X. Normandie

Pauline is a nurse at the hospital in Bernay. Because of the proximity to the Channel and, therefore, England, it’s not uncommon for British patients to come in from time to time. Pauline doesn’t speak any English, and so she has asked for me to help her make a list of important questions that she must be able to say in a routine exam. It’s fairly easy for me, though sometimes I lack the proper medical jargon.

She repeats after me. “’Ave you ‘ad a poo?”

I struggle to keep a straight face and nod encouragingly. The translation doesn't sound quite right, but it's the best I can do.

Lessons from Paris...

Dear Clara,

Paris.  Sometimes I’m tempted not to even say more than that---after all, what can you say about such a city?  If you haven’t been, you have to go to understand.  And if you’ve been, there’s not much need to explain.  But that being said, there might just be a few things I wish I had known sooner:

• Paris is for lovers: Really.  It’s an entirely different city when you have someone’s hand to hold as you dart in and out metro stops, walk across gardens and take in endless boulevards.  While I would never say that happiness depends on another person, the fact of the matter is that Paris changes entirely when you experience it with someone.  You don’t have to love that person forever, just the time that you’re in Paris.
• Paris will disappoint your heart a little bit each time: Maybe it’s because of the above.  Paris can be so full of inspiration and ideas that we’re bound to be let down sometimes, maybe by a person or maybe by the city.  Be prepared for some tough moments.  When things aren’t going your way, resilience and determination are going to become good, comforting friends.
• Wear a scarf: Even in the summer . . . It’s the quickest way to add a bit of chic, a bit of color, and a bit of warmth.  You simply can never have too many scarves in Paris.
• Learn how to drink coffee without milk: It’s likely that when you spend time in Paris, you’ll be a student.  So it’s also likely that if you’re a student, you won’t have much money.  Coffee without milk is your answer to enjoying any café in the city you want for a song.  Just skip the cigarettes, please (though they will be tempting).
• Appreciate the form before you challenge it: Sometimes I want to say “process” for this one, but it’s not quit about that.  Parisians will be quick to inform you that there is a “way” of doing things: of philosophy, of art, of eating your meal, of picking a wine . . . and you can be made to feel very small when you get it wrong, or when you want to do things in a different way.  Try to learn all these forms as best you can, see why they’re there, and why people attach to them.  Then break the mold---you can do that as an outsider.  But always know your starting point and why you’re deviating from it, and you’ll also gain some respect for your choice.

I read once that when the actress Gwyneth Paltrow was in Paris with her father for the first time, at age 12,  she asked why he had brought her.  And he replied that he wanted her to see Paris for the first time with a man that would love her forever, no matter what.  I found that to be such a touching sentiment.  I’ll have to speak to your father about taking you to Paris.

All my love,

Mom

Seasons of creativity

There are a few distinct stages in the creative process, and they come in cycles, at least for me. Sometimes they align with the seasons, and sometimes they are seasons of their own. Each may last a day or a few weeks, months or even a year, but each has its own delights and challenges. The first is the beginning of an idea, a project, or a concept, and it often looks a lot like spring. New directions and possibilities are blossoming all over the place, and inspiration pops up around every corner. This is my favorite creative season, because in it, everything seems possible. The challenge is choosing which path will be yours and letting others fall away, gathering enough momentum to sustain you for the journey ahead.

What follows (one hopes) is a long, hot summer of productivity. If spring seemed bright, summer feels too bright, lit by the harsh florescent glow of long hours at the office or studio or in whatever sort of incubator your work requires to take shape. Here the challenge is showing up each day with new energy, even though you’re a bit dehydrated from the day before, and brushing off the negative spirits (both internal and external) who insist you’d be much better off spending the summer at the beach.

The afterglow of completion is something like autumn. There is a chance to harvest the fruits of your labor, which have inevitably turned out quite differently, for better or worse, than what you intended when you first imagined them back in the spring. There is a moment of exhaustion, then relief, then joy. Take time for celebration here. This season is the most fleeting.

I think you know where we’re headed at this point. The winter of creativity is strange and disorienting. It is the season I most wish I could pass right over—and sometimes I do—skipping right from an end to a new beginning. But this is a sort of fallow period for the creative body and soul, and though it’s uncomfortable, it offers the potential for restoration.

When I began writing this column a few months ago, I was just settling into life in a new city and increasingly swept up in planning a wedding. Now that my world is awash in brightly colored leaves and the glow of autumn, it feels like I can safely call this place home, and the wedding has passed into the category of a shared memory. I am wondering where I’ll redirect all of that creative energy next and hoping I won’t have to endure too much of a winter to figure it out.

How about you? Does your creative process come in cycles? Where are you at on your creative journey?

Social Distortion

I used to be a person who worked the room at a party, sprinkling laughter around as I moved from conversation to conversation.  People often commented that I relished being social, like talking to people was a vocation for me.  In fact, this is part of the reason I became a therapist — I seemed to have a knack for engaging with people, hearing their stories and reflecting their light.  If you had known me as a teenager or in my 20s, you would never have understood that this persona, this social bravado was something of a mask.  I have always battled with anxiety and a sense of failing to fit in.  I have carried a fear of others judging me harshly, of saying the wrong thing and of being mortified publicly.  I achieved social success in early life with a paradoxic solution and it came to me with relative ease.  Amazingly, people bought it.  I am noticing now in my later 30s, with mounting responsibilities and a collection of profound life events behind me, the person who really just wanted to be home under the covers, the person on unsure social footing has re-emerged.  And yet, when I fumble around for that outgoing mantle, the trusty suit of charm offensive, I can't seem to find it.  Or when I do, it keeps slipping off. When I was a kid, I was described as socially precocious.  I could hold my own at an adult dinner party, and was expected to perform in those situations, at times literally.  Once, a friend's parents actually hired me to sing a medley of show tunes (no joke at all) at their New Year's Eve party in front of 500 guests.  My memories of that evening are storms of emotion that include terror and elation.  Mind you, I was 7 years old, maybe even 6.  In retrospect, I don't have the first clue about how I pulled something like that off.  What reserve of preternatural confidence did I draw upon to make that happen?  The person I am now grapples with chatting up a familiar colleague at a professional networking event.  Who was that little girl and where did she run off to?

In adolescence, I don't have to describe the tempest of feelings, the cauldron of concerns that befell me.  This is implied in the word, "adolescence."  Incongruously, this was the period in which I honed my craft.  By about age 15, I could have taught a master class at the Actor's Studio.  My singular focus in that era was to entertain others and deflect attention from the awkwardness of the pariah I imagined myself to be.  In a hackneyed teen movie archetype, I was the class clown (oh sure, check the yearbook), the person in the corner of the room shouting "LOOK AT ME, I'M DANCING!"  I would do anything for a laugh and would risk any kind of consequences to help a friend.  I fought so fervently against the advancing insecurity that I presented as radically carefree.  My antics as court jester/supporting actress in a leading role once landed me in the Vice Principal's office where he told me without mincing words that my future hung in the balance.  That grim meeting followed an incident in which I was performing an ill-timed, but spot-on impression of our AP Economics teacher just as she walked back in the classroom.  I recall very little of Keynes, but I can still hear her exact words as she pointed to the door, "Sarah, this is my classroom, not yours.  Do not pass go on your way to the office."  Mercifully, that was followed two weeks later by an offer of admission from the college of my choice.

