Surprise Packages

Taking a cue from R, on the idea that emotions can come in surprise packages, often at untimely moments. I hesitantly consider surprise loneliness. Not that I have ever claimed to be able to wrap my emotions up and tie them off with beautiful shiny bows. However, their ability to catch me off guard, especially during the holidays, never ceases to amaze me. To contextualize this, somewhat public, account of emotions, I must preface it with my nature as a community-centered person, who attempts to stay close to friends that at this point in life scatter the globe. In a typical extrovert fashion, I draw my energy from engaging with the incredible people in my life. However, the flip side of this is what a close [introverted] friend refers to as “the extrovert’s dilemma.” At times, I find loneliness lurking in the corners when I am physically alone. While most of us don’t fit neatly into the categories described by these buzz words---the bottom line is that since I was a little girl I have attempted to develop my introverted side. Goal lists spot my travel mole-skins; “become comfortable with spending time alone” is scribbled on the top of each one. I long to not wage battle against the lurking loneliness.

Loneliness: the creeping sensation in my gut---throwing me off kilter in a simple moment, invoking memories---both joyful and sad; nostalgia for distant places and faraway people, people I will never see again, moments that cannot be reproduced. It zaps my [fairly] romanticized view of the world---the snowy, almost timeless, afternoon, drinking a picture-perfect latte in a café, lazily reading, and it drags me back to a different form of reality, where I am huddled in a corner pouring over my text book, sucking down coffee in a manner that is far from relaxed. Its creeping nature takes the color out of every day moments and the tranquility from the serene present.

Off-center. The word that encompasses my general attitude towards the holidays, especially in the current version of my current life where it feels increasingly important to cement one’s notion of home and family based on where you spend the holidays and who you spend them with. Latent in these often gleeful conversations, loneliness plans its sneak-attack, filling me with unease. Last week it snuck in. At the end of a night of guitar-filled singing, surrounded by incredible friends, warmth, and love, I found myself cleaning up wine classes, the sign of a thoroughly enjoyed celebration. I felt the creeping sensation, tears welling behind my eyes, as my mind struggled to stay in the present---searching for past moments of contentment as well as loss. Where did this sneak attack come from?

Today a new friend remarked, he already felt nostalgic for today. The day, or rather the moment, had not yet ended---how can that happen? Perhaps, it is a cue from loneliness, itself, that the moment is good, hold on to it.

It consists of its own category: loneliness, with an element of surprise. It’s not grief, nor loss---it’s not fear, nor anxiety---it is a reminder of the present, anchoring me to the feeling of being alive, on a continual search for a sense of home, community, and place. And yet, even when I have found these, for me, being completely un-lonely, means situating myself in the present, letting go of the other places, peoples, and moments I am nostalgic for. So for this holiday season, with a sense of unease, I am retreating to a café, ordering what I hope is a perfect latte, to watch the snowfall and sit with a sense of loneliness, knowing that it anchors me to my present life.

I'm Sexy and I'm Over It

Dear Sibyl, I am a former sex worker (exotic dancer & some fetish work) who has left that phase of my life for fairer pastures. Since dropping out of that world, my perspective on my experiences has evolved, and as of now, I have scant positive feelings about it all.

A fun and fascinating lady has entered my life recently, and we are involved in a creative project together. She is a current sex worker (erotic massage provider/dominatrix). Our project entails one-on-one time and I'm sure our relationship will take on an intimate aspect (of the non-romantic variety) in the near future. The thing is, I am nervous and in fact afraid of this, due to her profession. I understand why she does it—to support herself while in school, as I did—and I don't judge her at all. But I'm scared that in getting close to her, somehow her present—my past—will affect me. I don't want to go back to that place emotionally, but I fear it's only around the corner, although my rational mind knows that's ridiculous.

We have a considerable age difference (7 years), and I should be able to be the bigger person and not convey insecurity. Of course, I don't want to be the older, wiser one who knows better, even as part of me wants to tell her to get out of the business ASAP. How can I stop projecting my fear of my own past onto her? And how can I be a good friend to her when I have such close-to-home issues about her job?

Thanks, Sibyl!

Sincerely,

Shipwrecked Stripper Swimming to Shore

Dearest Shipwrecked,

Have you considered that this woman has been placed in your life like a gift, one that, if you choose to open it, could be a Pandora’s box of healing experiences for you?  I have a friend who complains a lot, but then follows up all those complaints with, “Well, I guess it’s just AFGE.”  “What’s affguh?”, I finally asked one day.  “Another Fucking Growth Experience!”, she cried.

I advise you to dive right into this lovely AFGE that has landed in your sexy little lap.  In order to do that, you must first shed your clothes once more, not your actual garments, but rather this suit of need to be “The Bigger Person”.  I don’t know who laid that outfit for you on your bed before school one morning, but it’s time to throw that uniform into the Goodwill pile. Don’t be the Wise Old Owl, telling her exactly how many licks it takes to get to the center of the Tootsie roll pop.  I think you should definitely just go ahead and convey your insecurity.  What could be more charming?

In order for this friendship to get off the loading dock and into the deep waters of a real relationship, you've got to come clean with her about your feelings.  First, you'll have to figure out what those feelings are.  Obviously, fear.  You mentioned you don't want your past to affect you, but I wonder if what you really meant was "infect" you, for your past to bubble up and poison your life with your feeling state from that time. So, let me speak this to you now: You are not the person you once were.  If you were to find yourself in exactly the same position that you were in when you were doing sex work, I am positive you would act differently, feel differently, and there would be different outcomes.  So, even if your worst fear materializes and this girl’s profession somehow lures you back in, you’ll treat it differently.

You obviously care about this friend, and I wonder, when you were in her place, did you have any doubts about it?  Would it have been helpful to have real conversations with people who had been there, not just having to put on a brave face with your fellow sex workers, ("This is great, right?  We are making so much money, we are redefining feminism!") or hiding your job from people who wouldn't understand because they haven't been there?  Does your friend even know that you are a former sex worker?  It could put her at ease, and it could give you a chance to work through some of your sticky emotions with that time in your life.  I have this sneaking suspicion that you are not meant to teach/save her at all.  She has been placed in your life in order to teach/save you.

