when you equate being with your boyfriend to having two thumbs instead of one, people dole out lots of advice, since they don't want to be the ones on the other end of the phone when you go back to one-thumbedness. Take it slowly; be on your guard; he's too nice to be for real. I think that the phrase "In one ear and out the other" was invented specifically for advice. In my lifetime, I've heard mountains of it, yet can remember very little of what people have told me. There is one salient piece of advice, though, that has stuck through the years, and has taken on new meaning as time has worn on. You might not believe me when I say this (though you would if you knew her), but the best marriage advice that I've ever gotten was from my mother-in-law, Jeanie, who is an exquisite example of a human being.

I can't remember when in my relationship with Jordy this came up, and whether Jeanie told it directly to me or if it was hearsay, but Jordy and I have referred back to it as I changed careers, he went from medical school to a grueling residency program, we welcomed our daughter and faced the challenges of fitting parenthood into our relationship, and as we watched our friends face life's inevitable hardships. The advice is this: It never gets easier.

Funny that the best piece of marriage advice isn't about marriage itself, but about who you choose to marry. In the end, life can be pretty shitty and hard, so you better marry someone who feels like your second thumb. This little gem is also not as grim as it seems when you first hear it. It doesn't mean that your life together doesn't get better, doesn't get happier, doesn't get more fun and more fulfilling. On the contrary, equating ease with happiness, fun, and fulfillment almost sets us up for failure. As much as we want things to be easy, the world has different plans for us. However, if we want things to be happy, fun, and fulfilling . . . Well, a lot of that comes down to our choices. It's easy to weather fun times together no matter who you're with; the hard times, not so much. Given that hurdles in life are inevitable, choosing the right person to face them with is phenomenally important. The most difficult part about this is that (in my experience at least) you don't know whether the person you're with is the perfectly right person until . . . until you just know. If I had it all to do over again, I would keep Jeanie's advice in my head. I don't think I would have done anything any differently (after all, every relationship serves its purpose and imparts its lessons), but it would have made letting go of some people WAY easier, because I would know that if we couldn't face the world together at 20, the world at 30 would crush us.

It never gets easier, but it gets better, for sure. On every count, I feel closer to my husband than I ever have, and I love him more deeply each day than I did the day before. Our life is, in many ways, better than it was when we got married. We're a bit more settled, happier in our daily careers, and have ironed out (for the most part) the details of living together. But as we're getting older, the challenges that life has thrown our way, and the sacrifices that we're having to make for each other and for our family are only getting larger, harder, more seemingly insurmountable. Our relationship has been challenged more in the last four years than it ever was before that. And if those years are any indication, that's not the end of it.

Who would have known that day on the beach what we would face in the years ahead. A year of long-distance making-it-work, cross-country moves, illnesses, loss, mountains of change. It was easier then, just me and him, but it's better now, with me and him and the life we're building together. Because luckily, I married my second thumb. And I can thank his mother for giving me that perspective.

I Never Wanted To Be A Mother

By Chris Babinec Oh, Hell no! Not me. I didn’t think it was a bad choice, of course. As a feminist, I believed a woman should be able to do and be whatever she wanted to be. So, if a woman wanted to become a mother, good for her. Not good for me.

I just never got excited about babies. I never wanted to hold them, rock them, and take care of them. I never smelled that “baby smell” others would swoon over. I didn’t dream of staying home, cooking nutritious meals, wiping butts, listening to crying and whining. I didn’t need someone to look up to me, tell me they love me or call me Mommy. And, I never wanted all the trappings I thought being a mother would bring: a long-term partner, a permanent abode, and an interruption in my timeline of conquering the world.

Nope, for me, there would be adventure! Travel! Exotic foods, exotic lands, exotic jobs! And, of course, I would be a champion for women and children across the world. I would become a feminist icon. I would start my own non-profit. I would devote my life to helping others in need. I would try to live like my hero: Wonder Woman. Maybe I would run for office someday.

Above all, I would do what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted and nobody would get to tell me any different, especially not a man and certainly not children. I would be my own woman. Independent, free, yet devoted to our common humanity. I would, with effort, figure out how to balance my interests in, and devote my time to: women’s rights, civil rights, human rights, environmental concerns, animal rights, children’s rights, alleviation of poverty, cessation of war, and the list goes on and on. I would do everything, be everything I wanted to be. Maybe I would learn some humility along the way, but if not, so what, men get to think big, dream big, act big---why shouldn’t I?

To a large degree, I have already accomplished many of my goals. I have traveled and I have adventured. I have eaten exotic foods and been to new and interesting places. I’ve met incredibly interesting people and had many partners. I’ve tested my limits. I’ve tossed off the shackles of fear more times than I can remember. And, to a large degree, I have devoted my life and career to helping others.

Of course, the strangest thing happened. When I was about 30, I realized nearly all my life, I had been working with children.  Even as a youth, I was a peer leader, a voracious volunteer for many causes that helped other youth.  As I grew older, I found my niche working with teens, and not the Up With People, kind. The gang banging kind. The rough and tumble kids, the homeless youth, the sexually exploited minors/child prostitutes, the disenfranchised, angry, conduct-disordered kid who would just as soon spit on you and rob you, as give you the time of day. I love these kids. Since I was about 21, helping these kids has been my passion and my work.

These kids, as it turned out, were as outraged as I was at the state of the world. They were justifiably angry at the lives they had been handed. While they couldn’t acknowledge it or express it in appropriate ways, the anger seemed to drive their behavior. And, I get anger. I mean I really get it. It’s another reason I never thought I’d be a mother. I thought the outrage I possessed, the unbridled passion, the “you can kiss my ass” attitude might not be good for children.

These kids I worked with often didn’t have mothers. Or, sometimes their mothers were doing the best they could, but due to oppression, patriarchy, institutionalized discrimination, or due to substance abuse, mental health disorders and other complicating factors of our lives and culture, the mothers just couldn’t give these kids what they needed or wanted. Without knowing what was happening, without planning it, wanting it, thinking about it, or feeling any particular way about it, I began mothering.

It started in little ways. I would go to work, ask the kids about home, school and homework. I’d try to get the homeless kids and their families’ food, school, shelter. I would help the kids develop internal and external resources. I’d ask about friends, life goals, and try and inspire and motivate the kids to achieve their dreams, no matter what the obstacles seemed to be.

Then my mothering instinct became stronger. I started to realize how few children have the supports they need to achieve even basic goals. I noticed the threats to these children’s lives---not the boogeyman kinds of threats---the kids already knew how to defend against those. I mean, the threat of indifference, the threat of being objectified and commodified. The threat of being powerless, invisible, of having no voice and no means to advocate for themselves.

Then I really became a mother. A full-on, I will kick you ass if you hurt my babies kind of mother. I became a clinical therapist and trauma specialist so I could help those children who have suffered the worst humanity has to offer. I remain strong to bear witness to the pain and suffering these children can barely express. I talk about my work so others know how dreadfully children are treated in this world; not all children of course, but so, so many.

When people ask me, “How can you do that work?  It sounds so depressing!” Like a mother, I ask them, how could I not? If not me, who? That outrage inside me, that anger I thought might not be great for kids, is the fire that fuels my service, my advocacy and my ability to stand up for those in need. It’s exactly what kids need.

Now, at 39, I have a 3-year-old girl of my own and a baby boy on the way. My daughter’s smile, laugh, story-telling, empathy and grace give me an overwhelming, intoxicating sense of joy, peace and balance I never knew I missed. I have known the pleasure of pregnancy, birthing, and breastfeeding. I have learned some balance in parenting different ages and stages of development. I still do not need my children to look up to me, tell me they love me or call me mommy, but it’s delightful when it happens.

