A Longer Letter Later

The Glamorous Mrs. L.

2011-10-23T14:11:00.005-04:00

When I was a young teenager, I was really into fashion and always on the lookout for ways to make money to buy clothing and shoes and purses. I ran a children's camp in my backyard one summer. I made and sold candles. I tried to open a dress shop in our shed but that somehow didn't come together. Can't imagine why. Mostly, I babysat.

My favorite babysitting job was for a family in my neighborhood. The mom was young and pretty and a lot of fun. Hip and interesting, I liked the way she dressed. She was interested in fashion, too, and cosmetics. She wore Shalimar and painted her nails in a lilac color. We spent many afternoons sitting her kitchen table, drinking tea and talking. I adored her young son and spent many happy days chasing him around the garden.

Her husband was diagnosed with cancer and later died; it was a terrible time for them. They were clearly very much in love. What I remember most is one time when he was in remission. They asked me to babysit so they could go out to dinner with another couple, their best friends. Everyone was relieved and hopeful, in such a buoyant mood. When Mr. L. drove me home, there was Barry White music playing on the radio. As he dropped me at my door that night, I waved away payment. Tonight's on me, I said proudly. I was so happy that my friend's husband was well. No, Kathy, he said. Thank you, but tonight is my night. And he paid me extra.

They were such a lovely young couple and my time in their home was meaningful at a time when I was a little lost. It's these kinds of memories that stay with me and that I feel grateful for.

The work of the poet is to name what is holy. ~ Diane Ackerman

Rock and Roll and PTA

2011-10-18T08:19:00.005-04:00

I worship at the middle-school cafeteria,

Home of chicken tenders and tater tots,

Yummy mummys in skinny jeans and control issues,

MILFs in Dior mascara and Spanx.

I squeeze my ass into a fifth-grade chair

and think: Pilates, Pilates, Pilates.

The blond bird in front begins flapping her wings,

shows us where the oxygen masks are. Buckle up, she warns.

Blink and your kid is ruined for life.

Drugs! Alcohol! STDs! Blow jobs in seventh grade!

We're talking permanent record fuck-up here,

so keep those sign-up sheets moving, sisters.

Book drives! Wrapping paper sales! Teacher appreciation!

Annual fund time and your husband works on Wall Street?

Ca-ching! Ca-ching! Ca-ching!

And welcome to bake sale purgatory,

extra credit for raw sugar and Meyer lemons,

Your kid might even go Ivy League.

But me? I was caught red-handed, with

City Bakery brownies disguised as homemade.

Filled with hot buttered shame,

I slink into the confessional, another epic PTA fail.

Summer of '68

2011-09-26T18:21:00.004-04:00

The four of us are sitting in the back seat of a shiny, blue Plymouth, taking in that not-entirely-unpleasant new car smell. The road is lined with leafy maples and oaks and they are the greenest trees I've ever seen. My mother is a nervous new driver and we are not allowed to talk. Our silence helps her navigate the bends and turns on the way to town. It is our first summer in the country and my mother is learning to drive. I am learning to swim and neither of us is happy.

Our new house is old, a white Cape Cod with a driveway of grey stones. From the start, it feels ancient and creaky and wrong. When the lilac bush blooms purple in the spring, I will carry blossoms on the school bus to my teachers but I don't know that yet.

I miss our block in the city, the lavender walls of my parent's bedroom, the gold mailbox in the lobby you have to open with a tiny key. I miss our fire escape and the candy store and shopping at the five and ten with my grandmother. I'm used to falling asleep to the sound of sirens in the near distance and here it is dead quiet and black at night.

My mother will wait for some twenty years from now to tell me she never wanted this house. "Your father chose it," she'll someday say, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. "I would have been happier in the city." But I already know this and more. I know what my mother thinks and feels without her saying a word. It's like magic.

Give me the words, but tell me nothing

2011-08-08T16:44:00.004-04:00

This is one of the songs I find myself listening to on replay on days when I'm having trouble making sense of the world. It's a balm for times when the news is bad, bad, bad, when life feels as fragile as a hibiscus flower and fear threatens to overwhelm.

Since childhood, my way has been to turn to literature and poetry and music, to take in those beautiful words that ground and comfort, words that create a path through confusion and pain without giving explanations or promises. The contradictions lull and soothe, reminding me that right here right now in this very moment, everything is fine. Even though it's not. But really it is. Do you know what I mean?

The Humble and Silky Life

2011-05-03T13:29:00.003-04:00

Peonies

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready

to break my heart

as the sun rises,

as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open -

pools of lace,

white and pink -

and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes

into the curls,

craving the sweet sap,

taking it away

to their dark, underground cities -

and all day

under the shifty wind,

as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,

and tip their fragrance to the air,

and rise,

their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness

gladly and lightly,

and there it is again -

beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.

Do you love this world?

Do you cherish your humble and silky life?

Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,

and softly,

and exclaiming of their dearness,

fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,

their eagerness

to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are

nothing, forever?

-Mary Oliver

I love this time of year. The peonies are in gorgeous bloom, reminding me to stop and breathe deeply. To sit and wonder. To be here now, accepting all that is - the preciousness, the fear, the pounding in the chest, the softness, the yielding. The ache of it all.

I so miss my blog and I miss connecting with all of you. Thank you for your requests for me to start blogging again, for adding yourselves as followers during my dry spell, for both the gentle and not-so-gentle nudges. Especially for the not-so-gentle. Your encouragement means a lot, as I am someone who easily gets off track with the creative things I want for myself.

Poetry, as some of you know, was and is my first true love. So here I am again, trying to show up, wanting to be less of a perfectionist and to share more of my vulnerable self, to put what I have to say out into the world. And to find out what I am so afraid of.

The Sweetness of Our One Thing

2010-11-24T15:22:00.007-05:00

If we do everything else but that one thing, we will be lost. And if we do nothing else but that one thing, we will have lived a glorious life. ~ Rumi

I read this quote today and I stopped short in my shiny black boots. These words hit me hard today because I can feel their truth in my bones, and you know what? My one thing? Haven't. Been. Doing. It. And I've been kind of cranky lately.

I pace, I bite my nails, I plan and plot. I read countless books, take classes, scribble in journals, and on napkins. I make lists and maps and write in the air. I resist, I doubt, I sharpen pencils.

In the past, I spent a long time agonizing over my one thing, only to discover I've always known what it is. You probably know what yours is, too. In fact, I'm sure you do. As Julie Cameron says in one of her books (I'm paraphrasing): That thing you really, really want to do? That's your thing. Knowing is a relief but without doing, it keeps you spinning wheels.

My one thing is writing poetry. In my heart, I know I'm a poet. It's what I'm supposed to be doing. For months I've been struggling to get my work done and I realize it's due to that old, murky, green stuff called perfectionism. I want to send poems out for publication but instead I read someone else's poetry. I want to spend time writing every day and yet I spent time on mindless chores. I have the cleanest closets in town and I vacuumed under my bed, but I've avoided writing morning pages and I've neglected this blog. I also haven't been exercising much and I've been craving sugar. The connection with sugar? If we don't give ourselves that sweetness that our one thing brings, we will look for it elsewhere.

I feel really, really ready to shake off the perfectionist thing because I'm really, really tired of the way it holds me back, the way it keeps me stuck and small. You can't write if you listen to the chorus of voices in your head chanting, "Not good enough, not good enough." So today I'm picturing those voices coming from little trolls, and I'm telling them to beat it.

How about you? What is your one thing? Are you doing it and if not, why not? I'd love to hear from you.

Poet of the Small Place

2010-10-27T16:49:00.005-04:00

Born, on an island, you long to venture

to the smaller island, more remote and

strange. Distant metropolis has no call

as piercing as the gull's cry when tide

threatens to dash the tiny craft you step

from, struggling toward obscurity

that alone will let you speak syllables

pried from the hid heart bone.

Kim Stafford

Nana Loss

2010-10-09T13:00:00.007-04:00

Sometimes I miss my grandmother so much I start to feel a bit panicked. This is one of those days. I dreamed of her last night and woke up wanting, wanting, wanting. Today the loss feels deep and acute and overwhelming. Rather than try to dash it away by getting busy and distracted, I'm sitting at my dining table and breathing deeply. Here's to mindfulness, to sitting with what is even when I don't want to. Especially when I don't want to.

There are so many things I miss about my grandmother. Her all-round kick-ass awesomeness, how's that? How beautiful and funny and outspoken she was. Her strong sense of independence. The joy and zest she had for family celebrations and holidays.