Rather than expounding to her about all the ways being a sex worker has had detrimental effects on your life to come, what if you took this opportunity to write a letter to your past self? You can put in it all the advice you are tempted to share with your new friend.  Here, I’ll start it for you:

Dear Younger Version of Me, I forgive you.  Dang, sometimes I really wish you hadn’t started me on certain paths that I am still trying to rid myself of.  I realize now that you did that because of _______ and _______ and though that was really fucked up, I have compassion for you now.  I do not see you as broken or wrong, just human. I love your humanity, I cherish your imperfections, and I want to accept you fully, so that I can feel like a whole person, rather than this self with a shadow I’m trying to shake.  Currently, I’m a little afraid of you.  I’ve worked hard not to let the choices you made back then dictate the rest of my life.  However, I’m scared that by befriending you, you’ll force yourself into the driver’s seat once again, and my life will be taken over by a ghost of Christmas past. So, as I seek to befriend you so that I can be friends with a woman who reminds me of you, go easy, okay?  Tell me when it’s time to take breaks, stop thinking about this stuff for awhile, and come back to it later.  I’m trusting you, don’t let me down!  We’re in this together. Love, Current Me.

Add your own touches to that primer, Shipwrecked, and stop swimming away.  Find your own shore, within.

Love, Sibyl

Do you have a quandary that you'd like Sibyl to help you with? Submit it here!

An optimist's perspective on resolutions

December is always a bit of a surprise, and then it rushes by (at least for me) faster than any other month. For many, it’s a month that hurtles toward Christmas and is propelled by shopping and parties and decking the halls. For me, that target date, bright and imminent, is New Year’s Eve. Despite the floundering public perception of New Year’s resolutions (Empty promises! So cliché! You’ll never keep them!), I can’t help myself. Somehow, January 1st always feels like a fresh start, and I can’t miss the opportunity to reflect on the past and set new goals and intentions for the future. In high school, I was almost always babysitting on New Year’s Eve, and I would bask in the quiet moments edging toward midnight after I put the kids to bed. I’d take the opportunity to record important themes from the year, gathering up the threads and carefully noting significant challenges and turning points. I would set goals for the future, and yes, some of them would fall by the wayside within the week. The first to disintegrate were the daily life goals, habits I wanted to create, like getting a certain amount of exercise each day or writing for a certain amount of time. It’s so hard to wrestle your day or your week into a new shape when the rest of your environment stays the same.

And then there are the goals that seem to work themselves out on their own, without my having to try so hard, or the goals that are completely displaced by new ones. What’s most important is not necessarily whether I accomplish each goal within its allotted time frame, but rather what I can learn from the changes and consistencies between my intentions from year to year.

In the past few years, I’ve recorded my intentions for each year in a wiki. I don’t look at it often, but when I need a time capsule or a snapshot of my priorities and intentions, I know where to find it. I’ve also started a habit, which I’m sure I culled from somewhere in the blogosphere, to give each year a theme, so that even if the specific goals change, I can easily keep the intentions behind them in mind. One year, it was mindfulness, the next was wellbeing.

I think the coming year may be the year for depth. It’s the first time I can look out onto the year and know that it will not be shaped by semesters. It feels less temporary, and I am so very thankful for it. I am comforted by the fact that my routines won’t be overturned at the end of each semester, and I don’t have to live in constant tug-of-war with the breakneck pace of the school year. It will be interesting to see how time unfolds on the other side of all that. I am excited about putting down some roots in my new life. I hope to spend less time worrying about what I should be doing and more time just doing things well.

Asking for It, with Sibyl: An Introduction

Who is Sibyl?  Sibyl is the witchy woman you meet at a party and figure you'll avoid because she looks bizarre, but somehow end up sitting near all night, telling her about your roommate troubles and your theories about your family secrets.  Sibyl is the older sister you always thought you'd have, who'd sit you down and help you do your hair in just the way that suits you, and sticks up for you on the playground when everyone else is calling you "Brace Face."  Sibyl is the friend who shows up just to be with you, not talk, when you're facing the deepest grief of your life---when your partner has run off with a lover, when your baby is dead in your hands, when you're scandalized and have been pushed out of a job you love.  Sibyl is your queertacular friend who takes you by the hand and pulls you to the dance floor, spinning until you both dissolve into fits of laughter, forgetting your fears.  Sibyl is a ruined woman. Sibyl is married with children. Sibyl was on the Honor Roll, then cut class to go out to the soccer field to take a tab of acid and stare at the sky.  Sibyl may spend most of her time with her head in books about the nature of the soul, but she totally cares that Duchess Catherine is pregnant.

Who should write in to Sibyl?   Sibyl is for the ladies.  Sibyl is for the ladies who used to be dudes.  Sibyl is for the ladies who want to be dudes, who are dudes within.  Sibyl is for the ladies who love ladies, Sibyl is for the hopelessly straight.  Sibyl is for the wallflowers, who think no one is ever going to listen or care.  Sibyl is for the Mamas and the Papas.  Sibyl is for those of you putting a brave face on being alone.

What should you ask Sibyl? Whatever is twisting in your gut, those issues that make it hard to breathe, that you know are mysteriously killing you, even though they should not be a big deal.  They are are a big deal.  You are a big deal.  Ask away.

And to All a Good Night

What happens when you put your Jewish friend in charge of stringing the lights on the tree, is that you get to the bottom and have no way to plug them in.  “What I have here in my hand is two female parts, but it seems like I need two male parts,” I called out to my oldest friend.  She looked perplexed, herself, having never been the one to do the lights on the tree.  The tree endeavor (both selection and installation) had always been the province of her husband, who made a big production out of it with her kids.  He had been gone just three months and the whole operation carried a pall of sadness.  I was determined to establish a fresh tradition, help her feel confident in her new role and win the day with enthusiasm.  The kids had been good sports at the tree lot that morning, although it must have been terribly disorienting to be there without their father.  I felt the least we could do was to get the tree going before nightfall.  Ultimately, we had to call up our reserves---two effective and creative friends (with four children between them), both Mommies who were responsible for all things tree-related in their homes.  Within the space of twenty minutes, those two had stripped the tree, restrung the lights and carefully dotted the whole situation with ornaments.  That day, my status as “other” when it comes to celebrating Christmas and participating in the “Holiday Season” took a back seat to being present for a loved one. I returned home feeling decidedly less sorry for myself.  Even considering my pattern (like so many American Jews) of feeling a bit left out at this time of year, I had to consider the heartache of my friend and so many others who have lost a spouse or someone close to them, knowing the pain of a loss like that is much more acute during Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and the assorted benchmarks of life.

