Samus

Sharing my life with an animal is one of the greatest joys I could imagine. There is nothing better than coming home after a long hard day and being met at the door by my dogs, wagging their tails and giving me kisses. . . it instantly erases all my stress, at least for a little while. My husband, Chris, and I don't have kids, not yet anyway, so I treat my dogs like they are my kids. People say things change when you have actual children, but I hope it doesn't. I love knowing that I am giving my dogs the best life possible and that they are loved and appreciated every day.

Nothing could prepare me for the loss I would feel when my first two dogs, Samus and Max, passed away. When we lost Samus, Chris and I spent the next three days in bed, crying our eyes out. Seven months later, Max passed away too. Our home had changed forever. Looking back, we realized just how much Samus and Max had affected our lives. They taught us about patience, unconditional love, and what's really important in life.

What follows are my thoughts on the passing of sweet Samus. I will be sharing Max's story tomorrow.

I’ve tried to write this piece about 5 times now. Every time I see that title, I just tear up and have to walk away. Chris and I lost our baby girl two weeks ago. It was sudden, unexpected, and heartbreaking. We don’t know for sure, but we think she had cardiomyopathy, a condition of the heart, where it just gives out without warning. We knew she wasn’t feeling good, took her to the vet, and her heart rate was at 300 beats per minute. They tried to fix it but nothing worked and after a few hours at the vet, she basically had a heart attack. Chris and I had to hold her the last few minutes while she was passing . . . it was just heartbreaking; there is no other way to describe it. It tore us both to pieces, having to watch something you love so much, go away forever.

Samus came into our lives when she was 6 weeks old. Chris and I had a terrible fight about what kind of dog we were going to get. My heart was set on a boston terrier . . . I even went out and bought a book about them! Chris finally dropped the bomb on me that it was his turn, I had chosen our first pets (cats, they were insane!) and he wanted a boxer. I was SOOOOO mad! That all changed the day he picked me up from work with a newspaper in his hand. He had the ad circled and was determined that it was the day for us to add to our family. I agreed and we drove straight to the breeder’s house. Inside, Samus’s grandmother climbed up on the couch beside us and we knew these had to be the sweetest puppies ever. A few minutes later, all hell broke loose as the puppy gate was removed and we were tackled by 10-12 little baby boxers. Chris picked out our little girl and we named her Samus. I fell so deeply in love with her within that first hour, I just never expected it. I’ve had animals my whole life but this was our first puppy, and she was perfect.

Well, she was perfect in every way but one . . . she was CRAZY!! Chris and I could barely keep up with her the next few months; she had more energy than both of us combined. We decided that she needed a buddy to keep her company while we were at work, so 4 months later, we got Max. They became best friends immediately, and stayed that way for the last nine years. The only flaw in our plan was that Max was the laziest dog ever and spent more time on the couch with us than playing with her!

Chris and I knew that we would lose them one day . . . but it didn’t stop us from loving them dearly. I am so thankful for the fact that we loved her so much, and because of that, I have few regrets. She was spoiled rotten. Every Christmas and birthday, I would go to goodwill and stock up with bags of stuffed animals. We would give them to her all at once and and watch her roll around on the floor in bliss. Max couldn't care less about the toys; they were all for her. Her favorite had to have been the frisbee.

Losing her was one of the hardest things I have ever gone through. For me, it rated on the same level as losing my brother 12 years ago. I knew it would be difficult, but I don’t think I was quite prepared for the amount of grief I would feel. I realized through all of this just how much you can learn about life from a dog. She taught me about joy, love, and losing. Losing her made me look at life through a different lens and I am trying to hold on to that and not go back to the way I was before. I was able to look back at things that had happened the last week, month, year, and see that things happened for a reason and everything worked out like it was supposed to, even though it wasn’t what I wanted. Even looking back at when we got her, I didn’t want a boxer, but God put one in my life anyway. Looking back, she was exactly what I wanted and what I needed in my life, I just didn’t know it. I am so glad that somehow I was chosen to be her mama.

Losing her also reminded me of the fact that no one is promised another day, not you, not me . . . not anyone. I learned that I need to accept things the way they are and concentrate on the joy in my life, not the bad things. And I learned that I need to appreciate my friends and family a little bit more every day because it might be the last chance I get to tell them how I feel. We never thought that on Easter Sunday, when we spent the afternoon in our favorite park, lying in the sun, that 24 hours later, she would be gone forever. I loved her so much, and I still do, and I am so sad she is gone.

I’ll end with this, an excerpt from a poem by Danna Faulds that I am trying to take to heart:

“Do not let the day slip through your fingers, but live it fully now, this breath, this moment, catapulting you into full awareness. Time is precious, minutes disappearing like water into sand, unless you choose to pay attention. Since you do not know the number of your days, treat each as if it is your last. Be that compassionate with yourself, that open and loving to others, that determined to give what is yours to give and to let in the energy and wonder of this world. Experience everything, writing, relating, eating, doing all the little necessary tasks of life as if for the first time…pushing nothing aside as unimportant. You have received these same reminders many times before, this time, take them into your soul. For if you choose to live this way, you will be rich beyond measure, grateful beyond words, and the day of your death will arrive with no regrets.”

I miss you Samus.

Less is More

Lately, I've been on a purging spree. It’s not uncommon for my refrain to be “Get rid of it!” when asked about just any item in the house. I might have a problem. I have recently been looking at all manner of things I use on a daily basis and really quizzing myself, “Do I NEED that?” The extra stuff is really getting to me. It seemed that as soon as we moved into a big house (2500+sq.ft.) eighteen months ago, we have acquired all manner of extra junk. It just shows up---donations, presents, hobbies we hoped we would have---all over, gathering dust in corners, and overtaking the garage. Maybe we just have trouble saying no? Do you have this problem? If someone gives us a gift, we are thrilled and grateful they thought of us. And we (sort of) like DIY projects, so we end up with extra furniture that needs to be refinished and two clawfoot tubs. Perhaps we like to revel in the possibility of it all. We don't buy the golf clubs and tennis rackets because we WANT them to sit in our garage. We think that they will make us happy. We buy our kid even more toys because of course, more is more, and that will make him happy.

