From San Francisco...

Dearest Clara,

It’s funny how quickly a week can go by---especially if you find yourself moving from one coast to another.  Last week was New York, but this week is San Francisco.  Luckily, my next flight will bring me home to you, and the one after that will take us on vacation together.  But before we get too excited about sunny summer days, let me share a little of what I’ve learned over my San Francisco visit:

• Always wear layers . . . Since we’ve returned to the US, I believe we’ve been to California three times, and we’ve ended up having to buy more clothes on two of those times.  This time I finally nailed my packing list!  The weather is not quite as toasty as the one hundred plus degrees I left on the East Coast, and it changes . . . a lot.  First it’s foggy, then its sunny, then its raining . . . then who knows.  And there can always be a chill in the air, especially a night.  Be prepared for all of these situations by wearing layers so that you can put on and takeoff as you need to always stay warm!
• Don’t underestimate the value of local products . . . I think you can give San Francisco a lot of credit for making Americans proud of American food products---and especially of American wine products: wines, cheeses, produce, fresh breads. This city and the areas around it have gotten so creative (see below) about pushing the envelope of what they put on the table and  they're proud of the fact that they can get it there themselves.  We take it for granted here on the East Coast, but I think this really started right here in San Francisco. It's easy to get caught up in imports, but sometimes, you can find it just as good at home.
• Choosing healthy is not weird . . . I love this about San Francisco, and about California generally.  I’m not a vegetarian but if I were, it wouldn’t be a problem here.  If you want a healthy option, you can always find it on the menu and no one seems to think less of you for choosing it.  It makes choosing healthy an easy shift and not a production.  Choose what you know is good for you proudly.
• Everyone could use a little more time outdoors . . . When people move from San Francisco to the East Coast, I know they are always going to miss the outdoors.  Even for people who don’t consider themselves “outdoorsy,” they often appear to be so to us.  Hiking in the hills, camping on the beach, windsurfing on the ocean . . . they may spend a lot of time in the city but people from San Francisco certainly know how to appreciate and protect the areas that surround it.
• Be creative . . . When I go to New York, I’m always impressed by the pace of life, but when I come to San Francisco, I’m amazed by the creativity.  For example, one cab driver was developing his own app to monitor parking rates, another friend developing a new form of digital photography.  If your heart is in invention, this is the place for you---and we could all use a little inventive spirit in our daily lives.  In San Francisco, just because things used to be a certain way, doesn’t mean they have to stay a certain way. Remember that in anything that you pursue.

Lots of love,

Mom

The Sweet Sounds of Summer

Are you like me?  Are you profoundly distractible in the summer?  Are you flooded with memories of some silky body of water from childhood?  Do you perpetually conjure fantasies of what your life would be like with a beach house?  While I am aware that it would make me a far more interesting person to say that my favorite season were fall (“LO, the changing leaves, the chill in the air, the opportunity for reflection . . .”), it is unequivocally summer.  The sense of liberation, the peeling of clothes, the ubiquity of gazpacho . . . my mood lifts for a solid three months. Yet, here we are, mere mortals---without that second home with the chic friggin’ towels, jute rugs, and $67 candles on the vanity.  You and I are still caged in the daily grind (however joyful and soul satisfying) of work and the business of life.  At times like this, I like to use music to transport, because as it turns out, there is nothing fired up on the helipad to take me to the Hamptons or Anguilla.

I compiled a list of some all-time favorite albums that give me that carefree summer vibe.  In doing so, I have noticed a few things: 1) I am kind of old; 2) As such, I seem to have gotten a little bit stuck in the ‘90s; 3) Maybe the ‘90s were sexier?; 4) I digress; 5) I can’t remember the other thing I was going to say here.  And one final author’s note (for the sake of what we will not characterize as my obsessive compulsive disorder, but merely something on the wide-ranging and often totally, totally normal anxiety spectrum), this list is certainly not comprehensive.  These albums---yes, I call them albums, I mentioned I was kind of old---are classics in my mind and I reach for them consistently in this season, but they are in no particular order and there are so, so, so many more I could discuss.  That is all.  ENJOY IN GOOD HEALTH.  Oh, and I would love to hear about your clutch songs or albums for summer in the comments---always looking for new classics.

Moondance – Van Morrison (1970) Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?  This is such an obvious choice, but I have (even recently!) met people who have never heard this album in its entirety and I have even met people who don’t own this album or any of the songs from it.  If something doesn’t move inside you when the opening of “Into the Mystic” begins, well . . . then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.

Songs in the Key of Life – Stevie Wonder (1976) Double album.  Stevie is so fully, totally, serious here, such a monster talent.  He played many of the instruments on many of the songs.  This is a major opus in his long and illustrious catalogue and is referred to by several critics over the years as the best album ever made (like of ALL the albums ever made by anyone, ever).  This masterpiece comes with a 24-page booklet of lyrics and liner notes.  UNREAL.  Stevie writes the book on heavy duty lyrics paired with gorgeous melodies.  Prepare to have your mind blown by “As,” one of my favorite songs, period.

3 Feet High and Rising – De La Soul (1989) Pure, unadulterated, wacky fun.  I wish hip-hop existed like this today---sadly, it does not.  This concept album is smart and sassy and hot and will make your booty shimmy.

Static & Silence – The Sundays (1997) This is the third and final album by the dreamy band, The Sundays.  If I had a voice like lead singer Harriet Wheeler, I think I would use it only for good.  And she totally does.  At all times.  And the single, “Summertime?” How about this chorus stanza:

“And it’s you and me in the summertime.  We’ll be hand in hand down in the park.  With a squeeze and sigh and that twinkle in your eye.  And all the sunshine banishes the dark.”

Heaven or Las Vegas – Cocteau Twins (1990) Cocteau Twins are completely weird, and I recognize they might be an acquired taste for some.  But if you don’t know this band and want to go into a really cozy version of outer space, this is the album to choose.  I also love Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and although she is noted for singing jibberish, this is one of the only albums on which you can actually hear her clearly and make some sense of the lyrics.  This seems like a strange endorsement, but please go download this?

Summerteeth – Wilco (1999) Haunting, lush and beautiful album by the always amazing Wilco.  An all-time favorite for all seasons.

Old World Underground, Where Are You Now? – Metric (2003) Metric is an awesome Candian indie rock band that it would really behoove you to know better.  Total Girl Power music, but also heady and sharp.  “Hustle Rose” makes me all intense and gets me grooving every time.

Rumours – Fleetwood Mac (1976) Do I really have to write anything here?  I mean, COME ON.

The Hits/The B Sides – Prince (1993) 3 albums of HOT SEX.

Celebrity Skin – Hole (1998) I will grant you that Courtney Love is a complete and total mess.  But she has made (arguably in collaboration with many other talented people) some rock-solid music in her day.  Particularly because I suspect that day has passed, never to return, what with all the crazy . . . this deserves a good, hard listen.  This whole album is sort of dedicated to LA and is very much evocative of California pop (a common theme in my musical tastes).  This also makes it a gorgeous summer stand by.  The hits on this are obviously great, but try “Boys on the Radio” on for size.  You won’t regret it.