As much as I have my own issues with the Christmas behemoth, its value as a touchstone for many families in this country is undeniable.  It is a marker around which people create important memories with one another.  Children experience Christmas as an expression of familial love and have the opportunity to be showered with special attention by parents and extended family.  Adults take time away from work to be with their families and reflect.  Sometimes people even use the Holiday as a way to process wounds that haunt them from childhood.  The corrective experience of making your own Christmas for your own family as an adult must be incredibly powerful on a number of levels.

There still resides inside me, the smart-ass fourth grader who wrote an essay about how the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony was a violation of church and state.  This represented my desperate attempt to communicate the plight of the American, Jewish 8-year-old during the Holidays.  Back in the 80s, they didn’t really show much of Reagan lighting an obligatory Menorah somewhere or sitting down with his staff for a game of Dreidl.  And I likely would have argued that, to be fair, he shouldn’t be publicly participating in any religious celebration.  They also didn’t give Chanukah much air-time in the media in general back then, which made it even more critical that I drag my Mom into my elementary classrooms so that she could fry up Latkes on an electric griddle.  There is almost nothing more tragic than a bunch of disinterested school children carting floppy paper plates of greasy potato pancakes and dollops of applesauce to their desks to “enjoy.”  “Also, we get chocolate coins!” I asserted to anyone who would listen.

While I feel certain that I will be confronted with many uncomfortable conversations with my own children about why we don’t adorn our home or really do anything amazing at this time of year, I also trust that they will find ways to turn their outsider status into something interesting.  They might end up with a fantastic sense of humor about it.  It might increase their empathy for people that experience actual “other” status (people of color, immigrants, gay families) and who live permanently outside the mainstream.

I will always feel a little twinge at Christmas time.  I will try and remind myself that I can appreciate someone else’s traditions and how profound they are without needing to participate myself.  We have our own traditions on December 25th– Dim Sum!  Blockbuster movies!---and I remain grateful that I won’t need to cling to them like a life-raft, girding against loss.

Lessons from Copenhagen...

Dear Clara, Believe it or not, our time in Washington is coming to a close.  When we arrived last summer, two years seemed like decades away, but in less than half a year, we’ll be on the move again.  We know where now, and that always lifts burden off my shoulders.  I never really mind where the home is, but I do like knowing what I should plan for.  Your father and I did a little scouting mission to our new home-to-be this past month, and here’s what we noticed so far about Copenhagen, Denmark:

• Candles are cozy and lighting matters: In a place that gets dark by the time most of us are finishing up lunch, light and atmosphere matter a lot.  We had heard a lot about Danish “hygge”, which can only be loosely translated as a feeling of coziness or warmth, but we didn’t really understand to what extent those principles of creating a welcoming environment really matter.  Even the Laundromat had candelabras and everyone took their job of creating an environment you want to be in very seriously.
• There is no such thing as bad weather: . . . only bad clothes for the weather---many a Dane seems to say that with pride.  And it’s true---weather conditions, again in a place with a long and cold winter, don’t seem to stop people from doing much.  Whether it was dark or cold or rainy, people had on the appropriate footwear or layers or hats or gloves, and everyone was out, on their bikes no less.   It was a reminder for us that if you’re prepared, you can still be up for anything.
• Fresh air is good for you: In a similar vein to the above, people seemed to be ready and willing to be outside and partake in fresh air.  We saw baby carriages on the outside of coffee shops---with babies still in them---and children out at recess.  Fresh, clean air is a luxury that refreshes the body instantly.  If we’re lucky enough to be surrounded by fresh, clean air, we should take advantage of it.
• Early to bed, early to rise: We arrived just past ten o’clock in the evening our first night, and already all the restaurants were closing up, including in the hotel.  Everything seems to be happening earlier here: people get out of work earlier, they eat earlier and they go to bed earlier.  Yet somehow, I bet their day is still longer.
• Maybe things are supposed to be more expensive sometimes: You notice instantly that life in Copenhagen doesn’t come cheap.  Even the small things, such as a simple coffees in a café, are easily three times the price we’re use to paying.  I know we will be quick to complain about the cost of living---it’s an adjustment after all, and paying more for one thing, means having less for another.  Yet, life in Copenhagen seems to be pretty good; people seem to be taken care of.  I’m sure we’ll get a better sense of how everything works once we’re living there day in and day out, but the thought occurred to me, maybe it’s not a bad thing to pay more for the smaller things in life if it guarantees that some of the bigger things will be provided for.

I can’t wait to explore our new home with you –

All my love,

Mom

The Call to Prayer

Any traveler will tell you that every place has a distinct essence to it, part smell, part sound, part people---it all wraps up into a ball of experience and existence unlike any other location.  Years after you've left a place, a particular sight or scent will immediately transport you back to the previous time and place.  Although its heard all over the world, The Call to Prayer will always bring me back to Bangladesh.

Muslims, as you may know, pray five times a day.  They are alerted to the times of prayer by a call being sung out from the mosque.  This was the original purpose of minarets. A man would climb to the top of the Minaret and alert the faithful that it was time to pray.  Today speakers and microphones are used and walking to the top of the tower is no longer required.

There must  be a mosque just around the corner from our apartment, although I’m not sure I’ve ever actually seen it.  There was a neighborhood mosque just around the corner from our apartment in Dhaka. While I was rarely ever up at the first call to prayer, I doubt a day went by when I didn't hear at least one of the calls, more often than not, the last three.

If there is one thing that I loved most about living in Bangladesh---besides the experience or the adventure, or trying new things, but one tangible thing that I can point to, it would probably be the call to prayer.  I love hearing it---broadcasting out from the speakers, the static and what I imagine to be rudimentary wiring making the noise crackle and sound distant-like an antique radio.

I’m not sure I can fully describe the sound, or the feeling that accompanies it.  It’s one of those things you just have to experience, that defies words.  The closest comparison I can think of is Gregorian Chant---it is undeniably mystic, there is an inner peace to the foreign words so that even without fully understanding their meaning, the spirit is clear. The voice carries over the neighborhood rooftops, hauntingly melodic, intoning a request.

For me, its a reminder to be zen, to pause and be in the moment, to listen, and to be grateful.

Looking Forward: Girls.

“This might have been a mistake,” I said. My friend Lily, head cocked in sympathy, nodded. “Definitely a mistake.”

It was a cold night, and we’d just met friends at a favorite bar in our neighborhood. Short on cash, I’d ordered the $4 well whiskey, neat. Its smell alone made my eyes water. And I’d been given a generous pour.

