sea salt

pretending.

2012-01-27T13:42:00.000-08:00

“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.

2012-01-18T09:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2012-01-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-12-06T13:18:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-09-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-09-09T08:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-08-18T14:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-07-27T10:08:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-06-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

(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.

2011-06-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-05-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-05-12T06:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-04-27T11:59:00.000-07:00

(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.

2011-04-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-04-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-10T13:08:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-28T14:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-26T23:53:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-21T20:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-31T15:32:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-10-25T15:39:00.000-07:00

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.

language.

2010-10-21T10:54:00.000-07:00

I spoke with a woman who wants my help as she begins writing short stories.

"I've never written a story before, never in my life! I'm a songwriter, but I've never written anything else before."

"Look," I said, "in order for anyone to do anything, you have to have never done it before."
She didn't respond, so I took a different approach. "Before you wrote your first song, you'd never written a song before, right? At one time, Johnny Cash had never written a song before, and then he became Johnny Cash."

"Yes, that makes sense..."

My limited knowledge of the language of music helped us get one step closer together. I speak writing and she speaks music, but somehow we had to communicate if we were going to successfully work together to create something new. I asked her what she had written so far.

"I have the idea for the beginning and the end, but nothing in between. I don't know what ya'll call that in writing, but I just have no idea except for the beginning and end. I'm embarrassed, I'm sure I sound dumb."

Honestly, I don't know what we call that in writing either, so I decided to figure out what they call that in music. There was no sense in arguing with her that we were on my turf and she should figure out how to speak writing; on the contrary, here in Music City USA, I'm in the minority of people who don't speak fluent music. We'd have to meet in the middle. Obviously, she wasn't dumb; she'd just never learned the language. I knew that feeling of embarrassment as an English speaker in Sicily, mainland Italy, France, Jordan, and Israel. I'm sorry, I always wanted to say, I'm not stupid, but I don't know how to speak to you.  Is there any way we can communicate?

"I'm married to a musician," I said, "so I'll try to speak musically. You'll have to forgive my limited vocabulary."

She laughed. "That's all right, go on!"

"All stories, books, movies, and musical pieces have a narrative arc - even if there's no obvious story, there's a beginning, a rise, a fall, maybe another rise and fall, and the end. Each of those pieces is part of the narrative. Now when you write a piece of music, it's easy to know that you want it to begin with this note and end with the bang of this drum - but how could you possibly know the middle? You have no idea until you start writing what the instruments are going to do to each other, how the audience will respond, where there will be improvisation. It's the same in writing - you might know that you want your main character to begin in one place and end in another, but you don't even know the other characters yet. How could you know what happens in the middle until you start writing?"

This she understood. I'm sure in music, people don't really say "end with the bang of this drum," and I'm sure my husband suppressed the urge to laugh when I told him what I'd said, but the point was to communicate something bigger than that detail - and the point was understood.

As a student growing up in South Florida, I had to take Spanish as early as kindergarten. We learned the numbers, the colors, and "Sabado, Domingo [clap, clap!], the days of the week." In seventh grade, we had the option to continue with Spanish, or switch to French, German, or Chinese. I'm in Florida, I thought - I couldn't imagine a time when it wouldn't be helpful to know Spanish.  I studied the language for thirteen years (kindergarten - 12th grade), and while I'm not fluent, there have been many times when it's been helpful to have a basic understanding.

My first job in Boston was in the office of a construction management firm. During my interview, my future boss was impressed that I considered myself "conversational" in Spanish.  It would be useful, he told me, because there were so many Spanish speakers in the industry. He hired me. I didn't want him to think I was a fraud, so I bought a language-learning program at Borders and played the first CD.

"Bue-nos di-as, Se-nor Go-mez," the CD instructor said slowly. I took it out, slightly insulted but relieved to realize that I probably knew enough to draw on if necessary. And it was - I used my Spanish every day at that job. It was difficult at first, as I had to brush the dust off that part of my brain, but it was only a few months later when out of the blue, someone needed to say "lawyer" and I casually said, "Oh, it's abogado." I had no idea where I'd been hiding that random word, but I was grateful it was there. I wasn't fluent, so the native Spanish speakers had to meet me halfway with their English. We took steps towards each other, corrected each other, and helped each other along.  Neither of us was out to prove who was more competent as a speaker, bilingual or otherwise. We were out to share an idea, convey information, and keep moving forward.

After my conversation with the new writer, I helped my husband proofread a paper he had written for graduate school. A section of the paper was about ELL (English Language Learner) students in the classroom, and the challenge for teachers to use various media to help these students understand. The students are responsible for trying to learn the native language of the classroom, and the teachers are responsible for trying to communicate in new ways - visual aids, images, and contextual clues. It's certainly not easy, and it probably doesn't always seem fair - to the student, who feels lost in a sea of foreign words, and to the teacher, who is faced with creating a new curriculum to accommodate these students. Fair or not, however, the teacher's job is to educate - to communicate knowledge - and in this world, this beautiful mixed bag of a country, that now requires meeting in the middle.

I have not had to use my Spanish yet in Nashville, though I am eagerly on the lookout. I know what it feels like to be failing to communicate to someone when a stranger interrupts, "I speak a little English, let me help you." And while I'm here, I'd better start learning to speak music. I can get by without it, keep to my writing community and clam up when the conversation turns to timbre or triple time or 12-bar blues; I'd rather learn to speak the language and pray that when I mistake pitch for tone, someone will say, "I speak a little writing. Let me help you understand."

half moon.

2010-10-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of lenayoga.com)

While I am in half moon pose, my DVD yoga instructor says, "Notice how even the slightest movement, even breath, affects the balance."

I am balanced on my left leg, my left arm on the ground in front of me; my right leg and right arm are in the air. If I look up, my balance is shaky, and I must look down to steady myself. If I lean to the left and start to wobble, I pull my weight to the right to even things out.

When I first began practicing yoga a month ago, I was convinced it was all about learning to achieve perfect balance - in my mind, you were either completely still, breathing calmly, or you were in a heap on the floor. Anyone who practices yoga knows this is not the case, and now I do, too.

The goal of the poses is not only to learn balance, but to learn what balance is. True balance, in my experience, is not standing statue-still. It starts out a little shaky, a little tiring, and a little uncertain, but it becomes balance when you add stillness to the shakiness, strength to the fatigue, hope to the uncertainty. True balance is knowing how to adjust when the balance is affected by a breath, a sway, a tiny step. Instead of collapsing when the pose leans left, you learn to pull to the right - that is the beauty of true balance.

This morning I knew, from the moment I started in simple seated pose, that I was off balance. I typically savor every moment of my yoga routine, considering how blessed it is to have a fully-functioning body that will respond. If my brain tells my leg to bend, my leg bends. More than any other physical activity, yoga has made me aware of each muscle in my body, the beauty of the human creation, the unanswerable question of why everyone isn't born with strong arms, regular heartbeats, a respiratory and circulatory system that do what they were created to do. These thoughts can quickly lead to guilt, but I believe the best response is to celebrate the healthy body I have by treating it well, living in it instead of fighting against it, and trying to wholly experience each day; I believe that, as St. Irenaeus said, "The glory of God is man fully alive."

But today I was off. I hurried through the Vinyasa sequences instead of doing them twice like I usually do; I made a shopping list during shoulder stands; I considered which essay I should submit to an upcoming contest during the relaxation pose. Not surprisingly, I had the least fulfilling session yet. In my perfect hindsight, I think I should have taken a deep breath and started over, leaned a little towards calm when I felt myself leaning towards anxious. Instead I took a shower, noticed mold in the tile grout, and added it to my list of things to do/worry about. I wish I had leaned toward satisfaction in that moment, taking out a sponge that instant and scrubbing away the mold, instead of leaning towards frustration that there was yet another thing to take care of. The tiniest movement, a few spots of mold, and the balance was off.

The day continued this way. Each roadblock pulled me one way or the other, and each time I let myself be pulled further away from balance. I got lost trying to get to the Nashville Farmer's Market, confusing highways that change names and directions without warning. I wish I had leaned towards amusement and wonder, taking the time to look around and appreciate the new part of town I had found and the experience of learning a new city; I turned towards self-deprecation, frustration, even anger. "Don't cry!" I scolded myself. "You're a grown woman who got lost in a new city - don't you dare cry!" I cried. I didn't want to be lost. I took a nap because my body told me it was tired after staring at a computer screen all morning, reading student comments in the online classroom and looking for places to submit my writing. When I woke up, much later than I planned to, I didn't lean towards refreshment, rest, and appreciation that my work schedule allows me to take naps when I am tired - I leaned toward impatience, demanding to know why I thought I needed or was entitled to a nap, begrudging my nap for the hours I'd lost when I could have been working on my to-do list.

The slightest movements - a wrong turn, a much-needed nap - affected my balance, and instead of adjusting, I let myself lose the pose, give in to the instability, collapse on the yoga mat as if I'd never successfully stood up in tree pose, or half moon, or exalted warrior. As if I'd never successfully navigated a new city with confusing highways, recovered from a nap by working even more efficiently later in the day, pulled myself out of a place of frustration by leaning into a place of satisfaction. As if I'd never been able to find joy in a mundane task, strength in a difficult situation, peace in a place of anxiety.

The truth is that I have done all these things! Many times! Enough times that simple poses like "Finding My Way Back" and "Submitting an Essay" can be done by muscle memory, without thinking, without trying too hard, without shaking or sweating or leaning this way and that. But it doesn't work like that. Even these familiar poses need focus; even practiced balance needs adjustment.

I forgive myself for letting a potentially beautiful, cool, sunny October day with a few kinks collapse. I forgive myself for not leaning the way I should, for not remembering how to adjust to maintain balance, for giving each minor setback the power to make me want to roll up my mat and call the whole thing off.

Fortunately, there is tomorrow, filled with new poses, new challenges, and new threats to the balance. And just as I am slowly learning how to take each pose a little bit deeper, how to hold each stretch a little bit longer, I am also learning how to adjust, to shift my weight, to lean in the opposite direction. I am learning to appreciate true balance for what it is - occasionally still, sometimes shaky, always imperfect. But there is peace in this imperfection, in knowing that there is room and space to grow if I will give it time. And thanks to the promise of tomorrow, I have the time to give.

stuck.

2010-10-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Nashville a week ago. This time it was a one-way flight, a permanent move, a plan to stay. He has been living here, and now I live here, and so we will live here.

Here is where we are.

The list of things to do grows every day. I am used to changing my address (I had four addresses in the five years I lived in Massachusetts), but this is a new geographical identity. The first order of business is the car that brought me here. Beyond the obvious changes (Tennessee license plate, Tennessee license, local car insurance), there are the minor adjustments: remove at least one ice scraper from the trunk, store the shovel, snow brush, and insulated gloves, and peel off the parking stickers that have become a part of my peripheral vision while driving. Like all major cities, Boston and its surrounding neighborhoods have limited space for parking. People move to the cities faster than the cities can create more space, so the solution is to zone off streets for resident parking, sell a few visitor passes, and tow any car without a clear sense of belonging.

The stickers are an eyesore to some people who have ridden in my car, but I always felt a little bit of pride when I viewed them, the sense of belonging to a place and having the stamp to prove it. I'd feel a nostalgic sense of this same pride when I'd see a Florida or North Carolina license plate in Massachusetts, the places that used to claim me, and that I used to claim (those license plates are now on display in our living room).

But the parking stickers identified me even more specifically than simply "Massachusetts," which was clearly stated on my license plate. The parking stickers matched me to my neighborhood, my street, my home for that stage of life. I could have peeled them off each year as they expired, but I liked seeing the history of belonging, the reminder that so many unique places had sheltered me, known me, and then let me go as my constant sense of wanderlust pulled me away.

It is time now. I have officially left, I am gone, Boston is no longer my "here."

So I started peeling from top to bottom, newest to oldest...

The Marian Court College sticker came off easily. It had only been there since September of 2009, had only endured one New England winter, but it was the one that reminded me of the place I fell in love with teaching, the place that gave me a chance with students who were rarely given chances. The students I taught have graduated, and I have taken my syllabi, books, and teaching philosophy with me. I am no longer there, so I folded the sticker in half and threw it away.

My Winthrop parking sticker was next, making a snapping sound as it came off in one hard tug. Winthrop has come with us in our collection of shells and rocks from various walks on the beach; it has come with me in my independence, confidence, and ability to housekeep, pay bills on time, and take pride in a space that I call mine. I only lived in my apartment for ten months, but it was that apartment that stretched me, challenged me, and watched me grow up. It did so with the ocean by my side, with the constant tides and sea breezes, with the familiar stretch of beach that I ran along every morning. I learned that I could live alone, that I could take care of myself, that sitting in the quiet with only me was the best way to reflect, dream, and write. I started wearing a ring in this apartment, planning a wedding, a move, and a new life. When I locked the door for the last time, the apartment smelled empty, like nothing, like nobody.

Medford didn't want to go. I had three stickers from this town, two years in the attic apartment on Bristol Road with my old Italian friend Pellegrino on the first floor. This was the place I got the courage to leave my first job for a better opportunity, the place I started receiving rejection letters from publishers, the place I learned that I could cook a gourmet multi-course meal in a tiny galley kitchen, the place I fell in love. This was the year of my first triathalon, of a leg injury that ended my volleyball season and my ability to train for my second Boston Marathon. This was the apartment where I brought home first Lucca, and then Bella. This was the apartment with mice that neither cat could manage to kill (thankfully, this was also the apartment where I had two uncommonly brave roommates). This was where I screamed and cried when I found out I would be published for the first time, where I fought the urge to scream and cry every other time I received a rejection. This apartment has stuck; the stickers wanted to stay, to keep their claim on me. I tugged, and yanked, and ripped, and finally managed to pull them away.

Somerville outright refused. There are three of these, one on the front windshield and two on the back, and they represent my first two years in the city, in a first-floor apartment on Buckingham Street that we proudly called Buckingham Palace. This was my first experience with landlords, a loving couple from Portugal who stopped by frequently to shovel the walk, sweep the porch, and attend to any need we had. This was my reunion with a friend I'd known since elementary school, my first post-college roommate, my discovery that we could save money on our heating bill by wearing coats and hats indoors with the thermostat at 50-60 degrees. This was where I completed the Boston Marathon, the 3-Day Walk for Breast Cancer, and the Hyannis Half Marathon. This was where I spent a 4th of July alone on the back steps, listening to fireworks, scared and lonely because I was losing myself to bulimia. This was where I worked up the courage to go to therapy, where I began to heal, where I earned my MFA and completed my memoir.

It appears that the only way to remove these stickers is to spend time soaking them and chipping away with one of the no-longer-needed ice scrapers. Or, I could just admit that even though I move around, afraid of settling too long in one place, I'll always be a little bit stuck to Boston. Florida watched me grow up, North Carolina helped me through college, but Boston held me tight while I kicked out the growing pains, figured out who I was, what I wanted, and who I wanted to be. Boston let me complain about the cold and the taxes, and it gave me hours at Fenway Park, days of Fall glory, and the Boston Pops at the 4th of July. It gave me walks through the Boston Common, sailboats on the Charles River, and my family's history in the North End.

More than anything, Boston let me figure it out as I succeeded, failed, and did everything in between. I have left it as a more balanced, focused, fully realized person than when I came; I have left it happy and grateful for having lived and experienced everything it had to offer.

And in return, Boston is going to stick with me, a little in the front and a little in the back, so that no matter which way I look, no matter which direction I head next, I'll remember where it was that got me to here.

(still).

2010-06-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of: Marie Gabrielle)

My parents didn't remember under which weeping willow my father proposed to my mother, forty years ago on the Public Garden in Boston. To prove that he's not a jerk, my dad listed off several of their early dates: to the movies to see The Graduate, dinner at the top of the Prudential Center, a day trip to Cape Cod.

"Do you remember when you said 'I love you'?" I asked.
"Yeah, three or four times a day," my father replied.
"No, but when? Where? The first time?"
"I don't remember."
"Mom?"
She laughed. "I don't remember, either. One of those things you think you'll always remember."

I was disheartened. I remember the proposal like it was yesterday. The jeans, the red striped shirt, the Styrofoam cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, the cold sand under our feet because April in Boston is still not beach weather. I remember the "I love you." The cold rain, the car, the seafood restaurant in Maine, the kitchen of my parents' longtime friends where I gushed everything to my "Maine Mom."

The first I love you is naive, shimmery, a blue robin eggshell around a whole new life. Later, it drops like an anchor, rusted, chipped, and suffocating under clusters of barnacles. It means, "This sucks, but I'm not moving."

I'm new here. I'm eager for a life united, and I expect nothing short of forever-ness. I was surprised that my parents didn't remember their first I love you, but it occurred to me that the first time had probably meant very little over the years. The first time, it's simply I + love + you. Nothing in between, crowding the space; nothing before or after, creating conditions; it simply is.

What may matter more in the long run, more so than the I love you, are the unspokens:

I (still) love you.
I (will) love you (even more) (when this is over).
I (can't believe) (I still) love you (after what you've done).
I (am amazed) (that I'm) love(d) (by) you.
I (don't know why) (you think that I don't) love you.
I (wish you could see) (how much I truly) love you.
I (will always) love you (but we both know) (things have to change).

I imagine that my parents haven't forgotten these moments. Eggshells shatter if they fall to the ground, but dropping an anchor reveals its strength. After so many trips in and out of the water, it is nothing to look at - far more people photograph the shiny white ship than the old anchor that keeps it steady. But the rust, the algae, the grime on the heavy chain and the solid anchor - these prove that the anchor has stood its ground, the still in the I love you that keeps the ship on course.

