For the rest of us

So, here we are again.  The Holiday Season is upon us.  Depending upon who are you are, this either means a great deal or almost nothing at all.  Whatever your traditions or affiliations (cultural, religious or otherwise), there is no escaping the Holiday Industrial Complex in this country.  Every year I struggle with the very mixed emotions that accompany my identity as a secular, Jewish but nostalgic and kind of sappy person.  I yearn for rituals and moments in which to touch base with family, consider particular stories/lessons about humanity, make special foods.  This year, as the matriarch in a new family, I am confronted with decisions about how to integrate “Holiday” traditions into our lives, for our daughter’s sake. Although in 2012, we say “Holiday” in reference to things that might take place in December (to include Chanukah, Kwanzaa), what we really mean is Christmas.  All jokes referring to paranoid conservatives spouting off about the "War on Christmas" or the "War on Jesus" aside . . . the popularization of Chanukah and Kwanzaa have always been simply a response to Christmas (and a pretty woeful one, at that).  Let’s face facts: Christmas will never not be a really huge deal and one that takes the cake.  Christmas is so embedded in our culture, our calendar, our winter and so beloved, there is no extricating it.  Beyond the gifts, music, food and décor, Christmas is also a Holiday onto which everyone’s personal psychodrama is superimposed.  The way in which families gather or don’t, the traditions people had as children or didn’t . . . the powerful dynamics at play during this time of year call up some of the deepest feelings of joy or longing for many Americans.  Oh and also, reverent people consider it holy and significant.

I grew up in a home that was very culturally Jewish, but didn’t really give much credence to Holidays, per se.  We typically belonged to a Synagogue, but mostly only went on the High Holidays, which, incidentally do not include Chanukah.  For Jews, the major deals are Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (New Year and Memorial Day-ish).  Tragically, our High Holidays don’t involve gifts.  And let's be honest---they aren't really all that fun.  Rosh Hashanah tries hard with apples and honey and talk of renewal, but is sort of a downer what with the stern warnings about being inscribed in the Book of Life.  Even the dressed up version of Chanukah has un-sing-able songs in minor keys and potato pancakes (?!).

Chanukah was a bit of an afterthought in my house and my parents often grumbled about how it is actually is a very minor Holiday, bastardized in this country to compete with Christmas.  As far as I know, we are the only culture in which Chanukah is celebrated with gifts.  The Americanized version of Chanukah can often look like a “Jewish Christmas,” with crass commercialism at the core.  Despite my profound yearnings as a child, my parents weren’t buying it or buying it, although some years they managed to go beyond the candle lighting and chocolate coins to bestow socks, pajamas or books.

While, as an adult, I can totally respect their philosophical stand on this front, as a child, I desperately wanted what I saw most other kids having---not just an embarrassment of gifts, but a whole season devoted to them.  I would spend time at friends' houses during December and watch as the tree was trimmed and all the rooms filled up with sparkling trinkets, bright parcels and the fragrance of cinnamon sticks.  The promise of this sacred time when everything got so cozy and everyone gathered together from far and wide (particularly salient for me, as my siblings were much older and lived all over the world) felt impossible to resist.

I also knew people growing up who were Jewish, but just threw in the towel and celebrated Christmas.  This was always sort of sad to me.  It spoke to two unfortunate realities---that Jews in this country feel so overwhelmed by the power of Christmas that they feel compelled to participate in another religion's Holiday and/or they feel their children can't tolerate December without the Bacchanalia.  Meanwhile, I totally get this.  I won't mince words, Christmas wins.  It is friggin’ awesome for kids.  And let’s not even consider families in which there is only one Jewish parent and they “celebrate both.”  I SAY AGAIN, CHRISTMAS WINS.

So how to make sense of it all now?  The fact is that my parents were consistently generous throughout the year with their love, their time and many of the material things we desired.  Just because I didn't score a payload at Christmas, doesn't mean I didn't have a wealth of toys and games.  I had way more than I needed, as so many of us did.  And despite my desire to be like the other kids, I never had to watch my parents grow anxious or irritable about shopping for a bounty of gifts or spending money they didn't have.  They also made it clear that it was highly inappropriate to develop a sense of entitlement about gifts, especially as a child.  These lessons were swallowed hard, but remain valuable.

I think this is what want for Isadora, ultimately.  I hope she feels loved beyond belief and that she lives with a sense of joy throughout the year.  I hope that she relishes how our family is different and feels confident and comfortable with who we are.  I hope we celebrate important milestones with good cheer and delicious foods in each season and take great pains to be together with extended family as often as possible.  I also plan to spoil her with frivolous gift items and possibly spend more money than is reasonable on things like a long sleeve t-shirt with a bulldog silkscreen.  And certainly most important, I intend to teach her about giving to others and being of service because we have so much relative to most.

(Images: Marco Ghitti via Flickr)

Lessons from Miami...

Dear Clara,

Sometimes we all need just a touch of sunshine, right? We got our fill last weekend in Miami.  Apart from quick runs through the airport, I haven’t been to Miami in several years and I was surprised at how much has changed.  Well, at least it has downtown.  When I was there last, for a long work event, there was hardly anything to do downtown, you had to go substantially further away.  But now the whole skyline is full of shiny glass buildings.  I’m sure they give their residents ocean views just as far as the eye can see.

I don’t know Miami that well, but I’ve always appreciated a visit.  There is just something about the atmosphere that seems fun; I think it has something to do with all that sunshine.  I’ve also learned the following during my brief visits:

• When in doubt go with color…:Hot pink, neon green, turquoise blue, light up purple…those all seem to be fair game in Miami, and I’ve always admired the city’s tendency to just go for it.  Once winter sets in here, we’re all black nearly all the time and those pops of bright are like little multi-colored sunshines all by themselves.
• …But temper it with white: Part of what makes those colors pop is that they’re still on a neutral background.  It’s just not black.  White is clean…and airy…and bright, and it makes me want to see all those colorful details more.
• What’s old can be new again: Miami has such history and just because something fell out of favor for a bit doesn’t mean it’s done in Miami.  You could look at South Beach---or even the downtown area.  I think there is a tremendous capacity to restore and make new areas and architecture that aren’t found so readily in other parts of the country.
• Lime goes with chicken soup: Once, when passing through Miami, I came back from a trip rather ill, and a good friend picked me up at the airport.  Her husband picked up chicken soup and in the Latin tradition, taught me to squeeze lime into it.  It has changed chicken noodle soup for me forever.
• Children belong: I think people don’t often realize that while Miami certainly has its fun for adults, children have a prominent place there too.  It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel welcome as a family.  Traveling with children is not always the easiest, so be sure to extend that same welcome to others who arrive with children, regardless of whether you expected them.
• Appreciate what’s around you, especially if it’s the beach:  I actually find the beach around Miami to be beautiful.  Maybe not right downtown, but in the area and I’m surprised when people who live right there, tell me that the beach isn’t that wonderful.  Or that it’s too cold.  I know that when you live right next to things, it’s tempting to take them for granted, but try to appreciate it.  For someone else, it might be the attraction of a lifetime.

All my love,

Mom

Blessed Table

As I sit down to type this evening I feel incredibly blessed.  I am after all, sitting down to write; that alone makes my heart soar.  I’m perched contentedly in the desk chair I found at an estate sale and painted a glossy candy apple red.  My desk is large square that used to be my great grandmother's dining room table.  Its glossy mahogany surface makes me feel connected in a way few possessions do. The small brass plate on the underside of the surface bears the name of a furniture company long out of business.  The raised letters of that little plaque remind me that the old saying is perhaps true: They just don’t make them like they used too.  This table is both sturdy and beautiful with rounded legs, beveled edges and has a perfection in shape and symmetry that I would have thought impossible outside of a factory.

