The Art of a List

By Marni Zarr Each morning when I wake, I make a list. First is dinner. What’s for dinner??? The question looms like a tiny splinter lodged under my skin, unnoticeable unless touched and then the annoyance lingers past the pain. You know, that miniscule one you can’t remove but it’s undeniably there so you either get frustrated attempting to ignore it, or accept it, and eventually it works it’s way out.

Next up, “trash out,” “kids to school,” “walk the dog,” “check mailbox,” “buy lunch bags and milk,” “get gas” . . . succinct chores neatly stacked like building blocks, always topped off with a load of laundry. “A load a day keeps the pile away” . . . I make up silly sayings, mostly to amuse my simply-amused self. Bashful to share half of what my mind writes while it’s busily lost in thought, I’ve finally come to appreciate the vastly under appreciated and valuable by-product of everyday chores, realizing that inspiration comes most easily when my hands and task-oriented mind are in motion.

Some of my best bursts of writing creativity occur when I am driving and listening to a song. It's usually a catchy tune with swinging lyrics that confide flirtation and first glances---the anticipation of discovering all those small things about a person that seem to spark your interest the moment you meet them. Some people are interesting, and then there are those whose unique mannerisms stick to your mind like a fly to a frog’s tongue. I don’t completely understand the science of it but I’ve felt the tension pulling taut like a slingshot ready to fire. Something in the back of my mind functions of it’s own accord sending sparks of Morse code to my sub-conscious to be stored and decoded later. Sometimes it takes hours and many times it’s not until days later that the replay becomes obsessive, starting and stopping as I try to pinpoint the moment the tiny spark flew. A game of catch from one to the other or both firing at the same time, laser beams pinpointed for collision and meeting at the height of their arc, then a little explosion sending back a blinking mission complete to some part of the brain. Is it the frontal lobe?

I jot that down on my list to look up later.

[image:  some rights reserved by puuikibeach on Flickr]

I don't like babies

Which is a problem because I am pregnant. Here’s the thing: I’m just uncomfortable around babies.  I was reminded of this recently on a family vacation upon meeting a new nephew. I very much have the attitude of a child-less person when confronted with another’s infant. They are cute from afar, and it’s fun to purchase tiny clothes, but for the most part I don’t want to get too close. I worry they will spit up on me and start crying and I won’t know what to do. I thought this attitude would change after I had a child. That perhaps I would learn that magical formula of rocking and soothing. Or that I would long to smell the milky baby scent and soft fuzzy head. Instead, I nod politely and rush off to entertain the older kids. Maybe I’m just not a Mama. You know the ones, the baby whisperers, who cast evil glances at children older than a year. Their primary skill set revolves around the youngest humans. They can breastfeed with no issues and quiet a crying infant with just the tip of their pinkie and a soothing voice. Instead I’m a full on Mom. When I’m not pregnant, I like to be the one out there with the dads, running with a soccer ball. I laugh at the kids' jokes and come up with goofy games for them to play, but those babies, man, those babies really make me nervous.

I figured it would change since I’ve already gone through the infant stage---maybe some part of me would long to bond with this new child; instead, I am terrified. It’s even worse this time because I know better. I know that along with the cute onesies and soft hair are the sleepless nights, the endless screaming and crying. It was the non-communication that really got to me. They seem like small aliens, incapable of complex emotions beyond crying. The first year was such a blur to me. There are happy pictures from that time, but mostly I remember the crying and the boredom. And when I say crying, I feel like I should clarify that. It’s more than just a few pathetic sobs, babies cry at a heart-wrenching rate. I would be jolted awake multiple times per night from a dead sleep into full on anxiety mode. My heart would be racing and the longer he cried, the sicker I felt. I couldn’t disassociate from the screaming, couldn’t understand it, so I cried too. I felt as if I were fighting a war every night, waiting for the end to come.

It did come, finally. Charley grew up. So now I have a little boy whom I love more than anyone in the world, and I worry everyday of this pregnancy that that will always be the case. I worry that when this next baby comes I will retreat to my older child, seek solace, and block out the younger one. I worry I will never love the younger one as much as my first born. Mostly, I just worry.