Generosity in Marriage

Have you seen this wonderful article in the NY Times Magazine about how little acts of generosity are found to be prevalent in very happy marriages?

This article has been a good little reminder for me.

You see, my husband is a very, very self-sufficient man.  He takes care of things.  He makes the best meals I've ever had in my life.  He helps me with a multitude of tasks, it seems.  He will drop anything to do a little act of service for me.  He will do laundry by hand in a sink in a hotel, if need be.  The man doesn't need a lot of support to get by.  And, he's a happy man.  He whistles and sings while he works.

But, his wifey here is dedicating a lot of time to a project she calls A Blog About Love.  I'm working on this project full-time, from home.  And it has been such a whole-hearted effort that the day goes by quickly.  Time evaporates.  I let a lot of the tasks of the day go undone.  And before I know it, we're asking each other what we should do for dinner.

This article has reminded me how important it is to actively make time in my day for little acts of kindness for my sweet spouse.  I'm a master at loving, speaking kindly, being affectionate, being patient, offering gratitude, and giving moral support.  But a surprise dinner?  Folded clean laundry?  Breakfast before work?  These things don't happen often.  But I'm trying to change that.

Yesterday I made bacon and eggs for breakfast.  This is a small feat, I know.  But that night when we said our husband and wife prayers together, he said, "I'm thankful for all the kind things my wife did for me today."  He noticed!  Oh, what a sweetheart.  Tonight I'm making tin foil dinners, because I know he likes the way I make them.  And I picked up a nice, ripe mango at the market as he loooves mangos and appreciates that I know how to cut them, which is not his favorite thing to do.

So, dear readers, maybe you're experts in doing little generous acts of kindness for your spouse?  Maybe you have an idea or two up your sleeve?  Do share!  Together we can all inspire each other to make our marriages/relationships a little sweeter.

A Dream and the Time

Editor's note: This is the second piece in an ongoing series about Mairead's quest to become a nurse in a resource poor area with an NGO. You can read her first post here. 

My mantra for 2012: I have no idea what I'm doing.

Seriously, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. And it's funny that I have this opportunity to write about my utter up in the air state of being because people keep saying "You should write a book." Well, this isn't exactly a book, but here you go.

My husband (soon to be ex) and I moved to London in September 2011. We came because we were both enrolled in a course in tropical medicine for nursing that would give us the training to work in resource poor areas of the world, which was the ultimate goal for both of us---or so I thought. I'll back up a bit to approximately a year and a half before we arrived. At that point we had been married for about 2 years, together for 7 years, and both of us in our 30's. We were living in San Francisco and were in the beginning phases of thinking about buying a place---a two bedroom place where we could raise a child. Then I found this absolutely amazing program in London that taught you how to diagnose malaria under a microscope, deliver a baby in the field, manage war wounds, establish a refugee camp during a crisis, etc. How freaking awesome does all of that sound? In literally one nano second all thoughts and ambitions to have a child, buy a place, and settle down were erased from my mind.

I'd like to believe that I was going to have a smooth approach to asking my hubby if we could abandon the plans of baby and home ownership---you know, like let him walk in the door first. But that's not quite how it went. I don't know why, but I happened to meet him outside of our apartment building, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out about the course in tropical medicine and moving to London. And can you believe it, just like that he was on board with me!

Now I'll fast forward to the last 6 to 8 months. We split up. He went back to San Francisco 3 days after we finished our course. It turns out working abroad in impoverished areas for long amounts of time isn't his dream. It was mine and has been since I was 17. His was plan A: settling down and starting a family. Absolutely 100% a normal reasonable thing to want with your wife of 4 years when you're 36 years old. Unfortunately, I just couldn't do it. And to be fair that wasn't the foundation of our split. In my mind the relationship had been going in a downward spiral for at least a year and a half before we left because of core communication issues. We almost didn't get married because of these issues. But we loved each other and really wanted to make it work. We were in therapy on and off for five years and tried as best as we each knew how. We kicked that horse until it was dead and then we jumped on it in stillettos and kicked it some more.

But I digress. Back to how I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

I'm 33 and with a slow, steady, all of a sudden, I'm going through a separation in a new country without my close friends or family. I don't have a constant job, have no work satisfaction even when I do work, am essentially living on my savings which in London is suckypoo with an emphasis on the sucky and the poo, and for the first time in nearly 10 years, I have to live with roommates. I've gone from being the queen of my own domain to having a room in a house with an unemployed 23 year old who plays video games all day and another couple who are in their early to mid twenties. Who feels like hot shit?! Not me.

What I am hoping will happen is that by November I will have gotten a job abroad to work with an NGO in . . . to be honest I don't care where it is or what I'll be doing. As long as I'm working in a resource poor country with a little bit of famine, an obselete health care system, some malaria, raging HIV, or a civil war, I'd be a happy camper. You'd think organizations would be jumping at the chance to find people who are willing to work in these situations where they are risking their lives, sanity, and health! Apparently not. Apparently we're a dime a dozen.

I cannot get a job and it is definitely not for lack of trying. And to a certain extent, I have a hard time believing it's from lack of skills and qualifications. I've been a nurse for ten years. For three of those I was a travel nurse, which in the briefest of explanations means I can work in a variety of settings with minimal orientation. My specialty is oncology, which though is not like being in the ER or ICU, I deal with some sick, sick patients that need acute complex management. I've travelled extensively in developing countries and am no stranger to different cultures and being without creature comforts. I started a temporary clinic in a tsunami resettlement camp in Sri Lanka. I have a diploma in tropical medicine for nursing from a world renowned school. I have passion and determination like you wouldn't believe. What else do they want?

To answer my own question, they want you to have already run a health system in a developing country, have advanced language skills in French and/or Arabic, have extensive IT knowledge, and know how to drive a manual transmission. The positions I'm applying for are aimed at nurses right? It seems like they're looking for IT managers from French or Arabic countries that drive a manual. In all honesty, I can absolutely see the benefit of hiring someone with all those skills, but that is one tall order to fill.

But I will keep trying; I will not give up. As I see it, life is not worth living unless you have a goal, a dream, a passion. This is mine. How am I to go back to San Francisco and work with onocology patients who would give anything to have the time and capability to carry out their life's ambition? I could easily go back home in a moment's notice and be with my close support group, have a satisfying job, and make a good income, but I know, I just know, I would be so disappointed in myself for giving up. So I'm not done yet and I'm going to stick it out over here. I start a permanent job in the field of oncology next week that will take me through November. I hope by that point, the gods of fate will have started to like me again and something I apply for will pan out. If not, the next step is to go to the country I want to work in first and try to get hired locally. If I'm right on their doorstep, it may be harder to turn down my charms.