“Brave girl,” someone remarked as I held the tumbler to my lips.

“Would you like me to tell you a story, to distract you while you drink that?” said Lily.

“Yes,” I replied. “Please.”

“Okay,” she said. “This is a story about unicorns.”

And she began.

---

People say that when you find true love, you know. Though I’ve experienced this with the opposite sex before, the same phenomenon has occurred---delightfully, consistently, and much more often---in many of my friendships with girls, as well.

For instance, Kimiko, one of my closest childhood friends, shared a bus seat with me on a field trip in the third grade. We debated afterschool snacks, discussed the size and cuteness of our respective pet rabbits, played MASH---and subsequently spent the next seven years together, so close that we considered ourselves one unit (our combined name was Shimiko). When I moved to LA at fifteen, we traded photo albums, and put together a dictionary of terms we’d created over the course of our friendship---code names for crushes, words only the two of us understood.

And that was just it---there was much about the two of us that only we understood. In so many ways, we spoke the same language.

I knew the same was true of Maya, a high school friend and future Brooklyn roommate, when we spent an afternoon in the parking lot at our school, seated on the roof of her car. We were navigating what I remember to be a very complicated situation involving prom dates. My angst about the situation was almost certainly disproportionate to the circumstances at hand; still, she understood.

And when Linda, my roommate all four years of college, spent countless nights in with me while all of our friends went out, I knew I’d made a special kind of friend---one you know you never have to work to impress, one who understands your history as well as they do their own. Already a sister to six, she’s filled that role for me, as well. She’s family, a touchstone. She feels like home.

I met Lily only months ago, late in the summer, in East River Park. She and another college roommate of mine, Megan, were spending an afternoon sitting in the grass, talking, getting sunburns. We’d all recently been through break-ups; we were heavy-hearted. But that gave us something to talk about. And in the weeks and months that followed, I found so much of the happiness I needed in meeting Megan to do work at coffee shops, in going on late-night adventures with Lily. (When she told me the story about unicorns at the bar, I knew she was someone whose quirkiness I understood.)

Though I’m loathe to make a Sex and the City reference here (much internal deliberation happened before I wrote this paragraph), I can’t help but think of a scene that occurs toward series’ end---it’s one that always makes me feel like weeping. In it, Carrie, set to embark on her ill-fated journey to Paris, says to her friends, “What if I never met you?”

---

Megan and I had dinner together just last weekend and reflected on the past few months over steaming bowls of soup. “My year took a turn the day I came to see you in the park,” I said. “You were lonely in the same way I was. You understood.”

You understood.

What a staggering gift, to have friends who say, “I know what you mean.” Who make you laugh. Who appreciate, and relate to, and love  your eccentricities.

This is what it means to know someone.

It’s what it means to understand.

Slowing the Season Down

I love the holiday season. I love the air of festivity, the sense of wonderment that seems to slip into the world as we polish off our Thanksgiving leftovers. I love catching glimpses of my neighbors’ Christmas trees through unshaded windows in the dark of early evening. I love the happiness, the large-heartedness, that seems to linger in the atmosphere as days tick on toward December’s end. But I won’t lie: Sometimes I hate the holiday season, too.

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, my husband—whose inner ten-year-old makes an appearance as soon as Christmas is on the horizon—asked me almost every day, with great enthusiasm in his voice, “Are you excited for Christmas?”

“I’m not ready for Christmas,” I said every time. I meant that I wasn’t ready for the rush and bustle, the overcrowded calendar that seems to be part and parcel of the modern December experience. I was looking forward to all of the things we had planned for the season—family parties, Advent Sunday celebrations, tickets to see a live performance of A Christmas Carol—but I was dreading them, too. I’d struggled enough during November with a relentless schedule and the toll it took on my pregnant, chronically-ill body.

As November waned, my husband and I returned from a Thanksgiving trip to visit family with me in not-so-great condition. A few days later, we bundled into coats and scarves and walked two blocks to a nearby tree stand to purchase this year’s Christmas beauty, which my husband proceeded to carry (yes, carry) home in a cinema-esque show of manliness. We tumbled back into our house with our prize, laughing and red-cheeked.

Within hours, I was in the grip of an unpleasant bout of pleurisy, a usually-not-serious-but-very-painful lung condition. Afraid to take the narcotic in my kitchen cupboard—saved for just these attacks of pleurisy—in my gravid state, I suffered through the pain all night, unable to get a deep enough breath to drop off to sleep.

I watched the clock slowly tick on through the night, and I thought, I have to re-think my December.

The next morning, after I’d managed a few hours of restless sleep, I sat down and looked at what we had planned for the month. I sent e-mails bowing out of family events that were too far away or too much to handle. I bought airline tickets to Portland so that our post-Christmas visit to my parents could be made without a thirteen-hour drive each way. I prioritized the list of errands I needed to run and decided to ignore the ones that weren’t urgent.

And in the two weeks that followed, I slowed down. I listened to my body, letting it tell me what it needed. I put off those errands until they became necessities. I didn’t worry so much if the dishes stayed in the sink until evening.

As I sit here writing this now, in the twinkling glow of my Christmas tree lights, I am glad for that forced slowing-down. I wouldn’t have chosen to spend the beginning of my December couch-bound and sick, but it was, I think, what I needed.

Because, in the stepping back, the conscious choice to let go of things that weren’t urgent (and even some things that seemed urgent), I found my way back into the love of the holiday season. I played Christmas music on Pandora and drank peppermint hot chocolate. I let the warmth and the joy of the season seep in, without letting the guilt come with it.

I am far from perfect—but, I am reminding myself, I am enough.

Maybe next time I’ll be able to remember the importance of slowing the season down without being forced into it.

How do you deal with the holiday season madness? Do you find yourself slowing down or speeding up as Christmas draws closer?

Since You Brought It Up: Downshifting

By Lauren Kodiak It’s been six months since I finished school. From kindergarten to graduate studies, I never stopped—never took a moment to breathe, reflect or reassess. You see, after four years of college, you’re supposed to have it all figured out. During my senior year, I began to dread the impending doom that post-grads feel when searching for jobs. I needed a goal, something to keep working towards, so I applied to graduate schools to study Higher Education (because, hey, that sounds promising). A few short months after graduation, I boarded a plane to Portland, Oregon, leaving my family and friends behind in Connecticut, where I’d lived my first 22 years.