I miss our kitchen chats. The contentment of sitting quietly together at Mass. Playing that Ray Conniff album over and over. Her collection of pink lipsticks. Looking through her jewelry box at all the beads and earrings. The colorful matching pant suits she wore. The piles of crocheted squares of black and red and blue. Falling asleep at night to the sound of The Late Show in the other room.

I miss the endless cups of tea. The smell of Jean Naté. Climbing out of Nana's bedroom window to read on the fire escape. The neighborhood ladies in their beach chairs. Movies at the Dale. Shopping trips to Woolworth's and Alexander's. Setting the table for Sunday pot roast with mashed potatoes. It was always pot roast.

I miss the sound of her voice calling my name.

My Favorites

2010-09-17T16:06:00.006-04:00

When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy. - Rumi

Here are ten of my favorite things in life, the things that bring me more happy, happy, joy, joy.

1. Books. Since childhood, reading has been my favorite way to spend free time. I love browsing in bookstores, sitting in libraries, and organizing my books. I love the weight of a book in my hands, the way new books smell when you first crack them open, the way my colorful bookshelves cozy up a room. I never go anywhere without a book and usually prefer to have two, in case I finish one. I love contemporary fiction, classics, poetry, memoir, books about fashion, interior design. My to-read pile is exceedingly high and it frequently tips over.

2. Cooking. When I first got married I didn't really know much about cooking and did very basic things. We ate a lot of tortellini and a lot of baked chicken. When my husband, daughter and I lived overseas, I became interested in classical cooking. I bought a few cookbooks, took some classes and tried many different recipes. I discovered the utter joy of spending time in the kitchen and serving (and of course eating) a delicious meal.

3. Poetry. I've been drawn to poetry since I was very young. I adore the words, the words, the beautiful words. Isn't it gorgeous the way the words in poems seem to dance right off the page? I love that a poet can express so much with spare language. Poetry is both energizing and soothing to me; it is the perfect way to move into the present moment and stay there.

4. Writing. My poems, my notebooks and journal, correspondence, lists, Twitter, the blog, scratch pads, stories. All of it.

5. Everything French. I love Paris, the countryside, the language, the films, the music.

6. Classics. Diamond stud earrings, a string of Mikimoto pearls, gold and silver hoops both small and large. The jangling silver charm bracelet I started as a teenager - complete with telephone, cheerleader and horse charms. A timeless Cartier tank watch. Trouser suits, cashmere sweaters, black slingback heels. Kate Spade. Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses. Basics from J. Crew.

7. Scarves. I started wearing scarves in high school. I love different patterns and colors and fabrics. The way they add a bit of zip to an outfit. Like any proper NYC girl, I wear a lot of black. Scarves are perfect for adding color and texture to a monochromatic look. I have gorgeous Hermes scarves I bought in Paris and long to wear them effortlessly, the way French women do, as I stroll the Boulevard San-Germain.

8. Blue and White. I love the boldness of these colors together, especially for home decorating. When I lived in Japan, I became drawn to blue and white patterns that are prevalent there in indigo textiles and contemporary ceramics. With a set of plain white dinnerware, accent plates and platters in blue and white are the perfect thing. Blue and white at home are perfectly classic, comfortable and casually elegant.

9. Stationery. I have a cabinet filled with paper, note cards, colored pencils, file cards. Don't get me started on Moleskine notebooks - I have many sizes and versions at the ready when inspiration strikes. And I love to write letters to friends and send postcards to my nieces and nephews. I want to do my part to make sure these technology savvy kids know what snail mail is.

10. Woody Allen films. Annie Hall. Manhattan. Crimes and Misdemeanors. Zelig. Alice. Husbands and Wives. They are perfect for a NYC girl like me.

What are your top ten favorite things? Or just a few of your favorite things. I'd love to know.

September Sadness

2010-09-10T20:57:00.004-04:00

I remember the eerie quiet in NYC in the days and weeks after. The echo of sirens that day. People running in the streets. The haunting ball of fire. The empty sky. The bitter taste of smoke and ash. The fear of going out and the fear of staying home. The police barriers on 14th Street. The kindness and softness in people's eyes. The phone ringing and ringing. The endless stream of tears. Walking around crying, tears at lunch, on line in Starbucks, in bed at night trying to sleep, crying so much it was hard to breathe. Sobbing in the park one day, the woman who stopped and placed her hand on my back without saying a word. Walking the streets for hours, not wanting to be alone in the apartment. Seeing all those flyers and photos, feeling hopeful that people might be found. Realizing one day that no one would be found. Sitting in the kitchen of my brother's firehouse late into the night drinking tea. Turning to the Portraits of Grief in the Times every morning first thing, wanting to know who every single one of those people was. Needing to know.

Nightmare on Kathleen Street

2010-09-03T08:37:00.005-04:00

Has anyone seen that hilarious little film with Griffin Dunne called After Hours, a twisted dark comedy where he is trapped in Soho overnight and encounters all manner of weirdos? I had my own Nightmare in Manhattan last night, probably the strangest dream I've ever had. Was it the heat? The hurricane? The Phish Food ice cream? Not sure, but here is the absurd little tale.

I wandered around NYC all night, barefoot and alone, not recognizing any neighborhoods or streets. Was wearing black leggings, thankfully not jeggings, and cute top. Ate in restaurant at a table of women dressed as Mother Goose characters who tell me they are having a hen (bachelorette) party. Get in shouting match in street with Chelsea Clinton over the only cab. Lost cab to Chelsea Clinton. Stumbled onto a friend's house, fell asleep in a chair, woke up with plate of roast beef on lap. Don't eat roast beef; apparently still vegetarian in dream. Yes! Friend gives me tube socks to wear over leggings and sends me out into the night. Women in street point and stare and laugh at thick white tube socks. Hurt feelings. Chased through streets by group of strange men in turkey costumes.

Duck into variety store filled with odd merchandise to escape wild turkeys. Find a colorform fashion set with Paulina Porizkova on box which I buy and then promptly lose. Posters from Woody Allen films in store, consider buying but too big to carry. Ask store clerk for exit and he sends me down trick corridor with fun house mirrors. Finally stumble out onto street, covered in feathers. Feathers!

Life, Love and Loss

2010-08-29T18:55:00.001-04:00

Lately I've found myself thinking about the losses that add up over a lifetime and wondering what we do with them, where exactly do we put them? There are the huge, painful losses, the ones we don't get over, the ones we think we will never accept and maybe we don't, really. We do somehow learn to live with them though because well, what is our option? We learn to limp through life without that person we loved and couldn't live without because now they are gone and here we are. We have to go back to work and take our kids to school and make the coffee every morning. One foot in front of the other and the hours somehow turn into days, the days into years. It's what we have to do and so we do.

Then there are small losses, the changes and little heartaches that seem to happen overnight but have actually been a long time in approaching and they hurt, too. There are the physical changes: the wrinkles, the streaks of gray in our hair, the reflection of tush in the mirror that no longer looks like ours. And the relationships: friends who move on or away, people we vow to stay in touch with but don't until so much time has passed we decide to just let it go, the sibling we wish to be closer to but we somehow don't get around to making the effort. We lose the parts of ourselves we wanted to nurture but didn't until they fall away for lack of food and water.

One of the most profound losses I've experienced was losing my grandmother, and I still miss her so much it takes my breath away at times. I say I'd like one more day with her but the truth is that when that day was spent, I would surely want another. I'd like to sit on her kitchen stool and have a cup of tea with her and talk about her life. I want to know about her early life, what it was like with her parents and siblings. She never talked much about these things and I feel like that whole history is lost now.

I have so many questions I want to ask. Was Nana really as strong and as unflappable as she appeared? Did she really not worry about what other people thought (and could she teach me how to do that?) What was it like raising six children and having a husband die so young? Did she believe in God completely and absolutely or were there doubts? How could there not be doubts? At 48, what did my Nana think about, wonder about, regret? That's my age now and I would really like to know.

Grief and Loss: What to Do and Say When There is Nothing to Do and Say

2010-07-10T14:43:00.013-04:00

Yesterday I had an unexpected sweet conversation with a man who was working at my house. "Today would have been my son's birthday," he told me. "It's a hard day." I asked him what happened to his son so many years ago, and we talked for a while about what it has been like for his family. "It feels so good to talk about him," he said to me before he left. I understood because I noticed the way his face changed as he mentioned his son's name, the way his deep pain was also his deep joy. He held that beautiful baby boy in his arms only to have the impossible and unbearable task of letting him go. Even now, people probably still change the subject because who wants to imagine a darling, sick baby in hospice? So completely unfair and unbelievable, this kind of thing feels to all of us like it should turn the world completely on its side. And for the family, it does.

