What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Lauren Kodiak is a Connecticut native living in Portland, Oregon with her boyfriend and her slightly overweight cat. She has a master’s in Educational Policy, Foundations and Administration, but still doesn’t know what she wants to be when she grows up. She loves to spend hours in the kitchen, practice yoga and eat ice cream for dinner. My boyfriend, Drew, is an MFA in creative writing candidate, so every inch of our tiny studio apartment is occupied with books of all kinds. I rarely have to make a trip to the bookstore or library when I’m looking for a new read, as I have a seemingly endless supply at my fingertips. Since reading is such an integral part of our relationship and life together, I thought I’d extend the invitation to him to share a favorite book with you all. Perhaps in light of the tragedies our nation currently grieves, our picks lean toward the darker side, full of raw emotion. But in these stories, as in life, there is always humor and light to be found if you choose to look for it.

Lauren: We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live by Joan Didion Comprised of seven books of nonfiction, dating back to 1968, this is certainly a hefty undertaking. But what I love most about it is that I’ve been slipping back and forth between books here and there, in no particular order. My first foray into Didion was just this past year, when I read The Year of Magical Thinking. I found myself captivated by her precise observations and minimalistic prose. I kept rereading sentences, trying to decipher what it was exactly about each one that elicited so much emotion. After reading from We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live—specifically The White Album—I see now that it’s not the how, but the what. Sure, her sentences are sparse, but what they contain are stories of a nervous breakdown, of her multiple sclerosis diagnosis, and of the paranoia and anxiety she experienced while living in California during the unsettling time period of the 1960s-70s. She shares everything, spares us none of the unsavory truths. As I read more of Didion, I’m beginning to understand that writing about deeply personal issues is not synonymous with depressing others. Actually, these dark anecdotes inspire and reassure, universalizing anxieties and fears we all have felt at some point in our lives.

Drew: The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt As a graduate student of creative writing, I’ve read some great literature. And while I enjoy much of what I read, I sometimes agree with the opinion that criticizes contemporary literature as plot-less and humorless. Patrick deWitt’s The Sisters Brothers reminded me why I fell in love with literature in the first place. A hilarious adventure set in the old West of Oregon and California, the novel drives forward in short, sometimes mere page-long chapters, which force things to happen—force horses to fail, whisky to be drunk, and gold-seekers to be murdered. The voice, younger brother Eli’s first person account of a manhunt undertaken with his brother, is pared-down, even keeled, sharply chiseled and oftentimes downright hysterical. Yet at its core, The Sisters Brothers meditates family and the moral compass of a mercenary. These topics, of course, are potent and worthy of examination in imaginative literature. Lucky for us, deWitt doesn’t crutch on his sentiments to carry the book; instead he juxtaposes them against a hilarious cast of characters, situations and killings gone wrong, all of which make this the best novel I read this year.

Both: Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout We have a soft spot for coastal Maine, the setting of Elizabeth Strout’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection of thirteen linked stories, Olive Kitteridge, and the title character—a crotchety, opinionated retired teacher—serves as the collection’s nucleus. Regardless of whether we are inside Olive’s head or see her through the lens of others, her big, boisterous character is ever-present. Despite Olive’s abrasive and callous demeanor, we can’t help but find her loveable as she lumbers through life. With such emphasis on Olive, it would be easy for the rest of the book to fall to the wayside, but the scenery of Crosby, Maine and the lives of those that inhabit it are richly illustrated. As you become privy to the gossip and secrets of the townspeople—an elderly couple is held at gunpoint, the mother of a killer becomes a hermit, a widowed old woman finds love in the least expected man—it’s difficult not to feel intertwined and invested in this little community. The range of emotions and experiences expressed throughout Olive Kitteridge are representative of those of the human condition. We both got lost in the day-to-day trials and misgivings of these characters, and cheered for them when they found glimmers of hope and happiness. A must-read for all!

Home

Faded ticket stubs, dried rose petals folded inside notes of high school love, gleeful photos of attempting to blow out candles on childhood birthday cakes, and journals describing firsts---the first time away from home, the first crush, the first heartbreak, and the first encounter with grief. A whole life, a full life, is contained in the dusty leather photo albums and journals, remnants of a world before Facebook and iPhones. This past life, which I visit upon coming “home,” feels distant. I associate with the girl in the photos, whose memories I find in my childhood bedroom---the one smiling in the photos, wistfully blowing dandelion seeds off a dark green stem; the one who scribbled “BFFs” on the back of pictures and saved notes secretly passed in class, attempting to immortalize friendship; and the one with the mischievous grin of adventure-scheming, creating imaginary worlds in the backyard. Yet, she feels distant.

Home is now packaged with the holidays and my trips are fewer and shorter. At times it astounds me that over ten years ago, I packed my bags, ready for a new world in Boston. Without fail, upon returning to this bedroom, my attention is drawn to the old photo albums (which I aptly called “memory books”), scribbled notes, and journals---each full of its own memories. Perhaps by searching through the past I can find answers to the persistent questions of the present. Perhaps simply reigniting the memories, the feelings, of a life contained within a single community and countable friendships, will bring resolutions to questions in a life not contained by space and experiences.

What pulls me to these photos and scribbles is the inability to return to these cherished moments---childhood, a past sense of friendship and family, or, in many ways, the version of myself that existed here. As the brilliant article in the Harvard Business Review, How to Move Around without Losing your Roots notes, “. . . home is where we are from---the place we begin to be.” Home is where the “self” I began with is.

As a wise friend told me recently that we carry the “versions” of ourselves from the past with us.

The self in the photos is confident in belonging; joyful, yet naive to realities beyond her world; and, yet this self longed for understanding beyond her immediate experience. While the current version feels distant from the photos and scribbles, so much of the searching, creating, and defining in my life was born in this mischievous grin and the very first iteration of home and self. The notion of home, even if it is past, challenges me to assess changes and growth, while tying my current life back to the Colorado landscapes, the house my father built, and friendships helped me define who I was in the beginning. As distant as I may ever feel, my current self is rooted in this past narrative of home and place. If home is an experience of “belonging, a feeling of being whole and known,” as the HBR article describes, it is not my current self in the place that “I began” that feels at home. Yet, the self I remember when I visit may hold joyful child-like insights and mischievous adventure schemes to inform my continued search for this notion of “home.”

Would you like that book in print or pixels?

Armed with a shiny new gift card, I set about fulfilling my reading wish list this week. There was only one problem. For each title, I hovered over the “add to cart” button, wavering unsteadily between two options: print or ebook. In the past, the print vs. digital decision has always been an obvious one. I wanted to feel the weight of a book in my hands, inhale that new (or used) book smell, and wander my way through the geography of its pages. My Kindle library, on the other hand, is made up largely of books I couldn’t find at the university library two hours before a class. The sensory aspect of print always won out; ebooks were second-string.

Lately, though, the gravitational pull of digital has dragged me right into the center of the debate. It used to seem as if digital libraries were isolated ones. When all of our recent reads drift into the abyss of the cloud, we lose that particular intimacy of hovering over a friend’s bookshelves, running a finger over the titles, and uncovering the stories behind the stories.

That’s the thing about personal libraries. They bear witness to the places we’ve been and the people we’ve loved. The collective provenance of our books is like a time capsule. Where were you when you read this one, and who were you with, and where did you get it, and who had it before you? The used books and those with personal inscriptions are of particular interest. They remind us of our connections to friends and strangers.

And anyways, have you ever had an author sign your ebook?

But despite the compelling arguments for print (and I can think of many more), I am beginning to glimpse the possibilities for reading in community with ebooks. You can read together long-distance and share impressions in real time with 24-Hour Bookclub. You can share favorite passages with Readmill, and you can even browse your friends’ digital libraries with Goodreads. I’m just touching the surface of these and so many other possibilities, but I’m excited about reading as a communal sport. I hope it lands comfortably somewhere on the spectrum between very quiet alone-time reading and social media overwhelm.

In the end, I bought one ebook and one print. I’m devouring the former while I wait a whole forty-eight hours for the latter to arrive, in all of its weighty, book-scented glory. As for the rest of my list, I’ll let you know how it goes.