After it was my great grandmother's, this table was my parents’ dining room table.  On holidays and special occasions we set it with my parents wedding china and covered its mahogany with a lace table cloth. Opposite the brass plaque there is a white sticker that no one has removed. It’s from the move we made when I was a sophomore in high school.  We moved a couple of other times, but I know that sticker as well as I know any graphic image, and it’s from 1998.  But that sticker isn’t the only marker of my childhood.  On the table surface is a giant scorch mark.  Some might call it ugly; some might even think it ruins the table.  I see the history, and I can’t help but smile as I think of the Advent Wreath that we all thought was so lovely: The tall purple and pink pillar taper candles surrounded by a ring of real evergreen.  I remember exactly what I was doing when the smoke detectors went off.

When my husband and I moved into our current home, there was no space for a dining room table, which I figured was just as well as we so rarely used it for such a purpose, but I couldn’t bear to part with my heirloom.  So I hauled it upstairs to my office and decided it would make a fine desk.

Tonight, I sit in my desk chair, a bottle of wine just within reach.  In front of me is, of course, the laptop I’m typing on. Two other sides hold my sewing machine and typewriter while the third I hope to someday organize into an organizational file system and not just a pile of paper.  From my chair I can see the cornfield behind my back yard, I can watch the light change as the sun sets, I can sip a glass of wine and write about a piece of furniture. How blessed indeed.

Roast Beef Sandwiches, Torpedo IPA, and Bioluminescence

By Hilary Halpern It's funny how special experiences can shape our tastes. Roast beef with horseradish on sourdough has never been a sandwich I order at the deli, but after eating this particular sandwich sailing downwind on a light, breezy day on the Monterey Bay, it has become my favorite sandwich. And I've always liked Sierra Nevada's Torpedo Extra IPA, but drinking one now makes me nostalgic for Wednesday night races on Rocinante - it was the skipper's favorite beer.

Whenever I am able to catch a glimpse of the coast at night, I gaze out on the horizon and imagine all the activity happening beneath the surface. I imagine the plankton glittering in the water like fireflies as their environment is ever so peacefully disturbed by the natural wake of a living creature; a whale, or a sailboat. I like to think of sailboats as alive. The moody breeze whirls past the sails, manipulated by the lines, which are held by the sailor, who is steering the boat to get to perfect synchronicity with the wind, the sails, the hull, and the water all working in unison. Then it is alive, a sea creature gliding silently through the water amongst the other sea creatures.

It was a cloudy August morning. When I arrived at the harbor I had butterflies in my stomach that were so debilitating, they dulled my senses. We were rafted up next to another Santa Cruz 27' and were passing our personal cargo for the race from the dockside to their boat to our boat. Even though I have rigged these boats dozens of times in my sailing classes, I was blanking on how to run any of the lines. The butterflies were making me light - my sea legs had escaped me and I awkwardly moved about bow.

In a blur, we had cast off from the other boat somehow and were on our way out the harbor mouth. We sailed to and fro until the countdown and set ourselves up for a perfect start. As the gun went off, my butterflies were scared away - the anticipation was over. It was not a particularly windy day, which, being a novice sailor, I was secretly relieved about. My first race on this same boat was short and sweet with winds blowing over 25 knots and a near catastrophe that could have brought our rigging down, but that is another story for another time. This would be only my second real race aside from the Wednesday night beer-can regattas, and the longest race I have ever participated in. We would sail back at night! My feeble duty at this point was to keep my weight evenly distributed about the boat to maintain speed and keep her from heeling too much. I would have liked to work the lines, the pit, or the foredeck, but I had to prove myself as rail-meat first. I was just grateful to be on the water.

The advantage to being rail meat is the observation time. Going upwind I loved dangling my feet off the railing and feeling my weight flatten this roughly 4000 pound vessel. I would watch the coastline get farther away and listen to the water lapping up against the hull. I loved feeling the wind sting my face. I would listen to the skipper talk strategy. He would give everyone full access to his thought process and game plan as he spoke his mind, his focused stream of consciousness. When we would tack over I would do my best to time switching sides just right as to keep the boat balanced. If it was really windy and the boat was heeling heavily, it could never be guaranteed whether I could make it to windward or not; I've come pretty close to slipping through the railing of the lee side and into the cold water. I would grip the mast for dear life and struggle across the bow as swiftly as possible and ideally, without any help. A good rail-meater doesn't need a hand and is completely self-sufficient; a complete gift of weight distribution, allowing other crew members to focus on their own duties. On this mellow race day I didn't have to worry about any of that — the breeze was light and we were leisurely sailing along.

After we rounded the Natural Bridges mark, most of the course was downwind. We lunched on our roast beef sandwiches courtesy of our skipper and he even popped open a Torpedo. It was going to be slow-going. It was an oddly chilly summer day and we all had on our foulies, anticipating the cold, but as the afternoon rolled around the breeze grew warmer and the high fog was bright white with the sun shining just above it. The conversation would ebb and flow like the current; we would talk sailing or just share stories. At one point I laid on the bow and gazed up at where the spinnaker met the mast and savored every sight, sound, and scent of being on the water. It was one of those moments I drank up so much that if I close my eyes right now I swear I could teleport back.

Things started to get exciting as we neared the other side of the bay. We were almost to our final mark - the Elkhorn Yacht Club. I think as much as we love to be on the water, most sailors have an innate sense of relief as the comforts of land approach and are ever more certain. We were tied up just in time for dinner and festivities at the yacht club were well underway . . . this is when the whirlwind of the night began. As we walked into the warm twinkle-lit flag adorned yacht club, everyone was rosy-cheeked and wind-blown from the elements and the booze. There was live music for the race celebration and everyone shared stories of the day and spoke tales of the past and plans for the future. As the night wore on, people got warmer and fuzzier off their buzzes and declarations of respect and loyalty were made amongst sailors and dancing ensued.

Midnight approached and it was time for us to go. Some were getting a 45 minute taxi-ride back to Santa Cruz and some were camping in their boats to sleep off the booze and sail back in the morning - we were the only bunch that wanted to undertake the five-hour journey on the water that night. We received warning after warning and reason after reason not to go, but our skipper was determined. I had been looking forward to my first sail at night ever since I knew I would be on this race, but I began to build up some fear as everybody gave me their phone number and pleaded that I call them if anything were to go wrong (as if I could make a phone-call as we sink into the deep). However, I trusted my skipper completely and respected whatever decision he made — and this time it was to rig the boat for take off. I had a little buzz going all night but as soon as we started inching out of the harbor, I was sobered with task at hand - making it back home in one piece.

The breeze was still light and the fog was high. We couldn't see any stars but I was grateful we could see the dim lights of the coastline. We wanted to keep these lights in sight for the entirety of our voyage, even if it wasn't the most direct line. We started out motoring on low RPM's; the feeble puffs of wind could barely blow the wisps of hair off my face. The water was eerily serene. The sails were collapsed. We were all silent. It was very dark and I couldn't see anyone's faces. When I looked at my skipper all I could see was the red glow of his cigarette. I started to relax. I was chilled from the damp air and glad I had on my foulies. Every once in a while I would go down below and check on my snoozing crew-mate while also huddling next to him for a shot at warmth. I could never stay below for long because the setting above was too special to miss. It was worth battling the elements.

We started to get stronger puffs and I asked the skipper if we could turn off the outboard engine. We set the sails. Now I could hear the sounds of the sea at night. The mile buoy was whining in the distance with the subtle swell. The water was softly lapping against the hull of the boat. There was a splash here and there and I assumed it was the fishing sea-birds, but I couldn't be certain it wasn't a dolphin or whale breaking the surface for air, a curious shark, or perhaps a mermaid. Who knew what reality was happening below us — I loved imagining it all. As for the crew, we were mostly silent. It was incredibly peaceful. The skipper only broke the silence to tell me to look over the railing and dip my hand in the water. When I first stared at the passing sea-water, I could barely make out something glowing just beneath the surface. I looked back at our wake and saw that we were leaving a phosphorescent path. I dipped my hand in and to my delight glowing plankton jumped up my arm, glittering just for a second before disappearing back into the water. The disturbance of my hand was also leading a glowing path. It felt like I was creating magic. It was the moment that I became one with the sea. I was in love. I felt magical. I felt connected. I felt at peace with myself and the universe. I felt incredibly alive and unafraid of death. I will never forget that rare, beautiful moment.