I'm lucky: I've got a dream and I have the time.

Eating Our Vegetables

On Saturday afternoons at our house, the scene can look like something out of a Flemish painting. James comes home from the Greenmarket and unloads his spoils onto the kitchen table. Last weekend there were the season’s first squash and their blossoms. There were radishes and lettuces of three different sorts, garlic scapes, and beets. He’d even made away with a loaf of bread and slice of farmer’s cheese, both bartered. April to October, James sells produce for a farmer-friend at the Greenmarket and we eat like kings. In the city--and let’s be honest, anywhere--this eating stuff can be difficult. Not the actual chewing part, or the enjoying delicious food part, but the decisions about what we eat and where it comes from and who grew it--those things can get complicated.

For our part, we try our darndest to source food directly from farmers themselves. With the exception of some much-craved avocados and grapefruit, this means we also try to eat food that grows as locally as possible. We’re the first to admit that this approach is sometimes difficult to keep up. There's a lot of thinking about food that has to happen and sometimes, that's exhausting. On a hot summer night, it’s easy to convince ourselves to skip the cooking altogether and head out for dinner instead. Sometimes, that is precisely what we do.  But as a young couple still grappling with the costs of paying off graduate school loans and living in the big city, we’re not exactly feeling flush these days.  We've had to get a little bit creative. For us, the solution to the food question has been James huffing it to the farmers’ market to sell produce. This marks his third season working for a farmer and this coming weekend, I’ll be joining him. The two of us, hawking veggies and herbs in exchange for enough food for the week and then some. I’m not proposing that this is a solution that would work for everyone, most people, or even very many people at all, but for us, it’s just right. We'll see you at the market.

The Story of a House

They knocked down the Miami house the other day. I was riding my bike, faster, faster, as small rain droplets were starting to fall. It was any other Wednesday, and when I glanced up, it was gone. Only the foundation remained, and a pile of rubble. The tacky turquoise shutters were gone, the pea gravel driveway was in disarray, but the rain made it so you couldn’t see my tears. I suppose I should explain. Six months ago, in a fit of rage against our current house, we called our realtor. We had been living in our house a little over a year at that point and we still weren’t happy. Renovations had slowed and become frustrating. Two rooms had no flooring, one bathroom was completely gutted, but my biggest complaint was that it was dark and gloomy. The main area is paneled in dark, raw wood---it’s original and unique and depressing. It’s also rare and expensive, so we aren’t rushing to rip it out or paint over it, like we had initially thought. It will be the middle of summer and we will leave the lights on in the living room to read. It’s just that dark. So, we called our realtor, who knows we are totally insane, and had a long discussion about putting the house on the market as is. We made an appointment to view our competition, three houses on the market in our price range in our neighborhood, to see how we would fare.

The house on Miami Avenue was the third house we saw that day. From the first moment we walked through the door, it felt like home. The radio was playing softly, and it smelled clean and comforting. It was a beautiful mid-century modern rancher with pitched white paneled ceilings. There was a tiny quaint kitchen with a back door in the corner. I said to my husband, “Something about that door feels so familiar to me” and he replied that he knew exactly what I meant. It hit me later, the house I grew up in had a door off the kitchen as well. It was home. The most amazing thing about the house was that half of it was glass. It was unbelievably bright and sunny. The house was an L-shape, and the inner L was all glass sliders out to the garden. Even the hallway was bright. We fell in love.

We must have spent two hours at least wandering the house and day-dreaming until our realtor snapped us out of it. “Well?” He wondered. And we debated, and thought about it all week; we even brought family members to see it. We came so close to putting in an offer with a contingency to sell our current place, but then sanity kicked in. Would our lives really change that much if we only moved three blocks? Did it even matter? It seemed like a lot of work. In the end, we walked away, and then biked past it every chance we got.

That house felt like it could have been another life for us. One in which I wanted more kids and was content to be a mom. Or it could have been the same struggle we have now, feeling like we don't love where we live, but wondering if it really matters at all. Does place define you? Does your house define you?

While we were debating buying it, we did a little research on the owner, and her family. We found the most incredible heart-wrenching story. About ten years ago, the family was having a graduation party for their son at the beach. It was windy and the waves were tall, the current sharp. Everyone was swimming and having a great time, until their young nephew started drowning. The father of the house ran in and saved him, but died in the process. I instantly flashed back to our time in the house. Above the upright piano there was a large framed photograph of a man, the same man in the newspaper article. It had been her husband. It was sad, but also comforting. We wondered what had happened to the nephew who lived.

I thought of this when I saw the wrecking ball. I wondered how many other stories the house held? Did she measure her children's heigh in the hallway? Did they put handprints in the concrete in the garage? I imagined all the family dinners held before the father passed away, and then the grieving that occurred. I’m sure dishes arrived constantly, and the rosary was fingered carefully everyday. All those stories were gone. It makes me wonder, what will become of our story?

Looking Forward: A Bundle Of Nerves.

It's 5 PM on a Saturday and I'm sitting at my desk. Outside, the sun is shining. Birds are singing. Happy hipsters are cycling in the street. It's summer. And yet here I am, in pajama pants, staring at a blank screen,  rummaging through a paper bag full of chocolate-covered marshmallows and neon gummy skulls (the candy store ominously labels them "Deadly Sours”). I've got work due in less than 48 hours and a to-do list a dozen items long. In short, I'm a bundle of nerves. Stress happens. To everyone. And it has its upsides (I'm convinced, for example, that I work more efficiently under pressure). But the effects of stress aren't always pretty (case in point: pajama pants and fingers stained with melted chocolate). For the most part, stress is uncomfortable. It's inevitable. It's... stressful. But as I've gotten older,  I've learned that it doesn't have to mean my day is ruined. Having a mile-long to-do list or an encroaching deadline doesn't have to be debilitating. A blank screen doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to run and hide. Instead, it can turn into a date with a bag of chocolate-covered marshmallows.

If I'm out of marshmallows, I have a few other stress-reducing prescriptions (I like to think of them as organic alternatives to Xanax) to help me live with the tight-chested, stomach-turning feeling that makes freelancing such a glamorous occupation. For example:

-Walking. Taking a walk through my neighborhood never fails to calm me down. It reminds me that there's a world that extends beyond my own limited thought bubble. Life goes on, despite my deadlines - that's a comforting thought.

-Talking. Calling a friend or stepping out for a cup of coffee works wonders. For all of the pep talks I try to give myself, it often takes someone else telling me I can do it to really make things better. (For the record, I'm trying to get better at believing my own encouraging words. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm working on it.)

-Just doing. A blank screen is intimidating. To-do lists are, too. Where to start? What to write? I'm sometimes guilty of spending hours asking these questions, only to realize that an entire day has passed me by and I've gotten nothing done. So often, I'll force myself to just start somewhere - anywhere. I'll write whatever comes to mind - who cares if it's bad? I can edit later. At least there's something there. With a to do list, I'll pick one thing - anything - and get it done without distraction. More often than not, accomplishing that one thing is so satisfying, I'm excited to tackle the rest.