Some Thoughts on Bangladesh

Bangladesh:  cyclones, floods, poverty, George Harrison sang a song about it.  Maybe if you’re a little older than me you remember news reports from the seventies about the liberation war.  More recently perhaps the name conjures thoughts of a Nobel Prize and micro credit.  None of which has anything to do with everyday life, with the possible exception of poverty.  But even that, I would wager that whatever vision or perception you have, the reality is incomprehensible. [gallery]

Bangladesh is an incredibly poor country.  So much so, that I’m not sure I can put it into words.  UNICEF  estimates that 50% of the population is living below the international poverty line of $1.25 USD/day (2009 stat).  I expect that to be a very conservative number.  The fact is that the people likely to be missed by such a survey including the homeless, rural farm workers, and gypsies, are likely to be many of those living below the poverty line.  Begging is a way of life, a day job, especially in the city---and it breaks my heart a little almost every day.  On my first visit to Bangladesh one of the things I taught myself was that there is no shame in closing your eyes.  It took some convincing, but I came to the conclusion that it is not cowardly or hiding, its protecting my psyche.  As with anywhere else in the world where begging is rampant, it is impossible to tell who is asking because they truly need and who is just looking at it as a job---if there is even a difference.  And there is no magic wand or fairy spell.  I could give away my entire savings, and it would make no difference here.  Until there is sustainable employment, the pattern will continue.  Dhaka is crushed with people.  Villagers travel to the city hoping that they’ll find a job, a better situation, something to send home to their families.  The city is bursting at the seams; there is no room for the crux of humanity.  Aid organizations flock to the country.  Maybe they do good---I certainly hope so . . . but I also know that for every $2 that comes into the country in aid, $1 lines someone’s pocket.  Everyone here knows it.  Corruption is the name of the game.  I recently heard that Bangladesh was ranked as one of the top, if not the number one, most corrupted government/country.  The response of people around me---not surprised at all.  Not even a little. Politicians are getting ridiculously rich off of the suffering.  Aid organizations are building themselves bigger offices.  Nothing is accomplished unless you know someone in the right circles.  And in my ear, George Harrison is still crying.

Lessons from a New Year...

Dear Clara, One year rolls out, and a new one rolls in . . . I love the fresh feeling of possibility that the New Year brings, the crispness of winter, and the sense that there is a blank canvas of achievements just waiting for us.  Here is always what I think about for the year ahead:

• Reflect on the year past: I think it’s only fair that before you leave the old year with abandon, that you reflect on everything you accomplished.  And be generous.  We so often focus on what we didn’t get to on our lists that we forget what we were able to do.  Sit down with your calendar and think about all the good things that came your way, and you’ll have a new appreciation of what you’ve been given and what you were able to do with it, even in the tough years.
• Buy a new calendar: Nothing says possibility to me like the crisp, white, blank pages of a new calendar (except for maybe the crisp, white, blank pages of a new notebook!) This is where your plans will take place.  And this will be your record for looking back on everything that you will still accomplish in your new year.  Find a calendar that organizes you, but also inspires you.  They’re out there.
• List out your resolutions: I see more and more that people make fun of New Year’s resolutions, they say we should be doing these things all the time.  That’s probably true, but in all reality, this is a time of year where we have a bit of time to slowdown to think about the direction that we’d like to go in, whether it be personally or professionally.  Writing things down makes them more real.  Keep the list short, but mix a few tangible things with a few dreams, and I guarantee you’ll get to both faster.
• Do something for your wealth: Think about where you are financially and where you want to be eventually.  Are you moving in the right direction? Do you need to save a little more? Do you need to invest in your education a little more? Think about what makes you feel more secure and plan a few steps on that path.
• Do something for your health:  Remember that your health is a gift, but it can easily go away when we don’t take care of it.  Maybe it’s eating a bit smarter, maybe it’s moving a bit more, but think about one think that you can focus on to take care of your body in the way that it deserves.
• And do something for your happiness:  Try to think of what you don’t make time for but that you know would make you truly happy.  For me, these tend to be creative things.  I don’t have what most people would consider a creative job during the day, although for me it’s still rewarding.  But I look for other opportunities to get the creativity that I crave, and because it doesn’t become part of my work, I do it just for me and it makes me happy.  Look for just those one or two things that you know you should make time for, because it would help you find happiness in the other things that you do all day.
• Think hard about the changes that others would like to see in you: For the most part, our resolutions are about ourselves, for ourselves.  But I also try to think of a quality that I know others would like to see more of in me.  Patience comes to mind often . . . so does mindfulness regarding things like phone calls and correspondence.  These simply aren't always my strong suit.  Your job isn’t to turn yourself into the perfect picture of what everyone else would like to see in you.  But chances are, we all have a few things that could use a bit of improvement on, and that little bit of improvement could translate into a whole lot of happiness to those that matter most to us.  This isn’t a time to be defensive, it’s a time to be reflective.

In this new year, and in all of your new and many years ahead, may I be the first to wish you all the health, happiness, success, mindfulness and joy in the world.

All my love,

Mom

The F Words: Miriam Blocker

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Miriam. You might have noticed that Miriam and I share a last name; she's married, you see, to my little brother, and is a seriously amazing lady. She studied at the University of Edinburgh, where she managed a theater over the summers (where, it happens, she met said little brother), then moved here to the States to join my wacky family. Her parents, both Anglican priests, still live in Manchester, but are Dutch (mom) and American (dad) by birth. That said, Miriam still managed to develop a very English taste for Christmas pudding, something she got me to try exactly once. The apple cake she shares below is a bit more my speed---though I it's likely I just didn't pour enough brandy sauce on that pudding . . . Tell us a bit about your day job. I develop and manage marketing campaigns for new luxury residential developments in New York.

How did you learn to cook? I learned a lot from my mum---she cooked almost every day when we were growing up, and she’s good at it, too.  My dad has a few things he likes to cook---including his 1-bottle-of-wine-for-the-pot-2-for-the-table fondue---that I’ve picked up along the way.  I learned to bake with family friends, making particularly English recipes like Christmas pudding and Victoria sponges.  When I got to university, I started to cook with my friends and I learned a lot from them, particularly as many of them were much more confident and would throw elaborate (Ten course! Themed! Costumed!) dinner parties or combine ingredients I’d never have thought of (sometimes heard of).  And I am definitely still learning---since I moved to the US I’ve been working on perfecting cornbread, chili, apple pies, picking up tips from family and friends and Ina Garten (among others).

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends and family? I really like the idea of cooking with friends and family, and with a few select people it can work out, but I think I am best suited to cooking alone.  I often like things done a particular way, and our tiny Manhattan kitchen can make it all a little too cozy unless you are really comfortable with your cooking partner.  But when it does work it’s wonderful.  And I always like someone to check the seasoning.

What's your favorite thing to make? I love making pizza.  And ice cream.  They are easy once you’ve got down a good basic recipe (dough, custard) and then you can tinker around endlessly with the toppings and flavours.  And some delicious combinations have happened by chance because of ingredients I happened to have in the house, like whiskey and stem ginger ice cream.

I also love making curry.  It’s such a different set of ingredients than I usually use, and it is incredibly comforting to have a pot stewing on the stove.  It reminds me of home---my mum cooks great lentil curries, and Manchester’s famous Curry Mile is down the road from where I grew up---and of traveling in India with my best friend. We spent a day in Udaipur learning to cook, making real chai tea with whole cinnamon sticks and cardamom pods, vegetable curry with the Chunky Chat masala the local's swore by, and chapatis.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Probably Italian---you just can’t beat a big bowl of pasta and cheese.  And pizza, of course.  And gelato.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? I was vegetarian from the age of 10 until just after I left university, so my formative years as a cook were meatless ones and I never really learned how to cook meat or fish.  I am still intimidated by recipes that require elaborate (frankly, often even embarrassingly basic) techniques.  And I am not really much help when it comes to preparing my husband’s annual clambake birthday dinner (another quintessentially American meal)---sure, I can peel potatoes and shuck corn, but I am helpless in the face of 10 live lobsters that need a sharp knife to the head.  I just tend to shout words of encouragement from the other side of the room (specifically, "Go, Meg, you can do it!").