We made it back to the harbor at 5am. This was the last time I sailed on Rocinante before I moved away and it was the perfect way to say goodbye. Until I get to experience the magic of sailing at night again, all I can do now is gaze at the horizon, eat a roast beef sandwich and raise my Torpedo IPA to Rocinante, my skipper and the crew, the sea, and that beautiful glittering plankton.

Republished with permission from What's It About?

Gaia & Me

Two weeks have passed. My best friend suggested me to try to put my sorrow into words. I am still not sure this is a good idea---I opened this word document and the white page was staring at me with this blank and ominous look. CLOSE ME. GO BACK TO YOUR COUCH. Some time ago I wrote Elisabeth and Miya and said I couldn’t handle a new piece for my column. I lost a family member on November 10^th, my beloved yellow Labrador Gaia. After 11 years and 4 months together in this world, she is no longer with me. I have been feeling too empty to do anything but work. I still can’t think of much more. I go to the supermarket---that’s a big thing!---I go out for walks over the weekend, and every morning I drive to Milan to edit new pages of some book and discuss publishing options with my boss. I do my best at the office---I smile, break jokes, try to concentrate. And when I cross the exit doors in the evening, tears start to stream down my face. I am going home, yes, but my home is empty now. No hugs. No kisses on that big black nose. The immensity of this loss literally broke my heart. Elisabeth sent me two pieces written by Leigh Anna Thompson on The Equals Record some time ago. I could barely read Leigh Anna’s articles, so I did not finish the story of her loss of Max and Samus. It was too painful, too real and moving. But the few words I was able to read helped me to realize a very important thing---I AM NOT ALONE. There are many other people who consider animals our best companions and cry the most burning tears when our babies leave us.

Because Gaia was my happy baby. I still remember the first drive home in the car with her. I wanted to hold her in my arms, but my two-month-old yellow lab was already too playful to stay still. She spent her first night sleeping close to my bed. She was not alone, she had a new family, who was ready to give her all the love in this world.

I fell in love with her sooner than she fell in love with me. It’s not easy to share my feelings in a language that is not my native one, but my love was pure, wholehearted. She was the first very innocent being in my life. No words were needed, only positive things were shared. Long walks, relaxation, playing, hugs, vacations, afternoons on the couch, dinners with her staring at me and craving for food. And now all the gestures and habits, those little things that have made me happy for so long, are gone.

I was on vacation with my husband (Halloween weekend) in the south of Italy when my mom texted me. I HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO TELL YOU, CAN I CALL? I understood right away. Yes, mothers of dogs have the sixth sense, too. Mamma told me Gaia had a severe internal bleeding, and there was an 80% chance she wasn’t going to survive the night. Dany and I ran back to the hotel, picked our luggage. My wonderful husband drove all night, 9 hours straight, while I couldn’t stop crying. I felt panic. Pure and simple panic. Time was running, and there was an entire country to cross from South to North. 600 miles. I arrived at the animal clinic Sunday morning at 7 AM. I knew my Gaia was inside there, and I wanted to see her. The vet suggested me to give her a few more hours and see if she would recover. The emotion of seeing me could be dangerous. I was confused. Just a few hours before they said she was dying, and now she seemed to feel better? I was happy and worried sick at the same time. So I waited, my heart full of mixed feelings. Could she survive? Could she come back home, perhaps? And she did. My Gaia was so strong to recover in the space of a few hours. Someone heard my prayers. OK, she was weak, had to take medicines, and have a CAT scan. But in the meantime, she could come home with me and rest. On Monday, the CAT scan broke my dreams once again---the liver was in a terminal condition. Tumor? Leukemia? Still a few days and the results of the tests would come. But at the same time, given her state, few days seemed to be all we had left.

I am a copy editor. The good thing about my job is that I can work from home, too, if I need. And how could I even think of going to the office when my Gaia apparently had such a short time left? So I sat close to her in the living room for the following days, wondering for how long the situation would last, and hoping the answer was forever. It was a long week of tears and hope, days when I couldn’t eat or sleep. Gaia did not seem to feel pain, she was weak, and very sweet. She was all hugs and kisses. She must have thought I was going nuts, breaking into tears every now and then.

On Saturday morning, November 10^th, it was Gaia who told me that she couldn’t resist anymore. I knew it. I just felt that Friday night was the last night. So in the morning I looked into her eyes, and she was asking me to let her go. I knew what I had to do. I had discussed it with my family and we did not want her to suffer, so we called the vet. I don’t want to share her last hours. They were the worst of my life. I wanted to hold her little and innocent soul---if I couldn’t keep her body with us, her soul had to remain with me forever. I could not stand or talk. I wanted to live forever in those hours. I prayed to God. And then I prayed the Sun, and the Moon, asking them to stop. Why not? Please, please, please, I need more time. And I squeezed my eyes as if this could make my prayers sound more pure. I had recently read Mitch Albom’s “The Time Keeper”. So I asked to become Father Time, to have an hourglass in my hands and be able to stop the time. But it didn’t work.

So now I am alone. Gaia lives in my heart. She is still in the house somehow---my mother still worries to keep the food out of her reach. She tells me she expects to see Gaia sleeping on her couch, or stealing an apple in the kitchen. But no, she is gone.

11 years and 4 months. In this time I graduated, I got my masters degree, I went to America and taught Italian for 3 years (oh, 3 years flying back to Italy every chance I got to make up for the time we were losing), I got married, and I started a new career in publishing. Eleven years of big changes, with my best friend/sister/daughter/companion Gaia always in our big family house, filling it with her presence. Always here close to us. Man, all those moments I gave for granted. Is it possible to have no regrets at all? I don’t think so, but I’m sure my girl was happy. She was a human, in a family of humans. And she was the most cheerful and spontaneous and loyal in the big house.

Many friends, dogs’ parents like me, told me she must be in some other place now, happy and not feeling any pain. I believe this is true, and feel her presence in the backyard when I open the windows in the morning. I believe right now she is here in my living room, in that corner where she used to sit. She is looking at me with those big sweet hazelnut eyes. She smiles. This gives me solace, for a while. And then I suddenly break, I cry like a baby because I miss her so badly. I physically miss her, I miss the fact that every day she was teaching me something new and precious.

And I find myself wondering if my sorrow will ever take another shape, the shape of the Sun, or the Moon maybe? The Sun will shine, warming me with her memory every day. And the Moon will shine, too, watching over me while I sleep and dream---I dream of her with me in the old days, and I dream of the new days that will come, in some other place, space and time.

I love you, Gaia.

Thank you all for reading this.

Looking Forward: What I Need.

I ate Thanksgiving dinner this year perched on an ottoman, the kind that’s hollow on the inside and meant to be filled with throw blankets and extra cushion covers. This one, much to my glee, contained my roommate’s collection of high school CDs – The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Strokes, and, best of all, a blink-182 cassette tape---the glory of which was revealed after I toppled off the ottoman’s lopsided lid while attempting to pass a tray of bread across the table. I wasn’t the only one who occupied improvised seating. Five-foot-tall Linda, who I met my first day of college, balanced on a disproportionately tall barstool; Lily and Megan, who dressed up as rats with me this Halloween, shared a wooden bench. My roommate Natalie’s brother, Andrew, and his friend, Dave---who I’d met for the first time that day---found seats on folding chairs borrowed from my brother; and Charlie, one of my oldest family friends, sat on a restaurant-style leather chair that Natalie had lugged home from her mother’s apartment in Bensonhurst.

