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

Welcome, Mattia!

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” ― Eric Roth, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - screenplay

Dear Mattia,

You came into this world in a warm afternoon at the end of September.

I first saw you when you were a few days old and I couldn’t help but thinking how perfect you were–resting and smiling peacefully in your mom’s arms, ten tiny toes, ten tiny fingers. You won’t remember the day you were born, and you won’t remember the few years that will follow, but trust me, you changed a lot of lives with your arrival.

You may look like a lot of other babies to the rest of the world, but to your parents you are an angel who came here to bring great hope and happiness, to be loved and to give love in return. You made me an aunt, and my husband an uncle. From this day forth, you will be our wish for better days.

You have a chance to make the world a better place, but please don’t feel under pressure. You don’t have to save the world---just follow your path knowing that we are all close to you and ready to hold your hands through the most difficult times. For now, just keep in mind you are a lucky baby---you have been born into a wonderful family.

My dearest Mattia, this world is not an easy one. You will learn a lot, and it won’t ever get simpler. But keep in mind that this world is an amazing place, a place you will discover day by day, through other people’s eyes, through your travels. Try not to focus on shadows and darkness, and find joy in the hardest times because, believe it or not, small or big issues happen, but there’s a chance you will be laughing about them later. I can’t promise you won’t ever experience adversity, but the most important part is to be comfortable in your own skin, and never apologize for who you are.

Growing up can be painful at times, and we all tend to close little doors around our hearts to protect ourselves from sorrow and disappointment. Find the strength inside yourself, do not expect people around you to be perfect, because they are just human beings like you. Some people will be good to share a deep friendship with, some others will be good for laughter and a beer, others will disappoint you, and some will make you sad. Not everyone knows how to give love in return, for some hearts are simply frozen or unsophisticated or plain, but you will learn to take from people only what they can give you. Do not expect too much from everyone. Only, remember that you are a boy, a boy who will soon become a man, and when your heart is broken don’t feel ashamed if you want to cry. Just try to always love what you see in the mirror, and allow that person to smile back at you at least once a day.

Feel confident you will know when to open your heart to others. There are thousands of people you will meet, and all of them can teach you something---good or bad. But you will learn small lessons from everyone, so keep your eyes and mind open to them. Always carry an imaginary pen with you, and before the end of the day list who taught you something precious, or something you simply don’t want to forget. In a while, you will find an entire book of stories in your hands, and realize that the most incredible lessons come from unexpected people, whom you’ll meet in the most unexpected places.

You don’t know this yet, so let me tell you, just in case you need me in the future---your Auntie lives pretty much in an imaginary world, made of dreams, stories written by others, and small gems, each one symbolizing a good friend, or a faraway place, or flashes of images belonging to other times and places. Whenever you feel curious to jump into the rabbit hole with me, please raise your hand and I’ll hold it through the small path. I guarantee we will make it back.

Thank you for being with us, and thank you for making me an aunt.

With love,

Your Auntie,

Alice

Doing it Yourself

This past weekend I infused honey in my tiny Brooklyn apartment. Before you get the wrong idea: infusing honey is no great feat of urban homesteading. The process itself is not much more difficult than than steeping a bag of tea. Avoiding a sticky mess is the real challenge but barring any honey disasters, it’s a simple task: add spices to honey, heat honey, strain honey, pour honey into sterilized jars and seal them up. Before the holidays I’ll wrap my amber jars of cinnamon and cardamom-infused honey in a piece of burlap and tie them up with ribbon. They’ll serve as tiny gifts to family members who we’ve traveled far to see: a little treat from my kitchen to theirs.

I like this kind of gift-giving. It’s simple and the act of making the gifts serves as a quiet moment in what can be a hectic season. To be totally honest, it’s more about the joy that it brings me than anything else. Instead of the anxiety of spending hours looking for an affordable gift in crowded stores, making the honey was peaceful, even soothing. For the hour or two that I spent gathering my supplies and preparing my gifts, I had nothing to do but remember to stir the honey and make sure that I didn’t spill anything. There was no whiny Christmas music, no pushy shoppers, just me and my glass jars in a comically small kitchen.

As I strained honey into cup-sized jars I thought about the different ways that our hosts might use their gift. One will stir hers into into cups of tea, another will drizzle it over buttered toast, still one more will pass it along to an unsuspecting neighbor, never to be seen again. There’s no perfect solution when it comes to giving holiday gifts, but in my view, making a little something in your own kitchen comes pretty close. Even if the finished product languishes in someone's cupboard, you've gained yourself a few quiet moments of holiday cheer. For me, that's reason enough to roll up my sleeves and get to work.

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

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.