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? My immediate family ate together nearly every day growing up, so food was an integral part of those family relationships.  It just seems such a normal, and important, part of family life, and so natural to want to cook for and share food with people you care about.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? For me at least, cooking is a choice and not something that is expected (or required) of me by others because I’m a woman.  And being a proficient cook is no longer tied in the same way to a woman’s identity as a woman, to whether you are an ‘ideal’ woman or ‘good’ wife, so I can enjoy cooking without that pressure.  Which doesn’t mean that burden to cook now falls equally between men and women, but there are a lot of couples I know where the man does more the cooking than the woman.  Also, the kitchen at home when I was growing up was well-stocked with tea towels proclaiming "A Woman's Place is in the House. Of Bishops" as my mum was campaigning for the ordination of women in the Church of England, which was a good reminder not to get too caught up in traditional gender roles.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? This is my mum’s Dutch Apple Cake recipe.  This is the one exception she acknowledges to her assertion that she can’t bake (which I don’t think is true anyway).  I’ve been helping her make this for as long as I can remember, and I requested it for dessert on my birthday almost every year.  Though my mum is Dutch, this isn’t a longstanding family recipe (I think it comes from the Katie Stewart cookbook) but it is now committed to memory, and hopefully will be a family recipe going forward.  It’s light, not too sweet, and it goes really well with ice cream, homemade or otherwise.

Miriam's Mum's Dutch Apple Cake This is a European recipe, so measurements are by weight, not volume. (You need a kitchen scale if you don't have one, anyway!)

For the cake 6 oz. self rising flour 1 level tsp. baking powder Pinch of salt 3 oz. caster (superfine) sugar 1 egg 6 tbs. milk 2 tbs. neutral oil (sunflower if possible)

For the topping 1 lb. cooking apples (Braeburns or Granny Smiths work well) 1 oz. melted unsalted butter 2 oz. caster (superfine) sugar 1/2 level tsp. ground cinnamon

Heat the oven to 400F. Grease a 9” inch tin (or 12” and reduce the cooking time slightly).

Sift the flour, baking powder and salt into a mixing bowl and stir in the sugar.  Blend the egg with the milk and oil in a separate bowl then pour into the flour mixture. Mix together with a wooden spoon, then beat well for one minute until batter is smooth. Spoon mixture into the prepared tin and spread level.

Peel, core, quarter and thinly slice the apples. Spread the melted butter over the cake batter using a pastry brush.  Arrange the apple slices over the surface of the cake, inserting them on their side (curved side up) into the batter in a circle, pointing out from the centre to the edge (like spokes on a bike, only packed tightly).

Mix the sugar and cinnamon and sprinkle this over the apples.  Place in the center of the pre-heated oven and bake for 35 minutes.  Allow to cool in the tin for two minutes.

Serve hot or cold, as-is or with cream or ice cream.

Akiko Yosano: Poet. Pacifist. Tanka Powerhouse.

The other day I happened upon a Wikipedia article entitled “The Top 100 Historical Persons in Japan” and I got historian-nerd excited. This was apparently a television program that appeared on Nippon TV in 2006, which had Japanese viewers vote on who they thought the most important historical figures in, well, history were. For me it’s exciting to get this little peek inside the historical mindframe of a non-Western nation—one that hasn’t been brainwashed into believing U.S. presidents, Italian explorers, and German composers are the most important people of all time-- but who has probably been brainwashed in parallel historical fashion, of course. Yet lo and behold, some of our “top historical figures” still ranked (Christopher Columbus came in at #75; Mozart’s #36; the highest-ranking Westerner of all, at #3, is, surprisingly, Thomas Edison).

The list is mostly dominated by Japanese figures, of course; almost all people who would not have placed on any Western country’s “Top 100 Historical Persons” list. And incidentally, one of these (#80) is today’s Historical Woman.

Akiko Yosano (born Shoko Ho) was a Japanese poet from outside of Osaka who revitalized, no, crushed the 1200-year-old tanka tradition in turn-of-the-century Japan. Born in 1878, young Akiko grew up in an oppressive household, daughter to a baker who privileged his sons over his daughters and actually kind of hated Akiko for the first years of her life for not being a boy. (Ja-HERK.) He got over it enough to realize she was incredibly bright, and was decent enough to get her a good education, as good as was possible for women at that time—but it was Akiko’s own ambition and talent that propelled her out of that house and into Japanese history.

Wandering her father’s library as a teenager, Akiko had become enamored with literature. She began writing poems and started contributing to Myojo, the literary magazine of one Tekkan Yosano, fellow poet. Akiko moved out of the family house and to Tokyo, and in 1901, she and Tekkan were married.

Like Sylvia and Ted, Diego and Frida, Sid and Nancy, Akiko and Tekkan had what can delicately be described as an interesting relationship. Tekkan had already been married twice before, and even after he married Akiko he continued to borrow money from his ex-wife. He was also regularly unfaithful, according to most sources, including with one of Akiko’s best friends, Tomiko, who died of tuberculosis at 29 and who Tekkan proceeded to write twelve poems about.

Tekkan had also helped to spearhead the anti-establishment poetry movement that Akiko’s poetry would be a part of, the revitalization of the centuries-old tanka form that had previously been dominated by an institution literally called the Old School (I know, right?). What’s interesting to me is that feminist icon Akiko’s husband Tekkan had actually written an essay in the 1890s called “Poetry Inviting National Decay: A Denunciation of Today’s Effeminate Tanka,” in which he advocated for a more “manly,” virile poetry. This went over well with contemporary Meiji nationalism, as the nation was in the midst of a war against China. Fittingly, Tekkan wrote some pretty “manly” stuff about swords and battlefields.

But by the early 1900s, Akiko was the famous one in the family. Her poetry star was on the rise; and Tekkan, naturally, began to feel inadequate. One day, Akiko came home to find him squatting in their yard, killing ants. (How sad is that? How freaking sad is that?) To make him feel better, she told him to go spend some time in France.

Akiko’s rebellion and feminism went beyond her poetic success story and her pants-in-the-family home life, though. Her poetry often focused on the emancipation of women, portraying women of all backgrounds sympathetically and advocating for their sexual freedom. One of her most famous collections, Midaregami (“Tangled Hair”), evokes a feminine image of a woman with “hair in sweet disorder”—this ran counter to the public beauty ideal that saw a Japanese woman’s hair as always straight, never out of place. “Tangled hair” could even be read as a sign of the erotic. Additionally, she founded a girl’s school where she also taught, passing her progressive ideas and literary skills to a new generation of little poet-feminists.

Akiko was also a pacifist in an era when the Japanese national attitude was anything but. Late Meiji Japan (1868-1912) was characterized by the rapid modernization of a formerly feudal nation, and over these and ensuing decades an increasingly militarized Japan turned its focus towards expansionism. During the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905, Akiko wrote the poem Kimi Shinitamou koto nakare (“Thou Shalt Not Die”), which later became a kind of anti-war protest song for the pacifist movement.

Akiko died in the midst of World War II, and her poetry was largely forgotten for many years. She has, however, enjoyed a resurgence of late, as demonstrated by her aforementioned 2006 placement on Japan’s list of favorite historical personages. To commemorate her revolutionary-ness, and to celebrate her anti-sexism-ness, I think I’ll end with one of her steamier poems:

Fragrant the lilies In this room of love; Hair unbound I fear The pink of night’s passing.

XVIII. Provence

Alice is from California, and has a sweet, kind way of speaking. She is one of the few students at ACPP who will stay for the entire year rather than a single semester. I admire her for that, and almost wish that I still had the desire to do the same. A group of us begin a weekly tradition of hanging out on a fountain in the square in from of the marie. In France, you are allowed to drink alcohol in public areas, so we buy cheap bottles of rosé, the region’s specialty, and bags of various Haribo candies from convenience stores and spend hours on the fountain.

Our group talks and laughs and complains about the unpleasant director of our program, an unexpected way for all of us to bond in this new setting. Our voices echo off the high stone walls of the nearby cathedral and faculté des lettres, the university for students of literature. I am one of the few students in the program whose French is advanced enough to take a class there.

One of these nights, Alice asks all of us to stay for the year too. But I know my limits at this point. “I’d love to,” I tell her, “but there is absolutely no way that I would.”

Since You Brought It Up: New Traditions

By Ashely Schneider This year’s Christmas is shaping up to be a quiet one. We opted out on a tree and have yet to firm up any plans. With family on the other side of the country, it’s just the two of us here in Oregon. My husband actually has to work on Christmas, so the past few days have been sad for me as I picture myself alone in our house on a day that’s meant to be cheerful and merry.

I’ve given myself a number of pity parties full of Neil Young songs (Helpless is my go-to), chocolate, bad movies, and tears. Deep down, I know that the emptiness I feel is nothing compared to the pain and suffering others are experiencing. I can’t help but think of heart broken families in Newtown, Connecticut, soldiers stationed in Afghanistan, or men and women living on the streets.