Although in college the social anxiety would keep better pace with me, I redoubled my efforts.  I immediately accrued a boyfriend (during orientation week, didn't even wait for the first day of classes!), surrounded myself with friends and became immersed in activities.  I was a consummate "joiner" in those days - sports teams, singing groups, volunteer organizations and the like - whereas now I can't even bring myself to participate in an essentially anonymous Mommy list serve.  In my sophomore year, exhausted from the chase, I finally succumbed to symptoms I could no longer fend off and landed in therapy.  The next decade or so would find me toggling between a brilliant capacity to shine in the spotlight and struggling to even answer the phone when a friend calls.

In my current life configuration, I have all the usual excuses for why my facility for being social has suffered.  Like everyone on planet earth, I am tired all the time, have way too much on my plate and am just trying to make it through the week.  I am also depleted from many consecutive years of major life changes, some tragedies and some losses.  But I have to ask myself, what is the alternative?  I had an "Aha!" moment last night when my husband wanted to discuss potential plans with friends later in the week.  I was prepared with every justification as to why I wouldn't be able to make it…the baby, chief among them.  My husband had a response to every barrier I constructed (including a babysitter) and capped it off with, "I would like to spend some time out with my wife."  It suddenly occurred to me for the first time that being wrapped up in my own head, folded in on myself has real impact on this person I love.  There was no getting around his matter-of-fact request and I felt a little ashamed that my self-indulgent fears would come at the expense of his social life.  I am not sure what about this interaction tipped the scales, but in an instant, I was confronted with how much I have regressed on this issue in the past few years.  Stopped in my tracks, I agreed to an evening out.  A small thing, to be sure, but an important shift.

I am on the hunt again for that brassy girl of my youth who enjoyed costuming and talent shows.  That girl bucked authority, won debate competitions and was the glue holding her group of friends together.  She left the house for a night out utterly prepared to experience something magical.  And I know I have opportunities to reignite that energy all these years later.  I can approach professional events, teaching floral classes, meeting with clients and vendors with a new zeal.  I can exude competence in that realm and pay special attention to building relationships through my business.  I can employ all the mental gymnastics required to tamp down nerves with friends and acquaintances, which these days mostly involves reminding myself that I am just not that powerful…nobody is noticing the things I think are vulnerabilities.  People are busy with their own lives and just want to connect.  Nobody can take a lifetime of negative self-talk and swirling doubt and transform herself into a reality TV diva.  But somewhere in there I have expertise in "acting as if," which has often lead to me to a steady state of being.  If you see me out on Thursday wearing a fabulous top and a broad grin, be sure to give a wave from across the room.

A well of goodness

As Ray Bradbury would have it (emphasis mine):

"From now on, I hope always to stay alert, to educate myself as best I can. But, lacking this, in the future, I will relaxedly turn back to my secret mind to see what it has observed when I thought I was sitting this one out. We never sit anything out. We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out."

One of the challenges of being a student again is that I am having difficulty carving out creative space. I am learning, I can feel my cup being filled. The tipping moments are challenging. My mind is still processing all the novelty that has been packed into it. So, in the meantime, here is some of the beauty that is filling my cup . . .

Seeing the world through its bookstores and cafes -- arguably my favorite way to wander.

Steve McCurry photographs the concept of home . . .

. . . and the Harvard Business Review discusses moving around without losing your roots.

The Soulshine Traveler explores disorientation, reverse culture shock, and shifting senses of home.

The lovely Legal Nomads has published her Food Traveler's Handbook. Salivating vicariously.

What do you regret not doing in your 20s? I love learning from Quora, and from other people's questions.

I wish I knew about this 5 years ago, and 10 years ago, and at every point in between: Helping Friends Grieve. So lucky to have recently met the woman behind it, who talks about grief, loss and vulnerability with a raw elegance that resonates deeply.

Harvard recently launched edX, an open-source platform that delivers free online courses. Let's learn together.

I want to experience this.

Passionate about mentorship and women's education? Join the Red Thread Foundation for Women. Talk to me about it.

Look for these films online or near you. Heart-breaking, awe-inspiring, moving, disorienting.

From my school pile, the stuff that makes the mind stretch and the heart race:

• Studying the psychological impact of field work in conflict areas on aid workers
• "Why do some combatants leave armed groups and demobilize while others fight on?"
• This one makes me cringe and shudder a little, but it's worth researching. The 2012 Human Security Report asks: Is there really a decline in combatant-perpetrated sexual violence?

Now listening to the Rachael Yamagata station on Pandora . . . and Beirut's Rip Tide album . . . and Cat Power, and Brandi Carlile. Always Brandi.

Thinking of Rumi . . .

"Let yourself be silently drawn

by the strange pull

of what you really love.

It will not lead you astray."

. . . and Neruda, courtesy of darling K, "your memory is made of light."

I am Measuring Life in Photographs . . .

. . . and still weaving Stories of Conflict and Love.

What is making you feel moved these days? Share in the comments!

Not open for business

I'm a 33 year old woman who has no interest in having children. If your first reaction to that statement was something along the lines of, "Oh, just wait, you'll change your mind," or "You never know until you try it, " I beg of you: please keep it to yourself. You're not alone in having that reaction, and I've heard it a thousand times. The thing is, I won't, and I do. And it can make dating awfully interesting.

See, I like children. Hell, there are some children I even love. A lot. Like, stand-in-front-of-an-oncoming-train a lot. And so men are occasionally confused by what they see as conflicting positions. I talk about my friends' kids with love, admiration and excitement (especially when it comes to buying them books), but I'm not at all interested in populating a nursery of my own.

Three years ago, this wasn't an issue. I'd never be asked about my desires for marriage or children on a first, second or even fifth date. But now? Hoo, boy. People want to know what's up with my reproductive system like it's going out of style. Which, I suppose, it is. I can't have more than a few thousand viable eggs left at this point.

Case in point? A couple of weeks ago, I went on a solidly good first date with a guy we'll call John. He talked a bit about having had lots of lackluster relationships in his 20s (he's now 34), and about wanting to change that pattern now. He also talked about how all his cousins are married with kids, and how he feels a bit behind. At first, I was taken aback by all this marriage/baby talk on a first date (a woman bringing this up would, no doubt, be labeled as crazy and desperate as opposed to adorably open and honest), but I found it kind of charming. (I didn't feel the need to bring up my own stance on the first date, but I appreciated the openness.) I talked a little about my friend Miya's daughter, whom I adore, and about how my pregnant cousin Abby was almost to her due date.

On the second date, though? The man was couldn't stop talking about how "far behind" he is and how his life to this point has been a waste---all because he's not married and doesn't have kids. He talked about it a little. And then some more. And, finally, he wrapped up by launching into a speech about how he sleeps so much better when he sleeps next to someone, and let's go to a comedy club (despite my having said, repeatedly and that very evening, that I do not enjoy comedy clubs).

Obviously, this guy is a textbook version of oblivious. I made up a 7:30 AM meeting to get away at the end of the date, then steadfastly stepped away when he tried to kiss me goodnight, and still he acted shocked and led on when I sent him a (very nice) thanks but no thanks email a couple of days later.

And yet, he is a great example of an important point: women are not the only ones with biological clocks. When it comes to feeling subject to the whims of nature and the rules of society, we women are not alone. After all, we can't possibly have been the only ones enforcing the norms all this time.

So, let's make a deal. The next time a woman tells you she doesn't want children, pay her the respect she deserves and take her at her word. And when a man tells you he wants kids, pay attention and assume it's not just a seduction tactic. After all, when you're 33, you don't have time to spend on people who want your babies.

