sea salt

recipes.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Tue, 29 May 2012 22:34:00 +0000

One summer, my mother gave me a task that would require hours of work, extreme organization, and most importantly, a deep, abiding love for recipes. Her giant yellow 3-ring binder was bursting with recipes that had at one time been organized. The binder had tabs for breads, salads, meats, and all the usual recipe categories, and was stuffed with handwritten notecards, torn pages of magazines, and computer printouts. It had ceased to be a useful reference book, and had become a recipe graveyard.

My job was to somehow make sense of it all. And after several days of covering the kitchen table with recipes, making stacks of faded magazine and newspaper clippings that referenced similar food groups, I presented my mother with the yellow binder, now able to open and close, as well as a separate dessert collection, my own idea. Using an old photo album, I stuffed dessert recipes in the pockets, and tried to organize them by cookies, cakes and pies.

Now that there were two functioning recipe collections in the house (in addition to the shelf of cookbooks next to the refrigerator), I could flip through them slowly, reflecting on the recipes that defined my childhood:

Hawaiian chicken (torn out of a 1990 issue of Family Circle). I always requested this as my special birthday dinner.
Crab-stuffed mushrooms (re-named "Best Ones" for my mother's note in the margin of a mushroom recipe booklet). Required appetizer for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter meals.
Blueberry cake (on a notecard in my maternal grandmother's handwriting). The cake my mother, little sister, and I brought to every new neighbor that moved to our street.
Cranberry Jell-O salad (typed out on old, thin printer paper - the kind with perforated edges - on the stationary of the travel agency where my paternal grandmother worked). Made at every holiday, two different ways: one batch with nuts, and one batch without.

Each recipe brought back full-color memories of the times we'd made them, and the different times of life. Sometimes, everything was normal. Other times, the only normal thing was the dish on the table. It seemed fitting, then, that some of the recipes would be collected in a photo album. A family history in cups and teaspoons.

I've been collecting cookbooks since I left for college 11 years ago. In addition, I've been hoarding magazines with good recipes (I am the person who will buy a $4.99 magazine without even opening it, simply because there's a gorgeous chicken pot pie or chocolate cake on the cover). Our small cabinet above the microwave is crammed full. And this weekend, after we decided to host a Memorial Day barbeque, I knew I had to give myself the same task my mother had given me so many years ago.

First I started with the magazines. Issues as old as 2006 of Family Circle, Whole Living, Cooking Light, Real Simple, The Food Network Magazine, and Everyday with Rachael Ray had been stuffed in between the cookbooks, corners folded over and sticky notes marking recipes that I swore I'd make someday. I flipped through each one, page by page, seriously considering if I'd ever make the recipe. I tore out each recipe that made the cut, creating a tattered stack on the table while dropping the rest of the magazine guts on the floor.

Next I dealt with the computer printouts. Recipes I'd found online were splattered and stained, far less suited for the kitchen than a firmly bound cookbook. But the printouts had dates, and notes of my own: Awesome! Triple this recipe. Used salmon instead of chicken. I considered printing out clean copies, but decided I liked the history of the dried stains, the creases from folding and refolding, the shopping list for ingredients I made on the back, the pieces of tape I'd used to stick the recipes to my cabinets before my now husband bought me a cookbook stand. The recipes I knew I'd never make again got tossed on the floor (for example, choco tacos, made for a silly dinner with friends, and a Weight Watchers recipe for a cake that I only pretended to like).

Then there were the family recipes, stuffed into a manilla clasp envelope with a list of recipes to collect for the family cookbook I hope to make someday. These, too, could be cleaner. There's a scrap of paper with my grandmother's lasagna recipe on it, the same scrap of paper I follow to make giant pots of tomato sauce. A piece of stationary from my father's old business where I wrote down the recipe for chocolate delight. An email from my aunt before my grandfather died (next to the step "Slice grapes lengthwise" she typed, "Grampy is very good at this!"). A faded photocopy of the recipe for Hawaiian chicken, sent through a very old fax machine. And my other grandmother's blueberry cake, written in fast, almost illegible handwriting (I must have asked her for it over the phone).

It occurred to me that I could buy a set of recipe cards and write them out neatly, legibly, and store them the way people are supposed to store recipes. But at the cost of what memories? The memory of being young, single, and really needing a good recipe to impress a guy on our second date (handwritten recipe for my mother's salmon patties. It was our last date, but I don't blame the salmon). The memory of hosting my first married holiday (an email from my sister with the recipe for Best Ones). The memory of making the first of many lasagnas (and perfecting the sauce that would feed a roomful of people in my tiny attic apartment during a December blizzard in Boston).

Instead of stacking these with the other recipes, I leave the family recipes together and place them on the far side of the table. I separate the stack of magazine clippings and computer printouts into two piles: sweet and savory. I then divide the savory pile into two more piles: meat/fish, vegetarian. Each recipe gets its own plastic sleeve, unless it only takes up a portion of the page. In that case, I carefully cut around the recipe, tape it to a piece of paper, and make a patchwork quilt of several recipes. I also throw away recipes that, the more I think about them, I realize I will never make.

The plastic sleeves go into a blue binder, and each section gets a divider tab: Meat/Fish, Vegetarian, Sweet/Dessert.

And then I take the family recipes. There is no neat, clean way to deal with them. They do not easily divide into categories, so I just keep them together. Even if my cousin's pumpkin chocolate chip cookies are next to my mother's blackened tilapia. Even if I have to tape a recipe card to a piece of paper, knowing how frustrated I'll be when I have to un-tape the card to flip it over to read the rest of the recipe. But it's just how it goes with these, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Finally, I add in the photocopied recipes in my mother-in-law's handwriting, the ones she brought to our first married Thanksgiving, because part of growing up and getting married was remembering that I'm not the only one who grew up with familiar plates and bowls on the table. So an apple pie and a sweet potato casserole go into a plastic sleeve, right alongside my grandmother's manicotti and my aunt's pineapple chutney dip. This section gets its own label: Family Faves.

I flip through the binder, seeing holidays and birthdays and funerals and regular weeknight meals flash by like grainy slides on a projector. I see meals made in advance when life was too hectic to think straight, desserts brought to bridal and baby showers, and bland, simple meals brought to the sick. I see myself as a little girl getting the spatula stuck in the mixer, as a teenager begging to make dinner for the family, as a college student trying to cook on a budget, as a graduate student hosting my first dinner parties, as a young professional following strict diets, as a married woman expressing my love with elaborate meals.

It felt good to carry the heavy stack of magazines out to the recycling bin, the burden of so many un-made recipes lifted as I surveyed the organized binder. And I vowed to revisit the recipes every six months or year, to toss out anything I still hadn't made. Because at the end of the day, no matter how many mushroom recipes Cooking Light prints, I'm always going to make the Best Ones.

anchored.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 16:40:00 +0000

J.J. was a skinny kid who moved to our neighborhood when I was in middle school. He was my age, but a lot shorter than me (most of the boys were). More importantly, he played basketball in his driveway. For a few glorious summers, there were enough kids in my neighborhood to have big games of basketball, dodge ball, and hide-and-seek. So one afternoon I took my basketball over to J.J.'s house and rang the doorbell.

"A bunch of us are playing basketball at the end of the street. Wanna play?"

After that he became a regular in our pick-up games, which we played most nights in the summer and every weekend. We didn't know each other very well, as we went to different schools, but my parents liked his parents, he was nice, and really good at basketball. Perfect qualities for a neighborhood kid. And because he was so much shorter than me, I never had a crush on him.

When we reached high school, J.J. moved back to Milwaukee to live with his biological father, and I didn't think much about him. He moved back again briefly when I went off to college, and fathered a little girl. After a few years he moved back to Milwaukee, where he lived until this weekend.

*

My heart was heavy last week, as heavy as it's felt in a long time. On Wednesday, police finally located the body of Franco Garcia, a BC student who disappeared on February 22. A friend of ours at church knew him well, and my heart broke for Franco's family, and for all the people in this young man's life who finally learned the news. I sent an email to our friend, wishing him any peace and comfort he could find, and attaching a link to the post I wrote after my friend Alison died last year. As I pasted the link, chills crept up my spine. Franco was found on April 11, the same day Alison had been hit by a truck the year before. I sent another email, this time to Alison's mother.

*

Yesterday was a great day. Kevin and I had a leisurely breakfast, went to church and saw many of our friends, bought lunch at Whole Foods to eat at home on the couch, and lazed around the house enjoying the peace of the day. Later he went out to see a movie with his brother, while I cleaned up the apartment and talked on the phone with my little sister, who just got her first tattoo (way to go, Jules!). The tattoo is an anchor, meaningful to her in many ways, but so clearly an image of strength. Safety. Security.

I had lots of questions for Jules, as both Kevin and I have wanted tattoos for a long time, and it was a unique and humbling experience to need advice from my little sister. The little sister who I constantly try to guide by my own example, the way I look to my older sisters for guidance. There's no major decision or life change I've had to make that at least one of my older sisters hasn't made before. It's comforting to know who to call, whose mistakes to learn from, whose counsel is best for each situation. And Julie has even more - 3 older sisters to learn from. For everything she's done, she's had a model: how to move away to college, how to earn a graduate degree, how to get your own apartment. This time, however, she did something none of us has done before. She went to a tattoo parlor, sat in the chair, and left a stronger person. Stronger for having endured what most people are too terrified to even try, stronger for knowing that if she got something permanently on her body, it would be something to remind her of her true anchor. I was proud of my not-baby sister, and also humbled by the chance to learn from her.

After I talked to my sister, my mom called.

"Do you remember J.J.?" she asked.

"Of course!" I said, "We used to play basketball all the time."

"Today his parents hosted a celebration of life. J.J. was murdered."

*

I went for a 4-mile run, the longest I've run in a long time. While I needed a long run to train for the 10K we'll be running in a couple weeks, I also just needed to feel something physical, something other than the weight of my heart. Feel my feet hit the ground, feel sweat drip off my face, feel my sides cramp up, feel my breath come in through my nostrils and out through my mouth. It was important to be able to control my own breathing. It's been three months since my grandfather died, and I thought I'd finally caught my breath after that. But then two weeks ago in church we sang "It Is Well With My Soul," one of the songs we had sung at the funeral. I couldn't sing. I sobbed into Kevin's arms, and thought, angrily, "No, God, it is not well with my soul." How could it be?

*

Julie's anchor did more than just inspire me to save up for my own tattoo. It reminded me of what an anchor actually does. It does not stop the storm. It does not stop waves from overtaking the ship. It does not stop the thunder or the lightning or the sickness. It does not stop time.

It holds the ship in place. It keeps the ship connected to the ground below. It ensures that even if the ship is tossed and drenched and broken, it stays firmly rooted to the place the captain has deemed safe.

*

In an email describing their support group for parents who'd lost children, Alison's mother told me, "We are not alone."

Franco's uncle told the Boston Herald, "It gives us a lot of peace. We are praising God for that, that we have found him."

J.J.'s 6-year old daughter told her grandmother (J.J.'s mother), "My daddy died but he's in heaven."

This morning, Julie put up a status message that simply read: anchored.

*

The tattoo I want is lyrics from a song I love (acoustic version below). The line that grips me every time I hear the song is: "On Friday a thief, on Sunday a king."

The line is about the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus...but there's a universal beauty there for everyone. The beauty of life emerging after death. Hope after despair. The glory and riches of a king after the accusations and desperation of a thief.

And the power of someone to "lay death in his grave."

I don't have that power. Death is still so much a part of life, and recently, my life. So I drop my anchor and watch it settle into the sand. I tether my ship tightly, bracing myself for the next storm, expectantly waiting for Sunday, a king.

estate.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 15:20:00 +0000

(published in MARY: A Journal of New Writing, Spring 2012)

"Do we just go in?" Kevin asked.

"I think so?" I said, unsure, as we slowly walked up the brick steps. The front door was open behind a glass storm door, and we looked in. A woman standing in the kitchen looked up at me, and I smiled and awkwardly gestured to the door.

"Come on in!" she shouted, and when we walked in we saw two women sitting on a couch, another sitting at a table behind a cash box, and stuff everywhere.

"Everything's for sale, upstairs, downstairs, and basement. Let us know if you have any questions," the one behind the cash box told us.

Kevin and I looked at each other, trying to act like this all felt completely normal and not weird at all, to be walking through a [presumably deceased] person's house, looking at price tags. We were really only there to see if we could find an old chair to add to our mismatched dining set, completely furnished with unique sidewalk finds.

"We'll just start upstairs," I said loudly, to convince myself that we were actually going to do this estate sale thing. "What a gorgeous mirror!" I said, eying an old ivory mirror on the wall with a yellow sticker reading $75. It reminded me of the decor in Kevin's grandmother's house: old, unchanged, and oddly comforting.

We wandered through the rooms upstairs, stepping over piles of clothes, keeping our distance from mattresses leaning against the walls, running our fingers over the tops of beautiful mahogany furniture that was too big for our car and our apartment. Dusty suitcases were stacked on the floor, their tags handwritten in elegant cursive like the way my grandmothers write, the way I was taught to write but never do. One chair caught our eye, but it was too rickety for regular use. I came very close to buying a beautiful wooden dollhouse for my new niece, but there was no price on it and my niece is not even two months old yet. We went down to the basement.

Stacks of records, books, and odd pieces of furniture filled the front part of the basement. In the back, near the water heater, were various medical supplies: a walker, a handicap shower seat, a cane. A bookcase was cluttered with lamps and dolls and a wooden case filled with poker chips, chess pieces, and a checkerboard.

"This is really weird," I said to Kevin, who was flipping through an old newspaper. "All this stuff used to matter to someone."

*

For over a week, Kevin's parents had been coyly asking us if we'd received the boxes they sent. They refused to say what they were, why they had been sent, or why they were important. We were eager to see what all the fuss was about, but mostly we were confused. Kevin had received his birthday presents, and his father isn't one to play games or keep secrets. The fact that he was in on it only confused us more.