But is it? Instead I feel stressed by all the projects yet to be finished, the renovations that aren’t complete, and all the hobbies I never pursued. Instead of feeling like I am living up to my potential, I feel the opposite, like I am failing at doing it all.

Jordan, from Oh Happy Day, had a great quote the other day about purging:

"I’m by no means a minimalist but I’ve realized lately that everything

we own just takes up space and that it takes time to manage it all.

The less stuff you have, the more time you have. "

That's the element that is missing in all the forgotten hobbies in our 'Closet of Broken Dreams' (Literally, our master closet is where we hide all the things we used to enjoy, including but not limited to musical instruments, cameras, darkroom equipment, snowboards, and broken bicycles.) We never made the time for all those interests; merely just buying the item doesn't give you the time.

I was trying to describe to my husband the other day the happiness derived from small pleasures when I lived in my little (less than 500 sq.ft) apartment in Wicker Park. I can remember buying flowers one afternoon at the farmer's market. They were yellow daisies, and I put them in the middle of my tiny two-person kitchen table. And every day when I walked by them, I smiled. Once I bought a poster from a sale at the Art Institute downtown, and that poster, in my hallway, gave me more pleasure than most of the things currently in my house. Those two items, the flowers and the poster, I interacted with more on a daily basis since they made a big impact in my small space. Now, even when I go through the effort of framing a photograph, say of Charley and I, it gets lost in all the space we have. Sometimes I even forget I have it. We have rooms that are sitting empty, and bathrooms we don't even use, and after eighteen months, I am starting to feel that more isn't more, and you can really buy a house that's too big.

It seems I have become an over-buyer of sorts. I don’t buy thirty boxes of tissue, and actually Costco makes me nervous, but I tend to purchase things I think I will need for the future. Those items could be a bathtub for future renovations that haven’t happen or a fancy stroller for when we move to a city. Except we never moved to a city, and we still haven’t renovated that bathroom. Even today, I found myself thinking about buying another bike for when I’ll be cruising the streets of D.C. or Brooklyn, and I had to step back and think, but when will that even be? You could say I have trouble living in the moment. I constantly have that feeling of ‘my life will start when’ ______. When I move, get a job, have another kid (or not). I struggle to recognize and appreciate the moment as it is.

In an effort to slow down and appreciate life, I have to realize I can’t do all those different hobbies. So what am I really passionate about? I’ve been reading “The Happiness Project” by Gretchen Rubin and she has a great simple quote (adapted here to reflect the writer, er, me). “Be Shannon." A huge part of that is realizing my interests are not everyone else’s. I’ve never been much into sports; I would love to play tennis again one day, but the last time was over seven years ago. I truly love photography, but I no longer have the time available to do photography how I wanted to, processing the film, carefully weighing each decision and step. Instead I keep that hobby in a small way. I try to capture the little everyday moments with my son that might otherwise get lost in the cracks. I loathe staged family portraits and would much prefer to remember that on a random Wednesday afternoon he played trains at seven A.M. in his pajamas and the pajamas were red and had fire trucks on them; they were his favorite.

There's a part in the book where she talks about the too much stuff phenomenon. A little boy plays with his blue car everyday, takes it everywhere, and loves it to pieces. His grandmother comes to visit and sees how much joy is derived from this one car, so she goes out and buys him ten more little blue cars. He immediately stops playing with any of them. When she asks him why he replies, "It's because I can't love all the cars."

YWRB: Genesis

We were young writer party girls in college.  At the time, creative nonfiction was the new, hot genre.  We were asked to write essays. We understood essays.  We learned that the word “essay” meant “attempt.”  We attempted constantly.  We attempted friendships and sophistication and reputations and all the things you can try on and discard while young and starting out.  Everything felt like rebellion: against parents, expectations, systems and growing up.  And it was.  We couldn’t articulate it at the time, but one thing I know now is this: the most rebellious thing you can do, at any age, is be yourself.

I remember the moment the title came to me.  I was sitting on a friend's black leather sofa, drinking vodka and fruit juice from an old flower vase.  I was wearing a ballgown.  We weren't going out that evening, but that's what we did when we stayed in.  Anyway, in the moment of garish getups and pride in our own ridiculous behavior, the quick thought came to me: The Young Women's Rebellion Bible.  I thought I knew something about rebellion.  Dressed up for a party, but lounging on a couch was a rebellious act in my twenty-one year old mind.

Later that week, I was in a bar with Amy before our creative nonfiction workshop.  I told Amy the title and before the words were completely out of my mouth, she screams, "Oh my God, we could totally do this!"  We immediately started brainstorming topics.  We took quick notes on napkins and then ran to class, high on possibility and buzzed on cheap beer.  Amy's enthusiasm made me believe we could do it.  We could write a book of instructions or stories or something that taught others about rebellion.

We liked pushing boundaries, walking edges.  Although the English building was designated non-smoking, on breaks we'd find an empty classroom and lean far out the window with our lit cigarettes.  We relished that rush.  A little rebellion made us bold.  Writing about rebellion made us rebel. Our process was born.

We enrolled others in our mission.  Our creative writing teachers, the head of the English department, the owner of the restaurant where Amy worked, the bartender at our favorite haunt.  Amy's enthusiasm made other people believe we could do it.  And before I knew it, we were.

For several months, we wrote essays about our behavior, our rebellion, our romances and our families.  We filled yellow legals pads full of ideas and ways to organize chapters.  We wrote in coffee shops, bars, the library when necessary.  We were relentless, but we weren't entirely clear about how it would look or what it should be.  In that way, the project mirrored our lives.

In June, we graduated, flew to Greece together, and split up to go our separate ways.  Amy stayed on the tiny Greek Island of Mykonos and I hopped a ferry to the mainland and spent a lot of time on trains.  When we returned, seperately, to the states, we lived in different cities.  We embarked on very different lives.  We drifted apart.  Fifteen years later, we reside in the same city, once again.  And the Young Women's Rebellion Bible was reborn.