I am fascinated by the power of still. It refers to something unsaid, something perhaps unspeakable. It means that in the present moment, the anchor is dropped and the ship will stop until the crew is well-rested and the map is consulted.

It could mean, too, that the ship must veer off course. The conditions are not changing, the damage to the ship is beyond repair, and the crew no longer agrees. The anchor is dropped, new plans are made, and in the morning there will be a new course. But the anchor is a reminder of strength, of countless storms weathered, of lightning and tidal waves and dizzying winds. The ship has been tested; the anchor has remained firm. And the anchor will be firm on any course, no matter the captain, no matter the crew.

I still love you is tremendous hope. It encourages those of us who are just setting off; it reminds those who have been out at sea for years; it comforts those who are sailing home, the journey over: love is strength, has been strength, will be strength. An anchor dropped, a hopeful plea or a final reminder, a place to stop and rest for the night. A moment of forgiveness, a refusal to leave, a welcome home.

An I love you that begs to be remembered.

geometry.

2010-05-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

In geometry, there are families of shapes considered special.

Special quadrilaterals: parallelogram, rectangle, rhombus, square, trapezoid, and kite.
Special triangles: 3-4-5 (and other Pythagorean triples), 30-60-90, 45-45-90, and Fibonacci.

The heart is a tilted square with two semicircles on top; the star is a pentagon with five triangles attached.

We see with rods and cones, we walk erect because we have a long tubular spine, and the artist has long praised the geometrical symmetry of the female form. Geometry may graphically represent the sterile, analytical, and exact nature of mathematics, but it also helps us connect. We combine regular shapes to create special shapes, we connect lines at points so we can reach each other, and we use our physical shapes to wholly interact. We are a sum of our shapes, and our unique shape-ness is special.

This afternoon we picked out our wedding bands, and mine will be made out of gold and diamonds from a ring that had belonged to his grandfather.

His grandfather has been gone for over thirty years, and the ring made us feel that he was still a part of our lives. It was a gold ring with a squared off part at the top that held a large diamond, surrounded by smaller single-cut diamonds. The diamonds had come from his grandmother's engagement ring, and after twenty-five years of marriage, were set into a ring for him.

The large diamond is now set atop of my engagement ring; the smaller diamonds and the gold will become my wedding band.

From him, to her, back to him, and now to us. We share these shapes not only because they are beautiful, but because they are special.

On my way back to the train from the jeweler, I called my grandfather. I am lucky to have one, and whenever I talk to him about the wedding it is like talking to a child on Christmas Eve - his excitement is endless, and his joy is audible. I asked him what he and my grandmother were up to. He said they'd just finished their ice cream.

"Every day we have an ice cream cone. And sometimes....we have two."

I laughed, and swore I'd keep the secret. But I tucked away this silly fact as if it were a message from a marital sage on a mountain top. Somehow it seemed like a piece of advice - eat ice cream, eat some more, have a few laughs. The cone with a sphere on top became a special shape in my mind, both geometrically and symbolically. Of course it has taken more than ice cream cones to sustain my grandparents' marriage for over sixty years. But the cones - these shapes of summer, of children, of messiness, of silliness - the cones are special.

I wish that every grandfather could be there to see us marry. I am missing a beloved grandfather that I knew until the end, a grandfather of whom I have vivid and sensory memories like the feel of his hand, the sound of his laugh, and the arc of his back as he shuffled across the room. My fiancé is missing a beloved grandfather that he knows from photographs, stories, and household items only. As a child, he sent a balloon up to heaven with a message for his grandfather written in black marker. The balloon is a spheroid atop a pyramid with a line drawn down. The line, the string, keeps the balloon grounded, connected to the person holding on, and is a means of sharing the balloon with someone else - I'll hold the line, now you hold the line.

Sending the balloon into the sky was his way of connecting with shapes, letting go of the line that connected him to the spheroid and pyramid, freeing it to fly up to heaven so his grandfather could hold on. To an adult, this naive act is adorable and misguided. We know the balloon must eventually deflate and float down to earth, or else burst against a sharp object it encounters in flight.

But sharing the shapes - the circle with the diamonds, the cone with the sphere, the spheroid with the pyramid - is anything but naive. Sharing them means that we are real, living and breathing collections of shapes, and that we are capable of adding, changing, and melding. We share our shapes to create new shapes, some regular, some special. And in this evolution, we grow, we stretch, and we become something we didn't know we could be with just a simple collection of basic shapes. When we share we become special, and when we become special, we have more to share.

grey.

2010-05-20T13:13:00.000-07:00

The past few days have been overcast. Boston has been gloomy, rainy, and grey. It is May, but there is a little bit of winter in every month in New England, and this month I am having a rough time. I have just completed five weeks’ worth of training for two different part-time online jobs, crammed for and taken the GRE, and adopted a dog for nine days while my friend and her husband are out of town. The dog and my two cats tolerated each other, but all three animals were on edge in my small apartment. I was stressed about their stress, guilty about leaving the dog in his pen at night so he wouldn’t scuffle with the cats, and overwhelmed by the major tasks still to complete: the wedding, the move, and the job(s) I’ll need to support us while my fiancé is in graduate school. Usually upbeat, my attitude was floating in a puddle of rainwater.

I arrived home last night after spending some time with my fiancé, most of which I spent coughing and complaining about the new dog allergy I thought I might have after sneezing all day. He suggested it might not be an allergy, but the onset of stress. I was not at my best, and I knew it. I took the dog out in the rain, grumbling as I stood there getting cold and wet while the dog sniffed around. I called my fiancé to apologize for being a crab, and assured him that I’d be better the next day. The next day I would be refreshed, another day older and wiser. Maybe the sun would come out.

The dog was sent to his pen, and I gave him a treat as I apologized. I assured him that the next day would be better, as I planned to take him back to his owners’ apartment and live out the rest of the nine days there. He looked at me, not understanding, and I knew that the only reason this was so stressful was that I truly care about animals. Having them stressed and fearful weighed on me; keeping the dog in a pen at night for his safety weighed on me; my cats’ distrust of me when I was with the dog weighed on me. I turned off the light and got ready for bed.

While brushing my teeth, I studied my face. My eyes were puffy from sneezing, and dark circles reminded me that I’d been waking up at six o’clock every morning to walk the dog after getting little sleep. I am not typically an anxious person, but with so many big changes I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while.

I’ll look better tomorrow, I thought. And then I saw a glint in the mirror. No, it couldn’t be. I looked closer, my breath fogging the mirror as I studied the strand in the bathroom light. I’d just had my hair cut, and asked my stylist to alert me if there were any greys. She assured me that by the look of things, I had a while before I had to worry about that.

But it was there. I briefly convinced myself that it was just a normal strand that had lightened in the sun. And then reality reminded me that it hadn’t been sunny all day, and my natural hair color is so dark that even in the sun it would still be brown. This was grey.

I was already so weary and frustrated by my attitude that all I could do was laugh. Of course this would be the day I found my first grey hair. This grey, stressful, tired day.

***
I’ve had a day to think about it, and have decided that, like everything else found in nature, it can – and must – be beautiful.

Grey is steel: unyielding, powerful, reliable. Grey is strong.

Grey is rainclouds: watering earth, feeding life. Grey is nurturing.
Grey is mixture: not all black, not all white, a fair mix. Grey is balanced.

Strong, nurturing, and balanced: grey represents everything I want to be as a friend, a wife, a mother, and as one human being among billions trying to live this Life together.

So I left it there. I know when I see another I will pluck them both out, and once I have too many to pluck I’ll cover the grey with dye. But until then, I’m going to keep it as a reminder to be strong, to be nurturing, and to be balanced.

***
This week I had a conversation with a good friend (I’ll call her Carla) about marriage. She is against gay marriage, but one of her best friends from work is gay and recently married a woman. Carla attended the wedding to show her friend support even though she opposed the idea. Recently, however, the new marriage has begun to crumble. Carla has been there for her friend, listening, offering advice as one married woman to another, and has found herself in a surprising position – considering that something very black or white on paper looks very different on the face of a person she cares about.

“When she told me about the problems, I didn’t know at first if I should be trying to defend Marriage [as in, encouraging her friend to leave a gay marriage], or if I should be trying to defend her marriage. And I have found myself trying to convince her to save her marriage.”

I love Carla for this. At the end of the day, we mutually decided, it was more important for her to be a friend than a policy maker. Carla said she realized that she and her friend were no different – they are married women trying to love well and be loved. Carla has always been a wonderful friend to me, and I know that her friend is lucky to have such a grey person in her life – always strong, ever nurturing, beautifully balanced.

***
One of my favorite aunts has stopped coloring her hair. Her short, chic crop is a steely, silver hue, and she is radiant. She recently moved from a spacious home in a suburb to her own loft-style apartment in a converted mill. Like everyone, my aunt has had her share of grey days, of winter days in the summer, of stress and anxiety. But unlike everyone, she is resilient, and glows with optimism, faith, and endless energy to see this new stage of life as nothing short of wonderful. My traditional grandmother was startled by my aunt’s grey hair; I am more startled by her grey attitude. She is strong for herself, nurturing for her family, and finding balance in a new life. It seems to me that her hair couldn’t be anything but grey; any other color would belie what she’s come through.

***
Perhaps I’ve earned this single grey, as if my body wants to show me how I’ve grown. I’m certainly not old yet, but I’m older than I was in college, older than I was yesterday. I’ve done things that have caused me great pain, and I’ve known great joy. I’ve set and reached extremely high goals, and I’ve watched dreams evaporate. My sister warned me that once I had kids the greys would multiply exponentially, and I laughed. I know she’s probably right, but I want to find some way that I can celebrate this strange rite of passage. Passage into a life where reality is more difficult, more complicated, and where the stakes are higher. Passage into a life where deeply caring about the needs of others comes at the cost of time, resources, energy, and a good night’s sleep. Passage into a life where a grey hair, like a scar or a medal of honor, means that I’ve worked hard, pushed through, and come out on the other side. I’ve done something, and lived something, and if I remain strong, nurturing, and balanced, the life ahead will be anything but grey.

sharks.

2010-05-07T12:55:00.000-07:00

This morning I kept repeating the dreams to myself so I wouldn't forget them: sharks and wedding, sharks and wedding, sharks and wedding...

I wanted to remember the dreams so I could ask a friend at school what they meant. She is an amateur dream interpreter, a businesswoman, teacher, mother, and wife. I trust her opinion.
It was a restless night, and I never slept for more than an hour at a time. Each time I fell back asleep, I re-entered the dream I'd been having, one of two vivid dreams that I'd never had before.

Dream 1:

We are in a boathouse at the end of a dock leading back to a house. The boathouse and dock are surrounded by choppy water rising up in angry waves around us and splashing the dock. We hold hands and run from the boathouse to the new house, but as we run along the dock we are attacked by sharks. The sharks are everywhere, and there seem to be millions of them - they jump up and snap at us, they land on the dock and thrash their bodies, they bite the dock near our feet. We make it to the new house, but are shaking, both from fright and from cold as we are now completely drenched.

Dream 2:

It is our wedding day. Everything is just as it should be. I am wearing the gown I bought, my best friend and her husband are officiating the ceremony and playing/singing the music, and my parents' best friends are seated near the front. My sisters are standing as bridesmaids, and I reveal to my little sister that I am wearing a pair of sandals from Target and my nail polish is old and chipped. Neither of us can believe I made it past my mother in this condition. The ceremony is fine, and I remark to my fiance that I can't believe we're there - it seemed like only yesterday that we still had five months to go. Only two parts of the wedding are bizarre: my father is wearing jeans and a t-shirt; my fiance and I leave mid-ceremony to take communion with my best friend and her husband at a picnic table, where instead of crackers and wine we use pieces of pre-packaged sandwiches and jelly.

My friend thinks the messages are clear. The first dream is our upcoming move. We are leaving Boston (the boathouse) for Nashville (the new house) and we are under attack by stress and fear (sharks). There is so much to pack, so many miles to drive, and so much water to drain before we can settle in (dock, running, splashing waves). This works for me - I think she is right. And water has been on my mind recently due to a series of events that happened last week, in the following order:

1. I told my fiance that I was going to miss the Charles River, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Belle Isle Inlet behind my house. Don't get me wrong, I assured him, I can't wait for Nashville - but I am afraid of leaving so much water. He reminded me that Nashville has the Cumberland River, and that we'd be ok.

2. A pipe bursts and all water in Boston is contaminated. A "boil water" order is in effect, and the governor declares a state of emergency. No water is good for consumption or cleaning, and we scramble to buy bottled water for several days.

3. The Cumberland River floods, and Nashville is under water.

I know that I couldn't have caused this natural disaster, but I do feel that Water was trying to make a point. "Ok, east coast girl. You think Boston water is so great? How about some contamination? You think there's no water in Nashville? How about a flood?"

I'm humbled, and feel a little guilty, even though I shouldn't, so it's no surprise that my mind took me to a boathouse with sharks. I'm just grateful we made it across together.

As to the second dream, my friend smiles. The message is that everything is going to be ok! Many women dream of their weddings with one catastrophic aspect - they are wearing the wrong dress, someone is crying, the groom doesn't show up, everyone is naked, etc. The worst that happened in my dream was my chipped nail polish and my father's casual wear, so I am not only at peace about all the wedding plans, but I am at peace knowing that even with some minor glitches the wedding will still go on.

This must be the case. I'm fortunate to be marrying someone who gets it, to be from a family who gets it, and to have married sisters and friends who get it. And it = the point is to say, "I do." That will happen no matter the color the table linens, no matter the texture of the ribbon on the bouquets, no matter the shade of the groomsmen's suits. Even if every minor detail is askew, we will both be there, and we will walk away married.

This reassurance keeps us sane, keeps us laughing through the planning, the phone calls, the emails, the deposits, and the contracts. We know that in the Great Story of the world, this is a day like any other, a day where babies are born, children go to school, people get sick, and natural disasters happen, and this awareness keeps us humble. It is a day that is important, but not the most important. It is a day that we will remember, but we will get further and further away from it the longer we are married. What really matters is the day the sharks bite, the day he loses his job, the day my daughter won't talk to me, the day someone has to be rushed to the hospital. What matters is that we can keep our cool, hold on tight, and run down the dock as fast as we can. What matters is that we make it across, and that we make it together.

yes.

2010-04-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of: Aram Terchunian, Geotimes.org)

I said yes on a sandy beach on April 10. The sand was smooth and soft under our feet, the tide was calm, the sun shone. It was an easy beach day, and an easy decision. Yes.

Every day requires a new decision, even though my mother is handling most of the arrangements, so I am constantly in a state of answering, "I don't know," or "No," or, "Yes." I like Yes; a decision made, an item checked off the list, a step closer to the day, to every day after that.

I said yes on April 10, but I'd been saying it for 730 days. Yes when things were new, easy, and carefree. Yes when things were familiar, tough, and unpredictable. Yes when we fell, yes when we stood again, tired and sore, yes as our wounds healed, yes when the Spring made everything new again.

I said no on April 12 when my students asked me to read what I'd been writing. It was a warm, sunny day, and I took my English Composition class outside to do some creative writing. Their assignment was to look around, observe something in nature, start writing, and follow their instincts. I told them to write freely, without self-editing, and to allow themselves to write whatever came to them, even if they were afraid of writing it. Nature was to be their initial inspiration, and they should progress to deeper, more personal writing. Reflect, I repeated over and over again, reflect and write and don't stop.

Our campus is perched on a high hill overlooking the ocean, so there was much to inspire. I wrote along with them...

Sparkle of sun on ocean - sparkle of my diamond ring - glittering, shining, moving - motion, activity, but all sparkling. Ocean - endless, eternal, unpredictable, larger than life.

I am afraid to be married - is this normal? I love my fiance, I want to be with him, but I am scared. Marriage is the ultimate commitment, and I have been free for so long. Is this the right choice? Was there anyone else?

Craziness! I love him. Adore him. Have cried for days when I thought I would lose him. Now I have him on my ring finger, glittering, sparkling, shining in the sun -

His grandmother's diamond - history of love, marriage, heartache -

His grandfather, dead from heart failure. He never failed to love her, but his heart stopped working. How? Why?

What if I lose him?

Am I afraid to choose him forever because I might lose him? Maybe. Marriage seems bigger than me, bigger than him, bigger than us. Like the ocean, unpredictable. Who knows what will happen? What joys and challenges we are destined for? Who knows what children, houses, births, deaths?

The ocean is huge, scary, unpredictable -
and I've always loved it.

I love him. I want to be with him.

We will be the ocean. We will thrive, move, and sparkle. We will toss and wave and crash and break. We will calm and flow and recede and tide. We will cloud with shadows of unseen creatures and dangers above and below us. We will support life, give life, watch death. We will feel aimless,…

Time was up for writing, and I gave the students the chance to read aloud. One student did; he reflected on animals and a deer he saw in the snow while away at boarding school, and launched into how strange it was to be from the projects in Charlestown and go to school with rich kids in Connecticut.

I beamed - what a successful assignment!

Then he turned on me. "I seen you scribblin' ovah there, Miss, why don't you read?"

"No, I don't think so," I said. They badgered me. Finally I told them I was writing about getting married, but that I didn't want to read what I had actually written. My excuse was the student-teacher relationship distance; the real reason was my shame. How could I be afraid to be married? I'd said yes with no hesitation on that smooth, sandy beach two days earlier.

Last Saturday, we went for a walk on a different beach, one that is less crowded, less commercial...and rockier. The smooth sand of the first beach became smooth rocks that we had to navigate carefully to keep our balance. We focused our eyes on the ground as we walked hand-in-hand, steadying ourselves with each other's balance, finding our footing any place we could.

At one point along the beach, the rocky sand juts out, creating two small lagoons on either side, and ending with a long wall of enormous rocks piled high. We could keep walking along, or we could climb the rocks.