Having worked in oncology and in hospice, people sometimes ask me (after they ask WHY WHY WHY do you do this, a subject for another post), what do you say when someone is sick, dying, grieving? What do you do for a friend or neighbor who has just lost someone and is in terrible pain? People often mean well but they don't know how to help and may end up avoiding the person or topic because it feels so difficult.

Here are a few things I try to keep in mind:

Simply being there and listening to someone is pretty much the best thing one can do. If you have seen the film One True Thing with Meryl Streep and Rene Zellweger, you may remember the powerful scene when the mother implores the daughter to stop shushing her. She says she needs to talk, to say the important things and she wants her daughter to hear them. I'm not talking about the kind of listening where you immediately move in to try to fix things or give advice or top a terrible story by telling one that is even worse. I mean true listening, where you are quiet and the other person talks. You nod, you say mhm, you become a safe container and let them spill.

Take your cue from the person and approach them without an agenda. You may think you know what they are feeling but you really don't. If they want to talk, you can listen and let them vent. This can be hard when the person is very angry because the anger can feel directed at you. Try not to take it personally though because it often has nothing to do with you.

That said, if someone doesn't want to talk, don't push. There's no rule that says everything has to be talked about. Some people don't want to get into the deep stuff because they don't like to discuss feelings and this is fine. I've talked with people about fishing, traveling, food, politics. I've helped them write letters, celebrate special occasions, and I've cooked and baked their favorite dishes. One of my dearest friends wanted to talk about happy stuff during his illness - films, movie stars, music, food, his dogs, the things that made his life his own. Although he was bedridden and extremely sick, our visits were quite joyful right up until a few days before he died.

Don't worry so much about saying just the right thing - there is no right thing, there is no way you can fix this. I remember putting off writing a condolence letter to a friend's husband because I was trying to capture her, to find the perfect words. Finally, I just put my tush in my desk chair and wrote him a heartfelt letter sharing some of my favorite memories of her. People appreciate when you are honest and real.

That said, there are some things I would definitely not say to someone: I know how you feel, this is God's will, everything is going to be okay, she's is in a better place now, it's all for the best, this is what you should do, etc. Everyone has their own beliefs, culture, religion (or no religion), and I try to be mindful of that. The reality is that I don't really know about their experience and they do. I can ask them and if they want to talk about it, they will.

Some of the most profound moments I've had with people have actually happened when sitting in silence. Believe me, this sounds a whole lot easier than it is. Still, silence is one of the most useful and powerful hospice interventions. Also, you can listen to music, read or watch a film, do anything the person loves to do. I read a lot with my friend Peter because once he became blind he missed books terribly. I chose subjects I knew he was interested in and this delighted him. Peter also had a fabulous sense of humor and we spent a lot of time laughing and joking. It doesn't have to be all doom and gloom.

With close friends and family, I tend to move right in and try to anticipate things I can do that will be useful for them. Telling someone to let you know if they need anything is often not helpful because they are too overwhelmed to think about it and may feel uncomfortable asking. Better to offer something specific, like bringing dinner or doing the shopping or taking the kids to the movies. My sister helped a dying friend in a practical way that I thought was so loving: she spent a whole day cleaning the house because it needed to be done. Now that is a good friend.

When someone I love is grieving and suffering, I try to approach them in a way I think they would like, whether it is with phone calls, emails, cards, visits. I think about what would be most helpful to them and try to meet them where they are. Above all else, I show up with food and wine and chocolate and stay for a while. These things help, they really do.

FDNY Girl

2010-06-25T20:26:00.009-04:00

As some of you know, I am the daughter of a firefighter. This fact defines me as much as any other important fact of my life, probably more. There's a camaraderie in the fire department that I've never seen the likes of anywhere else, and you are a part of it if you are one of the kids. I remember visiting a firehouse a day or two after 9/11, crowds of people and reporters on the sidewalk outside. I introduced myself to one of the guys and he immediately pulled me into his arms and brought me inside. "You're family," he simply said. I was welcome to sit at the big kitchen table and cry and wait with the others, and I did.

What I remember most is feeling tremendously proud of the work my father did. I knew that when my dad left for work and I didn't see him for a few days, he was helping people on the worst days of their lives. I could imagine him putting on his boots and helmet and coat, jumping on the truck on his way to fight fires and carry people to safety. I could even smell the smoke.

I thought Dad and his firefighter friends were amazing men and I still do. They were giants: strong, courageous, and wise. Hands down, the funniest people I've ever met. Their stories aren't mine to tell, but trust me, they are absolutely hilarious. Tommy Gavin has nothing on them. My dad and his crew worked in the South Bronx during the legendary 1960s and 70s when the fires were constant.

My dad was known as a "firefighter's firefighter," and I knew all too well what this meant. Beloved by his fellow firefighters, he was the kind of guy you wanted to do a tour with because he was braver than you. He was the guy whose shoulder had your back, the one who never hesitated, the guy who ran into the building without waiting for equipment because a woman was screaming bloody murder for her husband who was trapped inside.

It is fair to say that I was more than a bit of a worrier as a child. Acutely aware of the risks involved in my father's job, there were many days and nights I wished he did something else for a living. For the most part, when Dad was working a day tour, I felt pretty sure he was safe. In my child's mind and heart, the real danger was at night when everything was dark and quiet and still. I remember turning down invitations to spend the night with friends when I knew my father was working. I somehow felt he would be safer if I stayed home; of course it didn't make sense but it didn't have to. I learned to live on a kind of alert system as a kid, and even now I constantly scan the room and the world for danger. It will always be a part of me.

I remember visiting my grandmother in the Bronx, lying awake in her second bedroom, tossing and turning in the heat of summer and listening to the sirens going all night. To this day, I like the sound of those sirens. They are at once exciting and frightening, both jarring and oddly comforting. As long as I could hear that sound in the distance, I felt nothing really terrible could happen.

The Country Between Willing and Unwilling

2010-06-16T19:47:00.004-04:00

The Country Between Willing and Unwilling

is the loneliest place. It is dark and mossy,

the path littered with twisted roots and stones, shards

of green glass underneath the fallen leaves.

Like a weary traveler, I am in need of a compass and

a long, cool drink of water. I pray for the willingness to cross

this path, I do, for the grace and courage to breathe on my own.

Don't Drink, they say, Keep Coming Back, and Let Go, Let God.

As if it were easy, as if it were possible. Brave and weak, strong and scared,

they move in and out of the rooms, day after night, night after day,

making tall promises to themselves and to each other.

They stir sugar into bitter cups of black coffee and slip

hastily scribbled phone numbers into pockets for later,

regrets and mistakes passed into the basket with the dollar bills.

It Works if You Work It, they tell me and I almost believe.

What I would give to know that this is true, to watch myself lean into the shadow,

to finally forgive the one I swore I could never forgive.

I want to dedicate this poem to my dad, who has been living one day at a time for over 25 years. Love you, Dad.

Seven Things

2010-06-08T21:42:00.002-04:00

My Twitter friend Toni invited me to post 7 things about myself. Thanks, Toni. Here goes:
1. I'm a native New Yorker. I was born in Manhattan and lived in the Bronx for the first six years of my life. My parents decided to move to the country (you couldn't call it the suburbs, it was north of the suburbs) during the summer between kindergarten and 1st grade. I'm still mad at them. I spent as much time with my grandmother in "the city" as I could when I was growing up. And now I'm back living here. Thank goodness. City girl!
2. I lived overseas for seven years with my husband and daughter. We lived in Tokyo for four years (an amazing experience) and in London for three years. I speak some Japanese and some English.
3. I married my first true love. We went to school for many years together and officially met when we were seniors in high school. He caught my attention on our senior trip to Daytona Beach, FL when he entered my hotel room and asked if anyone was following the news of the attempted rescue of the American hostages in Iran.
4. The greatest joy in my life is being a mother. I have a smart, gorgeous, funny daughter named Jess. I was fortunate to be a SAHM during her childhood and teen years, such a joy. As Gretchen Rubin says, "The days are long, but the years are short. "
5. I have never had a car of my own. When I was in high school, my father bought an old Plymouth Duster for my brother and I to share. It cost $500 and was bright red and quite rusty. When I got married, my in-laws gave my husband and me their old green station wagon (with paneling). We drove that until we had a baby and some money of our own. My husband and his father went to PA one Saturday and came home with a new Mercury Sable wagon. Later on we bought Volvo Cross Country wagons. Now that my daughter has graduated from college and we no longer require a station wagon to shuttle her stuff back and forth to Boston, I am lusting after a BMW convertible. Seems only fair.
6. My favorite thing in life is my books. I have been a devoted reader since I was an elementary school student. I adore bookstores and libraries and read several books a week. I receive a thank you note at Christmastime from Barnes and Noble. You don't want to be in my apartment when it is time for painting. The painters don't like me and my thousands of books.
7. I am an excellent cook and baker. Everybody loves coming to my place for dinner. You should come, too.