We have very different notions of rebellion, as does every woman, I believe.  And our rebellion has looked very, very different from one another's over the years.  Amy is married, a mother, a writer and wood toy maker.  I am single, a dog owner and avid rescue supporter, a writer and part-time teacher.  Amy has put down roots and I've been a wanderer.  We've both embarked on creative endeavors, but nothing has had the same momentum, the same dizzy, blissful energy as the Young Women's Rebellion Bible.

A few years ago, I pulled the manuscript from the trunk where I keep sacred things and I photocopied it and sent it to Amy.  I've held on to it, maybe as a way to hold on to that time with Amy, to hold on to that enthusiasm and the belief that it is possible that we do this.  We're doing it now.  What we knew of rebellion at twenty-one is a very different knowledge than what we know of rebellion at thirty-six and thirty-eight.  With the fine partnership of The Equals Project, we'll explore that knowledge and examine its impact.  To do that, we need your help.

We want to explore rebellion with you.  Every week, we’ll prompt you to consider rebellion – and we challenge you to share it with us.  We’d love to feature your stories and experiences as part of our exploration.  Send responses and stories to Amanda at amanda@bold-types.com.

This week, we want to know:

If you had the chance today, what would you tell your teenage and/or college self about rebellion?

The Curves and Bits of Barcelona

I love Barcelona's curves and lines and organic forms. Flow and movement are ever-present, on every corner and up and down its avenues. And while Gaudi’s massive masterpieces are stunning to behold in their entirety, what moves me the most in this city are its details: the grooves between mosaic bits, the imperfect bumps in surfaces, the intricate wiring. I see and sense the world in fragments, beautiful or broken in their own ways, all contributing to create the setting and narrative of my life. The different steps, the various angles, the many possibilities. And so I appreciate Barcelona not just for its grandeur—for what we see when we stand back, for what we ultimately create—but for all the pieces I can touch up close, and all the tiny things that ostensibly don't matter, but really do.

Here, it’s about absorbing minutiae and magnificence at once, which is a wonderful way to experience a place.

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Love I Came Looking For

By H. Savala NolanPhotograph by Leigh Anna Thompson

I expected to come back to New York and look beautiful.  Show off tan legs late at night in a white dress and red heels.  I expected to cook dinner at his house, get tipsy with red wine, and make out on his couch.  I expected to feel like I felt at the beginning, when I got my first look at the city.  Riding a train from Rhode Island that August evening, I looked up from my book, and there was Manhattan, silver stilettos of skyline, regal in thick orange sunlight.  It was fascinating, an intricate Cubist brooch on the breast of the earth.  It sent out shock waves---this metropolis squeezed into place by the corseting rivers, and I felt as if my body had just been plugged into a sun.  That first weekend, I stayed with a friend on Park and 91st, and I'll never forget: tiny-aisled, overflowing grocery stores with moms and pops at the register, my first taste of the ubiquitous ginger-carrot salad dressing, Bow Bridge, Tasty Dlite frozen yogurt, the eerie insulation of Upper East Side apartments, the motionless heat of subway stations, doormen, Prince Street, the Astor Place cube and Around the Clock french toast, Midtown magazine workers with tap-tap heels, the clip and cadence of New Yorkers conversing, the swirling backseat universe of taxi cabs at drunken three AMs.  I knew I had to live in New York, and for seven years, I did.

At the end of those seven years, I graduated from college and flew home to California.  I thought it would be a six week visit, and I'd return for my new job as a public school teacher.  But I didn't want the job.  I wasn't ready.  So I stayed in California, and offered my coordinator in New York a cursory explanation about changed life circumstances.  That November, unable to stand being gone from my beloved city, I bought a last-minute ticket and flew east for a weekend.

I expected not to spend any money.  Fifteen dollars a day, I told myself.  Have will power!  Think what Soho is actually like before you decide to shop. Eat Zone bars for breakfast and pizza for lunch.  Don't buy foreign magazines and dream of a chic life just because, in this city, it seems plausible.  Don't get wine or bottled water.  Embrace  lowbrow: drink coffee from street kiosks with Parthenon cups. Take the subway.  Take the bus. Take the shuttle to the airport.  Don't buy cigarettes---they're cheaper in California and you barely smoke anyway.  Ignore your chipped nail polish.  Don't get your hair blown out.  Don't buy a week of Bikram classes because you're worried about getting fat.  Go hungry.  Let your feet ache. Remember your rent, gym membership, cell phone, health insurance, medications, credit cards, student loans, car insurance, the price of gasoline, groceries, and the fact that you took off work to pull off this trip.

Make the most of this weekend!  See everyone.  Everyone. This is a pleasure trip, but you are here on business---the business of finding a way back.  See the friend who you haven't seen since she returned from London, see the one you had the fight with, see the guy who owes you a favor, your roommates from Italy, your old boss, your old professor and get a signed copy of his new book.  Network.  Remind them that you exist even if you crossed the river.  Swing by the old office and chat up the editors, get to the Guggenheim, email that moron at MTV and invite her out for coffee.  Pay.  Insist.  Congratulate her on the engagement, the apartment. Tell her she looks wonderful.  How shiny her hair is.  Let her be the heyday Carrie Bradshaw we all wanted to be.

That weekend, I expected a definite answer from myself because I was confused: I gave up New York, a real job, and my friends to do what---drink overpriced Whole Foods vegetable juice and sunbathe to skin cancer?  Live with my mom? Surf Craigslist?

I have a new job now that I don't mind---a small creative business, decent pay.  But, as I told a friend that weekend over amber pints in the Village, I don't want to become a brick in the wall, and my boss can probably sense that I have one foot out the door.  My former New York Life is stuck in my mind like a song.  Even in the green, clean, serenity of my Bay Area enclave, I observe all things California with disdain and keep Manhattan in my mind's eye. Sometimes I intentionally say, "Are you waiting on line?" to remind myself that I haven't gotten used to being away.  When people wave clipboards at me and ask for my signature, I tell them, "I don't live here," and I mean it.  I haven't registered to vote, I haven't made any friends.  And when I'm on the freeway, I pretend I'm driving out of town for a beach house weekend, Atlantic ocean and hydrangea bushes, brown nannies and white babies, naked feet in loafers and fresh cinnamon donuts in East Hampton---only this time, I'm not sitting in the backseat of a Yukon, charged with three kids and counting the minutes until the paycheck.