(original photo by velkr0 on flickr)

Freedom from Food

This morning’s bowl of stale corn flakes made me very happy. Lunch was perfect, too: a limp lasagna noodle covered with a thick layer of oily cheese and a lone, soggy artichoke heart. I loved it all because I didn’t have to make it. I didn’t even have to wash the dishes. I haven’t had to think about preparing food for the last 24 hours, and it has been a pleasure unforeseen. My thoughts are usually so congested by obsessing over what to eat, how to eat it, where to buy ingredients, how much money to save or to spend. But waking up this morning and knowing I had no say in what to eat today? It was a gift. This week I find myself at an artists residency program. I say “find myself” because I was invited off the waitlist, whisked away from my normal life and into the resplendent Blue Ridge mountains. Here in the company of poets, painters, and musicians, there is no room for cooking. Literally. We are not allowed into the kitchen. But what lacks in culinary counter space is made up for in the form of a private writing studio with a big desk and view of a rocky, cow-dotted field. There is lots of time, space, and freedom from household chores. But the freedom I am enjoying most? The freedom from food.

It’s not that thinking about what to eat is a problem, not at all. It’s actually one of my favorite topics in conversation, especially with the many adventurous eaters I have for friends.  I love looking at beautiful food photography, too, and I enjoy reading cookbooks front to back for their stories as well as their recipes. The problem is that food and writing about food is the weak link in my chain of focus and concentration when I’m at task on a different creative project. I think it’s because cooking is such a outlet for expression that it does battle with my writing on a regular basis. A weekend afternoon, for example, will be laid out before me, ripe with potential for new words and ideas. Instead of writing, though, I find myself poking around in the grocery store pondering butternut squash soup with garlicky croutons. We have to eat: It’s the most justifiable and enjoyable distraction.

During this writing retreat, however, I’ve come to scrutinize my obsession with thinking about food. My first day here has felt like a week. During this long day so much has happened (when actually so much has not, but that’s a form of “happening” when it comes to the imagination, right?)  This food void and the sense of freedom that came with it reminds me of Barbra Ueland’s book If You Want to Write. I flip to the chapter titled “Why Women Who Do Too Much Housework Should Neglect it for Their Writing” and wonder how many more hours I could spend writing at home instead of planning meals and hunting down recipes?

This is not to say I don’t want to make dinner most weeknights, can tomatoes for a few days at the height of tomato season, or throw an all out dinner party on the occasional weekend. It’s more of a realization that my dinnertime daydreams need to be budgeted. The mental energy saved will be at the expense of fantasies about blueberry coffee cake, pumpkin bread pudding, and homemade pasta. But maybe those dishes might just benefit from this new thought-diet of mine: less time thinking, more time doing.

Same, too, for the writing.

The Secret Downside to Travel

When I was in high school, I watched The Real World: Paris.  It was the four thousand eight hundredth season, and was called the most boring by many critics, cited as evidence the franchise was failing.  To me, though, The Real World: Paris represented who I wanted to be.  Look at those cool, college-age kids (not to be confused with people actually in college) gallivanting under the Arc de Triomphe!  If I were in France, surely I would be flirting with beautiful, accented men at clubs.  I would be eating baguettes in sexy heels, or meeting friends in quaint cafes with spindly tables and tiny coffee cups. When, four years later, I found myself in Paris, I was staying at a hostel on the outskirts of town, unable to afford the outrageously expensive rooms in the busier areas.  My roommates were not seven strangers, picked to live in a house, but rather a family of cockroaches, a cold shower and an Irishman named Stephen who was always drunk (although on further contemplation, the latter holds true to the MTV series).  I wandered around the streets during the day, expecting to be hit by the wonder Paris had long promised in my imagination.  And to be sure, it was beautiful---the Sacré-Cœur Basilica glowed shining white on the hills of Montmarte, while the Notre Dame crouched in its gothic glory on its lonely island in the Seine.  By myself, though, seeing the sites felt single processed: I saw it, and I was done.  There was no one to digest the experience with, to complain about the upwards trek to the church on the hill, or to share a crepe with on the banks of the river.  Most importantly, I was no different in Paris than I was back in the United States:  the simple change of location didn’t render me suddenly high-heeled.  It didn’t make accented men want to flirt with me and it didn’t make me suddenly enjoy coffee, in tiny cups or otherwise.  It was the first time I realized a change of location wasn’t enough to warrant a change of self, and the first time that the reality of a place didn’t live up to my fantasy.

Yet, I kept doing it.  Social media took what The Real World began with and elevated it exponentially: even my failed Paris adventure was documented in a series of photos artfully designed to portray the image of the trip I had before I took it.  When I was readying myself for my move to London, I found myself picturing weekend jaunts to Berlin and Rome, likely with a jaunty hat and a perfectly structured leather tote bag, perhaps embossed with my initials.  I pictured Zack and I strolling hand in hand through manicured English gardens.  When, in my imagination, it started to rain, we would laughingly duck into a quaint pub to nurse hot toddies while the droplets pattered against the ancient paned glass.  I pictured myself surrounded by groups of English-accented creative types, who would have immediately taken me into their circle and invited me out to inspiring, interesting events all over the city.  Needless to say, I have an overactive imagination.

When I came to London, I was lonely. It felt lame to disclose it even to my family and friends, to admit that this European city I was lucky enough to move to felt closed to me.  Zack, busy with the program that we moved out here for, had less time for strolling than I expected, leaving me with large chunks of time to fill on my own.  With no job and no friends, I spent a lot of time by myself.  There are so many hours that can be filled by browsing career websites, by Facebooking and reading blogs that, after a while, all seem like they say the same thing.  I walked around by myself a lot, although the ever-present rain rendered that, even, more difficult than my pub-filled fantasies had allowed for (there are only so many times one can duck into a pub a day).

It’s gotten better: I’ve found writing groups out here, I’ve started building my own company, and slowly but surely, my circle of friends has expanded.  But it’s not perfect. It’s not, unlike my Facebook or Instagram might suggest, a series of charmingly strange foods (prawn cocktail chips anyone?), beautiful parks, and friend-filled nights out.  It’s these things, yes, but it’s also the moments that I don’t document, the trip to the grocery store in the pouring rain, the night when, alone in the house, I spend far too much time talking to my cat.  And that’s okay.  It’s not that my life isn’t the real world---it’s that the real world isn’t real.  The good, the bad, the rained on, the postcard worthy---that’s the real real world, and that alone makes it better than anything a fantasy of television or social media could offer.

An Indefinite Season

[gallery link="file"] I've done a round-table introduction just about every week since I moved across the country. After my name, I say where I’m from. It’s the natural next step in these kinds of “tell us a bit about yourself” prompts.  I’m Sam and I’m from Portland.

In some ways, being able to claim this city makes me sound cooler than I really am — I mean, my bike has brakes. Still, there is some truth to what people think. I do like flannel and farmers markets, indie bands, good coffee and bad beer.  And the collective feelings of the city are mine too. There is a comforting familiarity in gray days, and a sadness when they go on for too long. There is sense of searching, for both purpose and simplicity.

Portland is a word that I took with me.  It has been a way to explain, without saying much, what I love and look for in life. But recently, for the first time since I left, I was asked to talk about who I am now. I fumbled for a few short sentences that in the end didn’t say much at all. How could I define myself in fifty words without the one word that mattered? I could only begin with advice from Hemingway: “Start with the first true simple declarative sentence.”

Fall is here. Everywhere the trees are metaphors for change. I feel like a spectator of this season, no different than the leaf-peepers idling up the shoulder on the interstate. I don’t know how far we are into this process or how it will end — whether it will come quickly or be wicked away, gust by gust.