And, of course, the only way I am able to sustain my strength to do the work that I do is because I have a devoted, feminist husband who equally shares the load, a long-term partner I can’t imagine ever living without. A man who inspires me. A man who teaches our daughter every day that men are not always oppressors, that sometimes a man is just the person you need to do the critical work of your calling. And, that fathers are equally important as mothers.

So, while I may not be conquering the world in quite the fashion I imagined I would, and there are still so many places I want to go, things I want to see, fears I want to face, I wouldn’t trade my life or my experiences for anything. I love my life and I cherish motherhood. I never wanted to be a “mother”, but it’s because I alone limited the meaning of that word.

Notes on (Not) Unplugging

Until recently, my relationship had been a long distance one. When my boyfriend arrived in California, my Internet suddenly shrunk. A dimension of it disappeared, and so did my longing. I no longer had to sift through a sea of status updates and tweets and ceaseless chatter to reach him, or send a WhatsApp message to greet him when I woke up. And, since my day was his night—as San Francisco and Cairo are nine hours apart—we no longer had to schedule Skype chats in our overlapping waking hours. And so, it has been one month of being together in the same city. Amid all of this change, and being able to talk face-to-face each day, I wonder: are my online habits changing?

* * *

To unplug. To log off. To take a break from technology, to reimmerse ourselves in the real world, to put our phones down and talk to the person sitting in front of us, to connect and experience a moment the old-fashioned way. I read variations of this discussion everywhere, from Pico Iyer's "The Joy of Quiet" " to Sherry Turkle's "The Flight From Conversation" to comments on a recent post on my blog on information overload and my inability to write.

But these actions of "unplugging" and "logging off" just don't mean much anymore.

At the beginning of last year, when I began writing about my online friendships, my Internet worlds, and place and space in a digital world, I lived in two separate spheres, online and off. I felt my way through both worlds, navigating from one to the other and maintaining two selves, real and virtual.

But these worlds have since merged, and these words—real, virtual, online, offline, plugged, unplugged—have lost their meaning. The distinction between physical and digital has blurred, and I don't think there is a plug to pull to maneuver from one sphere to the other. Now, when I follow discussions on digital dualism—the perspective that our online and offline worlds are separate—I identify instead with views in favor of an augmented reality, where the physical and the digital, and atoms and bits, are enmeshed.

I think about this shift in me—how I confidently wrote last year about living in two distinct spheres, switching my virtual persona on as if putting on a hat, yet today operate freely and fearlessly in an ever-changing space with no such boundaries. And I sense that my relationship, which blossomed over the Internet and was nurtured by GMail and Twitter and WhatsApp and Skype for a year, forced me to acclimate to this fused world.

In our long distance spell, we created a space just for us online, where emailing and @replying felt just as special as holding hands and kissing. Maybe this is an exaggeration, but when we relied solely on the Internet to maintain our relationship, all of our actions, gestures, and conversations—whether by typing or touching, on screen or in the flesh—weighed the same.

Now that the main person with whom I communicated online shares my physical space, my Internet continues to morph. It has become something more than what it has been—more than a portal through which we have connected when geography has divided us, more than an online space of information and ideas and networks to which I connect with various devices. Because now that he is on this side of the world, sitting in the same room as me, I haven't abandoned, nor do I devalue, this online mode we've gotten so used to—I don't treat his texts or emails as less important than our face-to-face conversations.

It seems the Internet has become part of us—a layer that floats in our home. I thought it had disappeared—that I didn't need it anymore—but I sense this dimension of communication and interaction will always be there, whether or not we share the same time zone.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind.Shayna Kulik, Pattern Pulp Outliers: the story of success by Malcom Gladwell I just finished Outliers---after putting it down last year. I really enjoyed the second half more than the first and, it coincidently was the perfect lay-up for Tokyo Vice, the book I'm reading now. It's fantastic, and offers a realistic window of Japanese culture through the eyes of an assimilated American journalist. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it's true. The storytelling is phenomenal and if you have even the mildest interest in Japan you'll find it entertaining and informative.

When I'm tight on time, I stick to magazines, for editorial and design inspiration. It's an ever-changing list, but off the top of my head . . . The New Yorker, The New York Times, Vanity Fair, Dazed & Confused, Art Forum, Another Mag, 032, LOVE and The Economist.

Amy Connoly, Creative Soul Spectrum I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb I know I'm well over a decade behind here considering this book made it's debut in Oprah's Book Club in 1998, but the great thing about a good book is it's ability to be timeless. Between my job as a graphic designer and the time I spend working on my own blog and viewing other blogs, the majority of my day is spent in front of a computer. I love being able to come home to a book that I find as captivating as the things I see on my screen. Wally Lamb has certainly captured my attention with this novel about the life and struggles of a man whose identical twin suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.

Miranda Ward, A Literal Girl Marshall McLuhan: You Know Nothing of My Work! by Douglas Coupland I've actually just finished this book, but I'm still thinking about it, so I don't think listing it is quite cheating. Coupland's short and unconventional biography of McLuhan, first published a few years ago, feels very timely. "You can't slow down, even once, ever, without becoming irrelevant", Coupland writes of contemporary life, capturing the strange sense of urgency that seems to characterize our era. And the book is peppered with seemingly prophetic quotes from McLuhan. "We look at the present through a rearview mirror. We march backwards into the future" is a favorite of mine.

Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You by Alice Munro I was initially resistant to this book. My mother gave it to me years ago, and said I should read it, that maybe everybody should read it. That kind of urgency about books is good but it always makes me reticent: what if I can't feel what you felt? And anyway I struggle with short stories. But it is good. It feels like a book that's okay to read at a slow pace.

Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer I've been re-reading this. It's ostensibly a book about not writing a book about D.H. Lawrence (whilst also being, of course, a book about D.H. Lawrence). Dyer is brilliant (and often laugh-out-loud funny) on subjects like indecision, procrastination, and depression, and this, in my view, is his finest work. I'm trying to learn or absorb something from it.

Flaubert in Egypt by Gustave Flaubert Letters and notes from Flaubert's 1849 visit to Egypt. I've been dipping in and out of this book for a long time now; you feel as if you're going on a journey every time you read a paragraph.

The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt A sprawling novel---maybe too big, in a way. But the completeness of the world that Byatt has created is extraordinary. One of those novels you eventually fall into and swim joyfully around in, though it took me awhile to commit to it.

From Orlando, Florida...

Dearest Clara,

Normally my work takes me to big cities for small amounts of time, and it's always so hard to leave you behind.  So when the opportunity came to speak at a work conference in Florida, I thought it would be a nice change of pace.  In fact, I even thought I would run a little experiment this time around and bring you on the trip, along with our nanny so that we could get a chance to do something new together.  The work hours were still there of course, but being able to take you to the pool in the evenings, and on long strolls around the Magic Kingdom property are something I'll never forget.  I know we won't have the opportunity to travel this way very often, so I enjoyed every minute.

