What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Trina McNeilly is a mom to a brood of four, a freelance writer and a self proclaimed style scout.  When she isn't wrangling or writing she dabbles in design and is always looking for the lovely.  Trina has been blogging for 4 years and writes daily at her lifestyle blog, la la Lovely where she shares her lovely finds.  She's learned that the most lovely things in life are not things at all, and well, she writes about that too.  In her, very few, spare minutes she is busy making her childhood home her now grown up home.  I love books, almost every kind possible actually.  I love the way books look, always adding soul to a home.  I love the way books feel, there is just something about turning each page that is rather comforting.  And most of all, I love what is on the inside of books . . . words.  Words that, on their own, might not mean much but strung together form a story; a story once lived sharing a life to learn from perhaps just a story to get completely lost in.  Truthfully, that is what I look for most in a book . . . a way to get lost, a way to loose myself.  And yet, almost every time, at some point in the story, I am found and find more of myself than I knew before.  And when I find that I have been found in a book, that particular story always seems to stay with me.  Sometimes it haunts me with its grasping tale when I see specks of the story in real life days.  And, sometimes it reminds me of a truth I’ve needed to know and am trying to live and other times it is a teacher that helps me to string my words into a story of their own.

My own reading habits vary (as life does with 4 littles) but my regular and most familiar pattern is to read a couple of books at a time.  I love to always have a story ready at hand to escape to and I always find the need to be reading a book to help better me as person (which can have vast range of topics from motherhood to business).

These are the books you would, most recently, find making their home on my nightstand:

The Flight of Gemma Hardy

By Margot Livesey

If you were to ask me my all time favorite book I would likely reply Jane Eyre.  No explanation needed.  Any retelling of that story sparks interest, but also skepticism.  While running through the airport last month, this title caught my attention and when I read that it was a new telling of Jane Eyre I was curious.  I continued on to read that Gemma was from Iceland and resides in Scotland on the somewhat mystical Orkney Islands and . . . I was sold.  I had never heard of the Orkney Islands but I had to know about it.

Although The Flight of Gemma Hardy, for the most part, followed the story line of the classic, Jane Eyre, I inevitably knew what was coming next, but I didn’t quite always know how, and I found myself looking for how the story varied and the differences and uniqueness of each story.

I found Gemma’s story, although very sad at times, to really be one of hope.  Hope that your story can end well.  That good can come of bad.  And that in the midst of trials, when you can’t seem to find your way, or even yourself, if you keep moving forward, choose to be brave in the everyday and pay attention to your thoughts, it is there that you will be found.  Gemma ran, only to ask herself “Why had I left if I was going to carry him with me every step of the way?”  Yet in the running she was found.  And she found the one thing she wanted so badly, “to be well regarded and well loved.”  And isn’t that what we all want?

The Gifts of Imperfection

by Brené Brown

This is the kind of book that ruins you in all of the right kind of ways.  But I should confess, I wanted to get ruined when I picked this book up.  The subtitle goes like this, “Let Go of Who You Think You’re Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are.  Your guide to a wholehearted life.”   The truth is, I have a lot of ideas of who I think I’m supposed to be, and who others want me be but I’m still working on accepting and then embracing who I really am.   Brown starts off this internal journey by saying that “owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.”

It’s chapter after chapter of defining words that we effortlessly throw around in our daily lives without knowing the true meaning or implication of that word.  For example the original meaning of the word courage is, “to speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.”  And to become more courageous you have to practice courageous acts, “you learn courage by couraging.”  The idea that it takes courage to share what you really want or need or who you are, actually makes complete sense as it something most of us hold back from doing in fear of not being accepted.

The Gifts of Imperfection is a book that I’m sure I’ll reference for a lifetime.  If you aspire to live an authentic wholehearted life than I think you will enjoy getting ruined as much as I am.

The Tales of the Seal People

Scottish Folk Tales

Duncan Williamson

I have a thing for fairy tales and folklore.  I’m always up for anything that is a little magicky and requires a heavy dose of make believing.

After reading The Flight of Gemma Hardy and doing a little research on the fascinating Orkney Islands, I read that The Tales of the Sea People was a book that Margot Livesey used as research when writing her book, The Flight of Gemma Hardy.   When I read that these were a collection of stories from Scotland that were somewhat guarded and scared to the fishermen and people that lived by the sea, I was instantly intrigued.  My great grandma was from Scotland and I wonder if she ever heard of, or maybe even told, any of these tales herself.  Although these are folk tales to some, somewhere down the line they were very real happenings to the originator of the story.

The Tales of the Seal People is a collection of short stories, which are simply written and read as if someone is actually speaking the story. All of the stories are centered around Silkies (Seal People) who were part human and part seal.  Each story is an intertwined tale of a person who lived by the sea and their encounters with the Silkies.  It’s interesting knowing that these are likely common stories told among Scottish children and up until this point I had never even heard of a Silkie.  I love reading these stories to my children and I even love reading them all on my own.  I find that after I read one, I always want to read another.  And I’ll surely never look at a seal the same way again.