We climbed. We maneuvered. We jumped to big, flat landings, and we helped each other find the best path to the top of the rock wall. Finally, we carefully sat on an overhanging rock, looked out at the ocean splashing below us, and relaxed. There was danger of slipping, falling, hurting ourselves, but the danger seemed manageable - and exciting - as long as we were together.

The ocean was endless, and we talked about our future. A torn flag slapped at the wind, a ship in the distance seemed as small as a toy boat, and the wind turbines on Deer Island spun like pinwheels.

Safely down again, we began the trek back to the beach. Instead of going back the way we came, we went further down the beach to a flack rock jetty that looked like the smooth, dark back of a whale. The rocks were wet, and mossy, but I insisted I could climb them without putting on my shoes. He told me we should go around, but I was adamant and cocky. I didn't want to play it safe - I wanted adventure.

I slipped and fell hard against the rock, deeply scraping my arm and leg. He quickly made a handkerchief-and-belt tourniquet to stop the bleeding on my arm, and my leg bled through my jeans. I was angry, calling myself an idiot as he helped me limp back to the car. My arm and leg stung, and I'd lost the desire for adventure that day.

We went to Target to buy extra-large Bandaids, and had a minor argument about putting them on in the store.

"I'll just wait until we get back in the car! I don't want to put on Bandaids right here."
"Put them on. It's called first aid, not 'when it's convenient' aid."

I consented, sat down in the home decor aisle, and winced as he pressed the Bandaids over the cuts.

For three days I changed my Bandaids, blushed when a student asked what had happened to me, and stayed away from the rocks. Then it was Tuesday, and I had to run. I ran along the beach, feeling a slight pain in my leg with every step, and quickened my pace over the rocks to avoid tripping on smaller, broken pieces. I ran down the stretch between the lagoons, and stopped in front of the rock wall.

I went up alone. This was more dangerous, as nobody would be there if I lost my footing, or slipped, or fell. Nobody would hear my head smack the rock or my bones crack if a loose rock crushed me. But we had successfully climbed this wall, and I was thirsty for that view of endless, impossible, wonderful ocean.

At the top I rested, inspecting the bluish bump that had formed on my leg under the scrape, and got my breathing and heart beat under control. Shivering in the wind, I begged the clouds to let the sun out, and even though they refused, I stayed. These rocks, this view, this beach, this ocean - they were all mine. I had climbed them alone, rested alone, contemplated the world alone, and I would descend alone.

I knew that I could and would survive alone. But I don't want to. I wanted him there, wanted to point out a bird, remark on the waves, and discuss the beauty of the natural world. I wanted to grab his hand for support as I jumped to a lower rock, hand him my keys to hold so I could use both hands for balance, look back up at the pile and smile as we always do when we've just had an adventure.

It was easy to say yes on a sandy beach where everything was sunny, easy, and calm. It was easy to say yes to help with my injuries and a shoulder to lean on when my leg was sore. But I had to climb up those rocks alone, conquer a challenge, and sit humbled by the sheer hugeness of the world around me and the danger of falling alone. I had to face that danger alone to know that I never again want to face it alone. I had to look out at the ocean's power, unpredictability, and eternity to know again, from the deepest and most slippery rocks at the bottom of my soul, that the answer is yes.

shells.

2010-04-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

<Photo courtesy of Kristine Kainer Art>

We walked the beach on Saturday. Spring was tangible as the sun beat down, warming our skin, and we smiled at the other Bostonians who had crawled out of their winter caves. For the first time in many months, the city was cheerful, and the people happily shed their coats for new layers of sweat, t-shirts, and sunscreen. We were our real selves again, ready to grow and adapt to the coming season.

*

We picked up shells. Each shell had to be considered carefully; we didn't want any that were broken, or stained, or had any traces of the organism that had lived in the shell. We compared them side by side, left most on the sand, and held onto the ones that were smooth, white, and clean. One we threw back into the ocean, a broken shell with the organism spilling out, covered in flies. We felt it should die in the ocean; the empty shell would wash back onto the beach in its own time.

*

Pity: "It's so sad. She's just a shell of her former self."
Scorn: "There's nothing inside; he's just a shell of a man in a suit."
Relief: "She finally came out of her shell."

*

The shells of ocean creatures are beautiful, collected, and admired. We are fascinated by them, easily forgetting that they are the remains of a creature that outgrew its shell and moved to another, or died, slipping out of the shell and leaving it clean and pure. The shells become novelties, ornamental objects that we take the liberty to overlook or confiscate. We are up high, and they lie on the sand. We take what we like.

*

We outgrow shells, move into new ones, discard the old ones, and eventually, slip away for good, leaving our shells on the beach.

*

I was an extremely shy, uncomfortable, sensitive child. I didn't like to be held, hugged, or touched in any way. Small things upset me violently - not the way a child throws a tantrum for not getting its way, but the way a person becomes inconsolably sad over something that nobody else understands. My feelings were fragile as butterfly wings, with patterns just as unpredictable. Everything made me cry, and when I cried, I was told I was too sensitive; this made me feel like there was something wrong with me, which made me cry all the more. By third grade I'd developed a very poor image of myself. I felt too tall, too big, too not-blonde. Pictures of me during this time are painfully awkward because of the way I stood, smiled, and angled myself to look as small as possible. But I was no longer shy. I'd moved into a new shell.

*

The new shell was roomier, but still a shell. "Don't look at me - but laugh at my jokes!" was etched on the outside. An amazingly adaptive shell, this one grew with me, no matter how many times I tried to outgrow it. It seemed this would be the shell that I left on the beach. Dark and stained, I doubted any beachcomber would want it.

*

Fortunately, someone picked me up, threw me against a rock, and broke the shell. I was terrified to be exposed, squinting in the sunlight and realizing that I could stretch myself beyond the limits I had learned in the previous shell. The world - and I - was so much more than I had ever imagined! Liberation is wonderful, but also frightening. I broke out of a dark shell - and now I was homeless. I would have to move into an abandoned shell or start creating a new shell. But if I stayed on the beach, at the mercy of the sand, the sun, and people, I would surely die.

*

I didn't die. With some help, I have grown a new shell. At times, it cracks, or becomes so tangled in seaweed that I can't see the light around me. At times it looks very much like a shell I used to be. But I know that if I washed up on the beach today, the shell would have ridges, lines, places where instead of breaking out, I simply grew more into myself, more into this better shell.

*

Eventually, we are all going to slip away. People will pass by, and either reject, pocket, or simply ignore the shells left in the sun. Even a shell of a man, a shell of a former self, or a shell where a person hid for years before coming out - even these shells deserve at least a second glance. They are uniquely protective, housing the breathing, living thing inside, and they are incredibly fragile, at the mercy of nature, of people, of being thrown. But everyone has one, and some people go through many before the end. Each one tells a story, each ridge - like the rings of a tree trunk - marking our progress. Each one has the power to tell where we've been cracked, how much we've grown, when we've been set free. Each one is beauty, because each one is us.

monophony.

2010-03-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago on the train, I tried not to read over the shoulder of the young woman next to me. I couldn't help it, though - she was reading the glossary of her book, and I had to know the words she was trying to learn.
I saw one word and stopped reading. I stopped because after one word I knew she was reading a book about music, and I stopped because the definition was so arresting I spent the rest of the train ride thinking about it:

Monophony: a musical style employing a single melodic line without accompaniment.

A single melodic line. Without accompaniment. Single. Accompany. Melody.

This concept was beautiful to me, as it defines both a musical style and a style of life. Can one person - one single melodic line - create a melody? Is it always necessary to be accompanied to give life to musical notes, bars, rests, and melodies? Can a single melodic line resonate as powerfully as harmony? As melodic lines accompanying each other? My instinct in the question of solitude vs. togetherness is always to side with harmony. I love people, relationships, and connection, and I believe we were created to live together - our basic needs depend on the existence of others in the world. But reading this definition forced me to think again. In some cases, perhaps a melodic line is most beautiful without accompaniment.

* * *

Last Thursday I decided to walk from Government Center to my office instead of boarding a green line train. It was a beautiful sunny day, one of those March days in Boston that you don't get too attached to, knowing it could snow again (in fact, it did snow the next day), but you take full advantage of and stay outside as much as possible. I stepped onto the sidewalk and the accompaniment began:

A siren wailing (it's not his fault - he has to wail in order to be heard, and his need is urgent)
A woman's voice shouting orders into a cell phone
A taxi's horn honking at a businessman checking his Blackberry while jay-walking across a busy street
A pair of high heels clicking
A jackhammer destroying a portion of the street encased in orange construction fence
A bus grunting and snorting and wheezing its way through traffic

I used to love this about the city. A city offers so many distractions, noises, sights, smells - and even while people complain about the noise, it again distracts them from doing what they often don't want to do: think, and think deeply. Who can possibly think in this cacophony of a town? As I said, I used to love this. I didn't want to think, didn't want to face things, didn't want to consider the fact that with each year I was slowly becoming more and more of who I actually am, and less of the person I left behind in school. Now that I am older, I crave that space to think. Sometimes I want to hear a single melodic line. Sometimes I need to silence the accompaniment.

* * *

The accompaniment stopped once I reached the middle of the Boston Common. Now protected on all sides by trees, pathways, and green, I forgot the harsh noises of the city. Though the Common sits in the middle of downtown Boston, it is shockingly quiet - or at least, quiet enough to hear each melodic line:

A bird chirping (this sound is only cliche if you live in the country. When you live in the city, it is a novel, precious, and uplifting sound)
A dog's paws treading a grassy path
A garbage bag rustling gently with the wind in a caged metal container
A flag waving in the breeze (my attention was directed to the flag by a kite I noticed stuck in a tree)

These were noises, too. But they were different noises - life noises - that still gave me space to think. And they were sounds that didn't compete with each other. In the stillness of the morning, each sound sang out on its own, unaccompanied, and it was this unaccompaniment that made them music. A garbage bag rustling in the wind has never meant anything to me more than city trash. But apart from the city noise, it was its own sound - its own melodic line - and it was beautiful.

* * *

I generally shy away from silence, white walls, and pausing while speaking. I like activity, sound, and connection. But in my bustling and noise-making, I failed to realize that silence is the perfect venue for monophony, for a single sound to make itself known. And I failed to realize that this venue is everywhere, if only we will take the time to quiet ourselves, to hush the accompaniment, to tune our ears to the music of a single melody. To give ourselves the space to think, and the quiet to truly hear.

room 2.

2010-03-04T20:29:00.000-08:00

I arrived early for my appointment at Porter Square Veterinarian, so I checked in and sat next to my cat Lucca, who was crying from his little blue carrier. The vet came out to see me, apologized for the fact that I'd have to wait, and said, "I'd see him early, but I'm about to euthanize."

Suddenly I wasn't grateful that there'd been no traffic, that I'd managed to get Lucca in the carrier in just a few minutes, and that for once I wasn't rushing into the vet five minutes after my appointment. I didn't want to be around for this, and I didn't want to be the next appointment after the vet had just euthanized somebody's pet.

Dr. Champagne rushed into the back room with the swinging door, and came out a few minutes later carrying a white, medium-sized dog. The dog's legs dangled from the vet's arms, and despite the fact that he was too big of a dog to be carried on a regular basis, he didn't put up a fight. He swung his legs a little but seemed content to rest. I heard the jangle of his collar and his nails on stainless steel as the vet lowered him onto the scale in the waiting room, then scooped the dog back up and kicked open the swinging door with his foot.

One of the young women in scrubs at the front desk went into exam room 2 and closed the door behind her. She came out a few minutes later with a clipboard, and gave instructions to another woman at the desk about cremation, urns, and different numbers to call. They spoke in low, monotone voices; I could sense that this regular part of their job never got any easier. I poked two of my fingers through the door of Lucca's carrier and he nuzzled his head against them. He was still scared, but had quieted down now that I was sitting where he could see me.

Soon Dr. Champagne returned with the white dog in his arms. The dog had red gauze wrapped around his front leg, securing a plastic piece of tubing in place. They went into room 2 and someone pulled the door closed. I had been in that exam room with Lucca only five days earlier, listening to the doctor tell me that his symptoms were common, but could be fatal. Fortunately, his condition turned out to be treatable, but I wouldn't find that out until the day after my second appointment, in room 5. My memories of room 2 were anxiety, fear, and a deep sense of loss.

The door opened and a man and a woman came out, closing the door behind them. The man walked in front, not hiding his tears; the woman followed, sniffling and gasping, holding a dark blue leash with the Italian flag stitched near the top. He waited while she signed something at the desk, and then they left. I tried to smile at them as they walked by, but they never looked in my direction, at the person who still had her pet safely in a carrier beside her.

A few more minutes passed, and then the door opened again. This time, an older man walked out, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and went straight through the waiting room to the exit. I was getting anxious - would I have to see Dr. Champagne carrying the dog, his legs no longer swinging but hanging limply underneath him? Would I have to go back into room 2, which suddenly seemed too hopeless of a place for my second appointment with Lucca?

"Lucca?"

I looked up at girl in scrubs. "Yes, that's us."

"You can follow me into room 5."

I picked up the carrier slowly, giving Lucca a moment to balance his 13.5 lbs on the bottom, and followed.

"Dr. Champagne will be here soon."

I opened the carrier and Lucca began exploring, jumping onto the exam table, over to the counter to paw at the keyboard, and finally settling into the wide stainless steel sink. He stayed there until Dr. Champagne entered the room, closed the door behind him, and said, "Thank you so much for your patience."

I nodded and smiled, but I was brimming with questions. What happened to the white dog? How long does it take? Who was the owner? Did the older man watch the whole thing? Do you mind listening to questions about my relatively healthy cat after you've just watched a family's pet die? Do you want to sit down and talk about it?

He is a friendly, reassuring, and kind veterinarian. He smiles, he listens, and he tells me that I did the right thing by bringing Lucca back for another visit and that I didn't do anything wrong when I switched to a cheaper generic brand of cat food. I trust him.

While he asked me questions and typed my answers into the computer, Lucca scampered around and I stared at Dr. Champagne's back. He seemed to have left all the sadness, pain, and death in room 2, and was in my room smiling and working towards making Lucca healthy again. I watched his hands, which had within the last thirty minutes carried a white dog that was alive, and then not.

"Do you ever need a minute to recover after euthanizing?"

He turned around and smiled. "Sometimes." He looked tired.

He told me that the white dog was fifteen years old, possibly had a herniated disc or a tumor, and had just developed neurological problems so severe that he couldn't remember how to walk. Surgery for a dog half his age might have been promising, but at fifteen years old it was an issue of quality of life for the poor dog. "I told them they did the right thing. I would have done the same." He said if it never bothered him, he'd be in the wrong business. I believed him. Once he'd started talking about the dog I saw the sadness, the regret, the sense of loss that a doctor must feel even when he knows it's hopeless. A doctor has to value life, and a person who values life can't easily shrug the loss. But he had to let it go so that he could work on restoring existing life, the other sick animals at the hospital, and Lucca.

My appointment was quick, and the next night I went back without Lucca to pick up a $22.00 bag of prescription cat food that would keep him from having further health problems. When I walked into the office I glanced over at room 2, unoccupied by this time because all the daily appointments were over. All the people had gone home, and the animals well enough had gone with them. I knew that in the course of the day, some animals hadn't made it. With the guidance of a doctor, they had gone to sleep peacefully, and their owners had gone home, carrying leashes and rubbing their eyes. And while I know the doctor grieved with them, he has the promise and hope of the animals coming in the next day, of life new and life restored.

I see the white dog in Dr. Champagne's arms, and the faces of the people leaving room 2. I am grateful for the life around me, and I am grateful for those who know how to fight, how to let go, and how to see the beauty in both.

steak.

2010-03-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

"She's been discharged. And all she wants now is a steak." -my mother, referring to my grandmother, who was recently hospitalized

Over the weekend, my grandmother was admitted to the hospital with chest pains. Tests were run, blood pressure was monitored, and she was released two nights later with a clean bill of health. However, she was disappointed with the hospital food. So when I called my mother last night for an update, she told me that she, my father, and my grandparents had just left the hospital and were headed straight to The Outback to get Grammy a steak. She didn't want to go home first, didn't want to freshen up. She wanted that steak.

I laughed at this news, which is objectively funny but not at all surprising. My grandmother loves food, and loves all different kinds. She's the adventurous one, the one who isn't afraid to order a new item every time she goes out to dinner, the one who wants a bite of everything. Also, she always wants dessert.

I realized that I'd had three phone conversations with my mother over the course of Grammy's hospital stay:

1) Saturday morning: My mother answered her cell phone and told me that she and my father were in the car, on their way to pick up my grandfather for breakfast. After a good meal out, they would head to the hospital for visiting hours.

2) Saturday night: My parents had just picked up my grandfather, and they were on their way to The Olive Garden for dinner before visiting Grammy. My grandfather insisted that they had to eat first - no sense visiting Grammy on an empty stomach.

3) Sunday night: I got the news that Grammy was fine; my mother was in her car, following my father to Outback so Grammy could have her steak.

There's something very comforting about being in a family that plans a day around meals. I'm sure nutritionists would call this food-obsessed, sociologists would point to increasing obesity in American families, and psychologists may wonder why we still frantically try to fill that basic need when we no longer have to hunt for days to feed ourselves.

I say, we go with the flow. It's true that Italian families are notoriously food-centric, and of course, mine is no different. But we don't live in Italy, so several generations have adapted to the American way of eating - the use of microwaves, pre-packaged spaghetti, sauce from a jar (but only when there's no time to make it from scratch). While some of the foods have changed, the value of eating together has not changed: it's a guaranteed time of the day when the family is together, and it represents that everything is as it should be. If a meal is skipped, something must be terribly wrong. Eating meals as usual reassures us that even if Grammy is in the hospital, even if there are a few unknowns, we are going to make it. We will have a meal, clean the plates, and get on with it.

