amaze, surprise & delight

Daydream Believer

2012-03-01T06:49:00.003-05:00

Davy Jones died yesterday. He was 66.

Whether you loved the Monkees or not, if you were alive in the 60's you knew who they were. I saw a clip on the news where Davy said the Monkees would live on for a very long time. That people underestimated the impact the band would have on people's lives. It would be easy to accuse him of believing the daydream a tad too much, but history has proven him right. For better or worse, the Monkees are woven indelibly into the fabric of pop culture and the hearts of the millions who loved them.

As for Davy, he kept the daydream going. Although the made-for-TV band was often accused of having no real talent, he built a career on singing the songs that fans knew by heart. Belting them out with joy and passion. By all accounts, he stayed cute until the end. And died while indulging in his other lifelong passion: tending to his racehorses.

Today is my birthday. I'm 58.

Just as I was a bit shocked to realize that Davy was 66, I'm not quite sure how I got to be this age, this fast. And I have a tough time sticking to my guns when it comes to indulging in my passions. But I do know this: his death is a reminder that I may not have all the time in the world to live out my daydreams. He died doing what he loved. Will I be able to say the same?

Love

2012-02-13T21:33:00.004-05:00

Love is an emotion that is impossible to capture in words.

Trying to express what love feels like (as opposed to what love is) is daunting. It’s not that there are no words to describe it. It’s that the words all seem inadequate.

Far better writers than I have tried. And many of them have done an admirable job. But as I said to Jim yesterday over a pre-Valentine’s Day brunch: maybe the reason there are so many love poems and love songs is that no one has ever managed to capture it perfectly.

And yet…we can’t help but try. So today, this is what is true for me: There is no such thing as falling in and out of love. Once I fall in love—with someone or someplace or something—there is no going back. And I can’t say that about any other emotion. Fear, sadness, anger, passion, hate—they all come. They all go.

Not love. Love feels like…forever.

A Resolutions Revolution

2012-01-01T10:15:00.003-05:00

Resolutions or no resolutions? That is the question.

For some, New Year’s resolutions are crap. For others, they serve as a blueprint for change. For me—well, whether I go on record with them or not, I am definitely in the without-goals-my-life-is-directionless camp.

Regardless of where we fall on the spectrum, we all know that the issue is not making resolutions. It’s keeping them. After all, who wants to knowingly set themselves up to look foolish?

Not me. Not this year. Which is why I’m grateful to Susan Piver for offering up a fresh perspective on the whole darn thing. Rather than paraphrase, here’s the idea in her words:

“…stop making lists of hoped-for accomplishments. Instead of writing down “exercise more”…I try to spend some time feeling what I wish to become…One thing I always long for is more energy. But rather than hoping to somehow become that person in the future, I experiment with becoming that person right now by becoming her on the inside. For example, if I tell you right now to flash on what it would feel like to have all the energy in the world, you can do that, right? Just flash. Don’t try to hold on. Don’t try to build a story about how to get that way or why you can never be that way—just be that way. For a second. Then let go. This is a great start."

This makes so much more sense to me than pinning my hopes on a handful of promises I'll try my best to make good on. So here’s what I’ll be “flashing” on in the days and months ahead:

• Organizing my mind
• Feeling better in (and about) my body
• Living authentically (hiding less, shining more)

And I wish for you the fulfillment of whatever your heart and soul desires.

Settling Up

2011-12-31T09:28:00.003-05:00

Yes, it’s the last day of 2011.

And for the past two weeks my Inbox has been inundated with suggestions for reflection. Lists of questions to answer about the good, the bad and the ugly. What’s worth remembering? What’s best forgotten? What was accomplished? What wasn’t? What can be done better or differently in the year ahead?

While I appreciate the inspiration and have had all good intentions of coming up with meaningful answers, I’m finding the whole process to be downright daunting.

Frankly, I’m just plain tired.

Which may be why I’m so drawn to Gwen Bell’s concept of the Monthly Review. The notion of doing a monthly accounting of what’s working and what’s lacking feels so much more doable than dealing with an entire year’s worth of life.

Best of all, I get to settle up with myself—literally and figuratively—and move into the next month with, as Gwen puts it, “a beginner’s mind.”

It’s worth a shot. Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel a little less tired on the last day of 2012.

Snapshots

2011-12-28T07:08:00.006-05:00

This lyric from an old O'Jays song sums up how I feel about the holidays this year:

"Christmas just ain't Christmas,
Without the one you love..."

Without giving in to the craziness of the season, getting together with the people I love seems to have happened effortlessly. Being more relaxed helped me stay more present...so I really felt the connectedness that makes being with them so deeply soul-satisfying.

That's what this time of year is all about.

New Traditions

2011-12-23T20:43:00.006-05:00

It was recently pointed out to me that the expression “starting a new tradition” is a sort of oxymoron.

I went to the source (still Webster’s for me) for the definition of tradition: “an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior.” No surprise there. But if the fact that it’s something long established means there’s no such thing as starting a new tradition, then I’m forced to redefine this entire holiday season.

It began with Thanksgiving, when my mom’s health was so compromised that, for the first time in family history, she was unable to cook dinner. My brother and sister-in-law, along with Jim, Jake and I—under Mom’s surprisingly dictatorial direction—put the meal on the table and handled the cleaned-up. The consensus was that it was one of the best Thanksgiving’s ever and we should do it again next year. Voila! A new tradition was born.

When Mom landed in the hospital the following week, my sister Deborah and I conspired to hold a Christmas cookie bake-off to prevent her from trying to do it all herself. New Tradition Number 2 turned out to be so much fun that, as we toasted our success with the best Bloody Mary’s on the planet at the nearby Howard House in Elkton, MD, we vowed to—you guessed it—do it again next year.

Jim invented New Tradition Number 3 during a conversation about the need to simplify Christmas dinner because of my parents’ continued poor health. Roast beef and twice-baked potatoes is their go-to menu, but I braved my father’s wrath by putting forth Jim’s alternate suggestion: spaghetti and meatballs. To everyone’s surprise, Dad thought it was a splendid idea and we’re all bringing sides and apps to round things out.

I freely admit to taking comfort in tradition. In the way that my favorite down quilt keeps me warm, traditions keep me fulfilled. But I’d be lying if I said these changes haven’t been refreshing. The dust has been blown off of old (and admittedly stale) patterns of behavior. And I’m really enjoying the process of creating new experiences and deeper connections.

And yet…I was thrilled when Jake and his sister Carly made the time this week to keep one holiday ritual alive. As we decorated the Christmas tree and munched on pizza, I was filled with pure and simple joy. New or old, tradition gives us something to look forward to. And hope is what this season is all about.

Tell Your Stories

2011-12-22T08:01:00.003-05:00

I believe that our lives are the sum total of the stories we tell about them.

Not everyone agrees. In fact, saying this out loud at a cocktail party can be a real conversation-starter. But think about it: once a moment or an experience is behind you, all that’s left is the memory of it. As you tell people about it—or tell yourself about it—whatever version of that memory you tell becomes the story of that experience. Over time, that story becomes the experience.

String them all together—and that’s your life.

Yesterday was a perfect illustration of this theory. I spent the day with one of my oldest, dearest friends. She lives in Peekskill and we both have crazy-busy lives, so time alone together is a rare gift. We passed the hours in typical fashion, beginning with a lose set of plans (a skincare treatment and yummy lunch) and making the rest of it up as we went along.

We ended the day in a local mall, despite the fact that we’d finished all of our holiday shopping. But it allowed us to get out of the rain and continue to walk and chat. Along the way she picked up a pair of stockings for an upcoming wedding and I took advantage of a 40%-off sale on my favorite bras.

As we headed for the exit, we had to pass through the Lord & Taylor shoe department. Because everything was deeply discounted; and because she had a coupon for an additional 20% off; and because you saved another 10% for using your L&T credit card; and because she got an additional 15% off because she had to re-open her credit card account—I bought a long-coveted pair of La Canadienne boots.

We laughed about this coup the whole way to the car, and as we stashed our bags and fastened our seat belts. Then Maryanne said, “Well, this day has been another story to add to our collection of Donna-and-Maryanne stories.”

The part of the story we’ll both remember is that I saved $135 on a fabulous pair of boots. Chances are that, as we tell this story over time, we’ll disagree about some of the details. Maybe she’ll say we bought the boots at Nordstrom. Maybe I’ll forget the name of the restaurant where we had lunch.

But the bottom line is that this story will be memorable because it’s about so much more than the bargain. For me, it’s a tiny chapter in the book about my friendship with her. About what she means to me. About what relationships mean to me. And, ultimately, about how I live my life.

Notice

2011-10-22T16:17:00.008-04:00

Autumn. The season of noticing.
The drama of the leaves
draws die-hard peepers, their senses
stirred by both the artistry and the
smell of decay.
The air shifts from damp and dense
to crisp and dry, knitting sweaters and
hats as if by magic.
Pumpkins, piled onto porches and
spilling down stairs, signal the end of
long summer nights.

But look.
Two glittery goblins in gossamer garb
float next to a trellis cloaked in overblown roses.
Golden marigolds and burnt orange bittersweet
dance in watery sunlight beside pastel snapdragons
and the last of the impatience.
Begonias, bursting with waxy red blossoms,
Stand proud in a patchwork of purple, wine
and rust-colored mums.
And beside a hiking trail, a bed of bright moss
cradles a colony of tiny brown acorns.

How comforting! To notice that this,
my favorite season, is not
just about
the death of everything.

On Vacation

2011-10-02T18:17:00.004-04:00

September seems to have vanished into thin air!

But it won't vanish from my memory anytime soon. Between the 17th and the 27th, Jim and I took a long-awaited and painstakingly-planned vacation to the "canyon lands" of Arizona and Utah. And it instantly became the holiday against which all holidays will be measured.

I made a last-minute--and uncharacteristic--decision to leave my laptop and my journal at home. At the time I said it was because my luggage was feeling terribly weighty and I needed to lighten my load.

Truthfully, it was my personal day-to-day that was weighing me down. My shoulders ached constantly, as if they were literally succumbing to the unseen pressure of responsibilities, obligations, and deadlines. So I took a friend's advice and packed only a small notepad and my camera.

It was the right decision. The camera captured everything that meant anything during our 1,200-mile trek through Sedona, Monument Valley, Boulder (UT), Bryce Canyon, Zion, and Vegas. The notepad contains directions to hidden hiking trails, the names of some decent restaurants in Kanab, and the answer to Jim's question, "So if you had to describe this trip in 10 words, what would they be?"

There really are no words to describe all that we saw and experienced. But for the record, here is the list we came up with together:

Epic
Vast
Sun-baked
Ever-changing
Breathtaking
Overwhelming
Sacred
Awe-inspiring
Gut-wrenching
Majestic

It will just have to do.

Art Swap

2011-08-26T16:32:00.008-04:00

I can't remember being so excited about going to the mailbox since applying to college.

On a whim I decided to participate in Kat Sloma's Liberate Your Art Postcard Swap. I came across it at a time when I was happily reconnecting with my creative "self" after years of ignoring her. For months no one but Jim had seen any of the art I was experimenting with, and I'd begun to secretly wonder if keeping my collages stashed in a closet was a sign of some sort of fear. Or denial.

Then along came Kat.

This postcard swap thing put a whole new spin on my notion of showing people my stuff. It felt far less scary than sharing my work with friends or family because I had no idea who was going to see it. Even more exciting was the fact that--if it worked--I'd get postcards from five artists who I didn't now either!

The biggest surprise was how much fun I had deciding what image to share--and then turning it into a set of five cards. I remember putting them in an envelope and mailing them off to Oregon in July. Part of me panicked, convinced I'd done something wrong and wouldn't get a single card from anyone (like those ridiculous & annoying recipe chain emails.)

But Kat came through. In a matter of weeks the slow trickle of miniature masterpieces began. My heart sang when I'd discover a card nestled between the utility bills and Container Store catalogs. The first one set the tone beautifully, proclaiming, "We are all just a little cracked." The last one closed the loop by reminding me to chose things that scare me.

In between were words and images I'll treasure forever. Thanks to Marie 1 and 2, Natasha, Diane, and Elaine for having the courage to put their art out into the world. I hope you got as much in return as I did.

Opening

2011-08-16T22:31:00.007-04:00

My sister Deborah hung her first solo show in the gallery at the Newark Arts Alliance in Delaware.

The opening was Friday night, and there was plenty of support from family and friends. She’s called the show “Quite a Pear”, and she and her husband Mark made all of the food—from chutney to Cinnamon Pie Bars—using pears as a key ingredient. Mark, an unsung hero on the dobro, also provided the music.

Then there was the art. Deborah describes the show as “exploring the ripe metaphors of pears through visual images paired with the poetry of language,” and it was certainly all that. I was especially thrilled to see the progress she’s made in her mastery of technique. Especially in her mixed media paintings, which use elements that she’s returned to often enough that they're familiar—now treated in fresh and skillful ways.

What I can’t put into words is the feeling that came over me as I gazed around the room, its white walls awash in gorgeous colors and lush shapes. Pride? (As in, “Well yes, she’s my sister.”) Delight? (“What a beautiful show!”) Relief? (“She sold quite a few pieces in just one night!”) Amazement? (“Wow, she must have busted her butt to create so many new pieces!”)

Or maybe it was Love. Love for the sister with whom I’ve been paired in a long-running artistic tug-of-war—and have now found peace.

Maybe it was all of these things, plus a dollop of Lucky. Lucky to have a sister who is an artist and writer. Who connects with my artist and writer self. And with whom I can share openly—and celebrate wildly—our considerable gifts.

Bran Fan

2011-08-12T10:07:00.003-04:00

Bran muffins are one of my favorite guilty pleasures.

Along with French fries and chocolate chip cookies, they comprise the triumvirate of foods I‘d need to survive on a deserted island.

Before I began to worry about what I ate, my weekday breakfast consisted of a New-York-City-sized bran muffin, slathered with butter, and a medium coffee. This habit went on for years. Each time I moved offices or changed jobs, my #1 priority was finding the deli or street cart en route that had the best muffin-and-coffee combo.

Since I started worrying about what I eat, the challenge has been to find a bran muffin recipe that is both healthy and delicious. Not an easy feat, I assure you. But thanks to Heidi Swanson and my new favorite cook book—Super Natural Every Day—the search has finally ended!

As she puts it (modestly) in her intro, “If good bran muffins have eluded you, give these a shot.” As I put it (emphatically), “Bingo!”

Stairway to Heaven

2011-08-11T21:23:00.008-04:00

It’s easy to see why the High Line has quickly become one of Manhattan’s biggest tourist draws.

An old elevated train line magically transformed into a public park—what’s not to like?

Winding along the far west side, snaking through neighborhoods in various stages of re-gentrification, it offers an unprecedented aerial view of everything from warehouses and centuries-old corner bars to shiny new art galleries and Frank-Gehry-on-steroids apartment buildings.

Where else can you walk under the hip-and-happening Standard Hotel, then over a fledgling Japanese garden visible through the grates of a metal flyover? Sip iced latte on a (surprisingly comfortable) wooden chaise lounge? Or enjoy an Italian ice as you stroll, block after block, through an ever-changing botanical wonderland in the sky?

On Monday, at dusk, I found myself entering the High Line's recently-opened Section 2 via the stairway at 18th & 10th. The designers have worked miracles, incorporating the actual rails into the walkways and flowerbeds in ways so inventive they literally stop you in your tracks. Their achievement appears even more fantastic when juxtaposed against a still-to-be-converted section of the tracks near 30th Street.

It was breathtaking and, in many ways, even more enchanting in the dark than in the bright light of day. Here’s my paltry attempt to capture the magic...

Adventures in Eating

2011-08-08T12:52:00.008-04:00

Jim and I have a well-earned reputation for driving great distances to enjoy unique culinary experiences.

When yesterday’s hiking plans were scrapped due to a threat of thunderstorms, we set off on one such “adventure in eating”: to check out a burrito place that Hudson Valley Magazine raved about in its July issue. The fact that these burritos are served from a food truck way up in Red Hook, NY was not only beside the point—it was at least 50% of the draw. The food may be the main event, but it’s really just a reason to explore the wonders of this part of the country.

A little online research revealed that Bubby’s Burrito Stand wasn’t open on Sundays. And neither was our second meals-on-wheels choice—Rae Rae’s To Go in Poughkeepsie. Undaunted by the lack of info on our third choice, we set the GPS for downtown Newburgh, NY and hit the road.

Ironically, we’d passed through Newburgh on our way back from the recent peach-picking excursion—and decided that we couldn’t imagine a reason to return. Now we’ve found one: the Ixtapa Taco Truck.

Despite the truck’s dubious location and sketchy appearance, these were hands-down the best tacos this Mexican food fan has ever tasted (and Jim concurs.) And at $5 for a platter of four, lets just say I’m glad this truck isn’t parked anywhere near my home or office!

We do plan to visit Bubby’s when I have a Friday off later this month. Because yesterday’s experience reminded me of the lesson I learned while working in Manhattan for so many years: some of the best food on the planet is served from the tiny window of a rolling restaurant.

Just Peachy

2011-08-01T08:00:00.010-04:00

Nothing tastes more like summer than a peach.

Thanks to Maryanne, who’s all about supporting local farmers; and Jim, who’s all about not being bored; we drove 90 minutes to Prospect Hill Orchards in Milton, NY. We chatted with farmer Steve, then bounced around in the back of a tractor-pulled wagon to spend 20 minutes collecting a bucket of fuzz-covered, not-quite-as-ripe-as-we’d-hoped fruit.

Now I’m about being outdoors on a gorgeous summer weekend. But even a pit-stop at the Raccoon Saloon to check out their much-lauded burgers (my veggie version was delish!) and surprisingly spectacular view of the Hudson didn’t stop me from thinking it might have been a waste of time.

But when I sliced up a ripe one this morning in hopes of jazzing up my bowl of Special K, I tasted sweet sunlight at the first juicy bite.

And decided that no peach tastes peachier than one you’ve picked yourself.

Butterflies

2011-07-31T19:53:00.004-04:00

My yearly mammogram was magical.

Sounds crazy, I know. How could a procedure most women dread more than, well—almost anything—be the high point of my week? It was all because of Heidi.

She was chatting away in a valiant effort to distract me from the ridiculous process of mashing each breast between two plastic plates in order to record a digital image. Pushing the gown from my left shoulder, she caught sight of my butterfly tattoo.

After a bit of oohhing and aaahhing, she asked what butterflies meant to me. As I stumbled through a lame reply, I realized I hadn’t thought about it in the 10 or so years since I’d walked into a tattoo parlor in South Beach with a sketch in my pocket.

Heidi listened as she angled my arm and shoulder into a position that only a contortionist might find comfortable. Then she said, “I love butterflies,” and pointed to a pretty enamel brooch pinned to her smock. “I wear one every day.”

I asked what the significance was for her. And that’s when the magic began. She said that her young son died several years ago, and on the morning of the funeral she went out to sit in her garden. Minutes later a single blue butterfly landed on her arm. “I’d never seen a blue one before,” she said. “I sat really still, hoping it would stay. But it flew off as suddenly as it had arrived.” Wearing the butterfly jewelry reminds her that life is a continuous transformation. “Things are always changing. We must appreciate the beauty and wonder of each moment, because it won't last.”

Rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I thanked her for sharing her story. But later, as I dressed to leave, it struck me that her biggest gift was inviting me to share mine. I’d gotten my tattoo at a time when, after years of unhappiness, I was slowly breaking free from the conventions I'd let define me. I took more risks. Lived with a sense of abandon. And experimented with new forms of self-expression—from dying my hair red to competing in a triathlon.

So the butterfly symbolizes my metamorphosis from a good girl who always did what was expected to a woman who was far less predictable. And like the butterfly that suddenly appeared in Heidi’s garden, I’m sure it’s no coincidence that she showed up just now to remind me.

Joy

2011-07-21T20:21:00.006-04:00

Today is Jake's birthday.

Unlike many of the events that fill the pages of my past, his birth day is fully preserved in my memory. To say it was one of the pivotal moments of my life is to both overstate--and understate--the facts. I wasn't really ready for him, although he was well-planned. I experienced the guilt and fear of failing to feel an instant bond of motherly love--and yet his arrival immediately, permanently, altered my life.

Over the past 28 years, he has become a smart, silly, guitar-strumming, chef knife wielding, sports nut that I love being around. A strong, decent, warm-hearted young man that I'm proud to call my son.

Today, as I waited impatiently on the wrong line at Whole Foods, I thought about a creative exercise I recently did. I was supposed to think about something that gave me joy, then create an image of it on a small card to carry in my wallet. If I found myself in a difficult or aggravating situation, I could simply pull out the card and--ta da!--my anger or frustration would disappear.