Don Miller, author of Blue Like Jazz, says it perfectly: The overwhelming majority of time I spend thinking about myself, pleasing myself, reassuring myself, and when I am done there is nothing to spare for the needy. Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me.

So today, I have decided to put on my big girl pants and do something good for others this season. I’ve signed up to volunteer at a local church where we’ll be serving meals to 200+ homeless people on Christmas Day. I’m not accustomed to spending the holidays this way, but I’m certain it’s the right thing to do. Perhaps in this quiet time of my life, as I wait for new things to happen, my thoughts have been centered too much on me. By choosing to let the spirit and meaning of Christmas live in my heart, I can turn to face the needs of others and focus on bringing them joy.

***

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

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

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

Naughty or Nice?

Dear Sibyl, My older brother has a girlfriend for the first time in years. I'm super psyched that she's going to be around for the holidays. I've already got her gift lined up. I'm looking forward to being able to hang out with her and get to know her. I've only met her once so far.

Earlier this week she texted me about a Christmas present for my bro. Super sweet. But here's my worry: I pretty much know he won't get her anything. He is always broke by choice and quite cheap. Love him anyways, of course. I'm aware that I might be projecting my own fears onto her (no gift = no love), and I know in my heart things just don't work that way. But I'm still freaked. Part of me wants to just buy a gift for her from him without her being the wiser. I know my bro would approve (unfortunately). But something tells me I shouldn't do that.

Should I say anything to her? Should I do anything? If this is all my own problem, what can I do to get over it?

Thank you! Santa's Elf

Dear Santa’s Elf,

First of all, congrats to your brother on his new relationship, and to you on your connection to her.  I can understand your excitement, relief, and hopes that big bro will be loved in the way that he deserves.  However, I have to advise you to pull that elf hat off right this instant, and burn it on sight.  It’s not a good look.

Here’s the thing: YOU love your brother despite his Scroogey ways.  What makes you think she won’t do the same?  Is it because it really, really sucks not to receive in the manner in which you give?  Yes, Sibyl knows this feeling well.

Love is fucking disappointing.  At times it can be wonderful, but at others, it makes your heart so sick that you’re sure it’s detaching from your chest.  I remember that I was several years into my marriage when I realized that marriage is even more heartbreaking than the cycle of getting together and breaking up that makes up the dating scene.  I spent a sleepless night with a pile of old love letters, crying over what was lost and what might still be.

Your brother is going to disappoint his girlfriend.  She is going to let him down, as well.  What will be most important for them to work out as a couple will be: is the way in which they disappoint each other inherently traumatic to them, because of things that have happened in their early, shaping years, or can they survive the disappointments and grow stronger because of them?

It is good that she is learning now that your brother does not really value gift-giving.  If it is something that is very important to her, hopefully she will tell him that, and he will either be able to change and grow, or he will say, “Well, I’m never going to get you anything, that’s just who I am.”, which could be the end of the relationship.

Listen, I know you would do almost anything to make this relationship stick.  You love your brother and it sounds like you desperately want him to be happy.  But if you interfere here and give his girlfriend what you think she needs and wants here, you're writing an emotional check for your brother that he may not be able to cash.  It's love forgery.

So, if you can't get his girlfriend a soy candle and tie it up with a raffia bow and do your best impression of his handwriting on the to-from tag, what CAN you do?  Well, you can tell him that she contacted you, and is planning to get him something nice.  You can lay your cards on the table with him, and say, "I really like this girl, and you seem happy for the first time in a long while.  I think you should consider getting something for her for Christmas.  Perhaps you don't have any money, but you can do this.  You can make her something, you can give her a coupon for a great date, or you can be really frugal for the next few weeks so that you can afford to buy something.  I think it's worth it, and I hope you do, too."  Then, you can buy the girlfriend that soy candle, and put your own damn name on it.  It won't erase the awkwardness and frustration of not getting anything from her boyfriend, but it will express to her that you are excited about her presence.

After all, if you swoop in and compensate for the ways his expression of love falls short, not only will you be making promises that you can’t really keep, but you are taking something else away from them—an opportunity to grow as a couple.  It is through feeling lack that we change.  Without the chance to feel loss, we’d have no impetus to look within ourselves and see what needs work.  Will your brother step up to the plate and find a way to show his girl he wishes her all the best this year?  I hope so.  But if he doesn’t, I hope even more that they find a way to talk about expectations and disappointment, an important conversation for any couple to have.

Wishing you and your family Happy Holidays,

Sibyl

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

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Nina Sovich is an American writer who lives in Paris. She is releasing a travel memoir in July 2013 titled To the Moon and Timbuktu. She has written for Reuters, the Wall Street Journal, Time magazine and the Patriot Ledger. She blogs on travel and raising children in France on www.thesestolendays.com/blog. Every year, at this time, I find myself rereading books I loved as a younger woman. It might be that the holidays make me nostalgic. It might be too exhausting to discover great new fiction or it seems too selfish to buy a present for myself. It may have to do with the fact that I drink more than usual around Christmas and if I don’t read something familiar at night I’ll lose the plot.

I list below the books I love to read, many of which I have read before, that I will inevitably read again. These are not happy stories, but there is a certain authoritative melancholy to them that works in the dark month of December. Many are books that center on the family and wonder on the notion of love.  Many have a strong moral voice or ask ethical questions, which I find acts as an antidote to all the hysterical cheer of the holiday season.  Most importantly, all contemplate escape—from an overbearing Russian husband, a large family in St Louis, the decay of a colonial outpost, even from the myth of African salvation. These books make me feel like myself again, giving me the fortitude to start the New Year.

Lie Down in Darkness. William Styron.  This book came out in 1951 just as the intelligentsia, if not the nation, was realizing the life of convention-bound, country club-going WASPs wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. As Virginia gentry, the Loftis’s drink and fight, abandon each other, rip each others’ hearts out and then scream for protection. Love is the least stable element in this family, resentment the most. Styron writes with urgency, despite all the hot summer afternoons and gentle landscape descriptions, and every scene is filled with real terror. Who will save them? Why must they do this to each other? Will the selfish, beautiful damaged daughter Peyton escape, at least a moment, before her death? So much is at stake, yet nothing need be lost. For any woman who has marveled at her mother’s callousness and her father’s adoration, this is your book.

Mating. Norman Rush.  This book is told through the eyes of a smart, unnamed female graduate student who casts out into the Kalahari desert in order to find a commune run by a brilliant anthropologist. She is tough, smart, well-read and romantic. The professor, on the other hand, is a total phony. He spouts social theory, contemplates Marx and sets about the unwinnable task of creating an African utopia by eliminating African men from the equation. The book is both a discussion of obsession and a strong commentary on foolish white expats who try to save Africa. I read it in my 20s, as I travelled the world in search of a cause, and saw worrying reflections of my own life. Perhaps I aspired to escape ordinary American life for something cleaner, more structured, theoretical and moral.  But, in the end, there was always a man at the heart of it--calling the shots, talking about equality… doing nothing.

No Hurry to Get Home. Emily Hahn. This is a compilation of autobiographical stories from The New Yorker that Hahn wrote starting in the late 1920s. She writes a big life for herself, without ornament or hyperbole, and even the small family anecdotes lead to greater freedom. Mickey (Hahn’s nickname) and her sister wear knickerbockers to school, because skirts are impractical, and earn press attention. Mickey goes to college far from home, where she startles the professors by studying engineering. She travels across the country with a friend and gets a job as a writer. Every step is taken with the hope that the world will bend to her conventions and not the other way around. In the end, it does. Soon the girl from St. Louis is travelling alone through the Belgian Congo, recording the racism and hypocrisy of the colonizers. She is smoking opium in China and reflecting on addiction. She is in love with a British intelligence officer and watching the Japanese invade Hong Kong. She lived so many lives in this one book that any one of them would do for me.

Anna Karenina. Leo Tolstoy. The story is known--Anna Karenina abandons her staid husband and young son to run away with her the rich, handsome Count Vronsky. The great thing about this book (yes, I am here to tell you) is that the moral stakes are high, but Tolstoy doesn’t write judgment into the pages. As a young, single woman, I sympathized with Anna and felt she had the right to pursue happiness, even if she abandoned her young son. Now that I have my own marriage and children, I find myself wondering if old Karenin was such a bad guy after all. I read this book over and over again, always changing my mind. And if Anna’s poor choices and narcissism becomes a bit too much there is Levin, a sweet and conflicted man who falls for the lovely Kitty.  ‘Freedom what is the good of freedom?’ Levin thinks. ‘Happiness consists only in love and desiring; in wishing her wishes and in thinking her thoughts…” That’s a man I can get behind.