Sometimes when I travel for work, the destinations seems elusive---how much can you really learn about a place between the airport, the hotel and your work site?  But with you, we did go out and about at least a little bit, and you made me see things that I probably wouldn't have otherwise noticed at all.  When your father asked how Disney was, I said it was funny to me. Everyone is happy, everything is clean, and everything almost struck me as artificial, like a utopia.  And he astutely asked me, "isn't that why people go there?".  And he's right. People come to Disney for the magical experience and for a chance to have a glimpse of life where everything is in its most perfect form.  The street isn't dirty . . . the waitress isn't rude . . . the Boardwalk is just as you remember it from the pictures.  All the characters that you know and love from your imagination could actually pop up at any moment, and everything in your imagination suddenly becomes real.  When I thought about it that way, I realized it was a gift to have a bit of that magic, especially with you.  So with that in mind, here are a few of the things that I learned from our trip that I hope you remember:

• Wear sunscreen . . . lots of it.  You probably don't need me to tell you that you have your mother's skin.  And that means sunburns and that Florida sun stops for no one! Wear it, put on more than you think you need, and put it on more often than you think you need.  You'll thank me one day.
• And wear a hat too . . . See above.  I know you don't like it, please just wear it.  I promise one day you will think hats are cool.
• You can never have too many swimsuits. Specifically, swimsuit bottoms.  If there's one thing that drives me crazy during vacation days, it's having a wet swimsuit on or having to put a wet swimsuit back on a different day. One of the best luxuries of vacation is having a nice dry suit to put on every time you need it, even if you're just about to jump into the water.  Keep an eye out for end of season sales and stock up---you'll be glad you have extra.
• It's nice to believe in magic. Part of being a child is believing in magic and in the power of your imagination.  Part of being an adult is appreciating those that still do.  Real life gives us plenty of opportunities to see just how real it can be, so protect that part of your world that is full of wonder, happiness, awe and possibility.

All my love,

Mom

The Wisdom of 105 years

What She Taught Me: If you happen to be born under a Czar in Russia, it is best to die under the first black President of the United States.

The most memorable path from Odessa to New York is via Ellis Island.

If you marry young and wrong, fix it.  Then marry again, older, and get it right.

Go to summer camp, work at summer camp, send your kids to summer camp.

Work very hard in noble, middle-class professions, but have manners like you are from Old Money.

Speak your mind early, often and even, maybe especially, when your speech fails you.

No excuses---maintain your hair, makeup and nails.  In a pinch, lipstick in a bright hue and clip on earrings will suffice.

Read voraciously, talk about books constantly, engage politically and do the New York Times Crossword Puzzle as far into the week as you can manage.  Obviously Sunday is the pinnacle.

Be unabashed in your pride and boasting when it comes to your family and your own significant accomplishments.

Make your marriage a true love affair, canonize your husband and keep his memory alive during all the years he misses.

Venerate the country you live in and be passionate about preserving its loftiest ideals.

Women can and should be controversial, if at all possible.

Be grateful about the opportunities in your life, whether they came to you by chance or by your own toiling.

Listen to music, play music, make your children play music.

It is totally acceptable to embellish when you are singing the praises of your family, even if a few of your grandchildren somehow end up with promotions along the way.

The Sweet and Low and all the other accouterments on the table at a restaurant are there for the taking.  Fill up your purse, sister.  Fill it up.

Rhea Sapodin Tauber July 17, 1907 – May 26, 2012

family is universal...

A portrait series on the families of the Omo River Valley in Ethiopia by Brookelyn Photography.

Memories of Freedom

I am the product of small towns. As a fourth grader, in Vincennes, Indiana, I rode my bicycle to school every day. Vincennes is a flat town of under twenty thousand residents and I lived in a neighborhood that was a straightforward grid. I rode three blocks down Twelfth Street and two blocks over on Wabash Avenue. This was fully allowed by the school; it was a K-6 school and bike riding was permitted when students were in fourth grade or above. I loved it. At the time I had a Huffy “Desert Rose” bicycle, which featured a fuchsia color scheme that was all the rage in 1988. There were bike racks at the school and I would ride there in the morning, chain my bike to the rack using my neon orange combination lock, and at the end of the day retrieve it to ride home. I have no idea what, if any, doubts my parents had about allowing this. I do know that I remember the experience with remarkable, visceral fondness.

One day, while riding home, I was knocked off my bike by an older (probably sixth grade) boy on his bike. It was an isolated incident of totally random meanness. I told my parents about it, and, if memory serves, my father went to talk to his parents. While I remember this incident, the sort of thing many parents might fear happening, it is but a blip in the experience of being allowed to ride my bike to school.

I was reminded of this when I read an article in Bicycling Magazine about a controversy in Saratoga Springs, NY.  In spite of rising obesity rates, and environmental concerns, many schools prohibit students from riding bikes because of safety and liability concerns. The article reported that “one British study found that over the course of four generations, the distance that eight-year-old children in one family (the Thomases of Sheffield, England) were allowed to roam from home had shrunk from 6 miles (for great-grandfather George in 1926) to one mile (for grandfather Jack in 1950) to half a mile (for mother Vicky in 1979) to 300 yards (for son Ed in 2007).”

I read the article weeks ago and I keep returning to that statistic. Many of my fondest memories from my childhood involve “exploring” with friends, either on bikes or on foot. When my family moved to Bethany, West Virginia, in 1989, I found myself in a college town with no traffic lights, no gas station, virtually no traffic, and a coterie of fellow professors’ kids with whom to ramble around. Summer often involved four or five of us in the woods, finding crayfish in the creek, or playing an elaborate version of nighttime hide and seek we called “flashlight war.” I remember distinctly the day we decided to “ride our bikes to Pennsylvania,” and while it was only a three-mile ride, the thrill of crossing a state line all by ourselves has never left me.

How do I provide my son with these experiences? Is it possible in 2012, to give kids this sort of freedom? Are such idyllic experiences only feasible in small towns? As a parent, I feel like every decision we make about our son’s welfare is complicated and fraught. “Does the store have organic bananas today? Is he too heavy to use his jumper any more? The weather is cool and humid – does he need a sweatshirt?”  This isn’t even beginning to touch the big issues that cause rifts among even the best of friends like the never-ending debates over breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and so on.

I remember one day when I was probably about twelve years old. I went out into the woods that framed our yard in West Virginia. I was by myself. I probably was never more than a thousand yards or so from my house. I had no cell phone, no GPS. I went wandering, and I stumbled upon two trees that had grown towards each other creating an arch of sorts. I stood, mouth agape, astounded by the way these two trees framed an area of wildflowers just beyond. Romantically, and tapping into my inner Anne Shirley, I dubbed it “the gateway to beauty.” It was a remarkable sight, and I believed (and in a way still do believe) that I was the only person who had ever seen it.  I went back days later and couldn’t find it again, but the memory lingers ethereally and has for twenty years.

Is there space for that sort of moment in a world where kids aren’t left alone “outside” very often? Even though I was really very close to my house, I felt like I was on another planet. Would I still have felt that way with an iPhone in my pocket?

I want my son to have these experiences, but I realize that these memories were not hyper-orchestrated by my parents. They bought me a bike, they let me ride it, they trusted me to come home again, and they trusted the environment enough to let me go. I hope I will be able to do the same for my son, even though the culture has shifted.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind. Erin Boyle, Reading My Tea Leaves State of Wonder by Ann Patchett This week I finally dug into Ann Patchett's State of Wonder and somehow, miraculously, I've made the adult decision to tend to weekday obligations rather than holing up in my bed for the duration and gobbling each delicious morsel. It's the kind of book I don't mind dog-earing. Or rather, it's the kind of book I can't help dog-earing--there is so much I'd like to return to later. A taste of my favorite passage so far: "Had they not been so hopeful and guileless her birth would have been impossible. Marina reimagined her parents as a couple of practical cynics and suddenly the entire film of her life spooled backwards until at last the small heroine disappeared completely."

Kelly Beall, Design Crush The Wolf Gift by Anne Rice I've been a huge Anne Rice fan since college, and I always eagerly await her next book. Anne's explored so many genres throughout her career that I was thrilled when I heard she was going back to her roots with the supernatural. I think you get the idea behind the book from the title, and so far it has not disappointed. I'm about 75% finished with the book and only started Monday! A great summer read, for sure.

Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson Being not only a design blogger, but a graphic designer, Steve Jobs has played a massive role in my life through his creations at Apple. I was devastated when he passed away last year. This book is an all-revealing look at his life, not only the accomplishments and successes but also the mistakes and defeats. Biographies can tend to be slow-moving and dry, but I literally can't put this one down. A must for anyone who's life relies on the products he brought to life.