Paying it Forward

Over the weekend I attended a family reunion of sorts.  First and second cousins, aunts and uncles gathered to celebrate two milestone birthdays.  I knew it would be legendary, our gatherings always are; last time a sticker fight of monumental proportions rocked my parents' house.  This time it was glow sticks and piggyback battles on my aunt and uncle’s front lawn. We’re pretty awesome like that. Over the weekend I chatted with relatives about what I’m doing with my life, listened to stories about my ancestors, gave hugs like they were going out of style, and ate more food than I will admit here.  But probably the highlight of my weekend was hanging out with my younger cousins, four of whom were in attendance.  You don’t know them, but trust me, these kids are awesome.  They are the children of my first cousins (all of whom are older than me) and are intelligent, inquisitive, and laugh-out-loud hilarious.

I snuck them dessert before dinner, demanded high fives and hugs in exchange for stickers, and lost count of piggy back rides.  I even took a turn at playing the villain and carried one of the girls off from the playhouse.  Of course the other cousins chased us down and my role shifted from captor to prisoner—on the way I earned the honor of having my name on a wanted poster or four.  I’m still quite proud of that.

My aunt and uncle live in my grandmother’s old house, so as we ran through the yards and surrounding hills and wooded paths, it was easy to remember the times, not so long ago, when I was the younger cousin—walking through the same mystical trails and creating entire plots with only my imagination.

At the end of the weekend, I said goodbye to my cohorts with more hugs and high-fives and demands of letters and pictures.  As I said goodbye to my playmates' parents—my first cousins, the ones who wrote me letters and sat still to listen to my stories or play never-ending games of war—I was thanked.  I’m still not sure for what.  Yes, I hung out with, entertained, and literally carried off my younger cousins.  Maybe I did ‘make their weekend’ but at the very least it was an even trade.  I came home talking just as much about them, telling stories of adventures, full of memories that are still making me chuckle, and with a new drawing for the fridge.

But besides all of that, for me, this is just what family is.  Of course I’m going to play games and go on scavenger hunts.  Obviously I’m down for some serious conversations about sequins, nail polish, and the latest book for 12 year olds.  That’s why I’m here. That’s what being an older cousin is all about. I know because I have older cousins.

Twenty years ago my cousins made me feel special simply by taking an interest in my life and listening to what I had to say.  They wrote me letters, told jokes, and provided themselves as amazing role models. To think that I would try for any less is nonsensical.  I may not make it, but if I can be half of all that they were to this new generation, I will consider that a job well done.  That’s what family does—we pay it forward to the new generation.  To be a part of the chain is a privilege, and I require no thanks.

Do More With Less

By Ashely Hogge Do more with less. I try to live this mantra every day. Luckily, I prefer less. Less technology, less clutter, less shiny, less expensive. For me, I find more in the experience. The things that aren't quite things but rather untouchables. I'm attracted to places that offer and encourage outdoor activities like skiing, biking, and hiking. Even Portland Oregon, where I currently live, is close to both the mountains and the ocean. I have such peace of mind knowing I can escape the city at any moment. And quite often, I do. I keep it easy---a day hike in the Gorge with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, Goldfish (yes, I love kid food) and chocolate. With my camera in tow, I am most content on the trail. In this setting, hikers are stripped of those day to day annoyances. Signals are lost. Perspectives quickly shift. Most of the time, the literal and figurative weight will lift. Tension and anxiety will dissolve. It seems almost primal to be so out of touch and yet, you can do so much more. More thinking, listening, meditating. It's easy to let the mind wander. I become inspired by possibility and tend to dream up vacations, travel plans, or a simple meal for dinner.

It's outings like these that keep me grounded for weeks to follow. How do you maintain such a mind-set with the many distractions out there? I focus on quality not quantity. One hot cup of coffee, a good book recommended by a friend, a restaurant I've always wanted to try, or maybe it's as simple as a walk around the block. I can't help but quote Gus McRae, a character from one of my all time favorite movies, Lonesome Dove:

Lorie darling, life in San Francisco, you see, is still just life. If you want any one thing too badly, it's likely to turn out to be a disappointment. The only healthy way to live life is to like everyday things, like a good sip of whiskey in the evening, a soft bed, or a glass of buttermilk.

To piggy back along with what Gus said, life is still life no matter where you are. I believe that experiences, conversations and a genuine hello to a fellow hiker can make our days valuable. We can be happier with less and most definitely do more to better ourselves and those around us.

Lessons from Gone with the Wind...

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

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

All my love,

Mom

Raziyya al-Din: Sultan of Delhi. Leader of Armies.

I’m never more inspired than when I’m spending my Saturday afternoons researching the most illustrious, the most extraordinary, the most awe-inducing women of world history, and of course I haven’t even scratched the surface in terms of subjects to write about. If I could, I would plaster my walls with pictures of these women: Eleanor of Aquitaine atop her horse en route to the Second Crusade. Emma Goldman slamming her fist on a pulpit as she addresses a hall full of factory workers. Sojourner Truth standing up in front of a crowd of hostile white men and skeptical white feminists to speak about her struggles as a slave and demand: “Ain’t I a woman?” It’d be like one giant wall of daily affirmations.

Raziyya al-Din (c.1200-1240) is another historical woman who was both excoriated (because she was a woman) and exulted (because she did stuff anyway). Born into Mughal nobility, Raziyya would go on to become the only female sultan in medieval India. Histories alternately refer to her as either Sultana or Sultan—let’s be clear that she preferred the latter, because a “sultana” technically referred to the wife of the sultan, and she wasn’t no sultan’s wife.