But where am I actually going?  What city? What life?  I am clueless.  I see signs but can't read them.  I expected the long Manhattan weekend to make it clear—I belong here—to make me fall in love, like I did every night I rode home in a taxi, watching the city lights beyond the window glass, or looking at Chagall and chandeliers past the champagney Lincoln Center fountain.  Like I did those first, verdant, Central Park days of spring, or after exchanging some unexpected kindness with a stranger who was also a New Yorker.   After a New Yorker Smile, where one city dweller makes quick eye contact with another and they take turns exchanging eyes-looking-away smiles.  But I don't feel in love; I feel lost.  Starved, restless, unheard—and I don't know if place will fix that.  I'm an artist, I get to create something from nothing---but so what?

I do know that I'm waiting, actively waiting for an arrival, a renaissance---I'm not sure what to call it.  But I'm ready. Sometimes I could scream I'm so anxious for it to get here.  I'm underground in a tunnel, alone on a platform, and it will come to me, barreling forward, a train with no passengers, its headlights at first just a flicker through the dark, its weight a shudder on the tracks that sends the rats fleeing.  Then its sound will rush up and deafen me---all my blessed futures collide---and its wind will blow, tossing up the dormant riches that have been gathering dust on the floor of me.  I'll jump off the platform and grab hold of the metal snake as it bullets forward.  My old skin will open.  I'll have something to make, and I will make it.  That is the love I came looking for.

198 Days Without You

Field trips, recess at the park sprinklers, warm weather and bag lunches are all signs that my son's first academic year is drawing to a close.  This morning the parent association held one last breakfast and a special conversation with parents and the directors of the upper and lower schools. I felt pretty nostalgic as I climbed up the windy staircase to the music room remembering all the special memories that make up my son's first year here: the first day of school jitters, his first tooth falling out at recess, the numerous play dates with new friends from school, a weekend caring for two ducklings, and the class home visit.  I engaged in every moment possible of his first year in the 4-5s class as if I was re-visiting my own first year in kindergarten.  Yet, there is something very momentous about this first year that goes beyond the milestones of the 4-5s curriculum.  In this same year, my son and I also just about complete one year as a family together.  So in reflection on the past year and the year's struggles, accomplishments, fears, joys and risk taking, I write this brief letter to my son, Diego. Dear Diego,

A year ago today, I sat in my office anxious, scared and missing you deeply.  You see, your papi and I had separated, and I moved back to New York City to take the big job that would provide for you.  Remember when you lived with him in the apartment so you could stay at the JCC preschool last year?  Well in that time, I rented a room to save enough to secure the apartment we call home today.  In those painful and lonely seven months, I missed you every day. At any moment whether I was at work, on the bus or in the grocery store, tears would stream down my face as I questioned whether I had made the right choice to leave you and miss out on the little four year old child you were growing into.  I missed your last tot Shabbat, I missed your end of the year preschool musical production and the parent committee meetings, and all the little moments in between -- but I did it anyway for us.

It is true I doubted myself every day for those 198 days without you.  But today I write this letter to tell you it was the right choice at the right time.  You know why I know this?  Because I see you and me today and we have grown tremendously with a sense of independence and interdependence in our new home, community and life.  The first few months in our home you were afraid to sleep alone in your new room and you missed your father.  I comforted you and slept next to you to assure you of my love, trust and security.  You cried daily at drop off at your new summer school program missing the rhythm and routine of the JCC; but each day I came to pick you up, I found you smiling.  We took adventures over the summer on the subway to parks with sprinklers and neighborhood stores.  By fall, you began a new school less fearful and more certain of yourself and your surroundings.  You no longer cried at drop off and came home tired from a hard day of play in the 4-5s class.  I marveled at your ease in adapting to our familial changes and your resiliency, but this is not to say we did not have our challenging moments.  You challenged me daily for months about wanting to live with your father and not with me.  Our biggest challenge was your hospitalization on your fifth birthday for a severe asthma attack postponing the birthday party you were counting down the days for. You rebounded quickly and we celebrated weeks later at Wiggles and Giggles with all your friends and loved ones.  Onto the holiday celebrations of November and December, you traveled back and forth from Virginia to New York splitting your time over the breaks to enjoy the customs and traditions from your multicultural parentage.  By the New Year, you became a pro at your school routine and would inform me daily of your after school activities and which buses and trains we should take in the morning to school.  I marveled at seeing you become so confident and alive in your environs.  Into spring, we began cooking together, painting together, and going to tee ball practice together which has resulted in some of the best memories this year.  I think your proudest moment was when you led three classmates to our home traveling on two trains and a bus for the annual class home visit. This very milestone in your 4-5s class allowed you to share with pride your culture, family and home life with your classmates. We enjoyed eating apples, grapes and crackers, touring your room, creating a collaborative art piece on the chalk board, break dancing to You Spin me Round by the Chipmunks, and your favorite part -- jumping on my bed.

I remind you of all of this mi niño lindo, so you never forget how much this year has meant to me after spending what seemed like eternity without you.  I most recently threw out the calendar I had meticulously crossed off each day that passed in your absence.  I held onto it like a medal of honor because I needed that visualization so I could see the progress I was making toward having you back in my life.  And now, I can say goodbye to that marked up and wrinkled calendar and those 198 days without you.  Today I proudly celebrate the many more days and years I have with you.

I hope when you read this letter one day, you will begin to understand and feel through my words the depth of love I have for you.

Te adoro y  te amo, mi hijo lindo y querido.

Tu mami para siempre,

Judy.

The Best Intentions

This is part two of Megan's travel diaries from Nicaragua, part one can be found here. We had been mildly planning for a few months. Mildly, meaning ordering Lonely Planet's guide to Nicaragua and Google imaging the places that sounded cool. My college girlfriend/favorite travel buddy/sister soulmate, Wanna and I are both business owners who had been working our asses off for the past couple of years and we needed a vacation---vacation, meaning an adventure. We weren't the types to plan out the entire trip's itinerary or relax on lounge chairs while a hot pool boy hands us piña coladas all day. We wanted to go with the flow and see, hear, touch, taste, and smell a new culture. We wanted an EXPERIENCE.