Throughout my two-year grad program, I noticed an internal shift. I took things a little less seriously, slowed down and appreciated quiet moments alone where I could be with my thoughts. I even started a personal blog, something I never thought I’d do, and each post felt more therapeutic than the last. This, of course, made room for pesky feelings to bubble up, feelings that confirmed I wasn’t as passionate about this field as I had originally hoped. Still, I made an effort to savor my last years as a student, and trudged on to graduation.

And here I am, six months out, and though I’ve felt pangs of that post-grad doom, I’m surprisingly calm. I work two part-time jobs—one (that uses my degree) to pay the bills, another (a writing gig for a local publication) that doesn’t feel like a job at all. I've become quite taken with stringing words together, fitting each one in its exact place to complete a puzzle of sorts. I don’t have it all figured out, by any means, but I am energized and hopeful about following this creative outlet to see where it leads.

But as I’m getting ready to head home for the holidays, self-doubt has started to creep in. Will others judge me for “wasting my degree” if I abandon Higher Education for a little while, or altogether? Am I a fool to go for the less lucrative or stable career? I realize that most of this pressure is self-imposed. I'm working on being at peace with my decision, reframing it in a positive way. When people ask why I don’t have a full-time job at a university, I’ll pass on saying “Because the job market is so dismal,” in favor of saying “Because I decided to pursue another path.” I want to finally give myself the time to explore what I’m truly passionate about—but first, I need to own it, embrace it and carry it with confidence.

***

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Read the post that kicked off the series, Ashely Schneider's Down, Not Out. Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here. 

Stillness is a state of mind

“And eeeeeven when you are reaching for your toothbrush, you are dancing.” I remember my ballet teacher stretching out, cat-like, her limbs taut and lean, torso erect, one arm gesturing dramatically toward the corner of the studio. In her own masterful way, she instilled in us what Silas House describes in “The Art of Being Still,” a way of embodying your craft wherever you are, whatever you may appear to be doing. When I look back on the period of time when I was dancing, I think of it as a time when I was always dancing, just as my teacher had insisted. That meant stretching my calves at the bus stop or going over choreography in my head, but it was also something more subtle and persistent. It meant that I saw the world in relation to dance, and even the simplest aspects of daily life were metaphors for something I was learning in the studio. The flow of traffic in the halls of my high school was a chaotic, pulsing choreography. Every moment, from the sacred to the mundane, was set, in my mind, to a soundtrack of classical music.

Conversely, I also brought the studio with me into the world. The constant tension between strength and flexibility in my practice also found its way into social interactions. The discipline and intensity of my ballet training manifested itself in my studies as well.

When House explains that he gathers material for his writing while standing in line at the grocery store or biking to work, I get it. I’ve never felt exactly that way about writing, but I’ve experienced it through dance. There’s a certain state of mind that persists when your body is your tool. From the top of your shellacked bunhead to the tip of your aching toes, every part of your body seems to exist to remind you that there is work yet to be done and that whatever your other roles in life may be, you are ultimately a dancer.

It might seem odd to compare dancing with the stillness House describes, but I think it is simply a particular state of mind. It is a way of allowing the foreground of your mind to attend to the business of living, while in the background, your creative mind remains agile and supple, perhaps idling, but never turned off completely. This is not the same as multitasking or absentmindedness. If anything, it is a way of being present.

As dancers, we cultivated this state of mind through many, many hours of practice. Since we spent so many of our waking hours in the studio, it was impossible to ever really leave it behind completely. As for writing, I’ve never been quite sure how to cultivate the same sort of presence. Writing a lot helps, of course, and reading does too, I think. Not the sort of online reading, which darts rapidly from one link to another, wandering among disparate bits of information. Rather, it’s the deep reading that comes only by curling up with a paper-and-ink book and settling in for the long haul. Perhaps one’s mind is simply freer, while suspending disbelief in order to be enveloped by someone else’s world, to tinker in the background with other worlds-in-progress.

Since You Brought It Up: Down Not Out

By Ashely Schneider I keep meaning to jot down some thoughts on my personal experience with unemployment. Let’s just say, it’s far from glamorous which is probably why I’ve avoided this for so long.

Sure, it’s nice to take a morning yoga class or grocery shop at noon. But most days, I’m braless and in sweatpants until an errand forces me to slip on jeans and spruce up with a little blush. Hey, you never know who you’ll see in the produce section.

I’ve been challenged on a daily basis, constantly questioning my skills, expertise, and self worth. That’s what a job search will do to you! I’ve also become my own worst critic.

I try to keep an upbeat, optimistic attitude. I’m constantly asked how my search is going. You never want to be that friend who mopes and complains too much so I usually respond with something like, it’s tough! Or, the process is brutal! Always with an exclamation point. Seems a bit more cheery, right?

I recognize that things could be much worse. There could be kids to feed or a mortgage to pay. Right now, I’m feeling grateful for the support of friends and family who are rooting and praying for me, as well as wishing me the very best. I mean it when I say it helps.

This month, I’ve decided to revamp my attitude and perspective. More action, less stagnancy. I’m using these next few weeks to create a little routine in my current structure-less state. I’ve set some small tangible goals like run twice a week, volunteer, send handwritten letters. I’ve also decided to strive for optimism and hope. Mind over matter, right? Fake it til you make it. I can already tell that my new mindset is helping and my overall state of being is improving. I do hope it carries over into the new year, and with it, good news.

***

Holiday cards of grinning families! Music proclaiming it’s the “most wonderful time of the year!” Nonstop cocktail chatter about how fantastically the last year treated each and every person at the party! If anything in your life feels less than perfect, the holiday season makes you want to cram it in a box, tie a lovely bow around it—and then instagram it.

We believe we can find more joy in the holidays by squashing the little voice that tells us bright spirits and good cheer are only possible when we’re perfect.  The magic of this time of year comes from connecting with loved ones near and far, reminding ourselves of all we have to be thankful for, and . . . covering everything in twinkling white lights. 

We’re embracing our present lives—foibles and all—so we can spend more time drinking egg nog and less time worrying we’re not good enough. Imperfect is the new black; wear it with pride.

Want to lighten your load? Add your story to the “Since You Brought It Up” series by submitting it here.

Lessons from Dallas...