Raziyya’s father was Iltumish, a ruler in the Delhi Sultanate. The Delhi Sultans were a series of Muslim Turkish rulers based in Delhi who, through the medieval period, controlled much of north India. Iltumish and Raziyya, specifically, came from the first Delhi dynasty: the Mameluks, or slaves.

Iltumish recognized early on that his daughter was particularly well-suited for sultan-ing. She had accompanied him on many military campaigns and was ambitious, smart, and full of leadership skills. Thus he formally nominated Raziyya as his successor in preference to his many sons. (This makes me very well-disposed towards ol’ Iltumish. What a progressive guy!)

The problem: Despite the ostensible power of the Sultan’s throne, the elite Turkish nobles (always, always those unruly nobles!) wielded a disproportionate say in court matters, and they were not happy with Iltumish’s choice. When he died in 1236, they overrode his nomination and put one of his sons on the throne instead.

Fortunately for Raziyya, they soon saw the error of their ways. Her brother was incompetent and his conniving, ambitious mother made his rule even more unappealing. They removed him from the throne and gave Raziyya her due as the new Sultana Sultan that same year.

Raziyya, for her short term, proved to be a terrific Sultan. She was wise, benevolent, tolerant to Hindus, and adept at crushing rebellions when they arose. Like past YHWOTD Hatshepsut, she adapted men’s clothing, discarding the veil and dressing as a Sultan, I suppose, ought. Contemporary historians sang her praises, and eminent Indian historian Farishta remarked, “The men of discernment could find no defect in her except that she was created in the form of a woman.”

Her reign went well for the first couple years, but her appointment of an Abyssinian slave named Yaqut to a high office and her close relationship with him (speculation abounds that they may have been lovers, but sometimes I wonder, would the same speculation abound if she had been a man?) caused disgruntlement amongst those same unruly Turkish nobles. They eventually killed Yaqut and imprisoned Raziyya in a fort in Bhatinda, outside Delhi.

Raziyya was able to escape her imprisonment by marrying one of her captors (!) and the two of them marched on Delhi to recapture the throne. They were defeated by a dude named Balban, who would later become Sultan, and were unfortunately killed fleeing from battle in 1240.

Thus ended the short life and even shorter reign of Raziyya al-Din. But she was remembered fondly. Contemporary historian Minaj-us-Siraj called Raziyya “a great monarch, wise, just, generous, benefactor to her realm, a dispenser of equity, the protector of her people, and leader of her armies.”

What I’m reminded of when I read the singing of Raziyya’s praises, the apparent faultlessness of her Sultancy, is that—as Ta-nehisi Coates noted in an excellent, excellent essay on Barack Obama—minorities, including women, who rise to positions of power often have to be “twice as good and half as [insert minority identity here].” I’m not deeply cognizant of the social context of medieval India, but it’s noteworthy that the one of the only woman to emerge, victorious, from the margins of history in this period was, if the historians' language is to be believed, a perfect ruler and practically a man.

Obviously, that’s how they rolled back then---male sultans and all---and I get that. But even today, I think it’s a good reminder to not get complacent about the advances of women. There will be exceptions to every patriarchy, as Raziyya proves—but even with her boundary-breaking, the system remained intact, as it often does, even when briefly and occasionally challenged by extraordinary women. But at the very least exceptions like Raziyya can serve as inspiration and/or fodder for daily wall poster affirmation.

Stupid Charming Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreaming Brooklyn. Or not?

Did that really happen? When I woke up this morning I couldn’t answer this question. Was I really in Brooklyn last night, strolling down 5^th Avenue? Did I really stop at Gorilla Coffee to grab an espresso and then went all the way down to the park on 5^th, set on a bench and read a book? No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember the book’s title and come on, reading is my job. It can’t be real that I read a book and forget the words and the title right after finishing up the last page. But yet, everything looked so real . . .

 * * *

Beacon’s Closet is open. There seem to be many women staring at the store’s window, and I think No, I’ll check it out another time, come on Alice, you can’t spend all of your income in vintage clothes! You don’t have enough space in your closet! And then, a small paper cup in my hands with a red gorilla painted on it, I make my way toward the cross between 5^th and Lincoln Place. Yes, my friend Joanne must be home from work by now. I should stop by and say Ciao! She loves practicing her Italian with me, and I like going over for a chat. But what time is it exactly? The sun light is weak, and a cold breeze is blowing down 5^th. It must be late afternoon. Jo isn’t answering her doorbell. She is probably still at work. Well, I’ll step by another time. Maybe I should go home now, I’m starting to get cold and I really don’t want to fall sick. I have to work tomorrow and I can’t skip a day. So I slowly walk towards President Street, and I’m still on the left sidewalk.

My paper cup is empty now, but I keep holding it as I don’t know what to do with my hands. Hands can’t be meaningless and dangle ridiculously at your side. So, while Left pretends to be busy holding an Italian blend, Right searches into the darkness of my bag. I never carry much on me, for I like to feel free from burdens. But here’s the biggest burden of all, a huge and heavy book that Right seems to be proud of digging out. What is it? What’s the title of this book? It must be some story I have to read for work, but I can’t really focus the letters and the image on the cover.