Shani Gilchrist, Camille Maurice Lately I find that the only way to plow through the books I want is to keep a few on my nightstand at a time. With work, kid,s and life it’s the best way to keep my reading momentum moving forward.

Birds of a Lesser Paradise by Megan Mayhew Bergman I connected with Megan via Twitter through another writer who was giving me advice about returning to school for my MFA (I haven’t applied yet, but it’s still in my mind). It turned out that we both attended the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts in the 1990s, and then I was delighted to find her piece, “Housewifely Arts” in the latest edition of Best American Short Stories, so I couldn’t wait to read her collection. Megan is a teacher and mother with an uncanny ability to understand the varied conditions life stages-- from loneliness to amusement with one’s own state of affairs. I’ve been taking my time reading this collection because I find myself needing to process the emotions of each main character.

Guide To South Carolina Vegetable Gardening by Walter Reeves & Felder Rushing I’m a South Carolinian with a decent sized yard and an irrigation system. Therefore I try to grow stuff. Last fall we had a storm with downdraft winds so strong that they left us trapped on our block with a pulsing and swollen creek on one side and fallen trees blocking street. The good news—the despised 100-foot pine behind our koi pond had to be removed as a result, leaving room for what will be a vegetable garden. The book is a great guide to when and how to plant various herbs, fruits and vegetables in our temperamental climate.

The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them by Elif Batuman I developed a huge girl crush on Elif Batuman when I read her New Yorker piece about traveling through eastern Turkey to observe a mysteriously intense orinthologist. A neighbor who is a friend from high school borrowed (stole) the book while housesitting for us a few months ago. I just got it back and am as smothered with the book’s fascination with Russian culture and literature as I am by the topics on their own. It is a fantastic testament to the timelessness of Russian storytelling and the lives of people who love books.

Who’s Afraid of Post-Blackness: What It Means To Be Black Now by Touré The introduction to this book is captivatingly true. We live in an age where people deprive themselves of experiences because of their racial identity, yet we live in an age where we believe that the election of the first president of color is supposed to liberate us from such behavior. Both attitudes are extreme in their own way, and Touré provides an unflinching look at the most recent complexities of race and culture.

Home Sweet Home

For Mother’s Day I received Toni Morrison’s newest novel, Home.  As a huge Toni fan, I look forward to reading the text and enjoying the characters as I always do, but what struck me the most about her newest book is the simple title, Home.  In that short four lettered word, so many meanings and experiences come to my mind.  Home has come to mean many things to me over the years.  Literally, I can count up the dozens of addresses and phone numbers I’ve changed and re-changed, area codes and postal codes, boxes and bags.  You see, I’m a mover.  I’ve been a mover since I was young.  My parents come from migrant people, and I think there is something about my ancestors being from, as we say in Spanish, ni de aquí ni de allá (neither here nor there). My mother’s family hails from the Tex-Mex borderlands, and they are migrant farm workers who have settled in the Rio Grande Valley.  My dad’s biological mother, though he was adopted from a family in Richmond, was part of the great migration of African Americans to the Northeast in the 1940s, and she has called Hartford, Connecticut her home for many decades.  While my parents met, married, child reared, and divorced in Richmond, Virginia, my soul has always felt I was from some other place.

Home from a practical sense was in constant flux from my perspective.  I grew up knowing home existed with my mom, dad, sisters, and then with grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins (which is common for Latino families). There were several times in my childhood that I vividly recall moving in the middle of the night and making home with my grandparents or aunts for several months because of my parent’s troubled marriage.  One time we lived for three years in an apartment on the other side of town from my father, and then moved back to the house.  Each time we came and went leaving behind my faded childhood memories of Baxter Road.  I felt less and less connected to the notion of home and created new memories by the time I was coming of age on Hampstead Avenue in a low-income apartment community.  By the time I was ready to apply to colleges, I wanted to leave home because I felt no connection to home or to Richmond.  I was a repressed and depressed teen in lots of angst and sought refuge outside of my home.

College made me feel safe, and I found security in my dorm and new life in college.  But it was only temporary and often felt ashamed to tell anyone freshman year that going home meant going to a small 2 bedroom apartment that was shared by my mother and grandparents, an uncle and his friend, my 5 year old cousin, a noisy dog, and a parrot.  My sisters, mother, and I---four grown women---shared a 10 x 10 room, a full size mattress, pallets on the floor with blankets and towels as another bed, and clothes neatly folded and piled in boxes along the wall.  Our lives were all squeezed into one tiny room, waiting presumably for a home.  I remember feeling angry and thinking, this is what I am coming home to?  I selfishly did not want to come home anymore and found ways to stay on campus during breaks.  I now realize that I desperately needed space, but foolishly thought I needed to make college my home.

My mom finally made her dream come true in 2002 by becoming a homeowner, and a year later, I made another home as  I pursued graduate studies in New York City.  Ever moving, within my first three years in New York, I lived in 3 different boroughs and 5 different apartments, continually searching for home---Manhattan’s Upper West Side, Bedford Stuyvesant Brooklyn and the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx.  Each time, I created and re-created home.  Each time searching, looking and “constructing” home.  Each time my home experience came to an end, and I was on the move again.  New number, new address, new postal code . . .

In 2008, I came very close to having home when I bought the “house of my dreams” with my then husband in Virginia.  I had moved back to Richmond that year to help my family with my sister who was battling cancer.  We went big and bought the home I had dreamed about when I was kid: the 4 bedroom, 2.5 bath colonial style white house with black shudders, red door, garage, fenced backyard, and manicured lawn.  I just knew I had made it because I had a [big] home to call my own.  Finally no moving, no sharing, tons of space, privacy and it was all mine.

Months and years into the home, I noticed the house was always cold, and there was something very metaphysically empty about it.  Despite the freshly-painted neutral walls, newly-purchased gorgeous wood furniture, and fancy alarm system for protection, there was still this barenness.  It was the details though that should have clued me in. The little things were never done: the curtains were never hung, photos and art never made it to the walls, and the dining room sat empty night after night.  Something in my gut told me this was not home and that things would change.   I tried to ignore that quiet whisper because I had to make it work, right?  I had constructed this life and this home, right?  Soon it became painfully obvious that not only was this house built on a shaky foundation, but so was my marriage.  As the summer of 2010 came to a close, so did my home and my marriage.

Fast forward to 2012, I have downsized to a 2 bedroom,  1 bath apartment in a beautiful neighborhood in northern Manhattan bordering the Hudson River.  While I don’t have the oversized house, I have found my home.  I finally am at ease and at home not only in my home, but in myself.   The joy that I feel has no words.  Every inch of my home is literally and metaphysically warm---stacked with books, and brimming with my son’s art and toys.  It is imperfectly perfect, but I am finally home.

In the end, I now know that home is not a literal space to fix and construct, but a metaphysical and metaphorical space for loving, nurturing, and caring for myself and my loved ones in an honest and meaningful way.

Home is the jog up to the Cloisters on a crisp spring evening.

Home is the sand and rocks of the wild James River between my toes.

Home is the wind blowing my curls in my face when I ride down the highway.

Home is cradling my son in my bed at 2AM when he is scared of the monsters.

Home is the pungent smell of garlic and the sumptuous taste of a meal cooked at home.

Home is my life; home is my voice; and home is my truth.

Home is me.

Home sweet home is knowing that home is deep within me.  I am home wherever I am at.  I am home now and always.