These are just a few examples of what works for me. What are some things you do to deal with stress? What works and what doesn't?

YWRB: Genesis, Part 2

by Amy Turn Sharp Last month, Amanda and I went back to Athens, Ohio. A pilgrimage of sorts. We had not been back to the deep woods together for over a decade. We went to the Ohio University Literary Festival. We were going to meet Terrance Hayes (one of my favorite poets). As soon as we walked into the auditorium, we spotted our old professor. Mark Halliday. The poet. Another favorite of mine. He was the same. Interestingly eccentric,. Nervous, yet commanding. Weird socks. Fidgety.

*     *     *

I remember storming into his office one day with Amanda. I dragged her like a rag doll toward his big wooden desk.

I beat on his desk and told him about the Young Woman's Rebellion Bible. I was nearly reenacting scenes from Dead Poets Society with my passion. I almost jumped on his desk.  I told him how I freaked out when I heard Amanda tell me her ideas about this project we could work on together. I told him everything. I moved about the office like a dancer. I was so young. Amanda giggled and nodded her head. There was music from an old radio in the corner. I think it was Joan Armatrading. Or perhaps I made that up years later. It was a calm office made insane by us. We were often bringing high intensity to calm situations. It was our best practice. He smiled and encouraged us, but it looked like he was also afraid. And looking back, perhaps he was afraid it would not happen. It would loose steam and fall flat. It would make other work suffer. Or he was just amazed by us. I think I was amazed by us.

*     *     *

We listened to the magic Terrance Hayes read to us. It was amazing and his words purred at us and we all sat on the edge of our seats, poets scribbled in tiny notebooks. We all wished for language mastery. It was perfect. And when we left, I was kinda sad that I did not run up to Halliday and hug him tightly, tell him we are doing it again. That it just took us a long time. To become us. I had daydreams of us ditching our car and heading to our old tavern. But I knew things had changed. I knew there were new rebellions all over the place. I raised my hand and waved at him like a cool kid, and blew him a kiss. All the way home I thought about the fire in my belly that made me dance when I talked about writing. I knew it was back. I could feel my feet moving in the floorboards of Amanda's SUV.

We're curious: Has there been a time when you've amazed yourself?

The Surprising Joy of Inadequacy

When I began my first semester of college, I really didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I wanted to study, and I remember when it came time to register for classes I felt pretty lost. I knew I would be taking Latin; Bryn Mawr had a pretty weighty language requirement and I had taken four years of Latin in high school. I had to take a required freshman writing seminar that all new students took, but that left two class slots wide open. My high school education had been very traditional and middle of the road. I went to college not even knowing what anthropology was, for example. I took some great classes in high school, including AP offerings in both Latin and Economics, but overall, I would say that the program offered at my high school, while solid, was not dynamic.

I had gone to a state-run educational camp for two summers while in high school (three weeks at a local college, all expenses paid for everyone, a pretty amazing thing looking back) and one year I had done creative writing. So, that first semester, I enrolled in Introduction to Writing Poetry. I didn’t think I’d make it into the course as Creative Writing offerings were notorious for being popular and oversubscribed, with priority going to juniors and seniors. When I received my schedule, though, there it was.

I figured this would be pretty straightforward. I had written some poetry at camp, and it had been well enough received.  While in high school, I hadn’t really read any poetry at all, saving old standards like William Cullen Bryant’s “Thanatopsis,” which I remember enduring in AP English. Nonetheless, I figured I would be set.

I realized immediately that I was thoroughly mistaken. The other fourteen young women in the class were not there because they couldn’t think of anything else to register for. They were there because they loved poetry. They had written oodles of poems and read even more. Before class even started, they were swapping favorite poets, most of whom I didn’t know at all. It was frightening and intimidating. I am not entirely sure why I stayed in the course, but I think my main reason for staying was that it had been such a surprise to be enrolled, I didn’t want to give up this stroke of “luck.”

I struggled. I did all of the assignments and I did them carefully. I began to pick up the lingo and learn how to function in a workshop environment, and I do think I offered my classmates the occasional trenchant critique. That said, I did not write good poems. I couldn’t think of things to write about, let alone “wordsmith” as we were encouraged to do. The poem of mine that was best received in workshop was built thematically around a life experience that I had never even had, making me feel as though I was thumbing my nose at the confessional poets I had come to love like Sexton and Lowell.  I felt like a minor leaguer, a lost child, a flop. I ended up with a slightly above average grade, but there was no sense that I had done any work that semester to really remember.

In that class, though, I met some absolutely amazing women whose talent was evident and crackled around them like radio static. They ranged in age (Bryn Mawr has a program for students of “non-traditional” age), race, socioeconomic class, geographic background, and sexual orientation. In some ways, that class was a little microcosm of the community as a whole. The professor was kindly and warm, but not at all mincing. She didn’t patronize, but she wasn’t cruel.

I should have left that class demoralized. I didn’t distinguish myself at all, and it was one of many experiences at Bryn Mawr that left me feeling as though I didn’t measure up. So, what did I do? I enrolled in the follow-up course Advanced Poetry Writing the next semester. I was never going to be much of a poet, but I was not going to let the opportunity of spending more time in that challenging, electric environment pass me by. True, I didn’t break any new poetic ground in the next course.  I didn’t earn a fantastic grade. I sometimes felt silly and I sometimes felt stupid. Even in those moments, though, I felt supported and I felt inspired.

That sort of environment is rare and, I believe, a force of nature. It can’t really be created. A good teacher can facilitate the possibility of such camaraderie, but it takes many things coming together in a specific way for what I felt to happen (and, to be fair, I can’t say if everyone in the room felt the same way, although I suspect many did). The power of people (and in this case, women) creating art together (even if some of it is amateurish) should never be underestimated.

From Six 'til Seven

By Carey Swanson I've woken up twice to my alarm clock in the past almost-a-year . . . two times when my sleep was pierced by an abstract beeping sound that made me flash back to another time in my life. Considering the fact that I get up for my job as an assistant principal at 5:45 am on a good day, this is pretty amazing.  Other than those two days, the other 360 or so mornings, I've woken up to the squeaks and cries of my baby's internal alarm clock, calling out for food at the earliest early hour, the latest late hour, the time when most people are in the midst of sleeping.  Yes, she wakes up darn early!

This time period is a little bit of a blur most mornings---half-awake feedings and seeing if Zoe will let me fall back asleep before the beeping that tells me it is time to get out of bed rather than time to wake up. And from a little before six until close to seven, I have my first daily hour of parenting. In between pumping, eating the breakfast that my stay-at-home husband amazingly makes each morning, packing up my laptop, making sure I have the bottles and pump pieces I need for the day (I've messed this up 3 times in the 9 months I've been doing it, which I think is pretty ok), and getting dressed, I play with my child. I bring her into the bathroom while I'm doing my hair or washing my face and tell her what I'm doing: "I'm putting some concealer under my eyes; that makes me look less tired. Now I'm putting on deodorant, you probably won't need this till you're 12, but I'll be on the lookout to let you know if it is earlier than that because I don't want them to have to tell you at school, that is totally embarrassing even though I pretend real hard that it isn't."