Dear Clara,

It’s funny how some trips can come and go in the blink of an eye.  Modern air transport can take us somewhere new and back in the space of less than 24 hours, which is was my experience on last week’s trip to Dallas, Texas.  These trips can make you feel as though you really haven’t been anywhere: airports start looking the same, hotels start feeling the same, the interminable taxi rides start being the same . . . But you have to fight the temptation of thinking everything is the same. It’s not.  And even on these quick trips, that are more for work than for fun, it’s possible---with some effort---to start to notice differences.  Make a mental note of them before you forget; seeing differences is, after all, a big reason for why we travel.

Here is what I caught on my most recent trip to Dallas:

• Look out for your eyes: I couldn’t get over how bright the Texas sun was, even in a December afternoon sky.  Even in a car, there’s nearly nowhere to hide from the brightness and reflections.  It was a good reminder to have quality sunglasses that protect your eyes, and the skin around them too---it’s your responsibility to take care of them for the long-run.
• Sometimes more is more: Everything seemed somehow bigger in Texas . . . the car . . . the drink I ordered . . . the Christmas tree in the mall.  I wasn’t always used to it but sometimes it’s nice to have more of something.  I was particularly taken by the holiday decorations that were already plentiful,  and it seemed like a nice feeling to have such an outward expression of bows and glitter and lights.  It can be nice to immerse yourself in something more than we would normally allow ourselves.
• But be mindful of space: Just because we can make something bigger doesn’t mean that we should.  Along with more and bigger, I couldn’t help but notice that everything also took up more space.  I was floored when looking out the window on take-off to see just how huge of an area the city covers.  And driving around, I noticed many buildings were just one story, many surrounded by huge parking lots, with lots of space in between.  Space certainly doesn’t seem lacking, so there is something to be said for using what you have.  But sometimes while more space can seem nice, it also means that you need more stuff to fill it, different ways to get around it, and sometimes it makes you feel far away from others.   Think about how much space you need, versus how much space you merely want.
• Take stock of little differences: Sometimes a drive to the airport is just a drive to the airport, but if you’re in a cab, take the opportunity to look out the window and see what there is.  The landscape, the traffic pattern, who’s sitting in other cars . . . . I was surprised to see that there was a $4.00 toll just to come on to airport grounds, the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing, which got me thinking about how public/private infrastructure might work in Dallas, and  it’s not something I would have ever noticed before, but something I’ll ask about when I come back.
• Enjoy the moon just as much as you would the sun: I didn’t get much daylight in Dallas, and what I did was mostly spent in a conference room.  But with such a wide open sky and not much light to distract it, I had a full view of the full bright moon from my hotel room, which I don’t get to enjoy as much in Washington.  Look for little moments that you don’t often get to see.

All my love,

Mom

When the universe winks [or: Wagon Wheel]

There have been times in my work with communities affected by conflict when I have longed for a stronger belief in a supernatural deity. I have been compelled to pray, to hope that someone out there is listening. At this stage in my life, my imagination of that "supernatural something" that resides outside of ourselves does not take the form of a deity. Rather, my belief can be summarized in the following phrase: The universe is winking.

You know the moments I am describing: In the face of adversity or great irony, of what seems like undue strife, something happens to reassure you that you are not alone, that the world is not laughing in your face, that life unfolds on a continuum and the narratives of joy and heartbreak exist side-by-side. And, if recent experiences with fragility have been any indication, the universe winking at me comes with a soundtrack---Old Crow Medicine Show's "Wagon Wheel."

The song appeared in my life during a relationship that may never have happened had it not been for grief, fragility, and emotional confusion in the first place. As Joan Didion advises in Slouching Towards Bethlehem, "we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not" and, in that vein, I need to extend compassion to the self who thought she could drown grief in affection and be blind to the traits that would make the affection shallow and the grief immutable. He hated my music. That should have been a clue. Anyone who hates the company that Cat Power and Brandi Carlile and Rachael Yamagata keep, anyone who cannot reconcile himself with my army of women singer-songwriters, is dancing on a different sheet of music than the one in which I live. So he made me a CD. [Pause for nostalgic indulgence in the quaintness of making someone a CD, not a Spotify playlist.]

Of all the tracks on it, Wagon Wheel jumped out. Even after that budding relationship withered, Wagon Wheel lingered as the soundtrack to a segment of life for which I never quite found the words.

***

Second day in Cairo. I met the girls on an email list of foreigners in Egypt looking for roommates. I met the boys on a sailboat on the Nile the night before, on my first day. Coincidentally also the first day of Ramadan, the first of many firsts. We are in the boys' apartment and I am alive with the exhilaration of belonging, with the relief of how quickly one belongs when she is a foreigner among foreigners, a stranger among strangers---all of whom wish to throw out that label and slide over to best friends already. One of the boys picks up his guitar. Wagon Wheel is the first song he plays.

That song came with me to Uganda... Sudan... Colombia... Guatemala... Jerusalem. "Points South" of all that. Now Boston. So did the guitar. And so did the boy.

***

Katherine's birthday party. Budding friendship, united by parallel narratives which---defying all laws of geometry---intersect as they unravel. The kind of friendship that fills your sails with gratitude, that makes you feel like the universe can wink simply by putting someone in your path. Her friend brought his guitar. Barenaked Ladies. The Beatles. Leaving on a jet plane. Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley.

And then, inevitably, Wagon Wheel. A room full of people singing the words along. The universe winked extra pointedly that night, to make sure I knew I was home.

***

My love for the song is immaterial. This is not the kind of song that one feels was written for her. I have never been to Johnson City, Tennessee, never picked a banjo. This is not a lyrical attachment. Rather, Wagon Wheel is my clue to pay attention. It is the way that I know that, even if I am trudging through the mud right now, somewhere out there the universe is winking. It is the music that plays, almost invisibly, to make sure that I am listening.

Traveling With Parents

When I was eighteen and spending several years backpacking through South America and Europe, having a parent come to visit meant two things: hot showers and all the food I could eat.  Having left to travel abroad straight from my parent’s house, I had little to no concept of what real world costs were:  should a loaf of bread cost one dollar or five?  Was twenty bucks a reasonable price for a bunk in a hostel with bed bugs (all the better to combat the loneliness with, my dear!) and moldy showers?  Was it worth it to buy the $100 train ticket, or was it a far better value to hitch rides for free? I combatted these questions by spending next to no money at all, so that, when my dad came to visit me in Italy, I’d lost five pounds and, although I’d been through the bulk of Eastern Europe, I’d been to zero museums, palaces, or any other cultural (read = costly) attractions.  My dad fed me.  He paid for hotels that had fluffy beds and towels (towels!).  When he left, he made sure I had a train ticket to my next destination, and a clean, safe hostel booked for when I arrived.  My mother, when she came to visit me in Greece several months later, did the exact same thing.  They weren’t my fellow travelers, merely versions of the same roles they filled back home.  The environment had changed, but the relationship had not.