Finally the boxes arrived. I had come home first, and struggled to bring the 3 heavy boxes inside while our upstairs neighbor held the door open for me. The cats immediately pounced on the boxes, full of new smells, and I sliced open the tape on the first box. Surrounded by Styrofoam peanuts and layers of bubble wrap were heavy stacks of records - all the records Kevin's parents owned, previously collecting dust in their garage, unused but too special to throw away. These albums spanned history - from childhood records, to Dylan and Springsteen, to Michael Jackson. The third box was full of CDs, now that most of the world has moved on to digital music, and this, too, was a huge collection. Admittedly we listen to records far more than CDs or digital files - but even this collection was special.

We gleefully pulled out the stacks, and Kevin told me that despite my protests, we would definitely be alphabetizing them so that we would know exactly where each album was (I lost that battle, but even as I fought I knew he was right).

We set the needle down on Born To Run, sat back, and stared at our inheritance in stacks on the floor.

*

After a while we didn't want to be in the house anymore. We went back upstairs, eyed the piles of dishes, bowls, and cookware on the kitchen counters, and made our way to the living room. We flipped through old albums, mostly Italian crooners, and listened to the conversation from the front room.

"That last lady was already asking about the house! Ma's not even cold in her grave, and people wanna buy the house!"

"And did you hear what someone offered for the dollhouse? $50! My uncle bought that for $300 - it's a beautiful dollhouse! These people have no idea!"

Then they stared at us. We had nothing in our hands.

"How much is that?" I asked, pointing to the chair behind the cash box.

"I'll sell it to you for $15."

We took it home.

*

The last time I was home in Florida, I went rummaging in the big oak cabinet in my parents' living room. The cabinet is filled with shoe boxes of loose pictures, old photo albums, stacks of cassette tapes, and old piano lesson books. It's also the place I stashed my favorite records, the ones I'd taken from my parents' collection when I was a kid. My two favorites were The Early Beatles and The Monkees. I would lock my door, set the needle down, and make up a dance for each song on the Beatles album. "Baby It's You (Sha La La)" and "Chains" had the most elaborate dances, and I critiqued all my moves in the mirror over my dresser, as well as my mirrored closet door. Of course I had no idea what any of these songs meant, but I knew I liked them. Mostly, I loved that they had belonged to my dad, his name written neatly in pen in the top right corner of each album.

Unfortunately, I never showed these dances to anyone, because of an experience I never fully recovered from. When I was six or seven years old, I got my hands on a Whitney Houston album and made up a dance to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody." I worked on the moves all day, and finally called in my sisters to watch. Within minutes they were laughing and teasing me. All I had done was point to my teeth and wiggle my hips for the line I thought said, "I wanna feel my teeth with somebody!"

"That's not the line!"

"Yes it is!"

"It's heat, not teeth. I wanna feel the heat with somebody. Why would you feel your teeth with somebody?!"

I didn't know what "feel the heat" meant, and I didn't know why it was funny, so I shooed them out of my room and never performed again.

The Whitney album probably got thrown out with the rest of the records that had warped over time in the hot garage, but thankfully my carefully stowed Beatles and Monkees were well-preserved inside. When I listen to them, I am back at home, twirling around my room, singing every word as loud as I can. And when I look at the framed album cover, with my father's name in the corner, I feel a special connection to the parents who helped me fall in love with music.

*

On Saturday we planned to organize the records, but first we needed a bookshelf, as the collection was now too big for the small cabinet where we'd been storing our own records. There was nothing on the sidewalk (we took a drive around the neighborhood), and nothing listed online that caught our eye.

"We could always try another estate sale," I said, and Kevin quickly found one a couple miles from our apartment.

This time, we knew what to do. We parked on the street, quickly scanning the items already sent to the sidewalk for trash, and the pile of stuff on the side of the house - more medical supplies, an old steamer trunk, and unidentifiable broken metal objects. The things they knew wouldn't sell.

We walked in, said hello, and Kevin asked knowingly, "Is everything for sale?"

There were three men at the table. The oldest one simply nodded. The youngest one said, "Yeah, go upstairs and downstairs." The middle one smiled and said, "You can't leave unless you buy something!" We couldn't figure out the relationships, but one thing was clear: this was the old man's house. And we were walking through to take what we wanted.

The rooms upstairs were the same as at the other sale: clothes, mattresses, albums, books. The kitchen and living room had nothing we needed, and on our way to the basement we counted five record players. Records were in piles all over (more Italian crooners). I was surprised that they had this many - and that nobody had taken them.

While we looked around, the old man was never very far away. He said very little, and when he spoke to the other men, I wasn't sure if he was even speaking English. In the basement we found a chair that would work for the dining room.

"I'm interested in that chair," I said to the young man.

"How interested? $10?"

"How about $5?"

"Deal." He spoke softly to the older man, who nodded and looked around like he was lost.

We were about to leave, thinking the bookshelf hunt was over, until we noticed one at the back of the basement, covered in knick-knacks, candles, and books. It looked about a hundred years old, covered in dust with a child's crayon scrawls on the edge of one of the shelves.

"I don't know," I said. "It needs to hold records."

"Let's try!" The young man said. He quickly removed the objects, readjusted the shelves, and I found yet another stack of records to use as a sample. I grabbed the top record - Styx - and held it vertically while Kevin and the young man adjusted the shelves.

We really liked it. It was old, weird, and clearly had personal history: just our style. The feet curled under before they touched the floor, like on a claw-foot bathtub, and the shoulders of the bookshelf were rounded. The middle-aged man spoke up. "That's quality oak. Paine Furniture Company in Boston, from the 1890s. The label is on the back."

"And did you buy it yourself in the 1890s?" I asked, smiling.

He laughed and shook his head. "You're Italian, aren't you!"

The older man looked uncomfortable, like he wanted everyone to leave so he could clean out his house and the memory of his [I assume] wife and get on with it. He didn't smile, didn't seem excited about making a sale, and certainly wasn't encouraging us to buy anything.

I understood. Clearly at this stage, anything the family really wanted would have been dispersed. The estate sale was for the leftovers. Things that had mattered at some point to someone, but didn't matter enough for someone else to take on the physical and emotional weight of them. Things that would be buried at the dump if nobody took them. Things whose lives had ended.

But this old bookcase had been purchased, and a child had drawn on it, and it had been somewhere in the house, a place to hold smaller things that mattered to this man and his family.

"Let's take it," I said to Kevin.

"What do you want to pay?" the young man asked.

Kevin looked at the bookshelf, thought for a minute, and said, "$20?"

"We were asking $50. It's solid oak."

"Will you take $30?"

He spoke softly to the older man, who looked at the bookcase and simply nodded.

"Ok. Deal."

We loaded the bookcase into the back of the car, stacked the chair on top, and headed home. On the way, we saw a big table, dresser, chair, and rolled up carpet next to garbage bins on the sidewalk in front of a house. I stopped the car and Kevin knocked on the door. When a man answered, Kevin said, "Excuse me, we noticed a chair out there, and..."

"It's all garbage," the man said.

"So it's ok to take? We wanted to be sure."

"Take whatever you want."

We added the chair to the haul, and when we got home we wiped down everything with an old towel. I set up the chairs at the table, and together we carefully lifted the bookcase inside.

*

While we happily lined up the records on the shelves, I thought about where they had been as they moved around with Kevin's parents. Massachusetts. Connecticut. Florida. Back to New England and back to Florida. Several houses, condos, and finally the garage. I don't know how long it's been since they've had a working record player, but clearly the albums were never deemed trash, or giveaways to the public.

I grouped five or six Beatles albums together and smiled, relieved that they would never be orphaned at an estate sale. And even if we didn't have a record player, even if we didn't love the Beatles and Springsteen and Dylan and most of the music in the collection, I think that's all Kevin's parents (specifically, his father) wanted to know. That a stranger wouldn't flip through a piece of his history and try to score a deal. This part of his life still mattered to him, and now, it will always matter to us.

We placed two framed albums on top of the bookshelf and I silently thanked my dad for letting me keep The Early Beatles so long ago. I put on a Jim Croce album, singing every word until the needle reached the end.

pretending.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 21:42:00 +0000

“The fish is cooked really well. And the mushrooms have a perfect blend of oil and salt - not too much of either.” Our waitress beamed when I said this, and hurried off to bring the next course. My husband Kevin and I looked at each other across the small candlelit table and waited until the waitress was out of earshot before laughing. I wrote a few notes in my notebook, sitting conspicuously next to my plate, and Kevin took a few pictures with his iPhone.

We were at a special, sold-out, reservations-only chef’s tasting at a new bistro about to open in Jamaica Plain. A glowing review from an influential food critic would probably help the future of the restaurant. For $10 each, we sampled 8 plates of savory and sweet creations. From candied brussel sprouts to rabbit ragu, to honey caviar and hazelnut mousse, we felt totally in…which meant everyone else was out. And literally, too. The doors were locked and passers-by peered in the window at the cozy arrangement of tables and couples and waiters carrying tiny gourmet plates. You could see it on their faces: “What’s going on? How did they get in there?” We had something they didn’t have, and based solely on the fact that they didn’t have it, they wanted it. Kevin and I made snooty faces at each other, turning up our noses and saying things like, “Well, too bad. Insiders and food critics only.”

Note: We are not insiders. We are not food critics.

I heard about the tasting night via Twitter, and since I love food and writing about food, I thought it would be a nice introduction to the foodie community, a community that can be very outsider-unfriendly. But we weren’t intimidated. We had bought tickets fair and square, we have interesting things to say about food, and we love to eat.

Before we left our apartment I pulled my long hair into a sleek ponytail, put on sparkly earrings, and applied a bold lipstick. I wore black pants and a black sweater, and made sure to sit up straight (Mom, take note). We kept our napkins in our laps, drank our water slowly, and stifled as much laughter as we could. We looked the part, and we played it well (And to think we’d almost cancelled the night to eat leftover pizza on the couch!).

Kevin and I worked as a team, taking tiny bites from our tiny servings, raising our eyebrows when presented with caviar (which we had never eaten), and nodding as if we regularly ate exotic, expensive food (“Can’t ask questions,” we agreed, “or we’ll look like rookies!”). Pickled mustard seeds, of course! Our favorite! Right after flying roe tartar! We vowed to just keep smiling (easy to do because the atmosphere, food, and servers were wonderful). Act like you belong, and everyone will assume you do. “Did you eat the two green things? I thought they were garnish!” I said, panicked. “Quick, put one on my plate, so it looks like we each ate one!” Kevin can be cooler than chilled cucumber pesto, or the mint pesto we tried, after which I told the waitress, “I would have liked it thinner maybe? And more minty?” (How professional is that?)

When the braised pork belly was served, I shook the chef’s hand and introduced myself. Then I asked about the pastry chef, and our waitress eagerly promised to bring all the chefs over to meet us. We almost choked on laughter. “What will I say if they ask me something?” Kevin shrugged. “Who cares?” He smiled the way he did when we accidentally took a tour of the Church of Scientology in Nashville. It’s a smile that says, “Just go with it. We’re making memories here.”

I’ve faked insider knowledge before. All the time, actually. In New York City, when I don’t want to pull out my map and look lost. In a work meeting, when I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know what an “interstitial” is (I know now, thanks to Google). At home, when someone tells a story about a coworker or student or friend I have never actually met.

The difference at the chef’s tasting is that I wasn’t faking it alone. We were a sneaky little duo, with our own inside joke. And even though nobody else in the world was actually affected, it was fun to think that we were pulling a fast one on the restaurant, on the people walking by outside, and even on ourselves (Hey, if I eat good food, compliment the chef, take notes and write about it later, then technically I’m doing the very thing I’m pretending to do. But that was too deep a thought for our fantasy world where we are high society food critics, always eat caviar, and frequently meet the chef table-side. In this fantasy, our experience and subsequent review could make or break this tiny new place!). At our corner table (we pretended they’d saved us the “critic’s corner”), we were untouchable. Our own inner circle with our own measure of imagined celebrity. Nobody on the outside was invited. It was a private event, reservations (and wedding bands) required. And in our little world, we were closer than ever.

Our waitress came by before we had finished our wine and final plate of chocolate mousse with cooked cherries and a semi-sweet ganache. She looked nervous. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I wanted to bring the chefs by, but they’re so busy with the next seating about to start.”

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smile, forgetting who I had been pretending to be. “It’s totally fine. We’ll be back.” And with that we put on our coats, walked out into the cold, and drove home to our very normal, but suddenly more exclusive life. Kevin ate a cupcake, we watched something on Netflix, and slept very close together.

pearls.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 17:59:00 +0000

I have this unrealistic idea about myself, which is that I can probably do anything I set out to do. Of course, our parents and teachers wanted us to believe this, but most of us know it's not really true. Most of us. So one day while watching a reality show about fancy cake bakers, I thought, "How hard can that be? I can do that." I purchased a good cookbook, a few supplies, and set out to make the first fancy cupcake: a simple pink top with a black bow.

On Sunday I baked vanilla cupcakes and whipped up a large batch of white chocolate ganache. On Monday I spread the ganache over the tops of the cupcakes. And last night, I applied the icing, using a syrup I made with boiling water and apricot jam. The book strongly favors purchasing ready-made fondant, as the consistency is hard to get just right. And since I'm a beginner, and had made everything else, I was happy to buy a box of 4 packages of fondant, already colored. All I had to do was roll it out, cut, and stick on the tops of the cupcakes with syrup (still a lot of work considering the fondant is ready-made!). The design called for pink and black, but I couldn't find a package with these colors. I found one with skin tones (which creeped me out), one with pastels (baby style), and one with neon pink, orange, yellow, and purple (close enough). I could have purchased ready-made white, and added food coloring, but we had just cleaned the kitchen again (by "we" I mean my husband), and I didn't want to make another mess. So I brought home the neon.