Zoe is all laughs and smiles in the morning; she sits in her little chair at the table while I eat and pump, and offers us toys. She wanders around the living room, in her new little drunken old man waddle, while I check the weather, check my work phone, and call for substitutes if needed. And when it comes time for me to put on my jacket, she suddenly clings to me. And when I place her in her dad's arms and grab my bags to go . . . she cries. Sometimes she just sniffles; sometimes she wails. I can't bring myself to sneak out while she's distracted, so usually I make it worse: going back for kisses, finally making it out the door only to realize I've forgotten my phone, and disrupting her all over again.

* * *

Barring any parent events or late night meetings, I am almost always home from work on the dot of six o'clock. Whether I'm rushing out to the train at 5:30 or hanging on for a ride, six o'clock is pretty much guaranteed to be the switch from being responsible for the needs of 20 teachers and 300 children to being responsible for the needs of one lovely little baby.

I love making the switch. I walk in the door to the best greeting in the world—my husband usually yelling, "Mommy's home" while Z freezes from wherever she is and laughs, and these days, waves. (She's grown into this---it used to be immediate tears and demands for nursing; this is much improved.) And then, for the next hour, I'm a parent again. I put away the day's bottles and my things, hug Zoe for as long as she'll let me (usually just one hug), and feed her dinner while my husband makes ours. Or I play with her in the living room and hear about the boring stuff that only I want to know: What time were her naps today? How much did she eat and when? Where did you guys go today? I like to hear the mundane details, to picture the trips to the playground or the farmers market or the park and to know if the afternoon nap went early or late as I calculate how many extra minutes of play time that buys me.

Sometime close to 7 she gets sleepy, even though she has started to fight it and attempts to hide it from us. I’ve done my homework and read my sleep books. While I don’t have a real stance, I've made a camp somewhere in between the eight different approaches to sleep. I know that keeping her up any later is selfish—my baby does better when she goes to sleep early. Plus, we have the always-the-same-time, dark and early baby alarm to think of the next morning. And so right around seven, we start getting ready for bedtime. We change into pajamas, read a story, and cuddle if she'll let me. By between 7:30 and 8, she is asleep and I'm on the couch leaning over my laptop, or on a good day, watching bad tv.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not a parent in the 22 hours other than those between six and seven (and on the whole weekend and every vacation!). And I know that the mommy guilt I feel about squeezing a day into such short blocks of time is just for me---not a reflection of my daughter’s needs. I’m a working mother, which is something I believe in, and in doing this I am the bread winner for my family, which makes me proud. I know kids are in day care and with nannies and with stay at home parents, and I truly believe all of these are completely valid options. Zoe is with her dad all day and incredibly well cared for, which means I have no reservations about how she spends her time. In a world full of gender norms and high expectations for what it means to be a mother, however, what I can't seem to escape are my reservations about how I spend mine.

But, for now at least, from six 'til seven is my baby's time.

(image by alexkerhead on flickr.)

What Are You Reading (Offline, That Is)?

Today we're lucky enough to present the Anne Sage edition of our "What Are You Reading?" column. Anne writes the wildly popular blog, The City Sage, launched Rue Magazine (which she just recently left to pursue her other interests), and is an all-around Nice Person. Here, she tells us what she's reading, and pulls in two of her friends to join in the conversation. * * *

Anne Sage, The City Sage Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail  by Cheryl Strayed Author Cheryl Strayed recounts her mother's death from cancer, her own subsequent tumble into despair, drug abuse, and divorce, and her soul-restoring three-month solo hike through some of the country's most foreboding terrain. The fluid, forthright prose flies by, but the emotional strain of the narrative forced me to read this book in bite-sized pieces. Strayed's fear, her pain, her joy, it's all so very palpable, and like a verbal sorceress she summoned forth the same feelings within me. Wild is at once an individual story and a universal one. The latter is meant to plumb the depths and scale the heights of the human experience, the former is encapsulated when Strayed writes, "Of all the things that convinced me that I should not be afraid while on this journey . . . the death of my mother was the thing that made me believe the most deeply in my safety: nothing bad could happen to me. The worst thing already had."

East of Eden  by John Steinbeck This is the second time I'm reading this book. The first was in high school, when I simply enjoyed it as a near-mythic tale of love and tragedy. Now, as an adult living through difficult economic and personal times, and having driven thousands of miles around my home state of California where this book takes place and where my family is from, my appreciation for it is exponentially greater. It's one to digest slowly, to mull over, to serve as a reminder that though place and time may change, our basic needs do not. Earth, air, water: when our river dries up, so do we. East of Eden also dovetails beautifully with Wild in its exploration of personal relationships and the pressures that we place upon ourselves. Steinbeck was onto something when he wrote, “Now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.”

Lacy Young, Health Coach and Creator of The Campaign for Confidence The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón The ultimate story-within-a-story, The Shadow of the Wind follows a young boy through his teen years as he investigates the mysterious back-story of a novel he finds in a lost cemetery of books. Set against the backdrop of mid-20th century Barcelona, this book is hauntingly beautiful. The writing is unparalleled, the setting idyllic, and the story is so intriguing you can't help but fall in love as you watch it all unfold. This is one of those books to which I wish I could forget the ending so I could experience the joy of reading it again!

Excuses Begone! by Dr. Wayne Dyer Reading this book is like coming home, only to the home I wish I was raised in. Excuses Be Gone is an easy-to-swallow dose of reminders on how to live in harmony with life. Dr. Dyer has a way of explaining mind-shifting concepts that leave me happily accepting them as truth. Of course the universe is abundant, of course life is way more fun if I let go of all my ridiculous rules for myself!

Kate Childs, Book Publicist, Random House Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn Everyone kept recommending this novel to me—coworkers, authors, even the Random House building where a poster of the book jacket is plastered on the lobby window—so I finally started reading it, and now I know what all the fuss is about. If you’re looking for a book that will make you take detours on the subway and contemplate canceling social engagements to keep reading, pick up Gone Girl. It’s a sharp psychological thriller about a missing wife, a potentially guilty husband, and the secrets they keep.

The Twelve by Justin Cronin One of the benefits of being a book publicist is getting early access to upcoming books, and The Twelve manuscript is by far the biggest prize of all in-house right now. On paper, I’m not the type of reader who would be drawn to The Passage, the first book in this trilogy, but I absolutely couldn’t stop reading this epic novel. The characters, the post-apocalyptic world, the Virals—every part of it was captivating.The Twelve cleverly picks up where The Passage left off, and it won’t disappoint fans when it’s released in October.