What popped into my mind was answering the phone and hearing Jake's voice on the other end. Failing to come up with a suitable image, I just wrote the word "Joy" on the card and stuck it in my bag.

Standing in the slow-moving line, I remembered the card in my wallet. As soon as I saw the word I'd written, Jake's voice was in my ear. My mood shifted in an instant, magically lifted by a wave of love. And I gave thanks for the precious gift of my son--and of being his mother.

Independence

2011-07-04T20:46:00.007-04:00

This holiday weekend is the one where I declare my independence from driving.

Actually, I refuse to go to any of the places where July 4th revelers traditionally go. Like the beach, ballgames, parades, and fireworks displays. It's got nothing to do with being patriotic (or not.) And it's got everything to do with sitting in traffic jams and feeling claustrophobic in large crowds.

Instead, on Saturday I went to the Metropolitan Museum with Jake (his first time there!) and oohed and aaahed over the Guitar Heroes exhibit. Then Jim & I entertained friends with a yummy grill-less (and meatless) dinner. Sunday we wandered through Storm King in the rain and fell in love with a few new sculptures--Stephen Talasnik’s Stream: A Folded Drawing and Zhang Huan’s Three-Legged Buddha, a 28-foot-tall steel-and-copper piece that weighs 12 tons.

And today--the day we give thanks for those who liberated this country from tyranny--I liberated myself from the burger-and-hot-dogs routine, experimenting with a tempeh and mung bean recipe from my new favorite cookbook, Super Natural Every Day.

So as fireworks pop and sparkle outside my window, here's to declaring our independence from the tried-and-true. And celebrating our freedom to live life as we choose.

More on Marriage

2011-05-31T21:46:00.004-04:00

This is not the first time that my friend Stacey and I have unwittingly posted about similar subjects. But this time I feel compelled to link to her entry. It just seems to add another layer to the marriage discussion.

Tying the Knot

2011-05-31T07:27:00.003-04:00

"Make more decisions in every day. Because a decision is a summoning of life.” Esther Abraham-Hicks

Two weeks. Two weddings.

My youngest niece and my oldest friend got married a week apart, and their weddings were—on paper—very different.

My brother’s daughter, Laura, is 27 and got married at a small inn near Downingtown, PA. The rehearsal dinner was at a local brew house. The ceremony was outdoors. The guests ranged from twenty-something friends to grandparents, aunts & uncles, and cousins. The bride carried fat purple tulips. Her mother made the delicate white-and-green centerpieces. And each guest took home an upscale version of a Swiss Army knife.

My friend Marla, who I’ve know for more years than either of us care to add up, got married at The Carlyle in Manhattan. Several of us joked about it being the real Royal Wedding: an entire weekend of lavish and glamorous festivities hosted by the bride & groom. Candlelight and overblown arrangements of peonies and roses in dusty shades of pink and coral, created a flattering backdrop for the black-tie clad grownups who danced to a live band and carried home a CD of the wedding music as a memento.

There were some similarities. Neither wedding was held in a church. The ceremonies were nontraditional. The number of guests was about the same (intimate). There were the obligatory toasts, dances, and cake cutting. The food was fantastic. And both brides looked absolutely gorgeous.

There was also the requisite trash talk going on beforehand. Why didn’t Laura ask her sister to be her maid of honor? Why did a bride & groom who truly have everything register for wedding gifts? At Tiffany, no less!

In the end, none of the above mattered. When the time came to sit still and listen to each couple say their vows, it was all about one thing: love. The joy on their faces as they said their “I Do’s.” The way they held hands and slipped rings on each other’s fingers. The way they looked into each other's eyes as they took to the dance floor for the first time as husband and wife. And most of all, their willingness to formalize their commitment in a way that so many modern couples don’t have the courage to do.

Tying the knot isn’t always about that proverbial noose around the neck. Laura & Patrick, and Marla & Barry, have lived real life. They know what awaits them when their honeymoons are over. Given that, the fact that they place importance on knotting their futures together publicly (and legally), on pledging to live up to the promises spoken aloud with champagne glasses in hand, is something special. And they truly deserve the support and genuine best wishes of those who love them most.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T18:54:00.008-04:00

Mother's Day is one of those manufactured holidays that, over time, has come to feel very...well...manufactured.

Not that I have anything against honoring moms. (Or dads, for that matter.) And not that I don't enjoy having an excuse to tell my mother I appreciate her. Or to spend time with my fabulous son, without whom I wouldn't actually be a mother. It's just that I'm one of those people who believes that we don't need a Hallmark holiday to tell us when to express our gratitude for our loved ones.

This year, I'm also keenly aware of the impact this holiday has on those who can no longer speak to or visit with their moms. Jim and several of my friends have lost their mothers in the past few months. For them, this is a day filled with sadness. An occasion to be endured. I don't think Hallmark has a card for that.

Thinking about their losses, I was reminded of how blessed I am to have my mom in my life. I also decided that one way to override that "manufactured" feeling was to be as fully present in the day as possible. So I soaked in the glorious sunshine. Savored the heady perfume as Jim and I made our annual trek to smell the lilacs at Skylands. Listened with compassion as my mom went on about her newest health issues. Relished a cheeseburger (and waffle fries!) at BLT Burger in NYC with Jake. Saw the unexpected shutdown of the PATH trains in Hoboken as a gift of more time with him--instead of a major inconvenience.

But it was when Jake surprised me with a bouquet of flowers that I felt that rush of pure emotion: joy mixed with pride topped with "wow." That's when I realized that Mother's Day is like any other day: we get to decide how we're going to experience it.

What's Blossoming?

2011-05-01T10:05:00.011-04:00

What's blossoming?

This was a prompt that showed up in my Inbox in early April. The month's incessant rains had just begun, but already the white and purple crocuses had come and gone, replaced by daffodils and forsythia drenched in saturated, soul-stirring shades of yellow.

So I noted this in my journal, then went on to say that my heart was blossoming, too. Fresh, rain-washed breezes, sneaking in through open windows, had begun to clear my mental cobwebs. And my creative self was stirring, opening to new possibilities.

As nature responded to April's showers in predictable ways, more blossoming was in store for me, too--the result of a spontaneous decision to sign up for an online course called Sparkles. Daily 5-minute creative exercises, which I mostly did in the mornings before heading to work, set a tone that stayed with me as I faced constant stress and frustration in the office. What a gift it was to stop periodically and reconnect to the joy I'd felt earlier in the day, immersed in some new way of seeing, writing, thinking, or drawing.

Today, as I flip the calendar to May, I can look back and see the full impact of this month-long practice. How it has filled my well with resources and inspiration. And reawakened the thrill of catching a tiny spark of creativity and gently nursing it into a glowing fire. But without the crutch of those emails, the challenge to make space for daily self expression falls to me. Can I sustain it? Will the joy it brings over ride my natural inclination to make something else more important?

This morning, as I walked Jim to his car for his journey home, I noticed a few clusters of pale purple on a small bush in my neighbor's yard. The first lilacs of the year! The breakfast dishes beckoned. As did the laundry. I grabbed my camera anyway and snapped a few pictures. I took the time to close my eyes and inhale the flowers' heady perfume: one of my favorite things in the world. Then I sat down to write this post.

One day down. A lifetime to go.

Graduation

2011-04-20T07:49:00.007-04:00

Last night was the final Habitat for Humanity Women Build clinic at Lowe's.

The "lesson" was about siding--a skill I can't imagine having any use for in my daily life. But Gina had hinted at a surprise for us, so I found myself racing out of the house early to make sure I didn't miss a minute.

Attendance was light, no doubt due to it being a holiday week coupled with the post-rainstorm flooding of the Passaic River that has hit the area hard. Our intrepid group was more interested in talking about the location of this year's "build project" in Paterson than in learning the surprisingly simple secrets of applying vinyl siding to plywood. Construction is set to begin in early June, and we agreed to exchange email addresses and choose a day to go build together.

There was also a fair amount of dissing by the veterans in the group about the just-announced wall-raising kickoff event that had quickly been booked to capacity. It was disappointing (but not surprising) to find out that it's more or less a PR thing where people show up just for a photo op with the celebrity chair (Patti Scialfa for several years running.)

The evening concluded with a visit from the store manager, who handed out gift-wrapped T-shirts and thanked us for participating. There was plenty of hugging and promises to keep in touch. As I left with my parting gifts (my work apron and Gina's homemade Rice Krispie treats), I took with me a sense of accomplishment and high hopes that we'll all cross paths again. Because as much as I've loved learning to tile like a pro, the true gift of the past few months has been becoming part of a new community of women. Women with a purpose. Dedication. And heart.

Women build, indeed.

Revealing My Sources

2011-04-14T21:46:00.004-04:00

This is for my friend who blogs at Oak in the Seed.

She asked if I'd share some of my "sources of inspiration" and I am happy to do so. With a few caveats:

1. I don't love everything about all of them.
2. I don't read them daily: I like to pick and choose and flit from one to another.
3. I have Stacey to thank for getting me started.
4. Most of them are linked to each other in some way.

That said, they are keeping me entertained and engaged in my creative process. And many of the prompts have yielded fascinating results:

1. Jamie Ridler Studios: I'm doing her Sparkles online course and loving it.
2. Creative Every Day: The word-of-the-month thing has really struck a cord.
3. Wise Living Blog: Tara Mohr's site is just lovely.
4. The Daily Love: He's so annoying....but sometimes so spot-on.
5. Susannah Conway: Photos to die for and the Unravelling course is very enticing.

Care to share yours?

Resilience

2011-04-11T21:46:00.007-04:00

I should write about the Omega NYC retreat I went to last weekend. As Stacey, who'd invited me to join her, aptly put it: "We should take pictures--it's blog-worthy, right?" Indeed it was: Geneen Roth, Elizabeth Lesser and Joan Borysenko led us on a magical exploration of what it means to be resilient.

But I don't feel like writing about that.

I should write about the weekend before that: my annual March retreat to Ocean City, NJ with my sister, Deborah. It was totally blog-worthy, too. Surprisingly sunny days filled with beach walks, meandering talks, fantastic food, and shared intimacies.

But I don't want to write about that, either.

Why not?

It's too hard. Finding words to express these experiences feels like an overwhelming task. The depth of emotion. The power of the realizations. The sensory overload. Exhausting!

And yet these weekends were so pivotal in so many ways. Surely they should be cataloged. How else will I remember all that I felt and discovered? And how else can I possibly share all of this amazing stuff?

Well, like it or not, blogging works best for me when there's no "should" involved. When instead of being mandatory, it's just the handiest self-expression tool in a given moment. So what I want to write about is this: When Deborah and I walk the shoreline in search of shells, she encourages me to expand my definition of what's worth keeping. To be open to the beauty in the broken ones. To recognize the potential lurking in a textured sliver or a partially-exposed spiral. To rise to the challenge of using memory or imagination to fill in what's missing.

This morning, through the lens of my camera, snapping quickly so as not to make them too precious, I saw what she meant.

Making Mistakes

2011-03-24T07:46:00.002-04:00

My second Women Build clinic wasn't quite as fun as the first.

Our mission was simple: take the wooden frame we made the week before, apply sheet rock, and add trim (aka casing). Gino, our fearless leader, zipped through his demo--showing us how to measure the casing and use a miter box to cut the pieces on a perfect 45 degree angle. He even cut the sheet rock for us.

His partner in crime, Gina, warned us several times of the two most common pitfalls: overzealous hammering that splits the sheet rock; and angling the casing in the wrong direction. We paired up, donned our safety goggles, and set to work.

Disaster struck almost immediately. The nails went in cockeyed. The sheet rock shifted, and then I split it at one corner. We moved on to sawing the trim, and I figured things would improve. After all, I knew my way around miter boxes from all those years of assisting my dad (and building doll furniture from scraps of wood that my sister and I stole from the new housing developments that sprung up all around us.)

Wrong. My partner, Bridgette, said, "You go first!", and I did--instantly cutting my angle in the wrong direction. Damn! Soon, cries of, "Well, it's not going to be perfect," rang out around us, as all of the women encountered similar difficulties. Gino reassured us, saying, "Of course it's not perfect--it's the first time you're doing it!" Gina added, "That's why caulk was invented!"

Bridgette and I laughed, and traded comments about the perfectionists in our lives who would say otherwise. I sited my brother and my dad, then downgraded my own inner critic to "picky." Who was I kidding? I hate making mistakes. Always have. I could blame it on having grown up under a regime that had a no-tolerance view of getting it wrong. Or blame it on the finicky artist in me. Whatever the reason, I'm harder on myself than anyone else could ever be.

Thankfully, I'm not alone. The following morning, I clicked open one of the daily inspirational emails I subscribe to, and the first thing I read was this: "If you want to be successful, get used to making mistakes...The idea that something has to be perfect before you start is just fear masked as perfectionism." So--this is the universe nudging me. Telling me it's okay to loosen up. To ease up. To remember that mistakes are just part of the process of learning.

The email ended with a challenge: What mistake would you like to make today? My response to that? "Yikes--not so fast!"

Late for Work

2011-03-21T21:21:00.005-04:00

It's March 21. The calendar may say "Spring", but there's still time for one last snow event. Or two. Making us realize who is really in charge. Making us surrender to the moment.

And making some of us late for work.

River Walk

2011-03-20T17:42:00.009-04:00

In February I began following Leah Piken Kolidas' blog, Creative Every Day, and have been enjoying her monthly “theme” challenges. She chooses a word and then offers a list of suggestions for responding to it creatively. She’ll share some of what she’s doing and open up her blog so followers can, too.

The word for March is “Nest”, and it has really struck a cord—triggering an art project I’m loving and some haiku I’m not. On Friday Leah shared the idea of taking a walk with a camera in hand, saying: “Simply having the camera with me helps me see things in new ways. It reminds me to look up at the sky, to look down at my shadow, and to notice the little moments of beauty that are everywhere.”

I became aware of this exact same thing last summer. When I took my camera to a park, or a friend's house, or on an excursion to a new town, I saw things through a different lens. So today I put it in my pocket when Jim and I went up to Nyack Beach State Park for one of our favorite walks: the path along the Hudson. I was on the lookout for signs of spring, but found so much more:

Frame It

2011-03-17T07:55:00.006-04:00

This week I discovered a new form of stress relief: hammering!

That's right: I attended my first Women Build Clinic! For the past four years, Habitat for Humanity has been partnering with the Lowe's in Paterson, NJ, on a series of free clinics designed to teach women the basics of home construction. Novices like me are encouraged to attend as many as possible before signing up for a build project.

Despite my admittedly snobbish belief that I know plenty (having served as my dad's trusty DIY assistant for well over 10 years), I decided to sign up for a few of the sessions that covered things I wasn't familiar with.

Tuesday night's focus was framing, and I'll confess I was excited as I walked towards the gathering of women at the back of the store. After signing in and being outfitted with my very own apron, someone asked, "So what drew you here?" Without pause I said, "I wanted to be carpenter when I was a girl." Of course I went on about how volunteering for Habitat was something I'd been thinking about for years, but on this night it was all about stuff I loved as a kid: measuring, sawing, and hammering.

Our instructor, the patient and affable Gino, put us through our paces. And yes--I listened as he gave me pointers on how to toe a stud and swing a hammer without wrecking my shoulder. There was even a pop quiz at the end, with answers like "16 center", "shoe," and "speed square."

Jessica and I--the two newbies--won a very cool tape measure by answering everything correctly. More important than that: I met an interesting group of women, laughed a lot, and discovered that pounding nails into two-by-fours is really relaxing. So I came home and signed up for every clinic they've got.

Coming of Age

2011-03-15T08:18:00.002-04:00

I take my friends for granted.

It’s not intentional. No more than forgetting to feed the cat or call my mother back is intentional. And I don’t sit around thinking, “I’m so blessed to have such great friends—I think I’ll take them for granted!”

But I do. Just as I assume I’ll wake up tomorrow. And my legs will carry me to the kitchen to make coffee. And hot water will stream out of the shower head. And my car will start. And my computer will make that funny little ding when I hit the “on” button. And Robynn will read this post.

For many years now, I’ve been a proponent of living each day as if it were the last. But doing it has proven impossible. Oh, sure—when I hear an awful story of someone dying suddenly or being paralyzed in a freak accident, I manage to stick with it for a day or two. Then I get caught up in the whirl that is my daily life and fall back into the old routine: “I’ll call her back tomorrow, or next week, or next month.”

But lately I can’t stop thinking about my girlfriends. About how lucky I am to have them in my life. And how I don’t make the time to connect with them as often as I could. They are truly my chosen “family”—the women without whom my life would be devoid of laughter and fresh perspectives and trendy accessories. I expect them to be there when I call—for smart advice and a shoulder to lean on.

I celebrated my birthday this month as I always do: with a series of girls-only dinners. Maybe all this thinking is the result of being with them all in such a short span of time. Or the fact that five of them turned 60 over the past two years. Or that the wrinkles I see in the mirror have multiplied dramatically over the last 12 months. All I know is that last night, as I settled into my seat for the train ride home from the last of this year’s birthday dinners, I got teary-eyed thinking about how much they mean to me. Is this what it means to grow up?

Ode to a Coffee Urn

2011-02-26T07:41:00.006-05:00

It really is the simple things in life that matter most.

Last Saturday I was felled by what I thought was food poisoning, but have since come to believe was a stomach bug. In the spirit of "amaze, surprise & delight", I'll spare you the gory details. The bottom line is that it's taken a week to recover, and to move beyond eating broth, rice, and Jello.

It's been years since I've been sick like this, which may be why it's such a powerful reminder of the small, daily joys I usually take for granted. Like walking across a room without feeling dizzy. Enjoying the smell of frying onions without getting nauseous. Drying my hair without feeling so weak I need to sit on a stool. Eating what I want, when I want. And savoring my morning cup of coffee.

So today I offer up my gratitude for the simple things in my life. The things so often overshadowed by the spotlight-grabbing stuff. Here's to waking up in a warm, cozy bed. With the cat kneading the quilt beside me. A good book on the nightstand. And wrapping my hands around my favorite mug...brimming with coffee!

Ho-Ho-How Long Before Those Holiday Decorations Disappear?

2011-02-22T16:18:00.011-05:00

Yesterday was President's Day. By my count that means it's been 59 days since Christmas came--and went.

"Went" is the key operative word here. As in "Over." "Kaput." "Finis."

And yet, as I drive the five or so miles to and from work, the suburban streets are lined with houses amazingly ablaze with holiday lights. There are dozens of doors decked with dead wreaths. And front yards still strewn with the sad remains of inflatable Santas or giant plastic creche figures, some toppled sideways and half-submerged in snow.

Call me crazy, but seriously--what's up with that? Has the endless onslaught of wintry weather duped people into thinking it's still December? Has light deprivation left everyone too depressed to get out there and take this stuff down? Or do they think that at this point they might as well leave it up, since Christmas will be here again before they know it?

All I know is this: there is nothing more depressing than the sight of a house sporting St. Patrick's Day shamrocks in the windows and surrounded by a fence strung with dried-up evergreen garland--punctuated with droopy red velvet bows.

Come on, people--waiting much longer could result in a head-on collision between Rudolph and the Easter Bunny. And we wouldn't want the kids to witness that--would we?

Real Love

2011-02-14T07:29:00.004-05:00

“Barbie, we may be plastic, but our love is real.” Ken

It’s Valentine’s Day. The day Ken finds out if Barbie’s going to take him back.

No, I’m not making this up. According to various media sources, Ken has mounted quite a campaign to win her heart. A total makeover revealed during New York’s Fashion Week (plastic helmet hair no more!). A lead role in the Oscar-nominated “Toy Story 3.” A special cupcake created by the famed Magnolia Bakery (who knew Barbie had a sweet tooth?) There’s even a website where you can cast your vote—should Babs acquiesce or carry on as the iconic single gal?

I doubt I’d have given any of this a second thought if it weren’t for this quote about real love. Allegedly it’s one of many Ken posted on billboards in Manhattan and L.A. True or not, the idea that love can be real or fake is what got my attention.

Barbie came on the scene when I was five, so I am one of the zillions of girls who helped fuel her penchant for epic romances. I pinned my hopes and dreams onto several generations of Barbies, playing out my obsessions with everything from pink satin ball gowns to a beach house in Malibu. Personally I thought Ken was a dork from day one, so I fancied Barbie falling for my heart throbs—guys like Paul McCartney and, later, Jim Morrison.

It’s been decades since I thought about any of this, so I missed the memo in 2004 when Barbie threw Ken over for an Aussie surfer. And it’s come as quite a shock to read that this iconic couple has known each other for 50 years—especially since they haven’t aged one bit. But what sort of love do they have if, after all this time, he’s still trying to win her over?