To accommodate our many guests, we placed an old desk---which normally holds turntables and a hodgepodge of vinyl records---at the end of our dining table (mismatched tablecloths covered the dings and scratches). A lack of proper silverware forced us to get creative, using spatulas as serving spoons, ladles as ice cream scoops. And the food. There were two stuffings. Six pies. Enough cranberry sauce to feed a football team. This is what happens, I learned, when a group of fourteen collaborates on dinner.

It was the first Thanksgiving I’ve ever hosted (or co-hosted, as it were), and the first I’ve spent away from family. With our ever-fluctuating guest list, disorganized menu, and relative lack of space, I wondered beforehand whether the night would end up feeling like a real Thanksgiving.

But, as you probably can guess, it did.

My dad mentioned to me today that he can’t think of a past Thanksgiving or Christmas or birthday that wasn’t anything other than wonderful. Getting in the spirit of celebration---with family and friends and food---always makes those days special.

All of these things were there last week, of course.

And there was more. A candlelit apartment in a city I love. Great music. New friends, and ones I know I’ll keep for the rest of my life. I’ve realized this year, more than ever, that they’ve become family to me.

After dinner, we pushed the tables aside and arranged our chairs in the living room. “Everyone say what they’re thankful for,” someone suggested. Most everyone named family and friends, but there were more inventive contributions, too: 24-hour bodegas, neighborhood juice bars, bike rides through Brooklyn. (For the record, blog friends, one of the things I named was you.)

But Warren, another college friend in attendance, kept it simple and said it best: “I’m thankful to have what I need.”

I am, too. And I'm thankful to know that what I need isn't complicated, isn't out-of-reach. It's here.

City Apples

When you live in a big city--and after awhile--there’s a part of you that stops being shocked by things that might otherwise be considered out of the ordinary. A man singing in his underwear in Times Square becomes as unsurprising as the mustachioed gentleman on the subway next to you crooning along to an imaginary accordion. Before too long you learn to take little oddities in stride, but every once in awhile you spy something that makes you stop in your tracks. Last week I was walking back to my apartment along my usual route, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed an apple tree. I agree that an apple tree seems usual enough, but on this particular corner, in the front yard of this particular brownstone, the tree struck me as bizarrely out of place. Miraculous, even.

Looking skyward, the tree, which was heavy with ripening fruit, stood in stark relief against the cornice of a stately brownstone and a blue November sky.

Fruit trees themselves are not unusual in this neighborhood. Some people have written that the borough hosts a sort of microclimate that allows fig trees, and grapevines, and mulberry trees to flourish exceptionally in a place with seasons that might otherwise be too harsh. The trick lies in having access to the fruit. More often than not, these fruit-bearing trees are tucked into private alleys and gardens. Gated and fenced, the seasons pass and the trees fruit with only the owners or their neighbors taking notice or pleasure. Seeing a fruit tree in the tiny squares that pass as front yards here is rare, and this apple tree, which reached practically to the top of the second story, rarer still.

There isn’t much to relay about my encounter. I didn’t swipe one of the apples. The owner did not come out to invite me in for coffee and apple cake, I didn’t go on to uncover an entire hidden orchard, but the few moments of wonder I experienced as I gazed up into the apples was all that I needed. Just enough to jar me out of my usual routine, to pause and notice something outside of myself.

Effortless

The sky overhead is grey and glowering, locked with low-hanging clouds that make the earth feel squeezed. The air is cool, breezy, hovering between autumn and winter. I walk with my hands in my pockets, my wool coat held closed with the only button that will still reach over my pregnant belly. I am never sure whether I like these long solitary walks or not. I love the nip of the air, the feel of the wind on my face, the wild scent of raindrops as the light drizzle hits the pavement below me. I love the time alone with my thoughts, the feeling of escape, the openness of the world around me. Still, there is something monotonous about the churning of my legs, one step after another, the same motion repeated again and again. They don’t feel tired today, my legs. After my first block, I decide to keep walking, turning away from my house and widening my path.

The wind picks up as I walk up a leaf-carpeted sidewalk; it snatches the leaves into the air and for several long seconds, I am carried along in a rush of dry leaves, swirling around my feet and legs with a sound like water. It is a magical moment, a good-to-be-alive moment, and I find myself rejoicing in the day—in the wind, in the leaves, in the strength of my own body.

When I get home and plot my meandering route into the computer, I am shocked to find that I walked two miles easily. Effortlessly, I think, remembering the way my legs kept going, the way my breathing was steady. I am overwhelmed by some emotion I cannot name. At the beginning of this year, I couldn’t walk one mile without it feeling like a monumental effort, without coming home afterward and collapsing onto the couch.

This is my year of miracles, my year to make medical history. Eight months ago I started a brand-new medication for cystic fibrosis, groundbreaking in its abilities, but still only available to handful of CF patients with a relatively rare mutation—a mutation I happen to have. In these eight months, I have watched my life slowly change in ways more dramatic than any I could have imagined. I have walked further. I have felt better. I have seen my lung function go up instead of down, and gone for two-thirds of a year without ever feeling the need for a hospital admission. After a year and a half of infertility, I find myself pregnant with a miracle baby and breezing through the pregnancy without any serious health concerns.

These are the kinds of things that you never expect, with a terminal illness. You don’t expect to get the chance to travel back in time, to reach a place of better health and more stability. You don’t expect to spend eight months watching as, one by one, so many of your longest-held dreams come true.

A few weeks ago, I sat in a hard plastic chair, beaming, as a stream of medical professionals came in and out of my room. Each one exclaimed over my lung function test results, my burgeoning belly, my newfound stamina, my health in general. In the lulls between visits I could hear the patient next to me—young; nearly all CF patients are young—talking with his nurse as she replaced his oxygen canister. They wondered aloud if he was up to the walk down to the cafeteria, or if his mother should take him in a wheelchair.

The cafeteria is almost directly below the pulmonary clinic, perhaps five hundred steps.

That afternoon lingered with me for days, and I found a familiar question returning again and again to my heart. Why me? I wondered. Only this time I was on the other side of the fence: I was not asking Why me? Why is my situation so much harder?

Instead, I was asking Why me? Why am I so blessed?

These eight months have brought with them a wealth of complicated emotions. I feel consumed with joy each day, overwhelmed by my own fortune. Every day I walk further. Every day I feel my tiny daughter move inside me, a sensation so magical it brings tears to my eyes, remembering all of the days I thought I would never feel this.

Every day, I am grateful.

But there is frustration, too, and guilt. While I have been experiencing a year of miracles, it seems like nearly all of my friends with cystic fibrosis have been locked in a year of trials. Today, when I get home from my two-mile walk, I learn that one of my very oldest and dearest friends has spent the week in critical condition, unable to breathe on her own.

Like that afternoon in the doctor’s office, it is a stark contrast.

I know that all of my friends are thrilled for me in my good fortune, and I am certainly grateful for it, incredibly so. I wouldn’t trade this year for anything; not only has it changed my day-to-day standard of living, but it has flung open so many doors to the future, exploded all of the barriers that used to exist. In a community of disease where the average life expectancy has yet to hit forty, suddenly old age doesn’t seem like such an impossible achievement. But still, I wish that I could share it, could watch all of the people I love experience similar miracles.

I cannot, of course—not yet, at least, not until science has come a little further and there are miracle medications for more common CF mutations. All I can do, for now, is to make sure that I never take this new life for granted.

And so, now, I pull back on my shoes and re-button that single button on my coat, and go outside again. I am not ready to be done walking yet, not ready to be done relishing the feel of the wind on my face and the strength in my body.