We love to hear what our friends are reading when they step away from the computer. Drop us a line and let us know what’s blowing your mind.

Time Traveling

Nothing swirls history into the present for me quite like wandering through aging structures---those kinds of architectural treasures where you know people walked, and slept, ate, and died hundreds of years ago. One afternoon, visiting Seville's Alcazares palace and gardens, I found myself stuck gazing into a corner as the evening sunlight painted the walls alternating shades of peach and gray with passing clouds. As I watched, I realized the sun had shone here on these walls, just like this, every afternoon in April since they were built. I was only one of hundreds of people to have met that corner at that hour and seen the sun glow there. So I traveled in time for a while. Photographing as the palace, indifferent to the date or year, came alive for me, as it always had for anyone who cared to watch. [gallery link="file" orderby="title"]

From New York, New York

Dearest Clara,

This week has been so much hustle and bustle . . . but I guess hustle and bustle is what you get when you’re in New York.  That city just never stops---and that’s a good thing.  Every time I head up, I always end up being exposed to something new.  You just can’t avoid it in New York.  That sense of always experiencing something new there makes it hard to pick out single lessons, since I feel like they’re different from every trip there.  But maybe, that’s what New York is all about.

• Try something new every time you go: You could probably live an entire lifetime in New York City and not repeat a meal, a hotel, a theater . . . there are not many places like that in the world.  Take advantage to do or eat or try something you would never do at home---that’s what you came to New York for!
• Look for a few favorites: New York is always changing but there are a few things that will always be there for you:  a dark corner bar, a bench in Central Park, a Sabrett’s hot dog cart, the holiday displays on Fifth Avenue . . . Find a few things that you love in New York and try to incorporate them into your trips---sometimes, you’ll just need that little bit of the familiar.
• Pack your thicker skin: This city gets a bad reputation sometimes.  Here, things move fast, and here, things can move on without you.  Sometimes, nothing can crush you like this city---you’ll probably cry at some point.  I did.  It’s okay---it happens to everyone.  New York can definitely be tough---but stick it out.  New York is also full of sunshine and second chances.
• Always look up: there are some great surprises on those skyscrapers: art deco details, people going on about their daily lives in full glass windows, billboards as far as the eye can see---this city can do amazing things with heights.
• Marvel at the little logistics: I can never stop being fascinated by how this city works.  How do they manage to provide water . . . and heat . . . and trash pick up . . . and emergency services . . . and dry cleaning . . . and some of the best food delivery in the world . . . you name it---I am always amazed by how well everything works in New York---there are so many cities that are smaller or less populated or more spacious and don’t run with nearly the efficiency of New York.  And as always, whether it’s the subway driver or police officer, appreciate those that make this city somewhere we can go and enjoy the gifts that all of its other citizens bring.

One day you’ll “be a part of it” too.  I can’t wait to hear what you think.

All my love,

Mom

Loving the Apocalypse

For as long as I can remember, I've been obsessed with the end of the world. My interests run to the dystopian as well (think The Handmaid's Tale or Blade Runner), but stories about the apocalypse really get me going. And it's not about the gore, or even about terror at the idea of my own inevitable demise. In fact, I actually find some perverse, selfish comfort in the idea of it all ending at once. I won't miss anything, and I won't have to feel bad about the people I leave behind.

No, I think what fascinates me most is wondering: how will it happen, and---more importantly---how will people react?

Movie after movie has been inspired by this question, and, lately, they seem to be everywhere. I'm not sure if it's a subconscious (or deliberate) reaction to the chatter about the Mayan predictions for 2012, or just one of those moments of cultural synchronicity that come along every so often, but it's for real. Last year there was Melancholia, this year we're getting Seeking A Friend for the End of the World, and next year, The End of the World.

The typical film depiction of the apocalypse goes something like this:

1) Government discovers world-ending event (often a comet or an asteroid headed straight for Earth). 2) Government tries awfully hard---and fails even harder---to keep said event a secret. 3) Public freaks the eff out. 4) Super smart members of said public figure out awesome way to beat the world-ending event at its own game. 5) Event is eventually beaten in a show of human (or, let's face it, American) ability to triumph over all, but not without major casualties. Most central characters are spared, but a few are sacrificed on the altar of a two-hanky moment.

I like these movies, movies like Deep Impact, Armageddon, or Independence Day. I gobble them up like candy. And they do a decent job of showing the humanity in the midst of the set piece explosions. But, I have to say, the movie that's most satisfied my dual needs to a) see it all come crashing to a halt, and b) see how people might react to it is the aforementioned Melancholia.

There's no doubt at the beginning of the film that the world is going to end. He shows it to you right there in the dreamy opening sequence, alongside our heroine (played by Kirsten Dunst) aping Ophelia, birds falling from the sky, and a bush catching fire---all set to Wagner. (Manohla Dargis' rundown of the sequence is well worth a read.). A planet--- Melancholia---collides directly with Earth, destroying them both on impact. There's no escaping this end. (Spoiler alert, I guess?)

And I think that's why the movie has stuck with me. Yes, there's the incredible moment right at the end, when Melancholia bears down so hard on our cast that their hair blows sideways in its celestial breeze, and there's the breathtakingly gorgeous setting (an estate with incredible grounds in some unnamed European location)---not to mention the Wagner crashing in all over the place, chords hanging out. But watching a small group of people deal quietly with the end of the world? Talk dirty to me, von Trier.

Which is not to say that I'm not planning to see the next couple of world-ending-sky-falling movies. I am. But I know I'll be a little disappointed if Steve Carell and Keira Knightley both make it through.

(photo by mockstar on flickr)

Max

(Editor's note: This is part two of Leigh Anna's exploration of losing her dogs. Part One, Samus, can be found here.) 2011 stunk. It has taken me many months to even get to the place where I can write about this without completely losing it. Some of you already know how my little family was rocked this past year when little Samus, my sweet boxer dog, passed away suddenly. Little did we know that just 7 months and two days later, we’d be saying goodbye to our other sweet baby, my dear boy Max. From the beginning, I was absolutely in love with that boy. We drove 4 hours in the pouring rain one night to Memphis to pick him up. He was so fat, with so many wrinkles. I was so excited . . . and a little discouraged when I tried to get him to sit in my lap on the way home and he just moved to the other side of backseat. We had a dog that didn’t like to cuddle, or so it seemed.

Max quickly became a mama’s boy. Contrary to my observation on that ride home, he loved to cuddle . . . and boy was he lazy. Samus wanted to play all the time and all Max wanted to do was lay on the couch. The only issue we ever had with him was potty training. He was HORRIBLE! He would leave a trail through the house . . . he didn’t know how to stand still while peeing! I would get soooo mad! I finally resorted to buying toddler undies for him and that was the only thing that finally worked. He was so cute in those undies.