X. Normandie

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

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

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

Lessons from Paris...

Dear Clara,

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

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

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

All my love,

Mom

What Are You Reading (offline, that is?)

Rhea St. Julien was absolutely certain she would grow up to be a Fly Girl, but had to rethink her life goals when In Living Color was cancelled in 1994.  Since then, she's been trying to find a comparable life goal, trying out teaching Pilates, becoming an Expressive Arts Therapist, and a work-at-home Mama/children's programming consultant.  In the process, she's become one of those wacky San Franciscans her grandmother always warned her about.  In her spare time, she can be found rocking out with her husband in their band Him Downstairs, shaking it in dance class, or reading a stack of library books.  Her personal blog, Thirty Threadbare Mercies, focuses on parenting, spirituality and pop culture.

Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches From the Front Lines of The New Girlie-Girl Culture by Peggy Orenstein

Just after my daughter's Where the Wild Things Are themed 2-year-old birthday party, I found myself sitting in a pile of pink, sparkly gifts, worried that perhaps I would be smothered by all the tulle and sequins. It hit me: the princess craze was right around the corner, and Olive had just been issued her uniform. I needed to heed my friends' suggestions, and read Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter, before the fate the book's title warned became reality.

I was a charming toddler, and was told so often, by strangers as well as relatives, who made up funny nicknames for me like "Reebeedee", "Ribbit" and "Pumpkin", that they felt reflected my free spirit and but also my cuteness. However, I do not recall ever being called "Princess." It would not have fit my tendency to come home covered in dirt every day from the playground, or the way that I dressed, which was mostly in overalls or corduroys.

Since having my daughter, however, I have been disconcerted by how many people call her "Princess". Far from a castle, we live in a cramped urban apartment, and as the child of a pair of artist/social workers, she has anything but a royal pedigree. When she plays, she’s aggressively physical: running, jumping, dancing, singing. We dress her mostly in primary colors, rather than the ubiquitous pink pastels that take up the girls’ section of any children’s clothing store.

However, no matter what she’s doing or what she’s wearing, people say, “Oh, look at the little princess!” Well, why should it bother me that people are bestowing this moniker on her? Isn't it a compliment?

Orenstein, journalist and mother, breaks down why the princess title gets under my skin: “Let’s review: princesses avoid female bonding. Their goals are to be saved by a prince, get married . . . and be taken care of for the rest of their lives. Their value derives largely from their appearance. They are rabid materialists. They might affect your daughter’s interest in math” (p.23). She goes on to explain how the princesses-on-everything phenomenon was created by a Disney exec a decade or so ago, a marketing strategy rather than something girls started doing on their own, which led girls away from creating crowns out of felt and gave them perfectly scripted play to follow, word by word.

Don't get me wrong. Sequins, wands, and big dresses are attractive, and your child of either gender may be drawn to them. However, Orenstein’s book shows how girls today are being told that if a toy, like a toolkit, or a ball and bat, are not painted Pepto Pink and adorned with a picture of a skinny, smiling girl in a tiara, then they are not suitable for girls to play with, and if they do otherwise, then they are not really a girl but . . . something else.

For toddlers that are engaged in the brain-building task of sorting their world into categories, not knowing where you stand is not going to make you feel like a cool misfit, it is going to negate your existence entirely. So, young ones seek to proclaim their gender through engaging in whatever their culture considers appropriate play for either girls or boys.

This is not in and of itself a problem, but if all the options for girls are focused around how they look rather than actively doing something, they equate being a girl with looking pretty. And that creates a never-ending urge to define yourself as beautiful externally, which can lead to the myriad of problems women have with body image.

Princess play, and what it turns into in the tween years (The Hannah Montana/High School Musical/Cheetah Girls industrial complex), is largely focused on appearance, rather than accomplishment or inner growth. Orenstein asserts, "Girls pushed to be sexy too soon can't really understand what they're doing. And that, (researchers argue), is the point: they do not---and may never---learn to connect their performance to erotic feelings or intimacy. They learn how to act desirable but not how to desire, undermining rather than promoting healthy sexuality" (p. 85).