I don’t know what it means yet to claim this place. I catch glimpses maybe — of the New England thing — in katydids and the peeling paint on the front stoop. But I can’t read the sky here. I’m constantly caught without a coat or sweating in my boot-socks.

At home, I knew when the roses bloomed a few weeks early.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the trees, and about the way we describe them. Trees are green. Trees have leaves. But in October, they defy their definition. They’re aflame with orange and red. Soon they will be bare. Each day they are less recognizable, less “tree” in the way we define it.

To describe myself, I’m left with words like “once was” and “not quite,” words that hint at incompleteness.  They mean that I’m losing, or gaining something – what exactly, I’m not sure yet.  Perhaps it is my sense of place; I’ve lost belonging and gained becoming.

Lessons from Gone with the Wind...

Dear Clara, I just returned from a few days in Atlanta last week.  I don’t think there is ever any possibility of going to that city without thinking of green velvet drapes and feisty tempers.  Margaret Mitchell’s penned classic and Vivien Leigh’s spirited interpretation of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind will remain always one and the same with that city for me.  It might be an old story by the time you’re my age, but it will still be a true classic.  Here is what I’ll always remember from it:

• You can lose everything: At almost any moment.  Scarlett definitely knows a thing or two about loss, but in any story that spans a generation, I’m always taken by how privilege at the start doesn’t necessarily mean so at the end, and vice versa. We’re born what we’re born with, and some of us got it a little luckier, but that doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed.  Anyone’s fortunes could change either by circumstance or by their own foolishness---be prepared to mitigate against both.
• Sometimes you have to create from what you have, not from what you want: Scarlett’s dress that she fashioned from her drapes is probably the best example in this story, but you’ll find that she does this over and over again.  Sometimes, if not most times, we won’t have as much as we want . . . as new as we want . . . as different as we want . . . at the time that we want it.  But people who are most resilient and most successful look at what they have, and make it fit what they need, not what they want.
• Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect: When I read Gone with the Wind, I think I must have dog eared at least twenty pages of quotes and words to remember, if not more.  I was a great collector of quotes back in the day, and I think this particular one captures how much we have to be careful about expectations since then we are often disappointed. The one I remember most though, were Rhett’s words about mending what’s broken:  “I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken---and I'd rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I live.”  That quote did, and still does, make me nearly cry because I happen believe the opposite.  I think there is room for mending, and room for forgiveness, and I don’t believe that there are things such as permanently broken---but I think Rhett is just expressing the way that many people truly feel.  And you’ll come across people who believe in that strongly sometimes, and you’ll have to know when to keep fixing, and when to let it go because they will never see past the mend.  It's always best not to break in the first place, but we make mistakes, and not everyone will forgive us.
• People always come back: There is something uncanny about the way characters unfold in Gone with the Wind, and it mirrors life very much this way.  Even though the protagonists go through all sorts of changes and life takes them on many paths, they always seem to run together at different points in life.  Always appreciate people as though you’ll never see them again, because chances are, you will.  When you do, you will be glad that you left on good terms to pick up from; when you don’t, you’ll be reassured that you left with your best foot forward.

All my love,

Mom

Stupid Charming Things

An olive wood salt cellar will not make you dinner. It can’t chop an onion or boil water, and even it if it could it certainly wouldn’t wash the dishes afterwards. I tell this to myself while pacing around a fancy kitchen goods store, salt cellar in hand, trying to talk myself out of buying yet another kitchen luxury item that is at odds with both my lifestyle and my budget.

My husband and I live in a dilapidated boathouse-turned-cabin that was built in the early 1800s. The kitchen isn’t really a kitchen at all. It’s a room with a freestanding Ikea cabinet, a mini fridge, a convection oven, and a hotplate. Last spring I placed a heavy cast iron Dutch oven on the hot plate, causing the heating element to collapse into the stainless steel base. I remedied this by propping up the feet of the busted-in side with two Christmas lima beans.  So, not only do I cook on a hotplate in a glorified boathouse, but the utility of said hot plate is dependent on lima beans. Not exactly the kind of kitchen where you’d expect to find a pricey,  imported-from-France wooden salt cellar, hm?

This sort of retail conflict happens more than I’d like to admit.  I have a soft spot for stupid charming things: Tiny glass salt and pepper shakers, cheese knives, vintage Fire King coffee mugs, pinch bowls, and pretty much any kitchen item colored sage, mint green, or celadon. I shouldn't be allowed within fifty feet of a flea market or estate sale. And I certainly shouldn't have been poking around in any fancy kitchen goods store, that's for sure.

Over time I've gathered that this addiction to stupid charming things is not uniquely my own.  When I worked at a high-end gift shop in Park Slope, for example, I saw firsthand the pull of lovely objects on others. Thanks, just browsing, an innocent shopper would say. Then, moments later, I’d be ringing them up for a ten dollar trinket. Sometimes it would be a bookmark, a set of overpriced sticky tabs, a travel candle. If it wasn't any of that, it was the tiny glass animals. We stocked a bowl of them---itty-bitty little glass "sculptures" no larger than a penny.  You need a tiny glass cat, right? An elephant? What about an alligator? I felt like a drug dealer as I encouraged customers to dig deeper into the bowl. There’s a unicorn in there some place. I’d say. Then they’d ooh and ah and toss bills across the counter in glee. The glass animals were cute, sure, but were they worth anything more than that initial dopamine bump linked to the act of buying? I'm fairly sure the answer is "no."

A new object might be liberating at first, I think, because it baits the mind and our perspective in that moment, leading us from a place of sameness to a place of newness and wonder. Take my example, where I imagined the possibilities of cooking in a kitchen so well-appointed that flaky sea salt is homed in a dainty and sculptural bowl which was created precisely for that purpose by an artisan in a far away land. A new life opened up to me, one where I didn't find mouse poops in the measuring cups or stinkbugs in the mixing bowls.

Which brings me to narrative. Which brings me to identity. Objects do have a role in the stories about ourselves that we tell ourselves. In that moment at the fancy kitchen store, I wanted to use that salt cellar to tell myself I had good taste, that I understood and appreciated fine objects. I also wanted to pretend that I had no hotplate, no lima bean, no rustic boathouse kitchen. Mouse poops in measuring cups and stink bugs in mixing bowls? No, no, not me---I own this precious vessel, this hand crafted gem, this beautiful, stupid, charming thing.

Here's where I want to say that I stopped desiring the salt cellar. I want to say that I made these realizations about the false connection between things and self worth and identity and I immediately overcame my materialistic instincts. But I didn't. As I put the salt cellar back on the shelf I also added it to a mental wish list of presents my husband could get me for Christmas this year.Then I sulked out the door with a vague and absurd feeling of pity for what I perceived to be a salt cellar-shaped hole in my heart.

My Wise Voice

Two years ago, I made the difficult decision to take a medical withdrawal from college. It was a decision that was years in the making, and one that brought with it a sense of crisis about what I should be doing with my life. As I transitioned from full-time student to part-time student to, finally, full-time wife, homemaker, and caretaker of my fragile health, I fought a continual fight with guilt—the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough, that I was slacking off, that I ought to be accomplishing so much more. For all of my life, the thing I have wanted more than anything is to be a mother. The past few years have been ones of longing and impatient waiting, until I learned with awe and amazement this summer that I was pregnant. Now, a third of the way through my second trimester, I am preparing for yet another transition: From stay-at-home wife to stay-at-home mother.