I recently went back to Italy, with my mother this time.  The trip started as an act of parental grace:  I was lonely and sick of the constant drizzle of England, and she offered to take a trip with me to bolster my spirits.  After we met at the airport though, the roles shifted.  Now twenty-five, with years of not only traveling but life under my belt, I found myself figuring out train routes.  I scoured the internet for the best hotels for our purposes; I directed us to the thinnest, richest pizza in Naples.  The change in roles, though, was most evident on the trains, in the hotels, at the restaurant over the pizza:  that is, in the conversations we had.  No longer adult to child, we spoke about online dating, about Israel and Palestine, about sex and cholesterol and Renaissance art.  In short, we spoke about life.

This relationship transition can, of course, happen anywhere.  Often referenced when talking about traveling with a significant other, though, being in a foreign country tends to magnify relationships, showing their boons and their flaws and mostly their shape, as a whole, crystalized and highlighted in a way that’s impossible for either party to ignore. This was the longest amount of time I’ve spent alone with my mother since I was thirteen years old.  It was the most time we had to talk, to work through decisions, to deal with things going awry, and simply, just to be.  I found out more about who I am, who my mother is, and who we are together.  My mother is a woman who has a wicked sense of humor.  She’s a woman who snores, and who shares my (lack of) interest in the multitude of religious art that papers every Italian surface (As we walked under a giant Jesus in the Pitti Palace:  “Alright, alright.  We get it already!”).  She’s skilled at bringing smiles to the faces of strangers and equally skilled at devouring an entire pizza.

In your twenties, it’s hard to redefine your relationship with your parents, the people who wiped poop from your bare bum and taught you how to read and write.  And while everyone’s relationship ends up in a different place---I have one friend who goes prowling for hot guys with her mom, and another who can’t even disclose that she drinks---traveling can help figure out where to start.  And that’s worth more than any hot shower.

Live to Eat

My mom used to say that there are two types of people, with a very important distinction to be made between them. There are those who eat to live and those who live to eat. We, as a family, have always fallen into the latter category. Growing up, dinnertime was serious business. We gathered night after night, with a properly set table, a square meal, and post-dinner coffee (for the adults, of course). Friends who joined us were always amazed that we didn’t just eat and run, but seemingly enjoyed the process. At the top of her game, my mom was a great cook. We have the photographic evidence from birthdays past to suggest she was capable of extraordinary baking feats (homemade Big Bird cakes, for instance) and family members talk about the elegant dinner parties my mom threw when my parents were first married, but really, her specialty ran closer to the classics---the dishes that don’t require a recipe. Our cousin summed this up perfectly, joking that, “A recipe calls for an egg and Janice uses a marshmallow.” Pot roast, linguini and clam sauce, a perfect spiral ham, roasted chicken, escarole and beans, Sunday sauce: this was my mom’s food. Unfussy, with no pretenses---the kind of food that invited you to stay awhile.  She went to the public market in Rochester, not because it was trendy to eat seasonal and local, but because it was cheaper. “Everything’s a dollar!” she would exclaim, arms full of tomatoes, cucumbers, and romaine lettuce in the summer. As we grew up, and inevitably thought we knew everything, my sisters and I rolled our eyes at the predictability of her cooking. If she hosted a brunch, you were guaranteed an egg strata, ham, and a make-ahead French toast casserole. For summer barbeques by the pool, you could count on potato salad, macaroni salad with tuna, and a huge bowl of melon.

My mom was the only person I knew who could pull together a meal for 15 with no advance notice. She kept a bag or two of chips in the pantry, and veggies, dips and cheese in the fridge, ready to be pulled out on a moment’s notice if friends or family swung by unannounced. One Christmas not too long ago, our group doubled hours before the beef tenderloin, double baked potatoes, and salad were to hit the table, and I can tell you definitively that we still had leftovers. To this day, if you ask a family member or friend about my mom’s cooking, they will most certainly tell you about their favorite dish, but more importantly, about the memories that the food conjures. Sara will tell you about coming over on Thanksgiving or Christmas and digging the remaining spinach dip out of the bread bowl that my mom saved just for her. She’ll tell you how even with a house full of people, my mom would stop and really talk to her. My friend Meg will tell you about the taco turkey chili my mom had waiting for us on several occasions, when we sought refuge in Rochester after a particularly long week of college. She’ll tell you how my mom always made her feel at home, even in the handful of times she was there. Nikki will most definitely tell you about my mom’s clam sauce, and how she didn’t even need to ask for it when she came to Rochester. It was waiting, along with a pot of coffee after dinner, to give us all an excuse to sit and chat even longer. For me, it’s zucchini sautéed in tomatoes (with a heaping scoop of parmesan) and sausage and potatoes; the food that reminds me of sitting at the table on a Tuesday night---in other words, the ordinary food. It's my mom's salad, generously dressed with oil, red wine vinegar and Marie's blue cheese dressing, begging to be eaten directly out of the bowl. It's the recipes that also remind me so much of my grandma: the pizzelles made at Christmas time and the Easter bread---laced with anise and lightly frosted---that my mom hand delivered to eagerly waiting friends and family each year.

As the years passed, my mom’s enthusiasm for cooking waned. On more than one occasion in recent years, my mom and dad were known to have toast for dinner. “You can’t eat toast for dinner!” my sisters and I argued, but my mom didn’t care. She told us that after forty years of marriage, she was done cooking---except for Sunday dinners and holidays, of course. My sister and brother-in-law took over Thanksgiving hosting duties in the past few years, but as we realized this year, my mom was still the heart and soul of the operation. This was the first year my mom didn’t buy the turkey and bring it over on Wednesday night, completely dressed, with explicit directions about timing and temperatures. This was the first year she didn’t make her mashed potatoes---made ahead of time and frozen (controversial until you actually taste said potatoes)---her stuffing or her butternut squash. This was the first year she didn’t save the wishbone from the turkey, to make a wish on. And so this year we did the only thing we knew how to do without her: we made her food. My sisters and cousins spent the weekend before Thanksgiving mashing forty pounds of potatoes and wrangling with a number of unyielding squash.  Weeks before Thanksgiving, we panicked, not remembering the recipe for my mom’s stuffing. Katie, in Australia, came to the rescue. My mom’s stuffing has been a mainstay in her Australian Thanksgiving for years; her friends actually refer to it as Mrs. Brady’s stuffing. We sat down for Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by my mom’s food and the family and friends who have sustained us over the last year. A close family friend said grace and lit a candle for my mom. Danielle lost both her parents in the last decade, and told us it was my mom who allowed her to appreciate Thanksgiving again.