Real love is exactly that: real. You either love someone or you don’t. Love is intrinsic. There’s no wondering where it came from or worrying if it will last. It settles in and doesn’t leave—no matter what. When Jim asks “Do you still love me?” I’m always taken by surprise. Why wouldn’t I? Love is forever. It’s that simple.

One of the newspaper stories contained a footnote that said Barbie and Ken have never married. This doesn’t mean their love isn’t real—but it certainly points to a lack of willingness to do the heavy lifting required to have a real relationship.
Sadly, real love has little to do with forging a successful relationship. This takes skill and selflessness. Courage and compassion. Patience and politics. It requires a willingness to give in and the strength to not give up.

I have friends who say that as long as the benefits of staying outweigh those of going, the relationship is worthwhile. But sometimes all the good intentions in the world can’t stem the rising tide of disappointment, anger, and resentment.

Love and longevity don’t always walk hand-in-hand. But over time I’ve learned plenty about the value of doing the work required to keep a good thing going. For 50 years, Barbie and Ken’s relationship has been fueled by the powerful imaginations of kids all over the world—and yet, as of this morning, they are still living separate lives.

Maybe it’s high time they roll up their sleeves and stop relying on others to make it happen for them. Enough with the billboards and cupcakes. I hope the years have taught her that independence doesn’t keep you warm at night. And that he’s come to realize he can’t get by on looks alone.

Have they got what it takes? Well, I went on that website and voted “Yes.” Because in the rock-paper-scissors game of life, real love beats plastic every time.

Waking Up

2011-02-06T08:58:00.003-05:00

I'd almost forgotten how simple a thing as the sun coming up can be so uplifting.

Maybe it seems so because today's sunrise comes on the heels of yesterday's onslaught of steady rain and bone-chilling cold. Because the resulting invisible ice caused me to walk gingerly, unsteady and slow as an old lady. Or because the nasty weather led to so many changes--or was it discussions about possible changes?--in the plans we'd made to fill our Saturday, that it totally wore me out.

Whatever the reason, I'm more grateful than usual to see blue skies. Even though, when I lower my eyes, I see that a solid blanket of snow still covers everything. And ice cycles threaten to impale anything (or one) below. Even though I still feel exhausted from yesterday's endless debates about whether or not to go into the city to see our friend Rosemary's cabaret show. How we'd get there. The back and forth. The last-minute cancellations. The grumbling about the cost. The restaurant choices. And through it all, that insidious freezing rain.

Despite all of that--here comes the sun!

The Common Good

2011-01-20T08:59:00.004-05:00

Monday was MLK's birthday.

As part of my job, I serve on a volunteer committee that plans an annual celebration of his legacy. So I spent a few hours at the Methodist church in Ridgewood, NJ, on Monday, being reminded of the relevance of that legacy to what's happening in the world today.

The keynote speaker was New Jersey Public Defender Yvonne Smith Segars, who focused her remarks on the theme our committee had assigned to this year's event: "Working for the Common Good." I confess to not really warming up to this theme. I know it was what Dr. King's work was all about--and am familiar with his famous words to the effect that if something's not good for one, it's not good for anyone. But I had a hard time connecting to it in a personal way.

Ms. Segars changed all that in the space of 5 minutes. She asked everyone in the audience to think of one thing they could do this year that would better the community. And she took no prisoners--threatening to call on us to ensure that we took her seriously. She then asked people to share.

Four or five people raised their hands and publicly committed to their goals. Then, one by one, Ms. Segars asked if anyone wanted to volunteer to help them. Within 60 seconds, each person had two or three supporters. "Now you have a committee!" she said. To cap off the exercise, she volunteered her support as well.

It was an exercise so elegant in its simplicity that it took my breath away. I left the church, came home, and took a giant step toward making my goal a reality: I signed up as a volunteer for the 2011 Women Build project with the Paterson Habitat for Humanity. It's something I've talked about doing for years. But in the glare of Ms. Segars' spotlight, my past excuses seem pretty flimsy.

So--this is my public declaration. I hope it will serve to hold me accountable. And if anyone wants to join me--send an email to Pat Sisti at pat@patersonhabitat.org.

Endings

2011-01-17T15:58:00.006-05:00

"It's good to look toward the end of things. Not only does it provide perspective, but it also provides the stepping stone to our next endeavor." Deng Ming-Dao

The idea for this post began when I saw the first "post-Christmas" tree lying unceremoniously by the side of the road.

Dead Christmas trees are one of the saddest of all sights. Nothing symbolizes the end of the holidays as dramatically as a succession of dried-out evergreens, stripped of their glittering finery and tossed to the curb.

Now I realize that there is a lot of sadness in the world. Sadness on a scale far larger than another holiday season coming to a close. Floods, mass shootings, plane crashes. I get that. But the writer in me does not want to let this dead tree thing go. I've tried for two weeks now to move past it, and it keeps haunting me. So I'm going to write this and (hopefully!) move on.

So much preparation goes into Thanksgiving and Christmas. Think of all the time and effort spent on decorating and card-writing and cooking and shopping. Everything must be "just so," including the most iconic holiday symbol of all--the tree. Selecting it, deciding where to put it up, decorating it, stacking gifts beneath it--it's all steeped in ritual, even for those of us with faux trees.

Why, then, is the dismantling given such short shrift? No fanfare. Just stashing everything back in the boxes, then bags, then closets as quickly as possible. And getting that tree out of the house.

For me, I think it's because I can't bear the empty feeling that comes with endings of any kind. If I banish all signs of something's existence, then I can forget it was ever there. (A strategy I've also employed with ex-boyfriends.) Is it possible that others feel the same way? Then maybe I can make peace with the sight of all these poor trees. Lying on their sides between sidewalk and street. Cloaked in mantles of dirty snow. Waiting for the recycling trucks to put them out of their misery. That is, until I think about the fact that they gave their lives so we could make merry.

Which leads me full-circle to my fake white tree. I admit to feeling sort of smug about having saved a stately Frazier Fir from this inelegant fate. But I'm realizing there's another advantage to going un-green--albeit a bit self-serving. There is something to be said for a tree you can simply shove back into its box and haul out to the garage. Instantly removing all signs of Christmas--indoors and out.

Kind of makes up for missing the scent of evergreen in my house this year.

Affirmation

2011-01-05T07:24:00.005-05:00

One of my intentions for the year is to read a poem every day.

Yesterday I opened "The Best of It," a collection of Kay Ryan's poetry, at random. This poem stared back at me from the page. After reading it, I smiled and said, "YES!" out loud. If you read my "White Space" post, you'll understand why...

Happy New Year, indeed!

Leaving Spaces
It takes a courageous
person to leave spaces
empty. Certainly any
artist in the Middle Ages
felt this timor, and quickly
covered space over
with griffins, sea serpents,
herbs and brilliant carpets
of flowers--things pleasant
or unpleasant, no matter.
Of course they were cowards
and patronized by cowards
who liked their swards as
filled with birds as leaves.
All of them believed in
sudden edges and completely
barren patches in the mind,
and they didn't want to
think about them all the time.

White Space

2011-01-01T10:50:00.008-05:00

“Turn the wheel of your life. Make complete revolutions. Celebrate every turning. And persevere with joy.” Deng Ming-Tao, 365 Tao

On Thursday I was driving behind a blue dump truck that was carrying a mountain of snow. My first thought was, “Where the heck is it going?” And my next thought was, “Take me with you!”

I imagined that the truck was headed for a dump where the small mountain of snow would be piled atop a much larger one. Behind that large mountain would be another, and another, and another. Piles of snow stretching all the way to the horizon. An oasis of white space.

This truck carting snow from one place to another symbolizes how challenging and messy the cleanup from Sunday’s blizzard has been. It’s also a great metaphor for what my life has been like this past year. I’ve moved a bunch of stuff from one place to another, but never really completed anything—except making larger piles. That may be why the notion of an endless expanse of white space is so appealing to me. It’s about clearing the decks of the mountains of unfinished tasks. And being left with the space to imagine, to hope, to create new things.

During the past week or two, I’ve been participating in an online writing project called reverb10. Each day, an email hits my Inbox containing a prompt designed to help me reflect on the past year—and think about how I’d like things to manifest in 2011. In the process, I stumbled across an old blog post by someone named Tara Mohr. It was entitled “White Space.”

I don’t know Tara, but after reading her post I feel like we’re kindred spirits. Rather than paraphrase, I’ve included the link so you can read it yourself. What I love is the way she has drawn the connection between canceling things in her calendar to creating space to do more with her time. She can do what she wants with that space, like filling it with things she’d actually like to do instead of obligations. Or she can take on the greater challenge of simply sinking into that open space, connecting with herself, and allowing whatever comes of the experience to guide her actions.

In a world where life seems to be accelerating at a pace so relentless that I, for one, am struggling to keep up—white space feels like a luxury. And yet, the more I’ve reflected on this past year—a year when I lost count of how many times someone said, “I can’t believe how fast time is passing”—it’s the image of that vast and empty field of snow that keeps coming to mind.

The last time I really felt the power of connecting with myself was in May, in Vermont, at that detox retreat. The whole point of that weekend was to give ourselves the freedom to go deep down and hear what our inner voices had to say. Mine spoke loud and clear—and it said, “Make space for self-expression."

So far I’ve only cleared a tiny space in a dark corner. This morning, in the pause between when one cycle ends and a new one begins, I vow to pick up my shovel every day and carve out my own field of white.

Winter Wonderland

2010-12-27T11:00:00.003-05:00

The yardstick reads 24 1/2 inches.

The Laughing Buddha is buried beneath it. Jim and I are buried, too--waiting for the plows to spring us from our wintry prison.

First Snow

2010-12-26T16:13:00.006-05:00

Today we were supposed to drive to my brother and sister-in-law's in south Jersey for Christmas Part 2--when the extended Gould family gathers to celebrate the holiday.

But Nature had other ideas. Predictions of over a foot of snow and blizzard-like conditions led to a decision to reschedule. By 9:00am Jim and I were in that funky void between having something--then suddenly nothing--to do.

I'm not always able to shift gears in these situations, especially when there's a degree of disappointment involved. But this wasn't one of those times. A cup of coffee later we had a new plan: go see a movie (True Grit), then eat toasted ham and cheese sandwiches (from last night's leftovers) and watch the Jets game (they lost to the Bears.)

All that relaxing has sent Jim off to take a nap, creating a small window of opportunity for me to write. It's so quiet I can hear the cat snoring softly on the couch beside me. Outside the window the wind gusts whip the lacy curtains of snow in three directions simultaneously.

I was totally looking forward to spending the afternoon with my family. But things tend to work out the way they are meant to. So I'm happy to be hunkered down in my house, appreciating the beauty and ferocity of this--the first storm of the winter--from within the warmth and safety of its walls.

‘Tis the Season: Finale

2010-12-24T13:51:00.010-05:00

Christmas Eve is the best night of the year. The prep work is done and it’s time to sit back and take it all in. The way the presents are arranged under the tree (Mariah clearly approves.) The way the house smells. The anticipation. The shiny-and- bright-ness of it all.

I’m really feeling the season this year. Yep, it’s one of “those” years. I’m genuinely joyful. And grateful to be sharing some holiday cheer (and some really good food) with people I love. I even baked two batches of cookies from recipes I’ve never tried before (and probably won’t try again.)

When Jim asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I said to spend an afternoon with him in Milford, PA. It’s one of those towns along the Delaware River that were once prosperous—but now you can’t quite figure out why anyone goes there. We more or less tripped over it last year on our way back from Narrowsburg, and had one of those spontaneously great experiences that I wanted to repeat (always a chancy proposition, I know.)

We drove out on Saturday and did what there was to do: stroll the streets, browse in a few shops and galleries, enjoy the simply chic holiday decorations, and end up sipping a glass of wine at Bar Louis. It’s a subterranean bistro in the Hotel Fauchere, with a nice vibe and friendly staff. This time we had dinner there—something we didn’t do last year. And we spent some time chatting with a cross-dresser named Bridget—also an experience we hadn’t had before. We headed back to our car in the glow of thousands of fairy lights strung through the trees. The experience embodied what Christmas means to me. Moments cherished and relationships acknowledged for their true value.

Tonight we’ll have dinner with Maryanne and Tom—a gathering that began three years ago and has quickly become one of my favorite holiday traditions. Tomorrow will be a whirlwind of exchanging presents, visits with our kids, and consuming way too much sugar. But today is about the slow build. The wonder. And the wishing, and hoping, that Santa brings you exactly what you want.

Merry Christmas, indeed...

'Tis the Season: Part 2

2010-12-21T07:56:00.009-05:00

Jake said, “The fake tree was a good investment, Mom.”

Wednesday we decorated the Christmas tree at my house, and yes—it’s a fabulously fake white one. The fact that it’s fake—and white—means it’s as far from my family’s holiday tree tradition as you can get.

That tradition—which I’ve failed to carry on—is one of my absolute favorite childhood memories. My dad would wrestle a fragrant Frazer Fir into a stand and string it with lights. When I was in my teens, I was allowed to help him arrange the fat colored bulbs, backed with cookie-cutter shaped aluminum reflectors, so that the colors were perfectly balanced.

When we went to bed Christmas Eve, that’s all that was on the tree. Next morning we awoke to find it transformed by Santa and his elves. It’s branches hung with ornaments, sugar cookies and candy canes, then layered with a shimmering veil of carefully placed tinsel. It set the tone for many a magical morning.

I married a Jewish man who was anti-holiday to boot, so until Jake was born I dared do no more than put up a tiny tabletop tree. Until I reached my parents’ house on Christmas day and sat in the glow of their big tree with the fat colored bulbs, I never felt that the holiday was really complete.

Jake’s arrival changed that. We became fast friends with a couple that made annual excursions to Pennsylvania to cut down their tree with a saw. And we tagged along. Our trees were never taller than what our golden retriever could knock over with a strong swipe of her tail. But I loved stringing the lights, hanging the ornaments and tossing the tinsel.

Divorce put an end to the tree-cutting, but Jake and I created a new tradition of venturing to the same nursery each year, picking out a tree, and decorating it together. One year his stepsister Carly, who only celebrates Hanukkah, asked to help. She brought Jake an ornament to hang on the tree—and a new tradition was born. Then came the December when, overcome with the desire to knock tradition for a loop, I bought the white tree during a post-Christmas 50% off sale. And began collecting blue, white and silver ornaments to decorate it with.

Which led to Wednesday night and Jake’s blessing. Funny that he came out with it in a year when I’ve found myself missing the smell of evergreen. And second-guessing my impulsive purchase. But after Jake and Carly had gone home, and I sat in the glow of the white lights admiring their handiwork, I realized that it’s not the tree that symbolizes Christmas to me. It’s the ritual of decorating it. Jake and Carly are my elves...making holiday magic.

'Tis the Season

2010-12-10T22:29:00.005-05:00

Traditions. The holidays wouldn’t be “The Holidays” without them. Rituals that range from digging out boxes of carefully preserved ornaments to lighting candles in a certain in order. From using handed-down recipes to taking daylong excursions to cut down the perfect tree—complete with snowflakes and hot chocolate.

I’m big on traditions—by which I mean that I love doing things, going places, and sharing experiences with the same people—again and again. I enjoy what I call “experiential” gifts far more than materials ones. And I’m pretty sure I’ve always been this way. My parents certainly set the stage. After 60 years of marriage, they still celebrate Christmas the same way they always have—by staying home all day, opening gifts at a leisurely pace, and eating a rib roast dinner. The only difference is that all of their kids are not there with them.

Like them, I’m resistant to altering the traditions I love. For instance, Jim is itching to spend Christmas snowbound in a remote cabin—while I can’t imagine not being with my family. That said, I’m discovering that it can be fun to switch things up a little. This year’s Thanksgiving dinner was hosted by my sister Deborah and her husband Mark in Elkton, Maryland. Jim and I arrived earlier than expected and he suggested stopping at one of Elkton’s clams to fame: The Howard House. It’s known as a crab place but we go for the legendary Bloody Mary’s. And because we’d decided to book a hotel room for the night to avoid the long and exhausting round-trip drive (another break from tradition), I said yes. Alcohol on Thanksgiving—what a treat!

I called our hosts to invite them to join us (they live within walking distance), and wasn’t surprised when Mark declined. But I was shocked when, 10 minutes later, my sister walked into the bar. Hot on her heels came my son Jake, who drove down on his own instead of with me (another first.) We shared some laughs and some stories and—best of all—the excitement of doing something new and different. A feeling that stayed with me all day. When we got back to the house, my brother and sister-in-law were disappointed to have arrived a little too late to join the party. By the time we said goodbye, we all agreed that a new family tradition had been established.

This week my friend Marla and I engaged in our annual holiday "experience." Like total tourists, we meet at dusk at the tree in Rockefeller Center. Take a few pictures. Then wander along Fifth Avenue, check out the displays, and end up grabbing a healthy bite to eat. Lately we’ve chosen days so bitter cold that we're forced to slip into Saks, Bendel’s or Bergdorf’s to warm up. This year we decided to go see the windows at Barneys and made a pit stop at the Plaza. Next thing we knew, we were sipping festive red drinks in the balcony bar—a fun new twist on the "let's stop in here to get toasty" tradition!

Traditions aren’t just about nostalgia or being old-fashioned. They ground us in a time and place. They create a sense of order and belonging. Like a compass, they help point us in a familiar direction and steer us toward a friendly destination. And they sure come in handy when our lives seem to be spinning out of control. Maybe that’s what the “tidings of comfort and joy” business is all about?

Breathing is So Underrated

2010-11-18T15:08:00.008-05:00

Today I called my friend Maryanne to wish her a happy birthday. We bemoaned the craziness of our schedules and frustration at not being able to see each other as often as we'd like. She asked how I was feeling. "Today's the first day in weeks that I've had a chance to breathe," I said. "Breathing is so underrated."

We laughed. Then she said, "You should blog that. A one-line blog post."

So here it is: Breathing is so underrated!

Happy birthday, Maryanne!

Listening to the Leaves

2010-11-15T07:09:00.003-05:00

"Listen," said Jim.

We were an hour into a hike in Norvin Green State Forest. One we'd never done before. The trail's incessant downward slope had just begun to ease, and the dense woods opened on either side. The forest floor was blanketed in gold, fallen leaves covering every surface as far as we could see.

We stopped walking. In the quiet, I heard a stream gurgling off to the right. Nothing more.

"Let's see if we can hear the leaves falling," said Jim. We looked around. In the wide expanse, a dozen or so papery-brown oak leaves drifted down from high up in the almost-bare branches. Lazily at first, then gaining a sense of urgency as they got closer to the ground. As if eager to join their predecessors.

At first I heard nothing. Then, just off to our left, a golden maple leaf landed. With a sound tough to put into words. Like the whisper of snowflakes falling in the dark. Or the hush of the first raindrops that herald a summer storm. Or a breath, exhaled so softly it can only be heard in a silent room.

A breeze swept through the treetops and sent several dozen leaves showering down. The air filled with the faint rustle of their journey to earth. As they came to rest, barely disturbing their brothers and sisters and cousins, they became invisible. Stitched instantly by hidden hands into autumn's colorful quilt. Richly cushioning our boots as we resumed our walk.

Escape

2010-11-08T08:06:00.011-05:00

Three weeks ago I took a giant leap out of my comfort zone. Completely dissatisfied with the way age is affecting my face, I decided to embark on a skin treatment program that would involve several months of sticking with an exacting, twice-a-day regimen. As an added bonus, the first three to six weeks would be characterized by extreme redness, itching, peeling and burning.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't jump at the chance to walk around looking like a burn victim for a month or two? Especially a woman like me, whose job involves seeing people--lots of people--every day. But I'm a graduate of the no-pain-no-gain school of life. So after some sweet-talking by my favorite cosmetic surgeon, I plunked down my credit card, took home my bag of bottles and tubes, and plunged in.

Four days later, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and started to cry. What the hell had I been thinking? Thankfully, the doctor's office surprised me with a support call, and I was relieved to hear that what was happening was normal.

Ten days later, I looked ten times worse. My face was red, sore, burning, itching. Yawning hurt. Smiling too often induced unsightly peeling. I pretty much kept my mouth shut about the discomfort. After all, I'd brought it on myself, hadn't I? A second support call (this time from my doctor's wife!) and a pep talk from my friend Maryanne (who had encouraged me to do this after experiencing positive results herself) lifted my spirits.

Wednesday was my first office visit. I arrived feeling confident that things were progressing nicely and sensing a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. After announcing his pleasure at the degree of my redness, he gleefully announced, "Let's speed up the process!" and told me to double the dosage. What could I expect next? "More peeling, but you'll get through this phase faster." I could hardly contain my excitement.