It isn’t dark yet, so it must not be so late. I realize I still have some time for myself. At the cross with President, I keep going. The Cat Clinic is open. I can swear I see this weird guy entering the door with a miniature poodle, dressed with a pink sweater that looks just alike the one its human friend is wearing. But as I look through the window, I see no sign of human or animal presence. The place is empty. In a few seconds I reach Connecticut Muffin and I feel weird---I could have bet this place was on 7^th Avenue, not on 5^th. But I do have a craving for muffins, and location disquisitions are not important right now. There is a long line inside, this means the muffins are tasty and delicious, just like I remember. I reach for the door, but it doesn’t open. Some customer might have locked it by mistake. I knock on the glass, and my cheecks are burning red as I don’t like to bother people and seem intrusive. But no one must have heard, because the door is still locked. So I knock again, this time harder, but still nobody turns or looks at me. These people actually don’t seem to realize I am out there, craving muffins! Annoyed and a little cross, I look around. And I am glad I finally see the park in front of me, the small park with an old stone house in it. It’s not Prospect Park, but it’s cozy, and it is the perfect place to start my Huge and Heavy Book.

I cross the street, paying attention to the streetlights even though the road is deserted, and I go sit on a bench under a tree covered in orange and red leaves. And while the leaves keep falling down on me, hitting random parts of the pages, I collect the words that suddenly take a shape and a solid form and I close them in a small wooden box that sits beside me on the bench. What am I going to do with these words when I’m finished? They are so many now. Can I sell them, perhaps? Can I glue them to other pages from other books, and maybe make a new story?

It is dark when I raise my head. The only thing that is luminous is my little wooden box. I try to open it, because I need light to find the way back to my house, but now the wooden box is locked, and my book is finished, and I forgot what story I was told. So I open Huge and Heavy Book another time, because I really can’t forget a story that I just finished.

And all I can see now is white and empty pages, and a story that needs to be re-written once again, maybe with the luminous words hidden my wooden box. Only, I have to find a way to give them a new sense.

From Alice in Wonderland.

'Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.

'I won't!' said Alice.

Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

'Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) 'You're nothing but a pack of cards!'

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

'Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; 'Why, what a long sleep you've had!'

'Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, 'It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.'

So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

Looking Forward: A Story of Survival.

In kindergarten, I announced to my friends and family that I was “a woman of destiny” who spoke two languages: English and “cat.” (My teachers, at one point, had to separate me from my best friend for excluding others when speaking cat.) As my grade school education continued, my pastimes evolved. I taught myself to bake bread, filling our freezer with numberless misshapen loaves of rye. On weekends, I read the newspaper while eating radishes and raw onions. I wore mismatched socks. I wrote, illustrated, and performed a short story in which the starring character was a pair of underwear owned by an aging rock star named Steve. The underwear was a character of interest because it possessed the ability to sprout Greek gods from its elastic waistband.

In short, I was a quirky child. And proud of it. “I’m weird!” I proclaimed to my family one day in the car.

“‘Weird’ has such negative connotations,” my dad told me. “There are better words to use than that. You could say ‘unusual’ instead.”

“I’m strange!” I offered.

He paused. “How about ‘unique’?”

---

I don’t remember the exact moment when my feelings about being “unique” or “unusual” changed, but they did---as I suspect they do with many people---around the time I entered junior high.

I began wearing an inordinate amount of gray. I spent many, many hours wondering what it meant to be cool, or pretty, or smart. I suddenly became shy, to such a degree that I forgot what it was like to be anything else. (In other words, gone were the days of personifying magical undergarments.)

I assumed this was who I was. It was years---ten, at least---before I remembered that it wasn’t.

While cat language, raw onions, and mismatched socks are no longer fixtures in my life, a certain quirkiness---and a bottomless affection for all things weird---has remained. My favorite part about working in a creative field is that I’m allowed the freedom to play, to seek out adventure, to let my imagination run wild. It’s what I enjoyed most about life as a child, and it’s what I enjoy most about life as an adult.

As the saying goes, “the creative adult is the child who survived.”

There’s a picture of me somewhere, at age seven or eight, walking my pet rabbit (who I’d named after a long-deceased Hawaiian queen) on a purple leash. I’m wearing bright yellow bike shorts and a giant pink bow on top of my head, and I’m standing in full view of traffic on the lawn in front of my house.

I look ridiculous. But, also, completely at ease. And very happy.

That part of me---the rabbit walker, the storyteller, the fearless wearer of neon-colored athletic gear---still exists, at least in spirit. And I'm grateful that it does.

I'm all the braver, bolder, weirder---and happier---for it.

My Wise Voice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn Smells

In my house growing up, the fall months brought up the smell of earth from the dirt basement. It’s a difficult smell to try to describe. It’s not rich like the smell of garden soil and nothing like the particular scent attached to the concrete basements of my friends. It’s the perfume of a particular brand of old Yankee house that’s been sitting on the same patch of dirt for two and half centuries---a combination of must and dirt, and more often than not, the stink of an unfortunate chipmunk that found its way through a chink in the stone foundation. In October, a month that’s goulish without even trying, our house could smell like death itself. To combat the scent of the damp and dying, my mom kept a small pot on the back burner of the stove. In it she’d pour a glug of apple cider and mix it with water from the tap. If there was an apple peel that would go into the pot, along with dried orange peel if we had any, a stick of cinnamon, allspice, and cardamom. Every hour or two, we’d add more water to the mixture, which became thick and dark the longer it simmered. The burbling spices would mask the smell of rotting vermin and simultaneously herald in the new season.