Wanting to hold on, for just a little longer, to that feeling of effortlessness.

XIV. Picardie

With Clémence’s parents and sister, I drive a couple hours to the neighboring region of Picardie, where the extended family is having a large reunion. Some are French, some are German; either way, the beer and wine flow excessively. After a few glasses I find that my French does, too. Even Roger, usually so quiet, smiles at my chattiness.

The next day, moving slightly more slowly than usual, I lace up my shoes and announce that I am going for a run. Clémence and her family have gotten used to this, not even looking up in astonishment anymore when I come back into the house after a long workout. Indeed, I think the entire country neighborhood in Normandie has come to terms with my athletic eccentricity; familiar voices shout Bon courage! as I run by, the cries bouncing off the thatched roofs across the lane and following me down the road.

But today Pauline is worried about me being alone out on these different roads. She enlists the help of Guillaume, Clémence’s cousin, who is tall and bony-thin and doesn’t look like he has ever run in his life, at least no more than the distance to the tabac for more rolling papers. Even so, Pauline insists that he accompanies me.

Guillaume smokes one cigarette before we head out, another during my stretching break, and then two when we get back an hour later, his lungs heaving with the effort of inhaling the tobacco. I just stand there and watch, curious, and I feel my heart rate return to normal.

Coming and going

Last Thursday, I landed in Chicago and hit the ground running. I had just a couple of hours to catch a glimpse of the city before my work there began in earnest. And although I knew I’d be exhausted by the end of the trip, I wanted more than just bland seminar rooms and conference center halls to make up my first impressions of the city. It was the first time in a long time that I’ve simply showed up someplace new and set out to wander. As I hopped out of the cab on Michigan Avenue, I felt myself slow from my usual hurried pace to a leisurely stroll. I had no particular destination in mind, and in fact, had little sense of where I was to begin with.

It felt strange at first, to plop down in the middle of a purposeful crowd without much direction of my own, and then, all of a sudden, it felt so good. I wandered in and out of shops, just to browse, in a way I wouldn’t in my own city. I ran my fingertips over silky dresses and sequined tops. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and snapped photos. I smiled at strangers and held the door behind me.

Over the course of the next five days, I worked long hours and ate enough deep dish pizza to last me a decade. I took in all the twinkling lights and laughed at how Christmas seems to have blossomed rather early in Chicago. It’s funny how some places seem imbued with such magic when you meet them for the first time.

It felt just as delightful to go as it did to come back home to Atlanta, just as luxurious to sleep in a new bed as it did to return to my own. Our little place felt even more cozy than when I’d left, and I couldn’t help wondering at how sometimes slipping away and returning again is the perfect reminder of delight in newness and comfort in familiar.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Emily Matchar is the author of Homeward Bound: The New Cult of Domesticity (Simon & Schuster, May 2013), which explores our current mania for "new domesticity"---the knitting, the Etsy-ing, the backyard chicken-keeping, etc. etc. She writes about culture, work, food and women's issues for places like The Washington Post, Salon, Men's Journal, the BBC and others. She lives in Hong Kong and in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 

How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran I just finished this, inhaling it in, like, 15 minutes. Moran, a British music journalist and columnist, is 1,000 times cooler and more hilarious and foul-mouthed than your most cool, hilarious and foul-mouthed friend. She gets drunk with Lady Gaga. She talks openly about her abortion. She goes to strip clubs and pronounces them bullshit. She rails against things like bikini waxing and butt-floss thongs without giving a damn about whether she sounds like a “strident feminist.” She IS a strident feminist. We should all be strident feminists. In Moran’s world, there’s a lot less guilt and uncomfortable underwear, and a lot more rock n’ roll and cake and tickle fights with your kids.

Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen by Alix Kates Shulman Shulman is a feminist activist who achieved fame/notoriety for publishing her 1969 “A Marriage Agreement,” a contract formally dividing up housework between her and her husband. She’s been mocked for it ever since by people who think it’s petty or humorless, but given that we still don’t have a fair divide of housework in this country, she clearly had a major point. Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen is a novel, a very 1970s novel raging with anger at possessive husbands and no-good lovers and rapey high school football players, full of lines like “Even in a separate bed I would be trapped under his ego.” It’s a bit hard going, but makes me feel really good that a lot’s changed in the past 40 years when it comes to male-female relationships. I interviewed Shulman about housework and gender for my book (Homeward Bound: The New Cult of Domesticity, out this coming spring), and she’s a real trip (to borrow piece of 1970s vocab). “We didn’t want to abolish housework!” she cried. “We just wanted men to do their fair share.”

O, The Oprah Magazine I’m not always a big fan of Oprah. I mean, she’s an amazing woman and entrepreneur, but her fondness for pseudoscience and “The Secret”-type power of positive thought crap is idiotic. Still, I love her magazine. I’ve never been able to read aspirational glossies like Vogue or Vanity Fair without feeling terrible about myself (why don’t I have a “great friend” who is a Duchess? Why don’t I have “the new wool pant” in my wardrobe? Why aren’t I at a book party in Brooklyn fending off advances from Salman Rushdie?). Oprah understands that everyone’s life is messed up in some way or another, and her magazine’s all about working with what you’ve got and having a good attitude. My punkrock 14-year-old self would kill me for admitting this, but I eat it up. My mom just sent me her back issues of O along with a bunch of Halloween candy, and I’ve been enjoying both in the bathtub. So sue me.

The Passage by Justin Cronin Ever since I picked up Steven King’s Carrie as a morbid and bookish 9-year-old, I’ve loved literary horror novels. Apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic? Even better. As an adult, I’ve branched out into mystery (Tana French, Kate Atkinson and Gillian Flynn are some of my recent favorites), largely because a lot of horror novels are real shite in the prose style department. So I was super-psyched to start The Passage, as Cronin comes from the non-genre side of things and really knows how to write. I’m 23 percent of the way through the story (yes, I usually read on my Kindle), a tale a government-sponsored trial of a modern-day vampire virus that goes out of control (naturally). There’s a rogue FBI agent with a broken heart. There’s a little girl with superpowers. There’s a nun from Sierra Leone who talks to God. It’s so good I’m not getting any work done.

The American Plague by Molly Caldwell Crosby Speaking of apocalyptic horror stories involving dreadful viruses: this is about a real one. The yellow fever epidemic in Memphis in 1878 sickened 20,000, killed 5,000, and turned the city into a giant morgue. Everyone with means (ie, wealthy whites) fled to the highlands, while the poor and black stayed behind. In a lot of ways, the city never recovered. As a Southerner (I grew up in Durham and Chapel Hill, North Carolina), I’ve always been fascinated with the ways the region is haunted by its past.

On that cheerful note, thanks for asking me to participate! I hope everyone’s eating leftover turkey and lying on the couch with a good book (or, let’s be honest, a backlog of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” episodes).

Lessons from Thanskgiving...

Dear Clara, We’ve finally arrived at just about my favorite holiday of the year.  And not just mine.  I think everyone feels this way to some degree.  I confess that I really didn’t appreciate Thanksgiving for what it is until I went off to college and realized what a gift it is to be able to come home and sit around a shared table to take stock of good things around us.  Thanksgiving is such a unique holiday in that it’s something celebrated by nearly every American, regardless of religion or geography or race or anything else.  Everyone does it their own way, but just about everyone does it.