Knowing that my parents and grandfather were consistently eating - and eating well, I might add, not just hospital cafeteria fare - did give me a sense of peace and comfort. If Grammy was in serious danger, they would have remained bedside. I'm sure they even tried to stay with her, but it's no use fighting with an Italian woman/mother/grandmother about whether or not you need to eat in that instant: the conclusion is always that you need to eat. The confidence I had that Grammy was indeed encouraging them to eat also gave me comfort - it meant that she was not concerned enough with whatever was going on at the hospital to forget that her husband, daughter, and son-in-law needed three good meals that day. She is, by nature, fuss-free, and doesn't like people lavishing attention on her when she thinks it isn't necessary - but she depends on my grandfather with her very life, so if she was comfortable with him leaving the hospital for a bowl of pasta, then I know things were ok. Things would move on; life would get on; we would get on with it.

And after finally eating her steak (no doubt accompanied by a serving of mashed potatoes, green beans, a glass of ice water with a piece of lemon, and her own order of dessert), I know my grandmother will get on it with it, too.

mining.

2010-02-26T06:21:00.000-08:00

"What I love about our students is that there is so much to mine out of them. They're not used to valuing education, or thinking that they have intelligent things to say, but it's in there..."

This is my answer to the question I hear a lot these days: "What do you like about teaching?"

It's true. Our students are at a wonderful crossroads in their education, where they can decide to complete an associate's degree and begin careers, or they can transfer to a 4-year college and earn a bachelor's degree. No matter what they choose, they are very often accomplishing more than they, their parents, and many of their teachers thought possible.

I'm not sure when I first compared teaching to mining, but I can't think of a more apt way to describe it. What makes mining unique is that it's not a guaranteed success - you can fail. This doesn't mean the precious metals or diamonds or rock salts aren't there - it just means sometimes you don't find them. What I also love about being a miner is that each site is different. Some sites yield sparkling diamonds; others yield coal. Regardless, you go into a mine looking for something. And often, you have to shake things up to find it.

According to my very brief online research of mining, "Modern mining processes involve prospecting for ore bodies, analysis of the profit potential of a proposed mine, extraction of the desired materials and finally reclamation of the land to prepare it for other uses once the mine is closed." What a concept! To prepare it for other uses once the mine is closed...to prepare you for other endeavors once you leave school...to prepare your mind to think critically in all facets of your life after this class. Finding the gem, mineral, or lump of coal is indeed exhilarating (in my classroom I will shout, "That's a win for teaching!"), but after a period of time the site closes and the land has to be able to do something else. It can't be left deserted, drying in the sun with the entrance boarded up, a place where once something wonderful was found. But it will be left this way, unless the student decides to put the land to another use, to find a valuable and meaningful purpose for the site. To recognize that their minds need to constantly be illuminated, shaken, panned, and excavated. To know that what they say, think, and believe has meaning, and will have meaning for as long as they allow themselves to go through the processes of removing bedrock, stripping away vegetation, enduring painful digging, explosion, and sometimes, accidents that set them back.

Unfortunately, not every mine yields a pocketful of gemstones. Some students continue to yield nothing but dust, dust that infiltrates the air and infects the miners and coats other surfaces so that it becomes hard to tell if something is struggling to shine from under the layers of dust, grime, and sediment. But as long as the mine is open, as long as a miner is granted entry in some capacity, the task is to continue to try: strap on the helmet and the headlamp, pack up the tools, and start looking.

The challenge is not to lose heart. Often I leave a site at the end of the day thinking that if only I'd struck the wall at a different angle, or used a sharper tool, or panned a little more gently, surely the gems would have come falling out like colorful, sparkling raindrops. Other times I leave with dirt under my fingernails and a handful of coal that I know I should be grateful for, but the longer I look at it, the blacker, dustier, and uglier it looks. How will this site ever be prepared for another use? How will it ever be more than just a messy, toxic, eroding hole in the ground?

I suppose like anything that means anything, it demands more faith than most people think they have: faith that if the mine is open, something is inside. Faith that if I was hired to mine, then surely somebody believes I'm capable of finding something down there. Faith that when I see a glimmer in the darkness, my job is to stay and dig and dig and dig and dig until I reach it. Faith that when this happens, it is as joyous for the mine as it is the miner.

I have to believe - as all teachers have to believe - that the discovery of precious gems in a mine is enough to inspire it for the future, to prepare it for life as a valuable mine, to help it recognize that its very potential makes it beautiful.

memory.

2010-02-18T11:10:00.000-08:00

On this day, five years ago, my grandfather finally passed into peace after a long and painful battle with Alzheimer's. Grampy has been the inspiration for much of my writing, including my memoir, At Ease. To honor the memory of his life, struggle, and death, I've copied below a few scenes from my memoir.

I love you, Grampy. I still miss you...

The Motorcycle

My head was hot under the red helmet and I held my breath as Grandpa leaned in to secure the chin strap, the plastic clasp burning with summer heat. He bought the helmet for the grandkids to share, but while I was riding I pretended it was all mine.

It was my turn to ride. My older sisters, Christine and Angie, had already ridden, and Julie had to wait in the driveway until I got back, since she was only eight and I was ten. I hoped Grandpa wouldn’t shorten my ride because she was waiting.

As he lifted me onto the motorcycle, I stretched my legs to keep from touching the hot chrome of the exhaust pipe and spokes. I held the seat until he fastened his helmet and climbed on the front. The black leather burned my hands.

“Hold on and don’t let go, okay? You understand?”

I nodded.

I hesitated to wrap my arms around him because I didn’t like the doughy feel of his belly, but after the first turn I squeezed hard, gripping my hands together. I couldn’t see anything but red—Grandpa’s shirt stretched like a layer of skin across his back as he leaned forward. The wind whipped the ends of my hair against my face; I pressed my cheek against his back and closed my eyes.

“Hold on tight! Are you holding on?” Grandpa yelled, turning his head so I could hear him over the engine.

“Yes!” I shouted, squeezing even tighter than before.

We raced along, up and down the hills of Flowery Branch, a rural town an hour north of Atlanta, Georgia, slowing into turns and jetting out as if the motorcycle had rockets. There was so much space here, so much more than my neighborhood in Florida. Wide green lawns separated colonial houses with wraparound porches, and with no buildings in sight, the sky stretched clean across the horizon. I watched the asphalt fly by on either side of my legs. My toes curled inside my sneakers as I gripped the rubber footrests.

The leather seat burned my bare legs, but the wind rushed under my bent knees and cooled me as we leaned into a sharp turn.

“Are you holding on?”

I squeezed tighter instead of shouting back.

We sped around a pasture with one white house perched at the top of a hill, and when I saw the Chevron and Golden Pantry convenience store I knew we were almost home. The wind slowed around me and I felt my head spiral up to the sky.

Grandpa insisted that I continue to squeeze him – even harder now because the bike was unsteady – until he secured the kick-stand on the ground and turned the engine off. He lifted me off the seat, and I curled my legs up away from the burning chrome. I unfastened the chin strap and handed the helmet to Grandpa, wiping sticky strands of hair from my forehead.

He smiled at me. “Was that fun? Were you holding on?”

I nodded and watched him tighten the helmet around Julie’s face. They sped away, the red of the helmet and the red of his shirt like flames blazing down the road. When they disappeared over the first hill I went inside, my legs and arms trembling from the heat and the speed and the rush of the wind in my ears.

Atlanta Braves

Angie, Julie, and I shared the couch with Grandpa, and my father and Christine sat on the loveseat. Grandma and my mother sat at the dining room table, talking and glancing at the television whenever we cheered. Baseball was a traditional, almost mandatory activity the family enjoyed together. Julie’s and my legs dangled as we squeezed against each other on the couch. We always scrambled to sit close to Grandpa.

The Atlanta Braves shortstop let a ball bounce once in the dirt and roll right by him. Grandpa jumped to the edge of the overstuffed couch, sending me back into the cushions because I was trying to balance against his side.

“Did you kids see that play? Bunch of stiffs!”

“Grampy, what’s a stiff?”

“It’s a lousy bum.”

“What’s a lousy bum?”

“It’s a stiff. Like that guy. That guy’s a stiff. Did you kids see that play?”

Since Grandma and Grandpa’s move to Georgia, we had to cheer for yet another baseball team. We were up to three: Boston Red Sox, Florida Marlins, Atlanta Braves.

Christine went to the kitchen and came back with a Pepsi. Grandpa took it before Christine sat down. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Thank you.”

“Grampy, that was mine!”

Grandpa belched.

“John, come on. Not in front of the girls!” Grandma scolded from the kitchen.

My sisters and I giggled and Grandpa stretched his arms around as many of us as he could, the Pepsi can dangling from his hand over someone’s shoulder.

Over time, baseball came to mean security. More significant than its classification as America’s pastime was my understanding that it was Grandpa’s pastime. Our family’s pastime. Baseball passed time in the family room in Georgia, in Florida, in Somerville, in Boston. Soldiers passed time in tents and barracks by talking about players, receiving final scores and updates via mail from home, reminiscing their days as high school heroes in pinstripes and oiled mitts.

To me, baseball was a place next to Grandpa on the couch, a seat next to my father at the ballpark, a question about a player’s history or an umpire’s call, a bag of peanuts that Grandpa and I ate with the shells on. Baseball’s easy tempo, uncomplicated rules, and breezy summer day atmosphere were the perfect components of a family activity; we understood it as children, and later, childlike, Grandpa could still understand.

Dinner

I imagine Grandpa’s plate as a mess of color, food mixed together and only partly eaten. Grandma would have barely touched her own as she helped Grandpa with his fork and encouraged him to keep eating.

“Anna,” he said. He knew her as Anna, the girl who took care of him. “Do you have any children?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, “I have three boys.”

“You have three boys? I have three boys! What are the names of your boys?”

She thought for a moment, not wanting to confuse him in case he actually remembered the names of my father and his two brothers. She gave their middle names, hoping my father’s middle name Anthony wouldn’t trigger the memory of Grandpa’s youngest brother.

“Well my boys are Joey, Jack, and Jimmy. And Joey has got the four most beautiful girls. Just beautiful.”

She smiled and cleared the table, wiping up Grandpa’s place with a sponge. I imagine her in a plaid shirt and bright green culottes. Most of her clothes were loose, sturdy, and required no ironing or dry cleaning.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

I suppose she tried not to look at him as she stacked the dishes in the sink.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Because if you need to, you can stay with me.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You can stay here with me and I’ll take care of you.”

The first time I heard the story she had tears in her eyes. The second time she smiled. The third was over the phone, so I don’t know what her face looked like, but it sounded somewhere in between.

Bananas

I tore the bananas apart at the stem and handed one to Grandpa. He turned it over in his hands as if studying a tomato for soft spots. We had been playing this game since the beginning of the summer.

“Come on, Grampy. Remember?”

“Oh geez. Anne! Do you see what I’m dealing with here?”

“Don’t look at me, John. You two are one nuttier than the other.”

I walked over to the table, hand on my hip, and faced him in the brown recliner. I saw a strip of dark skin where his pants had risen over the top of his white socks.

“Hello?” I said into the tip of the banana. “Is John there please?”

With a shaky hand he raised the banana to the side of his face. “Yes? Hello? Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me! Wanna have dinner tonight?”

He looked at Grandma. “John, you can do whatever you want. I’m ready to send you to the moon.”

Grandpa’s eyes were fixed on her. The banana trembled with his hand. “You don’t mean that. Do you?”

Grandma giggled. I smiled, dragging the edge of my sandal along the rough grout dividing the big white porcelain tiles.

I cleared my throat. “So? Are we having dinner?”

Grandpa held the banana out in front of him. “What is this?”

“It’s your phone, Grampy. We were talking on the phone.”

“What the heck am I doing?”

Grandma shrugged.

“I was asking you if you wanted to have dinner.”

“What the heck are you talking about? You’re crazy.”

Grandma cut in, “She’s as crazy as you, John. Couple of nuts."

“A cashew,” he specified.

“What am I?” I asked.

“A walnut.”

“Why?”

He shrugged and turned back to the TV, the banana in his lap.

“Grampy, you—” I sighed and let my arm fall, the banana hanging at my side.

“Are you going to eat that?”

He frowned and shook his head.

I put both bananas back on the counter and sat in the recliner next to Grandpa’s. His eyes were closed. Grandma cut coupons. I leaned back in the recliner and stared at the ceiling. My father would be here soon.

“Dad, how about a drive to King’s Market?” My father stood over Grandpa, slouched in the brown recliner, his fingers shaking slightly on the wooden armrests.

“Geez, I don’t know.’

“Joe, don’t push him.” Grandma turned to me. “He doesn’t realize how tired Grampy gets during the day.”

“Mom, I’m talking to Dad. Quit being a budinski.”

Grandpa laughed and we all looked at him, which made him laugh even harder. “What was that?”

Budinski, I told him.

Strazinsky, he said back.

“No, budinski. Bu-din-ski.”

“Buuuu-ZINSTY!”

Good enough. Then he wanted to know what it meant. I had asked the same thing when my father first said the word to me. He picked it up after years of watching M.A.S.H., the one show he appreciated as much as The Three Stooges.

“You know, it’s like when somebody can’t mind their own business. They have to butt in to everyone else’s.” My father pointed at me. “She’s the worst of all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“See what I mean? Can’t mind her own business.” He winked at me and Grandpa laughed.

My father asked about King’s again.

Grandpa sighed and agreed, okay, okay, okay, okay. If we’re gonna go, let’s go.

“Will you get me some pomegranates?”

“You know who else likes pomegranates?” Grandpa opened his eyes wide and nodded his head toward Grandma.

Of course I knew she liked them. She had taught me how to peel the skin and pop out the little seeds, like sweet rubies, to eat by the handful the first time I tried one, sitting next to her on the couch in this house last summer. Grandpa had been taking a nap and she just wanted my company.

Grandpa gripped my father’s arm like a lure as my father pulled him out of the brown recliner. I quickly sat down in the depression he’d made on the fabric. It was warm, like his thin cotton shirts, his white hair, his face whenever I gave him a kiss on the cheek, but not too much.

“Have fun,” I said, changing the television station to anything but the news.

Grandpa stopped and stared at me. “Bu, bu—”

Budinski, Grampy.

“Zalinsky. Buzinsky.” He followed my father out the front door.

Sunset

I eased onto the bedspread, trying to balance my weight evenly between my hands and knees. Grandpa’s eyelids twitched as if he were trying as hard as he could to keep them closed. He mumbled a little as my shifting woke him.

“Hi,” I whispered. “Can I lie next to you for a little while?”

“You can do whatever you want, you know that.”

The sun fell in through the skylight above us, casting shadows in the hallway leading to the bathroom that Grandpa couldn’t use alone. My great grandparents, stolid and frozen in time, watched from a framed wedding portrait on the wall, the gold-leaf frame textured with leaves layered on thick, like impasto paint.

“So I’ve been thinking I want to be a chef,” I said, sliding closer to him so I could feel the warmth of his body. His arms rested on his belly, which rose and fell slow and measured like my father’s when he fell asleep watching football.

“Well that sounds like something.”

“We could open a restaurant.”

“Okay.” He scratched his forehead. “And split the profit seventy-thirty?”

“That’s not fair!”

“Fine, sixty-forty.”

“Deal.” I smiled and crossed my arms behind my head. I felt young in this room, younger than the green velour chair with a pair of pants draped over the back, younger than the white wooden armoires with black trim that flanked a matching vanity table long since used, younger than my great grandmother on the wall.

“So about the restaurant,” I said. “I assume it will be Italian.”

He gestured to me. “And only good looking people can come in.”

“And you and I will be the judges of that.”

Only Grandma spent time with him in this room, reminding him how to lie down for naps, following him into the bathroom, stroking his back when he realized he had said something that didn’t make sense. I rested my head on his shoulder; he didn’t always know me, but he always seemed to trust me.

I looked down the length of the bed at his feet, toes standing straight up under thick white socks. Grandma kept the air conditioner as cold as she could because she didn’t love the heat, and Grandpa wore socks in the summer.

As he coughed, I checked the clock on the bedside table – almost five, which meant soon he would be “sundowning.” Grandma would hurry me out of the house so I wouldn’t have to see him at his most confusing part of his day, the time when his lucidity slipped away with the sunlight.

But leaving him alone seemed like the worst thing to do. He was far away in a dream, and though I couldn’t go with him, I could wait, here on the bed under the skylights, warmed on all sides by the sun above, the bedspread beneath, and Grandpa’s steady breathing.

1865.

2010-02-16T13:58:00.000-08:00

To confirm the actual date of the end of the Civil War, I consulted a history timeline. While the war officially ended in May of 1865, a series of events led up to the important day on which, in theory, a divided nation was reunited. This morning I came to an important realization: I am from nowhere. The date is February 16, 2010; the location is Boston, MA; the battleground is the train. Like the Civil War timeline, my own important date (today) is preceded by a list of previous events and circumstances that, while I didn't know it at the time, prepared and shaped me for the moment on the train. I call this moment my Civil Observation, which in turn led to the Realization that I am, in fact, from nowhere.

I grew up in South Florida in a true melting pot that included many different groups of people: Jewish, Indian, Asian, and Latin American (I didn't have a crush on a white, American, Protestant boy until I got to college). My parents are from New England, like so many Floridians, as if Florida used to be connected to Maine and, like so many New Englanders, sailed south one winter and never returned.