XV. Provence

There is a French television show called Plus Belle la Vie that Agnès and I watch some evenings together, sitting on her neatly arranged couch with our feet on the floor. The show is set in Marseille, the large port town just a 30-minute bus ride away from Aix, and features lots of tanned characters with dramatic relationships and secret dealing in the underground crime scene. The usual stuff of soap operas, I expect, but it's a pretty nice half hour that I spend with Agnès. I’d take any kind of connection with her at this point. Our time together, however, does not always go uninterrupted.

Agnès’s son is named Jérôme. He is 13 years old and spends most of his time when he’s not at school in his room, playing online games or doing homework. I’ve been living in this small apartment for weeks, and I’ve still barely spent any time in the same room with him. Jérôme opts not to eat at the kitchen table for dinner most of the time, which I had never heard of in a French household until now. When he decides that he is hungry or just wants an answer to a homework problem he can’t solve, he shrieks Maman! Viens! in his shrill, pubescent voice. Mom! Come here!

And just like that, Agnès wordlessly gets up and goes. I stare after her every time, wondering why.

There's No Perfection in Parenting

Parents are so weird about the funniest things. When we were at Legoland over the weekend I was watching this toddler girl and her mother wait for the rest of the family to get off of a ride. The little girl wanted to touch the leaves that had fallen into the dirt of a nearby bush. The mom kept swatting her hand away and telling her that they were dirty! “Here” she said, “Play with this nice green one instead.” And she pulled a new leaf off the bush for the girl to touch instead. How funny! I thought to myself, I would have done the opposite and chastised Charley for pulling leaves unnecessarily off tress. I’m learning every parent has a weird quirk that they impart onto their child. Some are obvious---restricted diets, no character toys. Others are less noticeable---don’t play with the dirty leaves. There are so many awkward scenarios in parenting that no one prepares you for. This is the first Christmas that Charley has really been super interested in toys and asking for specific things. Last year he was happy with whatever we picked out, but this year he’s extremely vocal and knows what he likes. The other week, Charley found one of his Christmas toys early. It was a specific discontinued toy I had found on Ebay and painstakingly bid on and hid from him. He spotted it in the loft and started yelling for the toy, “My Lofty! My Lofty!” Matt and I just stared at each other dumbstruck. He was so happy and confused at the same time. Why were we mad? Why didn’t we give him the toy? Christmas and waiting for presents is a tricky thing to explain to a two-year-old.

He only saw the one toy, so we let him have it, but then Matt and I got into a huge fight about it. I didn’t want him to have it, well . . . I did, just not like that. But did it really matter? To him it was just a toy, he didn’t know that he was supposed to get all of them at the same time on Christmas day. He still doesn’t know about Santa and the whole concept of the holiday. And I realized, that’s the story of my whole adult life. I’m happy where I am, but I didn’t expect to get here like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t expect to get pregnant at 22, or not have my dream wedding. I thought for sure I would have a baby girl (I didn’t). I just imagined myself being richer, wiser, maybe more organized as a parent. Instead, I’m still just me, but somehow managing to fulfill the dreams and expectations of this little person as well.

Parenting is all about lowered expectations. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, I mean it in a realistic way. Becoming a parent has forced me to loosen the grip on my perfectionistic ways. It also made me realize how hard my parents worked to make our holidays perfect. I don’t ever remember finding our toys early, or being disappointed in the presents we received. They really made the holiday special. Now I know how much work went into that. Hats off parents, you did a good job.

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.

For the rest of us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Images: Marco Ghitti via Flickr)

Lessons from Miami...

Dear Clara,

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

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

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

All my love,

Mom

Blessed Table

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

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

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

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

Gaia & Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, Gaia.

Thank you all for reading this.

On Thanksgiving Tradition

This past weekend got me thinking about traditions. They are a funny thing. As an adult, you cling to the smallest memories from your childhood. Recently my husband made me ‘egg toast’ and was so excited about it. He talked about how his mom had always made it for him for breakfast on cold winter mornings. He prepped the plate carefully by hand. But when it arrived, it didn’t look like a memory to me, it looked like a mess. The egg was cut up over the bread, the yolk oozing over the whole plate. And although I ate it, it didn’t look very appetizing. It’s kind of the same thing with Thanksgiving. Everyone has their weird family thing they have to do every year. Ours might be watching ‘Home for the Holidays’ and reveling in the dysfunction of Holly Hunter and her parents and brother. Or getting into heated family arguments and resolving it all with whiskey and a cozy fire. I once knew a girl whose family made stuffing from White Castle burgers mashed up. If you have ever had a White Castle burger you know how disgusting this is, and she fully admitted as much, and yet, there it was, year after year.