Hometown, Homesick Heroes: Albert Pujols

After several years playing in a Fantasy league, I’ve learned why baseball lends itself so well to metaphor. We may strike out at the bar or hit it out of the ballpark in the boardroom, but we can’t escape the game. These are my love letters to the sport. Dear Albert,

I sort of feel like being the best baseball player of the last decade entitles you to a Mr. before your name, but to me you’re just a Missouri boy who has found himself a little lost, too far from home and aching for the comfort of family and a hefty plate of barbecued burnt ends.  Or maybe I’m just projecting.

You and I both said goodbye to the Midwest last fall. You set out for one coast, I for the other.  You had a katrillion-dollar contract awaiting you with the Los Angeles Angels. I had a couple of months unemployment and a glossy-eyed dream for something bigger.

Are you happy Albert?  I sincerely hope so because you seem like the nicest guy. Of course, we like to do that in Missouri. We project kind and wholesome images on those we embrace as our hometown heroes¹.  For all I really know, you shish kabob puppies while using dollar bills as kindling.

I remember you from high school. Local sports fans started talking almost as soon as you arrived, 16 years old, barely speaking English, and already hitting 400 ft home runs. In our neighboring towns just outside Kansas City, MO, simply being a kid from another country would have been enough to make you stand out².

You took Ft. Osage High School to the state championship your first year there and probably would have done it your second too, if pitchers hadn’t just refused to throw the ball to you.

When you left Kansas City, you didn’t go far. Like thousands of Missouri kids also shooting for the stars, you didn’t even make it out of the state.  Only you ended up at 1^st base as a rookie standout for the St. Louis Cardinals, turned multi-year MVP and two-time World Series Champion.  Most of those others seem to have ended up tending bar in their college town or getting pregnant in the back of a Sonic parking lot.

While other high-profile sports figures would swoop in for their football or baseball season, reality-star girlfriends in tow, and party it up before returning to California or Miami or wherever they had rooted their McMansion—this was your home. You married a single mother, adopted her daughter, and proceeded to build a life, a family, a charitable foundation, even a restaurant in St. Louis.

And in return, you were loved. Not just idolized, but really loved. Kansas City and St. Louis have a long rivalry³ but fans on both sides of the state could agree that your story was pretty magical.

Real life movies never end when they should though. More often than not there is another chapter at best and an awkward postscript at worst.

You are one year older than me⁴. I’d like to think that head start is responsible for your paycheck of 12 million per year and my paycheck of…not 12 million.

Would I rather be you right now? The money would be nice, sure, but I don’t know. At 31, my career is only just beginning. I moved to New York eight months ago because I had an opportunity to work in film and things have been roller-coastering, but moving in a generally upward trajectory ever since.  I miss my friends and my family. I miss living someplace where being kind and neighborly is a central tenet of life. But in New York I’m doing things I spent my life dreaming about and I have no idea what’s coming next. I like that.

Your career definitely has several years left to it, but it’s hard to deny that your pinnacle is probably behind you. You left St. Louis in a blaze of glory, winning the 2011 World Series and then signing a giant $250 million contract to move to the Los Angeles Angels. Unfortunately, 2012 is a different year and a different story.

You’ve been on my fantasy team for two seasons now—my first choice each time. This year, though, things are looking rough. A slow start has turned into a painful first half. Not only are you not hitting home runs, you’re not hitting much else either. When you do, your new team doesn’t have the ability to get you home.

When do I give up on you?  At one point do you stop being THE Albert Pujols and just become another player who isn’t delivering the fantasy points I need?

Maybe let’s just pretend for a minute. It’s just you and me, back in those Missouri towns where the city just gives way to the country. We’re taking my dad’s old stick shift out to that field in Grain Valley. You know the one, it’s not far from either of our high schools and all the kids go there on clear, starry nights. You bring some snacks from the 7/11. I’ll bring the cherry limeades. You’ll still be the jock, practicing your English, and I’ll still be the nerd who’s obsessed with show tunes and pie. But we can talk baseball and barbecue and all the good things that come out of the state we love.

Always,

Anna

^1. We even tried that tactic with Rush Limbaugh, but some things are just beyond hope and optimism.

^2. The demographics of small towns in the Midwest have changed dramatically in the last 20 years, as immigrants have moved in, often stabilizing towns that were previously losing industry and population.  This has predictably generated both increased conflict and greater understanding. I am not qualified to really talk at length on the subject, but it would be interesting to learn more about how local sports and sports fans are impacted by, and are perhaps an impact on, this change.

^3. ahem, 1985.

^4. Because of your size and strength as a teenager, many folks believed your birth certificate was a fake and you are actually several years older. I think your accomplishments are extraordinary whatever your age.

An Introduction

I’ve always been something of a city mouse and a country mouse. For me, the New York City skyline makes me catch my breath in just the same way that the rocky coast of Maine does. Whether I’m driving down a country road or cruising down the West Side Highway at sunset, my heart fills with pure and unadulterated glee. People like to draw stark lines between the city and the country. Where the city is fast-paced and full of energy, the country is calm and quiet. Where life in the city is described as complicated, country life is depicted as simple, serene. The reality, of course, is that the two ideals don’t have to exist so separately. To make sure that when I’m in one spot I’m not spending all of my spare time wishing I were someplace else, I’ve chosen to bring bits of my country life into my city life. You can see them in the photographs I take: my window box in Brooklyn, flower stands at farmer’s markets, herbal tea, brewed at home.

At first glance, this marriage of country and city appears to be mostly an aesthetic choice.  But I don’t eat farm fresh produce just because it’s beautiful to photograph and my choice to fill my home only with flowers from nearby farmers goes beyond my particular adoration of Black-eyed Susans. For me, these choices also take into account my impact on the planet. I’m not saying that country folk have all the world’s environmental questions sorted, but sometimes living in a big city can mean that the nuances of seasons and the environmental impact of our choices can feel distant. The truth is that whether we’re in the country or the city or in all the places in between, we’re living in an era of global climate change. In the face of these changes, it’s been important for me to reconsider my own lifestyle.

For the most part, the changes I’ve made have been small and gradual. I was never a Hummer-driving, Big Mac-eating lady to begin with. But carefully thinking about the impact of my lifestyle on the planet has become a part of my everyday life.  I may live in a big city, but I’m trying my darndest to make sure that I stay in touch with the country all around me. Rather than flee the grit of the city for a simpler life in the country, for now anyway, I’m committed to making a simple life in the city. It’s mostly a fallacy that life in the country is so simple, anyway. Just ask my sister, she’s a farmer.

It’s a tough thing, this writing about sustainabilty and lifestyle. For some folks, it will across as preachy: pushing an agenda that finishes by boosting the confidence of the author and trampling on the choices of readers. For others, it won't go far enough: buying cut flowers from a nearby farmer isn’t going save the planet. Always, the issues are complicated. What of the workers? What of the economics? How do you afford grass-fed meat, anyway? This column isn’t a place for me to tell you what to do,  it’s a space for me to chronicle what I’m doing. It’s a celebration of the city. It’s a celebration of the country. Mostly, it’s a celebration of the planet and a story about making my place in it. I hope you’ll indulge me. 

I Know a Lot of Mothers

I know a lot of mothers. I have a mother. I am a mother. I have watched my sister and many friends become mothers. I work with mothers. As a pediatric nurse practitioner, I have worked with teen mothers in New York City’s foster care system. I have worked with mothers on the Upper East Side. I have worked with Noe Valley moms in San Francisco. I have worked with mothers in as many family constructs as are imaginable. I can’t avoid mothers! The privilege to meet and talk with hundreds of mothers has afforded me an intimate glimpse into 21st century motherhood, and I see the emotional stress it creates. I was asked recently by a mother if she had done irreparable damage to her son. Her son was having significant constipation despite her best and plentiful efforts, and its root cause certainly wasn’t her fault. In my experience constipation is rarely a permanent state, so even though it was not solved at that moment, it didn’t mean it couldn’t change tomorrow. Yet, while it was happening, she felt like she had really done harm, and she blamed herself for not being able to find the one key solution to solving her son’s distress. Her sentiments are ones I hear a lot: a fear that our mothering attempts aren’t good enough and potentially so egregious that they’re permanently damaging.