One place that stuck out in our limited research was a tiny island off the Caribbean coast called Little Corn Island. It was off the beaten path, a serious adventure-seeker's paradise. You had to take a plane, a taxi, and a scary little boat over huge ocean surges to get there. And once there, the only way to get around was by foot. There were no cars or roads on the entire island, just a poorly paved sidewalk through the village and dirt paths through the jungle that led to the pretty beaches. It was exactly what we wanted.

We made camp at the most magical little eco lodge called Ensueños on the Northside of the island. The modest accommodations were just what we needed: a palm frond-covered hut with two mosquito-netted beds, steps away from the ocean.

We slept like babies, ate like queens, swam like fish, and zenned out like Buddhas. There were plans for further Nicaraguan explorations but we were so enchanted by the island, we made it home for 2 weeks. Before long, we befriended some of the locals. There was the Spanish ex-pat lodge owner/painter/philosopher who expanded our minds over bonfires, the Italian chef who blared reggae from the kitchen while he prepared delicious meals, the bad-ass female British scuba diving instructor who had sailed the world, and the two groovy Nicaraguan sisters who could have been our alter egos.

After exploring North of our beach one day, we happened upon what we thought was the best beach on the island.

It was an empty expanse of smooth white sand, the warmest bit of perfectly clear turquoise water, and lovely gentle waves. There was a blue house set a few steps back with a hammock on the porch, some roosters, and a couple dogs wandering about. Nailed to the leaning palm tree that crossed the beach's path was a hand-drawn sign that simply read "Hay Cerveza."

After hours of walking, swimming, and sunning, a frosty beer sounded just right, but there was no one around for us to order one. Soon enough, two lovely island girls made their presence and in our broken Spanish we asked for beers. A little hungry at that point, we asked if they possibly had any snacks. They looked at each other, walked away, then came back holding up a huge, freshly-caught fish. We nodded and gave them the universal thumbs up.

Twenty minutes later, we were presented with the most beautiful plate of food. It was hands down one of the top 5 meals of my life. There was something about the freshness, the combination of tastes and textures, and the care put into the presentation. Wanna and I felt like the most fortunate girls in the world eating that small feast. We hugged and thanked the sisters, Darinia and Muriel, and gave them a giant tip.

From then on we were the ambassadors of "the blue house." The first thing we said to every new traveler we met was "Have you been to the blue house? They make AMAZING food! You must go." Soon enough, it was the talk amongst travelers on the island. We had figured this was common knowledge with the locals, but as it turned out, this was a new venture for the girls. One night in the village, we met up with the sisters and discovered that Wanna and I were the first ones to ask them for food. They had never considered cooking for people before, but since we had been sending people their way, a new business venture was budding. We figured this must be some sort of synchronicity.

There was talk of making it a business . . . the dream was to have a real restaurant for tourists and eventually build huts on the property. We loved the idea of these two women pursuing a dream---I think we saw a little of ourselves in them. Wanna and I decided long ago that we didn't want to rely on being taken care of. We wanted to support our own lives and provide for our own futures. And after getting to know these girls a bit, we were hopeful that they could do the same. It was going to take a little start-up cash to get a new kitchen going and we were totally willing to donate our hard-earned cash to the cause. We were elated to be involved in potentially changing the lives of virtual strangers a world away from us. We had big plans to support the sisters in making their dream a reality.

Once back on our home turf there was a lot of Facebook messaging and Google translating to work out the next steps. After a couple months, despite everyone's hard work and big dreams, the restaurant had to be put on hold due to family complications. Wanna and I felt we had seen a reflection of ourselves in these women (maybe more than was actually there) and we had good intentions. We were probably overly optimistic and a little naive in thinking that we could blindly send money and change these women's lives. Even though our hearts were in the right place, we realized that our goal of supporting women in their efforts to come into their own might be better realized through an established organization such as Kiva. It might sounds cliché, but we did come away with an important travel lesson from all of this: live and learn!

Urban Foraging

I wish I could say that I forage with wild abandon all over Brooklyn. I wish I scouted mulberry trees and returned as they began to fruit, that I rooted around for burdock in city parks and dug up sidewalk purslane and dandelion greens. Truth is, I’m something of a serial rule-abider and foraging in the city makes me nervous. In the country, there’s more of a sense of communal ownership. At the very least, you can usually find a field and wooded path where nobody’s there to watch as you fill a basket or two. Growing up, my mom would pick my sisters and I up from soccer practice and pull our lumbering minivan off the side of road to pull down a bramble of bittersweet for the front door. She’d spot a cluster of black-eyed susans during a walk by the beach, and we’d have a vase full of them at home. Once, she enlisted me and all three of my sisters to dig up an entire forest floor of daffodils in order to save them from their impending death by backhoe. You’d think that all of this wanton disregard for personal property would have instilled in me a similar streak. In some measure at least, it seems to have done the opposite. I get nervous about breaking rules. In the city, the side of road usually means someone’s yard. Trees have fences around them, for goodness sake. Foraging in city parks is frowned upon by park officials and last week when the juneberries were at their peak in Brooklyn Bridge Park, all I could muster was to pop a few ripe ones into my mouth. When I saw a young couple filling containers to take home, I felt a pang of jealousy, but found no more courageous reserves to harvest a pie's worth myself.