Though my company was mixed, I never thought growing up in Florida would be cause for an identity crisis - I spent weeks of the summer in Boston, which seemed the same as Florida except that my grandparents' house had a basement, my cousins said "wicked," and it got cold at night. I got teased for being chilly, and was asked in amazement what Christmas was like without any snow, but for the most part I fit in just fine.

When I moved to North Carolina for college and told people I was from Florida, they wanted to know where. I specified, "South Florida." Though we all know this means I grew up as geographically far south as you can grow up unless you swim over to Cuba from the Florida Keyes, I was not accepted as a Southerner. I was called a Yankee (definition: someone who lives in the North); a transplant (definition: someone who is from the North but moved to the South); and a halfback (definition: someone who is from the North, moves all the way down to Florida, then comes halfway back up the coast to the Carolinas). I was asked if my accent was from Chicago or New York. I was asked if we had ketchup in Florida. I didn't know what a pig pickin' was (I pronounced it "pig picking" - with a "g" - which was the first offense; the second was scrunching up my face in horror when I at last saw the pig on the grill, people pulling pieces off of it with plastic forks); I didn't know what shag dancing was (I'm still not entirely sure, but I believe it's like swing dancing to something called "beach music," which I don't entirely understand either, since when you grow up near the beach, everything is beach music); I spoke of barbeque as an event where people stand around a grill with chicken, shrimp, hamburgers, and hot dogs cooking (in the South, it is a cuisine. "Barbeque" varies by region, by sauce, with coleslaw or without, on a bun or on a platter, etc.); I only wear my string of pearls on very special occasions (most of the girls I knew would wear pearls every day to class, with a t-shirt, denim skirt, and flip-flops). I didn't quite fit in with my non-accent and lack of understanding of basic Southern traditions, but I was educated, cared for, and accepted, and when I hear "Carolina in My Mind" by James Taylor, I go there in my mind, too.

After college I moved to Boston. Here, I was even more confusing. Born to Northerners in Florida but spent the last four years in North Carolina - they decided I was a Southerner. They were confused because I didn't have an accent (I tried to explain, "I'm not from the South-South, I'm from South Florida..."). And without fail, as soon as people learn where I'm from, they want to know why I ever moved to Boston. They want to know all about the South ("How was that, going to school in the South?" as if I had been living in a lean-to hut with the Marine Corps, instead of in a dorm on a beautiful college campus reading, writing, and watching my team win the NCAA Championship in 2005). People don't understand why I've stayed, how my skin stays brown when the sun is hibernating, nor why I still own a pitiful winter wardrobe (a friend once stayed at my apartment in January, and when I told her to borrow something from my closet, exclaimed, "Where are your winter clothes? All I see are tank tops and flip flops!"). But for all they don't understand, and for all the stereotypes of crazy drivers, crazy liberals, and crazy Red Sox fans, I have been, as I was in North Carolina, educated, cared for, and accepted.

A few weeks ago at a party, I heard a woman say that the reason people never leave New England is that they go to the South, hear someone speak, and come right back up North. I said that was neither true, nor fair (Wasn't I educated in the South? Didn't I grow up fewer than 200 miles from Cuba? Aren't there people in Boston who speak as though they never learned to read?). This weekend I went to North Carolina to visit old friends and my beautiful campus. We walked into a gift shop and I saw a dish towel printed with the words, "We don't care how you do it up North." I live up North now. But I'm from down South, but not really down South, so I didn't know which side to choose. Regardless, it bothered me.

I have always lived somewhere else, been from somewhere else, and acted, looked, or sounded like someone from somewhere else, instead of the place where I'm from - which sometimes makes me feel like I'm from nowhere. Living somewhere else, always being from somewhere else, has conditioned me to cringe when people who have never lived anywhere else decide they have the right to define the rest of the world and make judgments from the comfort of the home they've never left. The last time I checked, there were idiots in every state, jerks in every state, arrogance in every state, accents in every state, customs in every state. And the last time anyone checked, this is what we supposedly celebrate about ourselves as Americans.

Listen, world: if the issue is your stereotypical ideas of the North or the South, get on a plane, live in a new place, create a life, meet new people, establish relationships and traditions - and then decide how you feel about that place. If the issue is the Civil War, build a bridge, get over it, and join the rest of us here on the other side of 1865.

This morning on the train, a very large woman with a very thick Boston accent (which, unless you're one of the Kennedys, is almost unintelligible) pushed her way through the doors, and stopped in front of where I was sitting, quietly reading my book (the man to my left was reading Tolstoy; the woman to my right was reading over my shoulder). She began to complain about the ignorance of the two men at the door, and how un-f-ing-believable it was that they hadn't moved enough out of her way. "Move out of the way! I'd like to get on too, ya know. They're just standing there by the doors. The ignorance here. I can't stand it. What if their mother walked in? Would they move out of the way then? I can't stand ignorance." I looked up and saw two Latino men standing quietly; my best guess is they moved a little to let her pass, but her girth didn't fit without a good shove. I looked back and forth between her and the two men, aghast, and she looked down at me and said, "Sorry, but it's just rude! I can't stand it."

In that moment I didn't have a home. I wasn't from the South because I was technically from the North; I wasn't from the North because I grew up in the geographical South, and because I have "Southern" manners, like not shouting that someone is ignorant when that person is standing two feet away from you. This was my Civil Observation - that people are at war with one another over things that happened in the 1800s, that people are still happy to live by stereotypes of places without ever leaving the tiny sphere of where they grew up, went to school, and settled down, and that as a person from neither the North nor the South, a person with a great appreciation for the lives I've lived in Florida, North Carolina, Washington, D.C., Italy, and Boston, I am watching the battle from the sidelines, from nowhere.

South Florida is nowhere. The idea of being from nowhere at first seems horrible - but I'm suddenly grateful that no person seems beneath me simply because of the place I was raised, because of the places other people are raised, because of the way they pronounce "car" or "picking" or "please," if they say "please" at all. I'm grateful that my parents don't refer to all people in the South as stupid, or to all people in the North as arrogant, and I'm grateful that the only line I've ever drawn in the sand is at the place where I feel the most at home: on the beach - any beach - looking out at the sea that we sometimes forget we all have in common.

shrimp.

2010-02-04T11:13:00.000-08:00

Last night I peeled a pound of shrimp. It was a slimy task, tedious, and smelly. And I had to continually shoo the cats away, since the smell of fresh seafood drove them crazy. Standing over the pile of shrimp, peeling off their tails and legs, I had a bizarre feeling of power. I thought, "How pathetic that the part I'm peeling away is the shrimp's armor - its protection - and I'm just standing here, unaffected, peeling it away. Why even bother having a shell when it's this easy to take off?"

And then I pulled too hard on the end of one and the whole tail came off, shell and shrimp. And the next one I squeezed too hard while peeling away the legs and I all but flattened the shrimp. And then I realized it wasn't an easy task at all.

The shell has to come off - there's no way around it. But it has to be removed slowly, carefully, and gently. A tug too hard in one direction will bisect the shrimp; holding the shrimp too firmly while peeling causes it to squish into a gray, watery mess that you wouldn't want to cook even if you could at that point. It's a reversal of the feeling of power I had at the start, the shrimp telling me that it was no good to me with the shell on, but if I didn't peel it away just so, I would lose it forever. For an animal that is farmed to be eaten by humans, is referenced as an insult among humans, and turns pink - as if blushing - when cooked by humans, the shrimp had something enlightening to teach me about us: be careful with the shells.

We all have one, though some may be tougher to peel than others, and we all have a particular way - the only way - we allow someone to remove it. Without some sort of armor, we swim around defenseless, naive, unthinking, susceptible to anyone. With too much, we don't trust, hiding under coral and rocks, burying our heads in the sand to keep the world out. The right amount gives a reasonable sense of security, and also a healthy amount of vulnerability.

Recognizing the toughness of our own shells should heighten our sensitivity toward others'. We must allow people to dictate how, when, and from what direction to peel. We must allow them to tell us when we're holding on too tightly, suffocating them, and when we're pulling too hard, breaking them. We must understand that peeling away someone's tightly constructed armor is not about power or exposure, but about intimacy, the essence of true relationship. And we must understand that to take part in any relationship, we must allow our own shells to be broken.

louie.

2010-02-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

I hate talk radio. Maybe it's because I spend so much of my day talking, or because I love music so much, or because my sisters and I listened to sports talk radio every morning with our father on the way to school - no matter the reason, when I turn on the radio, I want someone to sing to me.

This morning on my way to school, I was listening to 91.9 WUMB, Boston's all folk radio station. I love this station for the folk music, but in the morning I especially appreciate Dave Palmater's non-yelling, non-advertising, non-pop-music voice. The tone and volume and cadence of his voice are less DJ, more grandfather in a rocking chair on a porch talking about Woody Guthrie. It was this voice that lured me in and kept me tuned in long after a song had ended.

"It was on this date in 1964 that the governor of Illinois declared the Kingsmen's recording of 'Louie Louie' pornographic, and asked all local radio stations to stop playing it."

Really? I tried to sing the song to myself in order to determine the source of the allegation - but I honestly couldn't remember any of the words except for long, vague, vowel-y sounds that must have been words at some time. It seemed strange.

Dave Palmater didn't say too much more about the incident, but he did play a song by Todd Snider. Recorded on his 2004 album East Nashville Skyline, Snider's "Ballad of the Kingsmen" recounts stories of songs being banned, blamed for kids' mistakes, or otherwise criticized for their powerful effects on the world. He mentions "Louie Louie," Marilyn Manson, Eminem - as well as the news, which frequently shows fighting, violence, guns, and sex without requiring anyone to show an ID first. As Snider sings, "They show it on TV a lot every night at six o clock/And you don't even have to be eighteen to see it, you don't even have to be in first grade..."

How true.

Nobody can say that music isn't powerful - but it can't be a scapegoat. Music can only affect our decisions as much as we let it. It can influence, suggest, or even put in words what we couldn't articulate ourselves - but it doesn't pull the trigger, take the drugs, hurt the girl, or run away. People make those decisions in real space and time. Conversely, music can encourage, uplift, and ease our minds - but it doesn't go to rehab, apologize to a friend, admit wrong, confess love. People have to do those things for themselves.

If anything, music simply fans flames already there. If a child is lonely, depressed, angry, or confused, it's not Marilyn Manson's fault that he goes crazy and hurts someone - why is he lonely? Why is he depressed? Why is he angry? Who is looking out for this kid, showing him love, asking him questions, keeping an eye out for violence, rebellion, or angst? Adults don't get to blame music, video games, or YouTube for their crimes - but adults like to blame these media for their children's crimes.

There are some objectively raunchy songs on the radio. By comparison, the lyrics to "Louie Louie" - whatever they may actually be - seem incredibly tame. I've heard these songs, and I've heard worse songs, listening on the sly as I was inclined to do in middle school. But I had parents who drew clear lines, made clear expectations, and cared enough about me to keep me near, even though I rolled my eyes and talked back and at times was sure I "hated" them. They knew where I was and who I spent my time with. I knew that if I got into serious trouble, there would be hell to pay. And I knew they wouldn't dream of blaming MTV for my misconduct. They'd hold me - and themselves - accountable.

Were the Kingsmen really causing lewd behavior? Were young teens emulating the Kingsmen, or acting as young teens in the 1960s were acting? How about emulating people on the news? Infidelity, tax fraud, drive-by shootings, theft, child abuse, rape...these stories are real, and everyone has access to them on every news channel, every newspaper, every Internet site. And many of these people in the news are or have been touted as role models, leaders, heroes, people to emulate.

Clearly, we wouldn't forbid the news from running their stories - it's the news. But if the news is going to show real pictures of real people doing real things in the real world, it should be held as accountable as entertainment media. Ultimately, people do what they want to do. They make their own decisions. Plenty of people listen to sexy, violent, aggressive, or controversial music and don't commit horrible crimes. Plenty of people don't listen to this kind of music and commit horrible crimes anyway (I'm sorry, Washington, but well-dressed politicians have a pretty poor track record when it comes to honesty and fidelity, and nobody blames it on Luther Vandross or Van Morrison or that movie they saw where a man cheats on his wife).

Media affects people. Music is powerful. Television is powerful. But...we are more powerful. We've been given minds and hearts and souls and the ability to reason. And we've also been given the responsibility to look out for each other, so that when we see someone slipping or withdrawing or smiling less, we can't let them off the hook. Media is an easy target to blame when we've failed to care or notice or reach out. Media is an easy target to blame when a person has suffered so much and crawled so deeply into him/herself that they are almost unreachable.

But media doesn't do the things we do. We do the things we do. We say the things we say.

And, thank goodness, we still make music.

cello.

2010-01-19T21:37:00.000-08:00

At the Lily Pad in Cambridge last Saturday, I was confronted with the power of music. Three groups played; all three featured the deep, haunting voice of the cello.

I arrived at the show in good spirits - I hadn't been to the venue since it re-opened (Boston-based readers may remember the Zeitgeist, which previously occupied the space), my boyfriend was playing for the first time with a new band, and it had reached fifty degrees that day. All was well in my world.

And then the first cello played.

The cellist played with her eyes closed, moved by every note; I was on the verge of tears.

My heart tensed up, taut as the strings on the cello as the bow was pulled across. I felt my body relax when the bow was lifted; the cellist closed her eyes again and I could barely breathe. What was happening? I kept reminding myself, Nothing is wrong! You have no reason to cry! And I believed it, and I kept my composure, and I decided not to be so dramatic. It was just a cello, after all. There are long, slow notes that quiver, conjuring the stark and horrifying images of the Holocaust. There are quick, bright notes, the cellist's fingers crawling up and down the strings like a spider, playing the excitement of surprise, or of love. And there are deep, steady notes, when everything is at peace, but only for a moment.

On Sunday, I knew why my heart was tense, and I let the tears fall. The pastor of my church led a sermon in response to Haiti. He disagreed with religious leaders who said God was punishing Haiti. He sympathized with families who wanted to know why. He admired the faith of so many people in Haiti who have been photographed on their knees or with their hands in the air, continually praying, praising, and crying out to the heavens. And he answered the most popular question, Where is God?

"God is fighting for Haiti - that's where God is."

Somewhere deep in my soul, the cello played. The bow slid across my heart, back and forth, breaking it into so many slivers of reverberating metal strings. I cried. I don't know a single person who lives in Haiti, but I cried as if my whole family had been crushed under the ruins of a building. I cried for the Haitian student I taught in English Composition last semester, I cried for my ever-smiling Haitian friend at church, for the Haitian community within the church that made a strong presence on Sunday, for the woman several rows in front who said that she still hadn't heard from her daughter, for the women in back of me who sobbed through every song but still managed to sing the words and repeat Amen.

The news of Haiti was no longer news on Saturday and Sunday; by Saturday the strings were wound as tightly as they could be, and on Sunday they were played, releasing the anguish and the helplessness and the raw sorrow for others. And joy.

Yes. Glimmers of joy. Joy that my pastor was right - God was in fact fighting for Haiti, moving doctors to fly to Port-au-Prince, volunteers to organize relief efforts all over the world, and regular cellos like me to cry and sing and pray. I realized that morning that if I'd never heard of God before, I would have known in that moment that he is real. If he isn't real, if we are simply highly evolved organisms, then none of this matters - not Haiti, not death, not the mysterious clenching of a heart when it knows - just knows - that right has to win over wrong. If none of it matters, then I don't care about Haiti - it can sink under the weight of the dead and fall to the bottom of the ocean, and I'll wake up tomorrow as usual.

But I won't. I'll wake up tomorrow, warm, fed, and clothed, knowing full well that the world is a mess and life matters, that life has to matter. It matters for the beauty, for the miracles, for the effect of one life on another, of one life on millions. It matters for the vibrato, harmonics, and glissando. It matters for the high notes, the low notes, and the steady notes. It matters because of the Cellist who makes them all sing.

haiti.

2010-01-15T10:33:00.000-08:00

You know by now what's going on in Haiti...

My company (Pearson Education) is extending its philanthropy to Oxfam's relief work. They have made an initial donation of $25,000, and will now match ANY donation you make through the site.

Please click on the link below to make a donation - no matter how small - and Pearson will send the same amount to Oxfam. Small amounts add up quickly, so I have faith that the matching program will be a wonderful help to relief efforts.

http://www1.pearsonfoundation.org/haiti_relief

Even if you cannot donate, continue to pray for Haiti, and for every person involved - victims, families, and relief workers.

We cannot change what happened, but we can still do our best to help.

**The painting is by a talented artist named Megan Wackes, who recently completed a series of paintings of Haitian children, which she then sold for charity. Please visit her sites below and contact her!

Haiti album
Megan Wackes Art
Megan's blog

women.

2010-01-14T20:09:00.000-08:00

I've often considered how lucky I am to be a woman today, and not thirty, sixty, two hundred years ago. I have never had to fight for my right to vote. I was expected, not forbidden, to receive a quality education. I'm praised for my job and my independence and for living on my own. I only cook when I want to, and there is no earl, knight, or lord who can demand my body on the night of my wedding. I'm a free woman.

Next week I begin my second semester as an adjunct professor, teaching English Composition and World Literature. Preparing for these courses has allowed me to dive back into the literature I studied as an undergrad, and has also introduced me to some wonderful literature from around the world. I am teaching two stories by Sandra Cisneros - "Girl Hollering Creek" and "There Was a Man, There Was a Woman." Cisneros is the American-born daughter of a Mexican family, and the Latino and Chicano woman's identity is a recurring theme in her work. To me, Sandra Cisneros embodies one of the most powerful quotations, by Oprah Winfrey:

I was raised to believe that excellence is the best deterrent to racism or sexism.