This is perhaps the strongest argument of the book, for me. I want my daughter to understand pleasure as something derived not from how others perceive her, but from actually experiencing it. If I praise her only for how she looks, she will become so used to objectification that she will seek it out in order to feel loved.

Reading Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches From The Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture (with its deceptively pink sparkly cover) on the playground while my daughter used dump trucks to push the sand around, led to some interesting conversations.

"LOVED that book," one mom intoned passionately, which quickly turned to sheepishness when her daughter, decked out in a pink-and-purple Princess gown, ran up to us to get a snack.

"Oh, I just finished that book!", a Dad covered in tattoos told me. "What did you think?" I asked. "It was great . . . but she doesn't really offer any practical solutions." So, several parents I knew and respected had read this book, but didn't feel like they were doing things any differently now.

However, that may be just what Orenstein wanted. She makes the case in her book for parents finding their own personal threshold for gendered toys and activities, but that, at the very least, it is "absolutely vital to think through our own values and limits early, to consider what we approve or disapprove of and why" (p. 182).

Which is why I suggest picking up a copy of Cinderella Ate My Daughter, as a good first step to figuring out what your boundaries are going to be around Bratz, Barbies and Beauty Pageants, before you find yourself in the toy aisle at Target, hemming and hawing about your child’s request. I recommend it for parents of both boys and girls, as Orenstein reviews the research on whether nature or nurture defines toy choice and play attitudes for children of both sex.

Orenstein’s tone is engaging, funny, and suggests a journey rather than a checklist of “shows to ban” and surefire ways to protect your child from materialism and objectification. Her book is an invitation to the conversation about girlie-girl culture, rather than a hard and fast indictment of it. I may not be able to keep my daughter completely from the lure of Princess play, but I am going to counterbalance it with stories of strong women, and relationships with adults who are non-conformist in their gender expression, so that she will have more choices, not less.

A Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling

Ever since the end to the Harry Potter book series, fans have been waiting with baited breath to learn what JK Rowling's next step would be. When she announced A Casual Vacancy, a novel for adults, her Goodreads page blew up with animated GIFs that expressed the internet version of a collective orgy of anticipation.

A fan of the Harry Potter series myself, I dutifully pre-ordered the novel to my Nook, and looked forward to being transported by Rowling's words once again. A few days before A Casual Vacancy was released, The New Yorker published a rather nasty portrait of Rowling, in which the profiler took cheap shots like saying she was wearing heavy foundation, or bringing up her troubled relationship with her father in revealing ways. My back went up: why can't writers be quirky and not exactly perfectly likeable?

But then I read A Casual Vacancy. And I realized, the New Yorker writer was simply furious at Rowling for wasting her talent and our time by writing quite possible the least redemptive, most depressing novel of the past decade.

To understand why Rowling wrote such a soul-crushing novel, let’s go back to where she left off with her readers. Personally, I was disappointed by the end of the Harry Potter series. Harry and his friends end up in safe jobs, with happy marriages, and everything is tied up with a neat little bow. It seemed like Rowling had really phoned it in, giving children an unrealistic portrait of adulthood, which was out of character with the series, which often showed adults as complex figures, capable of both betrayal and loyalty.

Perhaps she felt she needed to atone for wearing the kid gloves with Harry and co., so she wrote her characters in A Casual Vacancy with a razor-sharp lack of compassion for the reader, or for her storyline. She spends the first thirty pages describing all the characters, save one, as unspeakably ugly and savoring the death of what appeared to be last person with a soul in Pagford, the stultifying English small town in which the novel is set.

"It must get better. There has to be some emotional resonance and redemption in here somewhere. It's JK Fucking Rowling!" I told myself, as character after character that I thought could perhaps be an interesting anti hero turned out to be a baseless tweeb, only concerned with their own petty desires, which mostly centered on jockeying for position for the council seat vacated by the Last Good Person in Pagford, which is the outward premise of the novel.