Besides my mild case of  rule-abiding, there’s also the pollution factor. I worry thinking about the kinds of things city plants are supping on. If the filmy dust on my window sill is any indication, there’s a lot of stuff floating around in the air around here, and not all of it can be good. Brooklyn Bridge Park is managed organically, but the same can’t be said for the 1700 parks managed by the City Parks Department. [gallery link="file" exclude="2086"]

Sometimes though, even a scaredy cat needs to face her fears. This weekend, I enlisted the help of my fiancé James to do some old fashioned foraging. If you live in New York, you might know that it’s linden flower season. Take a stroll down many of the city’s sidewalks and you’ll stumble upon the intoxicatingly floral scent of just-blossomed linden. It’s heady stuff. Dried, linden leaves and flowers make one of my favorite tisanes. It reminds me of lazy evenings spent in the south of France. After dinner and cheese and a glass or three of wine, we’d sip linden flower tea and ease even more gracefully into the evening. James and I plucked a whole bagful of the new spring leaves---flowers still attached---and I strung them up to dry in our apartment. Another batch is steeping, destined for syrup.

There’s yet to be a Brooklyn-berry pie baked at our house, but I think I just got a step closer. What about you? Any courageous foragers out there?

Why I Didn't Breastfeed

When I found out I was pregnant, I had just turned twenty-two. I had moved down to Florida after graduating college in Chicago and started dating my now husband. We hit it off right away and went on this amazing two-week long vacation down the East Coast. We spent hours in the car talking, finding out every facet of the other’s life---all of our wants and dreams, hopes and fears. After the trip, we were pretty sure we would get married. After six weeks, SIX weeks. That was before I even knew I was pregnant. At our wedding, my husband’s friend James gave a toast. He talked about how just a year earlier, when five of the engineers, including he and my husband, were cramped in a too-small office under lots of stress, they played “Would you ever”? The question was: Would you ever marry someone after only six weeks? The oldest employee (who had been married already for over twenty years) said he would, and he did. He and his wife were married after only a few weeks. Every other person said, No way, that’s crazy! And then the question came around to my husband. “Yes, when you know, you know.”

And then, a few weeks later, amidst throwing up daily several times a day and watching bad television, unemployed lying on the couch, reality hit me: OH SHIT, I AM HAVING A BABY. I didn’t know how to escape, didn’t know if I wanted to escape. If there’s something my generation is defined by, it’s this attitude of feeling lost without a purpose. Before getting pregnant, I was just floating along. I’d quit my job and moved in with my parents. I was considering graduate schools, and thinking about moving to the west coast. I thought in some naïve way, that this baby would give me a purpose. I would wake up everyday thrilled to take care of this little human being, pack lunches, and dry tears. I would have a job, and it would be mother.

Except you are pregnant for nine (practically ten months) and during that time I didn’t have a job. I was depressed and spent most days in bed looking at blogs online and shopping. My body turned on me. After weeks of throwing up and being sicker than I had ever been, the weight just started to pile on. 5, 10, 15 pounds, all the way up to 50 plus pounds as the due date neared. The truth is I stopped looking at the scale towards the end. The first time the nurse weighed me above 150, clunk . . . clunk went that second weight, I started to cry. Never in my life had I had the two clunks. Boom, boom went my old life. By the time Charley came, I had gone from a size 4 to a size 14.

Even though I only threw up in the first trimester, the entire pregnancy I felt sick. I had heartburn, my body hurt all over, and I couldn’t sleep. The only things I wanted to eat were sugar and carbs (hence the weight gain). I couldn’t even look at a vegetable without feeling something rise in the back of my throat. I was miserable and I wanted my body back. I wanted to have sex with my husband, without this giant belly. I wanted the old me back. The labor took hours and hours; I had an epidural and then Pitocin, then the epidural wore off and the Pitocin increased. It was terrible. But even still, immediately after giving birth, shivering under warmed blankets and tea from the missing heat in my body, I felt better than I had the whole pregnancy. It was amazing how quickly it took for me to stop feeling sick. As soon as he came out, the apple juice tasted fantastic, the air felt cooler, I was comfortable; I could have run a marathon. Then they handed me this squirming tiny alien, his eyes closed, and I tried to breastfeed. And PAIN, PAIN, PAIN, he was tearing apart my nipples! Just as I had started to feel better and like myself, he’d attached to me like a clamp. The nurses didn’t know why he wouldn’t latch properly. They kept trying to reassure me it shouldn’t hurt and I’m telling them, through my tears, it does, it really does. And just like that I gave up.

Psychologically I couldn’t do it. Truthfully, I’m uncomfortable around breastfeeding. I admit it. I’m a woman, and a mother, and breastfeeding makes me embarrassed. Am I just a product of our society’s fascination with breasts as being purely sexual and disgusted with breasts for their biological purpose? I want to feel that it’s natural and amazing, I read blogs where women profess their love for breastfeeding---“I’ll be doing it till he’s five, or in college, it’s so easy!”---and I think, good for them, that sounds wonderful, and then they whip out that boob in front of me, in my living room, and I have to turn my eyes.

Maybe it’s my age. I talked to a breastfeeding friend recently who mentioned how her mother-in-law was a huge breastfeeding advocate, but didn’t breastfeed her first child. My ears perked up. I want to be a breastfeeding advocate, I’m intelligent and educated. I read the studies about how it’s better for everyone: better for the mother, healthier for the child. I hear stories of how women lost ALL of their weight within weeks; it just came right off! (Mine didn’t, still hasn’t, hello permanent size 10). And I wanted to do it, wanted to try it, I really did, but I just . . . couldn’t. My friend said her mother-in-law had her first baby at age twenty-two and didn’t want to breastfeed. She felt like it was her body and she didn’t want to share. She wanted her breasts to remain sexual, not utilitarian. A light bulb went off---that’s me! That’s exactly the psychology of it. After watching my body morph into something it never was, and being so sick and depressed for so long, I wanted my body back. I wanted to own it, be in charge of the weight and my breasts. I wanted to just be me, not just mom.

We are a naked family, and sometimes I’ll take a bath with my son, just for fun; it keeps him entertained. Lately when he sees me naked, he is fascinated with my breasts---wants to touch them, pour water on them---and I think dammit, he’s a male, how did it start so early? Because he wasn’t breastfeed, will he just be obsessed with them as he gets older? Or did it really not matter? And when he reached for my breast, just like he did when he was only a few hours old, a pain shot through me, and I thought, don’t touch me. 