The instructions for adding the icing were simple: roll out the fondant to 1/8" thickness, cut with a cookie cutter the same size as the cupcake, brush the top with syrup, and stick on the fondant disc. My problem was that middle part: the same size as the cupcake. I had a smaller circle, which I would have had to stretch, and a bigger circle, which I would have had to cut (and which would have helped me practice the technique of trimming fondant). So I dug around in my basket of cookie cutters and found a shell shape that was roughly the same size as the cupcake, and was prettier than a circle because of the scalloped edges.

Once I cut out the shells and stuck them on with syrup, I had second thoughts. They were so clearly shells. At first I thought, "Whatever! Just finish the stupid cupcakes!" and was ready to make the bows. But then the artist in me sighed deeply, reminding me that in no context, under no circumstances, would it make sense to put a bow on a shell.

*

While I rolled, cut, and applied fondant to my cupcakes, I talked on the phone with a dear friend I hadn't talked to in several months. During that time, she'd gotten pregnant, had a miscarriage, still hadn't heard about a job she'd interviewed for in September, and started a new business venture. We talked through the pain she had suffered, both physically and emotionally, her frustration about the job, and also about her excitement about the future. She was still happy about the thought of being a mom. And she was confident that she could make this new business work (as am I - she is one of the smartest people I know). Part of her start-up included a training, with incentives for making a certain number of practice sales calls. "If I make 6 calls I get a strand of pearls. And I love pearls - so what's a few phone calls?"

She was amazing, in the true, undiluted sense of the word. After a devastating loss, for which she had no precedent to learn from, she had simply improvised. Focused on something new. Saw a shiny pearl in the future instead of a "what now?" sense of misery. While she talked, I kept thinking how proud I was to be her friend. And I told her she could make a practice sales call on me. I wanted her to have those pearls.

*

When it was my time to fill her in on life over the past few months, I didn't know where to start. She'd known about my grandfather's illness and death, but I had shied away from most of my friends during that time. It was easy to have a superficial conversation with a coworker, but impossible to re-live each tiring, emotionally draining day over the phone with a close friend. So I said, "We're figuring out our life here now." My grandfather was already in the hospital by the time we moved back to Boston, so since our arrival our lives have revolved around visits to the hospital, dinners with my grandmother, trips to the airport to pick up family, reunions with cousins and friends of the family, endless discussions and questions like, "Is this really happening?"

Just four days after Grampy died, my sister gave birth to a beautiful baby girl (Hi, Syndey! Can you read yet?). This new life captivated a family full of grieving adults, and we had to figure out how to say goodbye while also saying hello. With a niece just a short drive away, our life in Boston has again changed. I spent Monday on my sister's couch, holding the baby, feeding the baby, changing the baby's diaper. I kept telling her how much fun we were going to have, and how I loved being her auntie. This new life came at exactly the right time; while we figure out life without Grampy, we are learning life with Sydney. It's an exchange both haunting and beautiful.

*

I hung up the phone, grateful for the 11 years of friendship we've shared, and feeling wonderfully hopeful about her future, both in business and motherhood. No matter where she is or what she does, she always shines. But I had to finish the cupcakes, which were now just pink shells, a far cry from the polished bow-tied cupcakes in the book. They were empty, and boring, and so clearly born out of a mistake, or a misjudgment, or simply not having the right tools for the job. The shell wasn't planned, but now there it was. I had improvised, but I couldn't stop there. One new step is not enough. I needed to take more new steps - as many as it took - to the new destination. I thought about Grampy. And baby Sydney. And about my friend's hope for the future. I thought about her love for pearls, the beautiful product of the objectively ugly, smelly oyster. It was obvious then. These cupcakes wouldn't be tied up with a neat little bow, as if everything had gone according to plan. They would get a tiny piece of yellow fondant, rolled into a ball in the palm of my hand, dabbed in water to stick to the shell, and glossed with syrup to really make them shine.

eulogy.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:12:00 +0000

As many of you know, I've been lucky enough to have a close relationship with all of my grandparents. As some of you know, we recently lost my grandfather, a man I truly admired and loved. I've published various pieces about him before (see links to the right for "What I Think My Grandmother is Thinking," "Mt. Auburn," and "The Man I Know"), but this weekend I was honored to write a new piece, one to deliver at his memorial service.

Below is the eulogy I read at the service. I was limited to 3 minutes, but those of you who knew Grampy know that I could have spoken for days. I may later post the entire list of 101 Life Lessons mentioned in my eulogy, and I may later be able to compose a new piece to reflect on this loss. For now, my tired and grieving heart just wants to rest.

Enjoy remembering this wonderful life, and feel free to share your own memories. You are also welcome to read his obituary, an impressive testament to a life well lived.

____________________________

There are 11 of us here who didn’t actually know Steve Tavilla. He wasn’t our colleague, our brother, our father, or our husband. He was our Grampy.  We knew nothing of board meetings, business meetings, or family meetings. Our memories are greasy brown paper bags filled with popcorn, messy ice cream cones at Fenway Park, singing gospel songs in the car, and sleepovers at Grammy and Grampy’s house. We remember tables full of puzzle pieces, late night card games, and jokes like, “Call me anything you want, but don’t call me late for dinner!” We remember drives to Faneuil Hall to see the P.Tavilla sign, and taking pictures with Grampy at our graduation ceremonies, at our weddings, with our first car. No matter what age I was, my memories of Grampy always show me as a child, always looking up to this impossibly loving man.

It seems strange here to speak for Grampy, as his life has spoken so well for itself. So I’ll let him speak in his own words. On Grampy’s 86th birthday, I sat down with him to record his “86 Life Lessons.” We hit 86 and kept going, with the help of Grammy, and the list ended with 101 of Grampy’s words of wisdom, humor, and love. I’ve chosen a few of my favorites to share with you.

·      Never leave chocolate cake on your plate
·      Don’t be stingy when you’ve had a good waitress
·      If you don’t like your waitress, don’t show it - she may be having a bad day
·      Life is too short to hurt people
·      Treat your children and grandchildren as you would yourself
·      Don’t keep track of little things that don’t count
·      Keep in touch with close friends
·      When your wife buys something for herself, tell her how pretty she looks in it
·      Be a good loser when playing cards - it’s just a game
·      Never play customer golf
·      Treat your employees as you would your own sons
·      Never go to sleep without saying “I love you”
·      Make sure you find a good church with a good pastor or priest - throughout your life, you’ll be glad you did

And finally, the one he deemed so important that it was the first thing on the list:

·      Be kind to other people

The legacy Grampy left us is more than impressive, more than a collection of fun memories. His life was an example to live by, and I know we do him great honor when we try to get it right. Love your family. Serve God. Be kind to other people. We love you, Grampy.

_____________________________

free.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 21:18:00 +0000

I never identified with kids who watched TV after school, or went to friends' houses during the week, or slept in until 11am on the weekends. The idea that kids my age had so much free time was mysterious and wonderful. What did it feel like to have all that free time? While I chose all of my school activities and am ever grateful for the experiences I was able to have as a kid and a teenager, there were times I wanted to know what it felt like to not have sports practice after school every day, often followed by another practice for another team. There were times I didn't want to wake up at 6am on a Saturday to play a weekend volleyball tournament. There were summers I wanted to sit around all day, instead of going to my job at a day camp and eventually two-a-day practices.

In addition to sports, and homework, and AP classes, there was church, family, sisters' soccer games, college applications, and mandatory house cleaning. I had a very happy childhood - and a very busy one. When I got to college, I kept moving full-steam ahead. Clubs, intramural sports, and volunteering as a tour guide filled all the space between classes, papers, GRE prep, and the Chicago marathon I completed my senior year.

Since that time, I haven't stopped. Graduate school, jobs, cross-state moves, training for athletic events, family obligations, freelance work, teaching, writing. I always said that I worked best when I was active, busy, even stressed. Give me a deadline and I'll give you my best work. Give me till forever, and I'll never get it done. It's just the way I'm wired. In my mind, people who slept in late were lazy. People who didn't have side jobs were boring. People who had time to follow TV shows were taking more than they were giving to the world.

But this season has been different. It might be the compounding stress of another cross-state move, another new job, and a grandfather in the hospital. It might be the chill in the Boston air.

Whatever it is, it has changed my attitude towards free time. My new attitude is that I want more. (Those of you who have been in touch with me recently might find this hard to believe. After all, I spent the last four weeks complaining because I was jobless, spending most of my time at home on the couch because with no income, I had no business out spending money on anything. Also, I might have been mildly depressed. It was lonely, and boring, and indefinite. When I say "free time," I don't mean unemployment. I mean choosing to have free time.)

This week I began to re-assess my constant need to be busy. Some of it truly can't be helped. I am by nature creative, energetic, and family-oriented, and I will constantly seek out ways to engage these parts of myself. But the rest can be helped.

Yesterday I made a decision to leave the team of freelance writers and editors that I joined in Nashville. The extra money was nice, and for the most part I enjoyed the work. But this season, I dreaded receiving an email about a new client. I justified turning down easy work. I felt cheated when I did sit down and work on a client's manuscript. I wanted my time back. This led to making a list of all the things we have going on in our lives. And then a crossing off of the things that are no longer feeding us. The things that trick us into thinking we're free because we're choosing what to do, when really we're just chained to one more obligation. Each item crossed off was like a chain link falling to the ground.

My husband and I have been watching more movies together, and even made our way through an entire series (Friday Night Lights, which was phenomenal!). At first I felt guilty. Lazy. Even fat. "I can't believe how much time we spend sitting around when we could be doing other things! I could be running! I could be writing! I should blog! I need to make s'mores! I should go food shopping! I could be starting that nonprofit organization that I've been thinking about!"

But I let myself relax. And then I felt ... free.

In my fear of squandering my life, I've packed as much in as I can. I've ignored the most beautiful part of "free time," which is that it does feel like freedom. It's ok to leave it wide open. To sit. Reflect. Rest. Sleep. I'm not very good at sitting still, but I find that when I choose to be still, I never regret it. Last weekend, instead of locking us into plans, or even things we thought we should do, we went for a drive. And then we went for a hike. And then we got hot chocolate and watched a movie. It was a day that nothing got done. But at the end of it, I felt more connected to my husband and the place I live than I had in a long time.

This season (this year, if I'm honest and go back to re-read the blog posts since last October), has been difficult. Wonderful, but difficult. I truly believe that much of what I did to keep busy was to distract me from thinking about the weight of everything. That's probably true about most busy people. We took on an enormous amount in our first year of marriage. Fortunately, our marriage is strong, and we instinctively draw closer together when the pressure mounts. But we took on a lot. And that year now seems like a marathon, something I'd prepared for, waited for, and gave everything I had. The difference is that in the past, when I've finished a race, I am high on adrenaline and want to sign up for the next one. This time, now that I can slow down, catch my breath, and sit, I'm surprised at how much I want to.

I'm now more afraid of squandering the time I could spend enjoying the life I've got, the husband I live with, the city I never want to leave. I'm afraid that I'll get to my final days and say, "I wish I'd been a little more free." So in 2012, I want to think long and hard before I say, "yes." I want to consider if this activity, hobby, or commitment is worth the time it will cost. Because at the end, time is all we have. And I'm no longer willing to just give it away.

prepared.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 23:23:00 +0000

I walked into our bedroom and the bags were packed. Suitcases bulging with t-shirts and socks covered the bed, and trash bags filled with old clothes lined the wall, waiting for their trip to Goodwill.

I burst into tears. Heavy sobs and an intense panic took over my body: what will I do now?

My husband is not leaving me. In fact, I knew that today, while I was at work, he was at home packing, preparing for our trip tomorrow from Nashville to Boston. His new job starts on Monday, and so he is going first, to settle back in, to find us an apartment, to prepare for my arrival a month later. We joked about how the time would fly, how we would Skype everyday as we did during our engagement, half of which we spent in different states. I know I will be fine, and I know this is the most practical way to move, and I know that in one month, when we are reunited, it will seem that no time has passed at all.

But that didn't make the sight of packed suitcases any easier to bear.

I thought of women who come home to find their rooms cleaned out, their husbands gone. Husbands who get a phone call simply stating, "I'm not coming home." I have to imagine that, shocking as it might have seemed at the time, these ruined relationships showed signs of decay. Signs that might have warned him or her that things weren't quite right. That they should be careful. That they should prepare.

I thought of military spouses who say goodbye for months at a time, refusing to think about the dangers that lie ahead. They knew when they married into the military that they'd spend long periods of time alone. They try to prepare themselves as best they can.

Preparedness is a little misleading, though. It only means that you've pre-planned an exit strategy, or a temporary fix. You might be prepared enough to bring extra water on a hiking trip, but that won't stop the overwhelming panic when you find yourself lost in the middle of the woods. You might prepare by wearing a life preserver on a boat, but that won't stop your hands from shaking as you bob in the water, unsure of what's below.

I suppose there are some things that we can only try to prepare for; in reality, our brains and emotional cores won't fully respond - won't know the depths of panic or ache or fear - until the moment has arrived, until the suitcases appear and the closet is empty. And in that moment, no amount of extra water will quench the thirst.

Tomorrow we leave. Tonight I'll pack my own smaller bag, for the overnight in DC and the overnight in Boston before I fly back Sunday night. I've made that flight before, the one where my eyes are puffy and red and I don't want anyone to talk to me, ask me how I am, or sit next to me. The flight where I curse the isolating altitude that I usually love, because for those two hours what I really want is to call my sisters.

I'll take a cab back to the house, I'll waste time on the computer and call my husband and assure him I am fine. I'll sleep alone, as I knew I would, but it won't make the bed any less cold.

remembering.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 15:48:00 +0000

One of the most distinctive differences in the way my generation has grown up, compared to our parents and grandparents, is that we are both more exposed to and protected from the harsh realities of war. People lazily protest with bumper stickers and others use the military as a political platform. Media channels tell us what they think we need to know, and then we turn off the TV and go to bed. But when it comes to our day-to-day lives, most of us could easily forget that we've been at war for 10 years.