I got the feeling that the hidden premise Rowling sought was to show the raw underbelly of life, to stick her reader’s noses in it and say, “THIS is real life! Not magical train rides and children defeating death with a flick of a wand!” But . . . the world that Rowling created in A Casual Vacancy was not that realistic to me. Sure, people are petty and small-minded and self-centered, but they are also capable of change and of sacrificial love.

The question begs itself: who did Rowling write this book for? Certainly not for Harry Potter fans of any age. And that is fine---artists should not have to pander to their past work as they keep creating. However, the new work she has presented is so unlikeable, so devoid of truth and beauty, that my only hope is that she wrote it for herself, because it was a story inside of her that just needed to be told.

Want to know what Rhea thought of every book she read last year? You're in luck---she reviewed all 58 books here.

Seasons of creativity

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

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

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

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

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

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

Social Distortion

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

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

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

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

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

What I Believe

Over the weekend I was talking with a friend of mine.  We had one of those twisty conversations that covers a million topics, to trace back how we got to talking about the movie Bull Durham would require flow charts and recording devices. But get there we did. I’ve never seen the movie, so my friend was telling me the major plot points and characters.  She said her favorite part was a speech Kevin Costner’s character gives, in answer to Susan Sarandon’s question ‘What do you believe in then?’  The speech covered Baseball, Love, Sex, Politics, Holiday Traditions, and more, and my friend had it memorized.  And at the end, Kevin Costner turns and walks out the door, having said his piece. Should the occasion ever arise, I’d like to be able to rattle off a list of my truest beliefs without consulting notes or stumbling over the words.  Here’s my first draft:

I believe in kindness, goodness, luck, and the importance of good juju. I believe in the Muppets, Gene Kelley, Fred Astaire, and Bing Crosby.  I believe in cozy sweaters and keeping the thermostat low to cuddle under the blankets. I believe in family, those gifted at birth and those chosen.  I believe in books, records, and hand-written letters whenever possible, but accept digital versions as well. I believe in love. I believe marriage isn’t right for everyone, but that everyone should have the option. I believe in laughing every day, trusting the universe, and marching to my own drummer.  I believe gummi bears are better with I vodka and the time vortex is a thing. I believe in back roads, sunsets, and stopping to take pictures.  I believe in coffee, glitter, red wine, and great shoes. I believe happiness is just as worthy of a goal as a corner office. I believe in saying I Love You. I believe that time spent together is never wasted. I believe everyone has their own truth, their own journey, and their own sources of joy.

What do you believe in?

A well of goodness

As Ray Bradbury would have it (emphasis mine):

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

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

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

Steve McCurry photographs the concept of home . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to experience this.

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

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

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

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

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

Thinking of Rumi . . .

"Let yourself be silently drawn

by the strange pull

of what you really love.

It will not lead you astray."

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

I am Measuring Life in Photographs . . .

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

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

Not open for business

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(original photo by velkr0 on flickr)

What to Wear on Halloween

I remember when Halloween was just a trip to the thrift store and some face paint. You get dressed up, your mom approximates some whiskers on your cheeks. You go out with your little friends. And then, more importantly, you end up with a plastic pumpkin bucket full of fun, fun sizes of chocolate and candy. As girls become women, however, the candy takes a backseat to the costume—and costumes ain’t what they used to be. Sure, you can still dress as the cartoon characters, animals, and superheroes of your youth; you just have to precede said costume title with the word “sexy.”

It doesn’t really matter how ridiculous the result is, either, as demonstrated by this collection. Sexy cats sit on costume shelves alongside sexy Big Birds and sexy hamburgers. The main thing is, it needs to be short, tight, or low-cut—preferably all three. For many women, Halloween is an opportunity to show off your body without shame. It’s like a one-time-a-year free pass for even the normally reserved and modest: no one will call you a slut in the morning.