I love a challenge!

2010-06-08T14:29:00.006-04:00

Today I've started a writing and yoga challenge called 215800 designed by Bindu Wiles. For the next three weeks, I will do a yoga practice or class for five days a week and I will write 800 words per day.

I decided to do this writing challenge because I know it will keep me writing every day. I love having a goal and being accountable. It will also connect me to other writers, members of my own tribe doing their thing. It's inspiring to be part of a community, to know that there are hundreds of other people sitting at their desks or their computers, in coffee shops and parks, getting their words down on the page.

I like this particular challenge because it combines writing and yoga. My neck and shoulders have been feeling stiff and tight lately (partly because as I tell my nieces and nephews, I am old and tired) but hey, I'm not so old or so tired that I can't invite some delicious yoga into my life. This morning I did a Yogaworks class I found on the exercise demand cable channel. How easy was that? And I felt great after. So here's hoping for a little less stiff, a little less tight, a little more loose and bendy. YAY for loose and bendy.

Thanks, Bindu, for such a great idea. I'm happy to be joining you.

On the Eve of my Darling Daughter's Graduation

2010-05-23T16:19:00.007-04:00

To a Daughter Leaving Home

When I taught you

at eight to ride

a bicycle, loping along

beside you

as you wobbled away

on two round wheels,

my own mouth rounding

in surprise when you pulled

ahead down the curved

path of the park,

I kept waiting

for the thud

of your crash as I

sprinted to catch up,

while you grew

smaller, more breakable

with distance,

pumping, pumping

for your life, screaming

with laughter,

the hair flapping

behind you like a

handkerchief waving

goodbye.

by Linda Pastan

This is one of my favorite poems about being a parent. Raising a child to me feels like a series of letting go experiences. We are always moving to a new level of goodbye, aren't we? Learning how to do this has been one of my biggest lessons in life. Saying goodbye and letting go don't come naturally to me; clinging and hanging on do. I'm more the type of parent who follows behind, wearing dark sunglasses and a cap. Let's put it this way, I have not been too proud to peek in windows and hide behind a trees.

My daughter has often been ready for things before I've been ready. I remember when Jess was about three and a half and starting a preschool. The school had a progressive, touchy-feely kind of philosophy and allowed a parents to hang around for the first few days. My kind of place. On Jessica's first day there, I was planning to spending the morning with her. Jess entered the classroom confidently, bounded into a group of kids and brightly said, "Hi! I'm Jessie." The teacher turned to me and said, "You can go. Now."

There was always another beginning and cause for worry. Kindergarten, camp, class trips to dangerous places like farms and museums. There's the first time riding a school bus, a roller coaster, an airplane. Jessica's sixth grade class at the American School in London went to Greece! From London to Greece! For six nights. Without me. And no cell phones allowed. Fortunately every evening one of the teachers called in and left a message on a recording that parents could access: Everyone is fine. Today was a great day. All of the children are still alive. So far, so good.

We moved to New York City for the September of eighth grade. Jessica's first day of school was two days after 9/11 when all parents were understandably on edge. I didn't want Jess to walk to school alone and she didn't want me to walk with her. We worked out a compromise: I would drop her in a cab in the morning so no one would see me; I could duck down if need be. Like I said, I'm not proud. Our plan for the afternoon was to meet at Starbucks a few blocks from school and walk home the long way to be sure not to run into anyone Jess knew. Although she didn't actually know anyone yet because we had just moved there. But still.

During high school Jess found a summer language program in the countryside of Japan that she wanted to do. She filled out the application and wrote an essay and exchanged emails with students who attended the program the summer before. I checked references, looked into finding a therapist and lined up friends in Tokyo who agreed to rescue Jess if necessary. The host family was, of course, fabulous and the program wonderful. Jess came home with lots of confidence and speaking Japanese.

My smart, beautiful, talented girl is graduating from college tomorrow. Her dad and I are so very proud and can't wait to see what Jess is going to do next. In the meantime, for a little while at least, Jess will be back at home with us. Don't tell her, but I may even tip-toe into her room at night for just a few moments and watch her sleep, just like I used to.

Be Here, Now

2010-05-11T21:15:00.002-04:00

She likes to wake early and sit at the table,

the others still warm in their beds

Be here, now, she tells herself

as she breathes in the cool quiet of morning,

She contemplates the pale pink tulips

at the center of the table,

how lovely they look in her grandmother’s

blue and white ginger jar

It is from Japan, she thinks

or is it China? She sighs, because she

used to know and has forgotten.

Later the blooms will open slightly

as they yield to the afternoon light, and

their petals will fall softly like rain

across the dark acacia wood.

She remembers the line that says,

There is a crack in everything,

and thinks how sad and true it is.

Everything does crack and break and wither

Be here, now, she thinks

before the house wakes,

be still and savor that silent corridor

that no one else knows

Poetry by Pablo Neruda

2010-05-10T12:49:00.004-04:00

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, nor silence

but from a street I was summoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there I was without a face

and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names

my eyes were blind,

and something started in my soul,

fever or forgotten wings,

and I made my own way,

deciphering

that fire

and I wrote the first faint line,

faint, without substance, pure

nonsense,

pure wisdom

of someone who knows nothing,

and suddenly I saw

the heavens

unfastened

and open,

planets,

palpitating plantations,

shadow perforated,

riddled

with arrows, fire and flowers,

the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

I felt myself a pure part

of the abyss,

I wheeled with the stars,

my heart broke free on the open sky.

Mrs. Woods, You Suck

2010-04-30T13:00:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, I took Julia Cameron's creativity class, An Artist's Way. One of the best exercises we did in the class was to write a short piece about a person from our childhood who stifled our creativity and joy. A Creative Monster, in other words.

When Julia first described the assignment, my heart sank. I just didn't want to do it, who would? Revisiting my old traumas and sharing them with the class was not my idea of fun. And yet I knew immediately who I would write about: my fifth grade gym teacher. Just the thought of this teacher still made my face flush with shame and I wanted to know why. So I wrote.

As I got into the free write, it became kind of fun. I found I remembered lots of details and the more I wrote, the angrier I felt. MRS. WOODS, YOU SUCK, I wrote on my paper. I was an adorable little kid, full of heart and spirit. Yes, I was shy in gym class and clearly not the most athletic kid but so what? I always tried my best and that should have been enough. She was so mean to me and I had no idea why.

Julia told us to pick a partner from the class and share our stories with each other. I teamed with this great guy named Ben who worked in theater. He became dramatic and outraged as I told my story. "I hate Mrs. Woods, too," he declared. "I do. What a total bitch." I loved that he hated her for me, and we laughed together until our tears streamed.

So what exactly did this teacher do to me? Here's the most humiliating thing that happened. We were doing a unit on gymnastics, and we were told to select a piece of equipment, design a routine to music and perform it for the class. I chose the balance beam, mostly because I was terrified to jump over the horse and spinning on those parallel bars made me want to throw up. I sketched out my plan at home for the balance beam routine frame by frame; I can still picture the careful little pencil drawings I made. I chose a fun Motown song and diligently practiced my swooshes and dips and turns.

I remember feeling pretty happy with myself as I was performing the routine. That is, until out of the corner of my eye I saw that Mrs. Woods wasn't even watching! She chatted with another student while my heart and I were up on that balance beam. I couldn't believe it. Then when I was finished, she looked up from her clipboard at me with beady eyes and said, "That was a routine?" I felt crushed and ashamed and I didn't tell anyone about what had happened.

A few years later in seventh grade, we did another unit on gymnastics. By then I was smarter. The girls were lined up and required to run and jump over the horse while the boys sat and watched. (Honestly, who thinks this stuff up?) Kathy McCoy and I took one look at each other and knew there was no way we were going over that horse. When the mean teacher turned her back, we took our moment and dashed out of the gym. We headed downstairs and ran smack into Coach Snyder. I smiled and winked at him, and he held the door for us as we ran into the locker room to hide.