And what timing! Saturday I was co-hosting a party celebrating my parents' 80th birthdays and 60th wedding anniversary. How could I face a roomful of people--three-quarters of whom I hadn't seen in at least 10 years--with this face? Emboldened by panic, I asked, "Can the speeding-up part wait a few days?" After explaining my dilemma, he smiled kindly and said, "Sounds like it's time for an escape!"

Escape? What a concept. Turns out that if you stop using the treatment products for three days and slather on a blend of moisturizer and cortizone cream instead--voila! Your skin returns to normal. Without reversing the progress you've made. No one at the party noticed a thing. And I could smile without my skin cracking!

Last night I got back on the wagon with mixed emotions. I dread the return of the peeling. But this little break revealed positive changes in my skin. And now I'm convinced that putting up with the next few weeks will be well worth the trouble. Isn't that what "escape" is all about? Getting away from an experience that feels overwhelming so you can regain your perspective. If only it was always as simple as dabbing on some cream.

Love Offering

2010-10-16T15:59:00.009-04:00

This time last Saturday, I was sitting beside my sister Deborah in a church in Newark, NJ.

I can’t remember the last time we were in a church together (probably for a wedding or a funeral.) And we’ve never been to Newark together—much less to visit a church. But there we were, attending the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival. Sitting in the Trinity & St. Philip’s Cathedral. And listening to Kay Ryan, the 2010 U.S. Poet Laureate, talk about her craft.

It was a pivotal moment in a long weekend of pivotal moments. The festival lasted three and a half days, and we made it through two before agreeing we were on overload. But what an amazing experience it turned out to be—one I wasn't really prepared for.

I went because it’s something Deborah has wanted to do for a long time. I don’t write poetry or read much of it, so I knew pretty much nothing about the myriad of “stars” that would be there. But I love my sister and we don’t spend near enough time together. So when she discovered that the festival had been relocated from Sussex County to the New Jersey Performing Arts Center, I didn't think twice about springing for the four-day pass.

The event kicked off with a group reading featuring 24 of the poets in attendance—a perfect preview of what was to come. She and I took notes and later that night mapped out our strategy for the days ahead. The workshops and readings were many and the choices tough, but by the time we said, “Uncle!” on Saturday night, our creative “wells” were brimming. So much so that only now am I able to begin to sift through the thoughts and ideas that bombarded my brain. And the emotions that stirred my heart.

If I had thought about it in advance, I might have realized it had the potential to be overwhelming. I mean seriously—when you bring together dozens of the best poets in the country and give them the chance to share their love of language with thousands of adoring fans, how could the outcome be less than stellar? Each reading—whether it featured two people or ten—was a pyrotechnic display of the power and glory of words. Funny, insightful, delicious, rhythmic, sweet, obtuse, touching, exquisite, fierce. Driving home at the end of each day, my mind whirled with one-line inspirations (“Learn to be susceptible to distractions”; “Strike while the iron is iron.") And my heart ached from being put so thoroughly through its paces.

Instead, I'd focused solely on the gift of spending three wonderful days with my sister with no one else around. And we made the most of it. She summed it up beautifully in an email: “…every time together is a snapshot of where we are in our lives—our worries, our triumphs, our struggles and our joys –and talking helps me ‘hear’ where I am…” Several times during the weekend I felt blessed to have this special bond with her. Once, sitting in the grand main hall at NJPAC, I turned to look at her and tears welled in my eyes. I told her how grateful I was to be asked to share in the experience. But what I was really thinking was thank god we survived the miseries of childhood with our spirits intact. And have the courage to be living authentic lives.

Late last Saturday afternoon, we went to a second church to listen in on a slightly off-kilter conversation between poets Sharon Olds (heartfelt and loopy) and Billy Collins (ironic and brilliant). The sanctuary was a funky blend of grooved wood, stained glass and Gothic-inspired pewter chandeliers that lent a medieval air to the proceedings. In the back of the pew in front of us, a folded envelope was stuffed into a small wooden slot. I pulled it out and read the words printed in elegant script: “Love Offering.” Instantly I thought, “That’s what I’ve given Deborah by being here.” In the next moment I realized that was what she’d given me. Amen.

Mission Accomplished

2010-08-30T20:24:00.004-04:00

Today is Monday. It’s the official end of my summer “staycation”—and the end of my Personal Blogging Challenge.

Last Monday I made a commitment to post every day for a week. When I started this blog a year ago (hard to believe!), posting daily was something I thought would be easy to do. Man, have I learned a thing or two!

And now that I’ve accomplished last week’s mission, here are a few more things I've learned:

1) Blogging every day feels like a job. I spend a good part of each workday writing. Blogging is something I do for fun—and I want to keep it that way.
2) My posts were more spontaneous. I confess that most of my entries have been mapped out in Word and well-edited before I click “Publish Post.” The writer in me longs to create short stories. But lack of time (and not having loaded Microsoft Office on my new computer) forced me to speed things up. I kinda liked it!
3) I took my camera everywhere. I’m hooked on using pictures as illustrations, which means almost any occasion can turn into a photo op.
4) Blogging more meant journaling less. I’m not interested in spilling my guts in public—that’s what my journal is for. But it was tough to make time to do both, and I was on vacation all week! Since I’m a lifelong journal junkie, this could be the deal-breaker.
5) There was no shortage of stuff to write about. Discovering this made the project worthwhile. This entire blog is about moments of joy and amazement. And judging by the endless string of ideas that ran through my mind, my days are filled with them.

As I was writing point #4, I spent a few minutes Googling the definition of a blog. Is it possible I'm doing it all wrong? That I should toss my journal because sharing intensely personal stuff is what separates real bloggers from pretenders? I panicked when Webster’s called it “an online personal journal." But then I came across this from Jeff Jarvis, a veteran print journalist and prominent blogger: “A blog is merely a tool that lets you do anything from change the world to share your shopping list. People will use it however they wish. And it is way too soon in the invention of uses for this tool to limit it with a set definition.”

Whew! Tomorrow it’s back to pen & paper.

Dining Alfresco

2010-08-29T19:32:00.008-04:00

Outdoor dining: love it or hate it?

It's something about which most people I know have a strong opinion, and I happen to love it. Whether it's coffee out on my deck or a romantic dinner in a secluded garden strung with twinkling lights, nothing says "summer" more than enjoying a meal outside.

But there's outdoor dining and then there's its ugly step-sister: urban outdoor dining. If you live in Bergen County, NJ, it's highly likely that alfresco is nothing more than a few tables crammed together on a busy sidewalk situated along an even busier street. The roar of motorcycles and aroma of bus exhaust hardly creates a desirable atmosphere, and yet that's what most local restaurants have to offer. Which is why I understand when any dining companion chooses to sit indoors instead.

This week I've been fortunate to experience the upside of eating outside. In one 48-hour stretch, I ate lunch on a cliff high above the Wanaque Reservoir; sipped a beer on a patio at one end of Greenwood Lake; had dinner on my deck overlooking a small creek; enjoyed breakfast on an outdoor deck on Lake Hopatcong (where it was so chilly they had the overhead heaters on); and stopped for a late lunch in Frenchtown at a cafe beside the Delaware River. The only time noise was a factor was in Frenchtown, where the cafe is at the foot of the bridge that leads in and out of town. But even then we could have chosen to sit in the screened-in porch, far removed from the bustling road.

I savored every minute of every meal. Being in the open air always creates an illusion of space, even when you're within spitting distance of the next table. There sure was plenty to look at--from hawks swooping overhead to sailboats glinting in the sun. I relished the cool breezes. Succumbed to the water's hypnotic powers. Was soothed by the sounds of birds and crickets. And the food? Well, somehow it just tasted better! The colors were more vibrant. The flavors more distinct. I chewed more slowly. Appreciated each bite.

If only this sort of experience could be replicated by restaurants closer to home. Where the best tables offered a fresh perspective--and a view worth seeing.

Heart Stones

2010-08-28T06:46:00.009-04:00

"We tend to find what we're looking for," Jim said. In a rare moment of synchronicity, I said I couldn't agree more. (Actually, my standard phrase for this is, "Perception is all there is." Meaning things are as we chose to see them. Not exactly the same thing, but close enough.)

He said this yesterday as we were well into a steady uphill climb on a new hiking trail in Norvin Green State Park. (I'd quickly dubbed it the Fried Egg Trail in honor of the yellow-on-white Mine Trail marker pictured here.) I'd spent most of the previous 20 minutes with my eyes glued to the ground, carefully navigating the rocky ascent. And I'd noticed what seemed like dozens of stones shaped like hearts.

I have my friend Shelley to thank for this. A few years ago we were strolling the beach together in Point Pleasant and I was talking about my obsession with shell collecting. I've got so many I should be ashamed to even look at another, yet I can't seem to help myself. She suggested switching to pebbles, and I confessed to having pocketed more than a few of those as well. I consider them souvenirs--even though, with few exceptions (like the large river stones from Montana and the smooth gray rocks from the Maine coastline) I've no idea where they all came from.

Then she told me that a friend of hers collected stones shaped like hearts. This opened a whole new world to me, one that required keener powers of observation and a bit of imagination. Some of the stones I have only look like hearts to me--and that was Jim's point. If I want to see hearts, I will. And yesterday I saw so many that I decided it was a sign. Maybe I needed to open my heart more? I've been feeling pretty self-centered lately, focused more on what I want and need than on the people around me. So was this nature's way of telling me to pay more attention? To share more love? Connect more deeply with those I care about?

I held this feeling in my consciousness as we moved through the day. Jim and I seemed more in sync than usual, and we both commented on how present we felt. Everything about the hike seemed more intense, and the sights were like a Reader's Digest condensed version of what we love best. These pictures capture a few of them: strenuous climbs, spectacular views, a black-and-blue butterfly perched on my leg, several abandoned mines, a cascading brook hidden from view, even a real bat cave!

The piece de resistance was a wacky house nestled in the trees along the road out of the parking lot. Part tent, part domed sheet metal, it was painted a vibrant shade of pink--as was everything else in sight. From the iron front gate to the lawn chair cushions, the mailbox to the old Volvo in the driveway. Pink. The color of love. The shade of the heart.

Could it be another sign? The way we choose to see things is the way they are.

Intermezzo

2010-08-27T07:18:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was an unexpected gift. Jim had work to do so I had a day to myself. The sun finally broke through, the damp and the gray blew away, and the temptation to drive to the beach was strong. But my goal this week is to relax. As I drank my morning coffee and watched the cat stretch in a warm shaft of light, I decided to bring the beach experience to my backyard.

It’s amazing how little it takes: a canvas chair, some suntan lotion, a tall glass of iced tea, and a big fat book (our book club pick is Penny Vincenzi’s The Best of Times—perfectly mindless reading.) I threw in a long afternoon walk and homemade tuna niçoise for good measure—and guess what? I hardly missed the sound of the waves. The bonus: no sand in my shoes!

My Son the Sex Symbol

2010-08-26T07:57:00.006-04:00

There is a picture of my son Jake in the May 27th issue of Time Out New York. It doesn't quite do him justice, but the short profile next to it manages to capture a bit of his personality. At least the things that might be important to someone interested in dating him.

That's right. My baby, my only child, was featured in the magazine's "Sexy Summer Singles" issue.

Not long afterward, my friend Robynn suggested this might be something to blog about. As in, "How does it feel to be the mother of a sex symbol?" I actually sat down to write about it, but my mind went blank. Were there no words to describe my feelings? Hardly likely. Did I have no feelings? Doubt that, too. Maybe I just needed time to process the whole thing?

Flash forward to last night, when Jake and I met up at Micro Center. I needed to buy a new computer, and he'd offered to provide technical support in exchange for a free dinner. I'd already done my research, and was convinced I was taking him up on the offer just to spend time with him. He's 27 and has a very full life, so hanging out with his mom isn't a priority. And rightly so. But we do have shared interests and he's not embarrassed to be seen in public with me. So I'm thrilled to get together with him whenever the occasion presents itself.

I got there first and was perusing the MacBooks when he walked in. For a split second I saw him, not as my son, but as a guy walking into an electronics store. And it didn't seem possible that the boy I'd raised had become this tall, good-looking young man. In my mind he's forever four years old, sweet and inquisitive and independent. Racing through the house in his footy pajamas with mischief in his eyes and an infectious giggle. But the Jake strolling towards me, the one giving me a peck on the cheek and saving me $400 by telling me I don't need the most powerful laptop Apple makes--this Jake was the man profiled in the pages of TONY.

He's the guy with his own apartment and a great job, who loves sports and music and cooking and travel. Who writes songs and makes his own beer and is spending the summer attending the weddings of half a dozen close friends. He's the guy who has dinner with his grandparents most Thursday nights and has sat through virtually all of his step-sister's dance recitals. Who has taken his mom to Pearl Jam concerts and Red Bulls games. Most miraculous of all, he's the strong yet sensitive son who still struggles to makes sense of his father's death from cancer 10 years ago. And chooses to live life on his own terms as a result.

If all of these attributes combine to make him an eligible bachelor, who am I to argue? Just don't ask me to think about it for too long. I prefer to see him as the walking definition of a Renaissance Man. I believe that he's a "catch". That the girl he finally settles down with will be lucky that he's chosen her. And that it would behoove her to realize this fact. Do I also believe that I'm unabashedly biased? You bet. And why not? I'm the mother of a sex symbol.

Being Open

2010-08-25T13:45:00.007-04:00

It's been many (many) years since I attended the U.S. Open Tennis tournament, and I've never actually purchased tickets to go. Not because I don't like tennis (I do) or didn't enjoy watching it live (I did.) But given the choice as to which sport I'd willingly spend hours sitting in the stands to watch, I'd go with baseball.

That said, I fancy myself as someone who is open to new experiences. I also love Jim. And Jim loves tennis. So yesterday I found myself walking through Flushing Meadows in a steady drizzle to the USTA National Tennis Center. No, the U.S. Open doesn't start until August 30th. But there is plenty of tennis being played there this week--and you don't need tickets to enjoy it.

Jim has been talking about doing this for several summers, ever since a guy who he met on his local tennis courts told him he's been taking his kids for years. The deal is that there are dozens of qualifying matches as well as practice courts full of pros working out. And the public is invited to watch for free! As luck would have it, the timing coincides with the last of our week-long summer "staycations." So we decided to take our chances with the incessantly miserable weather and cruise on out to Queens.

We were richly rewarded. Okay, so we missed seeing Rafa Nadal practice by about an hour. And we waited at least that long for the puddle-spotted courts to be dried and readied for play. But there was plenty of action on the dozen or so practice courts, where you could get within yards of the grunting and groaning players. Many of the concession stands were open, so we had our fill of high-end junk food. And I was amazed at how many spectators, staff and tennis groupies were milling about.

But what made it all worthwhile was seeing the look of pure joy on Jim's face as he pronounced himself happier than if he'd been watching the final match in Arthur Ashe Stadium. Being open to a new experience? Zero dollars. Experiencing it with someone you love? Priceless.

Downsized

2010-08-24T10:20:00.012-04:00

Narrowsburg. The name alone sounds small, doesn’t it? Described by New York Magazine as a “liberal-leaning burg on New York’s Pennsylvania border…shaping up to be the Woodstock of Sullivan County” (April 6, 2009), it nonetheless sounded like a destination well worth the two-hour haul. Yesterday Jim and I visited Narrowsburg for the third time—and I’m still trying to decide if that’s true.

The drive is absolutely gorgeous: equal parts Hudson Valley farmland and majestic views of the Delaware River. And as you approach the town from Route 52 you get a glimpse of its unique location—perched on a bend at the deepest part of the river where a large eddy spreads out like a lake. The first time we went we almost missed the turn onto Main Street—and even now I marvel at how tiny it is. I grew up in a small town, so trust me when I say this town is barely there. The street has a “wild west” vibe and you can see from one end to the other. It’s also possible to count the businesses on your fingers: two restaurants, a few galleries, the requisite coffee place, and a post office.

On our first visit we were steered to the Main Street Café by a gallery owner—and readers of this blog won’t be surprised to know that food is probably what lures us back (that, and the chic home store, Nest.) As Jim said yesterday, we’ll go anywhere for a good meal. And so, as the rain pelted down and dashed our hopes for a beach day, we agreed that it was perfect weather for the café’s signature sloppy roast beef sandwich (one good reason for not going 100% vegetarian!)

We set off, stomachs growling in anticipation. Low and behold, it’s not on the summer lunch menu! Alas, we had no choice but to assuage our broken hearts with 1) a slice of the best chocolate cake this chocoholic has ever tasted and 2) homemade apple pie. Desperate to stretch our legs before getting back in the car for the long drive back, we grabbed an umbrella and took a short stroll to the observation deck for a view of the eddy.

A pleasant-looking woman joined us and said she hoped the awful weather wasn’t ruining some sort of vacation plans. As if! I chuckled to myself, remembering that the last time I stood on this spot and took a picture, the river was frozen and the sidewalks snow-covered. Ten minutes later we headed back to our car, clutching a brochure promoting a “tent and breakfast” lodging option that our new friend Jane had recently launched.

Serendipity? You bet. First of all, we’ve been talking for weeks about spending a weekend hiking in the area, and this would be a perfect place to stay. Best of all, Jim and I often ask ourselves if we could move to a place like this, and Jane couldn't contain her enthusiasm for the decision she and her husband had made to retire to Narrowsburg (from Long Island) three years ago. “There’s plenty to do here if you don’t need to work,” she said. For one brief moment I sighed and thought, “Ah, yes—the upside of downsizing."

What's in a Name?

2010-08-23T09:27:00.009-04:00

Jim and I hike so much that we’ve started forgetting which trail is which. I’ve promised to put together a log book that includes space for notes to help us remember. And I’ve gotten as far as buying the binder. In the meantime, during a summer in which we’ve made good on our decision to try more new hikes, we struggle to keep them straight.

One of our tricks is to bestow names on some of our favorites: the Rhododendron Hike, the Mount Tammany Hike, the Reservoir Hike. And the one Jim longingly refers to as the Blueberry Hike. There’s no real logic to the names. Some are destinations (the Milford Village Hike.) Some refer to landmarks (the June Cemetery Hike.) But two of our most beloved trails are named for the seasonal natural wonders we encounter along the way. If we’re lucky.

I say that because one of the things we forget is exactly what time of year we need to hike these trails in order to actually see them—literally—in full flower. The Rhododendron Hike, which ranks as one of my top three trails to date, is so named because of the dense groves of wild rhododendrons that form lush canopies over large sections of the trail. They bloom for a few short weeks in the spring, and Jim has done plenty of research (including polling many a hiker whose paths we’ve crossed) to try to determine the ideal time to catch them at their peak. Only once have we hit it just right—and it was truly breathtaking. So you’d think we’d have written it down somewhere, right? Beats me where that might be.

The Blueberry Hike poses a similar challenge. Wild blueberry bushes dot many of the trail systems in northern NJ and southern NY, but nowhere have we found a more dazzling display than on this trail, which winds up and over Seven Lakes Drive near Lake Tiorati. The small, dark berries are far sweeter than their big brothers, and we believe they ripen in late summer—although we can never remember precisely when. So we target the window between late June and early July and hope for the best.

Last Sunday was August 15th and we figured we’d missed the boat. Still, we headed out with visions of scraping together a few handfuls that might have survived this sweltering summer. But how much did it really matter? Not a heck of a lot. Because the reality is that there are endless joys to be found along these trails—surprises and delights that no name can capture. That day’s trek included a surprise deer sighting, a trip through the infamous Lemon Squeeze rock formation. And intermittent rain showers that played a staccato on the leafy tree tops. Yesterday we were just looking for an easy “walk in the woods” on a damp drizzly day—and discovered an amazing well-preserved stone wall, more than a century old, that rivaled anything Andy Goldsworthy has recently engineered.

And yet—calling it The Great Wall Hike will do it such a disservice. Because “what’s in a name?” is never the whole story. “Successful.” “Strange.” “Friend.” “Musician.” “Happy.” “Vegetarian.” “Blogger.” Sure, these labels help us remember. And create a semblance of order in our minds. Maybe even our lives. But oh, how limiting they are! How inadequate. Just like this handful words I’ve scraped together.

Vegging Out

2010-07-29T16:49:00.010-04:00

I reorganized my recipe file on Monday. No, it wasn’t on my list of things to do during my vacation week. But on Sunday, when the mess of culinary clippings crammed in a kitchen cabinet made an ordeal out of extracting a bowl for Jim’s potato salad, it suddenly took precedence over re-potting my lavender and trimming the cat’s claws.

I’m not going to go on about how this project took far longer than anticipated. Or about the perfect file box I found at the Container Store (disguised as a greeting card file—something I didn’t know existed and probably also need!) But sifting through the recipes and deciding what to keep—and what to toss—took on an unexpected significance.