Try comparing that experience to those who lived through WWI, WWII, and Vietnam. I can't. It's just a different era. The war hasn't changed my ability to buy food. I'm not limited to the amount of sugar I can use in a week. I don't have a victory garden. I'm not filling a job that a drafted man left vacant. I'm not responding to a poster of Uncle Sam telling me he wants ME, and I'm not part of a new music movement with a powerful anti-war message.

I read the news and I fear for the lives and peace of the soldiers, their families, and the devastated nations of the world. I want the war to end. But here's what 9/11 has given our generation: our first "Where were you when...?" moment. I'm too young to remember the Gulf War and the Challenger. I remember the OJ Simpson trial and the funeral of Princess Diana, but 9/11 was the first time those of us born in the 80s have come close to true global uncertainty. And I will always remember it.

This year, on the 10th anniversary of my most significant "Where were you when...?" moment, my husband and I will actually be boarding a plane, returning from a wedding in New England. Part of me feels irreverent, part feels terrified, and the other part feels oddly at peace. I'm forced to remember 9/11 when I spend hours packing in accordance with TSA's rigid guidelines, and I'm forced to remember it every time I am patted down at the airport to the point I want to cry. So it feels strangely appropriate to honor the day in flight - not at home watching the TV - but above the broken world below, thinking of what my generation will have to remember next.

Instead of composing a new piece on the subject of war and 9/11, I'm copying the opening of Chapter 6 of my memoir below, entitled "By Fire," which relays my memory of that day in comparison with my grandfather's fragmented memories. I had a profound interest in my grandfather's military service, and his refusal to remember those days. With 9/11, I came a little closer to understanding my grandfather as more than just my grandfather, more than just an old man with Alzheimer's. I understood him as a man who will always remember where he was when ...

_________________________________________
[Excerpt: AT EASE, Chapter 6]:

By Fire

It was December, four months since I had started my freshman year at the University of North Carolina, three months since the biggest terrorist attack on the United States claimed New York’s Twin Towers and thousands of lives, seven months before Grandma and Grandpa moved back down to Florida. They had come down for a week to spend Christmas with us and prepare for their move. Mom took Grandma to see a few houses; I volunteered to walk with Grandpa at the mall since it was warm outside. December in Florida simply meant that as we decorated the Christmas tree we could wave back to the palm fronds that yawned in the sunshine.

We walked slowly, Grandpa’s body slightly bent forward as if he were at bat; he barely lifted his feet as he pushed himself forward. Occasionally he brushed one hand through the fluffs of white hair on his head or bent down to wave at a little girl. Both tender gestures reflected the young boy in the old man’s body, the kid who would rather hold a baseball bat than a flamethrower, who would rather have a pretty girl tell him to watch his mouth when he whistled at her than hear the commands of a general to go in and kill.

After the attack on September 11th I could relate to my parents and grandparents in a new way. They had different stories of where they were when John F. Kennedy was killed, what their parents had said when they heard about Pearl Harbor, how they felt when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. And at eighteen I had a story of my own.

I was in astronomy class and my professor made a passing comment about a plane crash in New York. He said it fast and most of the class didn’t hear. But in my next class we watched the news, live footage of smoke and fire barreling through buildings, people running and screaming through the streets of New York covered in dust, firemen swarming like ants, and like ants they were tiny against the power of the fire. Then we heard the live announcement that Washington, D.C. had been hit. I panicked – my oldest sister Christine attended law school in Washington and I lived five hours away from her and thirteen hours away from home where I should have been, sitting on the couch next to my father so he could explain everything to me and assure me it would be okay. My professor dismissed us as we were all visibly shaken, and I ran back to my dorm room to call Christine. When she answered the phone I cried until she convinced me she was fine. I sat on the balcony of my dorm and watched the peace around me, the sky a clear blue and the trees a rich green.

“What do you think about this war?” I wondered if Grandpa even had room to think about the war of my generation, when the war of his already dominated the parts of his brain still in tact.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Oh.”

I waited, nervous that if I pushed too hard I would push him back to the place he hid with his memory, away from the world and those who wanted to know but could never understand.

“I feel sorry for those poor boys,” he finally said. We walked a little further; our route began at Sears and we planned to loop around the carousel at the south end and come back. “How much longer are we walking?” he asked, eyeing the benches beyond the carousel.

“Do you want to sit down?”

He nodded and we sat. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“What did you do in World War II?” I doubted he would tell me; he hadn’t even told Grandma much more than the year he enlisted.

He looked at his hands. “They dropped us off in Naha, the capital city. We all jumped off the boat and ran up the beach as fast as we could. Such a beautiful place. Such a shame.”

“Do you remember much about Okinawa?”

“We ran up the beach and into the caves. And we had the flamethrowers. And we had to put the fire in the caves, and the Japanese came running out.” He breathed deeply and licked his lips. “Such a beautiful people. It was such a shame.”

don't.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 21:59:00 +0000

This week I had the chance to work on something truly meaningful. One of my coworkers asked me to re-write the copy for a brochure, advertising an annual 5K run. The run is in honor of her brother, who died seven years ago at the age of fourteen, dropping from a sudden heart attack after cross country practice. This assignment comes just four months after the news of Alison, who also died far too young. I worked on the brochure, filled with pictures of a smiling kid always surrounded by friends and family. His life obviously meant a lot to those around him, and it was lost in an instant on an otherwise normal afternoon.

The images and writing about my coworker's brother were touching, but sobering. Along with the work of coming up with a new name and new copy for the run was the work of not trying to think of my life without one of my sisters, and trying to think about if the way I've spent my 28 years so far would be considered meaningful if I died tomorrow.

As I worked, I thought about how I've changed over the years. The strange thing about getting older is that it doesn't feel that way. I'm not that old, and most of the time I still just feel like me. Of course, there are physical changes, like a slower metabolism, grey hairs, and that horrible feeling in the morning if I've eaten within an hour of going to sleep the night before.

But I have changed. I'm different than I was five years ago, two years ago, one year ago. Not unrecognizably different, and hopefully not shockingly different. The differences are not related to a radical new belief system or a major physical change. I haven't changed by doing things, but by not doing things. The list below is made up of ways I used to live - some of them were more dangerous than others, some took me a long time to learn, and some were simply things I decided to stop. These things that I no longer do have made all the difference in my health, happiness, and sense of peace - and I hope they always will.

I don't compulsively exercise.
I don't engage negative self-talk.
I don't fight for weak friendships.
I don't try to make people see things the way I do.
I don't try to fix people.
I don't brush, blow dry, flat iron, curl, or highlight my hair.
I don't care about the details of the lives of strangers, celebrities, and people I barely know.
I don't ask permission.
I don't stay up later than my body wants to.
I don't drink Diet Coke.
I don't try to please everybody.
I don't forget that everyone - and I mean everyone - is hurting in some way.

As ashamed as I am that I used to do (and still sometimes do) every single thing on this list, I'm proud of the way I've tried to conquer them. Especially the ones related to self-deprecation - constantly trying to save people from themselves, or save a parasitic friendship that I endured because I hate to see someone in pain when I think I can help. I've been hard and judgmental of people who didn't deserve it, I've consumed hundreds of gallons of chemicals in Diet Coke, and I've nearly killed myself in the pursuit of what I thought my body should look like. As a middle child and an over-achiever, I've tried to make every person happy with every decision I make, and I've always assumed that what other people thought about me must be right. I've spent hours defending my decisions and trying to get people to see things my way.

And then I got married, and moved, and bought a house, and started a small business. I got published, I invested in some great friendships, and I decided to chill out about exercise. I went to Alison's funeral and started planning two baby showers. I got burned by people I thought were strong enough to give as much as they take from a friendship, and I found grace in some unexpected places. Most importantly, I've decided that there really is no time - no time at all - to waste on things that don't matter, like perfectly toned arms, celebrity gossip, and people who won't give you the benefit of the doubt.

I'm out of time for activities and people that don't help me grow in love, strength, faith, and grace, and for activities and people that don't challenge me to be better to myself, to others, and to the world. And because, as chilling as it is to learn this through an unexpected death, time is precious. Unpredictable. Often unfair. I have no idea how long I have. But whether it's another four years or another sixty-five, I want to add to the list of things I don't do. The less harmful, negative, and fearfully I live, the brighter my life will shine.

fear.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 17:08:00 +0000

Yesterday I had lunch with my best friend in Nashville. We were at a tiny burger joint, and at 12:30pm on a Tuesday, it was filled with men. We managed to squeeze ourselves into a spot at the greasy counter, facing the grills and sharing elbow space with men all around.

"I quit smoking," she said to me. I smiled, but didn't see the big deal, as she only smoked a few cigarettes a day to deal with the stress of her new business.
"And I stopped eating white bread and sugar."
"That's ... a lot to quit at once!" I said, wondering why she would bring up a new diet while we were eating burgers and fries.
She smiled and looked directly at me. "I'm having a baby."

______________

On Saturday my husband and I participated in A Novel Idea - Jumpstart, a one-day workshop for adults who want to write a novel. A staunch creative nonfiction writer, I was nervous, but ready for a new challenge: fiction. The untrue. The invented. The haven from reality.
As Kristen guided us through the organization and outlining phases, she stressed the importance of emotional truth in fiction. We nonfiction writers use the phrase "emotional truth" to get away with writing creatively about things that have happened to us, even if we don't remember all the details. But in fiction, it means something else. It means that even if you don't know what it's like to be an alien on Mars, you might know what it's like to be lonely, isolated and maybe a little weird. You can use that emotional truth to convincingly write about an alien on Mars ... you simply transfer your emotional truth to the character.

_________________

Every night my husband and I pray for a list of babies-to-be. Three close family members and a dear friend are all expecting later this year or early next, and I've been sharing their excitement. My sister sends me the weekly email she receives, explaining how big the baby is and what developmental milestones he/she is reaching that week. I'm thrilled. Fascinated. And because each of these women had a very different experience, I have lots of questions. What does it feel like to be pregnant? How did fertility drugs hurt your body? Could your husband relate to how you were feeling? How did you explain to friends that you were still trying, a year later? Are you afraid to give birth? My husband and I are nowhere near ready to start a family, but it's something we want to do someday. And I've always assumed that when we're ready, it will happen.

__________________

We squealed like we were fifteen years old, despite the greasy counter and despite the room full of men eating lunch. I hugged her, as best I could from an adjacent stool, and thought about how lucky her family was. She already has two of the most adorable boys on the planet, and now they would have a little brother or sister. She's an incredible mother. Her husband is a fabulous dad. They nurture their kids with love, discipline and creativity, and I was ecstatic that they would be bringing more life into this world.
"A new baby is the best news there is," I said. "New life ... what else is there?"

___________________

Kristen told us that most of the teenagers she teaches write about protagonists whose parents have died.
"It's simple," she said, "they're afraid their parents will die. So they write about it through their character. All stories boil down to love, loss, or fear. At some point, we're all writing about what we fear."
This line haunted me. I'd already started jotting down notes for a character that had suddenly leapt into my head. Typically I write about elderly people with dementia. It's something that I've dealt with - a lot - and something that I think about on a daily basis. So they always worm their way into my writing.
But this character was a woman, slightly older than I am. She was happily married and an accomplished painter. And she couldn't have a baby.

____________________

Once we finish praying for the moms-to-be, I silently pray for another list of women: those who desperately want children. One is painfully enduring fertility treatments with no luck. One is giving herself daily shots as part of the in vitro fertilization process. Another has endured the emotional roller coaster of trying to adopt from more than one mother who decided at the last minute to keep her baby. And these are just the people I know. This doesn't account for the devastatingly long list of women who want to conceive.

____________________

"I'm writing about a woman who can't get pregnant," I told my husband in the car on the way home. "I guess I'm really afraid that I won't be able to."
"Why are you afraid?"
"Well, I'll feel broken," I said slowly. "Like I have a body that was designed, at the root of everything, to do this one incredible thing, but my parts don't work. What will we do if I can't get pregnant?"

_____________________

"Once you establish your protagonist, you need to figure out what that person wants. And then you need to decide if, at the end, he or she gets it."
For some reason, I decided immediately that my protagonist wasn't going to get her baby. Fertility treatments would be unsuccessful. She didn't want to adopt someone else's baby. She would decide, at the end, that the life she gives to the world is through her art, her compassion and the way her husband seemed to come alive when they met years earlier. It won't be an easy decision, and it will take the whole novel (50,000 words?) to get to. She'll have to go through scenes of screaming, of fighting, of dark and terrible thoughts. She might become depressed, she might consider leaving her husband. She might wonder what her purpose on this earth is. But somehow, she'll survive. At first I thought I was cruel for deciding so suddenly that she wouldn't get her baby. Until I realized that I don't fear struggling for a while until I have a baby. I fear not having a baby. And that's what I'll write.

_____________________

My husband knows me well enough to know that my elation over the babies of our friends is not my secret way of saying, "I WANT A BABY." It's how I relate to the people I love. Their joy is my joy. Their pain is my pain. It's impossible to truly love someone unless you have the capacity for empathy. The ability to crawl down into the well of despair, or to sprint to the top of the mountain. The people who really love you are the people who, when you open your eyes after the best or worst ordeal, are right there.

_____________________

"You need to care about your characters, and write characters that other people care about. And the way to do that is by using your emotional truth. What do you know? What do you love? What do you fear? Give these to your character. You have to understand them, and go with them to the places you send them. You have to be extremely empathetic to do this. And that's why people who don't empathize, people who never bother to see things from another person's point of view, don't write. They might try, but they can't do it. It's all about them."