Conversation with Moonlight

2010-04-26T12:15:00.009-04:00

She first hears the pale voice of moonlight

during sleep, dark and deep

wake now, it softly whispers

tell of your sorrow and longing

pink petals worn and saved

a kaleidoscope frozen in time

muted traces of wonder and regret

reflected in the mirror

moonlight, she says, all I want

is to call myself a beginner

and to know that moment

before anyone came to dwell

This is the first stanza of a poem I'm working on about beginnings. Stay tuned.

Love, Loss and a Fire Escape in the Bronx

2010-04-21T19:34:00.000-04:00

You know the feeling that comes over you when you suddenly miss someone you've lost so much you feel a bit dazed? Like the wind has been knocked out of you by a punch or a wave in the ocean and now you can't quite feel your feet on the sand or catch your breath? The feeling seems to appear out of nowhere and sometimes I suppose it does. Just as often, though, it comes because you have heard a song, smelled a perfume or read a line in a poem and your heart just wants to crack open . You may find yourself driving past an exit on the highway that once led you to happiness, an exit you have no reason to take any longer, but you still want to. And so sometimes you just do.

You find that the neighborhood has changed quite a bit. You expect that it has, of course, you know that it has but that doesn't make it any easier. Mrs. Doyle and her happy little dog are gone, and there is no sound of Mary Higgins clicking down the block in her high heels and pearls. Big Marge isn't sitting in her ground floor window and the superintendent who sang Italian songs in the courtyard is gone. It's been ages since the Flora Dora girls (my Nana and her pals) sat in beach chairs on the sidewalk talking and laughing, enjoying the dark coolness of the summer night, avoiding their too-hot August apartments for just a few minutes more. There are no more Saturday vanilla egg creams, no more candy necklaces, no more jelly donuts. No one calls you in from the fire escape and asks you to put your book down to run around the corner for ham and cheese and German potato salad because it is almost lunchtime.

You wish they would. You would so gladly go.

London Town

2010-04-14T18:34:00.003-04:00

Paris Eats

2010-04-13T20:41:00.006-04:00

Rainy Morning

2010-04-09T10:37:00.007-04:00

Well, I just checked and I'm happy to find I do still have a blog. Thank you, blogosphere for holding my space. I haven't blogged partly because I've been traveling in London and Paris and partly because I tend to put things off. And because I like to read and cook and watch films and walk around in NYC and sometimes sit and stare, like Elaine on Seinfeld. I am working on a post about the trip (well, it's mostly about the food we ate on the trip.) I will post as soon as I can get my husband to help me transfer the photos. I'm not hip with technology but my darling is and so is college girl. We all have different talents, and they know if they want me to keep feeding them creamy risotto and chocolate brownies, I require a technology consult once in a while. A fair trade, I think, don't you?

I've been feeling a joyful sense of creativity and flow lately and I'm sure my week in Paris has something to do with this. When I am in Paris, I get flooded with gorgeous and lovely. Paris is an exquisite, engaging, and yes, romantic place to take your heart and mind (not to mention your palate). It's the place that breaks my heart like nowhere else. And when my heart is open, I know that what I want to do in my life is write. I'm happy and content when I'm writing, whether it's a poem, a blog post or even a letter to an old friend. So I am committing to a writing schedule and inviting in the muse. I want to put writing at the center of my life, to use it to connect with the extraordinary, luscious everyday moments that are right here when I pay attention. I plan to spend more time on my poetry and also to post on the blog regularly. How does three times a week sound?

A few days ago, I heard one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, speak on the publication day of her new novel, Imperfect Birds. Anne writes quirky novels and thoughtful essays about the joy and pain in life - spirituality, family, love, loss, addiction. She is wickedly funny and self-deprecating, wise and kind. Anne hates to personalize books (it takes too long, her hand cramps, she misspells names). She told us we could write anything we wanted and she would sign it. She and I are now officially best friends and she is coming for lunch next week.

Anne talked about the note card and pen she always keeps in the pocket of her blue jeans, so she is ready when she sees or hears something that inspires. I think how often I've heard a snippet of conversation or a song, seen a beautiful image, been moved to tears or laughter over something a child said and felt certain I would remember the precise details later. It doesn't happen that way. We think we will remember these things, but God is in the details and for details, you need your pen. My eyes and ears and heart are open and I've got my pen. How about you?

An original poem for this Thursday morning

2010-03-18T10:10:00.006-04:00

I watch her carefully,

closer and closer

in my mind's eye

As she moves slowly

and then somehow swiftly,

a shadow just out of view.

The morning table

set with blue and white

left untouched.

These precious early hours

filled with the quiet of discovery

and possibility.

At once

there is a holding on,

and a letting go,

a tightening of trust and

a loosening of fear.

A sudden desire to swim

toward the other side of imagination.

There are no words, no guides,

no careful explanations.

We are expected to know in our bones

even as we stand still and wonder.

And so we wake and begin again.

The Joy of Mindfulness

2010-03-08T20:26:00.001-05:00

Otherwise

by Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know

it will be otherwise.

My current mood is one of gratefulness and acceptance. I'm feeling quite fortunate for many reasons. I'm grateful for so many things: my family, my friends and for good health. I'm grateful that day by day I am learning how to live more in the moment and to savor the present. I'm thankful to be moving away from perfectionism and instead learning to embrace the joy of what it means to be good enough.

Like many women, I have a tendency to live in my head, ruminating about the past and worrying about the future, planning, plotting and controlling. Even as a kid I was burdened with concern for everything and everyone within the town limits. I worried about my parents, my teachers, my mailman. I worried for classmates who didn't fit in, for the boy whose mother died in grade school, for my neighbor with the sick husband. I am a classic Irish-American eldest daughter, my purse weighed down with responsibility and Catholic guilt. All I've ever really wanted was to make things safe and sound for everyone around me. Is that too much to ask? It turns out that it is.

I've discovered that a constant effort to be careful and good is tiring and pointless. I've been adopting the idea of being good enough, of doing my best and continuing to move forward. I've learned that no matter how hard I try, how fast I dance and how many lists I make, bad things are still bound to happen. That's the way life is and fighting against it makes things feel impossible and exhausting.

And so I breathe. I experience the day as it enfolds in front of me and try to feel my feet on the precious ground. I take care of the matters at hand and do the best I can. I wish to be safe and happy and for others to be safe and happy. I whisper thank you and let the expectation of wanting things to be different slip away with the breeze.

My Best Friend, My Heart

2010-03-06T15:01:00.000-05:00

I've had the same best friend since high school. We first met at the end of junior high when we worked together on a school graduation dance committee. There was something so deliciously refreshing about her. You know that early stage in friendship where you are getting to know someone, sizing each other up, seeing how you connect? We never experienced that part. "Let's become really good friends," she simply said. Open, loving and funny, she wore her spirited heart on the outside with her Levi's and Frye boots. Who could resist?

I don't mean to give the impression that she and I have (or had) much in common, now or then. We have very different personalities and in fact would have made terrible roommates. She's a bit, well, looser than me. Okay, a lot looser. I like to plan, organize and make lists. She tends to go with the flow. She drove a car for years that had a broken gas gauge. A few years ago we ran out of gas in the middle of four lanes of traffic, and I screamed at her, "We're too freaking old for this, damn it!" Actually, come to think of it, I may not have said freaking.

We're a bit like an old married couple who adore each other but also drive each other batty. "You're wearing THAT?" is one of our favorite things to say to each other as we roll our eyes. We don't talk politics much, as she is very conservative (George W. Bush, anyone?) and I am quite liberal. We often don't get each other's point of view. We get each other perfectly, however, and that is enough.

When we first met, we were swept into the teenage whirlwind of friends, parties, and boyfriends. Sometimes we even switched dates when we tired of them. She went to the prom with my boyfriend Charlie. We hung out in the pizza place to play the juke box after football games. We passed notes furiously during intermediate algebra when Mrs. Casey turned her back to write on the blackboard. We polished our saddle shoes, practiced our cheers and did our Spanish homework. We were two kids with big hearts and outsize dreams, so big our little town could barely contain them. We were also both more than a little broken inside. What we really wanted was to get on that train in Brewster and not look back. First chance we had, that's what we did.