More power to every woman who wants to jump on the sexy costume trend, but I think there are many women who are more like me: uncomfortable with the objectification that the once inclusive, innocent holiday increasingly promotes. It’s okay to be annoyed that this pressure to be sexy exists exclusively for women. Men’s costumes tend to be funny, ironic, gory, scary—no sexy Freddy Kreugers for them. So why are we women inundated with the Sexy Costume trend?

For those who are asking themselves the same question, I’ve come up with a few ideas for costumes that are fun, topical, empowering, attractive, but not demeaning. (Disclaimer: I’m no Halloween costume-choosing expert, so feel free to add your own to this list.)

A politician with a sense of humor

Hillary Clinton, Texts from Hillary-style.

To apply: Sweep your hair behind your ears (or invest in a short blond wig), put on shades, wear a black pantsuit with a large brooch pin, hold your phone in front of you at all times.

An Olympic gold medalist

Missy Franklin or Gabby Douglas

To apply: Slick your hair back tight in a ponytail or bun. (If you’re Missy, might be good to apply enough gel that your hair looks wet all night.) Wear a black bathing suit or red, white and blue leotard. Put fake gold medals around your neck (choose the appropriate number per athlete). Feel free to add tights or a towel to cover up. (If you’re going as McKayla Maroney, add perpetual scowl and folded arms.)

A kickass superheroine

Catwoman or Black Widow. Yes, they’re both super-sexy, but they’re also powerful and take-charge. And what do you want to bet that somewhere out there are “sexy” versions of their film costumes (read: shorter)?

To apply: Tight leather-ish black bodysuit, boots, gun belt, attitude. For Catwoman, add black eye mask and ears. For Black Widow, add a red wig.

A female fantasy protagonist

Katniss Everdeen or Hermione Granger

To apply: For Katniss, find gray, earth-toned winter clothes—a parka, sweater, khakis, and boots. Sling a quiver of arrows over your back and carry a bow around. Put your hair in a long side braid. For Hermione, just pick up a long, dark Hogwarts-emblazoned robe at your local costume store, replete with starched collar shirt and red and gold tie. Carry a wand. And if you’re doing old-school Hermione, make sure your hair is big and frizzy.

A Strong Female Character

There’s plenty of others to choose from, some of which I’ve discussed on this blog: Olivia Benson from “Law & Order: SVU,” Zooey Deschanel, Brave, Buffy (who I dressed up as in tenth grade using only a leather jacket, a hair claw, and a wooden stake). Don’t ever feel limited by what’s on the costume store shelves—the possibilities are truly endless. In fact, don't even be limited by your gender! Dress as a male character you like. You get bonus points for defying gender expectations and upsetting the patriarchy.

As for what NOT to wear: My only advice is, don’t do the ethnic costume thing. Besides exposing a lot of leg, Halloween also has the tendency to expose a lot of racism, poignantly argued by this Ohio University campaign. If you’re going as a historical or notable figure of a different ethnicity or nationality, that’s fine—just be aware of the overall impact of your costume (is it respectful or caricature?) and NEVER, NEVER paint your skin a different color.

If all else fails, follow Oscar from “The Office”’s example: dress as yourself and tell everyone you’re a "rational consumer." Given the cost of some Halloween costumes, that might end up being the best choice.

Freedom from Food

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

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

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

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

Same, too, for the writing.

Looking Forward: Traces.

I spent my last year of college living in the front room of a purple and yellow Victorian house not far from downtown Santa Cruz. Six of us lived upstairs, six or so more lived below. The house was old, rickety. It was terribly insulated (I remember laying in my bed one winter morning, almost in tears because I had to get out from under the covers). The bathtub didn’t drain properly and made strange, regurgitation sounds at random, often in the middle of the night. My bedroom had gray carpeting with bits of gum (not mine) stuck in its fibers. I loved that house.

“I’m in the big purple Victorian near the high school,” I’d tell people when asked where I lived.

The following winter, after graduation, I returned to Santa Cruz to visit a friend who’d stayed behind to complete a Master’s program. Of course, I made a point to drive past the purple and yellow house.