______________________

I don't know what it feels like to be pregnant, to miscarry, to take fertility pills. I don't know what it feels like to fight with my husband over who is to blame. I don't know what it's like to take a pregnancy test and hope it's positive. But I know love. I know loss. I know fear. While these are not enough to give me a baby when the time comes, they are enough to write. Enough to empathize. Enough to file away for the next time I receive any kind of news. And hopefully, enough to connect with the people around me, whether in the well or on the mountain.

news.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 18:23:00 +0000

(Aleksander Hemon. "The Aquarium: a child's isolating illness." The New Yorker, June 13, 2011.)

After the earthquake and tsunami in Japan hit, I plunged into news overload. For days I read articles, watched videos and scanned pictures - the same ones over and over. The horror of it was not simply gripping ... it was paralyzing. I didn't know how to balance the seemingly trivial existence of my every day with the overwhelming tragedy of this disaster. The same thing happened when I recently lost an old friend. Thanks to the Internet, I could read and re-read blog entries about her progress, read and re-read her online obituary, read and re-read news articles from the DC area to report that "the pedestrian" had succumbed to her injuries.

My access to and fascination with the nonstop images, reporting and details of tragedy worried me. My id told me to learn more, read more, see more (after all, I'm a curious person - if there's something to learn, I'm going to learn it). My superego told me to block these sites from my computer so I would be able to focus on my tasks at hand, the tasks that reminded me I am accountable to and responsible for the life I'm still living. My ego was nowhere to be found. I think she was shell-shocked, too.

***

I read the above quote in The New Yorker earlier this month, in Hemon's personal account of dealing with his child's rare and threatening illness. I was struck by the necessity to "manage our knowledge and our imaginations if we were not to lose our minds." Never before would I have agreed that managing knowledge and imagination was a wise move ... but for this man and his wife, it was necessary for emotional, mental and psychological survival.

Unfortunately, we can't always choose what we see and what we don't. Even signing into an email account is a bombardment of headlines, images and pop-ups that are seemingly impossible to close (could they make that "X" in the corner any tinier?). But we can choose how frequently we return to these channels. How many times we Google a story, a person, an image. How deep we will allow ourselves to go. With massive wide-world tragedy, it seems like the safest solution may be to read what has happened, and limit the details. Our brains have trouble processing crises that we can't control, solve or even affect in any way. So in desperation, it spurs us to keep reading, keep reading, keep reading ... thinking surely we'll stumble upon a way to undo all the wrong.

***

This week, unprompted, I learned sad news of friends. A relationship broken, two people damaged, old sores re-opened and new scars forming. As a friend, as a woman, as a sensitive person, I always take this kind of news hard. I want to scream at our shocking ability as humans to hurt each other deeply, cry for our tendency to let past hurts disable us, question the disrespect we show each other simply because we don't respect ourselves enough. As humans. As souls. I want to know why we walk into situations knowing we'll get hurt, why we let people get close knowing we won't be able to care enough to keep them safe, why we don't say the things we desperately want to say until it's too late. I love you. I'm sorry. I want to know why the legacy of hurt, abuse, disrespect, and betrayal exists. The laws of natural selection should dictate that a legacy of damage doesn't - and maybe can't - produce strong, healthy runners of the human race, and so the legacy dies out. But instead, courage, hope and the tiniest specks of trust keep people moving forward, trying again to form meaningful, lasting relationships. Sometimes, it works. Often, it doesn't. Simply can't.

With this news came the natural temptation to know all. What did he say? What did you say? What time did he call? How long have you loved her? Who cried? For how long? My temptation might admittedly stem from my writer's interest in detail, dialogue and the human condition. But when it comes to a friend, my interest comes from a desire to say the right thing. I want to know the facts before I know how to respond. I need to know the depth of hurt and volume of pain before we can talk about an exit strategy, a coping mechanism, a plan to make the next day better than this one.

But in this week of heaviness, carrying around the emotional weight of hurting people, I've come to two important realizations.

1. I don't need to know.
2. I don't want to know.

The first means that as a friend, I can be as supportive knowing nothing as I can knowing everything. Really, what friends want is an ear, a shoulder and some company. If they want real treatment, they can talk to a licensed therapist. If they want the counsel and comfort of a friend, they have the right to share or withhold whatever information they choose. And as the friend being asked to share the burden, I have the right to refuse some of the weight.

The second means that, as Hemon discovered, managing knowledge and imagination is a safety measure. Information can be intriguing and powerful, but it can be damaging. I ache for hurting people, but my heart and mind need to be strong for my life, my marriage, my relationships. I can't bring the weight of the world into my home. Nor should I feel like it's my duty as a friend, as a citizen of a broken world.

***

The news is a powerful, wonderful connector. We need it. We live by it. But without balance, we'll die by it. Just as we can't ignore the news, we can't carry the weight of every problem, every scandal, every natural disaster, every pop star's mental breakdown. We can grieve for the people in Joplin, Missouri, and give money, relief efforts, and prayers. We can pity the devastated marriages that make headlines in Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., and we can learn to be grateful that while the flawed people we love may irk us, they don't betray us. And then we need to close the computer, put down the paper. We need to live life by the people and situations that confront us, challenge us, demand our attention, care and input. We need to reach out to people without jumping into the currents with both feet. We need to keep ourselves safe for the people in our own relationships.

In an age where information is rampant, heavy and draining, we need to be careful. By managing and protecting information and imagination, we keep them both strong. And the stronger we are, the more we have to give in the times we're truly needed.

q&a.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 20:59:00 +0000

This morning I started my day like any other. I woke up at 5:30, got dressed, went for a walk and called my sister. But instead of finishing off the routine with yoga before leaving for work, I called a 6th grade classroom in Florida for a Q&A session. My role in this session? The author.

Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?
Who is your favorite author?
Are you going to write another book?

*

Six years ago I was in the Harvard COOP bookstore with my sister. I had just begun my MFA program, and was already dreaming about seeing my name on the cover of a book. We walked through the aisles and scanned the walls of must-reads before circling a round table with a sign that read "Summer Reading." It was the collection of books on required reading lists, the lists compiled by teachers, administrators, and school board members. These were the books that educators wanted their students to read, some because they are fixtures in the literary canon, and others because they were new books with good vocabulary and timely subject matter. Regardless of the reasons, all of the books on this table were deemed to be important, with the consensus that young people should read this. As I read through the titles, Jane Eyre, To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, The Old Man and the Sea, I had a revelation.

"You know what my dream is?" I said. "Not the New York Times Best-Seller List. Not the 'New Arrivals' wall. I want to be on this table."

*

Agents weren't interested in my book. But once I self-published, I had a customer base of family and friends ... and their families and friends. Through good ol' fashioned word-of-mouth networking (with the help of social media), I had a group of fans who believed in the story enough to share it. And it didn't cost me a dime. This networking made its way to Joycy, a woman who has been close to our family since she and my older sister were twelve years old. Joycy is a teacher, and incorporated the book into her curriculum, assigning chapters for her students to read at home while reading other parts aloud in class. I was floored.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" she said. "I'm entering 'At Ease chapters 4-5' in their online homework board, the same way I do with Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird."

But those books are so important, I thought. Everyone has to read them! And then it dawned on me that Joycy wasn't doing me a favor. She wasn't trying to make me feel good about myself. She thought the book was important. She wanted her students to read it, understand it and learn from it. It wasn't a suggestion. It was required reading.

*

With no traditional gatekeeper (an agent, a publisher, a bookstore), people are allowed to decide for themselves whether or not a self-published book has any merit, value or importance in the world. And when they pass it on to people they know, people who trust them, they become the new gatekeepers, gatekeepers more interested in the truth of a story than its marketing potential.

"The only problem I had," Joycy said, "is that I didn't pre-read the entire book before reading aloud in class. There were times I got choked up and had to ask a student to continue reading."

Could there be any greater reward for the years of trying to get people to read my book? Is there any greater way to honor the lives of my grandfather, grandmother and rest of my family?

There was one more way. Joycy arranged for my grandmother to come to the class and speak to the students. One of the heroes from the book, right there in front of them. A real person who had survived the devastating trauma of losing her spouse to Alzheimer's. An elder deserving great honor. I couldn't be more proud today. Proud of myself for continuing to work through the frustration of being rejected 100+ times to finally get the book in front of people. Proud of Joycy for deciding that the book was important enough to add on the extra work of re-arranging her schedule, curriculum and homework assignments. And most of all, proud of my grandmother, who continues to live her life as fully as she can, more fully than people half her age, despite the fact that she had to sacrifice her own life every day while she cared for my grandfather.

I answered the students' questions eagerly (yes, I always knew I wanted to write; my favorite writers are Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff; yes, I want to write another book). And when they asked about my grandmother, I told them, "If I'm half as strong as she is by the time I'm her age, I'll have done all right for myself."

Today, I feel strong.

******
If you are an educator and would like to know more about the curriculum Joycy designed and used to teach At Ease, email her at Joycy@cbglades.com. I would be more than happy to provide you with free coupon codes so you and/or your students can download the book for free (it can still be purchased for $2.49 from Smashwords, Barnes&Noble, and iBooks - see links on the sidebar!).

disappointment.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Tue, 24 May 2011 19:35:00 +0000

On May 22, I felt an overwhelming sense of pity. Sympathy, maybe. As everyone knows, a fringe sect (some might say cult) of Christians believed the world would end on May 21. And they didn't keep it to themselves. They created websites, wrote articles, made t-shirts and paraded through the streets of major cities in buses with fear-mongering verses about hell and damnation. They were passionate, excited and yes, over-the-top. But they really believed the world would end, and for them, assured they would go to heaven, it would be the best day of their lives, the last day they had to live on earth (which for many people, for many reasons, is indeed a happy thought).

But May 21 came and went. The Internet quickly became clogged with jokes, pictures of "rapture pranks" and articles proclaiming the absurdity of how fervently these people believed in something that never happened at all. I admit, I laughed at a few, and we jokingly texted our pastor to see if he was still around. He replied that clearly the good Lord wouldn't let him leave earth until he finished working on the house, so he was still there.

The more I thought about it, and the more mockery I heard, the sadder I felt. No, I didn't believe for a second the world would end on May 21. And no, I don't believe for a second that fear-mongering, extreme behavior and hate-spreading is ever acceptable. But I believe in the pain of disappointment, the sadness of being so damn sure that something will happen ... and then it doesn't.

Every day, weddings are planned. They are elaborate, they are expensive and they are widely publicized. And why not? It's the happiest day in the world for the would-be couple, and so they pick a day and shout it from the rooftops (we did, anyway). Every day after we picked our day, I counted down. 186 days left! 47 days left! 2 days left! Tomorrow! And that morning, I woke up, put on my dress, and got married. But so many weddings don't turn out this way. Some are canceled months before, some days. And some are suddenly canceled on the day of the event, as one or the other gets cold feet or runs away or any number of tragic surprises. So the day after the wedding, the jilted one is still not married. He/she is still alone, and everyone who was invited - everyone who had been frequently reminded of the day it would happen - knew it had not happened. I can't think of a greater disappointment for a bride or groom-to-be, and no greater shame and embarrassment. We told everyone, they must think. We told everyone and invited them and nothing happened.

There is also the unspeakable tragedy of losing a baby. Again, a date is declared. Rooms are painted, clothes are bought. Showers are planned and everyone makes their predictions: the baby will be a day early! It's definitely a boy! And then suddenly, inexplicably, the baby is gone. I know neither the joy of expecting a baby nor the devastation of losing one. But I sense that the depth of disappointment is immeasurable. We knew he was coming. We knew the day. We told everyone. We canceled our summer plans because we would be too far along.

Some people move to start to new jobs. They have a start date, so they sell their houses, pack up their families and move to a new place. Most likely, they arrive a few days before the start date to get settled in. And on the day, there is no job. For one reason or a million others, jobs don't work out. People turn out to be scumbags. Hopeful workers are unemployed. But I moved my family. I quit my other job. I told my kids we couldn't go on vacation because it was the first week of my new job.

Granted, the May 21 crowd was extreme, and seems to happen (at least publicly) with far less frequency than other dashed hopes. But we are all human, and our brains and hearts work together to form appropriate responses. And there is nothing that confuses our brains more than unmet expectations. This is why certain musical sounds hurt our ears, why natural disaster leaves us speechless. This is why we hate movies where the boy shows up with flowers and the girl refuses him anyway. We decide and expect the way the world should work, and when it doesn't, we are shattered.

So I feel pity for the extreme disappointment the May 21 believers must have felt on May 22. I have stopped reading about them because frankly I've lost interest, but I'm sure they have a perfectly logical explanation for why they are still here, 3 days later. The logical explanation might work as a Bandaid, a way to save face when the world says, "You're still here, huh? Nice plan."

But we'd never think that way about a jilted groom or a heart-broken pregnant woman or a suddenly unemployed family member. We know the excitement of having a specific date and the joy of sharing that specific date with the world. We know what it feels like to expect the greatest day of our lives, and the crushing reality of that day turning out like any other, only worse because "we're still here" (on earth, for the May 21 believers, and in the same situation for everyone else).

I hope that the disappointment of May 21 will lead some of those people to some deeper reflection and understanding. I hope they will learn greater compassion for the people they so quickly condemned to hell on May 22, and I hope that in turn, they will receive the same compassion we all so desperately need every time we feel the world has ended.

listening.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Thu, 12 May 2011 19:10:00 +0000

Those readers who know me in person know that I am, well, loud. My voice is loud, my laugh is loud, my gait is loud (it's inevitable when you walk as fast as a person who has lived in Boston). I like loud music, loud conversation, and loud white noise (which we use at night to hide the silence and its variety of soft, creepy noises).

I know someone who finally got hearing aids after years of nodding along, asking people to repeat themselves, and not going to the movies because it was too hard to distinguish the voices. The doctor's tests revealed that he had 50% loss in both ears - he was only hearing half the world around him.