We've now spent decades of our lives together and apart. It was college for me and drama school for her. She moved cross-country to work in film and television. I got married, had a baby and moved to Tokyo. I learned to cook and she learned to make beautiful jewelry. We've stayed in close touch with visits, letters, and postcards. We do long emails and phone calls. She's a beloved aunt to my daughter; she's friend and family all in one.

We've celebrated our joys and successes together with genuine happiness for one another, although we no longer do cartwheels. We've mourned our losses and disappointments with tears and hugs and time. We've shared countless cups of coffee and probably as many glasses of champagne. During long, soulful talks, we've helped each other make decisions, discover our paths, understand our mistakes.

I'm grateful for my friend Denise in the same way I am grateful for the ocean and the sky. It is a tremendous gift in life to know someone this deeply and also to be known. There is treasure in every single happiness and treasure in every single wound.

Late Bloomer

2010-02-24T14:40:00.000-05:00

I went to a dinner the other night for a volunteer group I work with. The women I sat with were charming and engaging, and the conversation flowed as easily as the wine. There was, of course, the question that always comes up with new people: What do you do?

What, indeed. For many years, I was a stay-at-home mom and very happily ensconced in that role. When we lived overseas for my husband's work, I was considered a trailing spouse. (Charming term, isn't it?) When we returned to New York City, I became a graduate student. And then a social work intern.

I introduced myself the other night as a lapsed social worker which got a few laughs. Then I said something like, "I'm writing now. Well, I'm trying to do some writing. Mostly poetry." Naturally, it turned out I was sitting next to a journalist, with a real writing job at a prestigious magazine. She was probably an English major at Vassar, too. "So, you're a poet?," she asked, eyes narrowing.

I don't know how to answer this question. Can I really call myself a poet? It feels too bold and rather scary. I know nothing makes me happier than writing poems. Time stands still when I sit and write. I've registered for a poetry class this spring. I read Poets and Writers magazine every month. Do these things count?

I think I feel unworthy calling myself a poet because I haven't published any poetry. (I haven't tried to publish poetry yet, either.) I'm just getting started really, picking up an old dream and trying to carve something out of it. I've got journals full of lines, titles, words. Collage books full of images that inspire me: pink peonies, the Chrysler building, birch trees, tea cups, old maps. I've got scraps of paper, words jotted on napkins, lists of themes and ideas. I have plans, I tell you. I do.

And I have lots of books on writing. Anne Lamott recommends writing shitty first drafts. Kim Addonizio says to dare to feel like a beginner. Frances Mayes tells us that people often come to writing late, when "their talent is just waiting to be uncovered and developed." Yes, please. All of this sounds good to me.

Leap and the net shall appear. Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Follow your bliss. I've heard this advice over and over but still need daily reminders. I'm a recovering perfectionist trying to live in the moment. I guess I'm a work in progress. And a bit of a kook, truth be told.

I'm a late bloomer. And a practicing poet. You can call me both if you want.

Wednesday Love

2010-02-19T12:10:00.014-05:00

A dear friend of mine died at home this morning after a long illness. We met every week to talk, read and laugh, and I will miss him so. He was a darling, dashing man who lived for films and books and poetry. He loved languages and music and Paris. He drank coca-cola and ate sushi and chocolate. He smiled wide and called me sweetheart. We spent many quiet afternoons together as the seasons turned. Twice spring, twice summer, twice fall, twice winter, just outside his window.

My Darling Daughter and the Rock Stars

2010-02-13T18:24:00.000-05:00

One summer afternoon Jess and I went to Pastis, one of our favorite restaurants, for iced tea and salad nicoise. It was a pleasant, breezy July day and we were happy to get a table outside where we could linger over lunch. My seat gave me the perfect opportunity to watch the comings and goings at the trendy Gansevoort Hotel across the street.

About midway through our lunch, I noticed a familiar-looking guy coming across the street toward us. He was all in black, in a knit cap and wheeling a small suitcase. He looked kind of, well, special. I suddenly realized why I recognized him. I sat up a little straighter in my seat. Hey, I said to my daughter, isn't that the Edge?

As anyone who lives in New York City will tell you, there are lots of celebrities here. You see them on the street, in the fitting room at Barney's, at PTA meetings. New Yorkers are used to this and we don't think of it as a big deal. We may smile or say hello but for the most part we leave celebrities alone. It's part of our jaded, New York City cool. We wear all black, too.

This was a little different. This was the Edge. From the rock band U2. My daughter became near hysterical. "Where is he going, Mom? He's not coming in here, is he?" We watched him walk down the street and turn into our restaurant. He IS coming in here! Edge came outside and sat at a table with a swell looking guy in sunglasses. Bono. Unbeknown to us, Bono was already sitting at a table nearby.

Now, everyone who knows my girl knows that music is her main thing, and U2 is one of her all-time favorite bands. Maybe even her all-time number one. She saw them for the first time when I was pregnant with her in 1987. I remember calling my doctor to make sure the music wouldn't hurt her developing ears. The next time she saw them she was around ten years old and we were at the Tokyo Dome in Japan.

I watched my sophisticated city girl dissolve into a quivering, tearful puddle. She said things like, "I absolutely have to meet them, Mom. If I don't, I will regret it for the rest of my life! You don't understand how big this is. Huge! This is one of the most important moments of my life. Where is Dad? He would know what to do!" Her chest was a map of red blotches and I thought I might have to shake her silly.

This wasn't the time for me to be a nonchalant New Yorker. It was a time to be a mother and find a way to help my girl meet her idols. I knew I didn't want her to approach them in the restaurant. But hey, maybe outside was okay! All bets are off on the sidewalk, right? I ordered two glasses of champagne and we hatched a plan. "Okay," I said, "here's what you do. Wait until they finish eating and you see them motion for the check. Get up and dash around to the front of the restaurant." She liked this idea.

"Okay, GO!," I said, when we saw the rock stars paying their check. Jess ran around the sidewalk to the front of the restaurant, elbowed her way through the waiting paparazzi. She pounced on Edge and Bono as they came through the door. A little stalker-ish, yes, but being nineteen and gorgeous, it worked. I held my breath and thought okay, rock and roll gods, you're on. Please, please let them be nice to her. I knew my girl would be crushed if they ignored her or worse, brushed her off.

Jessica extended her hand to Bono as he passed. "I want to thank you for your music," she earnestly and politely said. He stopped and smiled. He probably saw the tears in her eyes. Maybe he saw how she was shaking. He thanked her and was very gracious. Then he did something she will never, ever forget. He leaned in and kissed her!

Bono and the Edge? The huge rock stars? They are both dads. Fathers of daughters. And really nice guys.

My Happiness Project

2010-02-09T22:29:00.024-05:00

Last night I attended a talk given by Gretchen Rubin, author of the newly-released book, The Happiness Project. I've been following Gretchen's popular blog for a few months and just finished reading the book. Her passion for happiness is contagious!

The book describes Gretchen's year-long project to research the subject of happiness and to discover what she could do to increase her own happiness. As Gretchen says, "The days are long, but the years are short." What can we do to put more joy into our daily lives?

Some of the things Gretchen did to make herself happier: Sing in the morning. Clean out closets. Get more sleep. Quit nagging. Start a collection. Be generous. Stop gossiping. Make time for projects. Some of the things that make me happier: Keep fresh flowers in the house. Read in the park. Send postcards and letters to family and friends. Listen to music. Cook at home more. Attend theater and ballet performances. Take long walks. Have lunch with my parents once a week.

Gretchen recommends writing personal commandments to help you live out your intentions. These create a kind of blueprint for how you want to live. Here are my 12 commandments. Hopefully, these themes will help me live a more authentic, creative life.

1. Be Kathleen. I convinced myself to study Spanish because it seemed practical. I live in NYC. I was doing social work. But my heart didn't want Spanish, it wanted French. It craved the Louvre and the Seine and macarons. So now I am studying French and guess what? It makes me really happy. The lesson? Be yourself. You already know what you want.

2. Live with mindfulness. This involves living in the moment and accepting things as they are. Always a dreamer, I tend to live in my head. Monkey mind, anyone? I need to quiet my racing thoughts. For instance, here is what is rattling around right now: Who cares about your happiness project? This isn't very sophisticated. Isn't this frivolous when there is so much suffering in the world? Yoo-hoo! There is work to be done. Laundry! Dishes! And so on. Hence the need to put my feet on the ground and be here now.