Burmese Days. George Orwell. The entire colonial enterprise and all its failures are laid bare here. There are vicious British colonial officials who live for gin cocktails and enmity. Dr. Veraswami, a cultured Indian doctor, whose only pathetic desire is to get into the European club. U Po Kyin the corrupt Burmese official who has money and power but can only see enemies around him. But the heart of the story centers on one British man’s loss of identity and faith. John Flory, drunk, alone, and high up the white man’s pedestal, the view has become blurry. His best friend is Dr. Veraswami, but he won’t admit it. He keeps a Burmese mistress but won’t love her. When the young Elizabeth Lakersteen comes to Burma he courts her, but he has forgotten the small-minded, provincial ways of his countrymen. Needless to say it goes horribly, unbearably wrong.

Gossip Girl is Dead. Long Live Gossip Girl.

Dear Sibyl, I'm trying to figure out how to be a supportive friend to one person (friend A), while not feeling like I'm talking trash behind another friend's back (friend B).  Sometimes A will get frustrated about a conversation or something else that B said/did.  She has a point, and I've often supported that, but then it felt like I was entering mean girl territory.  Is there a good way to be supportive, but not nasty?  I'm also trying to figure out how to not be the go-to person for these comments, since I feel like I'm betraying B.  Sounds like I'm back in middle school, uugghh!

Thanks, Gossip Girl

Dear GG,

Friend A is involving you in a fun little game of Triangulation.  That’s when you have something you need to say to one person, but instead of making a straight line between you and them, you add a whole new angle by saying it instead to a third person.

Relationships are confusing.  Everyone needs to express how they are feeling about their friends from time to time to someone else, for some reality testing and to work out how to address it with that person.  A simple conversation of, “Uh, that was whack when she made that joke about my kid, right?  Okay?!  How do I tell her to step off without just saying ‘86 your shit’ and dropping a sippy cup on the ground?” is sometimes necessary.

But here’s how you can tell if it’s triangulation, and not normal relationship processing:

1. Does Friend A plan to do anything about Friend B’s behavior?  If she is preparing to confront Friend B, or, at the very least, put some boundaries between her and Friend B so she stops getting hurt, then you can totally walk her through that.  But if she is just using you as a validating force to make her feel better about secretly hating on Friend B while she still hangs out with her, then we need to rename her Frenemy A, because what they have is less a friendship, more a bad romance.

2. Is Friend A saying things to you that she would never, ever, say to Friend B’s face?  If asked, “Hey, you’ve seemed sorta weird to me lately.  Is everything okay?”, would Friend A fess up?  If not, then this is at best a bitch session, and at worst, a weird power play to get you “on her side” against Friend B.  You’ve got to take yourself out of the equation.

So, if you’ve realized you are indeed in a triangulating situation, then here’s what you do.  You tell Friend A that you are no longer willing, under any circumstances, to discuss Friend B.  You can do it in such a way that is not judgmental of what Friend A is doing, by saying, “I’m working on my personal relationships, and realizing that if I say things directly, it really helps my peace of mind.  So, let’s talk about us and how we’re doing, and leave Friend B out of it.”

Will it be awkward to say this?  HELL YES.  But if there’s one thing I can encourage you, Gossip Girl, or ANY of my dear readers out there, it’s this: BE AWKWARD.  We must, as a community and as a culture, increase our capacity for awkwardness in human relationships.  When things are uncomfortable, perhaps it is because we are getting very close to them being real.

If you need a warm up, start small.  Bring up your dead dad at a cocktail party.  Go ahead.  Mention your impending divorce at the library, when someone sees the stack of self-help books you’re checking out.  With a couple of these chance encounters under your belt, having not been reduced to tears when the other person looked at you askance at first but then said, “Oh yeah, this book here at the top of your pile really helped me when I had to cut my mom out of my life because she was using crack”, you may have the courage to tell Friend A that you’re no longer interested in chats about Friend B.

You’ll have to reinforce it, probably a few times.  Friend A will fall back into the old patterns of discussion, will even say, “I know we said we wouldn’t talk about Friend B, but you can NOT believe what she did the other day when she got in my car, smelling like . . .” Cut her off right there!  Don’t take the bait!  Resist your olfactory curiosity and say, “Oh, let me stop you here.  I was dead serious about my request not to talk about Friend B.  I need to have my own experience of her right now.  Why don’t we discuss your job situation---did you say you were getting laid off, or getting a promotion?  I know it was something career-related, the few months ago that we actually got around to talking about you.  Let’s not let Friend B take over our catch-up time.  Fill me in!”

It will be surprising to find how this changes your friendship with Friend B.  You may find her delightful, without that worm in your ear of all the ways she pissed off Friend A recently.  Conversely, you may realize that you don’t even like Friend B, and you were just keeping the relationship with her because you were addicted to following the soap opera between she and Friend A, and it’s time to let that friendship go.

With all that time freed up from worrying about what Friend A and Friend B are going to do next, you may have chance to talk about . . . yourself.

xoxo,

Sibyl

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

Slowing down (with Emma and Erin)

“She appears to write much of her poetry, as Americans eat their dinners, in hot haste,” said one critic of Emma Lazarus’s early work, according to Esther Schor’s biography of the poet. I had to laugh at how the 1871 comparison still applies today. We still eat quickly, and we write quickly too, jotting off breathless blog posts and status updates without looking back. Lazarus would have thrived in today’s digital world, I think. In sharp contrast to her contemporary, the reclusive Emily Dickinson, she was a determined extrovert, eager for her writing to make it into the hands of the literary giants of her time. She wrote letters to Emerson demanding feedback on her poems. She milked her “network” in search of literary success. Her persistence and tenacity were astonishing.

But even the talented, energetic Emma Lazarus eventually hit a wall of anxiety as the speed and the pressure to produce caught up with her. As she wrote to a friend, “I have come home to hard work—finding three books to read & review by Tuesday . . . as soon as I feel that a certain thing is expected of me by a certain time, I get a panic & don’t know how to do anything. How anyone lives by writing I cannot imagine.” I was nodding emphatically as I read along. Preach it, sister.

Beyond the usual deadlines and expectations many of us receive from others or set for ourselves, I think there’s a sort of insidious pressure these days to exist online, to be always on and constantly, consistently producing. It’s the marketing advice about “personal branding” and blogging every day and building your audience. It’s that feeling of needing to “keep up” with the internet, as Erin Loechner describes it in her post, “The Rebirth of Slow Blogging.”

Forgive me if I sound like a broken record. I’ve written about slowing down here and here and here and here. It’s been at the heart of my work with Uncommon, a growing slow web community. I’ve been writing and thinking so much about slow food, slow tech, slow everything, coming at it from different angles as a way of figuring out what slow really means, as an intention and a practice.

Something clicked when I landed on Erin’s post, because I think she helps explain something important about the idea of “slowness.” It’s not about doing things in slow motion, but rather taking time for depth and storytelling. It’s about aiming for quality over quantity. It’s about taking time for reflection and creative restoration.

As I head into the new year, I’ve got Emma and Erin in the back of my mind, and I’ll be wondering about the delicate balance between creative impulse and depth, busy production and quiet reflection.

Grab bag.

I don't know if you'd heard, but it's the holiday season. Things are festive and lit up and draped in tinsel everywhere you look. For the next two weeks, the world, my friends, is your disco ball. And while I love the holidays---being a fan of everything sparkly, gifts, and brown liquor, how could I not?---I can't help but spy feminist pitfalls everywhere I turn. The world suddenly seems littered with holly-draped, mistletoe-encrusted problematic situations. In celebration of the season, therefore, I humbly submit to you a grab bag of my feminist holiday dilemmas. Some of these I've come to terms with, some I'm still battling---where all are concerned, I'd love to hear what our lovely readers think, and what they do to cope, especially in these seven weeks of heightened sensitivity and exposure to less-than-perfect relatives. (Or whomever.)