With hearing aids, he was shocked to discover the sounds of things he had previously assumed to be silent. The ding of his car's turn signal. The click of his fingers on a keyboard. The wind. Most of these sounds are annoyances I've always tried to mask: the car radio covers the sound of the blinker, headphones at work make my keyboard silent, our record player absorbs the wind.

Last night I set to work on a new culinary pursuit: homemade marshmallows and graham crackers for *mostly* homemade s'mores. I didn't start until after 8pm, so I had to rush (marshmallow needs at least 4 hours to sit, and the graham dough chills for at least 2 hours before baking ... time was of the essence!). I didn't bother to change into clothes that could be dusted with powdered sugar, didn't measure out all the ingredients at once, and, most remarkably, I didn't turn on any music. I always cook with music - always! If it's the record player, it's the Beatles; if it's the CD player, it's Ray Charles. Cooking is such a physical, back-and-forth activity that I have to set it to music, like a dance.

But in my fury to get these time-consuming recipes completed before dawn, I worked in silence.

Not silence.

Un-silence.

Silence filled with sounds I'd never noticed over the usual sounds of legendary music, my own voice adding to the noise while I sang along. Sounds I'd never noticed over a conversation with someone in the kitchen, over the TV's laugh-track in the living room, over the ring of my cell phone.

Last night I heard the sounds of cooking: the drumbeat of my fingers against the back of a metal pan as I coated the inside with powdered sugar; the tinny of gelatin mix and salt against a stainless steel bowl; the whir of my Kitchenaid mixer on low; the sizzle of sugar, corn syrup, water and salt heating over the stove; the soft splash of the sugar mixture pouring over the gelatin; the racing, locomotive engine sounds of the mixer on high.

Even marshmallow has sound: the soft footfall of the gooey mixture hitting the bottom of the pan, the rub of the powdered sugar between my fingers, the cornstarch clumps rolling across the top of the marshmallow as I tilted the pan back and forth.

The graham cracker process was no less un-silent: the pulse of the food processor incorporating chunks of cold butter, the smack of the plastic wrap folding over itself as I set the dough to chill, the flour against the cutting board, the brushing sound of my hand wiping excess flour from the rolling pin. The crinkle of parchment paper, the scrape of metal on metal as the pan went into the oven. The peeling sound of warm grahams being tugged away from the parchment.

My astonishment over these noises may sound ridiculous, considering all the time I spend in the kitchen. But I am rarely in the kitchen alone, and I am never in the kitchen in silence. Even a cell phone call is enough to mask the sound of flour hitting salt hitting sugar hitting baking soda as I measure one after another in tiny amounts. Last night, I heard it.

Aware of all the noise, the un-silence, I was actually making drew me into the process as I've never been drawn in before. Instead of talking things through with people or singing along while the mixer spins, I absorbed every sound. The ingredients and kitchen appliances had my undivided attention as I quietly focused. Listened.

Sometimes I think we are convinced that a bombardment of noise from elsewhere, especially TVs, iPods, and phones will keep us from feeling too quiet, because too quiet often means too alone.

But in the pursuit of being fully engaged in a solitary activity I discovered more real sounds than ever. I realized that while these sounds have always been the soundtrack to my passion for cooking, I've only been hearing half the world around me by deafening myself with other noise - and now that I know I can hear it, I want to listen.

unique.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 18:59:00 +0000

(in loving memory of Alison)

Last week Kevin and I had dinner with some dear friends who have a 2-year old and a 3-month old. Their lives have changed dramatically since they had children, their world turned upside down. We had a pretty dramatic year ourselves. In the span of less than one year, we were engaged, married, transplanted to a new state, and homeowners. Each decision felt like the biggest of our lives. People do this every day, we kept reminding ourselves. But that didn't make it any easier. When we shared this with Brian and April, they laughed.

"Wait till you have kids," they said. "To you, every moment is the biggest deal of your life. But everyone has kids. So you're saying, 'Guess what! My child is potty-trained!' but everyone has already gone through it. It feels like the whole world has changed, but it really only has to you."

We laughed. We don't have kids, but we understood. Lots of people get married and buy houses and move to a new place. We're not unique. But these experiences were unique to us. And that's why they seemed to carry all the weight of the world.

Yesterday I received devastating news. An old friend had been in a coma for over two weeks after being hit by a truck while walking her dog. I've been following the blog updates, smiling at the old pictures, and wishing I'd kept in better touch after high school. I have photo albums at my parents' house filled with pictures of sleepovers, school dances and volleyball games with Alison. It's impossible for me to remember middle or high school without seeing her face. One of those friends. Yesterday, however, the decision was made to take her off life-support, as she had zero brain activity and couldn't breathe on her own. She was here, and now she's gone.

News like this always hits hard. Not hard like a test or a tough decision or even the proverbial ton of bricks. Hard like the world picking you up and throwing you out into space where you watch from above while gasping for air. It doesn't make sense, it's not fair. No good answer works, no matter how strong my faith is, and no matter how strong my belief that everything happens for a reason. In that moment, nothing you've ever known seems to matter.

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis writes:

"When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer.' It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'"

And to anyone who's experienced loss - sudden, unexpected, unplanned loss - that's exactly what it is. I do not understand. This isn't my first time, either. Alison is the fourth friend of mine who's had a sudden accident that led to a coma, and the third of those who have succumbed to the injury (oh the joy when that one friend emerged and began a slow recovery). Beyond that list of four, I can list (I did, actually) ten people I've known or loved or (usually) both who have died. And while according to the other patterns we've learned as humans, according to the principles of learning and familiarity, by the 10th time it should make sense. And yet, it never does. Each time is another expulsion to that outer, airless world of confusion, choked up emotion, a deep, heavy sadness covering everything like the blanket they draped over the shoulders of my sisters and I when we were in a car accident in high school. Here, they said, this will keep you from going into shock.

The problem, though, is that this happens every day. Every single day of every single year, people are suddenly gone, torn from their families, close friends and extended circles of those who have ever known or loved them. And the more they have given, done or engaged the world, the wider those circles are. In the hospital where Alison died, thousands have died before and will die again. Her parents are not the first to grieve, her boyfriend is not the first to go into shock, her sister is not the first abandoned sibling. I am not the first devastated friend from long ago. But to them, and to me, it certainly feels that way. In the grieving, questioning and endless pounding on the door demanding to know Why?, our experience is suddenly unique, individual, and earth-shattering. Instead of taking comfort in others have survived this before me, we wrap ourselves tightly in nobody knows, because nobody else is me.

When you are the one who receives the news, visits the hospital, chokes on tears at the graveside, you might as well be the only person who has ever grieved. No previous illness, accident or death ever prepares you for another. Some like to say that these grieving processes make you stronger, but I'm not sure if I agree (at least, not today). I don't feel stronger after loss. I feel cold, I feel silent, I feel anxious. I feel lost. What place is this? Where can I hide?

People do this every day. They get married, they move, they buy houses, they have children, they lose children. They grieve and rage and try to move on. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they can't. Either way, the experience is unique. Nobody has ever been them, in that moment, grieving the loss of that person. And for that reason, try as they might, nobody else can truly understand.

congratulations.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 22:01:00 +0000

At my college graduation in 2005, I was showered with cards and wishes of "Congratulations!" I smiled, thanked everyone, and scratched my head. Why was I being congratulated? I went to college, did my work, and finished in four years. To me, it didn't seem that remarkable. My aunt tried to explain that it was a big deal, that I should see it as an accomplishment. But I wasn't convinced. To me it felt like being congratulated for going to work every day. I signed up to do it, I did it, and now it was done. What was the big deal?

The same thing happened when we got married. Everyone was happy, and came with more wishes of congratulations. Again, I didn't get it. I knew it was a happy occasion, but where was the achievement in saying "I do" and marrying someone I loved? I didn't feel like we'd necessarily accomplished anything--we'd just committed to share a life together, something we really wanted to do. It didn't seem like a great feat or a huge success after lots of hard work. In fact, we felt like we'd gotten away with something way too easily.

Then I self-published my book. My fellow writers understand the love/hate relationship with self-publishing: I love the idea that my book is finally out there, and hate the idea that I couldn't convince an agent to pick it up. So when I finally self-published and started promoting the ebook, I was shocked at the response I got from friends and family: congratulations. Really? Maybe you didn't hear me right, I thought. Maybe you thought I said, "I got published," instead of, "I self-published." No? You understood just fine? And you're saying congratulations? But it was second-best, plan B. It was something to do in lieu of the accomplishment I originally wanted. And yet, the well wishes came pouring in.

While I am pleased that I graduated from college, married a person I love and self-published a book, I've been struggling with the concept of congratulations. So like most things I'm struggling with, I took it to Google. "Congratulations etymology" went into the search box, and I found this:

congratulation

mid-15c., from L. congratulationem , noun of action from congratulari "wish joy," from com- "together, with" + gratulari "give thanks, show joy," from gratus "agreeable" (see grace).

I clicked on the grace link and found this:

grace
late 12c., "God's favor or help," from O.Fr. grace "pleasing quality, favor, good will, thanks," from L. gratia "pleasing quality, good will, gratitude," from gratus "pleasing, agreeable," from PIE base *gwer- "to praise, welcome" (cf. Skt. grnati "sings, praises, announces," Lith. giriu "to praise, celebrate," Avestan gar- "to praise").

Suddenly, my mind made sense of it all. It wasn't that I'd accomplished something deserving of praise. It wasn't that people were proud at these unique and challenging undertakings. It wasn't them looking in on me and saying, "She's so wonderful! Look what she did!" It's them standing next to me, saying, "We are thankful with you. We are joyful with you. And we wish you God's favor or help, which you are sure to need as you continue to move through this life." Nobody was singing my praises for graduating or getting married ... they were singing the praises of life, of grace, of joy.

Over the weekend we watched Country Strong, in which Gwyneth Paltrow plays a country music star who ultimately self-destructs under the pressures of her fame and lifestyle. It was predictable and familiar, and it was sad. At one point in the movie, I shouted out what I thought would happen next. It happened, just as I knew it would, and I started crying. "You knew it was coming," Kevin said, "and you're still crying?" I couldn't help it ... the world thrust her onto a pedestal and stood below clapping and cheering. She was at the top, and she was alone. And alone, she couldn't survive.

Where is the line? What differentiates the true meaning of "congratulations," a coming together in joy, support and gratitude, from the adulterated version, a complete separation of one successful person from everyone else in the world? I suppose it depends on who's cheering you on.

When my parents congratulated me at my graduation, they were really saying, "We're still here for you." When my sisters congratulated me at my wedding, they were really saying, "We've got your back if you ever need us." When my husband congratulated me for self-publishing, he meant, "I'm so happy people are reading your book."

The people in my life know that while a graduation, marriage and self-published book are special, they are by no means extraordinary or particularly unusual. Their congratulations were not for the accomplishment of an unbelievable feat, but for the reminder that I am not alone on this planet. Unlike the celebrity who is admired but abandoned to a private, threatening world, ordinary people who pursue what they love (education, families, creative arts) and are supported by their friends and families get the most out of congratulations. They get the joy, celebration, help, and grace. They get the reminder that it's not only about what you've done, but who's been by your side. They get the safe place to hide if the perfect plan turns out less than perfect.

These are the gifts I've received for pursuing what I love, and these are the congratulations that keep me strong. As I re-think the meaning of congratulations, I'm tempted to use it more often, in all of its variations: a call when it's needed, a note of encouragement, a pan of lasagna. Anything that combines the "together" with "grace." Anything that makes someone else feel less alone.

(self)published!

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 02:48:00 +0000

I did it. I self-published. And I'm thrilled.

Some books are less commercial than others, which makes them poor choices for agents and publishing giants.

But these books can be the most timely, and thus the ones that need to be shared by any means possible.

I believe mine is one such book, so I have swallowed the prideful idea that my book wasn't good unless I had an agent and decided to just share it.

Download it at here - it only costs $2.49, and 25% of all sales go directly to the Alzheimer's Association. Please consider clicking the "share" options to spread the word via Facebook and Twitter, and if you get the chance to read the book, please write a review on smashwords.com.

Thanks for your continued support!

leaning.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 21:08:00 +0000

In five months, we've made some good friends who have helped us out with everything from airport pick ups to recommending a good car mechanic. We've appreciated these people all along the way, but didn't realize how much we needed them until this week - house week.

It's been a little over 1 week since we moved into the new house, and in that week we added to this extremely important group of people...people to call in a crisis.*

I. Moving

In the city, moving is like going out to the movies - you know who to call, you know who will most likely be interested, and you know who has their own car. Kevin and I each had our Boston regulars, people we always called to help us move apartments (usually in and out of 3rd floor walk-ups), for the small price of pizza after the move. We had the friend with the truck, the friend who could lift a dresser by himself, the friend who was great at organizing boxes in the back of a car. When we moved into our apartment in Nashville, we had come down with Kevin's father and brother - they were incredibly helpful, but after the move, they went back home to Tampa and Boston.

And then we bought a house. And I went to send my customary "It's moving time!" email. But...who of the people in our little world here would help us move? Who considered us close enough friends to give up a Tuesday evening loading and unloading a U-Haul? Who actually enjoyed the physical aspect of carrying furniture, and would willingly lend a hand? We came up with tentative lists, but it was hard to know for sure.

Kevin posted something on Facebook. People replied! And then a few people offered, simply because they knew we were moving, not because they had seen the Facebook message. And on moving day, two more people showed up. In the end, there were 7 of us:

Kevin
me
Travis, guitar player/singer/creator of Kevin's band, Travis Egnor and the Mighty Oaks
Travis' wife, Jessi
Paul, keyboard player from Kevin's band
Caitlin, Kevin's Vandy friend
Andrew, my coworker/friend, and husband of my new wonderful writing friend Kristen

The move was successful. Nothing broke, nothing scratched, and nobody complained. They moved our life from an apartment to a house, and we gave them pizza. And at the end of the night, when everyone had gone home, Kevin and I smiled - there were people here who cared about us.