3. Eat clean and healthy. I'm focusing on eating more fruits and vegetables. Eating fresh, organic food. Whole grains. Drinking more water. I've stopped drinking Diet Coke and Diet Snapple. Less sugar and flour.

4. Shake, rattle and roll. I need to get more exercise. I keep reading that we should aim for 10,000 steps a day. It's about five miles. Living in NYC, this isn't difficult. I am now walking more and taking taxis less. I'm also making an effort to go to the gym at least every other day. Progress not perfection, right?

5. Keep Writing. Poems. Morning pages. Blog posts. Scribbles in notebooks. Writing is my first love and how I want to be spending time right now. This blog has been a great thing for me to do because I have to keep up with it, it's fun and it reminds me not to take writing too seriously. To just enjoy it and do it.

6. Focus more on myself and less on others. This sounds selfish but for me it is crucial. My tendency is to give too much of myself away. I'm a helper and a caretaker and I often have to reign myself in. Come on back, girl.

7. Strive for good enough, not perfect. Good enough. Perfect. Trying saying these words out loud and see how they make you feel. One sounds much better to me than the other. I used to fret so much over things it would keep me from actually doing them. Now I remind myself it's okay to be a beginner. Sometimes it can even be fun! Who knew?

8. It's okay to say no. This is a big one for me and an important lesson for many women, I think. I try not to reflexively say yes when asked to do something. Instead, I say things like: No, thanks. Let me think about it and get back to you. I don't think that will work for me. But hey, thanks for asking. I try not to leave skid marks.

9. Celebrate. I love to celebrate the big and little events in life. I enjoy entertaining and want to host more parties. I like keeping track of birthdays and finding just the right present for someone. I enjoy organizing little treats for my nieces and nephews. I love all kinds of wrappings and ribbons. A trip to Kate's Paperie is heaven to me.

10. Let it go. I love these lines by e.e. cummings: let it go -- the/ smashed word broken/ open vow or/ the oath cracked length/ wise -- let it go it/ was sworn to/ go.

For me, hanging on comes more naturally but I'm discovering that letting go feels so much better.

Better is good. Happier is good.

Welcoming the Late Forties

2010-02-04T19:15:00.016-05:00

I am officially ready to rock the late forties. Today is my birthday and I am 48, which I don't mind telling you. The truth is, I'm not feeling bad about getting older. I'm liking this stage of life with all of its possibilities. I'm about as happy as I've ever been.

In the past, I might have been afraid to tempt the gods by saying this. I no longer believe that's the way life works. I'm tired of being careful, of playing small. There's no way to protect ourselves. Life is bittersweet. Joy and pain, sugar and salt.

So, I'm shaking off melancholy and sad. Been there, done that. I've always been quite introspective and truth be told, more than a little dark. When I contemplate all the suffering and tragedy in the world, I feel an ache in my bones. I can't watch the news on television too much or I will curl up in the corner and you will have to feed and water me.

More and more, I'm learning to let go. To have faith that everything is okay. To wish the very best for everyone and to concentrate on the blessings that are before me. To live in the moment where the happy stuff is. To sit and breathe and let things be what they are.

I find I am feeling quite optimistic lately. You could say wildly optimistic. Things are flowing and creative and yummy. I have lots of ideas and plans. I've spread out my beach towel and I'm taking in some sun. Yes, I am.

I think of Rilke's words:

I love the dark hours of my being, in which my senses drop into the deep. I have found in them, as in old letters, my private life that is already lived through and become wide and powerful now, like legends. Then I know that there is room in me for a second huge and timeless life.

Note: I would like to credit this Rilke translation but have unfortunately lost track of where it came from. I found this passage in one of my notebooks, scribbled down years ago.

Me and the Empty Page

2010-01-30T19:12:00.015-05:00

When I sat down to write a post yesterday morning, I planned to dash off a couple of delightful, elegant paragraphs and get on with my Saturday. Then I couldn't think of anything to say. Nada. Zip. I had a few ideas bouncing around in my mind but couldn't settle on one. Nothing felt quite right. I felt blank. Unsettled. Confused.

Faced with existential thoughts, I emptied the dishwasher. I tidied the kitchen. I made the bed. I paid some bills. I read a few blogs and scrolled through Twitter. I answered emails. I watched a movie. I waited for inspiration to appear while I occupied myself with all manner of things. I doubt this is the way inspiration works. I think we have to quiet down and invite inspiration in. Make it a cup of tea. Give it a cozy corner chair. Coax it along.

I've been a perfectionist since I was a kid. I prefer to do things well or not do them. When I'm taking a class, I like to read up on the subject beforehand. In case the teacher is absent on the first day and I have to stand in. I hate the feeling of not knowing what to do next. It's awfully uncomfortable for me to be a beginner. But how else can you try anything new?

I've noticed that when I want to write poems, a list of chores magically appears in my mind. The laundry pile is higher than I thought. A package needs to get to UPS or someone's birthday will be ruined. I need stamps and diet coke and trash bags. A closet begs to be cleaned out and the purged items dropped at Goodwill. Why must everything else in my life be in perfect order before I can write?

I haven't written morning pages in a few days. I think there is a connection between skipping my early morning free-write and the blank page scowling at me later. I know that any other writing is more likely to happen when I begin my day with this simple practice. Writing my pages is a way of quieting down the noise in my head. It empties the clutter, making way for ideas and words and images to show themselves.

It takes willingness and courage to write. There's a letting go that needs to happen. A trusting in the process and in ourselves. When I write, I'm hopeful that my words will mean something to others. I want you to get me. But you might not and there's nothing I can do about that. I want you to see me in all my sparkly, shiny glory. The reality is more like letting you peek through the window while I dance around in my underwear.

My Nana, My Heart

2010-01-26T17:10:00.005-05:00

The medicine cabinet in her bathroom was filled with lipsticks of different shades of pink. She wore matching pantsuits of purple, blue and green with sparkly beads and bracelets. She had tea and biscuits in the afternoon. She loved bingo, her crochet needle and the late show.

My Nana. She taught me many things. Love your family, your God, your country. Do your best and don't complain. Take pride in your appearance. Celebrate holidays joyfully. Keep a bag of M&M's in your icebox. Spend money wisely. Go outside for a walk every day. Keep up with your neighbors.

One of my favorites: Wherever you go, bring a sweater. It might be chilly there.

The Kick-Ass Forties

2010-01-22T16:30:00.010-05:00

Something interesting happens to women in their forties. I'm not sure what it is about this decade but I've seen exciting changes in myself and in friends. Some of it has to do with the classic soul searching that happens in midlife. Also, as our children get older, we have more time available for ourselves and our own pursuits. I sense that there is something a bit magical at work in the forties, too, though.

I've noticed interesting changes in myself and in peers. There's a turning toward self, a need to shed what doesn't work, to shake things up. I've been cleaning out closets and throwing old stuff away. I used to be a master daydreamer and list maker. I was content to plan and hope and wait my turn.

I'm not so patient now. I'm more interested in taking action. I'm not letting fear get in my way as much. I don't feel conflicted about saying no. It's like there's no time to waste. I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. I need to devote my energy to creative pursuits. I want to focus on my poetry, do my blog, learn to speak French. Someday I may even want to write a book. Did I just say that out loud? Uh-oh.

I found this entry in my high school yearbook: "You are a great listener and give the best advice." Whoa! That is lovely and all, but I was a teenager and it does seem a little strange. I guess I was already acting as classroom helper to the world. Thanks, Anne Lamott, I love this term. I knew exactly what you meant when you said it.

Like many women, I'm very good at supporting and caring for others. It's the reason I became a social worker. I am a good listener and I do give good advice, my classmate was right. It's not a bad thing in itself. If you are someone I love, I'm still your girl. I'm here. The difference is that I do not give myself away so easily now. It has to make sense for me, too. I have to truly want to help. You have to ask nicely. Pretty please with sugar on top.

I am enjoying the rediscovery of my creative self. I used to wonder where that curious, energetic girl went. What happened to her? The one who wrote stories and songs and plays. The one who sat and banged out page after page on her mother's old Royal typewriter for hours. The one who didn't buy a purse unless two books fit inside. The girl who wanted to be a poet and wear black and live in Greenwich Village.

More and more, I'm finding that she's right here.

Right Here, Right Now

2010-01-19T20:39:00.000-05:00

In addition to a journal, I keep a book with my favorite poems and quotations in it. I've been doing this since I was a kid. I was reading through it over the weekend and found this gem from Mary Oliver:

Blue Iris

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, you can read books.

"What's that you're doing?"

the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing

in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.