I suppose I always thought, in those years of waiting and wanting, that if I finally did get pregnant, that voice of guilt would disappear. Pregnancy is a physical ordeal for any woman; for those of us who live with chronic disease and are also blessed to have the chance to create new life, it brings with it added challenges. I used to think that, if given that chance, I would finally be able to relax, to cherish myself a little, to allow my body all the rest and comfort it needed.

It is probably no surprise when I say that it hasn’t been that way. Sure, I’ve been a little more motivated to make sure that I’m taking the best possible care of myself, since taking care of myself now also translates into taking care of baby. Still, it has surprised me, at least, to find that the guilt is largely unchanged. Now, instead of berating myself inwardly for not getting the dishes done, I spend my hours on the couch worrying about all the cleaning and organizing that needs to happen before the baby gets here. When a day goes by in which the most I’ve accomplished is yet another trip to the doctor (because my pregnancy is high-risk, I have the privilege of seeing three!), I find myself returning to all the old patterns of self-castigation.

Several winters ago, while visiting with a pair of wonderful friends, one of them said something about the importance of “listening to your wise voice.” That phrase has stuck with me ever since, through the intervening years, always giving my memory a gentle prod whenever I need it most. The idea of “my wise voice” has become, to me, the opposite of that voice of guilt and castigation.

It is my wise voice that tells me when I am doing right, even if it seems counter-intuitive. It is my wise voice that quietly whispered to me that that medical withdrawal two years ago was exactly the right thing to do. It is my wise voice that cautions me when I am acting out of pride, or shame, or guilt, or nervousness. It is my wise voice that continually prompts me to live with generosity and kindness—even towards myself.

I’m learning—or perhaps I am being reminded—through this pregnancy that there will always be the opportunity for guilt, because there will always be something more that can be done, or accomplished, or checked off a to-do list.

But I am learning, too, that I always have the chance to listen to my wise voice.

For I have sinned

I am about the furthest thing from a Catholic imaginable, it's true.  But last night I was lying awake feeling guilty for a litany of failings and vices from the past weeks.  'How Catholic of me,' I mused.  And this is not to say that my own Jewish culture doesn't have a lot to offer in the guilt department.  As I flopped back and forth under the covers, I told myself to stop spinning about my various shortcomings and try to focus on all the ways I might have been effective or kind recently.  As so many of us writing here have acknowledged, it is not easy to take those night-time demons to the mat, especially when the hours are small.  Part of the struggle is feeling alone, trapped in your mind with what you imagine to be shameful thoughts and deeds. When I was finally awoken by the chattering of the baby in the early morning, it was something of a relief.  As I extracted her from the crib and set about to start the day, I decided I would engage in something of a "confessional" exercise.  Perhaps if I purged my consciousness of some of the low moments, I could make room for fresh experiences.  Forthwith, a detailing of seven mortal sins of late.  Here is hoping that cracking open my humanity can start to heal what ails me.  At least it might make you feel superior and then you can write about all the ways in which you experienced Pride :)

Wrath - I am typically fairly internal when it comes to anger, which, if you read any study on health is not ideal.  Apparently, people who externalize anger (at least express it, if not outright explode all over the place) tend to have lower levels of depression and can experience improved communication.  This article from the American Psychological Association (and there are a host just like it in the literature) describes some adaptive qualities of anger and how to use it to your benefit.  At my worst, I employ the tactic of stuffing down things that irritate me and then completely coming unglued over something relatively innocuous much later on down the road.  This is totally unproductive and moderately to profoundly confusing for loved ones.  I am working on addressing problems in the moment and being honest about my needs.  This is tricky and can feel risky to someone like myself who likes to avoid confrontation.  But ultimately, the confrontation always happens, just maybe displaced, which is no good for anyone.  Onward.  Upward.

Greed - I want more time, mostly.  Of course, I always desire too many cookies, clothes and earthly possessions, but hours in the day . . . what I wouldn't give.  The truth is that I could manage my time better.  There is certainly some whiling away the hours on Facebook/Instagram, spending late evenings watching Boardwalk Empire instead of answering emails, iChatting with a friend rather than ordering groceries.  The balance of stealing some time to which I feel entitled ("me" time) and organizing the day around prioritizing important tasks is the struggle of all good people, right?  And listen to my language: "stealing" some time . . . from what or whom?  Still and all, I want more time for work, more time with my family, more time to noodle on the internet.  There, I said it.

Sloth - Um, please see Greed.  And then sprinkle in all the moments where I sit in the chair at the studio or on the couch at the apartment thinking 'Sarah, stop flipping through the magazine and move on to the next thing.'  How about the time last week when I recalled I had read a study somewhere (I'm big on studies) indicating that dogs have fewer allergies when you bathe them less often, so . . . On the whole, I tend to push myself to make it all happen and there are times when I actually take great pleasure in physical labor and menial tasks.  There can be a wonderful meditative quality to folding, organizing, washing, etc.  But I realize I tell myself that things are just super busy now and fitting it all in will get easier over time.  This is, of course, an exercise in self-delusion.  Everything will just continue to get busier and the tasks and demands on time will simply compound.  Operation Pull it Together in full effect, then.

Pride - I post about 74,000 pictures of my daughter on Facebook every day with captions extolling her adorableness.  I talk about her accomplishments (at 9 months, these include things like almost, maybe, no definitely, actually probably not - but it really sounds like it! - uttering, "mmmmm…" when I feed her bites of something) ad nauseum.  When people ask me about her I always start with, "She is totally @#!&-ing awesome."  Sue me.  I am a new mother.  I got nothing for you here :)

Lust - There are days when I want power and I want it badly.  This is typically applicable in my business.  I want to be huge enough and famous enough that clients line up at my door, the phone rings off the hook and my inbox is brimming with messages where the inquiry goes something like this, "We really want to work with you, exclusively and specifically, and as such, we are writing you this check with a large sum.  Please deposit this check immediately and then show up on the day of our event with whatever florals and decor you feel are appropriate.  Thanks so much."  Until then, I suppose I will continue to work really hard to prove myself in the industry, hone my brand, secure the trust of clients and exceed expectations in the execution of events like my business depends on it.  Because it does.  The mogul situation is still out of reach, as it turns out.

Envy -I always think everyone else has it easier, is doing it better, knows something I don't and so on.  I believe this to be a fairly universal issue but it doesn't make it any less potent. I am particularly uncomfortable with this aspect of my personality, as my life is so relatively rosy.  As previously discussed, I have greater flexibility and more human and capital resources than most working people.  There is real suffering all around me in this big city and my concerns about finding the time to update my website or whether my daughter has enough of whatever thing-of-the-day should consume scant mental energy.  No excuses here.

Gluttony - The unending battle with cooking at home and eating "like a real family," wages on.  We over-indulge in take-out and restaurant meals where we are inevitably served too much of less healthful food.  This is a symptom of multiple larger issues in our house (see above struggles with time management, for example) and the remedies aren't coming easily.  I picture us coming together for dinner each night, discussing important matters of the day, laughing, sharing locally sourced food we have lovingly prepared, nourishing our bodies . . . then I scrape the sauce from the (recyclable?) plastic container from Dao Palate onto day-old rice, popping it into the microwave and feel awful.  Fill the refrigerator weekly, take a cooking class (or seven), continue to try and carve out the time.  How hard could it BE?!  HONESTLY.

Well, now I see why people are into this process of recounting wrongs and requesting absolution. It does feel somewhat cleansing.  The accountability piece is where things get dicier.  Maybe writing it down will catalyze forward motion.  And reading it over will help me be a little more gentle with myself as I strive to be a better . . . well . . . everything.  Wait, is that Greed or Pride or maybe Lust?  Sigh.