The Ultimate Lesson

When people hear that I went to Bryn Mawr College, the first thing they ask (If they've heard of the school, that is, and, yes - I judge a little if they haven't.) is why on earth I chose to attend a school full of women and only women. (Well, actually, they usually call it a "girls' school," but that's a whole other post right there.) The truth is that when I decided on Bryn Mawr, I did it because it was the best fit out of all the schools that had accepted me. It was a gorgeous campus full of wonderful professors, it was academically competitive, it was close to a city, but wasn't right downtown, and I loved the size of the place - small. I don't know if I would have chosen Bryn Mawr if it had been isolated and not integrated with a whole bunch of co-ed institutions, but I was in no way deterred by the idea of a women's college - nor was it my motivating factor.

Looking back on it, though, I think that choosing a women's college was one of the best things I've ever done. And I think they're some of the most important institutions we have.

It really hit home for me last spring, when I went back to campus for my 10-year reunion. Reunion weekend is traditionally held a couple of weeks after graduation, so the alumnae have the place to themselves. We stay in the dorms, eat in the dining halls and generally take over like we never left. And - unlike the high school reunion I went to a couple of weeks ago - people mostly don't bring their spouses or kids, unless the spouse is there to handle a kid or two and/or the kids are still breastfeeding. (That, right there? That desire to connect with the women you spent four years with instead of show off who you've married since? Perfect example of why Bryn Mawr is awesome. Let's call it Exhibit A.)

The result is a sort of heady freedom, the likes of which I hadn't felt since graduation. Aside from a quick trip off-campus for a fan (it was ridiculously hot) and provisions (read: booze), I barely left all weekend - but I hardly felt trapped. Quite the opposite. After dinner the first night, my class headed back to our assigned dorm, where we congregated in the living room and on the front steps, drinking, talking and reminiscing. At some point, someone spilled some red wine on my white jeans. I went upstairs to throw on my pajamas instead, and when I came down, everyone had disappeared.

I was barefoot, wearing only a nightgown, and had only my dorm key (actually a fancy electronic fob) and phone with me, but I set off in search of my classmates anyway. I strolled across the green, savoring the feeling of the grass beneath my feet and the view of actual stars overhead. I had one ear tuned to the night's sounds, listening for the raucous laughter that would eventually lead me to my friends. But - for the first time in years - I felt completely safe. Yes, I was tipsy, and yes, it was dark out, and yes, I was alone - but, unlike every time I walk home late at night in New York, I didn't feel the need to be on guard at all. I felt completely and utterly protected.

Protected not just from physical harm, but also from the need to be dressed up, or to present myself with any kind of artifice, or to censor my thoughts or feelings. Because, you see, an institution devoted to women gives you a little taste of what it might be like to actually be on equal footing in the real world. Suddenly, you're the center of attention, and not for the usual, creepy, physical reasons. Yes, you have the freedom to not wear makeup and so on, but you have more than that: an entire institution devoted entirely to you. This, kids, is what it must feel like to be the privileged gender, to be the default. And, let me tell you: it doesn't suck. (Also, they give us lanterns. I know!)

It was a feeling I didn't notice until after I left. I know, I know: between this whole "you don't know how good you have it" thing and my wonder at the newfangled keys, you must be thinking, "Curmudgeon!" But I think that's actually part of what makes it so powerful: you can learn to take that feeling for granted. It can be had, and it can become your normal. That's...amazing.

Until I can have that feeling of safety - both physical and intellectual - in the real world, places like Bryn Mawr will not stop being incredibly important. Until I feel in every arena the way I felt at Bryn Mawr, women need the option of that experience. Because now that I've had it, I won't settle until it's universal.

From London, England

Dearest Clara,

All the festivities for the Queen’s Jubilee this week have me thinking of London lately, and for as often as I have to go there, I can’t believe this week didn’t coincide with a trip! How grand everything must have been---but then again, sometimes these things are best viewed on TV where you can appreciate all of the details from a distance.

I always delight in a work trip to London---there seems to always be something to discover while preserving the very best of the classics.  It’s a nice mix of being exposed to the newest delights the world as a whole has to offer---I think there is no more global city right now---and being comforted by the tried and true.  Here’s what I’ve picked up over my trips there:

• Look twice before crossing – some might call it driving on the wrong side of the road, but cars and bicycles and busses and who knows what else come at me from any direction in London.  There’s a reason why “Look Left/Look Right” are printed on the road as a reminder.  And always look twice.
• Invest in a really good trench coat – it’s one of the most iconic pieces that is both functional and stylish and you’ll need both in London . . . and Paris . . . and New York . . . and almost everywhere else.  Assuming you don’t leave yours in the airport like your mother does, then a good trench coat will last you for years through jeans and dresses and suits.
• Mind the gap – it’s a little bit like looking twice before crossing in London.  These small perils of surprise always hit you when you’re least expecting it---take care to notice situations in life that need a little extra caution in your step. 
• Make time for the grandest hotels – My grandmother always had a passion for visiting grand hotels.  She would get dressed up and visit the lobby just to soak it all in.  When we were younger, staying in them was out of the question but she still wanted to be part of the experience.  Now that I’m older, I understand why she did that, and I do it too.  Sometimes we splurge and stay at nice hotels around the world, but in London, the grandest hotels offer the grandest settings for a glass of champagne.  Bubbles fit best here.  Take the time to appreciate the institutions that put care into the details that have survived nearly hundreds of years---hopefully you’ll come with me sometimes, and one day, hopefully you’ll come with your own children.  Those hotels will still be there.
• Everyone can use a little pomp and circumstance – If there is a gala or a jubilee or a wedding, no one stands on ceremony quite like the United Kingdom.  There is something to be said for the ability to motivate that many people with unifying occasions.  Sometimes, adding some ceremony and grandeur to an occasion really do make them more memorable---when something is really important, at least to you, it’s okay to enjoy the celebrations around it.

All my love,

Mom

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)  

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.