Like so many other aspects of our modern lives there is a message of fear being driven into the minds of our new mothers. Despite the dramatic accomplishments of 21st century women---earning the majority of higher education degrees in this country, becoming household breadwinners, and having the ultimate freedom to dress as we like, say what we feel and choose our marital partners---I still see a lot of women who were clearly confident and successful in their lives before having children subsequently become crippled by the multitude of decisions required for motherhood. Where does this fear come from?

I suspect some of this fear to trust our instincts begins during pregnancy when the process of labor looms ahead, making many women become anxious about the pain of childbirth. It’s why 84% of first-time mothers choose to have an epidural, many before even experiencing the first twinges of contractions. Or maybe it’s when women are selecting items for their baby registry, and they begin to feel materially unprepared to care for their new infant being inundated with the marketing of “essential” baby gear and products. They’re told they can’t just bring a baby home without places ready to put the baby, soothe the baby, carry the baby, bathe the baby, feed the baby, stroll the baby. The message that the baby-gear marketing gives to new mothers is that they are unequipped. Or perhaps it’s that the experience of motherhood has become overly intellectualized to the point that we can’t trust our instincts. We read competing books theorizing about how to parent (be a tiger mom or a Zen momma), how to feed, how to sleep train, how to create the perfect high achiever, all while not landing them in therapy. Or perhaps it’s that we really do live in a toxic world and even have a toxic womb and the number of chemicals, pollutants, and pesticides in our food, water and environment make raising children a terrifying endeavor.

Despite the fears and new stresses that becoming a mother puts on women, the majority of women I encounter face the challenges and do their best to navigate their way through the bumpy and unpredictable path of motherhood. I think we women, good at being task-driven and achievement-oriented, quickly realize the gravity of our new role that first time we hold our new baby in our arms. Unlike our iphones, this new tiny being didn’t come with a manual. Instead, we must decipher the needs and adapt to the powerful rhythms of our new baby that is distinct from any other.

It is true that being a mother may be the most important job we have in this life, but even if we feel insecure, we can still find personal joys in its challenges. We need not get bogged down with piling guilt on ourselves or comparing ourselves to how other mothers express motherhood. Just as we quickly learn that our baby is unique, we too, must get comfortable with creating our own style of motherhood. I love to encourage families to create their own family culture--expressed through the spices they use to cook to the way they spend their Saturday mornings. Creating family customs and routines that are personal help to build confidence and make motherhood fun.

I work fulltime so I find that the time I have with my daughter, Eloise, is really just book-ended during the week. Mornings are always rushed for us as I focus to get her ready so that my husband can take her to daycare. I try to make the rushed process fun--we might read a book while getting dressed or we make up silly songs while mixing her oatmeal “mommy stirs the water, Ella stirs the milk.” In the evenings we’re less rushed, but we still need to get a lot done in a short time. Still I try to make more time for play and cuddles. I discovered when Eloise was six months old that I could make her giggle and since then I try to do one thing every day to hear that adorable, pure laughter. Our latest game involves us pretending to chew bubblegum then popping each other’s imaginary bubbles that ends in hysteria. We get our cuddles in during the bedtime routine--three books with daddy and me and two songs just the two of us. I know I can’t be present for Eloise all day/every day, but in the time I do have with her, I try to be mindful to keep those sacred two hours each evening Eloise-focused. And of course each day that is a challenge as she’s two and meltdowns are plentiful!

The parenting decisions we make will certainly impact our children, but which ones and to what degree is unknown. The decisions that matter most are the simple ones that don't require monetary means or social status. In the long term it really doesn't matter if you have the fanciest stroller, read the latest how-to-train your baby book, or bought the current new fangled baby gear. What matters most are not things that need to be acquired but things we already possess. In our harried 21st Century lives, time with our children may be limited, but in the time we do have it's so important to do our best to be truly present, find ways to be playful, nurture with physical touch, and encourage their curiosity. Take heart in knowing that most of what our kids take away from our mothering is out of our command. Our children will grow and develop into themselves in spite of us. We are certainly going to make mistakes, ones that we can’t even anticipate yet, but why not have fun doing it? Let's roll up our sleeves, dig in and get our hands messy, and just do our best!

Emily Novak Waight is a pediatric nurse practitioner in San Francisco. She has worked with families in New York and San Francisco across a range of cultures and backgrounds. She lives with her husband and daughter, and loves to run, hike, and enjoy sunny days on her deck with her family. 

Flourish

As a newly minted single mother, I am constantly feeling like I’m just hanging on and getting by.  I found myself almost two years ago in this position unexpectedly at 30 when I realized that my five year marriage was over.  I had to marshal internal and external resources I didn’t know I had to sustain a very new way of life. While this became both one of the most challenging experiences in my life to date, it also simultaneously became one of the most liberating decisions I’ve made.  I recognize each person’s story and path through relationship difficulties vary. We heal at different points, we move on or stay for different reasons, and our needs are uniquely our own. We must own all of these realities and decide for ourselves and in my case, for my son. Time has passed, a heart is mended, and I am now stronger.  I feel like a more engaged mother not only because I have to be, but because I truly am “parenting while awake” instead of on autopilot hoping dad was picking up where I slacked off.  I also found once I opened up a bit about my situation, the outpouring of love and support was abundant, especially from friends - old and new. It's been such a beautiful experience for me. It's changing me daily. I love my new life and would not change it for the world. I am thankful and grateful every day for the freedom I have to live, think, feel and most importantly love in the way that is truly mine.

But as of late, as I move into year two, I am beginning to look for ways to move beyond sustaining and onto flourishing.  I learned of this concept at work conference this winter that made me think of an old word in a new way.  The presenter challenged the attendees to move beyond thinking of sustainable community projects to ones that flourish.  So, I think about that word again “flourish” in this particular moment while I am surrounded by the enchantment of another New York City spring.  Flowers in bloom, birds chirping, the lush green trees outside my office are bright and billow in the breeze.  Nature is reminding me daily of this concept of flourishing.  So I ask myself quietly as I sip my morning tea, am I flourishing toward authenticity or merely sustaining?  I think it is much closer to the latter. So I ask myself another question, how do I move toward authenticity?

In trying to apply this notion of flourishing outside of my work context and into my personal life, I came across two complications: flourishing requires (1) multiple resources (assuming one has resources) and (2) self-awareness to develop a formula or process to flourish.  Let me try to untangle these two contentions.

Like with any new endeavor, it takes resources to begin, sustain, and most importantly flourish.  The kinds of resources I would argue are necessary for one to flourish would include financial, human and emotional resources.  So if for example I were to create a plan to flourish, it might look something like this:

• Financial resources might include an upgrade from the local gym to a national chain gym that has a sauna, swimming pool and the latest Yoga classes.  In my case, this would require an additional $160/month for gym membership.
• In terms of human resources required, I would invest time in engaging with friends, mentors, and family.   Spending weekly time with others takes away personal time, and usually time with friends includes meals, coffee or cocktails incurring further costs.  Let’s say an additional weekly meal with a friend would be at minimum $35/week at $140/month, not including the cost of time lost from personal time (to read, do laundry, run errands, to parent, etc.).
• And the emotional resources required might include some use of cognitive behavioral therapy techniques in developing positive thinking patterns and affirmative language.  One might seek out a life coach, therapist or self-help books to re-frame one’s psycho-social wellbeing.  Hiring a coach or therapist would be significant cost factors though let’s be conservative and say, I’d order a handful of used self-help books at $75.