 In 2007, Chris and I decided to quit our jobs, move to Atlanta, and go back to school. The day we moved, we noticed Max wasn’t feeling too good. Within two days, he stopped eating and we knew something had to be wrong. We took him to the vet, where they started running tests on him. We left the vet without a diagnosis but they were pretty sure he had Lymphoma. The test would take two weeks to find out for sure.

My boy got so sick. He didn’t eat for those two weeks and lost 10 lbs. We came so close to losing him . . . the test finally came back and it was a huge blow. He not only had lymphoma in his chest, but it was stage 4, B cell, the worst kind. They advised us that most dogs with that kind of cancer only last another year at best, with chemo. But we couldn’t lose our baby without trying to help; he was only 5 years old. We started chemotherapy immediately and after 6 months of treatment, he was in full remission. Max was a trooper . . . my miracle dog. We got lucky and the lymphoma never came back.

 When we lost Samus, our world was turned upside down. We all grieved so hard for the loss, Max included. He slept by the front door; he’d wake me up laying on my chest at 3 am just staring at me; he’d drag us up and down the alleys and streets looking for her; he would stop in his tracks when he heard another dog that sounded like her. It made us so sad to see him having such a hard time with losing her.  That’s one reason we decided to get Rilke, 6 weeks after we lost our girl. Max needed a buddy as much as we did. He was so good with her . . . she was such a playful puppy . . . but he never got mad at her. I think seeing the two of them together, I really started to notice how much Max had aged.

This past Thanksgiving came and went quietly. That Saturday, we woke up to a beautiful morning. The temperature was supposed to be in the 60′s and we knew that it wouldn’t last much longer. We decided to take the dogs out to Fire Island, a beautiful state park beach that allows dogs in the winter months. It was Rilke’s first time to the beach and we were all excited as we packed up in the car and headed out. It was absolutely gorgeous outside and we were just so happy to be together. This photo was from that day . . . I had no idea it would be one of the last photos I would take of my sweet boy:

We had hiked about 2 miles from our car, down the beach, when our world came crashing in on us. Max had been so happy, running, sniffing, playing . . . when all of a sudden, he fell over and started having a major grand mal seizure. Right there where the water hits the sand, on the most beautiful beach, my dog was dying and I felt so helpless. People came running from everywhere, and Chris and two other men started giving him CPR. After what seemed like an eternity, he started breathing again. Someone called the rangers for us and they came and picked us up in a SUV to take us back to our car. Max was awake but out of it for sure. We took him to the nearest pet hospital, only to have them tell us things like cancer, brain tumor, epilepsy, infection . . . our wonderful trip to the beach had gone so bad so quickly.

We did a few tests to check his bloodwork and rule out an infection. They said the only way we would know if he had brain cancer would be to do an MRI, which would cost thousands. We hoped for the best, got a prescription for anti-seizure meds and went on our way. We felt so lost, and I was just a ball of nerves. That night we cuddled him and loved on him and he seemed ok, just tired. The next morning, we went for a walk, ate breakfast, and he had his smoothie and two treats. His head seemed to be bothering him, he kept scratching and rubbing it. He laid down in the sun, on the bed, probably his favorite place in the world, and went to sleep. About 30 minutes later, he woke up, had another seizure, and passed quietly in Chris’s arms.

That weekend was horrible. But . . . looking back, both of us had seen it in his eyes. He lost a part of himself, a spark, when Samus passed away and he never got it back. Even though losing Samus was heartbreaking, it made me appreciate Max so much more those last few months. I am thankful that he didn’t seem to suffer much; I am thankful that we were with him, that he spent his last full day on the beach, and that he didn’t die in a hospital. I am also thankful that I did not have to make the decision with either of my dogs. God knew that would be a decision I just could not have made.

 I loved Samus dearly, but Max . . . that boy was MY boy. I loved the way he woo-wooed when he was excited, the way he demanded a treat around lunchtime every day, the way he nibbled on a toy, the way he said “I love my mama,” and the way he made me massage him every night. He was spoiled all right, but he was one of the best relationships that I have ever experienced and if I could do it all over again, I would in a heartbeat. I’ve had dogs my entire life but there was just something special about my relationship with Max. I would have done just about anything for that dog. Looking back at these photos, I feel like I was at my happiest when he was by my side . . . or in my lap.

After losing both of our “kids” that we have had for the past 9.5 years, Chris and I just felt lost. Our whole family dynamic changed. Now Rilke was the only dog, and we had only spent a few months with her. She still doesn’t know the kind of things our other two had learned through the years---it’s like starting completely over. But I am so thankful we got her when we did or else our house would be way too quiet. We have since added little Bronson to our family. It’s not the same around here . . . but I hope one day we’ll have the connection with the new ones like we had with Samus and Max.

Once again, in 2011 I was reminded that I need to appreciate the time I am given. I am so thankful that I got to experience Max’s amazing personality and be loved by him. Time goes by in a flash . . . 9.5 years of my life was gone in 7 months and 2 days. I am trying to remember that and really live my life in a way where I have no regrets and really love on my friends and family as much as I can. In the end, that’s really all that matters. I miss you dearly Max . . . I still think about you every day. I hope you and Samus are running and playing on a beach up in heaven somewhere. One of these days, when I close my eyes for the last time . . . I really hope you two come and tackle me with kisses. Call me crazy, I don’t care.

Samus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you Samus.

Just Doing It

Against all odds, and after becoming educated, trained, and established in an entirely different field, I became a floral design entrepreneur.  As a child and young adult, I recall trying on an array of potential future careers, but none of them ever involved being in charge of something.  My fantasy dalliances included the requisite teacher phase and ranged from newscaster (???) to architect.  I eventually landed on social work and psychotherapy and enjoyed a very intense career in a helping profession before making this transition.  Of course, “mother” was always a given, and at times, I considered whether I would want to be a full-time mommy, if presented with the resources and opportunity (I imagine I will exist in a permanent state of ambivalence about this, as do many women).  Meanwhile, I can’t ever remember wanting to own or run a business.  It never even occurred to me and---as stated above---even NEWSCASTER, occurred to me.  Honestly, what did I think a newscaster does? In college, once I landed on social work, I set about paving the way for graduate school with clinical internships and the appropriate required courses.  I dutifully took the GRE, applied to programs, and ultimately ended up returning to my hometown to get my MSW.

In my master’s program, there were two areas of specialization: clinical focus or administrative focus.  Generally speaking, the people who chose clinical focus (I was among them) were seen as “softer,” empathic, interested in a wholly supportive role, and most often had the goal of working as a therapist.  A great many of my peers in the clinical program wanted to work with children, to boot.  The administrative folks (there were many fewer) were viewed as more hard-charging, technically savvy, and had the goal of running an agency, fundraising, or developing social policy.  Three of the four (just four!) men in the program were on the administrative track.  Even in social work school, people were pigeon-holed by their propensities and interests and gender stereotypic roles were firmly in place.