To my horror, it was army green.

I haven’t been back to Santa Cruz since.

---

There are places in my life---and by places, I mean actual locations---that hold so much emotional charge that I can barely stand to think about them. Missing them hurts too much.

Santa Cruz is the perfect example. And it’s not just the city itself that I miss. I miss the purple house. I miss the East Field overlooking the ocean, where I lay in the grass on one of my first nights at school, stargazing with a group of perfect strangers. I miss the classroom where I attended creative writing workshops. I miss a certain stretch of road along Westcliff Drive, where I stood on a rock one windy afternoon, watching otters in the surf with the first boy I ever loved.

Santa Cruz was mine then. But part of growing up is leaving things behind.

Santa Cruz doesn’t belong to me anymore, I thought as I drove away from the army green monstrosity that was my home. It’s moved on without me.

But while the houses we grew up in, the schools we attended, and the cities we lived in may no longer be ours simply by virtue of the fact that we’re no longer physically there, I think we leave traces of ourselves behind in places we love. And in that way, they’re never lost.

A piece of me is still in Santa Cruz, sitting on the stoop at the purple house, spying on otters, stargazing in the grass.

Thinking about all of this hurts, but it’s also a reminder to enjoy where I am---and what I’m doing---now.

Because I know one day I’ll miss this place in the same way, too.

Autumn Changes

Autumn has officially changed her wardrobe and, in my opinion, she is the most stylish season of all.   Ruby reds and burnt oranges seem to be her everyday wear and occassionally a pop of goldie-locks yellow accents her bold style.  It seems as though autumn spreads vibrant colored leaves all over the grassy parks and sidewalks just as a daily reminder that she's only around for a short time.  This year my husband and I are taking in her beauty from our new home in a mountainous city in Tennessee.  Living here is like being part of an ever-changing painting where the artist's talent gets better with every stroke of the brush.  Miss Autumn is also very gracious to give us a break from the extreme southern humidity which can only be truly appreciated and understood by a long-time resident.  During the warm months, just walking out to gather the mail will leave you drenched in sweat before making it back to the front door.  Air conditioning and wading in a pool of water is a necessity when it comes to summer survival down here.  Now that the cool fall temperatures and crispy breeze have arrived, we love falling asleep with our windows up and waking up feeling refreshed.

When this time of the year rolls around, the leaves aren't the only ones going through a change.  What I wear, how I cook, our weekend activities, and how I view each day is different.  Slowly but surely my sun dresses and flops are replaced with cozy sweaters and knee-high boots.  Warm scarves are taking the place of summer necklaces and I prefer it that way.  During the hot southern months, our refrigerator is packed full of cold pasta salads, washed and sliced seasonal fruits, and chilled tomatoes for a quick sandwich because turning on the oven would be like tossing wood into a blazing fire.  These days my crock pot stays full of vegetarian chili,  the oven is constantly heating up winter vegetable casseroles with a variety bubbling cheeses, and hot tea is my drink of choice. Late night frozen yogurt runs take a back seat to dark chocolate s'mores and a mug full of steamy hot cocoa.  One of my favorite fall traditions is to drag my husband to the local pumpkin patch and, according to him, spend way too much time picking out the perfect one.  And of course, football and tailgating is like air to a southerner.  Fans drive for miles and miles to set up tents and multiple tables of the most delicious food imaginable while sporting their team colors.  The grills serve as a way feed anyone who walks by and also as a hand warmer.  Maybe it's the different color palette of the landscape or the fresh-faced chill in the air, but there is definitely something about fall that makes me more aware, more energized, and more thankful for each day.  Autumn . . . I think she's pretty fantastic.