II. Cats

Whether they own cats, dogs, or chinchillas, there is one thing all pet owners have in common: anxiety about leaving the pets home alone. Of course, we know they're fine. And of course, we know that some pets probably enjoy a little down time without the humans making fun of them (ok, yes, we do that). We were fortunate to have friends early on who had pets and lived nearby, and they were wonderful about stopping in when we were gone. But now, in a new neighborhood, too far to reasonably ask our previous helpers, what would we do? We went to Florida only 3 days after moving in, for a weekend visit with my family. A weekend trip usually doesn't require pet-sitters for cats - a little extra food and water, and a clean litter box.

But without even asking, we had help. Travis and Jessi, who have the most adorable and giant dogs (Great Dane and St. Bernard), heard that we were leaving town and asked, "What about your cats?" When I said that we would just leave them with some extra food, Jessi replied, "I'll go over Saturday night."

As a pet owner, she also understood that it's more than filling the food bowl and leaving. They went over together, spent a little time with the cats, and sent us a text message after to say that the kitties were fine (they even brought in our mail, which we hadn't even mentioned). It was nice to know that there were people who "get it." They wanted to help because they know what it's like to worry about the care of your pets while you're gone. And now, thanks to their help, we don't have to worry.

III. Hygiene

While we had been diligent in setting up the necessary accounts and services, we hit some snags in our first week in the new home:

Our washer and dryer wouldn't arrive until Saturday. Since we had given back our rental units the previous Monday, we were approaching two weeks with no laundry.
Our water was turned off.
Our gas was turned off.

You may be thinking that we are dumb, that obviously the water and gas wouldn't magically stay on. We had moved in on a Tuesday, to find that the gas and water were on. The heat worked! The water was hot! We enjoyed these comforts for a whole week, and then they just stopped. In that first week we were prepared to receive a bill with instructions to change the account information - but with everything working fine, who would think to call and request service?

Service companies love to give an 8 hour window of time, with 30 minutes' notice. However, when they shut it off, there's no notice. So in the netherworld of waiting for things to be re-connected, we had no laundry, no hot water for dishes and showering, and no heat in the house during a surprisingly chilly week.

We stuck it out as long as we could with cold splash showers and last resort clothes, but after a few days we'd had enough. Kevin had band practice last night at Travis' house, so we both went over with our laundry, shower stuff, and a change of clothes. We thanked Travis and Jessi profusely, and when Kevin went upstairs to practice, I put in two loads of laundry, did yoga with Jessi, and took a long, hot shower. Travis came downstairs to look for something and I thanked him again. He laughed and said, "It's not a problem...I was actually really happy that Kevin asked."

That's when it really hit me. Sure, I know it's not a big deal to let someone use the shower, or stop in to feed the cat, or lift a few boxes into a truck. But there's a big difference between someone who's willing to help and someone who wants to help. I realized that we'd found more than just people we like with similar interests. In five months, we hadn't just found friends - we'd found friends to lean on. And soon they'll know that they can lean on us, too.
____________________________

*It should be noted that there are some awesome friends who helped us out in the apartment days, and we are just as grateful for their help: Nathaniel, Laura, Ashley, Blake, Tiffany, Andy, Brian. A blog entry about every time one of these people helped us out in the last five months would be 20,000 words long. In short, THANK YOU!

pellegrino.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 22:40:00 +0000

Pellegrino was not my grandfather. He was not even related to me. He was an old man with broken English who smoked on the porch and wore a red knit cardigan from September - May. Every morning I came down from my third floor apartment, left the house and said, "Buongiorno!" and he would check his watch and say, "You late! You sleep all a-day!" Every evening I'd come home and say, "Buona sera!" and he'd say, "You late! You been sleeping all a-day!" Some days I thought he might really be crazy; other days I thought he was just being silly; most days I thought he was a combination of both, so like my grandfather in the years before he died.

Today I found out that Pellegrino died in January. He was in his 80s, he had bladder cancer, and he had been living with his daughter since last year. I moved out of the apartment in 2009, and missed him when I came down from my new third floor apartment every day to an empty porch, wishing an old Italian man would be there to tease me.

My friend Kristen hates when people speak in the 2nd person ("You know when....?") because more often than not, the thing they're describing is unique to them and you have no idea what they mean.

But I'm going to say it: You know when someone dies, and you grieve all over again for a person you lost years ago?

And I'm going to ask: Do you know why that happens?

I don't. And I don't think it's fair, either. My grandfather's death in 2005 was profoundly difficult for me. He was the first person I loved that had ever died. His was the first funeral I'd been to, and his was the first life that I'd truly seen deteriorate, watching year after year as Alzheimer's greedily took more and more of him away from us. I keep writing about him, partly because he makes for a beautiful story, but also because I keep thinking - hoping - desperately wishing - that writing about him will eventually turn him into a character, someone that no longer has the power to clench at my heart when I least expect it, someone whose heaviness I will no longer carry around on days that it seems he just has to be alive: Veterans' Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my wedding day.

After he died, I lost him again - when my cousin's grandfather died, when Kevin and I watched The Savages, when the grandmother in Kristen's novel died. I like to think of myself as optimistic, someone who doesn't wallow in misery - but when I think of how often I think of this, I wonder why I keep getting trapped. I lost Grampy again today when I heard about Pellegrino.

Maybe it was the Italian, the silliness, the ability to predict what he would say and how he would tease me. The conversations we had over and over again because he didn't remember he'd told me - or maybe he did remember, but was so grateful for a captive audience that he re-told them anyway. Or maybe it was that I felt like I'd already lost Pellegrino, when I moved from Medford to Winthrop, too far to see him every day but content knowing exactly where he was if I wanted to see him.

When I was a kid, probably in second grade, Grampy told me that he and my grandmother were moving to Georgia. To a young kid in Florida, that seemed like moving to Mars. We saw them for holidays and summer visits, but in a way I felt like I'd lost him. We got them back years later when they moved to Florida, when I was old enough to know what was going on but young enough to feel completely helpless. And then we lost him all the time - when he forgot where we lived, when he forgot my name, when he forgot to say that he loved us.

I guess I would have thought that it wouldn't get to me anymore, six years later. But then Pellegrino had to go and leave. I don't remember the last thing he said to me, but I'm pretty sure it made me laugh. That's probably what he'd want me to do whenever I think of him. And I know Grampy would agree.

***

This song isn't completely relevant, but it's what I've been listening to as I write, so I thought I'd share:

tumblr.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 07:53:00 +0000

The new typewriter has sparked a new blog! You can check it out at: http://smithcoronasisters.tumblr.com/.

My co-author (and dear friend) Kristen and I decide on a writing prompt, respond independently on our Smith-Corona typewriters, then upload the images to the blog - you can see every typo, missing letter, and awkward spacing. Ah, the world before computers...

Enjoy - comment - share!

old.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 04:41:00 +0000

On Sunday afternoon we bought this typewriter. We had gone to browse our two favorite stores (8th Ave. Antiques and Pre-to-Post Modern Vintage) in search of used furniture and otherwise useful, cool things for our new house. We've had great luck at both of these places, from which we've purchased a coffee table, end tables, nightstand, dressing mirror, desk, and artwork; our requirements are only that the item be useful, cheap, and better made than anything at Target.

On Sunday we considered this typewriter for a long time. It's not particularly useful, as the store owner estimated it is probably from the 50's or early 60's (design on the typewriter, tweed case). It wasn't particularly cheap (marked "Vintage Typewriter: $50"). And there's clearly no Target-brand typewriter to compare it to. But it came home with us, and now sits on my desk where my laptop used to be.

We're by no means antiques collectors or experts (as evidenced by our rules - many antiques are neither cheap nor useful!), but somehow we both knew that I really needed this typewriter, even if it never actually types another word in its life. It's less about the present functionality of the typewriter and more about the presence of an older version of the art I so love, a reminder that while the means may have evolved from cave walls to papyrus sheets to stone to typewriters to computers to cell phones, the true art of it - the writing - has staying power. Meaning. Purpose. It's a reminder that people have written before me and people will write after me and the only way for me to be part of the timeline is to write, write, and keep writing. And it's a pleasant old spirit, a ghost I'd actually welcome into my life, of the writer(s?) who used the typewriter as the most contemporary, up-to-date way to get words out into the world.

I'm very attracted to the idea of owning and using things that have previous lives, which is why I like used furniture so much (except for couches and beds - ick). It's humbling to remember that the world hasn't, doesn't, and will never revolve around our tiny slice of life, and it's refreshing to know that pieces of us can still remain when we're gone. It has nothing to do with reincarnation and everything to do with reinforcing the connectivity of our lives, of remembering that what we do, say, write (and own) has the potential for profound effect on other human lives, and on the world. It's why men like owning their grandfathers' broken pocket watches and women hold on to stained cookbooks that know nothing of healthy, modern cooking. It's why we frame and hang black and white photographs of family members we never knew. We like being the part of the Venn diagram that overlaps, the part that's safely couched between two edges - we like to know there was a past, and we want to be assured there is a future. Perhaps this is why I have to write, on a deeper level than fame or showcasing any talent I may have. It's a primal need, an instinct, to leave my words behind.

Kevin shares these ideas of the past being part of the future, though he has more functional ways of expressing it. He uses a vintage drum kit, a '65 Slingerland; the wood of the shells resounds with 45 years of beats, vibrations, practices, performances, recordings. The kit survived the turmoil of the '60s, the revolutions of the '70s, the punk music of the '80s, the grunge of the '90s, and the onset of a music culture influenced by electronic kits, drum machines, and the-louder-the-better drummers. The Slingerland, as Kevin likes to say, "keeps it classy." He knows the previous owner, the guy who sold him the kit. But before him, who knows. A jazz cat, an Americana session drummer, a Beatles junkie. He has no idea - all he knows is that whoever first purchased the kit made music - drum music - and now he is doing the same, adding his own layer of musical history to the old shells of the kit. Even though the shells no longer have perfect pitch, even though the bass drum has a slight buzzing sound due to water damage, even though Kevin has accented the kit with a brand new set of cymbals, he likes the soul, the spirit of the drums. Like me, he welcomes the company of the artists who have paved the way before.

Despite the old typewriter and the Slingerland kit, we're actually in the process of trying to own fewer things overall, and own things that are either useful or valuable to us in some way (before we move into the new house, we are de-cluttering). But the typewriter and the kit are not just kitschy flea market finds. They are valuable to us because they represent the arts that we are specifically passionate about, and therefore the art that we are adding to the world. This weekend at Gruhn Guitars we saw vintage instruments priced at $180,000 - more than the cost of our house. Even if we had that kind of extra money, we probably wouldn't buy a mandolin from the 1920's - it's a beautiful instrument to see and hear, but neither of us plays. If we found an old set of paints or a broken camera from the 1950's, we might decide they were interesting finds, but wouldn't need to own them - not only would they not be useful now, but they would not be useful later, as neither of us is a painter or photographer. Likewise, we did not buy a house described as "charming" or "a great project" or "a perfect fixer-upper;" while we have driven by such houses and appreciated the creativity, skill, and effort that goes into preserving or updating an old house, and while we have rented apartments in old houses and appreciated the history and previous lives of the house, neither of us is a carpenter, an engineer, or an interior designer. Owning an older house would have no meaning to us - a cool old house is not the art we'll leave behind.

I'm currently in the middle of several writing projects - editing a friend's memoir, editing a friend's novel, and querying my own memoir again (agency query count: 128) as I brainstorm my next book (ideas welcome!). This is in addition to my freelance writing/editing and my full-time job as a copywriter - but I can't get enough. Even if I'm not working on a project for myself, I'm inspired. The fact that one friend is furiously typing away right now to add 30,000 more words to her novel (words I will get to read and comment on tomorrow!) makes me want to keep editing. The fact that another is re-writing her first memoir while working to get her second one published makes me want to keep writing. The fact that agents keep telling me no, even though I know my book is good, makes me want to keep querying.

And while I'll never know what writing was born on my new/old typewriter, or if the writing still exists, I know that at some time, in some place, someone was writing something. At this time, in this place, that someone is me. And knowing that is enough to keep me writing.

cost.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 23:32:00 +0000

On Sunday our pastor read from 2 Samuel, in which Araunah says to God, "I would not make an offering that cost me nothing." The story shed light on the true meaning of any kind of gift - someone gives up something for the sake of another. This is why the idea of re-gifting has such shameful connotations in our society. It's not that you didn't appreciate what was given to you, but that you've sacrificed nothing in order to give a gift. It's easy, convenient, and superficial - if anyone can do it for free, it means very little.

My husband loves Henry David Thoreau, and we have adopted one of his adages as a guiding principle: "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it." The most important and valuable choices can cost a great deal of life, and the trick is knowing which ones are worth it.

A cost I willingly absorb is the cost of keeping in touch - really keeping in touch - with extended family and far-away friends. I am not on Facebook*, Twitter*, LinkedIn*, or MySpace*, so
staying in touch demands more than a quick comment on a status or a message in regards to a posted photo (before you roll your eyes or get defensive, please read my disclaimer below). The way I keep in touch with friends and extended family is through phone calls, emails, and hand-written cards and letters. This style comes at a cost much higher than the convenience of social media: I have to keep in touch with people one at a time. I can only call one person at a time, I can only write one letter at a time, and I can only send one lengthy email at a time. For me, the cost of keeping in touch is time.

Time may not seem like a big deal. After all, people are busy with their lives and I know they're not waiting on pins and needles for their next contact from Dianna. But it means I fall behind in line as people post, message, and contact each other on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis. I don't envy this style, as I feel strongly that a large majority of mass, frequent communication is superficial, and the rush to stay connected is less about human relationships and more about, as my husband described it, "mosquitoes swarming to a crumb of food." I don't lack for real connection, but I do lack for frequency. This has never bothered me before...until I realized some people won't wait.