It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

Doesn't it? says the wind, and breaks open, releasing

distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,

the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

Gorgeous, isn't it? This luscious poem speaks to me about longing, desire and discovery. About feelings of restlessness and also of contentment. About the ways in which our deep connection to the natural world constantly reminds us to quiet down, to pay attention. Right here, right now, all is well.

Intentions

2010-01-17T17:52:00.000-05:00

I don't do New Year's resolutions. I do, however, like to set goals and to make lists on yellow pads. Here are ten intentions I'm working on for 2010:

1. Make my poetry practice a priority. I love writing and reading poems, and I want to devote more time and energy to this. Ideally I want to spend time on this every day.

2. Go to the gym at least every other day. This feels manageable to me. If I miss a day, I make sure to get to the gym the next day.

3. Spend more time outside. I love to walk, and it really is the best way to get around NYC. I also like to sit in the park and read.

4. Write morning pages every day. This is a practice I learned from writer Julia Cameron. As soon as you wake up, you write three pages from your stream of consciousness. This is before checking email and Twitter. You empty your monkey mind onto the page, and it helps to unlock creativity. I make my coffee first and then I write.

5. Have a weekly lunch date with my parents. I have been doing this for a few months, and it has been absolutely delightful. We meet at an old-fashioned diner and eat tuna salad and soup. My mom and I chat while my dad pretends to listen.

6. Attend a weekly French class. Learning to speak a foreign language has been a goal of mine for a long time. I have a real passion for the French language and I want to keep progressing.

7. Spend more time with my nieces and nephews. This is a joyful one. Easy!

8. Ride a horse. I haven't been on a horse in many years although I love to ride. I rode as a teenager and it was one of my favorite activities.

9. Attend theater and ballet performances more often.

10. Every week, visit a place in NYC that is new to me: a neighborhood, a museum, a park.

There you have it. Let me know what your intentions are. We can cheer each other on!

My Darling Daughter and the Chinese Consulate

2010-01-15T20:50:00.000-05:00

One morning when Jess was home from college, she told me at breakfast that we had a big errand to do together. She had volunteered to take an out-of-town friend's VISA application to the Chinese Consulate here in NYC. Jessica had never been to a consulate but I sure had. It's generally the kind of place I avoid, like the DMV or the dentist. She told me it would be half an hour tops but I knew better. At least two, maybe three hours.

Our conversation went something like this:

Jessica: So, Mom. We need to go to the Chinese Consulate today to drop off my friend's application.
Me: WE?
Jessica: Yes, I really want you to come. It will be fun.
Me: Fun?
Jessica: Well, it's a chance to spend more time with me.
Me: Where is the Chinese Consulate?
Jessica: 12th Avenue and 42nd.
Me: Ah, my favorite neighborhood. How is this my errand, Jess? You volunteered to do it.
Jessica: I really want you to come. It's good to do nice things for people. Think of your karma.
Me: You do remember that I spend every Wednesday afternoon with a dying man, right?
Jessica: Yes. But you can always do more. Please come.

This is the part where I tell you I am a bit of a sucker where my daughter is concerned.

Me: Okay. How about this? I'll go to the Chinese Consulate with you and we'll bring books to read. It might be a few hours. After, you can buy me lunch at one of my favorites.
Jessica: I don't have any money. But I'll eat lunch with you.

My First Love

2010-01-13T10:37:00.000-05:00

Deep down I've always wanted to be a writer. It feels good to whisper that in your ear. I've thought about starting a blog for some time now but I guess I've been afraid to put myself out there. I'm already doing that on Twitter, 140 characters at a time and frankly, I'm having a ball. I've connected with an inspiring community of writers. This has helped me realize how much I want to concentrate on my own creative work. It's time.

As a kid, reading and writing were my things. I was never without a book, my notebook, a pencil. I was always scribbling and plotting in my head. I discovered poetry and it felt like heaven to me. I rode my purple bike with the banana seat to Reed Memorial Library. Entering this teeny, tiny library felt like entering a grand palace. It smelled of furniture polish and knowledge and possibilities. I wanted to bring my sleeping bag and camp out in that place. I fell crazy in love with words. I didn't worry about what to do with the writing.

As I grew older, I didn't dare imagine I could be a real writer, a published writer. Sadly, I gradually put my writing aside. I got married and had a baby. We moved overseas for my husband's job and I happily concentrated on being a mom. I learned to cook and fell in love with feeding people. I worked as a volunteer on a crisis hotline and with the homeless. I had my precious books and I read constantly. A rich, full life.

We eventually landed in New York City. My daughter went to high school and I went to graduate school. I decided to study social work and was thrilled to be accepted at NYU. I loved the work and it came naturally to me. Then I graduated. And a funny thing happened.

I didn't want to get a social work job. Did. Not. Want. To. It was a huge blow. I had studied so hard and written all of those A papers! People told me I had a gift. I knew I was a really good social worker. I just didn't want to do it. But why? My feelings confused me. I felt disappointed in myself. The timing couldn't have been worse. My daughter was leaving for college and I needed to Get Going With Something.

It was a difficult, yucky time. I felt pressure to hurry up and find something to do. Even my so supportive husband started to lose patience with my quest. I researched cooking schools. I'm a home cook, though, and I didn't want to make cooking a profession. I thought about studying a language full-time. Spanish or French? I thought about teaching or working in a book store. I read a bunch of those midlife, what now type books. Some were helpful but most made me feel worse.

I remember looking at my bookshelves one day. I thought, okay, the books on my shelves are an indication of my interests. Cooking, check. Baking, check. Interior design, right. Lots of fiction. Psychology books, I get it. Poetry books. Tons of them. But, wait. I had 24 books about writing. Yes, I counted them. 24. Why did I have so many books about writing?

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Natalie Goldberg's books. Julia Cameron's books. The Discovery of Poetry by Frances Mayes. If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland. The Intimate At of Writing Poetry by Ottone M. Ricccio. Poem Crazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. Talk about getting whacked over the head.

Maybe what I want to do is...write. Write!

So, I'm writing my poems. I'm doing morning pages. I've started this blog. Yes, I woke up last night and thought, "The little Darling Daughter vignettes are all I have. I won't be able to think of another thing to post." I consoled myself with the thought that I could delete the blog in the morning if I wanted.

No way. I'm back to scribbling and plotting.

My Darling Daughter and the Walking Shoes

2010-01-11T18:57:00.000-05:00

When my daughter Jessica started her college internship last summer, she decided to walk to and from her office on 59th Street each day. She said she needed comfortable shoes. This seemed sensible, so I told her to go ahead ahead and charge them to my credit card (even though she had already spent her clothing budget for the season.)

A few nights later, my husband and I met Jessica at Da Silvano in Soho for dinner. As she approached, I noticed a bright new pair of shoes. Navy and white espadrilles, about four inches high, with a perky tie around the ankle. From Kate Spade.

Me: When did you get those?
Jessica: They're the new walking shoes you told me I could buy.

My Darling Daughter and the Eggplant

2010-01-11T18:52:00.000-05:00

Jessica has a kitchen in her apartment at school this year. No more dining hall.

Jessica: So, I went to the grocery store. I bought a lot of stuff.

Me: Okay.

Jessica: I wasn't really sure what to buy. I just decided to buy stuff I usually eat.

Me: Good thinking.

Jessica: What do you do with an eggplant?

My Darling Daughter and the Socks

2010-01-11T18:40:00.000-05:00

No Socks. She forgot her socks. Second year in a row. She went to college in flip flops. She called home. Could I look in her sock drawer? Yup, full of socks.

Last year I simply took her sock drawer to UPS, they dumped it into a box and had it delivered to the dorm. This year it is easier. Darling husband is driving to Boston on Friday. In the Volvo Wagon with the rest of college girl's bags. So, Mom, could you put all of my socks in one of the bags?

Oh, but first be sure to put the socks in big baggies. We can't have loose socks in a bag with other items.

That's just wrong.

My Darling Daughter

2010-01-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

One morning when Jessica was home from college, I came into the living room and found her eating cereal out of a beautiful, delicate Japanese bowl, say $200ish.

Me: What are you doing?

Jessica: Eating my breakfast.

Me: Well, that's a pretty special bowl you have there. Not meant for cereal.

Jessica: How was I supposed to know?

Me: You haven't noticed that bowl on the coffee table for the last ten years or so?

Jessica: I guess not.

Me: Would you like to drink your juice out of this vase I got as a wedding present?