If the world doesn't understand, like, or believe in you, be excellent. Be excellent as a person, be excellent to yourself, the world, and most importantly, be excellent to those in the same boat as you.

II.

I sat down on the train and began reading Things Fall Apart, underlining discussion-worthy parts with a black fine point Sharpie. Two girls were talking - one was two seats down from me, and the other sat directly across from her. They both had the beautiful light brown skin, dark brown hair, and small frames of Latinas; the stops on the blue line go through ethnically diverse communities of East Boston, Winthrop, and Revere, coloring my train rides with a variety of faces, languages, and fast music escaping from useless ear buds.

The girls talked in English peppered with Spanish the whole train ride, sometimes shouting across the aisle to each other so they could be heard over the rumble of the train. At first it was typical train fare - gossip about a mutual friend who was pregnant and worked at the mall - and then it ran cold:

-"Is she white?"

-"She's light, not blanca, but mixed - she's so freaking ugly."

-"Is she still pregnant? I saw her and she was muy gorda but I thought she had her baby already."

-"I don't know, I never seen her bottom half, everything she wears is grande so I don't know."

-"I've seen her, she's nasty."

I'm glad I can't remember each description of each body part of each girl they discussed. At times they laughed, remembering how one girl had been so flaca but then her culo grew so big; one girl's body was ronda and another's was gorda but had no pechos. The topic never changed, the tone never improved, and they were clearly enjoying their horrible conversation. It was a nasty spectacle of minority women tearing each other down, for seemingly no better reason than simply having imperfect bodies. I've been riding the train in a city long enough to know that women are an endless source of discussion, especially when it comes to their looks - as far as we've come, we're still so shamelessly objectified. But to be objectified by one's own kind...

If we don't stick up for each other, who will ever stick up for us? Where is the excellence? Shame on us.

III.

I didn't stick up for us. I listened to the conversation, growing increasingly more nauseated as I tried to focus on Things Fall Apart, a horrible scene in which Okonkwo murders the young boy he has taken on as a son. Every few minutes I looked up to see if anyone else was hearing this, if anyone was outraged, if anyone couldn't believe that two young, Latina women - a group still constantly fighting for a stable, free identity - were hacking away at each other. Was I confusing my book with reality? Which scene was more destructive to the peace of the world? Okonkwo brought down his machete on a young boy, and young girls ripped each other to pieces.

But I did not stick up for us. I wanted to say something - the words were lodged in my throat, You are the cruelest girls I've ever seen - but I remained silent. I wanted to scream at them because as a woman I was offended and frustrated; I said nothing because as a woman I was afraid they would unleash their Spanglish scrutiny on me.

Shame on me. I buckled under my fear; I almost cried with every word they spoke as I applied their comments to my own body. I was thrown back into the dark, lonely prison of bulimia that I spent eight years climbing out of. It's my own job to keep myself out, to keep myself free. But I'd like to believe that we women are on the same team, and that we are here to keep each other strong for the sake of every woman who didn't exist as a whole person to society for so many years. I'd like to believe we could see each other as more than objects, and when we look at each other, see ourselves.

IV.

When I was in fourth grade, I told my teacher and my parents that I wanted to be the first woman president. Fifteen years later, Hillary Clinton fought hard for a presidential nomination by the Democratic party. I didn't agree with everything she said or stood for - but I was proud of her. Then Sarah Palin ran as a vice presidential candidate. I didn't agree with everything she said or stood for either - but I was proud of her, too. They made history for me. They made me appreciate the value of supporting one another even when we don't agree, simply because we've got to stick together. Excellence to one another can keep us going when we don't reach excellence on our own; degradation amongst ourselves can pull us down further than our own insecurities.

Most major religions have a central tenet that commands us to be good to one another. Perhaps this is too soft - perhaps the tenet should command that we not be horrible to one another. That a foolish, nasty conversation on the train can yank a person back from a point of security she was just beginning to enjoy. That we were created with the same bones, limbs, and organs - that we were created to be excellent.

census.

2010-01-09T19:28:00.000-08:00

First of all, thank you. I appreciate any and all of you who take the time to read these essays.

To make the sea salt experience more user-friendly, I'd like to send you an automatic link to the blog when there's something new to read.

If you're interested, please send me your email address (dcalareso@gmail.com) and I will add you to a notification list (your address will hidden).

Again, thank you for reading. My writing means the most to me when shared, and I'm grateful for the chance to share it with you.

conroy.

2010-01-09T09:25:00.000-08:00

When I was a sophomore in college, Pat Conroy (Prince of Tides, The Great Santini) spoke to my fiction writing class. Though he writes novels, it is no secret that many of his characters are members of his family. At the time I was writing nonfiction stories with changed names that I tried to pass off as fiction ("The One About the Old Man" was my attempt to fictionalize what later became my memoir about my grandfather, At Ease).

After the talk we were allowed to ask questions. I raised my hand.

"I write a lot about my family, too. How do you write honestly about your life and family without damaging your relationship with them?"

Pat Conroy looked at me and said with a straight face, "Fuck your family."

I was shocked. I was (and still am) squeamish about the f-word - but more importantly, I have never considered putting my writing before my family. Conroy went on to describe how he had family members who hadn't spoken to him in years, how he had created family fights because of the way he'd written characters, but how he had considered that the price for writing well, and writing honestly.

I disagreed. Maybe his family (and the families of many writers) is expendable, but mine isn't. And as much as I love writing, dream of a life where all I do is write, and spend hours editing even the shortest piece, writing is not my life, nor will it ever be.

Is this a writer's death wish? Maybe. But a far more threatening death wish is the one where I put writing before my family. If that's what it takes to be a successful memoirist, then I'm truly not interested.

This doesn't mean I've abandoned memoir or personal narrative. What I've abandoned is the attitude that my art takes precedence over everything and everyone. I've learned to respectfully write about my family, and I've learned to shelve ideas and secrets that aren't mine to share. I'm extremely fortunate to have a family that is gracious and understands the tone and aim behind my writing, even if one of them shows up in a piece less than perfect. I'm also fortunate to have had a happy childhood with minimal scars (come on, it's childhood - everyone has a few scars), parents who have never been horrible to each other or their children, and siblings with whom I talk every day. Many writers come out of dysfunctional or abusive families, with few happy memories to recall, and I know that I am lucky (and rare) to never have to broach certain subjects.

However - my family is a real family, and we have our own issues, our own lives, our own pasts, our own secrets. Some of these issues make it into my writing, others don't. And this has been my decision - my mother has never said to me, "Whatever you do, don't write about that." But as a human with feelings and secrets and shame of my own, the decision is usually easy: would I want someone to write this about me?

I developed this sensibility in seventh grade. I achieved my first publication, an essay included in the high school's literary magazine, Scribbler. I had written an essay about how if I had one wish, I would wish to meet my brother, the one who was born eight years before I was, the one who died when he was ten weeks old. At the time, it never occurred to me to show the essay to my mother and ask how she would feel if I submitted the essay for publication. I had written it in secret, celebrated the B+ grade I received in secret, and submitted in secret. When it was published, I was terrified. Would my mother find out? It was something I agonized about until I was twenty-two, and wrote another essay about the day my mother told me about the son she'd lost. And then my mother did something wonderful: she gave me her blessing. She told me I could write freely about her life and her memories. And I have (two of my favorite essays are about painful situations involving my mother), but I have done so with great care. I read her my essays. I email them to her so she can process on her own. And then I ask her, "Do you mind if I submit this?" I am sure she will say no, but I always ask. Thus far she has always said no, but I know that one day she may say, "This is beautiful, but I would be humiliated if you published it," and I will be grateful I asked.

The other family member who has been uncommonly gracious is my grandmother. My grandmother is an Italian pillar of strength who took care of my grandfather and his Alzheimer's until the day he died. And then she let me write about him. I wrote a short story, then a play, then a memoir. She read the memoir and loved it, saying that as she read certain parts she thought, "That's exactly how it was." She didn't have to respond this way - there are scenes in the memoir when I take a stand against her, scenes where my father is frustrated with her, scenes where my grandfather doesn't recognize her. And yet she knows I'm not out to get her. I told the story as I saw it, and didn't hold back. But because I asked - because I told her that her opinion, as a central character in the story, truly mattered to me - she trusted the motive behind the writing.

I'm an adult. I can write whatever I want, about whomever I want, and submit wherever I want. My family knows this. But they know they are more important to me than any publication will ever be, and they know that I deeply care about how they feel when I write them into an essay. In a surprising way, this has given me more license to write. There is trust within the family, trust that one of my writing goals is not slander. And I have learned to trust that if someone in my family will be irreparably hurt by something I've written, it's best to leave it be.

Pat Conroy is successful, and his family matters are his business. But his advice to me was - and will always be - ignored. Art is one of the most beautiful gifts God has given people, but it is no substitute for people. I long for the day when I can confidently call myself a writer, but I can't be a lonely writer. I need the people around me to not only support what I write, but to be what I write. If I care enough to write about people, then I must also care enough to keep them, and in keeping them I keep myself, my world, worth writing about.

crawling.

2010-01-04T12:43:00.000-08:00

I've had a song in my head all day - actually, one line of a song:

"Ooooooh, I keep crawling back to you..."

This is the chorus of "Crawling Back to You" by Tom Petty (Wildflowers album).* He repeats this line twice between the verses of the song, and it's enough. The line is simple, the music is subdued, and the message is clear: I'm coming back.

The idea of crawling back to someone is desperate, ashamed, and exhausted. We say it with embarassment - "I went crawling back to my old boss," or with satisfaction, "He came crawling back to me," or with anger, "Don't come crawling back here when you need something!” The action of crawling in adult relationships carries such tension, such weight, so much shame that we forget it's the only way to learn how to walk. We see it as regression, a place of weakness, humility, and powerlessness. A place so low we can only look up, but somehow seem able to move forward - because of course, crawling is still motion. It's a more powerful expression of our human need for each other than simply begging on our knees, or lying flat on our faces. We may be broken, but we're still moving, still trying to get closer, still attempting to come back, at the risk of refusal, denial, and further humiliation. On your knees, you can beg and plead for another chance, but nothing is truly risked until you've travelled, covered some ground. Crawling to a person means you may have to crawl back alone.

Our definition of crawling, however, only exists because we can walk. For us it means to move on our hands and knees - all fours. But many animals only know how to move on all fours - if a dog runs away and then finds his way home again, covered in mud with matted fur and begging for food, he's still moving the same way he left - call it a run, a walk, or a crawl, but he's coming back on all fours, and nobody thinks any less. The owner will hug the dog, let him shake mud and water if he needs to, let him slobber all over because he's excited to be home. And it wouldn't make sense to say, "My dog came crawling back to me." No. It's simply, "My dog came home."

It's tough, though. If you're the one on the receiving end, sitting alone in the house until the fateful day of homecoming, you're not prepared. You want the person to come back, but you can't promise you'll be able to open your arms - you may really want to kick the person in the teeth and slam the door. And sometimes you want to grab the person and never let go because you're both so angry and joyful that you can't even speak, but you hold back because you know what people will say: "That dog came crawling back to you, and you actually took him back? Are you spineless?" Of course you're not spineless. You're just a person who needs another person. One of my closest (and wisest) friends once wrote:

"I don't think there is any need to justify forgiveness. Love is about forgiveness and relationships are about commitment and working through all the crap and getting the good, the bad, the ugly all out on the table and working through it together. I wholeheartedly agree: when you love someone it seems impossible not to forgive them."

Whether someone comes back upright or on all fours doesn't actually matter, except to indicate such weariness that standing is impossible. In that state of exhaustion, the fact that the person even found the strength to move forward at all is remarkable. The person should be loved all the more, not chastised for crawling. Of course, there are some people who return after causing intentional hurt or pain, and in these cases, the welcome will certainly be different. But I believe the act of returning at all - especially on all fours - is arresting. It should make us pause, though our reactions may be to beat our fists and demand to know why we were ever left at all. And yes, all the grime the person brings back will need to be dealt with. But people returning to other people, whether running, crawling, in a limo, on the back of a donkey, on a bike, is the beauty of human connection. We take the risk that we will not be well-received, and in some cases, we may not be. But we try because we need to. We need people, we need each other, we need to know that showing up - no matter how late - counts for something.

No matter how well we think we treat people, no matter how righteously we think we live, we all need to come back at different times in our lives. We may walk, we may crawl, but we need to come back. The longer we wait, the weaker our bones and joints become - and at that point, crawling may be the only way. At times we are the prodigal son, at times we are the resentful good son, and at other times we are the father waiting for years to reunite his family.** The most profound response to a person who has returned, with dirty hands and worn out knees, weakly smiling and whispering, "I'm home,” is grace. We may not always be capable of such grace, especially when along with a picture of the person, we are holding onto anger, pain, humiliation, and devastation. But when we are capable - when we can truly forgive and help the person stand - we make peace.

Until we are presented with the situation, with the knock on the door from a weary fist, we can only pray that we will have the grace to make peace, and the strength to run as fast as we can when we realize it's our turn to come back home.

*If you don't know the song, here are the lyrics:

Waiting by the side of the road

For day to break so we could go
Down into Los Angeles
With dirty hands and worn out knees

I keep crawling back to you
I keep crawling back to you

The ranger came with burning eyes
The chambermaid awoke surprised
Thought she'd seen the last of him
She shook her head and let him in

Hey baby, there's something in your eyes
Tryin' to say to me
That I'm gonna be alright if I believe in you
It's all I want to do

It was me and my sidekick
He was drunk and I was sick
We were caught up in a barroom fight
Till an Indian shot out the lights

I'm so tired of being tired
Sure as night will follow day
Most things I worry about
Never happen anyway

I keep crawling back to you
I keep crawling back to you

**If you don't know the story of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32), here is the text (ESV):

11 And he said, “There was a man who had two sons. 12 And the younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of property that is coming to me.’ And he divided his property between them. 13 Not many days later, the younger son gathered all he had and took a journey into a far country, and there he squandered his property in reckless living. 14 And when he had spent everything, a severe famine arose in that country, and he began to be in need. 15 So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into his fields to feed pigs. 16 And he was longing to be fed with the pods that the pigs ate, and no one gave him anything.

17 “But when he came to himself, he said, ‘How many of my father's hired servants have more than enough bread, but I perish here with hunger! 18 I will arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.”’ 20 And he arose and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him. 21 And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ 22 But the father said to his servants, ‘Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. 23 And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. 24 For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ And they began to celebrate.

25 “Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. 27 And he said to him, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.’ 28 But he was angry and refused to go in. His father came out and entreated him, 29 but he answered his father, ‘Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!’ 31 And he said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. 32 It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found.’”

eisenhower.

2009-12-30T20:25:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday I got behind the wheel of my car and drove to Florida.* 24 hours. 1,400 miles. 11 states. 0 requests for passports, 0 check points, 0 guards inspecting the trunk, 0 inquisitive looks at an unmarried woman travelling with two men. During my 11pm-2am shift on the return trip, I looked up at the quiet, starry sky over North Carolina and realized for the first time in my easy American life, I'm free.

I'm surprised this never occurred to me sooner, considering how many long road trips I've taken. Some trips have been for fun, a car full of college students en route to my home in Florida for spring break; other trips were somber and dutiful, travelling from Boston to Philadelphia to share the final days of a dear friend's father; my favorite trips were the ones I took alone, driving myself to and from college, 13 uninterrupted hours on I-95 with the windows down and my ponytail blowing wildly against my neck. As a young girl and then a young woman, travelling unaccompanied in my own car across the lines of so many cities and states should have felt as limitless as it was: I was free to go anywhere, to do anything.

On June 29, 1956, President Dwight D. Eisenhower gave Americans what I believe to be the most tangible meaning of freedom: highways. Thanks to the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, we have a highway system where anyone with a driver's license can go anywhere with anyone to do anything. You turn the ignition, put the car in drive, and go. When you've reached your destination, or you run out of money, or just get bored, you stop. Unless you're wanted by the law, or are suspected of criminal activity, or are blatantly breaking a traffic law, you're free.**

The way I felt under the stars in North Carolina was the opposite of how I felt in Jordan. For two females, my friend and I enjoyed an envious amount of freedom (she has her own car and apartment), and as Americans we were automatically seen as red, white, and blue scribbles outside the straight lines of the Middle East. But we were nonetheless required to open the trunk for a weapons inspection, hand over our passports (she has a Jordanian resident ID and speaks Arabic, so she received more smiles than I did), and explain ourselves. The Kingdom of Jordan itself is safe and peaceful, so the stops on the highways were only about as frequent as a toll booth on a turnpike (there were additional checkpoints at higher security areas, such as my friend's school, the airport, the Dead Sea, etc.). They were not unpleasant or even random checks - they checked every car and person - but they were reminders that we did not have the rare and often refreshing opportunity to be anonymous, to lose ourselves in the drive, the wind, and the music, to drive for hours in silence if we wanted. Every so often, men with guns would want to make sure we weren't up to trouble.

I understand this. It's a practice that in principle I find frustrating and counterproductive to the ideals of peace, progress, and faith in humanity, but it's a practice like many others that I sadly understand. At the airport I dread taking off my shoes and walking across a grimy carpet after other barefooted passengers, and I want to shake the kids working at the scanners and say, "Do you honestly think that any of us have bombs in our shoes? We're just trying to get home!" And then the news on Christmas Day reported a man's attempt to ignite an explosive on a plane. I hate taking off my shoes, but I understand. There are idiots, terrorists, and horrible, horrible people who will try to hurt other people, who don't value human rights, and who rob the rest of us of our kindergarten belief that everyone is a friend.

This understanding guided me through each check point in Jordan; while I was annoyed that we once again had to prove that we were friendly tourists who meant no harm, I understood that these checks were here because there were unfriendly travelers who did mean harm. So I handed over my passport when asked, answered questions, and deferred to my friend to do the explaining in Arabic.