For us, we're in a bit of an inbetween stage.  Sometimes Thanksgiving is at our house far away from home, and sometimes we still go home to celebrate.  But in the ones that I’ve kept watch over, here’s what I’ve learned always makes the holiday come together:

• Always have room for one more: Thanksgiving is all about the opportunity to come home and be around your closest family and friends.  But not everyone can travel, not everyone has someone nearby, not everyone’s plans worked out.  Always have room for at least one more person at your table; you’ll be grateful you extended the invitation I promise.
• Share with those unfamiliar with the holiday: Thanksgiving really provokes a bit of a fascination amongst those who are non-Americans.  As you travel the world, or meet travelers at home, share this holiday with those who otherwise wouldn’t get to experience it.
• Set your table the night before: You’ll thank yourself the next day.  Also, set your champagne in the refrigerator the night before as well.  There’s no start to the holiday meal without at least one decently cold champagne toast!
• Count up how many oven dishes you have: It’s amazing but nearly everyone I know, myself included, have found themselves in a position where everything just won’t fit in the oven.  Abroad, where ovens are tiny, this is even easier to overlook.  Do a double check of what needs to go into the oven and when it needs to be there, to make sure you can fit everything in.
• Make an effort to be grateful:   Regardless of anything that might happen on this holiday, it is first and foremost about gratitude and mindfulness.  Set some time aside, whether on your own, or as a shared experience around the table, to really think about your blessings and what you’re grateful for.  Even in tougher times, we are still given so much, and we should take this opportunity to acknowledge what we have and how we can share it best.

And remember that I will always be grateful for you.  All my love,

Mom

Tradition

(If you’re a fan of old movies and/or musicals like me, I wish you luck getting the soundtrack to Fiddler on The Roof out of your head.) It’s probably no surprise that with the holiday season in full swing, my thoughts have turned to Traditions: the tried and true that I love and the possibility of making new ones.  As my sister and I have grown up our holiday family traditions have evolved.  We no longer leave cookies and milk out on Christmas Eve or receive a note from Santa with a paw print from Rudolf on Christmas morning.  But we still put presents under the tree and watch our favorite holiday movies: Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and The Muppet Christmas Carol.

This year I’ll be traveling on Christmas Day and won’t make it to my parent’s house until a day later. Surprisingly, I’m not bothered; I thought that I would be disappointed to be spending the 25^th away from home.  But it’s just not true.  Instead I’m excited for a long layover in a place I’ve never been as I know that the traditions and holiday celebrations will be waiting for me when I get back.

Perhaps this is something that others have already learned, but it’s a lesson I’m just now coming to appreciate: When it comes to traditions, it’s not really about the number on a calendar or the address on a door.  When and Where don’t matter; Who you spend your time with and How you spend it is all that makes a difference.

A Very Paleo Holiday

By Megan Flynn

A few days before Thanksgiving last year, my mother called to let me know that she had transformed her diet into one resembling that of a cave-woman. She had gone Paleo. No grains, no dairy, no sugar. And just in time for the holidays.

“So,” she said, “I’m still going to make mashed potatoes because I don’t want to push it on anyone this year, but do you really think I need to put butter and sour cream in them like I usually do?”

After trying to convince her that yes, she most certainly did need to put butter in the mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving, she tried to convince me that yes, this time next year she most certainly would be making a Paleo-friendly meal for all of us, and that we were going to like it.

I was still really looking forward to going home for Thanksgiving, because who doesn’t love Thanksgiving? The food, the football, the family; it’s all good. Throw in some cocktails and the fact that my parents live on Smith Mountain Lake, and there’s really nothing else I’d rather be doing that weekend. Even if it means eating sausage and kale for breakfast in the morning.

On the day before the holiday, my family went to a shooting range and I found myself in the kitchen with nothing to keep me company but a mound of apples and even more yams, just waiting to be peeled. I was going to attempt to make a flourless, sugarless pie for my mother and anyone else who was brave enough to try it. I first made a traditional pumpkin pie, full of flour and sugar, for those of us who weren't willing to sacrifice our traditional eats for something as silly as life-long health. When that pie was in the oven, I began my challenge. And then something amazing happened: I got excited.

My skepticism and the negativity that surrounded it began to clear as I peeled the fruit and pre-heated the oven. I smiled as I rolled out the homemade pie dough, and I caught myself singing along with the radio as I cleaned up the counters and waited for my mysterious creation to bake.

The pie was terrible.

But we had a good laugh about it and my mom, who refuses to give up, swears that it makes the most perfect brunch with a side of bacon and eggs. It’s those moments—when something doesn't work and you laugh about it with the people you love the most, when the best parts of a holiday weekend are the quiet moments spent together around a table with a glass of wine—those are the things that remind us what the holidays are about. After Thanksgiving comes Christmas, and I know that when I once again return to my parents’ home, there will be no cookies set out for Santa. There will probably be no cookies at all. But I’m discovering more and more that I don’t really care.

One thing I’ve learned over the past few years is that while traditions are important, the people with whom you share them are irreplaceable. And here I am, a whole year later; my own diet completely changed to resemble that of a cave-woman, and I eat sausage and kale for breakfast all the time, and that sugarless pie sounds like a perfect side dish for brunch, and I know that even though we may say that holidays are about the cookies, that’s not always exactly the truth.

So whether or not there is sugar in your coffee; even though you’re confused about the uses of coconut oil and the lack of flour in that crust, what really matters is that you've found your way home once again.

Back to Nature

For some southerners, camping under the stars, hunting a variety of animals, fishing for the largest bass in the river, and being outside in general is a necessity.  I wouldn't go as far as to call myself the outdoorsy type but I do appreciate the beauty of nature.  When I was younger, my family lived on a bluff in north Alabama.  Our backyard was filled with massive rock sculptures, mossy pathways, trees for miles, honey suckle vines, a creek that seemed more like a river, the whole nine yards.  My sister and I would spend hours riding crushed boxes down the leaf-covered ground, trying to squeeze in between boulder crevices, and figuring out the best way to cross the water without getting drenched (or in trouble with our mother).  When I think back to my childhood, those memories burn as bright as the camp fire we used to make s'mores around with all the other neighborhood kids.  My passion for carelessly playing around in the woods diminished when I was thisclose to stepping on a rattle snake.  I swore off nature adventures after that day and never revisited my once favorite past time.

Fast forward fifteen years and I now find myself living in a picturesque mountain city in Tennessee.  Slowly but surely, I'm back on the hiking wagon and enjoying every minute of it.  The rustling of the crispy fallen leaves is a reminder of when my sister and I would run around the paths playing hide-and-go-seek.  From the sound of crunching under our feet, we knew exactly where the other was hiding but played along anyway.  The smell of fresh air takes me back to a simpler time when the younger version of myself didn't have a worry in the world.  There was no setting the early morning alarm for a job, utility bills seemed like foreign objects, and a home cooked meal magically appeared on our dinner table every single night. The waterfalls and creek beds draw a mental picture of the pebbles we used to skip.  We would count the hops out loud and then make our individual cases as to why one stone skipped better than the other.  The endless tree line is now a temporary escape from the hustle and bustle of the city and transports me straight back to small town Alabama.  So go out and do something you did as a child; it's sure to fill your heart and put a grin on your face.

XIII. Provence

I am walking along the Mediterranean coast with the groupe des randonneurs that I joined as my required extracurricular activity from ACCP. What I had expected to be rigorous hiking turns out to be a group of mostly retired people who amble through woods every Tuesday afternoon. I convinced Leah and Bridget to join as well, and we’re laughing at how ridiculously slowly we are moving. We hadn’t fully comprehended the meaning of the verb randonner when we signed up for this. We thought it was hiking. This is ambling, maybe. Strolling.

We are the only ones wearing shorts and are obviously American, and so the other walkers are delighted to meet us. At the break halfway through the walk, we are plied with treats and spécialités personelles of every sort from our fellow randonneurs — homemade cake, figs stuffed with almonds, provençal cookies. I finally have to say no to coffee. Leah, Bridget and I tried so hard to be friendly and gracious that after the break we feel a bit nauseated.

Wild rosemary grows everywhere in this dry climate. As I walk along the cliffside road back toward the bus, the clouds rolling in over the sea, I pick some and crush it between my fingers to release the sharp, woodsy fragrance.