His and Hers gift guides I know, I know. This doesn't seem like a real problem. And I guess it's pretty far down the hierarchy as far as problems go---let's call it, instead, a manifestation of a real problem. It's sometime in November when these types of guides start popping up in magazines and on blogs, and they drive me nuts. Invariably, the His side has something having to do with cocktails, whiskey, and wood, while Hers often features nail polish, cookware, and purses. (Stationery, to be fair, can usually be found in both the His and Hers columns, thank you notes being a universal post-holiday activity.)

The real issue here, of course, is that these routinely gendered guides represent and reinforce ridiculous standards. At the risk of stating the obvious: men like to cook. Women like whiskey and things that come in a burled finish. And sometimes, kids, the binary breaks down even further. Men wear clothes made for women, and women dare to buy tools and use them to fix things up around the house. I know---what will come next? The nationwide right to same-sex marriage? (We can only hope.) While I heartedly admit that most men and most women have different tastes, I'd argue that almost all of that difference comes from stuff like this---overt and insinuated guides to what we should want.

That said, I still totally want those pink J. Crew snowboots. Got it, Mom? (I told you I was still battling these things, right?)

The lyrics to Baby, It's Cold Outside I love Christmas music. I love carols, I love secular Christmas songs, I love the classical masses and oratorios. I. Love. It. All. One of my long-time favorites? Baby, It's Cold Outside, written by Frank Loesser back in 1944 and debuted, adorably, in duet with his wife at a housewarming party. It was sometime in college or just after when my friend Miles ruined my fun by pointing out that the song is, it must be said, a little rapey.

If you're not familiar, check out the song, then come back on over. Back? Okay then. Now you should go check out The Atlantic's recent discussion of how the song's problematic lyrics (most notably "Say, what's in this drink?" and "The answer is no!") might be addressed, and then you should pour yourself a cocktail (A Manhattan is really best for this.) and listen to the song again, appreciating how awesome it is despite the creeptastic undertones. As a matter of fact, those undertones (that tension) might be one of the reasons it's just so good.

Men who don't help with post-dinner cleanup This one is both the one that annoys me most, and the one we can actually do something about. Even with the advent of men to the holiday kitchen when it comes to meal prep, I've noticed something: they typically don't stick around afterward to clean up. After dinner on Thanksgiving or Christmas, it's still the women who are far more likely to be found performing the far less glamorous cleanup work while the men relax with a Scotch. Since we've already established that women like whiskey, too, I hope we can all agree to do one thing for our sisterhood this holiday season: confront the lazy men in our lives and make them clean up. Even if they cooked. Because they have quite a backlog to work off, as far as I'm concerned.

I hope you've enjoyed this tour of the little things that torture me during the holidays. I'll leave you now to go ogle some sparkly lights, drape myself in baubles, and order cookbooks for all the women I know. Because, let's face it: I, too, am a product of the patriarchy, and I can't fight it 24 hours a day. Especially when it's so pretty!

Lessons from a Christmas Holiday...

Dear Clara, So many people think that once December 25^th passes, that the Christmas holiday has come and gone.  But remember that Christmas is not just a holiday, but a season.  It’s both a time for us to celebrate spiritually but it’s also a time to celebrate on a very human scale, when our families and friends take first place, and our work and worldly obligations move to second.

• Prepare yourself for the holiday season:  There is a reason why in many calendars there is an Advent season, in the sense of a time of preparation.  From the outside world, you’ll be tempted to leap right into things, but trust me, it becomes overwhelming.  Pace yourself, make lists, consider what you can get done, and carve of pockets of time for yourself so that you don’t lose the spirit of the season while barreling forward towards the holidays and the end of the year.  It’s an investment worth making.
• Write on your holiday cards: There are a panoply of technology options that make sending cards easier.  And they’re wonderful, and many have their place.  Take advantage of the things that make sense---addressing envelopes, for example.  But keep in mind that while technology can replace process, it can’t replace you.  It’s better for your cards to come a little later, and have your own personal writing on them that shows people that you took the time for them.  It’s only once a year.
• Make every effort to be at home: Remember, this is the time of year when those closest to us come first.  It won’t always be possible---sometimes practical things like money and geography get in our way.  But if you can make it happen, be in your home any way that you can for the holidays.  Eventually you’ll have your own home, and your own family, and you’ll have to figure out what works best for all of you.  But deep down, you’ll always know where exactly you should be.
• Set an extra place at the table: It’s our Polish tradition to say that there will always be room for one more, especially on the holidays, and many visitors feel that you could knock on nearly any door on Christmas Eve in Poland and have a meal waiting for you.  It’s pretty much true.  If you have an extra place (or two) at your table, an extra guest is a welcome addition and not anything else.  You never know when you just might need to reach out to someone else and welcome them to your table.
• Be on the lookout those sad and the struggling: We should always be on the lookout, I know, but pay extra attention during the holidays.  Different people struggle with different things around this time of year and they’re not always willing to talk about it openly.  Maybe they lost a loved one, maybe they had a falling out in their own family, maybe they are too far away from home, maybe they’re struggling to keep up with all the financial demands of the holidays . . . Watch for people, even those close to you, that might need a bit of additional love and care during this time of year.
• Make room for your soul: I guess this relates a bit to the very first part, but again, it’s easy to get caught up in all of the activities and trappings that come along with the holidays, even if we do them because of our good intentions.  But regardless of what you believe in, just remember that the winter holidays carry a sense of spirit with them; don’t let that spirit pass you by.  Prepare a little room in your heart.

Wishing you all my love this Christmas and holiday season,

Mom

A Wedding Wish

This week my brother-in-law got married in Bangladesh.  His new wife is a lovely girl and I couldn’t be happier for the both of them.  Before the wedding, I tried to think of something wise or profound to say, having experience with happy marriage myself.  Of course I couldn’t come up with anything more unique then ‘Congratulations’.  Further pondering has led me to this list of wishes: I wish for you a lifetime of laughter.  I hope you laugh every day, I hope you take particular joy in making your spouse laugh. I hope you prize each other’s individuality. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, some you already know clearly, some you may anticipate, and some will catch you completely off guard.  May you celebrate and embrace each other’s strengths and protect each other’s weaknesses.  You both have unique life experiences, histories, and backgrounds, you have different opinions, beliefs, and personalities- and that’s wonderful.  Don’t ever try to agree all the time or be clones of one another.  Being married doesn’t mean you have to share a single brain.

I wish for you a lifetime of patience and understanding. There will be disagreements, heated discussions, and yes, even arguments, and that’s ok- each of you is as important as the other both of your voices should be heard.  Life isn’t supposed to be a boring walk through the park or a sale on a placid lake. It’s the jungle that you navigate and the storms that you ride out that prove your strength, both individually and as a couple.  Arguing isn’t the end of the world, or the end of a relationship, I wish for you to know that. I wish for you to always fight fair and never try to hurt the other’s feelings. And while we’re on the subject, don’t ever be too proud to say you’re sorry. In fact, be proud of recognizing a wrong and apologizing for it.

I wish for you a lifetime of hugs. Take care of each other and never take the other for granted.  Say I love you Every Day. It’s the most important phrase in your vocabulary.  Never take it for granted.  I wish thousands of date nights and coffee dates. I wish you breakfast in bed and dinner at midnight. I wish for you romance. I wish for you hours of sitting next to each other, enjoying the silent companionship. Even champagne and roses lose its appeal day-after-day.  Celebrate the everyday, enjoy the little moments you spend together. I wish you movie nights curled up on the couch and trips to the grocery store. Your entire life is now a celebration of your love, I wish for you to remember that.

I wish for you a lifetime of dreams, whatever they may be, wherever they may take you.  I wish you adventure. I wish you stories that you’ll tell again and again, interrupting each other as you retell a shared memory.  I wish you quiet smiles and loud laughs. I wish you joy that takes your breath away and love that brings a happy ache to your heart.  I wish you a beautifully blessed marriage full of tenderness, excitement, and the proverbial spark. I wish for you, everything my marriage has given to me.  As my husband said, go ahead and ‘Write Your Own Story’

With heartfelt congratulations,

Renee

Books to Read If . . .

By Randon Billings Noble December is a loaded month---loaded with meaning, tradition, preparation, celebration and, finally, the anticipation of the coming year.  It can be exhilarating, frantic, lonely, relaxing, nostalgic, hopeful---and sometimes all of those things in one day.  But the end of the year always brings talk about books.  Prizes are announced, the “best of” lists come out and people browse bookstore tables shopping for both themselves and others.