It was like looking through a photo album of my life, one that dated from when I got married (in 1977) to the present. Who was that woman who whipped up all those wok wonders? And casseroles with ground beef, noodles and Campbell’s soup as the main ingredients? Was there really an era when I made beef stroganoff and chicken cacciatore? Or when compiling ways to make mac & cheese and potato salad was my sole mission in life?

My pile of cast-offs grew—and so did my realization that the way I eat has changed dramatically over the past 30-plus years. As I labeled the tabs of my colorful new file and filled it with favorites and promising possibilities, several things became clear:

1. I’ve always eaten more poultry than beef or pork.
2. I’ve lived by the adage that eating fish in restaurants is preferable to living with the smell at home.
3. Pasta and any dish featuring beans or lentils is a mainstay.
4. Looking for new ways to prepare sweet potatoes or Brussels sprouts? Give me a shout.

Which leads me (more or less) to the point. At the start of the process, the biggest stack of recipes involved chicken. By the time I was done, it was vegetables. That’s because I chose to reorg my recipes at a time when I’m as close as I’ve ever been to becoming a vegetarian. I feel instant disappointment at not being able to write, “Because I am a vegetarian.” But that would be a bold-faced lie—considering the fact that at my son’s birthday dinner last night I had the signature dish at 5 Napkin Burger.

However, reading my friend Diane’s recent blog post about vegetarianism made me realize that, while I admire those who just wake up one day and—voila!—stop eating animals, I don’t need to apologize for that fact that, for me, it’s a process that’s been going on for several years. Lately I’ve been doing lots of reading and experimenting and talking with my friend Stacey, who is sort of in the same boat. I’ve been looking at the issue through a variety of lenses: from the health benefits and animal rights abuses to the impact on the environment.

To be honest, I don’t have one good reason to continue eating meat. In fact, going totally vegan would suit me best from a health perspective. Sure, it’s inconvenient: all that searching for weird ingredients and cooking—what a drag! And although I happen to like most non-animal sources of protein, far be it from me to try to convince Diane (or Jim) that tofu tastes as good as last night’s thick, juicy burger.

That said, I just finished Jonathan Froer’s book, Eating Animals, and can no longer stomach the thought of consuming chicken or pork. Even fish is making me nauseous. So I’m enjoying leafing through vegan and Ayurvedic cookbooks. Exploring local farmer’s markets. And searching for stores that sell quinoa and adzuki beans in bulk. A few weeks ago I stumped a clerk at Whole Foods when I asked what aisle the mirin was in (imagine that!) And I’m still searching for umeboshi vinegar—although I’m not exactly sure why.
And yet—I avoid crossing the line completely. Oh, to wake up one morning and just know! In the meantime, I’ll continue this process of elimination and try to be okay with it—which is no easy task. As Jake drove us home from 5 Napkin Burger, I said, “This might have been my last real burger experience. I’m thinking about not eating meat anymore.” Without missing a beat, he replied “Again?” Ouch.

A Whole Lot of Nothin’ Real Important

2010-07-27T21:06:00.006-04:00

I haven’t posted in quite a while. Okay –since June 20th, to be exact. I’ve got plenty of good reasons (or excuses, take your pick.) I was unfocused/journaling instead/reading instead/cooking instead/swamped with work/bored/tired/happier hanging with friends/unmotivated/lazy. Eventually it became the kind of thing where, the more time passed, the guiltier I felt. And the more it felt like an obligation. And you know how that goes. I felt exactly like I do when I haven’t called my parents for three weeks.

It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write about. My journal is, in fact, filled with notes about things amazing, surprising and delightful. Like a weekend checking out wineries on the North Fork. A vision book workshop in NYC. A raft of new hikes. My son featured as one of summer’s sexiest singles in Time Out NY (more on that later.) But it wasn’t until Jim and I spent a four-day weekend in Vermont that I finally felt the weight of not blogging. And—simultaneously—asked myself why it matters so much.

It was a wonderful trip, a classic Donna-and-Jim adventure that included a rainy drive along Route 100, a visit with Janet at Tao of Health, and two gorgeous days of hiking (and eating too much) in Killington. Seeing Janet and introducing Jim to the retreat center was a high point, for sure. And the reason we planned the trip in the first place. She’s selling lots of stuff in preparation for moving, and it turns out she was willing to let go of that happy little Buddha that came to symbolize my experiences there. So I went to pick him up—and Jim came to do the heavy lifting. The other high point (literally) was the hiking. Our trek up Killington Mountain was one for the books. We’d intended to take the gondola up and hike down, but the young guy selling tickets shamed us into the reverse order (he had me at, “It’s easier on the knees.”) The views were breathtaking, the climb strenuous—and I’d be lying if I said we didn’t curse that dude. More than once. But the hike to Deer Leap the day before was the one that got me thinking about the blogging thing. We crossed paths with Billy, a bearded through-hiker (that’s trail-speak for people hiking the length of the Appalachian Trail) who was either desperate for company or annoyingly long-winded. About an hour later we passed a guy who had also encountered Billy on the trail. “He seemed harmless enough,” the guy offered. When we alluded to the chattiness, he smiled and shrugged. “Well he did like to talk, but mostly about a whole lot of nothin’ real important.”

I rolled that phrase over and over in my mind, and by the time we got back to our car I’d come to this conclusion: That’s what blogging is. Going on and on about a whole lot of nothin’ real important.

Yet here I am. Climbing back in the saddle with renewed intention. Why? Because, like long-winded Billy, I just enjoy the process. Because it’s a creative medium that works for me sometimes, and sometimes not so much. I sure don’t want to feel obligated to do it—or guilty when I don’t. I just want the freedom to explore it. And I love knowing that people I care about are along for the ride.

Every Hike is a Good Hike

2010-06-20T21:28:00.012-04:00

After more than a year of battling uncooperative weather and Jim's even more uncooperative body, we're finally getting into a good hiking groove. We’ve been able get out on a trail more or less once a weekend since the last of the snow fell. Which makes me a happy girl.

Deciding where we’ll go is one of the high points of the weekend—we talk about it over morning coffee like other couples talk about dropping off the dry cleaning. There are plenty of favorite destinations to choose from—mostly in Ramapo, Harriman and out at the Gap—and we're also branching out to unexplored territory. (At this point we’ve accumulated so many possibilities that I’ve committed to replacing my bulging manilla folder with a well-organized binder, complete with notes to help us remember where we've been.)

The trail choice dictates the food choice: more than 6 miles requires a sandwich (preferably from Panera); less than that it’s apples, cheese, and nuts or energy bars. We throw on a few layers and fill our packs (Jim’s is the one with the necessities, although for some reason I’ve got the toilet paper), then we’re out the door—poles, boots and hats stay permanently in the trunk of the car.

I love hiking enough to consider it a bit of an addiction. For several years running I’d have withdrawal if more than a week passed without an outdoor jaunt. So it’s sort of funny that I haven’t asked myself why. Maybe it has something to do with the amaze-surprise-delight thing, since there is something about every hike that falls into at least one of these categories. Trails in New York and New Jersey traverse an incredibly diverse countryside with an awe-inspiring variety of trees and vegetation. Then there are the ponds and lakes, some hidden deep in the forests, sparkling like jewels. The streams and rivers that trickle, babble, and roar through the peaks and valleys. And the birds, deer, chipmunks, snakes, frogs, and yes—even a bear or two that keep us company.Most intriguing are the remains of things we come across in the middle of nowhere. Everything from rusted adding machines, motorcycles and bathtubs to deserted mansions, ancient cemeteries, ruined summer resorts, and—in the case of Doodletown—an entire ghost town.
Lately I’ve been taking my camera, snapping away with the intention of sharing some of these weird treasures here. Taking the time to record them forces me to slow me down, even to stop (unusual in that I hike as much for the exercise as the esoteric delights.) This has led to some connect-the-dots moments: connecting with my childhood, when the most blissful hours were spent playing in the woods, often with my sister Deborah; and connecting with familiar sites, sounds and smells. The inkberry plants that she and I actually squeezed into ink and used sticks to write with. Umbrella plants we used to shade houses in the little villages we built. Murky ponds sheltering fat bullfrogs. Tadpoles wriggling in gurgling streams. Stately pine groves. Rusted farm machinery. Violets and daisies and Queen Anne’s lace. Crumbling stone walls we used as barricades against imaginary enemies—or unofficial trail markers to guide us home.Back then, the woods was a place to escape from the anger that seeped through our house. It serves the same purpose today: only now I’m escaping the stress of my own life to a place that offers breathing room and accessible grandeur. Then again, maybe I’m making this more complicated than it has to be. Last weekend we drove out towards Chester and met two women setting out on a trail that the four of us were hiking for the first time. We headed in different directions, but literally crossed paths about halfway through. One of them asked what we thought of the hike, and Jim and I concurred that it was one we’d like to do again. “Yeah, it’s a good hike,” she agreed. “But then, every hike’s a good hike. You get to be outside and get some exercise. What could be bad?”

Yeah. Maybe it’s just that simple.

It's Just a Wall

2010-05-28T10:37:00.004-04:00

You know those places you never get tired of visiting? The ones that offer an experience that never grows old: that inspiring vista, that perfect cup of coffee, that uninterrupted horizon, or that pasta dish you can’t replicate?

For me, Storm King Art Center is one of those places. It’s been more than 25 years since my first visit—I was married, Jake was a baby, and our friends Bill and Sheryl invited us along for a picnic. And it’s been less than a week since my most recent visit. In between I’ve made countless trips to the Hudson Valley to stroll its acres of hills, woods and fields, and dragged pretty much everyone I know to see the 100 or so sculptures that dot its landscape. It remains a place that is consistently inspiring in its scope and calming in its quiet grandeur.

Jim and I made a fairly spontaneous trip there last Sunday. Because we’ve been there so often, we noticed immediately that there were some new sculptures scattered through the fields. But not until we’d climbed up to the main office and Jim began chatting with one of the docents did we discover that the park is celebrating its 50th anniversary with a new exhibition.

It’s important that I come clean here. Jim loves to talk with total strangers, and he does this often—sometimes at great length. The fact that he’s an inquisitive guy is something I love about him. But the chatting often gets on my nerves, especially when I’m in the mood to experience something rather than talk to someone about how best to have the experience. There are times when I’d just rather do my own thing—and when the urge strikes, I walk away and allow Jim to do his.

I did just that on Sunday—and in the process learned that I need to rethink my impatience. First of all, the docent’s explanation gave me a “new perspective” on what we were seeing that day. Secondly, she taught us a trick for keeping at bay the ridiculously annoying May Flies that swarmed the place. And finally, she told us about a new work by an artist I love, one I would have missed seeing otherwise.

The new sculpture is by Andy Goldsworthy, an environmental artist who my old friend Karen de Mauro turned me on to back in 1998, when he and a group of “wallers” from his native UK erected what has become known as the Storm King Wall. It gracefully meanders in a serpentine way around trees and rocks, enters a pond and emerges at the other side. (If you’re looking, you can see the tail end of it from the NY Thruway as you travel north between exits 16 and 17.) According to the docent, Goldsworthy just finished a new wall in a part of the park that is literally off the beaten path, invisible from any of the designated walkways. Aptly calling it “5 Men, 17 Days, 15 Boulders, 1 Wall,” he’s refurbished a dilapidated wall (using stones found on the property) that now winds around boulders along a grove of trees and sort of tumbles into ruin at either end.

There is something about these walls that I find evocative. Goldsworthy has this way of using found materials, placing them in a natural setting, and magnifying their beauty in ways that force me to pay attention. His works are of nature yet not natural, and I find this mesmerizing. So imagine how jarring it was when, while murmuring my admiration to Jim, I heard a fellow visitor say, “I don’t get it. It’s just a wall.”

To his credit, Jim instantly had the proper perspective and whispered something along the lines of “everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.” To my credit, I didn’t throttle the young woman. Later, journaling it out, I found it impossible to accept. There are just so many kinds of walls, literally and figuratively. Ones that keep things out, keep things in. Keep things safe. There are sturdy castle walls that surround, crumbling stone walls that divide. There’s the Great Wall. The old Berlin Wall. The Wailing Wall.

I thought about how I wall off people when I’ve had enough. And wall in my heart after decades of disappointment. In my change group we’re talking about how our thoughts limit our forward movement—yet another kind of wall. Maybe my belief that there is no such thing as “just a wall” is—well—just a wall. If so, I’d like to think of it as a lovely Goldsworthy wall—designed to work with the landscape of my life, not against it.

Lovely and Amazing

2010-05-23T09:40:00.005-04:00

I’ve stolen this title from a 2001 movie about a mother and three daughters who are self-absorbed, neurotic, confused, and weirdly endearing. Two of my all-time favorite actresses, Catherine Keener and Brenda Blethyn, are the leaders of this far-from-merry band, each of whom is struggling (in a highly exaggerated, this-could-only-happen-in-a-movie sort of way) with the kind of self-esteem and insecurity issues that plague—well—most of the women I know.

The title popped into my head as I was drying my hair and contemplating writing this post. It didn’t really seem appropriate, so I tried to dismiss it. But it's not going away. As I write that sentence, it dawns on me that maybe that’s exactly why it’s perfect. Because I’m writing about something that may not be appropriate but definitely isn’t going away: racism.

Back story: I work for the YWCA, whose mission is “Eliminating Racism and Empowering Women.” When I took the job three years ago, I was all about empowering women and eager to work for an organization that was dedicated to making that happen. But in the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t really think the racism thing had anything to do with me. I wasn’t a racist. Never had been. And I didn’t spend much—okay, any—time thinking about the state of racism in America today. Fast-forward to this week and I can say two things without hesitation: I am a racist, and the issue of eliminating racism is definitely part of my consciousness.

I wondered if writing about this was fitting for a blog dedicated to all things amazing, surprising and/or delightful. Here’s what then popped into my brain:

1. Bloggers aren’t supposed to worry about what people will think.
2. None of the characters in the movie censored themselves—and I loved that!
3. Racism involves censorship of all kinds.

So here goes. This week I participated in a two-day “eliminating racism” training that was surprising and amazing. For those who feel the urge to check out as they read this, not to worry. I’m not going to go on about my newfound self-awareness or how uncomfortable it is to look my biases square in the eye. I won’t try to explain the guilt and shame I felt sitting in a circle with people of color and listening as they spoke about how they live racism every day, while I can choose not to think about it anytime I want. Together we created a list of stereotypes about white people and POC, then read it aloud. Many of the words I used to describe the movie could be applied to that experience: self-absorbed, highly exaggerated, this-could-only-happen-in-a-movie, confused. I’ll add surprised, angry, sad, and daunting to the list.

I also feel hope, powered by the realization that it’s imperative to question everything. Not to accept what I'm told at face value. I’ve been lazy about some things in my life that require focus, energy, and hard work. I’ve been afraid to speak up and challenge assumptions because I didn’t have facts to back me up. But I feel lucky to have reached a point in my life where I’m willing to dig deeper. And I’ve learned that it’s not necessary to have all of the facts in order to take action.

One of the facilitators used the metaphor that racism is like the “people movers” we see in airports: we don’t have to do anything to make it happen. As white people in America, we inherit it. She explained that the first step towards change is to turn around on the people mover and face the other way.

Despite my rule-follower reputation, I’ve made the choice to turn around. I’ll admit it was easy to do while sitting in a room with 30 other people who felt equally inspired. And right now, sitting here alone in the comfort of my studio, it feels both lovely and amazing. But I’m no fool. Just like the women in the movie, I’ve got a boatload of insecurities, confusion and fear—and standing up against racism brings them all to the surface. That’s the cool thing about enlightenment, though: there ain’t no “Off” switch.

The Next Act

2010-05-09T16:16:00.005-04:00

Friday night. Central Park Boathouse. A surprise party to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the launch of my friend Marla’s image consulting business. It was a gorgeous evening and the noisy, elegant dinner, preceded by cocktails and mingling, befitted the occasion. In fact, except for the shortage of while lilies, it was exactly the kind of party Marla herself would have thrown.

Our host for the evening, her beau Barry, spoke of what an achievement it was for anyone to be so successful for so long. Especially in New York—and a woman at that. While I agree completely with the first two-thirds of that statement, I think that being a woman actually stacks the deck in her favor.

I remember having lunch with Marla when she hatched the idea and thinking that, if anyone could pull it off it, it would be her. She’s smart, organized, has a great head for business, and had been very successful working in both the buying and selling sides of the fashion business. She had reached a point where she was tired of working for other people, and after careful thought had come up with a logical next step in her career.

Exactly the sort of thing women do all the time!

That’s right. We’re the masters of reinvention. Whether it’s shifting gears from full-time career woman to full-time mom, from unemployed to self-employed, from single to married to single again, women are in the business of creating and recreating their lives. As one woman at Marla’s party put it, we are the flexible sex. The ones who can turn on a dime. We can be racing to meet a deadline at work, stop to take a call from our daughter or best friend, help with a math problem or dating crisis, and return to that work project with barely a "Where was I?"

Women are the ones who manage. We make do. We make ends meet. We make lemonade from lemons. And we’re successful because we refuse to give up. Every woman in my change management group is in the process of transitioning from focusing on others to taking better care of herself. Half of the women I met at the Vermont retreat were in the process of changing jobs, changing locations, or figuring out how to turn something they're good at into a moneymaking venture. What we all share is resourcefulness. Inventiveness. And the unwavering belief that there is more where that came from.

Just because we can do it doesn’t mean that transformation is easy. Like the humans in the movie “Avatar” who traveled from one world to the next, we struggle to adjust, often wrestling with a laundry list of issues: from fear to loneliness, from lack of financial resources to lack of confidence. But we never lack the support of good friends. Or the camaraderie of other women who are either in the same boat—or have recently paddled down the same river.

Three of the smartest and most talented women I know are in search of new employment. Two of them were laid off in the past month, and the third shuttered her business. None of them is entirely sure what they want to do, but they are fully dedicated to figuring out their “next act” (as one of the three—my friend Robynn—put it.)

I was in exactly the same place three years ago, about to lose my job and sure only of what I did not want in my future. With help from two wise women and an assist from my son Jake (who convinced me to take the leap to Monster.com), I achieved my goal of leaving a Manhattan commute behind and landing a great job a stone’s throw from my house. This change began a process that, at the moment, seems never-ending. As if I tipped the first domino and sent dozens of others toppling in a line that snakes into my future. Each one that slaps the floor is another chance to move forward. To dream, to learn, to grow. To lead a more genuine life.

To do what women do so well: discover, realize—or create—our next act.

Spring Cleaning

2010-05-05T19:54:00.011-04:00

Two summers ago, I met a woman named Janet Dunn at a hiking spa in Vermont that my friend Robynn discovered. Janet did a cooking demo one afternoon, and her gentle, nurturing persona was as memorable as the yummy protein salad she taught us to make.

It turned out that she ran her own retreat center of sorts (Tao of Health VT) and I put myself on her email list. Last October I made a solo trip for a weekend of “detoxing” with a small group of like-minded women. Janet had this innate ability to conjure up an atmosphere of safety, support, and lighthearted camaraderie that I found irresistible. So when the invitation arrived in my Inbox for a “darkness into light detox” in May, I signed myself up for a return trip to her rambling, sun-washed house, perched atop a hill near the end of a long dirt road. And I invited my friend Maryanne to come along.The last time Maryanne and I shared a “health spa” experience, things didn’t go so well. She is a lover of abundance—so the concept of being restricted does not sit easily with her. (No coffee? No bread? No sugar? No way!) So I knew it was risky to ask her to spend 48 hours in the wilds of Vermont, cleansing her liver, avoiding caffeine, and consuming a strictly vegetarian diet. Instead of creating expectations, I decided to think of it as an opportunity to spend time with her. And maybe let go of a little stress.

Arriving late Friday night, we discovered there was a full house of 20-plus guests. But we were lucky to have been assigned to the “blue room,” one of the nicest in the house. We set the alarm for 7 a.m., fell into bed, and before we knew it found ourselves in the roomy kitchen with a bunch of yawning women. Everyone lined up dutifully for fresh-squeezed juice and Janet’s deliberate dispensing of the morning’s detox regimen: a customized combo of herbs, tinctures and essential oils designed to help our bodies rid themselves of the crap we shoveled into them all winter.
Instructed to drink plenty of water and specially brewed tea (we’re talking burdock root, not Spiced Chai!), we moved slowly into a day dedicated to relaxation, reflection and release. The hours unfolded like flower petals, each yoga session, massage and mindfulness exercise building on its predecessor. Each of us chose our own path, participating (or not) in activities that encouraged us to look inward and focus on refreshing our minds and spirits.