“Try eating it,” says one of the smiling women walking near me. “It’s good for the digestion.”

What Are You Reading (offline, that is?)

Hilary Halpern's lifelong affinity with the sea took her to Santa Cruz for her college education. Here is where she learned how to sail and realized her dream of circumnavigation. Meanwhile, she is working on careers in teaching and writing in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can follow her writings of inner monologues ranging from dating to tales of her experiences on "the high seas" on her blog: hiladil.blogspot.com. Sailing and my love of the sea have quite the influence on the books I pick and the books that are gifted to me. Maiden Voyage and Dove have been my favorite stories thus far.

Maiden Voyage

by Tania Aebi

Sailing around the world became a dream of mine a little over a year ago; however, I would prefer to do it in the company of crew, unlike Tania Aebi, who at 18 years-old embarked on her quest to circumnavigate the globe alone. Upon her graduation from high school, Tania's father gave her the choice of either a college education or a sailboat. He is an adventurous man and a seasoned sailor who already had accomplished more than one ocean passage with his daughter in tow; he wanted to give her the option of pursuing her own adventure. The catch: she had to sail it around the world by herself within 2 years and break the record as the youngest woman-sailor to do so. Tania picked the boat: a 26-foot sloop Veruna. She writes of her voyage in 1989,  four years after she set sail from New York Harbor. This true story is captivating for sailors and adventure seekers alike. Aebi peppers her exciting tale of close-calls, mile-stones (literally), romance, and self-discovery with tidbits of her dysfunctional upbringing and rebellious youth. Her writing is beautifully descriptive and relatable. I found it fascinating to read her reflections on how a life-changing voyage can bring bittersweet feelings of newfound wisdom as well as a nostalgia for her innocence. After reading her accounts I craved embarking on my own adventure.

Dove

by Robin Lee Graham

This is another autobiographical solo-circumnavigating tale and is the inspiration of a cheesy 1970s flick by the same name. I recommend Robin Lee Graham's personal account. In 1965 at age 16 Robin set sail from Southern California on his 24-foot sloop Dove - hence the title of the book. His enthralling voyage took him a total of 5 years. As he sailed from one destination to the next, he would often stop for as long as several months at a time to explore the land as he repaired his boat and collected provisions. It's interesting to get a young man's perspective of the world as it was in the mid 1960s. Robin gives insight to his thoughts on society in the United States and how being away from it has an extreme effect on the way he will live his life upon his return. During his laboriously long ocean passages, particularly in the Doldrums, he writes of the downward spiral his mind takes after being with only his boat and the eerily quiet sea for so long, and how easy it can be to waver on the brink of insanity. He writes of his care-free times in tropical paradise as well, allowing us to escape in his exquisite, euphoric descriptions of island life.

I read Heinlein's suspenceful novel soon after James Cameron's Avatar debuted in theaters. This fantastic piece of science fiction, written in 1961 has many similar themes to Avatar and makes me wonder if James Cameron drew inspiration from Heinlein's story for his movie. It was gifted to me by an acquaintance who warned me that "grokking" would soon become a part of my everyday vocabulary.

Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

To "grok" something, is to deeply understand it. In the context of the story, it is to appreciate its role in the universe and realize how it relates to one's own role which is a huge part of this story. It takes place in some unspecified time in the future, as projected from the 1960s. World War III is over and life is discovered on Mars. On one of the early expeditions to this foreign planet, Valentine Michael Smith, or "Mike" is born and unfortunately orphaned as an infant by his space-exploring Earthling parents. He is adopted and raised by the Martians and as a result, acquires their psychic powers; the ability to mind-read and to make people disappear with thoughts alone. Another expedition 25 years after his birth brings him to Earth and in captivity of the government due to legal implications and planetary politics. This brilliant science-fiction novel begins with his escape by the aide of a brave nurse and a political reporter with a passion for social-justice. As the story unfolds Mike learns the good and bad ways of his physical counterpart and also tries to impart his own Martian wisdom on the human-race. Heinlein eloquently delivers an outsider's perspective of the multi-faceted behavior of humans and our social and political constructs. He narrates the plot in a way that creates a reflection of how strange it is that we are the only species with such an unquantifiable range of emotion . . . or so we think!

I'm sure this famous novel needn't an explanation for itself. It is one of the stories I have enjoyed reading more than once.

Pride and Prejudice

by Jane Austen

I first attempted to read this classic in high school and had a hard time getting passed the language that I now love getting lost in over and over again. I am fascinated by this time period of the early 1800s and how different life was for women and their relationships with men; yet how the love and tumult between them remains the same as it is between true loves today, some 200-plus years later. Jane Austen's words never cease to fulfill the hopeless romantic within me and fuel my own love of writing.

And finally…

Charlotte's Web

by E.B. White

My Mother first read this book at age 8.  She has a vivid image of reading the final chapters late at night with a flashlight so as not to disturb her sister sleeping next to her.  All for loss as she sobbed along with Wilbur and the other farm friends in their grief of losing Charlotte.  Eighteen years later in my mother's, or rather Miss Dowd's first year of teaching, she still couldn't stop the tears from welling up as she read the ending of Charlotte's Webb aloud to her second grade class. The life and friendships between the animals on the farm Miss Dowd loved so much influenced her to create a similarly warm environment in her classroom. Every year of her teaching career she read E.B. White's story to her students. One year, after failing to control her tears at the book's ending yet again, one of her students walked up to her afterwards to comfort her and said, "It's okay Miss Dowd, it's just a story."

Knitting for Writers

No, this is not the name of a ridiculous fundraiser. And it’s not a title for one of those “How to . . . for Dummies” books either. I took up knitting during my last year of graduate school. I had received a starter knitting kit, complete with gigantic needles, two balls of very chunky yarn, and instructions for basic projects, during the previous year. After a couple of false starts, I left it propped against the wall in the corner for many months. Since I couldn’t knit my first row perfectly, I was determined to give up altogether.

But as I launched into my last year of studies, I felt smothered by the weight of so many books that needed to be read and so many papers that needed to be written. I felt like I was climbing a mountain whose summit I couldn’t see. As part of me began to hunker down and plow through the work, another part of me came up for air, grasping for something tactile to hold onto.

I was searching desperately for something that was not a four-syllable word or an idea about a theory about a concept. I wanted a real thing, with measurable weight and texture and vivid color. Hence, the knitting.

I remember the false starts, when I tossed the needles aside in frustration, but I don’t remember beginning in earnest. Before long, I had transformed a ball of thick, scratchy yarn into a very ugly, very square-shaped hat, which I gifted to my sister, who wore it with pride on both sides of the Atlantic.

After the hat, I gave up on interesting shapes and focused simply on flat rectangles—potholders, scarves, and lately, a blanket. I realized that my delight had nothing to do with the complexity or practicality of the project, but simply with the joy of transforming one thing into another.

For a while, I had a thing for fancy yarns and would scour the aisles of yarn shops for the softest possible yarns (alpaca, cashmere) and the warmest colors I could find (brick red, mustard yellow). Eventually, though, I settled on an armful of the simplest undyed yarn I could find, along with a pair of circular needles. I wasn’t sure what I would make, exactly. I only knew that it would be very big and very flat. I just wanted to knit and knit and keep on knitting without stopping for a very long time.

In the midst of all of that knitting, I wrote my papers. I wrote them without all of the hair pulling and teeth grinding I had done in my first year of the program. I wrote them without that terrible sense of sprinting and crashing I’d had before, and without the all-nighters. I chugged along steadily, picking up with each new paper just as soon as I’d tied off the ends of the one before. I knitted, I wrote, and at long last, I graduated.

Of course, this is not to say that it was only knitting that saved me, or that it wasn’t still a very hard year. It’s just to say that sometimes it helps to come at a thing indirectly, that sometimes it takes a bit of creativity to generate momentum, and that discipline grows with steady practice over time.