Here are my thoughts about what to read this season …

... if you want something in small bites, enjoy adventures but are NOT traveling by plane: Contents May Have Shifted by Pam Houston tells the story of Pam’s efforts to balance family and travel, stability and risk.  Its 144 short vignettes describe her home-and-away adventures in Colorado, Tunisia, Wyoming, Tibet, New Jersey and beyond.  It takes a while to get comfortable with the peripatetic nature of this narrative (in the first few pages we jump from Great Exuma to California to Texas to Alaska) but I feel like that might be part of the point.  Sometimes a thread of story will pick up again a few sections later.  Sometimes it backtracks.  But I never had trouble following it and I always enjoyed seeing where it would lead next.

... if you love the sea and/or whaling but can’t quite manage Moby-Dick right now:

In the Heart of the Sea by Nathaniel Philbrick tells the story of the whaleship Essex, which was the inspiration for Moby-Dick.  The Essex left Nantucket in 1819, whaled its way to the center of the Pacific Ocean, and was rammed and sunk by one of the very sperm whales it was hunting.  For ninety days its crew tried to sail three lifeboats to the safety of the South American coast while enduring storms, disease, hunger, dehydration and worse.  In the Heart of the Sea continues where the fictitious Moby-Dick leaves off, and it pulls no punches as it describes the aftermath of a shipwreck and the desire to survive.

... if you want a fictitious story about wild animals and shipwrecks:

Jamrach's Menagerie, by Carol Birch, starts with a bang---an encounter with a tiger.  Jaffy Brown, then eight years old, is running errands on the streets of London when he is swept up into the jaws of a tiger, an escaped resident of Jamrach's menagerie.  Jamrach is so impressed by Jaffy's daring (he reaches up to stroke the oncoming tiger's nose) and his survival (his only injuries are some scraped toes), he concludes that Jaffy has a way with animals and hires Jaffy to work for his exotic animal import/export business.  Years later Jaffy is sent on a quest to find and capture a rumored dragon---the ultimate animal for the menagerie.  As in Life of Pi, there is a sea voyage, a boat with a dangerous animal aboard, a shipwreck and a catastrophic outcome.  But my belief in this story never faltered (as it did with Pi), my patience was never tested, and its ending was surprising in quite a different way.

... if you want to be challenged:

What Happened to Sophie Wilder, by Christopher Beha, is a quiet yet demanding novel in which the main character, Charlie Blakeman, wonders what happened to his best friend and sometimes girlfriend, Sophie Wilder, after college and her sudden conversation to Catholicism and almost immediate marriage to a rather unlikely man.  What had bound Charlie and Sophie together in school---a love of writing---does not seem enough to rekindle their romance when Sophie shows up ten years later.  But the book is about much more than their relationship.  It’s about faith and doubt and growth and despair and the way we craft the stories of our lives.  If you can, read this book with someone else; you’ll want to mull the ending over with someone who’s read it too.

... if you want to change your life:

Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar is a collection of advice columns from the once-anonymous Sugar at the online magazine The Rumpus.  But Sugar recently revealed herself to be Cheryl Strayed, and anyone who has read her essays (“The Love of My Life,” “Heroine”), or her bestselling memoir Wild, knows that Strayed is a writer of honesty and empathy.   In her answers to questions about divorce, miscarriage, identity and infidelity, Strayed tells stories from her own life, which makes Tiny Beautiful Things a memoir as well as a collection of columns.  Even if you aren’t looking for particular answers to specific questions, reading this collection will inspire you to live a richer, truer, more generous life, reassured, as she writes in her last letter, that even the “useless days will add up to something … The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not.  These things are your becoming.”

... if you like historical fiction:

Hilary Mantel’s award-winning Wolf Hall tells the story of Thomas Cromwell, who rose from obscurity (he was a blacksmith's son, which his enemies at court never let him forget) to be Henry VIII's chief minister during the king's turbulent divorce from Catherine of Aragon, his subsequent marriage to Anne Boleyn, the execution of Thomas More and various misadventures after that.  Usually More is painted as the hero of these stories---a Catholic martyr to his conscience, which wouldn't allow him to name the King head of the Church or grant his right to divorce his wife.  But Mantel transforms Cromwell from the king’s lackey into a full-fledged person: husband, father, guardian; admirer of women, fashion, food and learning; a man committed to his work, his faith, his king.  Wolf Hall tells the story of Henry VIII’s first divorce from a whole new perspective … and then Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell trilogy continues with Bring Up the Bodies and the forthcoming The Mirror and the Light.  You will want to read until Cromwell’s (rather bitter) end.

... if you want a smart, quick, engrossing read:

A little bit The Talented Mr. Ripley, a little bit Howards End, a little bit Swimming Pool, and a whole lot of Harriet Lane’s own making, Alys, Always draws your attention from the first word and will not let go.  One winter night, Frances Thorpe stops to help a victim of a car crash.  The woman, Alys, dies on the scene, but once Frances meets her grieving family she begins to insinuate herself into their lives---to what end you’re not sure, and maybe Frances isn’t either.  But as she becomes more deeply involved with Alys’s widower, the reader keeps turning pages to see if it’s at all possible that this twisted story ends well.

... if you have the time/stamina/constitution to read a book in one sitting:

I do not want to give away even a hint of a spoiler about Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl, but I will quote the line that hooked me, which occurs early on, on page 37.  In the first 30 pages Nick Dunne has woken on the morning of his fifth wedding anniversary at exactly 6:00.  He has braced himself to go downstairs to his wife.  Then there is a space break.  Then he narrates that he was very late getting to work.  What happened during that space break?  We're not sure.  Nick drives home to find his wife missing and a couch overturned and a coffee table smashed.  The police arrive and question him.  He answers their questions, sometimes shrugging, sometimes blurting and sometimes with a lurching stomach.  The last two sentences that end the chapter are: “That was my fifth lie to the police.  I was just getting started.”  The lies stack up and the plot twists do too.  In a way I feel like this book was a dare to its writer: can you pull of this twist?  How about this one?  And THIS one?  I'm not sure how you'll react to the ending, but you'll be chasing Amy Elliot Dunne all the way through.

... if you are a romantic and/or an academic:

Love, in Theory, by E.J. Levy, is a collection of ten stories that entwine love with its seeming-opposite: academic theories.  Sometimes the characters actively ponder these theories, sometimes they are living illustrations of them, but always the story is enriched and not burdened by its intellectual overlay.  My favorite of the ten was the last, “Theory of Dramatic Action,” which is told in the provocative second person, so “you” are the star of the story.  You are film student who has recently left Colorado to attend film school in Ohio.  You are learning about theories of dramatic action and fear your life has no such arc.  But then you meet a handsome professor of ancient Greek.  And then an old friend comes to town.  And then your story might be moving into “Plot Twist (I)” or “False Resolution” or perhaps “Plot Twist (II)” after all …

... if you are a new mom and don’t have time to read:

Stealing Time is a new literary magazine for parents started by Sarah Gilbert and Katie Proctor.  They describe it as “a quarterly print literary magazine about the heart of parenting … fiction, essay, poetry, book reviews, and other pieces that are sad, hopeful, ebullient, resigned, reverent, wry, surprising, gut-busting, or just plain strange.”  The very first issue’s very first essay---“Into it All” by editor Sarah Gilbert---evokes all of those adjectives.  Gilbert writes---lyrically and inspiringly---about ways to balance writing and motherhood, art and biology, your own written words on the page and the unexpected words that come out of your child’s mouth.   Her writing and her magazine remind us to look up from the task at hand, the dishes in the sink, the search for the lost object, the Virginia Woolf novel at your bedside, and revel in the ambivalent and infinite role of being a parent.

... if you are or have a baby:

Big Board Books: Colors, ABC, Numbers by Roger Priddy

If you are a baby you will want to sit with this book for many minutes at a time.  If you have a baby, your baby will want to sit with this book for many minutes at a time---which will leave you free to read some of the above!

Happy reading, all!

If I Had to Dress Up as a Lord of the Rings Character...

I haven’t seen The Hobbit yet. I’m sad about this. This will be remedied soon.

The reason I’m sad is because I was obsessed, no really, obsessed with the Lord of the Rings trilogy when it came out. I wasn’t a huge nerd—I hadn’t even read the books all the way through—but I nerded out to the max when it came to Peter Jackson’s ridiculous over-the-top epic trilogy. I saw the first one four times in the theater. And recently, I rewatched the movies again and, thank goodness, I’m still an LOTR nerd, ten years and fifty viewings later.