In college, when I didn’t have a stove of my own, I would buy heavily scented candles. Yes, the ones that come from stores so full of artificial scents they make you queasy. They had names like Autumn Spice and Harvest and once, maybe, I stooped so low as to cart home something called Apple Pie. I’d line up the candles on my desk at school and they’d sit, unburned, from October until Thanksgiving. The result was never the same, but the approximation was all that mattered.

These days I’m armed with a pot and a stove of my own and my method mirrors my mom’s. In our tiny apartment there’s a pot simmering away on the back burner.  Fall is here and it smells so much better than a candle.

The Scars of Motherhood

I can remember the act of cutting my hand, but not the pain in it. Labor felt much the same way if you are curious. I spent days after trying to recall what a contraction felt like, when the crowning happened. At first I could remember exactly the sharp searing abdominal pain of a contraction, but then, only hours later, it had all disappeared. I couldn’t remember any of it. The same thing happened when I cut my hand. I was barely out of the first trimester, still shaky from sickness, but at least standing upright most of the day. I was living at my parents' house. My dad was home painting bookshelves with my brother’s guitar teacher, Serge. Sometimes we gave him extra cash for odd jobs, and he happened to be there that day. I was still in that distracted, newly pregnant haze. I often found myself missing turns while driving, staring off into space, worried about the future. That day I was making macaroni and cheese for lunch. I took out the butter dish, which had a little knife next to it. Thinking nothing of it, I tried to pry the cold butter out of the dish with the knife, slicing sideways, and sliced right into my left hand.

At first, I felt nothing. Then as the blood started coming, I began to feel the pain. I yelled for Dad and Serge to come over, we put it under cold water, and the blood kept coming, red, red, red. We all piled in the car to go to urgent care while my father called my husband to meet us there. To Matt’s credit, he was pretty calm the whole time (a good trait to have in the labor and delivery room I later found out). Serge tried to distract me with stories of New York and Long Island, growing up there, being in a band. He had long scraggly gray hair and smelled always of cigarettes, but in that moment, scared and unsure, it was nice to listen to a good story.

The verdict was that I didn’t need stitches. It was jagged and long enough we thought I might. Instead, they bandaged it really good and basically put Neosporin on it. No painkillers since I was pregnant. It throbbed all day long. I showered for weeks with my left arm sticking up with a baggie on it. But it wasn’t the pain of the cut, instead it was the stigma of it. How would I ever be a good mother if I couldn’t make macaroni and cheese? I cried into my pillow, my kitchen competence momentarily shaken. How could I take care of someone else if I couldn't even take care of myself? I needed my husband's help to pull my jeans up, a two-handed job.

I thought of that incident over the weekend. I think of it often whenever I glance at my hand and see the J-shaped scar. I spent Saturday baking a cake. If you have never baked a cake, it is quite a bit more work than cookies or cupcakes, which is why I reserve them for special occasions. The last one I made was for Charley’s second birthday, six months ago. And this weekend, it was for my father’s birthday. Much has changed in three years and I am confident in my kitchen knife skills again. I won’t ever use a sharp French cheese knife for butter (I found out later). We have our own house with a large island for baking that I picked out. I had all of my baking supplies spread out, the house was quite and still, everyone napping while I baked. I had some trouble getting the middle of the cake to set, and kept sticking toothpicks into it to test. Just when I thought I was good, the middle sank in and I need to put it back in the oven! But my one cake pan was being used for the second layer, so I put the first layer on a cookie sheet and popped it back in. It took another ten minutes or so, and as I leaned in to check it again, I felt the hot slap of a burn from the cookie pan. I had leaned right into it. I rushed to the sink and ran cold water over it, cursing Florida that the water is always lukewarm. At first it looked like nothing, but as I continued to bake and wave it over the hot burners, it reared up bright red. One ugly darkened streak. The pain has left now, but the mark is still there, one of my many scars of motherhood.

On Compulsory Singing

My son is fifteen months old, and for the last six months has been attending a weekly music class. Initially, I wasn’t able to go with him and my wife because of a work-related conflict, but since the summer, all three of us have gone each week. It’s the sort of music class that is prevalent in the US these days---it’s for students aged five and under, and the music is cheery, non-denominational yet diverse, folky stuff. The teacher of our class is a woman a little bit older than I am who is preternaturally cheery and, frankly, charming. There are several rules at music class, however. One is that once class has started, there should be no talking, only singing. This feels incredibly odd when you need to communicate to your co-parent “where is his sippy cup?” or “do you have the tissues?” When banal sentiments are conveyed in song, it inherently makes the singer simultaneously seem and feel ludicrous. I try to pretend that I’m just a character in a new musical about thirty-something parents (penned by Sondheim, of course), and that talking would only jolt the imaginary audience watching my exploits out of the moment.

The second rule of import is that we aren’t allowed to help our children make any of the gestures or do any of the choreographed movements. That’s impeding on their own rate of learning and stifling their inherent creativity. I totally get this! It makes sense---have you ever seen a grown woman try to make a toddler mimic having hands full of bumblebees? It’s farcical. Nonetheless, the need to conform is strong, and I often remind myself not to “help” my son do the motions of songs. Even when I see other kids doing the motions just right, I try to chill out and be cool. It makes me feel like I am one step away from Toddlers and Tiaras.

I am very much not fond of singing in public. I save my singing for the car or when I am alone in the house (What’s my favorite song to belt alone? Thanks for asking, it’s “Stay” by Lisa Loeb and Nine Stories). I was in the chorus in middle school but quit in sixth grade. I went to church camp for years in the summer and never, ever was enthusiastic about all of the singing (trust me, if you have never been to church camp---I’m pretty sure it is 80% singing). At the school where I teach, there are occasional moments of compulsory group singing, and I just fade into myself.