Like most people who grow up in one state, go to college in another, move to a third for grad school, and now reside in a fourth new state, most of my dearest friends are long-distance. These friendships are given the hardest test of all, as they struggle to stay strong, relevant, and meaningful through long spaces of quiet, separation, and time. The strongest ones are not threatened by a 3-month hiatus, and pick up where they left off after one good phone call or a long, heartfelt email. Others need to stretch out and remember the motions after a few back-and-forth voice mails or quick "we need to catch up" notes. And finally, others simply give up.

These are the most heartbreaking, and for me, the hardest to bear. I berate myself, "If only you were on Facebook! You could have been writing on this person's wall and you would still be friends!" And then I berate the person, "Some friend! Who just gives up because it's been a long time? Does it mean nothing that I paid the cost of time to single you out, remember you on my own terms instead of from a news feed, and tell you that you still matter to me?" Like a girl, or a writer, or both, I cried, I raged, and finally, exhausted, decided to move on. I had a hard time accepting that a friendship I'd valued, held dear, and hadn't willingly done anything to jeopardize, could be over. But when my emails, phone calls, and other attempts were ignored, I had to come to terms. The door might be closed, but it's not locked, and I would open it in a second with one acknowledgment that my genuine attempts to re-connect are not in vain.

We live in a strange time, a time where we want everything for the cost of nothing, where time is no longer an abstract, priceless valuable, but a nuisance, a hurdle, an inconvenience that we're sure we can beat if we just increase the speed of our computers and the number of times we let the maximum number of people know what we're doing at any given moment.

I'm not satisfied. I don't want to make offerings that cost me nothing, and I don't want relationships that require nothing of me. I want to have to stay in touch, I want to have to ask how a friend is really doing (not just what he/she is doing), I want to know that the amount of life - or time - or soul - I spent was worth it all for the friend who responds, "It's so good to hear from you."

Last week I sent three emails to friends I hadn't spoken to since my wedding, and each response was a joyful reminder that the offering, the gift, was appreciated and valued for the cost. It's not easy to consciously remember all the people you love and keep them close one at a time. It costs life, it costs time, and sometimes, postage (I have several friends who love real mail as much as I do). But those are the relationships that have stood - and will stand - the test of time, and those are the hearts who have not forgotten that a real connection two months late can mean more than an hourly buzzing that vaguely resembles keeping in touch.

In one of the busiest, newest, and most challenging stages of life (I have a new husband, a new state, a new job, and as of March 1, a new house), I regret that at times I haven't been the greatest long-distance pen-pal. But I keep paying the price, knowing that the ones who receive it most graciously are those who have received me with the same grace. They may not even realize it, but with each act of grace and love, they are paying something in return, an investment in a relationship that grows not only more valuable, but more beautiful, over time. And there's not much else that's worth the cost of life.

____

*This post is in no way intended to be a judgment on any of these social media. Many of them offer excellent advantages to many people, and I think that's wonderful. For me, the better choice is not to be on them, and this works fine for me. If you use social media for keeping in touch, keep at it.

work.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 02:16:00 +0000

I did it. After three months of getting up, saying goodbye to my husband in the morning and spending the day at home on my computer, I have finally gotten myself a job. I realize that a job shouldn't seem like such a big deal - after all, I've been earning enough money as a freelance writer, editor, and online instructor to pay my share of our monthly bills and student loans. But I spent a good part of each day wondering where my next "hello" would come from, counting on one hand the number of physical people I interacted with, and trying to control my excitement when my husband came home and I could engage in a real conversation.

The people at the farmer's market, grocery store, and post office were excellent for a quick fix of person-to-person contact, and my good friend with a newborn baby was a reliable source of company (admittedly, we spent most of our time together in her living room, watching Ellen and Oprah while I worked on my computer). But all of these interactions had to be scheduled, sought out, and hoped for. The worst part of every morning was when my husband left and I had to wonder if I'd see another person before he came home at the end of the day.

Some people function perfectly well working from home. They set up separate offices, hold themselves to regular schedules for lunch, breaks, and work, and they greet their spouse or roommate at the end of the day with vigor, energy, and a sense of accomplishment at having completed the day's tasks. These people love the freedom that comes with working from home, and they work well by themselves. I asked some of these people for tips, ideas, and even the offer of "working from home" together. They all smiled politely and told me that they preferred to work alone, and worked much more efficiently at their own homes.

I stink at this.

The first week was great. Every morning I said goodbye, practiced yoga, and worked my way down the list of things to do now that I'd arrived in Nashville. There were bookshelves to purchase and assemble, pictures to hang, and of course the time-consuming project of changing my name. But once the apartment was set up and my name was changed, the days loomed before me, long stretches of sitting at my computer (on a balance ball, per the recommendation of the chiropractor I suddenly needed). I exerted as much energy fighting loneliness as I did on my work, and by the end of the day I was as exhausted, emotional, and desperate for attention as a young child who has missed his/her nap.

Not all days were bad, of course, and I've been able to see the value in the season of time alone:

I learned that my best ideas, energy, and excitement are stifled by solitude, and that the days I spent in the company of others were not only more enjoyable, but more productive.

I learned (with great relief) that I am in no danger of becoming a slob: every morning I got dressed in real clothes, put on makeup, and made the bed.

I learned that I could live without a TV - I never even turned ours on. Not because I willed myself not to, but because it never occurred to me.

I learned how to energize myself on lonely days by cooking. I could be having the lowest, grayest, quietest day and suddenly come alive by opening a cookbook, turning on some music, and delighting in the smells and sensations of a new recipe.

I learned humility. With two degrees, five years of work experience, and a list of published writing, I still couldn't land a job. I'd been applying for jobs since April, when I said yes to Kevin and yes to Nashville, and had only had one interview over the phone with a follow-up email to say that they'd gone with someone else.

And I learned that faith is sometimes persevering through the unseen to make things happen. My belief that the next season was on its way motivated my work and efforts - the more I believed, the harder I worked. Some days sucked, no doubt. But the work was there for me, and each new experience I had only helped me become a stronger candidate for the right job, which didn't come until the end of December.

Like any season, warm or cold, sunny or rainy, this one has come to an end so that the next one can begin. When I first arrived in Nashville, I was eager to get a job because we needed income and I wanted to meet new people. Three months later, I want a job for the same reasons, but now I come with so much more. I know myself in a way I never have, the me that works best with other people. I value the predictability of a job in a new way, as a consistent place to go, collaborate, and stimulate my thinking with more than my own ideas. And I anticipate the future with the satisfaction that the previous season has prepared me for what's next.

Eventually I won't remember these months as much more than the months I worked from home. But for now, they remain the months that taught me gratitude for human contact, from a lengthy conversation with a friend to a simple smile from a cashier. They taught me empathy for the thousands of educated, resourceful people who make up the shockingly high unemployment rate, and deep appreciation for the work I had, even if it was at home. They taught me sympathy for those who are unemployed with families to feed. They taught me respect for the people who approach their jobs with a positive attitude, whether they sell stamps at the post office or turnip greens at the farmer's market. They gave me moments to appreciate the obvious, that without each other we're alone - and alone is no way for us to grow.

B218.

noreply@blogger.com (Dianna Calareso) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 22:39:00 +0000

Last week our marriage certificate finally arrived, which means that I could begin the process of legally changing my name. To me, the issue of whether or not a woman takes her husband's name is far too interesting to far too many people, and I have found myself annoyed at the explanations, considerations, and opinions of people who feel very strongly one way or another.

I honestly never cared much, but the final decision was to take my husband's name legally while continuing to write, submit and (hopefully) publish under my given name, the name I've been for 27 years, the name that I have spelled out infinite times because it is how the world recognizes me: Dianna Calareso.

On the way to the office I called my sister and complained. I didn't want to fill out forms, didn't want to change my written identity as if I am no longer the same person, didn't want to wait in line at the mercy of federal employees. Of course, I am thrilled to be married to a person I love, and I did choose to make the legal name change. It just seemed like an awful lot of paperwork, and paperwork that only I have to do.  The husband's name is business as usual.  On my list of things I hoped I'd have time to do were yoga and the beef stew that I'm dying to make with the three pounds of chuck I bought at the farmer's market.

My first stop was the Social Security office to get a new card. I took a number, sat down, and listened as various combinations of letters and numbers were called. Each letter represented a different type of issue, and the numbers kept the order. It seemed like a decent system, but boiled down it was simply waiting at a government office: fluorescent lights, pale furnishings, signs instructing people where to stand, old chairs, and the almost tangible sense in the air that this is some sort of time warp. Your eyes adjust to the din, you forget that time is moving at a normal pace just outside, and you develop a keen interest in why everyone else is there.

While I waited for my number to be called, I studied the people around me. There was a man and woman with a young boy who were called up to the desk in Spanish; a young, well-dressed couple who joked about how long they'd have to wait; and a large elderly woman with a walker who answered, "I'll try," when the security guard told her to have a good day. On the other side of the room were people with different number/letter combinations, and the people there were just as varied. I couldn't tell what anyone was there for, because everyone had the same emotionless look on his/her face, with a handful of papers and various forms of ID. When my number was called I sat at the counter, presented my documents, and walked away Dianna Clare Sawyer. The woman at the desk laughed, "Oh, like Diane Sawyer!" I smiled, having considered this as a reason to keep my own name. Here we go, I thought.

Since I was already downtown, I drove over the to the farmer's market to pick up a few more things for the stew. I signed my check "Dianna Calareso" on instinct, and drove to the DMV, already resenting the next round of paperwork because I wanted to get the stew in the slow cooker so it would be ready by the time my husband came home.

The closest DMV satellite branch was still over 12 miles away, but I figured once I'd made this stop I could get on with the rest of the day. The exterior of the building looked like an abandoned beach house, with splitting wood and chipped paint covering the sides. I walked in and waited behind a man no taller than 5'5. The employee behind the desk said, "Can I help you?"

The man in front of me did not respond.

The employee said louder and slower, "Can I help you?"

The man did not respond, and after a few seconds pointed to the camera used to photograph people for their licenses.

The employee responded, "You have to wait over there, and then I'll call you." When the man did not move, the employee pointed to the waiting area. "Over there," he said, and the man slowly walked over to the row of plastic chairs.

"Can I help you?" the employee said to me.

"I hope so!" I said lightly, thinking I could trigger a smile or something. No such luck.   I went on, "I just moved from out of state and got married, so I need to transfer my Massachusetts license to Tennessee and have it printed with my new last name."

He shook his head. "Can't do that at this office. This is just for renewals. You'll have to go to a full-service branch." He gave me the directions for a branch nine miles down the road, in a different county. It wasn't his fault, so I took a deep breath, thanked him, and left.

When I arrived at the next branch, a storefront in an old shopping center across from a Food Lion, I almost left - the place was packed. Everyone had a ticket, the familiar sound of mixed numbers and letters called out, and people were filling out various documents on clipboards. In my head I cursed paperwork, and wondered why I couldn't have done all this on the Internet.

My ticket was B218, and the timestamp on my ticket said 12:13pm. I sat down and waited. While I waited, I heard various people's stories - there were teenagers testing for their learner's permits, people reinstating licenses that had been revoked, and people transferring from a different state. The woman next to me had been there since 11:00, and had court documents, a certificate from driving school, and a million complaints about the time and money she'd spent trying to work everything out. Some people I didn't understand, and noticed them translating to people sitting with them. Signs illuminated the number being serviced, like a deli counter, and also tallied the number of customers. 65...69...75...88...

This room was smaller and more crowded than the social security office, and had a more varied combination of people. A woman with her elderly father; a man with his teenage son; a couple with young children; several young men by themselves; a woman with a baby. I heard Spanish, Portuguese, and Hindi, along with various strains of a Tennessee accent. The children in the room were antsy after hours of waiting, and began to whine or run around or throw their parents' keys on the floor.  One toddler tugged so hard on the American flag that the flagpole teetered and almost fell on his mother. Elderly people shifted in their seats, holding their backs and hips as they tried to get comfortable. Young adults took phone calls that always began with, "Yes, I'm still here."

At 2:55, a woman's voice called out, "B218 to counter 1." After five minutes of photocopying documents, signing the receipt, and confirming personal information, I was sent to have my picture taken. Five minutes later, I left with a Tennessee license signed Dianna Sawyer.

I called my sister again and complained, as it was now after 3:00 - no time to slow cook a beef stew, no time to go to the bank to endorse the checks made out to the Mrs. Sawyer that I wasn't at the time, and all that waiting for about ten minutes of real work. And as suddenly as my fury hit me, it left when I remembered who else had been at the Social Security office and the DMV that day: people with children; people with parents; people who go to these offices weekly or monthly because of changing identities due to marriage, divorce, or citizenship.

I am a natural-born citizen of the United States. My parents are natural-born citizens. I have had one Social Security number my entire life, and nobody has ever questioned it or stolen it. I am white. I have no children. I do not have a criminal record. I changed my name because I married a person I love, a person who takes care of me. Even on a day like today, it's pretty easy to be me; my emotions were a mixed blend of gratitude and humility. How dare I react as though I know the frustration of paperwork.

Yes, it was annoying - even obnoxious - to spend my day driving around and waiting around, all to shuffle a few papers to make sure my identity is recognized and legal. But that was one day, and there may be one or two more like that before it's finished. And then I'm done.

The people who really have a tough time are not the people who don't want to miss yoga or put off making beef stew until tomorrow (which I have to do now regardless, because when I came home the meat was still frozen). The people who have a tough time are the people who have to continually prove themselves, their names, their addresses, their identities, for one reason or another. The people who have to explain why their children have Social Security cards but they don't. The people whose past records, histories, mistakes, addresses, and names constantly stop them from having a true and free identity that they can take pride in.

The people who would give anything to only have to spend one day explaining that they have had the happiest day of their lives, and are changing their names to celebrate.