In just one month, it could require at minimum $375 for me to “flourish.”  That’s an additional resource investment that I’m not sure I could take on.  Should it cost that much for me to flourish?  I don’t know, but it is something we should think about when we envision our lives blossoming like a spring flower.

Secondly, I also recognize that there is no formula to flourish.  Each person’s recipe for flourishing will require different ingredients (and resources!).  Just like each person has their own personality, disposition, aura, etc., I also believe that one’s formula to flourish should be tailored to fit an individual's needs.  Most importantly one has to have a level of self-awareness to figure out what the ingredients would be to flourish.  In having had the luxury to critically examine my life in the past year and a half, I imagine my recipe for flourishing would read something like this:

• 2 cups of balance
• 3 teaspoons of moderation
• 5 cups of patience
• 3 tablespoons of discipline
• a dash of persistence
• a sprinkle of creativity, flexibility and positivity

How would your recipe read?

In the end, the concept of flourishing is more complex to overlay in my personal life than I had imagined when I heard the remarks at the conference.  While I might have more questions than I do answers, what I do know is that it really boils down to the language and framing around how I choose to live my life. I now choose to flourish and will figure the rest as I go along.

I close this post with a quote that I simply adore that I found on a card I received in the mail, and it reads in Spanish:  “La verdadera magia consiste en aprender a tener una vida equilibrada y sana, y aprender a disfrutarla”  (The real magic consists of learning how to have a balanced and healthy life and to learn how to enjoy it).   So as I journey through life, I will remember that it is the everyday magic of enjoying a balanced and healthy life that will allow me to flourish in this world.

Preparing a Funeral for a Baby and Feeling the Influence of a Life

One of my dearest friends—my oldest friend from my 12 years in Brooklyn—spent many years trying to get pregnant.  She did IVF, and it worked!  She was pregnant!  We had so much excitement for this couple.  Our Brooklyn community of friends was overjoyed.  We hosted a ridiculously awesome shower at my home.  And all seemed to be the happiest of endings. Until the baby was born.

Immediately upon Beatrice’s birth, the doctors knew something was not right.  After several weeks, she was diagnosed with an extremely rare genetic disorder, one that was likely life threatening.  The baby girl would likely not ever be able to leave the hospital ventilators, even if she lived.

This put a lump in all our throats.  We were all just young professionals in Brooklyn. We spent our days hanging out with each other, visiting Coney Island or having picnics. We often crammed lots of people into a Mini Cooper and went on road trips. We sat around and talked about business ideas and our big New York dreams. We BBQed on rooftops, decorated our mid century modern apartments, worked long hours, and got together as often as we could for dessert nights. And now our friends had a 4 lb baby in an ICU incubator.  It felt like the life you hear about from off in the distance—the worst-case scenarios that never seem to hit home.

We had nearly just packed up our fancy baby shower. And now we were organizing a laundry schedule for the parents. Preparing a meal drop-off rotation. Collecting quarters for hospital vending machines. Pooling funds for car services so our friends wouldn’t have to battle the subway day and night. Dropping off books to read, snacks, etc. Little children from our church practiced songs to record for the baby. And friends worked on a baby quilt. It was an operation like I’ve never seen before. People literally just poured in to help. I took it upon myself to be the hub of the operation. I had the time. I was not able to have children myself. And my heart could not have been bigger for this family and this baby. Every ounce of myself wanted to do all I could to help.

And one more thing...I needed a purpose. I needed a purpose like my life depended on it. You see, my husband of 7 years had just announced to me that he wanted to leave our marriage. And that he wanted a divorce. And that he did not have children with me. No one knew this but me. I sat there watching my life unravel before my eyes while at the same time watching my friends’ lives unravel before theirs. It was like everything that was so near and dear to us was being stripped from us. But never in my life had I been more in tune with what was left. Even with a husband that was on his way out the door, even with a baby whose life was fragile...what was left was LOVE. Love for each other. Love for this life. Love for babies. Love for friends in need. Love for what we had. Love for serving each other and fulfilling each other’s needs. Never before had I so clearly seen that love & service are the greatest healing balms of the world, even in times of the worst imaginable circumstances.

It wasn’t long before my husband made an exit and left the state. Two days later that sweet little baby passed away. Just before I received word that she died, I had the sweetest moment that I will never forget. I finally received from a tech friend the recording of all our friends’ children who were singing words of peace and comfort and joy for that baby and her parents. I was listening to it in my home, alone, and sobbing, but feeling more love and peace and comfort than I had ever felt in my life. A couple of hours later, I got the call from Bea’s parents, saying that Bea had just passed. I consider those children’s singing voices a tender mercy from God. Those voices filled my home that evening. And my heart had never been more full of love and hope and gratitude for what really matters most in this life.

Normally the presiding head of our church congregation would be in charge of the funeral. But he was out of town. And so one of his counselors, his wife (both my dear friends), and myself worked day and night to plan that funeral. We were all under 30. We had never planned a funeral before and had no idea what hoops it would take to quickly bring together a smooth event for the family. But because of the multitude of people willing to jump and help and beg for assignments, we organized a luncheon, flowers, musical numbers, speakers, an organist, car dispatchers, people to drive family to Greenwood Cemetery from the church, even water bottles for the graveside service in the blistering July heat. Women cooked day and night. Men so tenderly helped with every need. People of our church & friend community helped in every way imaginable. A 13-year boy even showed up on his skateboard the morning of the funeral to help set up chairs. The feeling of service & love that all the men, women & children felt that day is something that none of us will ever, ever forget.

At the funeral, my friend later wrote that “the baby’s grandfather gave what would be considered the eulogy. But rather than talking about the life and accomplishments of the deceased he instead expounded upon all of the service, love and charity that this beautiful little girl inspired in those who surrounded her.” She made us better people. She gave us hope for this life and all the goodness that can exist. She reminded us of what it feels like to offer love so freely and willingly. She brought us closer to what God represents. She brought us closer to whom we all have the potential to be. I will always be thankful for Bea.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer.  Drop us a line and let us know what's blowing your mind. Erin Loechner, Design for Mankind: I loooove reading offline - it's a ritual that I don't often get to indulge in. But when I do? I feel relaxed, invigorated and inspired all in one fell swoop. Right now I've been engrossed in an old copy of Elephant Magazine, a fantastic art publication. I've also got copies of Anthology, It's Nice That and Artichoke in regular rotation on my nightstand!

Joslyn Taylor, Simple Lovely: Blood, Bones & Butter by Garbrielle Hamilton I just finished Gabrielle Hamilton's brilliant account of her journey to becoming a chef and owning her own restaurant, and I can't get it out of my head. I'm love  a good food memoir (Ruth Reichl's books are among my favorites), and I think Hamilton's is one of the very best I've read. Her writing is lyrical, beautiful, honest. It is perfection.

Life by Keith Richards My husband and I never (ever) read the same thing, so I thought it would be fun to try it once so we could talk about books more often. We agonized over which book to kick things off with and ended up settled on Keith Richard's memoir Life, as it satisfies our mutual passion for music and our fascination with the rock and roll lifestyle (which we so do not live). I'm completely digging it so far.

Vogue Sometimes it takes me two months to get through a full issue, but I read every single article, religiously. It's just really smart...so much more than fashion. There's brilliant food and culture writing and excellent political interview. If I had to pick my dessert island reading material, it would be this.