One thing I really appreciate about the film trilogy is its amplification of the female roles in the translation from book to movie. Like many fantasy worlds, Tolkien’s universe is, you know, kind of a sausage fest. The female characters that appear in the movies—Arwen (Liv Tyler), Galadriel (Cate Blanchett), and Eowyn (Miranda Otto)—all appear in the books, but with proportionally diminished roles. In particular, Arwen’s role was beefed up big time to provide a lovely elfin female face for the franchise and give greater emphasis to the films’ central (only) romance, between her and Aragorn.

But if I were to dress up as a Lord of the Rings character for, say, a premiere, or a convention, or a nerd party, I would forgo the elf costume (the Rivendell aesthetic is kind of played out by now anyway) and choose Eowyn, because she’s the closest thing to a feminist hero that the overwhelmingly masculine story has.

Eowyn is Rohan royalty, and like most womanly royalty she’s expected to stay in the castle, but all she really wants to do is fight. Her uncle, King Theoden, forbids her from battle, so she does what any self-respecting sword-wielding lady would do: cross-dresses in some battle gear and goes to war anyway. (Like Mulan!) She also transfers her own pathos onto the hobbit Merry, who is likewise forbidden from war because of his small stature, and sympathizing, decides to take him along with her.

The crowning kick-ass feminist moment comes when Eowyn comes face to face with the Witch-King, whom “no man can kill.” First she chops the head off of his flying dragon transportation. Then she dodges a ton of terrifying mace blows (while admittedly looking absolutely terrified). Witch-dude reiterates for both Eowyn and the audience’s benefit, “No man can kill me!” Eowyn pulls off her helmet, revealing her flowing locks, and says:

“I am no man.”

And bam! Sword to the face. Or the black void inside his helmet that we can only assume contains a face somewhere.

The moment walks a fine line between eye-rolling and fist-pumping, but I still enjoy it. It’s great to see that even in medieval-seeming Middle-Earth, traditional gender roles are being challenged. Of course, besides her war story, the character of Eowyn also contributes a touch of romantic triangle by falling in love with Aragorn, who is, duh, Arwen’s boyfriend, but eventually she finds her own happiness without him. (In the books and in the extended film version, she rebounds with Faramir; also a great guy.)

I’ll wrap up this nerd post by saying that, in general, fantasy can be limited in the roles it offers its women characters, not to mention minorities (see LOTR: minority actors appear only as evil men or under globs of Uruk-hai makeup), so I’m gladdened whenever a strong, realistic female character shows up—even if that means broadening and underscoring a minor role from the source material.

Conversely: Why is Galadriel in The Hobbit? Fellow nerds?

Since You Brought It Up: Good, Grief

By Rhea St. Julien In the first five minutes of the 1965 classic A Charlie Brown Christmas, the main character pronounces himself "depressed", "let down" by Christmas, and lonely.  He dislikes the tradition of card giving, because it reminds him that no one likes him when he doesn't receive any.  He rails at the over-commercialization of Christmas, and despairs that no one seems to take it, and him, seriously.

Watching it with my toddler on Hulu, I realized that if it were made today, A Charlie Brown Christmas would be deemed too glum for mass consumption.  Characters on TV today have bizarrely huge smiles even in the worst of situations---Diego's grin at having to find the lost maned wolf reassures kids that "Sure, the mom lost her pup, but don't worry!  Everything is okay!  Al rescate!"  The expressions of the Peanuts gang look more like they have chili-induced indigestion, over things as small as decorations, unhelpful advice, and ill-thought-out letters to Santa.

I love that the Charlie Brown special depicts the big emotions of kids at this time of the year, because children are totally overwhelmed by all the bustle, no matter how tinseled it may be.  They act up, get scared more easily, need to be held during nap times and have melt downs in the middle of Target.  They are hopped up on sugar (when did Advent calendars start having chocolates for each day?!) stay up late for parties, and the stress of their parents is passed down to them.  It's a never-ending cycle, as parents get more stressed by their kids' behavior, and disappointed when special holiday-themed outings turn disastrous.  "I'm just trying to give you a good Christmas!" I saw a mom say thru gritted teeth, outside a store where other families were bopping around to carols, enjoying the discounts at the annual holiday party, happy it wasn't their kid that had filled their fists with cookies and ran out onto the street.

I felt her pain.  Just last week I took our toddler to a showing of The Velveteen Rabbit, a dance performance for children based on the Margery Williams book.  She had never been to anything like that, and though she overall enjoyed the experience, I did not.  She sat on my lap and asked questions throughout the entire show, at times scared, at other times just trying to make sense of what she was viewing.  All the kids in the audience were talking, laughing, and shouting, but mine seemed to be the very loudest.

The grandmother in front of us concurred with my estimation.  She turned around every five seconds, sneering, sighing, and shushing us.  I tried to explain to her that it was a children's performance and kids are allowed to make noise, but she proclaimed I had "ruined it for her" and I bowed out of the discussion before I got really angry.  What that lady thought she was getting when she bought a ticket to the 11am matinee is beyond me, but her shaming of my daughter while I was working really hard to parent her through the performance was horrible.  I left feeling defeated.  I had tried to do something special with my daughter for the holiday season, and had only managed to totally overwhelm her, myself, and the people sitting near us.

This week, at a winter-themed Story/Song/Dance time I was leading at my friend's store, I took homemade paper snowflakes out of my bag and let them drift down onto the children while I sang "Let It Snow", the closest those California kids would get to a snowstorm.  My daughter stood right in the middle and screamed, "Mama, I'm done!  Mama, no singing!"  I just sighed and asked my friend to take her for a walk so I could continue being all magical for the tots who were actually enjoying it.

Are we really so different from my easily-overwhelmed little one? I think not.  Everyone I know seems to be already over the holiday season, and we have at least two weeks more of it.  As adults, we dull our feelings with cocktails and present-buying, but they are still there.  That's why tonight, instead of heading out onto the wreath-lined streets to hit up a friend's pop up art show, I'm going to stay in with a book and a journal.  I'm going to write about how I miss my sister and my mother, who I am not seeing this year, and my father, whom I will never be able to spend another Christmas with on this earth again.  I'm going to take some deep breaths, and make some Charlie Brown faces.  I'm going to feel that good grief he keeps talking about, and create some space and patience for my daughter's feelings, as well.

***

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

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

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

Looking Forward: Gifts.

I spent the first seven years of my life in Los Angeles, in a little gray house on a tree-lined street called Cantaloupe Avenue. My memories of living there are hazy, dreamlike.

I remember the rusted jungle gym in the backyard. The smell of chlorine. Lemon trees, and the tiny gray dove that made its home in the rafters near the swimming pool. There were rose bushes that lined our driveway (I’d rip the petals off and run them over with my bike, thinking that, surely, this was how perfume was made), and a mishmash of flora in the garden. Potted plants lined the front porch. One, my favorite, was a single pink flower in a tiny terracotta dish.

Oddly enough, I remember this flower more vividly than most other physical details about that house, though its tenure on the porch couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of weeks. After having admired its impeccable posture, the elegant draping of its petals, and that irresistible rosy flush for what seemed like an eternity, I couldn’t help myself.

I picked it.

I never imagined that it might have been planted in a pot for a reason, or that it may have had weeks or maybe months of life ahead of it yet, or that someone — presumably my mother — had chosen it at a nursery because she loved it, and been caring for it diligently ever since.

With dirt still clinging to its stem, I presented her with my find. “It’s a gift,” I said proudly. “For you.”

“I know where this came from,” she said slowly, turning it over in her hands.

She paused.

Then, she said, “Thank you.”

 ---

I had mixed feelings this month, putting together a gift guide for my blog. After the year I’d had — which was full of challenge and adventure and emotional intensity — it seemed to me that the most meaningful gift to give anyone who mattered would involve not money, but time.

A handmade card as opposed to one that’s pre-written. A song. A meal. Plans to spend time together.

This year, in that way, I suppose I’ve become a kid again.

The purest aspect of a child’s gift-giving — when money isn’t a factor — is simple. I love this, I know it’s special, and I want you to have it because I feel the same is true about you.

And, perhaps ironically, the natural response — thank you — is a gift in kind.