One Bad Mother

I have the video monitor on with the sound turned way up. I listen with one ear perked to her noisy, clogged breathing---such an adorable, pathetic, concerning sound emanating from our miniature person with a cold.  I glance periodically at the screen, whose camera looks like it is hunting for paranormal activity.  I flash on all the tasks that should consume the rest of my evening---the tasks left hanging from a never-ending work day.  It is 8:38 PM and I wonder how much steam I've got left before that heavy molasses feeling envelops my brain.  I am distracted momentarily by her flipping over, sighing a little and registering a tiny complaint.  My resolve begins to waver and now I'm considering the consequences of simply climbing into bed at this point with the monitor and a magazine.  Or better yet, scooping her up out of the crib and bringing her into bed with me.  In weeks like this one, there are days when I spend more time watching her on the monitor than I do holding her in my arms. Even a generation ago, I am not sure women allowed themselves the luxury to think about work-life balance in the way that we do now.  Today, as I was frantically rushing home to catch 20 minutes with the baby before bedtime, I thought about how lucky I am to even consider such a notion.  How fortunate that I have the education, training, and capacity to work outside the home in the first place, let alone be daunted by how to thrive in two environments.  My work is meaningful to me, it is in a chosen field, and I have a large measure of control over my schedule.  I am not limited to an exclusive childcare role nor am I forced to work a job that is dangerous, unsatisfying or menial.  When I zoom out on my scenario, I realize how refined and esoteric my dilemma might seem to some.  In fact, in an ideal world, more women would face this kind of dilemma---one in which they are choosing among many good options for childcare and have the privilege of participating an elevating career.

It would appear that whether or not women (and many men) have had the consciousness or the language to describe it, this struggle is ages old.  I try to recall how my own mother dealt with managing work and home life.  I don't ever remember noticing her being particularly tired, lacking the energy to make things happen at home or even seeming anxious about her responsibilities.  She consistently helped with homework, threw some hot meal on the table (albeit rarely cooked by her) and made it to all our games/performances.  Although she worked full-time, I always had access to her on the phone.  She arranged for school pickups and shuttling to activities with others if she was unable to coordinate her schedule.  We definitely reconvened each night as a family and this seemed to re-set the connectedness.  I do remember a general sense of wishing I could spend more time with my mother and vaguely complaining about this in moments.  But weekends were exclusively devoted to us and our needs and whatever else was happening during my parents' busy lives, it was clear we were the priority.  Of course she had help, as I do, with housework and childcare.  Oh and did I mention she had five kids?

When I ask my mother these days about what it was like for her raising a brood and working full time, she admits to feelings of guilt, mostly about not being enough or doing enough at home.  She was always highly competent and effective at work---in her mind, it was home that suffered.  Although it was not our experience that she dropped any particular ball, I have more insight now into how she must have lived with powerful ambivalence.  It is also worth noting that my parents literally never took a single vacation on their own or did any individualized, enriching, adult activities.  This is the one area where I picture doing things a little differently.  As much as I can't begin to process the demands on their time for all those years, I hope/plan to delineate more regular space for my marriage and more escape for myself.

Sometimes my mother says to me, "Oh, well, you know it was easier back then."  I have some sense that she is right about that but neither of us can put our finger on exactly why this is true.  I think for one, it required less money and less time at work to be a solidly middle class family and achieve financial flexibility.  I also think there was more neighborly and community support built in to people's lives.  Perhaps the expectations on adults and children were also more reasonable---not everybody was supposed to a "Super" anything?  The fact remains that we had soccer, art class, piano lessons et al and my parents were pulled in a zillion directions.  Still, I can't access a single episode of a legitimate melt down---the machinery always moved fairly seamlessly forward.

The guilt I feel about missing time with our baby casts long shadows and tugs at me throughout the day.  I genuinely imagine that she might develop a greater attachment to the baby sitter during weeks when their time together is more enduring.  When I come home and she instantly lurches forward from the babysitter's arms for me to hold her and proceeds to cling to me like a chimp for the remainder of the evening, it brings some secret satisfaction.  The selfish side of me is relieved when she demonstrates a touch of separation anxiety, howling when I leave the room.  I want her to be securely attached, but I also want to know she prefers me to anyone and won't forget that during the many hours I am away.

I am proud of my work and know it is critical to my identity to have a holistic sense of self.  I recognize it is good for my daughter to establish her independence and be cared for by many different loving adults.  I reaffirm that I want to be her primary and central model of a woman with a career.  This doesn't mean I don't cry at my desk mulling the fact that she might take her first steps today and I could miss it.  This is the fulsome experience of the modern woman/parent.

In my view, it is not so much about figuring out how to have it all as it is being happily immersed in what you are doing at any given moment.  I think anyone who presents as having each domain of life under control is hiding something or is teetering on the brink.  I respect and appreciate the women in my life who admit to questioning their many roles and evaluating their health and sanity with respect to each of them.

By 10:17 PM I had done nothing but write this piece and pump 5 ounces of breast milk before I packed it in for the night.  Then again, I guess that is something.

Photo of Sarah: Buck Ennis for Crain's New York Business.

Lessons from Cabaret...

Image Credit: Time Out London

Dear Clara,

I’m in London again for work; it seems like the opportunity is coming up more often these days.  I was able to schedule in an evening in the theater, courtesy of my best friend, for one of my most favorite shows, Cabaret.  While many musicals often aim to stay above any kind of disheartening fray, Cabaret introduces both social and political commentary, without removing any of the fun---in fact, I would argue the fun is even taken to a whole new level.  I absolutely adore the music and pace of the show, and I’ll even admit that I might have spent a Halloween or two as Sally Bowles.  The thing though, is that the Cabaret comes to an end, tragic every time.  It's getting harder and harder to watch, since you know inevitably what happens not so long after the show ends.  A few things always stick with me:

• “In here, life is beautiful…”: Everyone should have a place, cabaret or otherwise, where life is at its best.  Whether it’s wine, song, dance or nature, quiet and tea, look for spaces that are the best representation of what’s good in this life for you.   Just remember that you can’t live exclusively in those places; the outside world will always come in and you need to be prepared.
• “And it just so happens I do paint my fingernails green, and I think it’s pretty”: All of the characters have their eccentricities, personalities and even character flaws, yet for a time they all manage to be a cohesive group.  It doesn’t last of course, but focus on differences in people as something interesting, something to be learned from, and something that compliments those things that make you yourself different.  It’s a quality not many people have.
• “I thought I should know something about the politics”: When Cliff arrives in Berlin, he immediately starts to read the literature of the day, much to the confusion of Sally, who is caught up in the moment.  Different travels and places offer us adventures, but we should also take the time to know something about the location, and what’s happening in current events and what that means for all groups that live there, not just the glimpses we are given when we’re visitors.  It might just change your perspective.
• “A pineapple? I am overwhelmed”: I think one of the most touching scenes in the entire show is when Frau Schneider is gifted a pineapple by her gentleman caller.  Not only is it a tremendously sweet display of romance amongst two people who thought they would remain alone, but it also captures how something rare can really touch you.  Lately, I notice that people always laugh during this scene.  No one seems to realize that at the time, pineapples weren’t that readily available, were extremely rare, were a symbol of the exotic and were incredibly expensive.   Now you could walk into nearly any supermarket, probably one that’s open 24 hours and buy a pineapple anytime you feel like it.  It’s good to appreciate where our fruits and food come from, and how long they traveled to get there, and what a gift it is truly to have such fresh items full of flavor and vitamins for ourselves at any time.
• “What good is sitting alone in your room?” Come here the music play . . . Make time for music and for enjoyment with others.  There is so much in life that can drag you down,  don’t waste your opportunities when times are better.

All my love,

Mom