Although I have consistently seen myself as a team player and almost never want the responsibility of orchestrating, I tend to end up in a leadership role in almost every endeavor.  Despite my internal sense of wanting to lay low and “just get through” it, I was compelled by the nagging voice that plagued me in most things---that I could do it better if I were in charge.  Through group projects, seminar discussions, and clinical placements, I ended up the leader.  Before I even understood what I was doing, people would acquiesce to me with a shrug, “Well, you have obviously thought this through and that seems like a good idea.”

I once had a research professor pull me aside after class and tell me that he was so impressed by my “terribly well-organized mind” that he wondered if I would consider moving into a doctoral program and teaching.  I went home that night convinced there was no way I would make it through another semester, what with my being a total imposter.  Afflicted with anxiety, I thought, ‘One day, they will find out I am an idiot and kick me out of this program.’

If you knew me academically or professionally at virtually any point in my life, you would think I was totally dialed in on every level.  I “presented” well.  Inside, of course, I was fraught by insecurity and a powerful need to be liked.  My interpersonal relationships were characterized by dating all the wrong people (some with outrageously glaring problems, such as drug or alcohol abuse) and obsessing over friendships---all in an effort to avoid perceived abandonment.

In school and at work, I powered through.  I ginned up a sense of bravado.  I smiled broadly, put my nose to the grindstone and did exceptionally well.  I moved through entry-level social service jobs to eventually running a homeless shelter in New York City with 25 employees in my charge.  And if you think I slept well in that era . . .

When I started to consider a career shift from the thing in which I had been trained and licensed to this new, creative undertaking, I was nervous for all the reasons anyone would be.  Chief among them, was that I still couldn’t see myself as an executive and a boss, despite all the years of actually doing it.  I had internalized the pervasive rationales for why women aren’t supposed to be as good at this.  I also knew that wrestling my inner turmoil to the ground could consume a lion’s share of energy.  Still and all, I did it, and here are some highlights:

• I have executed on multiple seasons of floral events.
• I have landed famous corporate clients.
• I have been on blogs and in magazines.
• I won an award from one of those magazines.
• I have been mentioned in the NY Times.
• I have hired and fired both employees and clients.
• I have raised my prices.
• I have mixed and poured cement to construct the bases for a Chuppah, 8.5 months pregnant.
• I have felt like a total bad-ass doing all of the above.

Success, for me, has looked totally predictable from the outside and utterly bizarre from the inside.  I have come to realize that I might never have the confidence to simply land a gig, know that I will make it happen, and then rock it out.  I am far too tortured an individual for that.  The spectacular news might just be that I don’t need to break the shackles of this neurotic predisposition.  I have functioned and will continue to function, marching forward with my dissonance.  The outside doesn’t square with the inside but somehow it all gets done anyway and nobody is the wiser (although anyone reading this is now the wiser?).  Letting go of the pressure I put on myself to be more gentle on myself as I go about this work might be as good as it gets.  Apparently, you can totally run a business this way.

Image by Garry Knight on Flickr

One of the Worst Parts About Getting a Divorce: Telling Children

Telling people about the divorce was excruciating.

Even after it was no longer 'new' news to me, it was still sad to tell people who were hearing it for the first time.  A year later, some people still hadn't heard---perhaps they were old friends returning to Brooklyn for a visit.  And then I'd have to tell them.  It was heartbreaking every time.

But nothing compared to telling children about the divorce.

Nothing broke my heart more throughout the entire thing.

We had some nieces and nephews.  We had close relationships with many of the youth in Brooklyn---mainly through church.  And we knew my boss's sweet children very well, too.  I hated telling them all.

Soon after the divorce, I went to St. Barth's with my boss and his family.  My ex-husband normally would accompany me on those trips, as well.  But this time it was just me.  The children (and all their friends) were very confused about why he wasn't there.  One of the children's parents had told them that we had "broken up."  I guess this was the best way to explain it to a 5-year old girl.  Another little girl said to me, "Mara, my friend told me that I wasn't supposed to ask you something . . . but is it ok if I still ask you?  Is it true that you broke up?  It just can't be true and I don't believe it, so I had to ask you."  She was the saddest, sweetest little 5-year old ever as she asked me this question.

I told her that it was true.  But that I was doing really well and that I was still really happy and that I was going to carry on and still have a good and happy life.

The youth in Brooklyn that we knew were teenagers.  They looked up to us a lot---and I hated having them see a divorce firsthand when they needed as many good examples of marriage as they could get.  But I decided that I would do everything I could to show them that marriage and living a good life were still as important as ever to me.  They often heard me talking about how much I valued marriage and how important it was to be a good spouse.  And they were very much on my mind as I moved forward and decided how I was going to live my life.

And now a lot of them read my blog :)

What has it been like for you to explain divorce to kids?  Do you have any tips for others?

(photo:  Jeanloup Sieffe, 1963, via Mignonette)

Looking Forward: So Little Time

I can remember a time in my life when boredom was a bad thing. In fact, I can very clearly remember referring to my dog-eared copy of a book called "101 Things To Do When You're Bored," a pre-summer vacation gift from my third grade teacher. Draw a sidewalk town with chalk, it suggested. Build a go-cart. Host a pet party with your pals. (I actually went through with that last one, much to the dismay of my parents.) Boredom occurred fairly frequently in my life as an eight year old,  but like they say, it encouraged great outbursts of creativity. I spent my free time drawing, writing stories, playing "avocado tree tag," a game invented by the children who lived across the street. I climbed trees. Played in the dirt. Jumped rope. Did all the things you're supposed to do when you're a kid. It occurred to me recently that nowadays, it's a rarity and a luxury to be bored. My freelance schedule is such that I seldom have a moment when there's not something I could be doing. Last Friday night, when a group of my friends came over for dinner and a movie at my apartment, I typed away on my laptop through the entirety of "Saturday Night Fever." In the morning, I woke up early for a work call. After dinner in the city that night, I came home to write an article due the following day.

To be clear, I'm all too aware that I should not be complaining about having work to do. I am incredibly lucky to be busy. Two years ago, when I hadn't yet fully committed to pursuing a freelance career, I would have given anything to have work. But being in charge of my own schedule is a huge responsibility, and managing my time effectively is something I'm still getting the hang of. A night owl by nature, my ideal schedule would involve working between the hours of 8 PM and 3 AM; during the day, I'd run personal errands. However, if I'm ever going to see my friends---most of whom work in offices---writing at night won't make sense. Juggling work, play, and alone time, it turns out, is a quite a feat.

Sometimes I wonder whether things might be easier if I had a 9-5. I'm sure that in some ways, it would be. But that's just not the path I'm on at the moment. So while I often wish I had more free time---time to go out at night, watch a movie without having to work through it, go to dinner without having to rush home afterward (you know, things you're supposed to do when you're twenty-something)---I'm content to assume that one day in the not-too-distant future, I will. This period of my life---exhausting as it sometimes is---is just paying my dues. And that's something you're supposed to do when you're a twenty-something, too.

Less is More

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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