Maryanne replaced the walking mediation with a nap. One guest spent the afternoon in her room, laid low by caffeine withdrawal (a plight that plagued at least half of us.) Others shared goals, fears, laughter and tears in that amazing way women have of entrusting virtual strangers with their deepest secrets. I dove in with typical rule-follower enthusiasm (the Thai massage guru, Einat, dubbed it my “good girl” energy, much to Maryanne’s delight!) By sundown, the herbs, fresh air, massage, and dinner (spicy adzuki beans and kale) had rendered me comatose. I passed on meditation and went to bed.We slept with the windows open and awoke Sunday to the sound of wind chimes ringing like church bells. After breakfast, we did some stretching. As she had the day before, Janet asked us to think of an intention to hold in our hearts. Muddled thoughts swirled in my foggy brain. Then a lovely woman named Monica arrived to give the group an acupuncture treatment, placing needles in our ears and whispering something about “spring cleaning.”

Maybe it was because I expected nothing. Or maybe it was the culmination of Janet’s weekend master plan. Whatever the reason, I sank into a state of utter calm unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My body was infused with warmth. My pulse slowed. I inhaled one long breath, belly to lungs to collarbones, then slowly exhaled. Suddenly, the intention that I realized had been forming all weekend bloomed fully into my consciousness: Make Space for Self-Expression.
This simple sentence encapsulates all of the work I’ve done on myself for the past seven months. When I mentioned it later to Janet, she said "Make space where? And I replied, "In the day? In my life?" She looked at me with her crystal blue eyes and said, "In your heart." And there it was. The real reason I needed to be at this retreat. In this moment. And Maryanne was there with me so that I could let go of my typical nervousness about going anywhere alone, and immerse myself completely in the experience.

Right before we said our goodbyes, Janet announced that this was her last retreat. She’s selling the house and planning to “take her show on the road.” She gave each of us the candle we’d lit to celebrate our bond as women in search of more fulfilling lives. It sits on my desk as I write this, a reminder of the enlightenment that took place in that magical house on the hill. And I light it, selfishly, with the hope that I’ll cross paths again with this incredibly giving woman.

Smelling the Lilacs

2010-04-25T21:08:00.011-04:00

It’s become an annual rite of spring. It can happen anywhere between the end of April and mid-May, depending on the weather, our schedules, and Mother Nature. But it definitely is not to be missed.

Usually Jim and I go together. After all, he was the one who started it. But last year, when Jake asked what I’d like for Mother’s Day, I had him take me there.

“There” is the New Jersey Botanical Gardens at Skylands. “It” is visiting the Lilac Garden to see—and smell—the flowers. The garden is a lilac lover’s dream, a breathtaking collection of over 100 varieties (each one labeled for those who care). I’m not sure what we enjoy most: their intoxicating perfume, which greets you before the bushes come into full view; or the stunning array of colors and shapes.The NJBG website says that peak viewing time is mid-May. Maybe it’s because of the unseasonably warm stretches of weather, or maybe not. But for the past two weeks, Jim and I have noticed some local lilacs already in bloom. So rather than wait and miss them (which happened last year), we thought we’d take a chance and go today. And we weren’t disappointed.
It was drizzly and chilly when we got there, so we were spared the usual crowds. And although not every bush was in full flower, a heady aroma filled the air as we climbed stone steps to a sloping lawn. We wandered the grassy pathways, cupping the flowers and pulling them close to inhale each variety’s unique perfume. I closed my eyes and was instantly transported to my grandmother Bernard’s house, where lilacs lined the gravel driveway and the scent drifted through the open windows of my dad’s car as we arrived for dinner on any number of sunny Sundays.
The raindrops that hung on every petal and leaf soon trickled from my nose to my lips and down my chin. The always-surprising color palette—from white to pale pink to light purple to almost fuchsia—was vivid against the gray sky. My favorites were the variegated purple with the white trim (for looks) and the pink with the delightfully small and curly flowers (for smell). I don’t remember the names, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Because next year I’ll fancy something completely different.

Going Green

2010-04-14T20:25:00.012-04:00

Fall has always been my favorite season. It's such a relief from the heat and haze of summer. The crisp, cleansing air. The blazing patchworks of leaves, vivid against the unblemished turquoise sky. The smell of wood burning. Wrapping up in scarves and mittens. I even got married in late September so that my bridesmaids could wear brown crepe and carry baskets full of yellow, red and orange blooms.

Lately that seems to be changing. Over the past few weeks I’ve felt a growing sense of anticipation and elation that's unfamiliar. As the world took on that misty green blur that says nature is preparing to let loose, my mood turned noticeably lighter. My senses awakened. I've gone searching for crocuses and daffodils. I've watched my cat stretch, long and (temporarily) lean, on the sun-warmed tiles of the kitchen floor, and noticed that I feel like she does: eager to expose every inch of my body to the pale gold light.

When the weekend comes and Jim asks what I want to do, I say, "Be outside." And we've been making up reasons to walk outside, sit outside, eat outside. Sunday we finally went all-out and took our first "official" hike of the season. We tried a new trail up in Bear Mountain, a place where we'd stopped hiking a few years ago after my friend Maryanne gave me a bunch of maps for my birthday and we discovered new (and less crowded) parks to explore. But we were looking for something less challenging than our usual destinations (Jim's been nursing an Achilles injury all winter), and decided to try this loop hike around Doodletown.

We've been to Doodletown a number of times, so my fascination with how this hamlet became a ghost town has dimmed. But maybe because we were taking a different route (or because of my recent sensory shift), I found myself paying more attention to our surroundings. I'm usually so wrapped up in "hiking", in challenging myself to keep the pace up and my heart pumping, that I miss what's going on outside my line of vision. But there I was, stopping to snap pictures of crumbling walls and rusty buckets. Pausing to listen to the whooshing of a waterfall. Tilting my head to the sun. Chewing my apple slowly and enjoying its drippy sweetness.

As we neared the end of the walk I caught sight of a single violet poking up from a pile of dead leaves. An iconic image of spring! It instantly triggered girlhood memories of picking bouquets in the woods and presenting them to my mother, wilting from being held too tight in my grubby little fist.

Violets were my favorite flower then, just as they are now. When I got married, my bouquet was slightly different than those of my bridesmaid sisters. White roses studded with violets. The florist had to use silk violets because they were out of season. But I insisted on carrying them with me down the aisle. A breath of spring, a symbol of eternal life. My marriage came to an end—just like everything does in the fall. But those silk violets have lasted over 30 years. Who knows? Maybe I've always had a thing for spring.

Loving Luger's

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

Hamburgers are my sole excuse for not becoming a vegetarian. When it comes to food, a good burger and fries is my #1 guilty pleasure.

I used to say that if I was facing execution, my last meal request would be a McDonald’s #3, super sized and hold the soda. But that was long before burgers became the food trend of the moment! Burger outposts have been multiplying faster than bunnies—and so have the number of excursions I’ve made to check out an ever-growing list of “best burger” claims. From White Manna to the Shake Shack, Johnny Rocket’s to In-N-Out Burger, Cheeburger Cheeburger to Jackson Hole, Burger Joint to Corner Bistro, Five Guys to Five Napkin Burger, there isn’t an all-beef patty I won’t try.

Jim and my son Jake are willing accomplices on these amazing, surprising and delightful culinary adventures. And sometimes we invite friends and family to come along. Such was the case on Saturday, when a group of eight of us headed to Brooklyn to sample the highly touted burgers at arguably the area’s most revered “temple of beef”: Peter Luger Steak House.

Luger’s sits unceremoniously under the Williamsburg Bridge, and the quality, ambiance and service are legendary among carnivores. Most rate the steak the best they’ve ever eaten, the ambiance shockingly casual, and the service less than friendly. Stories abound about rude maitre d’s and waiters who’ve walked away in disgust if the table’s order isn’t up to snuff. (This seems pretty absurd, given that the day we were there the “steak for two” was priced at $85 and everything else was a la carte. But what do I know?) Rumor has it that ordering a “Luger-Burger” is considered nothing short of sacrilege—so I could hardly wait to see what happened when our entire table did exactly that.

I was definitely disappointed when our waiter didn’t bat an eyelash. Maybe the side orders of potatoes and creamed spinach and a half dozen Brooklyn Lager’s helped us save face. Or the fact that we went for lunch, not dinner. Unfortunately, none of the above prevented me from being disappointed in the burger. The quality of the half-pound of meat was fantastic and it was cooked precisely medium-rare. But the bun-to-burger ratio was weighted too heavily towards the bun, and the cheese and slab of onion added nothing of value.

So what was there to love about Luger’s? The company. Jake, several of his closest friends, one friend’s fiancé, Jim, and his oldest daughter, had all decided that the search for the perfect hamburger was as good an excuse as any to create a special occasion. At 26, Jake has a full life of his own. Being with him and any of his friends usually only happens at the occasional Yankees or Red Bulls game. So what a treat it was to spend a few hours talking, laughing and trading reviews with such an illustrious group.

For the record, none of us thought it was worth a return trip (unless you're ordering steak.) And Jake and I still put the Shake Shack at the top of our list. But as we said our goodbyes and headed off to enjoy the gorgeous afternoon, I knew that this burger experience would rank among my most memorable ever—for reasons far more important than the lackluster cheese.

What Price Happiness?

2010-04-08T20:39:00.006-04:00

Jim thinks I’m a rule-follower. It’s true that, deep inside, lives the soul of the six-year-old girl who never (ever) colored outside the lines. Who got the rare bad grade in art school when she had to emulate Jackson Pollock. And whose attempts at creating that “bedhead” look end up (literally!) falling flat.

But I think I've evolved into a slightly mellower version of that girl who, in hindsight, needed to feel she had control over some aspect of her life. (A story for another day.) For those of you who are chuckling at this claim, I've got proof! Several of the women in my “change group” were chatting about The Happiness Project, and one of them suggested checking out an article about the author,Gretchen Rubin, in the Sunday Times. Rule-follower that I am, I dutifully pulled it up on my computer screen, read it from beginning to end—and promptly ran screaming from the room.

My flight response wasn’t triggered by the theory that we can take charge of our happiness. Or my annoyance that a woman with her, shall we say, "unburdened" lifestyle, has the nerve to be unhappy in the first place. What freaked me out was the elaborate structure she’s imposed on the process of creating more fun in our lives. It requires a Toolbox, for goodness sake! Can she be serious?

It’s not lost on me that this rebellious response to following Ms. Rubin's rules might be connected to my resistance to goal-setting. The funny thing is, I'm still seeking some guidelines of my own. And I've been thinking that the Kaizen principle is something I can put into motion, even without having dotted the “i’s” and crossed the “t’s” on my intentions list. When my iPod died while I was out walking Friday, the resulting silence lead to an ah-ha moment about how I can use the one-small-step-a-day philosophy to create my own take on the Happiness Project!

Here’s how it works: I do one small thing a day and write it down. It could be in my journal. Or here. But it’s got to be noted in writing and acknowledged for what it is. A conscious effort to inch closer to one (or more) of my "big three" objectives:

1. Save money for a fabulous vacation
2. Reconnect with my inner artist
3. Lower my cholesterol without meds

It feels doable. And it’s not giving me heart palpitations! So I test-drove it this week. The small steps included swapping almond milk for soy; walking for an hour instead of watching TV; working on a mixed media art project instead of proofing a newsletter for work; tallying my March expenses on my budget sheet; and getting a free heart health assessment at Valley Hospital. Just listing them here gives me a sense accomplishment. And reminds me of the joy I felt as I made note of them each day. Hmmmmnnn…maybe I should create an Excel chart that maps out my progress? That sure would make the little girl with the crayons happy!

Think Small

2010-03-31T21:26:00.002-04:00

I’m miserable at goal setting, but I do it anyway.

Every coach I’ve worked with; every personal development book I’ve read; every self-improvement workshop I’ve sat through, has driven home the same point: if you have no goals, you’ll achieve nothing of value in your life. So I dutifully set goals. Fail to achieve them. And rinse and repeat.

A sane person might wonder why I keep doing it. I’m well aware that the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome. But I seriously want to leave this world feeling at peace with how I spent my time. So I keep at it in hopes that I’ll make some headway.

In my own defense, I do mix it up a bit. I’ll change the goal-setting process. Or try different implementation approaches. And there are plenty of times when I’ve hit the jackpot! Without a plan, I’d never have gone to art school. Moved to New Jersey. Started my own business. Completed a triathalon. Or met Jim.

The problem I’m having now is that the goals I’m dancing around aren’t as clear-cut or sexy as “get married” or “hike the Grand Canyon.” They’re more along the lines of “rekindle my creative fire” and “successfully manage my money”. Just writing them down leaves me feeling overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at once. I make matters worse by coming up with outcomes that are a recipe for disaster: Change a lifetime of overspending in 30 days! Paint a masterpiece on the first try after not picking up a brush in 10 years! Launch a blog and have dozens of followers overnight! Yikes! No wonder I just want to pull the proverbial covers over my head.

As luck would have it, my current coach, Becky Rodskog, is just the woman you want in your corner when you step into the middle of this ring. She's incredibly positive, energetic and accepts no excuses. And I'm sure it's no coincidence that last night, when I was feeling so discouraged I wanted to trash five months of painstaking progress, she reminded the group of us that she’s working with about a little thing called the Kaizen principle.

Kaizen (Japanese for "change for the better") refers to a set of specific business practices that focus on continuous improvement. You can Google it and read about its applications in the world of personal development (Robert Maurer’s “One Small Step Can Change Your Life” is a sort of guidebook.) But as Becky deftly summarized it, the Kaizen thing is about focusing on one tiny step you can take each day to move toward your goal. There it was: my life preserver!

This morning I got one of those random inspirational emails that talked about how messages come in all forms. It advised me to pay attention to the stuff strewn across my path. So I did one minute thing to inch closer to a seemingly impossible goal: I wrote this post instead of diving under the covers.

Ticket to Ride

2010-03-14T21:49:00.006-04:00

I had a massage the other night, and before I left I booked the next one. You might ask how this falls into the realm of amazesurprisedelight, and I wouldn’t blame you. But I’ve actually never done this before—set a definitive date in advance for indulging in this relaxing and restorative experience.

Why the change? I blame it on Ann Tardy. I sat in on one of her motivational talks back in January, and to my surprise, some of the things she touched on have stuck. Ann has dubbed her business LifeMoxie! Enterprises, and she is the embodiment of everything I imagine “moxie” to be. She has a sort of “get out of my way” style that perfectly blends boundless enthusiasm and total fearlessness. It’s so infectious it’s a shame she can’t bottle and sell it. She’d be set for life.

So she has these nine strategies for creating your own damn moxie, and many of them aren’t news to me. But you know how some stuff just sounds better coming from one person vs. another? Well that’s how it was for me. She got me right out of the gate with Strategy #1: “Beat the Alarm Clock.”

I’ve been wrestling for some time with rediscovering a sense of passion in my life, and I latched on instantly to the notion of drilling the whole thing down to something for which I’d gladly set the alarm to 6:00 a.m. instead of 7:00 a.m. I remember rolling my eyes at Ann’s over-the-top excitement about this concept, but by the time her hour was up I felt determined to find something that fit the bill. That I looked forward to that much.

Then she told a story about how her mother “always has a ticket in her hand.” I could have walked out of the room right then, because I knew this was an image that would become my talisman for doing things I feel excited about. I love the idea of literally having a ticket in my hand (or pocket or wallet): to a concert or movie or museum. Or a trip by train or plane. But a metaphorical ticket will do just fine. A date for dinner with good friends. A haircut. A walking class. A weekend at the beach. An evening dedicated to sketching instead of turning on the TV.

My friend Maryanne’s husband always has their next vacation planned before the current one has ended. I used to think that was akin to wishing your life away and not allowing yourself to be fully present in the moment. But now I understand that it’s about giving ourselves the gift of knowing that we’ll do things that make us happy. It’s more than just a reason to get out of bed in the morning: it’s about living with passion and the commitment to diving in to life's limitless possibilities.

I shared the “ticket” story with my sister Deborah that day we were in Ocean City. And in one of those inexplicable moments of synchronicity, she told me she had made a birthday card for me that included a “Ticket to Ride.” I keep that ticket, with it’s shiny ribbon trim, on my desk. The same desk where, for the past two months, I’ve been sitting down to write in the extra hour I’ve gained by changing the time on my alarm clock to 6:00 a.m. It may not be a plane ticket to Machu Picchu, but it’s a start.

Female Bonding

2010-02-26T10:37:00.006-05:00

When was the last time you shared an intimate detail of your life with a group of people you’d just met?

If you’re a woman, chances are you’ll say, “Last week.” Or even, “Yesterday.” Women have this amazing ability to connect with virtual strangers – often in the blink of an eye. And on a deeply personal level. I’ve experienced this phenomenon several times in the past few months: At a detox retreat in Vermont in October (that's some of the gals above). A birthday dinner in a chic Manhattan restaurant last week. And in my own living room on Tuesday.

I’m one of those women whose emotional baggage is chock-full of painful memories of adolescence. Of the relentless competition, sniping, and betrayals that were so prevalent in the relationships I had with my (supposed) girlfriends. I’m guessing that’s why I often marvel at this instantaneous—and shockingly authentic—female bonding. It seems to happen between women who come together for a common cause. Or unite in a shared purpose. Whether it’s celebrating the longevity of a great friend or marshaling our collective energy to support the intention of manifesting positive change.

You know how the universe has this annoying habit of beating you over the head with messages it wants you to pay attention to? This month it’s been reminding me that women place a high value on relationships—often to the point where we’ll sacrifice personal gain rather than risk losing someone we love. In some ways this isn’t a good thing. The “experts” say it renders us unable to ask for what we want. It leaves us lagging behind men in the workplace. It prevents us from leading fulfilled lives.

But I’m choosing to believe that said universe is asking me to focus on the positive aspects of this trait. How reassuring it is to know others are thinking and feeling and agonizing over the same things as you. How much fun it is to share and learn and laugh with like-minded spirits. And what a relief it is to feel understood and supported. To know you’re not alone on your path.

Our conversations with other women may begin with a superficial, “Love those shoes!” But by the time we’re saying our goodbye’s, it’s not surprising to find that we’ve connected on a soulful, lasting level. For me, that’s worth a whole lot more than a few extra bucks in my paycheck.

Turn Back For Pies

2010-02-20T20:41:00.010-05:00

Jim and I do a lot of back-roads driving. It’s one of our “things” – getting up in the morning and saying, “Looks like a great day for a drive!” I’m not big on heading off aimlessly, so we’ll usually come up with some sort of destination. But one of the things I like best about our drives is our more-or-less unspoken agreement to just stop wherever and whenever we like.

For me, the biggest lures are sketchy-looking antiques shops and hand-lettered signs that direct you down dirt roads for things like fruit, wine, pottery and baked goods. If the road we’re on winds through a cute little town or farm country, chances are I’m emitting a fairly steady stream of requests to “pull over” or “turn around.” And I’ll often pout a good long while if Jim’s driving and he blows right past an artist’s studio or vegetable stand that looked promising. I mourn the lost opportunity, wondering what treasures we might have missed.

Today’s excursion was to Warwick, NY. The excuse was lunch at a little French bistro we like. We’ve made this drive probably half a dozen times in the past two years, and it usually involves a stop at the Bobolink Dairy, a few miles south off of Route 94. It’s a working farm that makes and sells an array of delectable artisanal cheeses (raw milk from grass-fed cows) and rustic wood-fired breads. As we drove up past Greenwood Lake we debated whether to stop at the dairy or not. I wasn’t keen on it: I love the cheddar cheese and rosemary bread, but am trying to cut back on dairy and carbs. Jim was thinking we could pick up a few things to snack on the next day when our friends Tom and Maryanne came to visit. After lunch we agreed that was a good idea.

On the way there I noticed a few signs along the road that said “Pies” in big red letters. Jim, who never met an apple pie he didn't try, showed an unusual lack of interest. Despite my urging, we kept going. Then I saw the sign that said, “Turn Back for Pies.” Always one to appreciate good marketing when I see it, I said, “That’s it, we’re going back.” But we didn’t. Jim’s face made it clear that given a choice between the two, he was going for the known entity. That old familiar feeling came over me: Damn! What if they were the best pies on the planet? And this was our one and only chance to find out?

Ten minutes later we squeezed into the tiny space that serves as Bobolink’s retail shop, tasting something called Foret and agonizing over whether to choose the medieval rye with olives or the cherry/walnut breadsticks (we got both). As we loaded our purchases into the car, Jim started chatting up a guy driving by on a large green tractor. “I’m looking for someone who might sort of be in charge,” he said. “That sort of might be me,” said the guy. In that moment, a quick pit stop turned into our most memorable visit yet.