New Glasses

By Michelle Bunt I bought a black T-shirt at a second hand clothing shop a few years ago, that had this phrase on it: “Love yourself.” Something about this statement resonated with me: it was a beautiful, short, simple, yet profound commandment for how to live life. Even so, if you had met me then I would have been the first to admit that I had no idea how to do that in reality. Given my background, it is hardly surprising though. Growing up with two Schizophrenic parents, who also had mild intellectual disabilities, meant that I didn’t receive much in the way of guidance or support. Added to that, my home was at times very violent, and I was never fully certain of my safety. While others kids wished for things likes bikes and barbies, I just remember wanting to be loved. It wasn’t until recently that I realized the only person who could really fulfill that desire was me. Everyone who knows me even a little, knows that I love to read: stacks and stacks of books all year-round. I often think that books saved my life. As well as being my only friends and the only consistent, dependable things in my turbulent childhood, they taught me how to love myself. I had been in counseling for quite some time since leaving home, and I had made lots of progress in many areas, but one thing that I couldn’t seem to turn around was my harsh inner critic. I blamed myself for my past, and I couldn’t see all the amazing qualities residing in me that God had blessed me with from birth. Forget loving myself---I didn’t even like myself! Then something wonderful happened. I found a new counselor about three years ago, who had a profound influence on my life. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow in one of our sessions early on in the process we ended up discussing my favorite series of books as a child (The “Alex” quartet by New Zealand author Tessa Duder). We talked about how I loved the main character, Alex’s, resiliency. This was something we kept coming back to again and again. One day my counselor invited me to consider the possibility that the reason this was my favorite story as a child, and the reason it has remained close to me all these years, was because it was my story. The quality of resiliency that I so admired in Alex described me too. Once I realized this, a subtle shift occurred in me. I didn’t all of a sudden love myself, but finally I could see and appreciate one quality in me as being something to be proud of, something to guard and protect, and keep fighting for. Still I had to figure out how to love myself practically. Recently, I received an invitation to my friend Angela’s wedding. Now don’t get me wrong, I love weddings. There is something incredibly magical and sacred about two people committing themselves to each other. However the majority of times I have been at weddings, I've felt incredibly sombre. Around couples and families who are openly demonstrating their love and support of each other, and celebrating each other’s achievements and happiness, I am reminded of the lack of support and love from my childhood. It is not a conscious, self-pitying thought, but rather a deep ache that arises from within: a wound that has been patched up many times but never completely healed. Which is why when I received Angela’s wedding invitation, I felt a dichotomy within me. I was delighted to go and share her special day with her, but also dreading the painful emotions it would likely bring up for me. The wedding day came, and the weather was glorious---uncharacteristically hot for our city. Angela had a traditional Catholic ceremony, and I loved both the tradition and modesty of it. After the ceremony, there was an amazing reception with the most sumptuous food and a great live band. I was feeling comfortable, relaxed and joyful, yet I kept looking deep within, expecting to find this oh-so-familiar well of sadness, but it was there no longer. In its place was a sense of ease---how easy it was to be present and fully happy for Angela, as opposed to being envious, or feeling neglected. The absence of this deep ache of sadness within was so unexpected. If I’m being truly honest, I don’t think I ever believed, back when this whole journey started, that I would ever arrive in this place: free and liberated to live my life, not just survive. This was the first moment when I realized that my decision to love myself---to start transferring the energy and attention I used to put into other people into me---had paid off. One of my favorite teachers at the school I attend, often uses the analogy of how people live their lives in different ways depending on the glasses they are wearing. Through one set of lenses things look a certain way, but if you take off those glasses and replace them with a new pair, things will look completely different, and each individual has a lens prescription unique to them. Since my friend’s wedding, when I discovered such a fullness of joy in a part of me that had only ever known pain, it feels like I, too, have traded glasses. My new glasses are not perfect, but they are not fogged up like my old ones were. Whereas before I could vaguely detect objects, now I am able to see and recognize things in detail, color, and clarity. Now that I have seen through these new glasses, I can finally take off my old glasses and let them rest, in a case that is firmly shut.

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.

Blue Door in Lisbon

Wandering in Lisbon's oldest district, the Alfama, is a serendipitous journey. It's a labyrinth of sloped streets, miradouros (viewpoints), and historical white facades, and I never knew what I would find. I got lost one afternoon, and as I strolled down a narrow alleyway, I came upon this vibrant blue door.

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

When I Was 19 and Made a 10 Year Life Plan

By Mariana Oliveira

In 10 years I will be 29 years old.

If I know myself, this will most likely mean that five years from now I will be going through an intricate life crisis regarding my imminent disgorgement from the 20something bracket, the decline of my once youthful looks and the slowing down of my biological clock, all whilst questioning my contributions to the world and my value to the human race (I know this because I went through a very similar ordeal when I turned fifteen).

However, in the mist of said crisis, I will be living in a big city, probably New York, where I will own a French bulldog named Cat Stevens. Every Sunday, Cat Stevens and I will go to Central Park with a cheese plate and a bottle of lemon-flavored sparkling water, and we will proceed to frolic in the grass and judge girls that lay out in the sun wearing their swimsuits.

I will be speaking fluent French, and I will often go to museums and have fake conversations on my cell phone (in French) so that people around me know how well I speak the language.

I will wear more hats, and they will look better on me then than they do now. I will also have a very expensive trench coat to go with my hats, and together, they will showcase what a refined woman I turned out to be.

I will be able to afford cabs, and I will spend months without going down the stairs of a subway station. Although, I will take the subway every now and then in order to remind myself of the times when I was just a girl and had to take the D train to the Bronx at 3 in the morning; but once I do it, I will regret it immediately.

I will be eating healthier and exercising, and I will be making more eye contact with strangers. People will often start conversations with me in bookstores and coffee shops, and leave wondering if I could had been the love of their lives, but they will never see me again because I will always refuse to give away my phone number.

I will have no idea what is going on in the advertising industry, due to the fact that I will quit my job at 27 and open my own book store (I will do this hoping that someday my life could mimic that of Hugh Grant’s character in “Notting Hill,” except Julia Roberts would have a beard and not be a bitch).

I will be very happy even though it does not sound like it.

Besides writing ads, Mariana can be found making naive assumptions, wearing shorts in the winter, navigating the hard places and making odic proclamations about cheese plates and bearded men. You can see more of her work here.