But then I started going to music class. Parents and loved ones of the children are encouraged to sing. Given that this is a rare setting where I am a student and not the teacher in the room, I found myself to be an incredibly compliant student. You want me to sing? About being sad that there’s no more pie? No problem. I am going to when in Rome the heck out of this opportunity. I want my son to try new things! So, I sing. And I make motions. And I leap and sway and use rhythm instruments and sometimes even twirl a scarf. And, truth be told, I love it.

VIII. Paris

Emma, one of my best friends from high school, comes to visit me in Chambéry for her spring break. We travel up to Paris to spend a few days, renting a room in a hostel in Montmartre from which we can lean out our window to see the tiniest part of the Sacré Coeur. Emma doesn’t speak or understand a word of French. It is up to me to guide her around, which I kind of like.

One night, having slept through dinner, we go out to find some bread and cheese. The only place open around us is a sketchy little grocery, common in certain parts of Paris. The man behind the counter, unshaven, overweight, and twice my age, leers at me from the second we walk in. There is nothing I hate more than being leered at.

As we try to pay, he keeps asking me where we are staying, what are we doing in France, will I have a drink with him. I, of course, have to do all the communicating. Emma, unaware of what’s happening at the counter, is studying the candy display as I try furtively to nudge her out. The man doesn’t take the money until I tell him I will meet him later, which I have no intention of doing. I want to tell him how much he repulses me, but instead I turn and walk away as fast as I can, slipping on the cobblestones.

I felt sick, dirty, the rest of the night, even while Emma and I eat our dinner on the Montmartre steps overlooking the city. I don’t walk by the shop for the remainder of our visit. I don’t even walk on that street.

Let's get this show on the road

As I write this post, I am surrounded by wedding paraphernalia. Place cards piled on my desk. Road signs that shout “Wedding this way!” propped against the wall. A conspicuous ivory dress calling to me from the back of my closet. And then there are the peripheral objects, filling up our routine spaces with signs of impending festivities. The cards (incoming and outgoing) perched on the shelf, supplies to feed more than just the two of us piling up on the counter. Even our little dog, Maisie, has resigned herself to a pre-wedding snooze, belly-up in the corner, exhausted from all the preparations.

For the past seven months, we’ve mostly kept the wedding debris at bay. Even if it was increasingly on our minds, we generally kept the wedding off of the kitchen table, returned relevant reading materials to their places on the shelves, and tried to make lists, not piles.

With two days left to go, however, all bets are off. I suddenly feel as if my space reflects my internal state—messy, chaotic, ridiculous, and wonderful. Our little apartment is starting to feel something like backstage at a theater. Everything points to something important that’s about to happen, something much bigger than this little space or even the two of us, scrambling to get this show on the road.

If there ever were a time to call liminal, it’s this. I can only think to compare it to finals period, when time seems to come unhinged. You fall asleep late and wake up early in an attempt to add more hours to the day, to slow down time. Your stomach feels weird, and you’ve been eating a very balanced diet of cupcakes and Doritos. You will accomplish a seemingly impossible number of tasks. Something will certainly be left undone. You are so very close to an end and a new beginning.

Over the next few days, I'm sure I will wish I could fast forward through stressful moments and slow down beautiful ones. I am looking forward to many hugs and smiles. I am so, so thankful to be marrying my sweetheart. As the whirlwind weekend begins, I am grateful that we're taking the time to acknowledge our commitment among a handful of family and friends, and I am especially excited to return to our regularly scheduled programming, to our life together.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Joy Netanya Thompson is a freelance writer based in Pasadena, California. Born and raised in Los Angeles, she holds a bachelor’s degree in biblical studies and recently finished her master’s degree in theology and the arts at Fuller Theological Seminary. Joy loves to travel, and spent extended amounts of time in Australia, Mexico, Norway, and Germany. Besides daydreaming about her next travel destination, Joy also spends much of her time relishing novels now that her graduate studies are complete, learning how to cook a meal in under an hour, and riding bikes with her husband Robert. She writes at her hopefully-soon-to-be-revived blog, Eeper (www.netanya.wordpress.com). Joy Netanya Thompson

The Gift of Asher Lev

by Chaim Potok

My husband and I have been devouring Chaim Potok’s books for the past few months. Our first exposure to him was about a year ago when I read My Name is Asher Lev for a class. The Gift of Asher Lev is the sequel, and focuses on the title character, a world-famous artist who started out as a child prodigy in a Hasidic community in Brooklyn. In both books, Asher struggles with his two identities—the Hasidic Jew who is loyal to his faith, family, and community, and the world-class artist who must create or die. Potok’s style is utterly mesmerizing—his are the type of books in which you become totally absorbed—and his stories are haunting, the kind you think about for days after finishing them. Reading his books, I not only feel more connected to my Jewish roots, but also to my own humanity. Over the past few months I also read The Chosen and Old Men at Midnight. They are all worth the read!