The guy on the tractor was Jonathan White, head cheesemaker and clearly the man in charge. He asked where we were from, then said we’d be happy to know he’s bought a farm near Milford, NJ and is moving his entire operation there in a few months. He saw me snapping a few farm pics and eyeing a large group of cows gathered near the fence behind him. Next thing I knew he was introducing me to a two-day old calf, Sarastro (he names all of the cows, this one after a character in The Magic Flute.) His passion for what he does was evident as he spoke about the animals, especially when the little calf began to nurse and he explained that what was once a natural instinct is now something he has to teach the babies to do. As I traipsed through the mud and snow to take the pictures below, Sarastro’s mom Ernestine, a gorgeous Guernsey-Hereford mix (and quite the helicopter parent) followed my every move. It was an amazing, surprising and delightful turn of events.

P.S. We did go back for pie: Jim got apple, I got cherry and they were so delicious that we’ll definitely be adding Noble Pies to our Warwick itinerary. But I’ve learned a valuable lesson: it’s possible that the things that happen when you don't turn back are the things you won’t want to miss.

Snow Day

2010-02-10T14:53:00.004-05:00

Is there anything more delightful than a snow day?

I remember feeling giddy whenever a snowstorm led to an unexpected day off during the school week. Unlike kids today, whose initial response is often to whine, "So what are we going to DO today?", I don't recall ever wondering how best to take advantage of that freshly minted freedom. Assorted siblings and friends would struggle into snowsuits and drag our banged-up Flexible Flyers up the big hill on Glen Avenue; then sled down to Sylvan Road and pray no cars were crossing below. When we couldn't feel our fingers and toes, we'd head indoors for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup (if it was lunchtime) or hot chocolate (if it wasn't.) Before our ice-caked socks and mittens had thawed, we'd be off again. We never seemed to tire of making snow angels or tunneling into the biggest drifts and lying, entombed, in the eerie silence. At night we'd fall into bed and sleep like the dead.

It was just starting to snow this morning when I left for work. I went anyway, knowing that predictions called for a foot or more by tomorrow morning. Yesterday it was all everybody talked about, kvetching as if a snowstorm was a rare and devastating occurrence in North Jersey. In February. Anyway, at noon my boss announced that the building was closing, and as I drove home that old familiar feeling came over me: SNOW DAY! After whipping up a grilled-cheese-and-tomato-soup lunch, I ventured out to measure: 9" and counting! The cat stood at the open patio door, meowing with annoyance as she repeatedly touched a paw (gingerly) to the snow. I watched as frilly flakes collected on her nose and whiskers, and thanked Mother Nature for giving me this afternoon off. I don't own a sled anymore, and these days hot chocolate upsets my stomach. But I'm letting any and all adult worries wait until tomorrow--and going outside to make snow angels!

Making Waves

2010-01-26T20:14:00.013-05:00

My sister Deborah and I spent the day in Ocean City, NJ on Saturday. We love the beach. We really love the beach in winter. Nature tends to challenge our resolve by turning ugly when we plan a seaside get-together. But it was sunny and close to 40 degrees. Perfect for walking and talking.

We talked incessantly. We always do when it's just the two of us, cramming months of thoughts and feelings into a few hours. The experience is often dizzying. Sometimes gut-wrenching. Always exhilarating. We are only a year apart in age and grew up in each other’s pockets. It’s tempting to say that I know her better than I know anyone except myself. But it’s less cerebral than that. I sense what’s going on inside her. Standing next to her, I feel our energies blend together, effortlessly, like two flavors of soft ice cream swirling out of the machine. When we were kids, our mom used to dress us alike and people often asked if we were twins. I always thought it was a dumb question, since we didn't look at all alike. But sometimes, looking directly into her eyes, the connection is so powerful that I wonder if they were onto something.

Ocean City is where we connect most often. We spent countless summers there. Spreading our wings in the sun while the song of the sea taught us about love. These days our ritual involves meeting at Who's on First? for superb coffee and fresh-baked scones, followed by an excursion to buy jewels at The Flying Carp. When we have time and expendable income we'll stay for the weekend. And sometimes our guys join in. But mostly we just spend a day together and make the most of it. Which means walking the beach—no matter what.

The pull of the ocean was strong for me on Saturday. Deborah and I had talked at length about her desire to "live big". She spoke of endless skies and open spaces, of living unconfined, of being paid to travel and teach what she loves. I kept thinking about Georgia O'Keeffe. How she'd simply take off in a desperate search for breathing room. For her, the ocean and the desert offered one and the same thing: expansiveness. I realized that was what I craved on Saturday: space to breathe. Winter is always a time when my life contracts, shrinking against the cold and the dark. Lately an insane work load and limited finances have heightened the effect.

But there, on the shore, the gilded thread of horizon stretched unbroken. Waves gave in willingly to gravity's irresistible pull, breaking once, twice, three times before reaching their destination. The winter sun glanced off random shells that puckered the sand like dark buttons on a suede pillow. Over and over, the ocean drew itself up and released its energy with absolute abandon. Again and again, without apology. Faithful to its calling. Unwavering in its purpose. As we stood watching, I felt my breath deepen. The tightness in my chest ease. My soul open.

Deborah said she loves the ocean because it's ever-changing. What I love most is its unwillingness to compromise. The ocean makes waves because that's what oceans do. And regardless of what we call it—living expansively or refusing to be "small"—that's what she and I are after. Knowing our reason for being and pursuing it passionately. Without apology.

I Need a New Drug?

2010-01-15T21:16:00.002-05:00

Jim and I met on Match.com seven years ago—back when it was still a somewhat novel (and effective) approach to finding love. The other day I came across the profile I posted and was surprised by how much of what I’d said about myself (and the guy I was looking for) still holds true. In fact, there was only one line that rang false—and it happened to be my opening salvo!

“My guilty pleasures are chocolate chip cookies, pedicures, cheeseburgers, Access Hollywood…” I began. Hmmnnnnn…what a difference seven years makes! Cheeseburgers have taken a back seat to tofu and broccoli as my cholesterol has crept steadily higher. A toenail fungus turned me off to professional pedicures. And then—there’s trashy TV.

I’ve been a media junkie my entire adult life. I’m in marketing, for Pete’s sake, so it’s my job to know what’s going on out there, right? Okay, maybe that doesn’t explain my lifelong obsession with celebrity gossip—but the point is that lately I’ve been finding myself bored, and more often, annoyed, by the very thing that used to be a pleasant diversion from life’s harsh realities.

I don’t watch much TV to begin with, and when I do I want escapist entertainment. Soapy dramas like “Grey’s Anatomy”, old-fashioned sitcoms like “Old Christine”, offbeat stuff like “No Reservations”. I simply can’t comprehend the popularity of reality shows. When Jim recently sent me a link to Mitch Albom’s list of new rules for 2010, my favorite was “Jon + Kate = gone.”

For as long as I can remember, watching “Access Hollywood” has been my guiltiest of all pleasures. 30 minutes of mindless, often cheeky, commentary on the latest celebrity shenanigans was all it took to make me forget about difficult bosses, demanding friends, and disappointing men. Now it appears to be taking its cue from the mainstream news media, spewing a relentless stream of negativity. Lying, cheating, violence, weight issues, financial problems, illness, death—jeez, it’s like escaping right back to real life! So what’s a girl to do? Bury my head in a 500-page biography of Georgia O’Keeffe. Whip through my Netflix queue. Follow Martha Stewart’s instructions for making mice out of pinecones.

Wait. Who is this woman who’s traded Brangelina for a glue gun and glitter? Who needs more than Billy Bush's ironic grin to distract her from her troubles? Who agrees with Mr. Albom’s rule that “Tiger Woods cannot do ‘Oprah’”? All I can say is it’s a damn good thing I’m still addicted to chocolate chip cookies.

Resolve THIS

2010-01-10T20:11:00.002-05:00

It’s January 10th and I still haven’t made a single New Year’s resolution. No, this isn’t necessarily earth-shattering news. My pattern with resolutions is much like my M.O. with holiday traditions: some years I’m into it, some years I’m not.

But this year I’ve definitely been thinking about it more than usual. I’ve been working with a coach (Becky) for a few months and—no coincidence—we reached the goal-setting part of our process just as the end of the year began looming large. I’m a goal-setter by nature so this is not something I dread: it actually falls under my “delight” umbrella. And in the past it’s often been something I could do blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back. You know: make a little list in my journal and call it a day. Not this year. I’m finding it to be quite a challenge, even with Becky’s handy-dandy guide and a deadline to meet.

Why do I bother, you ask? Why do I feel a need to resolve to do anything? Maybe because it gives me a false sense of control. Or because I have a significant other who keeps hammering home the point that without focus we’re doomed to wander aimlessly through our lives, bemoaning the fact that things aren’t turning out the way we’d like them to. Truth be told, it could be because the process actually worked when I was looking for a new relationship and a new job.

So why am I stalling? I certainly know how to do it. I know that being specific is key. That making too long a list is the surest road to failure. And that making no list at all is more a sign of being lazy than being wise. (When I heard the actress Amy Adams say that instead of making resolutions she’s going to just “roll with it”, my first thought was, “Wimp!”) I also know that telling someone else about my plans—even going so far as to ask someone to hold me accountable—is added insurance. (Guess that means I’ll be posting them here?)

Many goal-setting gurus claim that using the word “intentions” instead of “goals” is equivalent to attaching booster rockets. Gail Sher goes so far as to say “Only ‘intention’ is essential.” Why? Because it says to the universe, “Hey, I’m ready to receive. Time to open the floodgates!” Much as I’d love to believe this is how things work, Sher’s view that “The value of a vow…is in perfecting its methodology” is more my speed. In other words, setting a goal and asking the gods for an assist is all well and good. But someone’s got to do the heavy lifting. A Russian proverb on my refrigerator says, “Pray to God but keep rowing towards shore.” Yep—that about sums it up.

So today my intention is to go back to my goal list and cross off anything that smacks of an obligation. I resolve to keep only the things that I feel passionate about. That I can commit to with a real sense of purpose. Because as much as making resolutions is about daring to think we can influence what happens in our lives, it’s also about creating more work for ourselves. And having good intentions only gets us halfway there.

What Do Cats See in The Mirror?

2010-01-02T17:08:00.005-05:00

I have a cat. Her name is Mariah (after the song, not the singer), and the vet’s best guess puts her at just over six years old.

The reality behind the words “I have a cat” remains bizarre for me, even after six years. I’m a “dog person”. A “dog person” who has been deathly afraid of cats since being attacked by one at age 15 while babysitting at a neighbor's. Mariah hasn’t done much to allay my fears: she’s moody, pushy, independent, and at times downright nasty, lashing out with claws bared when things don’t go her way. In short, she’s everything people tend to hate about cats. And of course I adore her.

How she’s managed to steal my heart—or, for that matter, how on earth she ever came to be in my life—is fuel for another post, another day. Today my mind is on the mirror. While I was brushing my teeth this morning, Mariah assumed her usual perch atop the vanity (she loves drinking water from the faucet.) Watching her fascination with the specs of dust floating in the air, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with some feline-owning co-workers. They said that cats can’t see themselves in the mirror, and silently I’d breathed a sigh of relief. My cat’s penchant for completely ignoring her reflection did not mean she was mentally deficient after all!

A little research was required to put my mind totally at ease (Jim firmly believes she’s a special needs kitty). Turns out there’s something called the mirror test, which was developed in 1970 by psychologist Gordon Gallup Jr. It attempts to gauge self-awareness by determining whether an animal can recognize its own reflection in a mirror. Numerous animals failed the test (including dogs), and human babies don’t usually pass it until they’re several months old. Apparently this cemented the notion that self-awareness is an advanced intellectual skill that is only possible with developed frontal lobes.

Well ain’t we the lucky ones! Don’t get me wrong: I’m big on self-awareness as a tool for creating a more satisfying and fulfilling life. But these days I’d be thrilled to gaze into a mirror and not give a damn about what I see. Imagine all the time, money and disappointment saved. Shampoo and skin care products! Eye shadow and contact lenses! Round brushes and flat irons! All of those credit card charges to jcrew.com! And best of all—an end to the anguish over cosmetic procedures!

I’m at an age where every woman I know is worrying about what her mirror reveals. We’ve heard and read the same blahblahblah about our faces not being a true reflection of who we are. But there is no ignoring the wrinkling and sagging and fading. Even the most self-confident women can’t pretend they don’t see the changes. They’re just better at not giving a hoot.

Jim tells me I'm way too critical of my appearance, and I'm sure he's right. It's not easy watching my face and body slide over the hill and down the other side, especially when it took so long to actually like them. But I can't stop time; I can only work harder at accepting the visual effects. To that end, I've taken a small step towards practicing Mariah's disinterest. I printed out a quote from Hal Rubenstein, longtime Fashion Director with InStyle, who spoke at this year’s Women’s Conference in California. It reads: “When you look in the mirror, stop looking at what you don't like. (You know you do.)”

It's taped to my mirror.

Blue Moon

2009-12-31T08:21:00.008-05:00

A "blue moon" is going to usher us out of 2009 and into the new year. And I can't think of a lovelier or more fitting symbol for this transition.

I think we'd all agree that this has been a pretty dismal year in oh-so-many ways. We've been bombarded with awful news from every possible angle. From day-to-day stuff like paying the mortgage and job security to escapist pleasures like politics, sports or celebrity gossip, the accumulation of crap has been relentless.

An editorial in yesterday's Record claimed that despite this constant barrage, a recent AP-GfK Roper poll showed that 78% of Americans claimed they were "very...or somewhat happy." And it (more or less) defined happiness as "the end toward which all other ends lead." If everything we do or desire is just a means toward this one end, one would think that 2009's continuous assault on our psyche's would have driven that percentage far lower. Many of those I love have grappled with the kind of debilitating hardships--from loss of income to chronic health issues--that drown happiness in their wakes. During the summer I often felt guilty about publicly admitting to having a good day--even around my most upbeat friends! I started this blog to develop a practice of celebrating the positive; on any given day, it's been a daunting task.

That said, we don't need a poll to tell us that happiness is something we choose. And tonight is our chance to breathe a sigh of relief as we sip (or gulp!) our champagne and watch the ball drop in Times Square. Not because we'll wake up tomorrow and find our world drastically changed. And not because there's any guarantee that the coming year will be an improvement over the one we're kicking to the curb. But because that ball will be dropping under a big, bright, blue moon. A natural phenomenon so special that it won't happen again (on New Year's Eve, anyway) until 2028.

It's snowing outside my studio window as I write this, so it's possible we won't actually see this moon. But we'll all know it's there. Beaming it's light into the darkest corners of our world. A glorious reminder that miracles do happen.

My New Year's wish is that we all remember to appreciate the miracles that happen-- not just "once in a blue moon"--but every single day of our lives. We may have to look hard to see them. And some days we may not find them at all. But faith is knowing they're always there. And hope is the moon that illuminates them.

Holiday Haiku

2009-12-24T08:38:00.004-05:00

In her insightful and inspiring book One Continuous Mistake, writer and Zen Buddist Gail Sher suggests that writing a haiku a day will dramatically improve one's writing practice.

Given my issues with the "C" word (see entry dated 12/4), I can't promise to follow her lead. But this morning, the day before Christmas, lying in bed, I made my first attempt:

crimson cardinal
snow-caked pine bough bends—
joyous,
hopeful,
holidays

I like it enough to let it serve as my holiday "card", as well as the introduction of this blog to my friends.

Merry, merry!

The Heart of Giving

2009-12-16T17:41:00.011-05:00

Some years, when the holidays roll around, I decide I can't handle sending cards. Some years decorating is a chore to avoid. Some years I can't bear going to parties. This year it seems I am totally not into the whole gift-giving thing.

I'm not entirely OK with this. After all, I'm one of those people for whom giving a gift is like buying a new home. It requires thought, research, and plenty of shopping around. It has to be uniquely suited to it's recipient. If it's something they haven't asked for and aren't expecting, all the better. Even the wrapping is chosen and executed with care.

I also love to get gifts. That said, it's impossible for me not to hold others to my standards. And I'm often disappointed, especially when it comes to men. My first real boyfriend, who went on to become my husband, was a thoughtful gift-giver but didn't have great taste. So his ideas were A+ but his execution rarely rose above a C-. My divorce was followed by two long-distance relationships separated by a few short-term (and completely misguided) flings. To a man, they worked tirelessly to make up for their lack of commitment by showering me with ridiculously fabulous presents. Some of them still give me pleasure: the Lisa Jenks bracelet from Peter, the scent Richard turned me on to, memories of the trip to Spain with Luis. But the men are long gone, and their piles of perfect presents paled in comparison to their parting gifts: loneliness, disappointment, heartbreak.

One sure way to avoid any possible let-down is to ban gift-giving so there can be no receiving. But as I write that I know that fear of getting a crappy gift or two is not the reason for my lack of enthusiasm. I think it's more about being out of sync with the emphasis on material things at a time of year that is meant to be about celebrating hope, faith, joy, and peace. I'm in the process of reconnecting with my core values and clarifying what's important to me now. Living a genuine life. Connecting with people in an honest and soulful way. Being a source of light and positive energy. These things matter. So does steering clear of those who use gifts as stand-ins for love.

I'm in a relationship now that is the most satisfying and fulfilling I've ever known, and gifts seem so superfluous. The experiences and values Jim and I share--these are gifts with weight and meaning. So far we've celebrated the holidays by hiking in Ramapo; driving through snow-covered farmland in New York; strolling the quaintly decorated streets of a small town in Pennsylvania (followed by impromptu wine and cheese in a cozy inn); and enjoying a great burger and fries at Burger Joint, then checking out the Christmas tree in Manhattan. And it's only December 16!

Jim and I have agreed to enjoy these "experiential" gifts in lieu of wrapped presents this year. My friend Maryanne and I also came to a consensus on a gift moratorium. As for everyone else, I will be giving in to the giving. Engaging in my family's Secret Santa tradition. Exchanging small tokens with friends as expressions of mutual gratitude for our presence in each other's lives. Using the holidays as an excuse to "treat" my son. But my heart's not really in it. My heart is somewhere else entirely. And I'm very OK with that.

The "C" Word

2009-12-04T19:49:00.003-05:00

Commitment. It's a word that can amaze, surprise and delight. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes not in a good way.

I've always felt that a promise is meant to be kept. That being true to one's word is the definition of honor. I've lived my life trying to hold up my end of the bargain. I keep secrets. Return calls. Show up. Follow up. Try to keep pace with emails (not always successfully). But when it comes to delivering on the deals I make with myself? My track record is nothing to brag about.

Case in point: this blog. I started it with the intention of telling people about it. The first month was supposed to be practice, just to see how it felt and decide whether or not it was something I'd enjoy. As you can see, it's now almost four months later. I've told probably a dozen or so people, "I started a blog", but I've only told two people the actual name of it. And one of them is my boyfriend.

What am I waiting for? I'm waiting for the "C" word to kick in. To grab the Pisces in me by the tail and push me upstream. I'm no fool: I know that if I tell people I'm here they'll come visit. And comment. And then I'll have to keep writing. Because that's the promise I'm making by telling them. That's the commitment I'm making to myself. To show up here. Every week. And give myself the gift of writing.

Ode to a Good Hair Day

2009-12-02T14:28:00.006-05:00

Nothing cures a bad day like a trip to the hair salon.

It’s not that I’m shallow. And I’m no more obsessed about my appearance than the average woman. I don’t stress over a killer pimple or wear dark glasses indoors to hide under-eye circles. I don’t cry when I break a nail or feel naked if I leave the house without mascara. I do admit to being bummed when I wreck a fresh manicure (all that time & money down the drain!) and resorting to the occasional pep talk on those days when fastening my jeans is a struggle. But nothing sends a day spiraling into the gutter faster than the effects of wind and rain on my hair.

I’ve felt this way since high school. One of the biggest rows my mother and I ever had was when she told me it was too close to bedtime to wash my hair and I’d just have to go to school the next day with it dirty (yes, this was in the days before blow dryers). I was up at the crack of dawn to jump the line for the shower (five of us vied for bathroom time) and allow for ample drying time.

I’m not alone in this obsession. Sure, I have friends with bullet-proof hair. Julie doesn’t have a clue what frizz is. Alysse and Maryanne have truly wash-and-wear locks. And Shelley—well, this is a woman whose artful use of hair accessories (i.e. reading glasses doubling as a headband) has disguised many a messy up-do. But for most women I know, achieving hair nirvana is an uphill battle. Humidity is Public Enemy #1, closely followed by excessive use of hair product (who knew there was such a fine line between too little and too much dry wax?) Split ends run a close third. And let’s not even discuss what a bad haircut or not-quite-what-you-expected color job can do to the psyche.

“Hell” is calling the salon, desperate for a morale boost, and discovering that your stylist has skipped town—without bothering to email, text, or tweet. Think that’s absurd? Two months in the hospital and a lengthy course of heavy-duty antibiotics caused my mom’s hair to fall out. Despite the array of debilitating physical ailments that continue to plague her, she has given nothing as much airtime as the pain and embarrassment of this loss. On Thanksgiving we all shared her joy at the visible return of her own hair. But seriously: this woman almost died. Is it possible that the worst thing that happened to her was bad hair? Apparently.