My mom’s legacy is everywhere, but perhaps nowhere as clearly as at the dinner table. Whether it’s on fine china at Thanksgiving or pizza on paper plates, we continue to break bread together, sharing our food and our stories as we always have. It’s not just food, after all, it’s family.

The other side of slow

I am a strong advocate of slow, simple living. Of taking time for quiet, stillness, and reflection. Of being present in the moment. I insist that it is possible to incorporate these qualities into one’s life as an ongoing process and practice and that it is not necessary to flee to the ends of the earth or conjure up extreme conditions for such purposes, as others have suggested. I did not always feel this way. I spent the first eighteen years of my life striving for constant activity and intensity. If I was not studying, I was dancing. If I was not dancing, I was working. And if I was not studying or dancing or working, I was joining a new activity. Rest and quiet time did not even make it onto my very long to-do list.

I hit a speed bump of exhaustion in my senior year of high school, which slowed me down a bit but not completely. I remember coming up for air momentarily before spending the next five years ramping up again until, by the end of my first year of graduate school, I had once again worked myself into a high-pitched frenzy of activity. Looking back, I see my grad school self as a sort of academic Road Runner, zipping all over Cambridge with stacks of books before finally running right off the busy cliff. In my case, the bottom of that cliff took the shape of many months of illness, exhaustion, and recovery. From that experience, I finally learned my lesson.

Since then, I have been careful to seek balance and to prioritize quiet time and cozy time and even time for nothing in particular. It is sometimes very lovely to curl up into the cave of quiet I have built for myself over these last couple of years, but it is always a tug-of-war. I am constantly brushing up against my inner overachiever, who confuses “quiet” with “lazy” and “restoration” with “lack of productivity.”

Lately, though, I am discovering the other side of slow: too slow. Since graduating in May, I have been cobbling together fragments of part-time and freelance work, arranging and rearranging them until I have to admit that the pieces do not make up a whole. My quiet self assures me that this is an excellent opportunity for contemplation. My overachiever self keeps measuring the gap between how much I am capable of and how much I am actually doing.

I know from experience how hard it is to let go of things, to admit that you have taken on more than you can handle and that your life is out of balance. I know now that it can be just as hard to admit that your life is perhaps a little too quiet and rather short on busy.

For now, I have mustered my optimism, reassuring myself that this is a temporary lull, an in-between time that I will look back on and be thankful for. In the meantime, I am mesmerized by the stories of other women’s lives and careers, tales of balancing acts and masterful feats of juggling. I scour these stories in search of clues for tipping the balance in the other direction, knowing all the while that the answer is probably not to be found on the outside but within.

The pieces of the mosaic

In loss, we retain memories; in memories, we hold on to pieces of what we have lost Memories. Pieces of the past that flow---in and out of our minds, called back by imperceptible senses in our present. The flow is unpredictable. In seconds, I may be transported from sitting in my kitchen, eating oatmeal and mapping out my day, to a past moment---a memory of my now-deceased grandmother slathering butter on my oatmeal. A fleeting memory of a carefree, cherished childhood snow day enters my conscience. In the next bite of oatmeal, I return, reluctantly, to the present. The memory draws a thread between my present mind and past moments, filling my heart with the happiness of a glorious November snowfall while my stomach turns and I long for my grandmother’s adventure-filled love. I return to my oatmeal as the thought crosses my mind that no new memories will be created together.

Memories lost, memories preserved.

Last week, I visited my still living grandmother on her 90^th birthday. Armed with my camera and a fool-proof plan to ask hundreds of questions, I set out to capture her stories. Over carrot soup in the confines of a nursing home, I heard tales of my grandfather’s embarrassingly junky car, the twenty-seven cats that lived on her childhood farm, and tales of working as a young nurse. Through stories, I attempted to create memories of my grandfather to fill the void where I only hold a few---he died when I was five. As my grandmother hesitated between thoughts, I slipped in more questions---How did he propose? What was your wedding like? What did you think when my mother first brought my father home?  Most of my questions remained unanswered.

Through snippets of past moments, I cherished her stories. Yet, her touchingly vivid memories did not become mine. I yearn to experience, to feel the memories, and to create more connections to my past. I yearn for a deeper understanding of the people I have lost---in a sense create new, closer-to-present memories with them. What was my father like as a teenager? Do you remember meeting my other grandmother? Again, unanswered questions.

I like to think that some of these memories are preserved for her safekeeping; they are not for sharing. Perhaps, they have lost their color over the decades of life. A few of my questions caused a smile or giggle---a clear sign of a memory returning to the surface. When my grandmother is gone, will these memories be lost? My own romanticized imaginings of my grandmother’s childhood farm or my grandfather’s triumphant return from war will have to suffice. Will my version of idyllic farm life become the stories I tell my (future) children?

Memories of loss.

Memories of loss span time and place, as I grow, move, and experience new forms of loss---of place, childhood, friendship, family, and at times the loss of a sense of community and home.

The dull pain of the present intertwines with the gut-wrenching pain of the past. At times, memories bring to the surface the moment my father died, the days, weeks, and months afterwards, tough break ups, saying goodbye to wonderful places and friends with tear-stained cheeks---each moment at times still vivid. Though, some of the memories now appear hazy, they shift along with my life, their color and aching fades. The narrative is no longer one of brokenness or unglued pieces; it is now an assortment of memories, flowing in and out in sleepy afternoons and early mornings.

I suppose we have a choice to remember or not; to cherish moments flooded by memories or push them down, burying them. In this false binary, I choose memories. I choose the potential emotional shifts, the latent sadness, the surprise happiness---the joyful childhood moments, the utter sadness of sudden loss, and the longing for communities that no longer exist.

These are the pieces that woven together create the mosaic.

Lessons from Miami...

Dear Clara,

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

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

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

All my love,

Mom

Roast Beef Sandwiches, Torpedo IPA, and Bioluminescence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Republished with permission from What's It About?