 (image via)

How To Live Out Of A Suitcase

I have always resisted "How-To" musings. Their prescriptive confidence tends to oversimplify life and obliterate its intricacies. Everything would feel manageable, if only you'd buy into Steps-1-through-5. Everything comes in neatly ordered bullets or numbered lists, always in increments of 5. The first time I read a "7 tips to a healthier closet" in a magazine, I nearly fell over at the violation of the increments of 5 bit. I used to love the structured life: the healthy closet, the happy living room, the robust plants. The magazine how-to's always paired adjectives and nouns in unusual ways that made me think that "if only I could follow the steps, I, too, could have a giggling patio or a witty sink or a resplendent relationship." Somewhere along the way, I met a wonderful man who refused to think in tight increments or in standardized measures. He sets his alarm clock to 7.03 AM or 8.57 or 9.14 because "life does not need to unfold on the dot." There are few subjects for which I'd change my feelings on How-To's. When Kim said "I'd like to commission a post on practical matters about living out of a suitcase," I knew this would be the How-To corner of the internet I could call my own. This is less a "pack pashminas-they are so versatile!" guide (though do! they are!), and more a reflection on how to navigate the emotional turmoil inherent in transitions.

Know your anchors. The are few life transitions that require one to live with one T-shirt, two pairs of underwear, and some jeans. If you are embarking on one of them, there is something grand enough ahead that makes the stinkiness worth it. Nobody ever uttered "I am so moved by the world right now but gee do I wish I had all my life's belongings with me!" If you are embarking on a different kind of transition, make peace with that which you cannot let go. It may feel silly to lug a stuffed panda bear across what used to be the Uganda-Sudan border, but if it is the connoter of memories, it gets a passport to travel. Some are attached to their cooking spices, others to their stationery. Figure out what will become part of your gratuitous weight and let it come along. Minimalism for minimalism's sake is a powerful way to glide through life---but it becomes more powerful if you figure out how to violate its tenets to make them more resonant and viable.

Put down (some) roots. For a book lover, keeping books on the shelf is one of the pleasures of a semi-permanent life. Nobody ever left in the middle of the night with tomes of the complete works of Joan Didion in her one carry-on bag (though if that happens, World, let me be the first one.) Walking past used bookstores with the knowledge that "we do not have room for books" or that we must resist everything that will weigh us down creates weight in itself. So, buy the books if you need to. Find a way to receive mail temporarily if seeing your name on an envelope brings you glee. You will find a way to pass the books on to someone who will love them, and to forward the mail, and to move all of yourself and your memories. Put down (some) roots in the meantime; transitions need not be mere parentheses in the narrative of life.

Method to madness. Google Reader is as embedded in my morning routine as coffee is in other people's. It does not matter if I am waking up in Boston or Jerusalem, if I have to go to work in an hour or class in thirty minutes. Browsing the morning headlines and reading my favorite blogs helps me feel connected to the world as it was before transition. It may feel small sometimes, or downright trivial, or such a hassle to hold on to routine and ritual when the rest of life is spinning around you. But it is those very routines that make it all slow down. If you are a runner, find a way to go for a run early on in your transition to a new environment. Do you write in the morning? Then, write, even among the boxes. Write your heart out. Do not let your camera gather dust in a box if its shutter clicking will make you feel more mindfully present. And, in the same breath, make room for the new routines that emerge out of a new life.

Carry the lightness with you. I used to think I excelled in transition, if that is the sort of experience one can master, until I set foot in my new apartment in Boston on September 1st. After three years of work in conflict and post-conflict areas worldwide, the possibility of staying in one (secure) (exceedingly comfortable) place for two years was intoxicating. I turned into a Nesting Monster. In the build-up to this move, I had lived out of the same suitcase for months on end, but the second that suitcase entered our new apartment, everything had to be unpacked. Immediately. And the furniture had to be built. And the boxes had to be recycled. Immediately. It was as though I had become allergic to transition overnight. Elijah humored me and assembled the dresser and the desk and the shelves in one afternoon.

Last night I asked him if he feels that our space is cluttered. Let me be clear: it is not. But, compared to our couch-free Jerusalem living room, the furniture feels imposingly permanent. Compared to the luggage I had in Guatemala, the knit sweaters feel bulky, even if Boston requires them.

As someone who failed at this, allow me to urge you to keep the lightness as long as possible. The transition will be over one day, and suddenly you will own 13 different pieces of Tupperware. Ask yourself where that came from, ask yourself if you need it. The fact that you have space to fill and time to do so does not mean that the roots of stuff will be the roots you thought you were craving. So hang the beautiful string lights you had been wishing to have in your space ever since you dreamed up permanence. And if it all starts to feel heavy and much, remember the time all of life fit in one suitcase and try to bring some of it back to that beautifully lit space you now call home.

Why Do We Live Where We Live?

Growing up, I always felt trapped by my surroundings.  Why had my parents chosen to raise me in the dry, geriatric filled desert of Tucson, Arizona instead of Paris, where I would’ve learned charmingly French traits like bike riding with a baguette or tying a scarf in several hundred different ways?  Why had my dad moved us to the agricultural hub of California, rather than Manhattan, where I would’ve become street-wise and savvy, ready to take on the world with my fast-talking charm and quick wit? As I’ve come to a point in my life where I get to personally choose where I live, I place a high premium on the cities that drew me as a child.  I’ve now lived in Berlin, San Francisco, and New York, with my recent move to London adding to my tour of world cultural hubs.  I spend four times as much on rent than my father does.  I’ve become used to taking over an hour to get from one place to another, walking a block, hopping on two buses and subwaying to meet a friend out.  I have not, since I left my parent’s house, had a backyard to call my own.  I compete constantly:  for jobs, amongst the best and brightest from across the country and world; for seats on public transportation and in restaurants; for space on the sidewalk; for tickets, for roommates, for a drink at a bar.

After we’d been in London for two weeks, my boyfriend Zack seemed agitated.  We were grabbing dinner after spending the day working from home.  “What’s wrong?”  I asked.

“Nothing,” he said.  “It’s just---this is the exact same day we would’ve had in New York.  We woke up, ate the same thing as there, worked in the same way for the same amount of time, are eating dinner at a different version of the same restaurant.”

As he spoke, I realized how much I’d expected my life to feel somehow different in London, as I had when I moved to New York from San Francisco years before.  I tried to put my finger on what, exactly, I expected the change to be:  my lifestyle would be the same (same job, same boyfriend).  The streets I walked would be different but they would lead to the same types of places---the grungy bar I like to spend my Friday nights, the cheery, rickety-tabled brunch spots of my Sunday mornings.  Yet, I needed the change of place to have a palpable, tangible effect on my life.  Otherwise, what was all of the effort and time spent living in the cities of my choosing for?

I asked Zack why he thought New York was, well, New York.  If it simply was the same bars, the same restaurants, the same jobs and (much crappier) apartments, why did people from everywhere want to be there?

“I think,” he said, “it’s because everyone wants to be there. No one accidentally just ends up living in New York. Everyone is there by choice.  Everyone in New York, then, is there for a reason.  There aren’t many other places in the world you can say that about.”

“So the people create the place that creates the people,” I said.

He smiled and took a sip of his beer.  “Something like that.”

Taken that way, I think the childhood me wanted to be the kind of person she saw living in the big cities of the world.  She wanted me to be somewhere by choice, somewhere for a reason.  If I can’t supply any other reason as to why I’m here, the simple fact that I want to be is, for her, enough.