This Thanksgiving there were only four people at the table, the smallest Thanksgiving I’ve ever attended. It was my husband and I, and my parents; Charley was napping. We didn’t watch our movie, and even though we ate turkey, there wasn’t much tradition to it. And there was a moment when we were all quietly eating when I finally understand why people have more than one child. It was this, this loneliness. The food was delicious, and it was relaxing in a quiet, weird way, but mostly I just missed the chaos. I felt grateful that I was pregnant again, and Charley would have at least one sibling. My one brother was absent but came later. I just kept thinking of this being the example of what the New York Times referred to as ‘a back-end investment’ when having children. You put in so much work up front, but you hope it all pays off when you are in your fifties and sixties and have a busy, full table for the holidays.

My husband felt the same way, and later after we went back to our own house, we agreed we could even think about a third child. The idea of a Thanksgiving with only two people when we were aging seemed strange and sad. My tradition was steeped in chaos, in years of extended family members and cousins and babies. I knew I would want that again, that a part of me craved the chaos of family all around, and I was slowly realizing that you had to make your own family in the end.

XIV. Picardie

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

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

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

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

Lessons from Thanskgiving...

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

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

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

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

Mom

Tradition

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

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

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

A Very Paleo Holiday

By Megan Flynn

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pie was terrible.

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

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

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

Quiet Can Be Loud

I'm thrilled to introduce you to this week's contributor, Trina McNeilly. Trina needs no introduction to many of you, as she's the blogger behind the popular (and gorgeous)  La La Lovely. She's also a mom to FOUR!, a freelance writer and a self -proclaimed style scout, who is currently making her childhood home into her grown-up home.  What struck me immediately upon "meeting" Trina over email was first, her obvious kindness, and second, that she said the fear of turning into her mother isn't much of a fear at all for her. I know exactly what she means. And with that, I give you the lovely Trina.

By Trina McNeilly 

My mom kills me with kindness and loves the way we all want to be loved: unconditionally.  She was the mom that every other kid wanted to have and I was lucky enough that she was all mine.

We were the treat house.  Growing up, ours was the house that everyone wanted to play at; for the fun, undoubtedly, but also for the snacks (it was not unusual to catch a neighbor kid knocking on our front kitchen window asking my mom for sweets).  We had a home that people just wanted to be at.  I attribute this to my dad providing a wonderful place and my mom making it a home.  Besides giving us a home, the greatest thing they gave me and my siblings was the gift of being kids.  We spent our days living out whatever it was we could imagine and playing our days away.  There was not a worry or care and if one tried to find its way in, there was no doubt that they would scare it away and make any wrongs right.

I've always held both my parents in high regard - put them on a pedestal, in fact, and looked up to them the way I thought all kids did. It’s hard not to look at my mom with a sense of adoration.  I don't know anyone as kind, loving, giving and beautiful as she is. To me she was – and still is - the perfect embodiment of beautiful elegance living in the casual comfort of the everyday.  I've always known my mom was beautiful, more beautiful than I would ever be.  To this day, when someone says I look like my mom, it’s a compliment I hold onto.  But, when someone tells me that I am like my mom, it’s the best compliment of all, because beyond her beauty is a beautiful soul.  Hers is a soul that houses a quiet inner strength, the kind that often goes unnoticed.  And worse than going unnoticed, is often mistaken for weakness.  But there is no weakness there.  My mom’s is the kind of strength that needs not be spoken, needs not be displayed, needs not show its heavy lifting to every person it encounters.  It is the kind of strength that is content to continue on, day after day, on good days and bad days alike.  It is the kind of strength that is enviable; that is, if people knew about it.

There are days I can't quite find my step.  And some days worse yet, when I can't find my footing at all.  But, before I collapse and cave to my wobbly limbs, the strength I need comes in the whisper, in the thought of a woman who has already taken the steps that I am, on that day, afraid to take.  And hope flickers in my heart.  And in that small flicker of hope, I find my strength.  My quiet inner strength is taking form.  Forming courage.  Forming tomorrows.  Forming a foundation of strength for my own daughter.  And so the story continues.

This is the story of a beautiful soul whose strength might not always be seen, but whose inner beauty always shines through.  All those years, I watched my mom putting on her makeup, always applying lipstick before she walked out the door. In teaching me those very same practices, she was actually teaching me something far greater: how to love without conditions, how to serve a family and put others first, how to love until there is nothing else, how to hope against hope itself.  A mother’s unconditional love is never wasted, it is only reproduced.

So with my lipstick in hand, I say thank you mom, for all that you might not have even known you were teaching me.  Because of you, my soul is growing strong in the quietest of ways.