A Room Called Remember

by Frederick Buechner

I was introduced to Buechner last year through his novel Godric, which I also highly recommend. A Room Called Remember is nonfiction, a book of his uncollected pieces. It’s a hodgepodge of essays and articles, a few sermons and a few speeches. My favorites include “All’s Lost—All’s Found,” “A Room Called Remember,” and “Love.” Each piece in the collection is written in his lyrical style that sometimes includes seemingly endless sentences with all the words toppling over each other—but in the best kind of way. His insight into the human condition, and especially human spirituality, is piercingly beautiful. He is a truth teller and a wordsmith, an utterly powerful combination. I also just finished his novel Son of Laughter in which he fleshes out the story of Jacob in Genesis, with all of its scandal and betrayal and humanity; it’s also a fine work.

Becky Still, Managing Editor and Senior Writer at Fuller Theological Seminary

How It All Began

by Penelope Lively

I liked this a lot; the writing is excellent. The book follows a chain of people whose lives are all affected (some of them significantly) because one older woman, Charlotte, is mugged. Her daughter Rose must rush to her aid, which ends up setting off a chain of events for the man Rose works for, and on and on. There is interesting commentary by Charlotte about growing old and the nature of one’s individual history, how it defines us. The whole book illustrates, in a delightful way, how interconnected we are.

Stone Diaries

by Carol Shields

This book is from the early 1990s—I randomly picked it up at the library and ended up liking it quite a bit. Again, great writing. It is the fictional “autobiography” of a woman named Daisy Stone Goodwill, tracing her life from birth (1905) to death in the 1990s, through diary entries written both by her and by various people in her life. Diary entries written by different people about the same event show how much we see things through the lens of our own experience.

Grace Farag, Writer

The Way Through Doors

by Jesse Ball

My "author crush" on Jesse Ball began when I read his novella "The Early Deaths of Lubeck, Brennan, Harp, and Carr" in the Winter 2007 issue of the Paris Review. The quirky strangeness of the plot, an odd formality of style, and lightly yet sensitively drawn characters hooked me right in—and at the (haunting) end of the story, I was simply, wildly jealous that I had not been given the privilege of writing it. After that I set out to read more of his work…and that's how I eventually got acquainted with his novel The Way Through Doors, which has become one of my favorite works of fiction of the past few years. I love the interwoven narratives that blend in and out of each other, and how you never know when and where one is going to begin or the other end. I love the underlying romantic sensibility of the story. I love the title. I love the poetry of Ball's prose, the musical rhythms of his sentences. (It was no surprise to me to learn that Ball is also a poet.) I love that he has a character who is a "guess artist." I love that I never quite knew where Ball was going, but that there was so much pleasure in the getting there. I just plain love this book! But I won't lie--not everyone will. And that's OK. That's the beauty of literature, of any art. So many doors, so many ways through them. Here's to the unexpected journey…

Celebrating the Everyday

A co-worker once told me about a trip she took with a girlfriend. I don’t remember where they went or when or even if there was a specific reason for the journey. What I remember about the story is that they didn’t have a camera (this was before the age of iphones).  As they stopped at noteworthy places or scenic views, they’d take a moment, pose, and say ‘Click! Took a Mental Picture!’ This story has stuck with me for several years, maybe because when I travel, I make it a point to put down the camera and soak in the place and moment as much as I can.  Of course then I pick up the camera again and take 150 pictures of really-cool-old-stuff (not even a slight exaggeration), but I make sure I see things outside of a viewfinder and imprint the memory to my brain and not just my SD card, I take a mental picture.

Surprisingly, as much as I strive to put down my beloved lenses while traveling, I’m becoming a total shutterbug at home.  The ease of having a camera on my cell phone means I can snap a shot at the grocery store or in my backyard. I can document a particularly awesome hair day or my current shade of nail polish.  My shoes are regularly photographed as one of my favorite subjects.  All show up on my instagram account. At first I thought it might be silly, I’m not a photo-journalist or an artist. I’m not taking pictures of Big-Important-Things; just snaps of my everyday life. But now I realize that’s the great thing.  These quick snaps are a celebration of the everyday.

Every day is fantastic.  Every day there is something beautiful or interesting to see.  Every day is a new journey and a new discovery. And that should be celebrated.  The collection of ice cream scoops that caught my eye thanks to the bright colors----the sunset over the cornfield---my current favorite pair of shoes---These things make up who I am. Like little happy puzzle pieces, these square snapshots build a bigger picture.

The great thing about instagram is my everyday isn’t the only one I get to experience.  I follow friends and relatives, and even a couple of folks I’ve never met in real life (like some of the wonderful contributors to Equals Record!).  I get to catch glimpses of other everydays without stepping outside of my own.  Roxanne’s views of Boston remind me that fall is on the way, I can’t wait to see the leaves change and snap some of my own autumnal photos. My cousin Andy’s photos almost always come with a thought provoking caption or interesting story and encourage me to think about the world outside of myself.

Equal parts inspiring and instigating, that’s what I love about the every day.[gallery link="file"]

For I have sinned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 (image via)

Lessons from a weekend at home...