How much do you think place affects your daily lifestyle?  Do you think the New York, big city idea of everyone being there for a reason is true for more rural or suburban areas as well?  Are you choosing to be where you live, or are you there for other reasons?

Four Feet

I signed up for my first race in the spring of 2008---a half-marathon, in Rochester, to be held in early fall. Never having run more than five miles consecutively, I spent my summer training, hydrating, and icing my aching knees. I slept at my parents' house the night before the race. The next morning, my mom was up with me before the sun rose, making coffee and puttering around, while I obsessed over my pre-run meal, my running outfit, and oh my god, why don’t we have enough safety pins to hold my bib in place? As I crossed the finish line hours later, after a grueling 13.1 miles on what turned out to be an unseasonably warm and humid September day, after witnessing more than one runner collapse on the course around me, and after looking for an exit route on the course for 8 miles, I declared that I was done with running. Finished. The End. Two weeks later, I started looking for my next race. And so began my short stint as a distance runner. With several half-marathons under my belt, I decided it was time to try my hand at the real thing, and set my sights on the New York City marathon.  Now, marathon running requires a certain level of commitment, even at the amateur level. Your entire world revolves around running, carb-loading, and hydrating properly. My husband endured months of early nights and pasta dinners;  my friends, I’m sure, grew tired of hearing me ramble on about my upcoming long runs; and my mom, well, she supported me in the only way she knew how: by telling me I was crazy. Unsurprisingly, she had a saying about marathon running. If God wanted you to run that far, he would have given you four feet! Lacking a competitive bone in her body, she also casually asked me, as I agonized over IT band pain for weeks before the race, if I couldn’t run as planned---or if I couldn’t finish---would it really be that big of a deal?

Nonetheless, my mom arrived in New York the day before the marathon, my sisters and brother-in-law in tow, to cheer me on every step of the 26.2 miles. As my sisters and I leisurely strolled around my Brooklyn neighborhood that afternoon, my mom started on a pot of sauce for dinner. We returned home to a feast, my mom doling out pasta and homemade meatballs in my tiny kitchen. My alarm clock went off at five the next morning, and while the rest of my family rolled over for a few more hours of sleep, my mom, once again, was up with me before dawn. We sat and drank coffee, and discussed, one last time, the four points in Brooklyn and Manhattan where they planned to cheer me on.  This would require a bit of hustle out of the group, and my mom, at a strapping 5 feet tall, was not to be outdone by her younger (and taller) counterparts. Not one to wear sneakers even in her backyard, she gamely came prepared with a loaner pair from my sister, ready to take on the streets of New York.

I saw my family first at mile six. With my body and mind already failing me, I found myself choking back tears at the sight of them. They were there for me again and again as planned --- my mom’s head barely visible over the crowd, my sisters and brother-in-law screaming my name, my husband looking on with pride --- as I hobbled forward to finish out the race. I learned later that as I was running, my cheering section ran into their own set of problems. My mom, in a pretty white sweater, was the unlucky target of a low-flying bird, and spent the rest of the day trying to camouflage the obvious stain. My sister, innocently using the bathroom at a McDonalds along the course, with my mom standing guard outside the door, found herself face-to-face with an overly aggressive patron who couldn’t wait his turn. By the time I finished, bruised and battered, we shared more than a few good laughs over a post-run meal.

My mom passed away three years later. We spent the last two weeks of her life in the hospital, sitting vigil by her side, pacing the hallways, hoping for a miracle. When she died, I was left with a hole in heart, and strangely enough, a sharp pain in my right calf. A wrong step left me gasping in pain for months afterward, and running was all but impossible. The hows and whys of this injury were unclear, and quite honestly, probably nothing more than a random coincidence. And yet, maybe it wasn't.

In those weeks leading up to her death, I realized in a panic that I had no idea who I was---or would be---without my mom. People assured me, repeatedly, that she will always be with me: in everything I do, and really, in everything I am. I scoffed at this initially; after all, it requires an astonishing amount of faith to believe such a thought, at a time when my faith has suffered a serious blow. But, as I limped home after each attempted run, I thought of my mom. As I stretched my calf in yoga class, I thought of my mom. And as I laughed at the irony of it all, I thought of my mom. As it turns out, she's with me every step of the way---whether I'm on two feet or four.

On learning life from life

He aprendido la vida de la vida, “I have learned life from life.” These are the words of Pablo Neruda from the poem, “Ode to the Book,” in which he casts aside words on the page for the immediacy of experience. I’ve loved this poem for the longest time, and these words have never been truer for me than now. From the time I could read, I consumed book after book, in search of compelling stories, complex characters, and literary worlds that helped me reflect on my own. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I often arrive at the first page of a book in search of answers.

I am a lover of questions, and of questions that lead to more questions, but there’s a persistent corner of my consciousness that wishes books were Magic 8-balls. I haven’t shaken up one of those round, little toys in many years, but I sometimes open a book with a similar approach.

Whether it’s fiction, memoir, or poetry, I’ve been drawn to the title by a half-formed question in the back of my mind, and by the last page, a part of me hopes I’ll have uncovered a roadmap, a step-by-step guide to the challenges and questions swirling beneath the surface of daily life. Other times, I secretly hope that by reading about an experience, I’ll be prepared for it in my own life and never be taken by surprise.

But in this time of transition—of graduating and building a career, of moving to a new city, of preparing for a wedding—the voice of Neruda nudges me again and again to simply learn life from life. To learn by doing and making mistakes. To let go and allow myself to be taken by surprise.

This is, of course, easier said than done, but I suppose it is only with such openness that we invite in the possibility for our fears of the unknown to be unexpectedly swept aside by joy.

How about ginger tea?

As the years pass, my culinary taste has changed and I realized I have gained different habits, and fallen in love with new dishes or ingredients I never thought I could stand. When I was a teenager, for instance, I found sushi quite repellent. Raw fish surrounded by rice and rolled up in seaweeds? A dish like that made no sense to my Italian palate. Wasabe? How could anybody find pleasing to burn up their mouth with a green paste? And then, when I turned twenty-five, my boyfriend at the time (and now husband) took me to a sushi restaurant in Washington DC. Could I tell him “I hate sushi please take me in some Churrascaria instead!”?? That was a very cold winter night, but despite I would have rather eating a warm dish and definitely not a raw piece of salmon, I started to realize that sushi wasn’t so bad, at least drowned in soy sauce.

But ginger! No, I really couldn’t stand ginger. A piece of soap would have been better! (That was the taste I compared ginger to…) Sushi AND ginger was too much for my discriminating taste.

So when did I start to enjoy ginger and find its flavor so enjoyable? Just very recently, and I had to go to another continent to learn, once again, that even little things that seems so odd and senseless can be instead very lovable.

“Do you want some ginger tea?”

I can’t actually recall how many times I was asked this question in Myanmar. When I landed in the country, I thought I was just going to live a new adventure, to see new places and take the usual thousand pictures I like to take. I would never have expected I was going to bring home a new culinary habit---using ginger in my daily life and actually falling in love with an ingredient I had thus far kept at distance.

The story is that, while in Myanmar, I got sick for a couple of days. I had very high temperature and there was no western medicine that helped me feel better. But I didn’t want to miss a day. After all, Myanmar is not around the corner, and the chance I’ll visit it again isn’t granted. So I behaved as I was feeling great---while my face was red and burning, my spirit was in fabulous shape. But our guide, a very nice woman called Kin (not sure it is spelled this way!), had the solution (yes, she was much wiser than me and thought there was no way I could enjoy my time like that). She asked for ginger tea in every house, shop and temple, and no kidding I was offered about ten cups in ten hours. And please keep in mind that drinking tea brings other consequences, too! But anyway, by the next morning I was feeling great, filled with energy and strength (and purified!). I am still not sure if I felt so good because of the tea or because of all the attention I got. It is nice when total strangers take care of you so generously.