No amount of patient understanding, however, could make me feel less restrained in those moments. I wanted to drive on, drive past, drive forward. I wanted to drive forever if I could, crossing lines into new lands while leaving others behind, watching the cherry blossom trees of Washington, D.C. bloom into the Spanish moss-covered live oaks of Gainesville, the homemade painted signs of Savannah brighten to the neon lights of Miami Beach. I wanted to drive down the coast without anyone asking why.

By 1956 we'd come a long way as a nation. Civil Rights would be our next major feat; we'd tackled slavery, women's suffrage, and established the United Nations. I don't know if I would have seen the significance of the highway system if I'd been alive on the day President Eisenhower gave it life. It's an obvious instrument of convenience, public works, and progress as a nation continually trying to connect people from Maine to Washington to California to Texas to Florida. But somewhere along I-95 in my Honda Civic this winter, I realized that these interstate roads are the very stripes of freedom, stretching across the nation with the stars shining boldly above.

*I was not alone. My boyfriend, his brother, and I took shifts driving, navigating, and sleeping. We decided in advance that this would be easier, cheaper, and less aggravating than flying to Florida for the holidays, and we were absolutely right.

**My boyfriend wisely pointed out that we enjoy this interstate freedom because we are not in the midst of a civil war, as many countries are. I also realize that there is a very real problem with racial and ethnic profiling by policemen. However, to this point I say that my musings are specifically on major highways, not city streets and roads, where there is more frequent patrolling.

beans.

2009-12-21T07:02:00.000-08:00

Writing success! Oh for joy! My second publication ("Mt. Auburn") has made it to the Web. You can read it at http://falling-apart.net/. My first published essay was featured online at http://www.paradigmjournal.com/ (the mitchell issue); Paradigm is now publishing a printed anthology of some of the year's best work, and my essay "What I Think My Grandmother is Thinking" is going to be included. This anthology will be available for purchase through Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.

In the grand scheme of the world, and specifically the writing world, these small feats aren't worth a hill of beans. But in my world they're magic beans, and I'll do anything I can for another handful. The only thing I can really do, of course, is to write. And right now, that's all I want to do...

adhan.

2009-12-17T17:33:00.000-08:00

At Government Center train station, where I transfer from the green line of work to the blue line of home, I am privileged to hear free performances by a few of Boston's growing number of train station musicians. Some of these are quite talented (a guitar player at Park Street who sings country songs, a trumpeter at Davis Square who plays Beatles and Van Morrison tunes); others simply play and sing because they know how. Either way, they are hard to ignore - they are singing to get your attention, and hopefully, your money.

A few weeks ago someone got my attention - he was softly playing the guitar, looking down, not singing. Yet when I heard the notes my heart stood at attention, this familiar melody calling me to a deep peace that I'd known since childhood. The song was "Trust and Obey," a hymn composed by Daniel Brink Towner in the late 1880s. I have known every word of this song since I was a child, though I have never sung it in church. My mother used to sing my sisters and me to sleep with old hymns that our contemporary churches wouldn't dream of inflicting on a congregation demanding drum beats and guitar riffs. But this song, along with others, has stuck. It used to lull me into the slow, rhythmic breathing of a child's long night of sleep; now it lulls my soul to that same stillness, a call to peace.

This song, lullaby, call to peace - such power lies in this melody, heard out of context (my only context for the hymn is the top bunk in the room I shared with my little sister). When I do hear it, I pause, slow my breathing as if to sleep, and let the wash of peace and security overtake me. This is not a disruptive overtaking, as cacophonous music or shouting would be - it is calming, steadying, balancing, a soothing string of notes with a very simple message: trust God, obey God. I hear it, I am called to peace, and I can move on.

I experienced this in the Middle East, where it is impossible to be out of earshot of the hauntingly beautiful adhan, call to prayer. Countless minarets rise from the desert in the cities and along the highways. While a true muezzin and his voice make up the traditional call, many modern mosques have a recorded voice played from loudspeakers in the gallery of the minarets five times per day. The first call is when, according to tradition, you can first tell a dark thread from a white thread: daybreak. The remaining four are early afternoon, late afternoon, dusk, and evening; most people I saw were unaffected during the calls. Nobody stopped short in a car or on a sidewalk to pray, nobody stopped their conversations. I believe that for the most part people either ignored the call as a part of the soundscape of their daily lives, or they prayed silently in their hearts and continued with the day. They were called, and they moved on.

After the first couple days, it became part of my daily soundscape, too. While I always heard the long, almost chillingly drawn out Arabic, I no longer stopped to look around or consider what had pierced the noise of my conversation, or the car, or the Jordanian pop music playing in the stores. I was no longer disrupted, but I was no less affected: every time I heard the call I shivered, overcome by the spirit of devotion, obedience, and refusal to limit prayers to Allah to a two-hour slot once a week. And then I prayed to God silently. Short prayers, nothing scripted. But I prayed five times a day, responding to another religion's call to another worshipped deity's prayer. In Jerusalem I woke up both mornings at dawn, the clear low notes of the first call quivering in the air, reaching me on the top bunk in a shared room in a hostel, my friend sleeping soundly in the bed beneath me.

I didn't know what the adhan's beautiful lyrics meant until I Googled "call to prayer" back here in the States, but it didn't matter to me what they meant. The words weren't for me, nor was the requirement to pray five designated times a day. At home I have complete freedom to pray what I want, when I want - but over there, far away from the ocean and the coast I freely roam, I was on Middle Eastern time, and I allowed myself to be called.

"Trust and Obey" or any familiar, soothing, peaceful, lullaby-ing sound (an ocean wave collapsing, a gust of wind exhaling, a sheet of rain streaming) is a call. A pull. An unmistakable reminder that I am more than the body who gets up, goes to work, grades some papers, goes to bed. I am a soul, and a heart, and a mind, and a human who is in daily need of true peace and security. The guitar player in Government Center gave me a deeply needed call to peace. I gave him a dollar and moved on.

detained.

2009-12-09T19:16:00.000-08:00

Last week I was detained at a border crossing in the Middle East. (1)

I realize this sounds to many of you like the first sentence in an editorial that you might see in U.S. News and World Report. And prior to my trip, I would have thought stories that began like this were rare, or isolated to tall, dark, bearded men foolishly trying to smuggle guns across the border. This time, it's my story. (2)

To get to the Israeli border in the first place, my friend and I drove to the Jordanian border check, where our bags were scanned for weapons, our passports were checked and stamped, and we boarded a bus where our passports were collected, inspected again, and returned once we reached the Israeli border. At the Israeli border, teenagers in khaki pants and polo shirts held massive guns over their shoulders, talking to each other and texting on their phones. When our bus pulled up they watched us, hands on their guns, as we unloaded our luggage and got into lines. The bags were taken to another scanner, and we stood in line. Everyone was shouting - English, Hebrew, and Arabic - and finally my friend and I reached the first passport check. It was like a movie ticket window, an Israeli in each booth behind thick glass with a hole for speaking. Our passports were checked and we were asked questions: "Why are you coming to Israel?" "Where are you staying?" "How long will you be here?" "Are you going to the West Bank?" "Do you have any weapons?" I wanted to laugh - did I have any weapons? - but the serious tone of the Arab world was intensified by the shouting and the guns, so I kept a straight face and answered the questions.

We were directed inside to a small room with two walk-thru metal detectors and another scanner for bags. Stepping into this room was stepping into a news story, or a history book documenting life before any basic freedoms, courtesies, or civil behavior had been established. What I remember most is the shouting. Even if you didn't know what to be afraid of, the shouting assured you there was much to fear.

My friend and I stood in the back of the line on the right. To our left, the people were clustered into more of a mass than a line. Almost all of the people were Arabs, and most of them were very traditional, the women wearing black abayas and white lace-trimmed Hijab headscarves that fell loose around their shoulders. After a few days in the Middle East I was already used to seeing women in headscarves and burqas, and had seen a variety of styles: some women wore beautifully embroidered and beaded scarves with Western dress, others wore the conservative coats that fell to the floor and a solid color scarf, and few were completely veiled except for a pair of dark eyes. The women at the border, however, were extremely traditional - so traditional, actually, that to me they didn't seem specifically Muslim - they reminded me of any culture that has an Old World style: Italian, Spanish, French, Jewish. All of these cultures reveal images of women in black (usually for mourning or to signify they are widows), and almost all have a history of some head covering, out of respect for the presence of God.

What made the group to the left so cluttered was the collection of water jugs on the ground. Each couple or family had at least two jugs of water with the family's name written in Arabic on the side. My friend explained that these were Hajj pilgrims returning from Mecca, and had brought back with them jugs of holy water from Zam-Zam, where Ishmael's mother is said to have received water from an angel. This belief in sacred material, similar to Catholic mysticism, was powerful. Watching people profoundly connect to and believe in the scriptures they deem as holy never ceases to move me. As a born, raised, and still-practicing Protestant, religious mysticism has never been part of my spiritual experience. No objects are sacred, no images are praised, no place is holier than another. What makes Protestant Christianity so accessible to most of the world must make it somewhat bland to the rest of it - God is anywhere and everywhere, and you don't need a priest, a crucifix, or a pilgrimage to get to Him. Just faith. (3)

It was precisely these water jugs - these symbols of a religious and deeply spiritual journey - that captivated me and irritated the Israeli guards. None of these holy objects or humble scarves or valid passports mattered to the guards: what mattered is that they had a whole crowd of Arabs to deal with. I was thankful that I didn't understand Arabic for once, because the angry tone of the shouting was enough for me as the guards pushed, directed, and argued with the Arabs (many of them old women) trying to follow the line through the metal detectors, the whole while navigating their bags from the pilgrimage and the endless jugs of water. To deal with this, the guards grabbed the jugs away from the families and pushed them all together in a corner of the room - a holy reservoir - and as each Arab came through the detectors they had to search through the collection to find the family's water.

My friend and I were told to advance to the front of the line at the left. My heart sank - not because of the cafeteria rule of "no cuts," but because I knew exactly how this looked: a bunch of old, tired, holy water-laden Arabs was more threatening than two young American women, who would now be treated as royalty simply because our hair was in plain view.

This is not how it happened.

We went to the front of the line (I had to step over one of the jugs of holy water which made me want to apologize and explain to the women next to me that I meant no disrespect, that I am quite devoted to my faith as well, and that I was afraid of what the Israeli guards would do to me if I didn't obey. But of course, not knowing Arabic, I said nothing). One of the women we cut in line had a bag with a tacky logo that said "21st Century." This was all I had to remind me that yes, sigh, this is all still happening in 2009. My blue-eyed, blonde-haired friend breezed through security, her passport stamped. I approached the teenage girl, handed her my passport, and walked through the metal detector. I looked up to get my passport back, but she looked at my face, tucked the passport into a cubby on her shelf, and said, "Sit over there. A manager will come to see you."

Why? Why on earth? I have a passport that is by no means impressive, and certainly not incriminating (do these Israelis know how many Americans have multiple passports so that they can travel freely to countries who do not have a peace agreement with Israel?). A stamp from Paris, a visa from Italy, and a border entry in Chicago. For this I was being detained?

No. For my dark skin. For my dark eyes. For my long dark hair. In jeans, a sweater, and Converse All-Stars, I was not an American tourist, but a Palestinian. And I would have to wait.

We sat in a row of chairs and waited with the other detainees, none of them Americans. They were mostly men, and mostly in traditional dress and sandals. However, two monks came through the line, and one was sent to a corner room with a curtain in front of it, like a fitting room in the mall. The monk was told to disrobe behind the curtain for further screening. I think the monk was the only one who seemed more harmless than I; when I saw him go into the room and pull the curtain I was, for the first time in my trip to the Middle East, truly afraid. Would they make me take off my clothes? What would they do to me? How had this happened? What had I done?

My friend tried to keep us both calm. She assured me that we'd only have to wait for a few minutes, that someone would ask me the same questions about where I was going and why I was here. We reviewed the address of our hostel near the Damascus Gate in the Old City, we discussed again our reasons to be there, and then we made a friend.

She was beautiful. I didn't know her ethnicity, but I assumed she was held for the same reason I was. She was young, wearing modern Western clothes, and shared her gummy bears with us. She also had a Palestinian prayer scarf tied to her backpack, and explained that she was born in the United States, lived in Jordan, and had citizenship in both Palestine and the United States. Her sister lived in Jerusalem and had gotten through security with no trouble, but because the Israelis didn't trust them, they were made to sit on different sides of the room.

"Like we're in kindergarten," she said.

She would have gotten through just fine, except that the teenage guard started asking her why she didn't live in the United States if she had an American passport, why was she coming to Israel, why wouldn't she just stay in America. Our friend got through the questioning fine, though.

"So what happened?" I didn't understand why she was still here.

"I called her a bitch."

She smiled, knowing that we knew that she knew she shouldn't have said that, but she was furious. Because of her Palestinian citizenship, she was constantly going through this treatment. Conflict or no conflict, the people in the room that day weren't there to cause trouble - we were tourists, and the pilgrims were on their way home. A senior guard came over and began shouting in Arabic. My friend perked up, understanding some of it, and the guard noticed.

"Do they speak Arabic?" he asked (in Arabic, obviously).

"No," our friend defended us. "They're Americans."

He proceeded to shout at her, demanding to know if she was aware of what would happen to her if she called a woman a bitch in Jordan, and did she want to be arrested, and should he bring out handcuffs? She held her own. I don't know what she said, but her sister looked worried. Against the kindergarten rule, she came over to us to sit with her sister.

After a few rounds of the senior guard coming over, and our friend telling her sister to just go ahead without her, and a frantic phone call to her husband telling him what had happened, the verdict was reached: she would have to apologize. She rolled her eyes again.

"They get so mad about calling a person a bitch - a dog - and they're treating us worse than dogs! This is a crazy place," she said. "You have no idea."

We didn't say much to her. Now we were associated, and who knew what was going to happen to me? She was still upset. Her sister refused to go without her. Finally three guards came, escorted her outside, and a few minutes later she was back. She smiled at us and left with her sister.

After over an hour, still no word about me. There were lots of armed teenage guards around, but none of them wanted to work. It was a show, I realized, to make the detainees know that we were on their time, and they would get to the dogs when they were good and ready. I couldn't help but think of Night, which I had recently re-read; Elie Wiesel had picked up on this tactic of waiting even as a 15-year-old. Go over there, wait. Stand here, wait. Nothing else was happening: it was the statement that we were powerless to make anything happen. Their power, their time.

Finally - almost two hours later - a teenage boy with a gun who had been frequently staring at me walked over to the booth, leaned casually, and picked up a passport. He looked at me again. In the Middle East I had been practicing averting my eyes when men looked at me, but this time I gave a full-on American stare that I hoped said, "Let me go, you arrogant child."

He handed it to a young girl (probably a teenager, but no taller than 5'), who called out a garbled version of my name. "I know," I wanted to say to her, "It's difficult to pronounce because it's not Palestinian - it's Italian." But I kept quiet and followed her to the corner, where she told me to sit in a chair facing the room with the curtain. I looked back at my friend, panicked. Was I really going in there?

I was. She smiled sweetly (smiled up at me, eight inches taller), and motioned for me to go in the room. She followed me in, pulled the curtain shut, and I saw a man's feet on the other side, guarding our room. I almost burst into tears. She told me to take off my shoes and my belt, and then I was told to spread my arms and legs. She waved a metal detector wand across my arms and legs, then put it down and inspected my passport. When she was satisfied with that, she frisked me with her hands, up and down my legs, my back, my sides, my chest. I thought I might throw up, or at least cry, but I was too angry to do either.

She smiled again and asked, "Do you have any weapons?"

"No," I managed to say.

"Ok, you can go."

I picked up my shoes and belt to follow her out of the room, but she turned and said, "Oh, you can put your things on in here. Take your time. It's your privacy."

My privacy. I collected my privacy, my belt, my shoes, my passport, and my emotions, and left the room. My friend and I hurried to the next passport check, where I assured her I was ok, and that nothing major had happened. I realized that "nothing major" only meant that I hadn't been harmed. But I had been profiled. I had been humiliated. I had been shocked at how this had been allowed to happen. At the teenagers with guns, at the disrespect for anyone with a dark face and dark hair, at the mistreatment of people based on the mistreatment of other people.

Nothing major happened. Oh, but it did...

(1) For those of you who don't know, I spent a week in the Middle East visiting a dear friend who is a teacher in Jordan. We spent time in Amman, Petra, Jerusalem, and the Dead Sea. I will post about these places individually, to do them justice.
(2) Like any conflict, the Palestinian/Israeli battle is not one-sided, nor is it obvious. Much of what happens is hidden (thus the questions, preventing tourists from going to the West Bank), and much is obscured. This is not a political blog, and I do not think that any side here is completely right or wrong. I am simply telling you what happened, and how I experienced it for a couple hours at the border crossing.
(3) I will be writing more about mysticism when I post about our visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the church built around the place where Jesus was crucified and entombed. The beauty and heaviness in that church brought me to tears, and I watched people literally wiping the slab where Jesus had lain, the same way that people wiped the stones of the Western Wall.

tarot.

2009-11-16T12:19:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, I had my fortune read. I was part of a group celebrating a friend's upcoming wedding, and the bachelorette festivities included a reading at Regina Russell's Tea Room in Quincy. I'll admit, this is not usually my thing. As a child I was not allowed to own a Ouija board, I was afraid when girls at sleepovers wanted to play "light as a feather, stiff as a board," and I was told in Sunday school that people who read horoscopes were agents of sorcery and evil.