Dear Clara,

Aren’t weekends the very best part of the week? If you think that now, just wait until you start working!  Half of our weekends are usually on the go, discovering something new, but I always savor a weekend at home too.  Here’s what help make ours special:

• Start the weekend with something active: A quick run, a brisk walk . . . on one of the days, usually Saturday, I have been trying to get some physical activity out of the way right from the start in the morning.  It usually gives me a bit of time to myself to think and relax from the week, and I feel like it gives me a pass to enjoy the rest of the weekend without guilt.
• Try something new . . . : Sometimes when you live in a place, you take all of its gifts and treasures for granted.  When I find myself at home for the weekend, I try to always make a point of seeing or doing or trying something new, almost as if I would be visiting for the first time.  It might be a museum or a park or a restaurant or a farmer’s market.  Everyone always has a list of things they’ve been meaning to do or see in their own town, so pull from that list and rediscover where you live all over again.
• . . . but balance with something old: At the same time, try to have little weekend routines that you can attach to.  There’s something comfortable and familiar about coming back to a place or schedule that makes home feel more like home, especially for us since our home changes so often.  We have a “Sunday Routine” that involves going to our favorite neighborhood, going to church, taking a walk and then having brunch in one of a few restaurants in that neighborhood.  Having that comfort of Sunday morning helps us to feel grounded and rooted---with so much else that’s changing, the familiar routine is like a big hug that at once is the end of a week and the start of a new one.
• Enjoy a lazy morning: People say that when you have children you no longer have lazy mornings.  I disagree---for sure, mornings are different.  But we still pick one to lounge around a little longer to savor the sunshine through the window, to read a book, watch a cartoon, have a good laugh over tickles.  We have breakfast at the table, and linger over coffee . . . just little things that make mornings mornings, and that we don’t have the time to all do together during the business of the work week.
• Make time to reflect and be grateful: I use our time at church for this, and while I hope you find that same space and comfort there, I realize that one day you might choose to do things differently.  Whatever that space might be for you, set aside some quiet space for yourself to truly appreciate the gifts of the prior week, even on the hard ones.  Think about what you have done for others and what you could have done for others, so that you reset for the new week with that mindfulness.  Make some room in your heart for gratitude---we are blessed with so much, even when we think we are lacking. Remember, no matter how much more we might think we need, there are always people who have much less, and I mean more than just material things---it might be love, it might be forgiveness, it might be family. See if there is anywhere where you can share a little more, and expect a little less.
• Go to bed early on Sunday:  Pick a cut-off time for yourself and just make that last part of the weekend a little bit about relaxing.  Watch a show or read a favorite book but then lights off . . . the week ahead is so much better if you’re actually well rested.  Get at least 8 hours of sleep, and then call me to thank me on Monday morning.

All my love,

Mom

How To Live Out Of A Suitcase

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Pumpkin for Your Thoughts

Last week I baked a small orange pumpkin stuffed with breadcrumbs, cheese, herbs, and bacon. I cut a jagged hole in the top of the pumpkin and scraped loose the stringy flesh, which I then gathered up in my hands and lifted out onto the counter. As I clawed at the slimy insides I felt clumsy and childish. The pulp slipped through my fingers again and again, and suddenly I was visited by images of my childhood. I thought of my favorite Halloween costume and the similar clumsy feeling it stirred up in me: A bright green caterpillar costume with a series of stuffed arms, each strung to the next with fishing line so they moved all as one. I remember lagging behind while trick-or-treating with my sister, stumbling across lawns and tripping into bushes. Nostalgia and fall are like those connected caterpillar arms to me. If I’m feeling nostalgic, I think of fall. If I think of fall, I feel nostalgic. Lift one arm and up go the rest. But that's problematic sometimes, because when I think of the words “Fall" and "pumpkin” my mind calls up generic images like those from commercials. I don’t want my feeling of fall to be summed up by the little drawings of leaves on the chalkboard at Starbucks. I want the real deal. I want my fall back, not a fallback.

What I’m longing for, I think, is to have a keen awareness of the present moment.  I also want to be specific about the past, and I want to observe how my impression of a memory shifts over time. When I was preparing the pumpkin, for example, I realized I could glide along the surface of a general fall feeling. But the alternative was that I could focus on the more particular aspects of the feeling and encourage it to become animated by my imagination, and in doing so allow it to occupy my consciousness for a while. I had to think really hard to let my frustration melt away and into those scenes from childhood. For the first time I felt like cooking was a meditative practice, a medium for a wandering mind.

But maybe it isn't about a wandering mind after all? Maybe it's about a mind being led down a carefully marked path, a path marked by a menu and a task. That pumpkin dinner showed me I could time travel but stay grounded in the moment, too. I was stunned by the fact that I could experience a complete break from the present moment while still operating within it. That split between the past and present, I think, was possible because of the constant thread of physical feeling---that lack of coordination and efficiency which reminded me of the time when I so horribly navigated sidewalks, curbs, and front porch steps in that caterpillar costume. (It was like running in a sleeping bag, really.) A whole string of very specific memories came rushing back to me after that, to the point where I clearly could hear my dad’s voice saying “I’m testing it to make sure it isn’t poisonous” while eating my hard-won candy. I laughed and flailed my many arms in protest. The memories were more honest and clear when I saw them through the lens of my pumpkin and my hands, rather than through the soft focus of my typical "general fall feeling."

I realized that my love of food and my interest in the way memories work don’t have to be colored by nostalgia to be interesting. I found a lot of pleasure in thinking about these memories without yearning for them to return. I felt grounded by my gourd, yet I was still sensing a very specific and vivid memory of a distant fall that I hadn’t thought of in years. That simple rustic dinner became a strange experience in thinking about thoughts. That’s what I like about the play between the seasons, food, and memories:  Our perception of each can expand or condense our awareness and our focus on the moment. My dinner, the pumpkin, the Fall---invitations to think back, but also to think on.