How weird is the taste of ginger? Hot, fragrant, explosive, peppery, and somehow also sweet. Ginger doesn’t have too much space in Italian cuisine. My mother rarely used ginger in her cooking, and I've never heard of pasta with ginger something in restaurants, haha!, so the taste was pretty much weird to me. Now I find myself searching for new recipes online and trying them out in my kitchen. I discovered ginger doesn’t discriminate.  It crosses cultures and culinary boundaries and makes its way into every cuisine and type of specialty food, from Fiji to India, Jamaica, Nigeria and China. So I learned that Chinese consider ginger a yang, or hot, warming food, which, when blended with a cooler yin food, helps balance and harmony. And surprisingly ginger can even be found in some bars crushed into a Mojito! Also, ginger’s spicy flavor is a big hit in both chocolate and cheese.

But most importantly, if someone will ask me what the best cure for cold and sore throat is, from now on I will give him a piece of fresh ginger to chew.

“Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life---and travel---leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks---on your body or on your heart---are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” Anthony Bourdain

One more short story about Myanmar and a village with no name at www.alicepluswonderland.blogspot.com

Train Travel

I took the commuter train out of the city this weekend for a jaunt with old friends. I was looking forward to taking a familiar route  to meet up with familiar faces, but mostly I was excited about the few quiet hours I’d spend alone on the train. I have a deep and long-standing affection for the Metro North’s New Haven line which barrels along the Connecticut shoreline, into the belly of the beast at Grand Central, and out again. When I was a little girl, my dad worked in publishing on New York’s 5th Avenue. His building at number 666 looked to me like a giant cheese grater and on special occasions I would get to go with him there.  We rode the train together, I wore lace-up sneakers and carried my fancy shoes--mary janes--like the other commuting women. In college, the train was my salvation. I would pack a duffle and squeeze my way onto a crowded rush hour train, thoughts of my mom’s chili and the crackle of the fireplace luring me homeward. When I was lucky, the conductor would never even get to me and I’d have fare for the trip back into the city. For the two hours it took me to get home, I would lean my head against the greasy train window and watch the gray world pass by. I used to prop my weekend reading on my lap. Learning by osmosis.

For people who don’t live there, the route along the Connecticut shore can feel like an interminable middle road between New York and Boston. On summer weekends, traffic on I-95 through Connecticut is so sluggish that even the state’s most stalwart defenders will curse its name. But the train? It just rides along. If you’re lucky enough to live east of New Haven, like my parents do, a connecting train snakes you through marshes and homeward. Depending on the time of day, the light is either all pinks and blues and silvers or golds and greens and blues. Train travel is pure romance.

After college I flung myself across an ocean to live in France. My return stateside found me first in North Carolina and then in Rhode Island and all this life in other places meant years away from this particular train. I didn't have to be on the train to imagine it: the smell of the vinyl seats, the smudgy spots on the windows where other passengers have leaned their weary foreheads, the click, click of the conductor as she'd make her way toward me to punch my ticket, the crumpled brown paper bags with empty cans of cheap beer, the dog-eared copies of the New York Post left on seats, the conductors calling out the town names, their Connecticut accents causing them to eat their t’s.

The catch, of course, is that nothing stays the same for very long. The trains that I took for much of my childhood and young adulthood have recently been replaced. The new trains are glitzy by comparison---all lights and beeps and clean white and red seats. Lucky for me, on Saturday morning the new automated announcements weren’t working. I got to hear the the conductor’s voice just the way I remember it, “New Haven will be the last stop. Please remember your belongings as you exit the train.”

On Deserving

My sleep patterns change according to the season. At this time of year, as summer fades into fall and the days grow shorter and darker, I sleep deeply and long—but once the year has rolled around again, and light peeps into my bedroom late into the night and again early in the morning, I develop seasonal insomnia. Sleep doesn’t come easily to me in the springtime; even when exhausted, I feel the pull of so many things I’d rather be doing than closing my eyes. This year, as sunny days peaked around Midsummer, I found myself once again in the throes of my circadian sleeplessness. My mind seemed to whirl and spin, filled up with the promise of all that sunshine, leaving me spent and ironically too tired to do any of the things on the to-do list that called me out of bed again and again.

As the sun-filled days passed, I tried to unravel the layers of physical, emotional, and spiritual components to my lifetime of insomnia. I came up with many ideas: I didn’t feel safe; I had too much to do; I had a hard time convincing my irrational mind that I’d get more done if I also got more sleep.

And then, one afternoon as I lay on my couch trying and failing to take a much-needed nap, I thought: I don’t deserve to sleep. I don’t deserve to rest.

And that was an attitude I recognized. “Deserving” has played a large role in my life; I fight a constant battle with the insidious little voice inside me that is always fixated on what is fair and what is deserved. Because my energy is limited and must be parceled out in careful allotments, I find myself locked into a continual war with this voice of guilt over how I spend my time.

I don't deserve to rest, because I haven't done anything worthwhile today. I don't deserve to take it easy, because I have been lazy all morning. I don't deserve to have my husband make me dinner, because I ought to get up and do it, whether I feel well enough or not. Sometimes consciously, always unconsciously, I have a running tally always going in my mind. X amount of rest requires X amount of doing. If I have taken it easy today, I need to work extra hard tomorrow. If I have missed this many hours of church this week, I must make sure to go to all of them next week, even if I feel the same or worse. I must not do anything "fun" if I don't have all the "not fun" stuff finished, even if that means I will never have the time or energy for the "fun" stuff.

Since the winter of my junior year of high school, when I began this new life where my energy is so limited and I must live so carefully, I have been afraid. I've been so afraid of becoming that useless person, the one who just never musters up the willpower to get anything done, who always falls back on their physical failings as an excuse for checking out of life. This fear has clawed at me, ruled me, always dictated with precise care the doings of my day-to-day. It has made me feel enormous guilt when I fail to follow through on something I have assigned myself to do. It has made me hard on myself.

It has made me feel undeserving.

That summer afternoon as I lay sleeplessly on my couch, new thoughts came crowding in my mind.

What if it is okay to rest?

What if it is okay to take it easy when I need to?

What if it is okay to care for myself, regardless of what I have or haven’t done today?

What if it’s okay to cherish my body, even if it means letting go of some of the expectations I have for myself?

What if I deserve these things, not because of something I have accomplished or as a result of how clean my house is, but simply because I am a precious soul? What if we are all precious, not because of what we have done, but simply because of who we are?

What if we are all deserving of love? Of rest? Of joy?

.   .   .   .   .

In the months that have passed since that summer afternoon, I have felt my thinking gently shift. That voice—the one that harps so much on deserving, and tries to tell me that I do not deserve to rest—is still there; I suspect it always will be, somewhere deep inside my heart. And, all too often, I find myself listening to that voice, giving it leave to shape my thoughts and feelings about myself.

But I like to think that I’m making progress. I like to think that, in the last three months, there have been a few more times where I gave myself a little grace, a few more times where I reached out for peace and happiness in my life regardless of what I had or had not accomplished. I like to think that I’m a little closer to being able to claim these things for my own, to let go of what I can’t do and live abundantly with what I can.

Because you know what?

I deserve it.