Kathleen Shannon, Jeremy & Kathleen: A Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy by William B. Irvine I always had the idea that stoics were cold. Emotionally unavailable. Perhaps even a little asshole-ish. But reading this book has redefined what it is to be a stoic and has me as gung-ho for the philosophy of life as Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead had me on juicing. Though, I've yet to buy a juicer. Fortunately, no materials are required to practice being a stoic. Irvine takes a modern approach to sharing the history of stoicism (from back in the good ol' days), stoic psychological techniques (such as negative visualization - it's fascinating!), stoic advice on fame and money (a good kick in the pants for many of us blogging types), and finally ways to practically bring stoic way of living into our modern lives. If you're a fan of Leo Babauta's Zen Habits and Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project you might enjoy this book.

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho This book was gifted to me from a dear friend years and years ago. I only finally recently read it while on a long flight so I could look intellectual and deep to my fellow passengers. I had no idea what kind of metaphysical trip I was in for. This book follows a boy's fantastic journey through Spain and the Egyptian deserts as he finds the meaning of life. It's the kind of story fit for a Disney cartoon circa 1964 that you have to properly view with a joint in hand. Then just this past weekend I overheard a hipster with a beard (in Brooklyn, go figure) talking to a girl about reading The Alchemist. So clearly it's impressive and cool. But it might also change your life. So there's that.

The Writings of Florence Scovel Shinn including: The Game of Life and Your Word is Your Wand by Florence Scovel Shinn I almost left this off the list because ol' Florence gets a little too Jesus-y in her writings for my "atheist" tendencies but all that God talk aside this book was kind of a game-changer for me. Florence Scovel Shinn was a metaphysical feminist in the 1930s and spouts off some really radical stuff about universal laws, being meticulous with your words and the whole concept that everything (good and bad) starts with a single thought. And all in the 1930s! Which makes the whole book that much more intriguing to me.

K's maternity

[gallery link="file"] One photographer captures another's pregnancy through the lens of their friendship.

Playing the Field: From Fan to Fanatic

After several years playing in a fantasy league, I’ve learned why baseball lends itself so well to metaphor. We may strike out at the bar or hit it out of the ballpark in the boardroom, but we can’t escape the game. These are my love letters to the sport.  

Dear Curtis Granderson,

Our love was never meant to be.

You became one of my Wayward Soldiers by chance, the result of a poorly-timed and unfortunately-long bathroom break during the second round of my fantasy baseball league’s 2012 online draft.

I took too long making my selection because of aforementioned indelicacies.  When my time ran out, the auto-draft function kicked in and you were, according to ESPN, the highest ranked player still available. Your offensive output for the next six months now belonged to me, whether I wanted it or not.

You’re talented, to be sure. But you’re a New York Yankee.

The boys in my league might scoff at my hesitation. They are all very good at choosing players that statistically offer them the greatest chance of success. They have spreadsheets and long lists of statistics and analysis. Of course, I do too. And they would never mock my fantasy transactions or blame my gender for poor decisions. They’re good people—better people than that.

Actually, in practice, I think I do make more choices based on emotion than they do. Maybe it really is a girl thing, or maybe it is just my personality or my relatively limited experience playing fantasy baseball, or maybe it just means I am a better, more loyal, and all-round superior baseball fan than they are (go Royals!).

There are simple truths you learn early in this life and one of the simplest is this—the New York Yankees exist so people can hate them.  People who don’t are Deluded, Fools, Assholes, or All Three.

I have some beloved, deluded friends and some un-beloved, asshole acquaintances—all of whom have regurgitated long-winded justifications for being Yankee fanatics. Good god, I don’t care.

Simply, it’s just way more fun to hate on the Yankees than it is to love them.  They make it easy.

Actually, you aren’t the first Yankee to be a Wayward Soldier. I had a passing fling with Javier Vasquez two years ago that very nearly ended in tears¹.  Brett Gardner lasted a little longer last summer. His offensive numbers were steady, if a little lackluster.  But those guys were nobodies- insignificant blips that I picked up to fill holes in my roster when one of my trusted men went down².

You—you’re different.

There are plenty of bloated metaphors to be made here about you and I. From the star-crossed, six-day, child-love of Romeo and Juliet to Elizabeth Bennett overcoming her stubborn prejudice—this last month has certainly changed the way I look at you.

Through Wednesday, April 18^th, things were just ‘eh’.  But it’s been a season for slow starts in the league and as long as you were hitting better than Pujols³ I figured I might as well hold on until something more promising came along.

Apparently that something promising was Thursday. It was April 19^th, exactly 237 years after a different set of Yankees fired “the shot heard round the world” on Lexington Common, starting the Revolutionary War⁴.

You made history during that game, becoming the first Yankee to go 5 for 5, while blasting 3 home runs in your first three at-bats.

You made little kids become baseball fans for life that night.

I can sort of imagine what was going through your mind when you first stepped up to the plate. But the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after that—when history was suddenly on the line and every person in that roaring stadium was looking to you to step up and be the star.

They wanted you to be their baseball story, the story they pull out in bars to explain to non-fans why the game can be so magical, so heart-stopping.

And even I, who stubbornly rails against the Yankees at every opportunity, who lives in the Bronx 20 blocks away from your stadium and yet refuses to acknowledge its presence, who didn’t even want to draft you because of the team you played for—even I was on the edge of my seat, wishing and hoping that your last at bat wouldn’t let me down.

I didn’t want to just look at my fantasy stats the next day and be happy that you had a great game. I wanted to obnoxiously brag⁵ about how you had the game of your life and that I was watching.

I’m still not going to be a Yankees fan, and you’re probably not going to be the offensive powerhouse that propels me to win my league this season. But for one night, you and I managed to work past our differences⁶.

Unfortunately for you, I’ve moved on. I literally, physically⁷ ran into Jude Law at work on Friday and now I’m pretty sure we’re in love⁸.

Until next time,

Anna

--

^1. Unfortunately, not exaggeration nor hyperbole.

^2. Insert inappropriate joke about filling holes here.

^3. That’s not saying much. Albert’s batting average is currently .263 with NO home runs.  I’m sure that will change soon enough, although the Cardinal fans in my family will enjoy watching him struggle in the meantime.

^4. Also, coincidentally, the same day in 1946 that the NY Yankees honored their most famous slugger, Babe Ruth, with a plaque showing the world that he was, in fact, as awesome as he always thought himself to be.  Also, randomly, the same day that something called "4 Baboons Adoring the Sun" closed at the Beaumont Theatre in NYC after only 38 performances. I wonder why.

^5. Obnoxiously bragging is a critical component of fantasy baseball.

^6. I love footnotes almost as much as I love you, Curtis.

^7. Read: awkwardly and kind of uncomfortably.

^8. No we’re not.

A Word or Five About Our Design

I don't know about you, but I take on many roles. I'm a mother, a daughter (and daughter-in-law), a friend, a surrogate aunt, a wife, a sister-in-law, a business partner, a cousin, a niece. When we started to think about The Equals Project, it was important for us to visually think about the constant straddling that women do. While at the core of our beings, we are equals — equals to men, equals to each other — we often live with one foot on either side of an invisible line. Our logo brings that line to the surface. Equals straddles a solid line, indicative of the many divides we encounter—men/women, work/life, child/mom, abundance/poverty, old/young, privileged/oppressed, expectations/reality etc. It can be a divider, but it can also be a mirror. 

In our minds, while we are always on one side of the line or the other depending on the situation & circumstances, we are never complete without the other side, whether that other side represents an opposing idea or different people. It's the other side that makes us who we are as much as our own side. We are what we are because the dichotomy exists. This brings it back around to The Equals Project's mission and purpose—to widen the discussion about women's experiences. None of us are who we are without the experiences of others, and by understanding others, we gain a deeper understanding of ourselves. We hope that while we all peruse, read, and discuss, coming into contact with stories, opinions, and experiences that are different than, or similar to, our own, we can gain that deeper understanding.