So yesterday I let a new stylist color my hair. During the consultation, she slipped into that foreign language of highlights, lowlights, and ash versus golden. But she sounded confident and in a leap of faith (or moment of true desperation) I concurred, relaxing until the moment she walked away, timer in hand, saying she’d be back soon. After what seemed like an hour I broke into a sweat, imagining the frightful effects of over-processing. But panic subsided when, during the final rinse, the assistant pronounced the color “pretty”. In my excitement I said yes to the overpriced blowout. Soon the mirror reflected a shiny, swingy, bob in a just-right shade of gold. And—poof!—the week’s woes bit the dust.

If only I could afford to go every day...

Thanks Giving

2009-11-29T19:00:00.006-05:00

On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I sat down to write a post about saying grace. I got interrupted and never finished it. That evening I found out that the woman I'd intended to refer to in that post had died. On Thanksgiving. And although I knew that she had melanoma, I was stunned by her passing.

Her name is Barbara, and for well over 10 years she has been one of the two great teachers who have blessed my life. A few years ago she asked me for a testimonial for her website. I wrote: "Part philosopher, part healer and part spiritual counselor, her powerful vision...has opened my eyes to the limitless abundance all around me, and helped me develop a deeper appreciation for life's gifts--even those that are not always readily apparent! Integrating these lessons into everyday life has been nothing short of life-changing, dramatically altering my view of the world and how I choose to live in it." It's still absolutely right.

Barbara lived in Tucson and, since we did most of our work on the phone, it's her voice that's imbedded in my memory. Warm, lilting, girlish, yet deep for a woman with such an ethereal physical presence. Regardless of how much time had passed between our sessions, she'd answer the phone, "Helllooooooooooo, my Donna," or "Hey, girl", as if we talked every day. Her intuition was mind-boggling and her suggestions often wacky. But, skeptic that I am, I rarely balked--and was rewarded beyond my wildest imagination. She taught me to eat better, be a better listener, and take better care of myself. She helped me end the most painful relationship I've ever known and learn from it; have faith in my son's ability to cope with his father's death; and choose the job I have now--a career move that even I didn't believe would work out as well as it has. She instilled in me the importance of "allowing", and of being a source of joy and light in the world.

The reason I was thinking about Barbara on Thanksgiving was because of her "Yes Prayer". My family says grace before we dig in to our holiday feast, and it's always made me cry. I never thought much about it until this year--when I didn't cry. I'm pretty sure the reason I've cried in the past is because giving thanks for the good in my life was something rare and unsettling. But this year I've developed the habit of expressing gratitude on a daily basis, which may have defused the act of saying grace. I begin my practice by reciting the "Yes Prayer", a signature prayer that Barbara often used to open our sessions. The basic idea is to give thanks for all we have and to open ourselves to receive all that the day holds for us. It centers and calms me. It's also allowed me to connect daily with Barbara; and for the past few months, I've asked whatever power fuels the universe to marshal its forces and help her beat the cancer.

She always struck me as someone who was not entirely of this world. The first time I met her was in New York City, and seeing her outside, on the street, was disconcerting. She appeared to be totally out of sync with the traffic, crowds, and noise. She belonged indoors, in a cool, quiet, space where she would fix her crystal blue eyes on your face and draw you straight in to her soul. I secretly believed she had some special hook-up to eternity, that a magic spell cast at birth gave her life everlasting. That's why her death is so shocking. How could this woman, of all people, die of cancer? A woman so devoted to health and wellness and self care. A woman who was the essence of love and gentleness and peace. A woman who left an indelible imprint on the lives of everyone she came in contact with. What I'm really asking is: How could this woman die at all?

Big Deal

2009-11-23T19:49:00.008-05:00

I've never sold a raffle ticket. I've never raised money for a cause. I believe in causes and believe in giving to them, but fundraising is just not something that has ever amazed, surprised or delighted me. Until last week, that is.

I work for the YWCA Bergen County and we held a raffle this month. We're a non-profit, so a raffle is no big deal in and of itself. But for our YWCA, this raffle was a big deal. The prizes were big (a 40" flat screen TV, a digital SLR camera). The potential was big. And for me personally it was big: because this year, raising money is a job requirement. Selling some raffle tickets seemed like one of the surest ways to do that. The only problem was that it required me to do something I really, really, (did I say really?) hate doing: Asking.

Fortunately, this is what the Internet was invented for! Asking via email is so much easier than looking someone in the eye and begging. (Nothing like being separated by cyber space to boost one's confidence!) So I sent an email to everyone I thought might either 1) be willing to give just because they care about me, 2) be generous by nature and give because it's the right thing to do, or 3) actually want to win a TV the size of Utah. The first surprise was that all but three of them said yes. The second surprise was that a quarter of them bought more than one ticket.

When they picked the winners last Thursday, the amazing thing was that my sister Deborah won the camera! The delightful thing was that it turned out I'd sold the most tickets of any single person in the organization. Me, the woman who has never asked anyone to donate anything. Ever. And yeah, I earned myself half a day's vacation. And better still, I raised some money for a cause I believe in. But the really big deal is the realization that, when you do ask, the answer will be yes more often than you think. Maybe next time I'll have the guts to do it face-to-face...

Poetic Justice

2009-10-22T23:46:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I sat in a small circle of writers and listened as Tina Kelley spoke for an hour about her life as a journalist and a poet (not to mention a wife and mother.) Tina writes and blogs for The New York Times and is a published poet who is shopping her second collection.

As a lifelong writer who has often dreamed of having her work see the light of day, this struck me as interesting because it drove home the point that getting published once is no guarantee that the door is open to you forever. But by no means was this the only message that I carried out of the room. Or the most important one. It was the reminder that inspiration comes from paying attention every day. It comes from anywhere, anyone, at any time. And it doesn’t have to be showcased in a 2,000-word essay or a short story. It can shine in a poem or a blog entry.

Any writer worth their salt knows enough to jot these vision moments in a journal before they slip away. What Tina spoke about—and punctuated with several readings from both her published and yet-to-be so work—is the necessity of having a process that ensures that these kernels of creativity are easy to access. This may sound like a small thing, but for me it was huge. Because when I turn a page in my journal, all of the thoughts and ideas logged on the preceding pages simply vanish. When I highlight a passage in a book, dog-ear the page, and then put the book away, it’s rare that I remember what resonated or why.

Tina culls her notes every few weeks and stores the best of them in a file on her computer. And after what happened Monday, I’m going to start doing this, too. I was listening to the radio and heard a line in a song that went something like this: “Life is going along just fine and then one day someone leaves you—and nothing is ever the same.” I don’t know who sang it and I didn’t write it down. But I hope it will do more than inspire me to write. It could be the catalyst for this one small change in my writing process. And that’s a big deal.

Crazy About Bruce Springsteen

2009-10-12T22:26:00.004-04:00

So there’s this woman who has written a book called “How Not to Act Old”. Her name is Pamela Redmond Satran, and as I understand it the book evolved from her blog of the same name. The book consists of 185 tips on how to avoid the deplorable fate of being seen as “lame” by those younger than you.

The reason this caught my attention at all was that a newspaper blurb I happened to be scanning noted that #34 on her list was this: “Don’t Admit You’re Crazy About Bruce Springsteen.”

Now I’m sure Ms. Satran is a lovely woman and her insights are undeniably clever and often true. She professes to be a die-hard Springsteen fan who, sadly, is forced to keep her feelings to herself because to reveal them means she’ll be dating herself. But I respectfully beg to differ. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that one sure way to feel ageless is to see Bruce Springsteen in concert. And I’m sure that the tens of thousands of people—young and old—who recently took in his shows at Giants Stadium would back me up.

I know my friend Shelley would. We went to the third of his five performances in the Meadowlands and had more fun than we’ve had in a very long time. And that’s saying something: because although we’re both over 50 (which I’m guessing means we easily qualify as old), we know how to have a good time. We tailgated in the parking lot. We sang along. We danced. We were on our feet almost as long as the E Street Band was. We went home exhausted and exhilarated. And then? Holy crap—we told people about it.

One of the people I confessed to was my son. Jake is 26 years old and passionate about music. Despite being the progeny of two lifelong Springsteen fans, he has always maintained that he really doesn't “get” what Bruce’s popularity is all about. But lately he’s been doing some exploring, and a few weeks ago he told me that he’s developed an appreciation for some of the earlier albums. So much so, in fact, that he went to one of the Giants Stadium concerts himself—and called me afterwards to say he couldn’t wait until I went so we could compare notes.

Does this prove my point? Does it disprove hers? I don’t know. What I do know is that being considered cool, or relevant, or “phat” (as Satran says) are not ambitions that concern me. Jake doesn’t consider me old. I don’t think his friends do either—but frankly, I don’t waste time worrying about it. If I did, I’d probably just wish for them to see me as a woman who relishes life and refuses to worry about the opinions of others. And I hope they’ll do the same.

I could care less about being phat. And something tells me that Bruce—who just celebrated his 60th birthday—doesn’t care about it either.

Man in the Moon

2009-10-04T19:50:00.005-04:00

Amazing: a perfect summer day just as I was beginning to think we'd seen the last of them. Clear blue skies, blazing sunshine, and a breeze just strong enough to blow away yesterday's humidity. A day as gorgeous as advertised. All I wanted was to spend it outdoors--and that's exactly what Jim and I did. We drove to the Valley Shepherd Creamery in Long Valley for hand made sheep milk cheeses and fresh bread, crawling in traffic through Chester and passing several pick-your-own-apples farms teaming with noisy families. Then we headed to the park at Spruce Run, mercifully deserted by the summertime crowds. We picked a spot near the reservoir, spread a blanket on the grass, and unpacked our cheeses plus some apples and a Coppola Syrah-Shiraz. Need I say more? It was an idyllic way to spend the afternoon.

Later, heading east on Route 80 on my way home, a fat, full moon hung off to my left. It was one of those freakishly gigantic ones, the kind that my brain (which really has no clue what it's talking about) thinks of as a harvest moon. A deep, burnished gold, it stood in sharp contrast to the steely sky. And for the first time since who knows when, I saw in its random pattern of gray craters that storied "man in the moon". I told myself repeatedly that it was just an illusion, but each time I blinked, looked away, and looked back, the benevolent face with the hooded eyes and knowing grin was still there.

I've decided it must be symbolic of something. Maybe it's about the imagination trumping the cold, hard truth. In the face of what is generally regarded as real, we can chose to view things through the kaleidoscopic lense in our minds. On this day, Jim and I chose to celebrate the pure and simple joys of life, savoring the bread and cheese, the water and the breeze, the thick, damp grass and the thump of acorns dropping from majestic oak trees. A more sober reality--the one where his mother waits to find out if she's dying of cancer--was lurking in the shadows. But for a few hours our imaginations ruled, fueled by the warmth of the sun, a bottle of red--and the Man in the Moon.

Heavenly Day: Part II

2009-08-29T15:52:00.002-04:00

Blueberry pancakes. Those two simple words conjure up a world of delight. Add two more words—Sweet Sue’s—and they instantly move into the “amaze” category.

Sweet Sue’s is an institution in the town of Phoenicia, NY. And not just because there is almost nothing else there (all apologies to Town Tinker Tube Rental and Tender Land Home.) The café has, by all accounts, a checkered past—one that prompts locals to talk and take sides. Since Jim and I have eaten there often enough to be considered regulars (at least in our minds), we have taken a position in the debate: we listen attentively to both sides of the discussion about who did what to whom—and then we chow down.

Breakfast is our meal of choice at Sue’s. From the inn in High Falls, Phoenicia was about half an hour’s drive—but most of the time we set out from northern New Jersey and travel close to two hours (each way) to indulge in what we consider the best breakfast on the planet. Maybe it’s because breakfast is the first meal we ever had there: it was a frigid Sunday morning in January and there was a line out the door. I convinced the impatient Jim that it must be worth it—but neither of us had a clue just how “worth it” it would turn out to be.

Then again, maybe it’s because breakfast is the ONLY meal we’ve eaten there. The owner may have expanded into the space next door (forcing out a beloved tenant and igniting a firestorm), and expanded the menu and the hours, but we haven’t expanded our horizons beyond the eggs and pancakes. And why should we? The pancakes have set a standard so high that I don’t even bother looking elsewhere—this from the woman who is shameless in her search for a better burger or the ultimate chocolate chip cookie. A cross between a crepe and—well—cake, they strike a magical balance between light and fluffy and moist and dense. Adding fruit isn’t necessary, but does enhance the experience. BTW, we’re talking actual berries and bananas here, not flavored syrup.

And then there is the size. On our first visit the waitress said, “You should probably start with just one. They’re really filling.” Ignoring her advice, I went for two: not only did I leave plenty on my plate—I was so full I didn’t eat a thing for the rest of the day. Picture a dinner plate about half an inch thick. Factor in the sides (a thick slab of the homemade turkey sausage is a must) and, well, you have the idea. In fact, serving sizes are generous—period. And prices are ridiculously reasonable.

So the truth is we stacked the "heavenly day" deck by starting at Sweet Sue’s. Everything that followed--gorgeous weather, a long trail walk in the Mohonk Preserve, and a beer and a Cuban sandwich in New Paltz afterwards, was just the proverbial icing on the—um—pancake.

Heavenly Day: Part I

2009-08-29T13:55:00.010-04:00

Heavenly day
All the trouble gone away
For a while anyway, for a while anyway
Heavenly day, heavenly day, heavenly day...
Patty Griffin, Children Running Through
© 2007 ATO Records, LLC

Listening to Patty Griffin’s remarkable voice is definitely something I enjoy. I can’t say Heavenly Day ranks as one of my all-time favorites, but the song captures the essence of what a "heavenly day" feels like when you’re in the midst of one. And I've been blessed with them in abundance. Some have been planned in advance, but the majority have simply unfolded. The seeds are sewn in a suggestion or spontaneous idea—like “let’s drive to Belmar”—and then the day just blossoms into perfection.

Sometimes I hit the jackpot: heavenly days back-to-back! Last weekend, Jim and I decided to spend our last two vacation days of the summer bumming around in the Catskills. We do a lot of day trips in the area and last summer stayed at a friend's house in Woodstock and hiked for a week. But Jim had a sore Achilles, so anything more than an easy walk was out of the question. I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to book a room in a small inn in High Falls, but other than that we had no plan in place when we woke up Sunday morning. We agreed to start out at our favorite local breakfast spot, the County Deli, were we fueled up on lobster eggs benedict (him) and a ham & cheese breakfast wrap (me), then set off for the sleepy little town of Catskill.

We had been there once before, enjoying the whimsical cat sculptures that line the streets and a nice al fresco lunch. But the return trip was a surprise--and not in a good way. Many of the shops were out of business and the bulk of the rest were closed. On a Sunday? We walked into a small antique store and the owner, a soft-spoken man who offered to negotiate the price of anything that struck our fancy, told us that most of the town was pretty much closed on Saturdays, too. This news, mixed with the pervasive aura of emptiness, made Jim so sad that even a Jane's cappuccino ice cream didn't cheer him up (I can't say the same for my yummy mango sherbet.) Then it started to rain, which forced us to head to one of my favorite places on earth: Lucky Chocolates.

Housed in a renovated garage on the outskirts of Saugerties, it's an unlikely oasis of hedonism. The worst part about going is having to choose from the array of sinfully original organic chocolates. We're partial to the truffles: raspberry and Earl Grey for me, orange and the seldom-available gorgonzola for Jim. (And I rarely leave without a bag of their big, fat chocolate chip cookies.) We opened our box of treasures the minute we were back in the car and let loose a chorus of "mmmnnn's" and "oh, wow's" as we savored the dense, silky treats. Amazing.

The next stop was Woodstock, where I usually torture Jim by dragging him into every single shop that sells jewelry. But we decided to bypass town and head straight to The Bear Cafe for an early dinner of salad and cheeseburgers. The surprise was that we were there early enough (and the rain stopped long enough) to snag a table out on the deck. The rushing of the rain-swollen stream below us was a lovely backdrop and a cool breeze kept the bugs at bay. It was so idyllic I even indulged in a second Absolut and tonic before we headed down Rte. 209 to High Falls.

Neither of us had been there before and it's highly unlikely we'll go back anytime soon. Maybe it was the extreme humidity. Or the fact that we were tired from the day's adventures. Or it could have been the total confusion of the staff in the adjacent tavern where we'd been instructed to pick up our room key. Whatever the reasons, our night at the inn was not the cozy, romantic, or even quirky experience either of us had hoped for. But as I drifted off to sleep with the sound of the Yankees beating the Red Sox in the background, and visions of the next day's breakfast dancing in my head, there was no doubt that this had qualified as a heavenly day.

Will Work for Olives

2009-08-20T22:38:00.001-04:00

I love my job. But like many places today, we’re long on stuff to do and short on people to do it. So while I’m never, ever bored, by Friday night I’m pretty much done in. Which is why the unspoken rule at my house is we don’t cook—and wherever we go to eat, there must be a bar.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression: I’m not much of a drinker. This wasn’t always the case – I’ve got my repertoire of stories that begin with consuming more than my weight in alcoholic beverages. But the past is the past. And in the present, wine, beer and my body just don’t get along. A friend suggested trying hard liquor, but the only thing I can get past my nose is vodka. Bingo! I discovered that an Absolut and tonic is quite refreshing when it’s warm outside. But what’s a girl to do during New Jersey’s long, cold winters?

Enter the martini. An elegant solution: clear, clean, simple. Sophisticated and so grown-up in its retro, long-stemmed glass. A charming bartender in the Martini Bar at the Raleigh Hotel in South Beach spoiled me from the start. Seduced by his willingness to share his secret recipe, I ordered a second one—and barely made it back to my friend’s apartment (an adventure that prompted me to introduce the one-martini limit.) Years later I realized that he set the standard by which I’ve judged every martini since. The right balance of vodka and vermouth. Definitely shaken, not stirred. No slivers of ice in a glass that’s not too large, not too small. And—best of all—half a dozen big, fat olives.

That’s right: as my sweetheart Jim knows all too well, it’s all about the olives. No, I’m not talking “dirty” (who would ruin good vodka by mixing it with olive juice?) But I’m afraid the single-olive-on-the-end-of-a-skewer is just a tease. Serious drinkers should probably read no further—because I’m sure I’ve given new meaning to the word “extra”. If they’re large olives, five or so will do (a bartender at Café Luxembourg in Manhattan once told me more than four was excessive and I’ve never been back). But the small ones? Well, let’s just say I’m overjoyed when the waiter at Bottagra brings me a small dish full.

So here’s to my favorite drink for unwinding after a long week. One that's meant to be sipped, not gulped. And is best when accompanied by good conversation—and a limitless supply of olives.

If at First...

2009-08-17T18:59:00.004-04:00

Last week I started a blog. Not this blog -- a different one. It had a cool name. And it was a big deal just to, well, do it. I'd been thinking about it for at least a year, but hadn't pulled the trigger. And then one night -- well, voila!

I didn't tell anyone about it at first. I just blithely wrote the first few entries, safe in my cocoon of total anonymity. Then I mentioned it to two or three friends, and they all asked the same question: "So what are you blogging about?" My lame answer: "Nothing in particular. Just stuff."

Seriously. It was just something I needed to do. Create a place to write out loud. Outside of my head. And my journal. And why not? There are a gazillion other writers out there right now, doing exactly the same thing, for exactly the same reason. And I'm not sitting here wondering what they're blogging about. Besides, right before I created my first blog I saw an adorably chic 11-year-old girl wearing a t-shirt that said, "No one really cares about your blog." Enough said.

But the question stayed with me. Nagging at that part of me that lives to create clever ideas. As I thought about the topics I was itching to write about, I kept coming back to a book I'd read in June: Anne LeClaire's Listening Below the Noise. Among the countless things she said that resonated with me was that, at the end of each day, she jotted in her journal things that "amazed, surprised or delighted" her. Lately I keep hearing about the benefits of keeping a gratitude journal, but this sounded way different to me. So I tried it during a trip to Sanibel Island later that month. It was, as it turned out, an effortless endeavor. It grounded me in joyfulness each time I wrote. What better inspiration for a blog?

There is no shortage of things that amaze, surprise and/or delight me. Excursions I take, food I savor, stuff I read, conversations I have with friends. Phrases I hear, songs I sing along to, hikes I relish, beer my son insists I try. Color combinations, recipes, magazine clips, gallery shows, picnic spots, a rare snuggle with my psycho kitty--the list is endless, really. Each is an invitation to forget the day's aggravations and focus on it's pleasures. And that's a practice worth turning into a discipline. Looking forward to sharing...