The Secret Downside to Travel

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

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

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

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

Losing a Friend

I lost my closest friend this weekend. Lost might not be a great word for it, she didn’t suffer or pass away, she moved. I said goodbye to her for the last time in my driveway, our kids giving each other hugs. I kept the tears in until I was inside, and then I turned to my husband and just bawled. They were deep sobs, coming from a hormonal emotional place. I felt like I was five again. I don’t have many close friends, especially mom friends, and for two years we had watched our kids grow together. We shared first steps, first words, first tantrums. This, this is what it feels like to be a tribe, I thought, to feel like I had a little village to rely on. For a period of my life a year ago, she meant everything to me. My husband was working long hours, and I was still figuring out the whole staying at home mom thing. We would spend days at each other’s houses, where I never felt judged for letting my kid eat sugar or my house being a mess. So often, with the other older moms I felt lost, like I’ll be yelled at for doing something wrong. So many of them seemed completely sure of themselves while I was floundering.

It’s a funny thing about having kids so young, everyone I can relate to, all my friends from before, don’t have kids. I’m a little island in a sea of young women focused on careers and themselves. And to be honest, sometimes I am jealous. I would love to spend hours writing everyday or walking my favorite city, both things I loved to do before kids, but I can’t. Most days I can barely get a shower in. I read their blogs, all the interesting traveling they are doing, and can’t help but feel left out. I didn’t think I would miss much when I had my son at 22. I was done with partying and clubs, but instead I’m missing a whole decade of finding myself.

They tell me that it gets easier. This loss, this worrying I’ll never see my friend again. But instead, I look at photos of our kids together, her daughter and my son and wonder how much older they will look when we see each other again. I wonder what our next babies (due within a month of each other) will be like. I wonder how much will have changed, or not at all.

IX. Provence

Agnès has a small dinner party one Friday night and asks me to stay through the drinks before I go out to meet friends. I don’t pass up opportunities to speak French, plus watching my host mother in these kinds of social situations is oddly fascinating. The two male guests are old boyfriends of hers who still come over and have her cook for them sometimes. Both quiet and sullen, they don’t say thank you when Agnès sets plates full of steaming food in front of them. I think that that she might have a type. The shorter of the two scoots his chair up next to mine in the living room. As I sip my small plastic flute of rosé, he asks me a few questions about myself: where I’m from, what I’m studying, why I’m in France. Then he asks me how many children I want to have.

In the United States, this kind of question would be considered out of place. Rude, not to mention weird, and none of any strangers’ business how many children I want to have, or if I even want to have any. But here, it’s not. Not as weird as I think it is, anyway. French culture — while so socially progressive in some ways — can still be so backward that it makes me want to scream.

But I’m starting to realize that I can’t change it. So I stare at him for a beat, unblinking, and answer, “Thirteen.”

An Indefinite Season

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

It Takes a Village

For several months, the two of us have been rattling along—slowly and steadily at first, and then, all of a sudden, at lightning speed—toward our wedding day this past Sunday. There were a couple of brave souls who volunteered right away to stir up decor, to preside over refreshments, to fashion a cake. Then we all retreated to our respective workshops, pounding out the details one by one. Our own two-person workshop was a quiet but busy one. In the early mornings and late at night, we pooled our resources and put on our most creative thinking caps. Over simple lunches and steaming cups of coffee, we crafted our lists and spreadsheets, made our calculations and recalculations.

Everything changed this past weekend, when a small but mighty ensemble of joyful hearts and open arms descended upon us. From what seemed like the furthest corners of the earth, our loved ones swooped down and began to work magic in many forms. They read poetry and chopped cabbage. They lit candles and fireplaces. They held our hands and told us to breathe. They brought their singing voices and their dancing feet. They wrapped us in an embrace of busy and brilliant love.

By the time we woke the next day, it felt as if all the world were still. Our loved ones had packed up the debris of a wedding well-celebrated and returned to their vibrant and bustling lives. As we begin a new leg of our journey together, I know for sure that we are learning from the best. We are learning from those who love with their hands and with their feet, with their full hearts and with their comforting voices.

We often envision weddings as a celebration of the love of two people for one another. But I was delighted to witness this weekend what I already must have known: that our bright, little love is buoyed by our village of family and friends, near and far, who love us steadily, and then sometimes, all of a sudden.