However, I also made countless paper fortune tellers in school, with fortunes like, "You will get kissed this year" and "You will marry the class nerd." I had fun reading the daily horoscopes in the newspaper, which were featured on the page adjacent to the advice columns, which I also read daily. I never thought these games and interest in the future were evil - it was fun to suppose what if...?

So I agreed to a Tarot card reading. It was fifteen minutes long, and my reader (I'll omit her name) was a heavy-set woman with only one very large breast that hung free and wide underneath her gray turtleneck. She had blue eyes, but only looked at me for brief moments - the rest of the time her eyes were rolled backwards. The girls watching my reading later asked me if the reader was blind.

I was spooked. Not because I believed in any of it, but because she so clearly did. I was just along for the ride, but she was convinced of what her cards told her about me. She spoke quickly, wrote down notes in some sort of Tarot short-hand, and probed me. I held back, not wanting to offer information that, for $22/reading, I wanted her to guess. She was onto me, but instead of winking and saying, "I know you know, but just play along, ok?" she demanded answers. At one point I was being particularly coy about an answer and she rolled her eyes back down to look at me and said, "I'm serious."

So I tried to respect her. I wasn't uncomfortable with the reading, and I didn't mind when she flipped over a card with a gold coin and wrote down "Big gain!" I tucked her notes away so I could refer to them in the all-too-frequent periods of wild dreaming about my future. And I learned something.

Whether or not you believe in astrology or fortune telling or the reading of tea leaves, crystal balls, Tarot cards, and animal droppings (it's true, check your history book), there is truth and revelation in self-reflection. If you are a human being, you most likely will have an association for a romantic relationship (realized or desired), a family (functional or broken), a job (current or past), and a friendship (healthy or burdensome). It's almost guaranteed that every card flipped over will or can mean something to you - and even if the reader is way off base, and even if she predicts something that you don't believe, your brain is now shining a spotlight on something in your subconscious. This is what happens when we actually allow ourselves peace and quiet, or we read something beautiful like poetry or Scripture, or we journal: we focus our attention inward.

I feel blessed to have a good job that I enjoy, a stable relationship with a person I love, a supportive and reliable family, and friends in whom I can confide. On the surface, nothing is out of whack, nothing needs interpreting, and nothing seems fragile enough to warrant great concern. But that's the surface. The Tarot cards didn't tell me anything new about myself or my future, but they were focal points: think about this for a few minutes, now think about it in relation to this, and now think about it in relation to that, etc.

The cards I flipped over were chosen completely at random. I don't believe for a second that anything or anyone guided my hands to them, or moved them, or that I was destined to flip over one card instead of another. But as a human being (and one who is quite introspective), I found that the experience was more meaningful than I thought it would be. I briefly considered making a deck of cards, one for everything in my life that I tend to think about, reflect on, and pray for: relationship, family, friends, job, talents, future husband, children, living space... Simply flipping one of those over would push me into a world of reflection, not that dissimilar to my reader's world. While she believed in the stars and the spirits, I believe in God and the effect of one thing on another. Regardless, we both of us were thinking about the future; if nothing else, the future is so bright as to be unknown, which is probably why we can't see it. We wouldn't believe it if we could, and we'd try to change the things we didn't think we'd like - therein lies the true departure from faith, and even from real life itself. We're here right now, and our best guess at the future may well lie somewhere deep inside, just waiting to be turned over.

monsters.

2009-11-07T17:04:00.000-08:00

I am currently reading Brunelleschi's Dome by Ross King, an historical narrative about the building of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore (known as the Duomo) in Florence, Italy. It tells the complicated, inventive, and seemingly impossible story of how Filippo Brunelleschi designed, engineered, and created one of the most significant architectural wonders of the world.

Throughout construction of the dome, Brunelleschi was forced to invent new machinery for hoisting, placing, and transporting massive amounts of brick, sandstone, marble, and mortar. It was the 15th century, and by today's standards, these inventions seem primitive (for an example, conduct a Google image search for "ox-hoist"). Most of Brunelleschi's inventions worked perfectly, and he continued to astound the people of Florence with his ingenuity. However, one invention failed. It functioned like a 15th-century duck boat, designed to transport marble across land, then float down the tumultuous Arno River, towed by a boat or by an ox on land. Unfortunately, the marine part of the trip failed, and resulted in tons of marble on the bottom of the river.

In reading the description of the boat's design, construction, and purpose, I was struck by this sentence: "Once built, this curious-looking vessel quickly became known as Il Badalone, 'the Monster' (pg. 113)."

I have a very bad habit of dissecting words and finding extra-grammatical meaning, that is, meaning beyond the rules of grammar and translation of original Latin and Greek prefixes and suffixes (English teachers will call this habit good, but it does take up a great deal of time during the day).

Il Badalone. The Monster. Bad + Alone = Monster

Is it too coincidental? The literal translation of the word "monster" into Italian is "mostro," similar to the Spanish translation "monstro." This leads me to believe that "badalone" was slang, or part of Florentine dialect which, like all dialects, veers from the formal parent language.

I wanted to get past this significant marriage of words, but the meaning of the union was too haunting.

Is a monster alienated because he is bad? Or does loneliness (literally, alone-ness) create a monster? It seems to be a classic case of nature vs. nurture. People with destructive, controversial, unpopular, harmful, and even unstable characteristics are typically chastised and eventually ignored. These become the pariahs of a society, and they live in different ways - some are physically present but solitary in their minds, while others physically remove themselves (or are removed, forcefully or not) from the population.

I was reminded instantly of one of my favorite movie quotes. It comes from the movie Big Fish:

"It was that night I discovered that most things you consider evil or wicked are simply lonely..."

I think about this often, how I believe if you peel back the layers of scorn, skepticism, antagonism, and even aggression, you will find a core of loneliness. Loneliness doesn't just affect people who live in single-room huts in the woods - there is loneliness in relationships, loneliness in society, loneliness in families. And after failed attempts to connect, loneliness seems to manifest in self-preserving acts of retaliation - the most ironic of guises.

This is perhaps most evident in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I remember reading this book in high school and feeling conflicted. I knew I was supposed to be simultaneously angry with the monster for being a killer and compassionate to him for his utter loneliness. It's a trap: loneliness surely can't justify evil, and evil shouldn't be nurtured through alienation. I found a concise summary of the story, and highlighted these two sentences:

"In loneliness, the monster seeks the friendship of the family of cottagers...Eventually, the monster tries to befriend the family, but they are afraid of him, and this rejection makes him seek vengeance against his creator."

This begs the question: Which comes first - the monster or the loneliness? The bad or the alone? Either way, Il Badalone was a failure, as it would seem both loneliness and monsters are destined to be. Bad-ness and alone-ness are already social time-bombs, fraught with volatile tension and pain. Combined, no matter in which order they are combined, they truly become monstrous. Dangerous, and perhaps even more sad, these monstrous creations can only sink, laden with tons of emotional and psychological marble that is ultimately lost in the journey.

Heart-breakingly poignant, the story of Brunelleschi's Il Badalone reminded me of how the uniting of bad and alone is destructive on both individual and societal levels, and the union, whenever possible, should be stopped. The antidote for bad and alone may well be companionship and forgiveness; I believe the union of these could invent miracles as yet inconceivable, miracles that, to future centuries, will seem all too primitive and instinctual. Miracles from the very gears and cogs the first Inventor set in motion.

on not helping.

2009-11-05T11:16:00.000-08:00

This morning I made a very conscious decision not to help someone. This is, I'm proud to say, fairly out of character for me, as I really try to keep an eye out for people who need a hand with the door, people with one too many bags in their arms, parents trying to maneuver their strollers on and off the train. This kind of active helping and awareness has been modeled for me my entire life, and is now almost an instinctual reaction - someone needs help, so let it be me.

This morning, I did not help. I looked at him long and hard, lingered for a moment, and kept going.

I didn't see him right away. I exited the blue line train at Government Center, where I transfer to the green line. There was a crowd of people backed up on one side of the staircase, and the clog seemed to be halfway up the stairs. Slowly the people moved to the left and weaved between the people coming down the stairs to make their way up. I followed them until I saw the hold-up.

He looked to be somewhere between the ages of my parents and grandparents, and probably looked much older than he actually is. He was at a dead standstill, or so I thought, until I paused and noticed that he was moving up the stairs, one at a time, spending 3-5 seconds on each stair before climbing the next. His right hand clutched the railing as he leaned into one step, then his weight shifted almost entirely to the left, where he gripped a rubber-bottomed cane. A reusable grocery bag was slung over his left forearm, sagging under the weight of what he was carrying upstairs, swaying into his leg with each step up the stairs.

Anyone could see he needed help, but everyone raced up the stairs, trying to catch the next train that was just pulling into the station. I made three judgments:

1) These people are terrible. Dirty, rotten, city-rats, why can't you slow down for two minutes to help an elderly man up the stairs? He probably risked his life in the Great War, and has to ride the trains because he's too feeble to drive and has been abandoned by his family. Somebody help this man!

2) I will help this man!

3) This man doesn't want my help. Leave him be. Let him go up the stairs as slowly and painfully as he needs to, if it takes him all morning. Let him know that he accomplished this much, that he's not dependent yet, that his old bones and old heart are still working and he intends to use them.

I didn't help. I shared one step with him for a few seconds before realizing that he was choosing this way. He chose to carry the bag with him, he chose to take a mode of transportation that required transferring, and, most sobering, he chose to take the stairs.

Not all MBTA stations are handicap-accessible yet, and Government Center does not yet have elevators. But there are, only a short distance from the stairs, escalators. This man had no map, no camera, no fanny-pack, and no exhilarated smile after riding a Boston train - to be clear, he's from around here. I obviously do not know his history, or his present story - where he was going, why he took the train. But I can reasonably guess that he knew how to ride the trains, where to transfer, where the stairs are. He knew how to position the grocery bag on his arm, on the cane, on the stair. He had done this before.

It occurred to me that even if people need help, sometimes it's best to let them be. There is, of course, a difference between those who need help and deny it, or don't realize it, or are in danger of hurting themselves, and those who are just struggling a little but can make it. The first group of people should usually be helped, even if they don't want it; the second might truly prefer to forge through on their own. The reasons are varied: pride, sense of accomplishment, fear of belittlement, the sense of inconvenience to someone else, and perhaps an overwhelming frustration with people constantly trying to help, as if you were a child.

I know some of these reasons are very real - and affecting - because I have gone through them with my grandparents. They refuse help on almost every level - shopping, driving, cleaning up. They love my company, they appreciate my willingness to be involved, but they are adamant that they can take care of themselves. Even if it takes a cane, or a handicap placard in the car, or a few extra minutes going up and down stairs - they feel stronger having done it themselves.

There will come a day when I (and the rest of my family) will have to insist on helping, for safety's sake. But for today, for the man at Government Center, for my grandparents, I will fight the urge to take over, and patiently wait until they make it to the top.

waves.

2009-10-30T08:21:00.000-07:00

Winthrop is not known as a surfing community. We have the ocean, beautiful and active, but it is cold, and the waves are not remarkably big, except during storms. We're no California.

This morning I went for a chilly run along the beach. It was a gray morning, and the low cloud cover swallowed up the tiny orange flash of sun at the edge of the horizon. A thin stripe of pink stretched between the clouds and the ocean, and the water was calm. Seagulls whined as they trolled the beach for food, and a black Labrador ran in and out of the surf. I haven't seen my iPod since the first week after my move to the new apartment, so I've been running to the tune of the sea, the wind, the gulls, the "good morning"s of other runners, the cars, the stomp of my feet as they hit the sidewalk. Strangely, opening my ears has allowed me to see better, my vision constantly directed to the subtle noises of life around me.

As I jogged south towards Point Shirley, I passed a small cove. The pressure of the waves intensified between the rocks on either side of the cove, and at least ten surfers floated in the water. Some were standing, holding their boards, some paddled, and others swam towards the shore as the waves crested, trying to catch them before they broke. From afar the surfers had looked like birds, black specs on the water, and I certainly hadn't considered that people would be trying to surf. I've lived on the coast my whole life and never successfully surfed, but I've seen enough to know that it requires, at the very least, good waves.

I tried not to stare, but with no real sunrise and very little happening on the beach, it was obvious why I ran with my head turned to the side. I watched them go in and out of the waves, bobbing with the current, swimming in, turning, standing, falling. Sometimes they got up for short rides - five seconds at the most - but many of them didn't. I'm sure they knew what they were doing, given the wetsuits and the boards and the fact that they were in the freezing Atlantic at seven in the morning, but the waves were just too small for show-stopping surfing. And yet, they kept at it.

They must have known that morning that the waves would be small at best, and that their rides would be short, and that most of their time would be spent bobbing up and down with the waves like ducks. But they still surfed. They rode the smallest waves, the small waves, and the ever-so-slightly-larger-than-small waves. And the difficult nature of surfing meant that even the largest of the waves were not guaranteed rides - you can't control the wave, the current, the crest, the break, the wind, the physics of the push and pull of the ocean on your body and the board. So the best you can do is try to ride every wave, and each successful ride - the wind on your face as you stand on the board, the press of the board against your feet, the salt in your eyes, nose, and mouth as the wave breaks around you - each successful ride makes you try for the next wave, no matter how small. It doesn't matter that Pacific surfers are practically flying, the waves are so tall, or that Florida surfers don't need wetsuits because the water is warm. None of this matters when you've caught a wave of your own.

I recently found out that one of my essays is going to be published online. This is my second success, and both times the publication has been online, and both times, quite small. It took me so many attempts, so many splashes back in the water, so much swallowed salt water, so many aching muscles of trying to stand on the board and falling. And all this for the smallest of waves. But no matter the size of the wave, the feeling is unchanged - the success of just doing it, getting up there in the first place, standing in the air for even a short ride - the feeling is nothing short of triumph. The real triumph lasts only as long as the ride, until the cold water swirls around me again and my eyes are stinging with salt. But the sting, the ache, the cold - these reminders only push me to find another wave, rediscover that triumph, paddle myself to an approaching wave, wash up on shore, catch my breath, and scan the tide for the next one. I can see that the waves are small. But it seems right now, small waves are the best I can hope for, and hope for them I will.

dirt.

2009-10-27T20:32:00.000-07:00

I'm a seedling in the dirt. I'm ready to root, and I want to grow - want more than anything to blossom, yawning my petals away from the bud to finally show the world what I am. But until then, I'm in the dirt.

I recently submitted a profile to mediabistro.com, an online networking site for freelance work. After completing my profile and listing my experience with freelance writing/editing/media, I nestled into a small, dark cave of soil, hoping to enrich myself with the contributions of other, more experienced matter. That's a nice enough idea, as I appreciate the way flowers and plants blossom, and I'm constantly aware of the deeper significance of this process in daily life. Growth is good. But before you grow, you dive into the cold dirt and sit there with other people's roots, bulbs, decaying leaves, and earthworms.

The beauty of this growth underworld is that the truly great growers - the redwoods, the dahlias, the orchids - have a strong presence in the dirt. Their roots are big, old, tough, and have endured flooding rains that choked their necks, arid heat that parched them dry, violent winds threatening to yank them right out. The prairie grasses, the wild daisies, the dandelions - these are beautiful, but not strong enough. They are easily trampled, easily pulled out - in the dirt, and out again.

I want to be a redwood or a dahlia or an orchid - and if so, I have to remain a seedling long enough to sprout roots and take hold of the earth around me. And I must make sure that my roots are tough. Tough enough to hold on tight when it's snowing in Boston and everything is white and cold; tough enough to sprout a new root when another rejection comes in; tough enough to keep sprouting if only for the love of new growth.

There is a season for everything, so I am trying to appreciate this season in the dirt. In the dirt I am learning the patience in slow growth, the strength in persistence, the blessing of continually finding new beauty in the world. I read this in an article: "Retailers know gardeners are suckers for flowers, so many plants are manipulated to bloom way too early at prime shopping time. That may leave them weak, stressed and sickly in your garden." I'm not sure which is the worst - weak, stressed, or sickly - but I'm positive I don't want to be any one of those things, as a person or a writer. I'd rather wait it out and be strong enough, blooming when I'm ready to bloom, not manipulating myself to flower early. It would be nice to see a vibrant flower, but I want to produce one that will last the season, and re-bloom again and again.

Patience in the dirt, absorbing the nutrients of the redwoods, dahlias, and orchids, is where I know I will grow. And once I have rooted, I'll leave the dark cave of the soil for a bright warm heaven above ground - grass, trees, fresh air - and only the sky to limit how high I can grow.

query.

2009-10-21T12:58:00.000-07:00

I wrote a book. A personal, complicated book. A memoir. I began it in college, under the guise of fiction (I figured since I changed the names of my family members, they were fictional characters). Then I went to graduate school and wrote enough for a creative thesis (for an MFA, this is a book-length work in your chosen genre). And two years after graduating, I finished it.*

If you are not a writer, this is probably impressive. If you are a writer, you know that this is much like a runner finally tying his sneakers. It's the beginning - now you must run somewhere.

The process of publishing a book, unless you choose to self-publish, is like dating, applying to a job, trying to make a new friend, or, really, anything that requires connection with another human. This makes it exciting, exhausting, and often defeating. You put yourself out there. You wait. Sometimes you receive a return call or email, sometimes not. If you do receive a reply, you reply back. And then you wait again. Sometimes this is where it ends - the first date wasn't as great as you thought it was, the interviewer hired someone else without bothering to tell you why, and that new person is just busy and hasn't had a chance to call you back.

It's maddening. We're all humans, and even the most patient of us is suddenly in a mental frenzy while waiting for a reply. When we're out there, we want to be seen, known, and acknowledged. We don't want to sit on hold while the music plays, or watch the phone that doesn't ring, or check the inbox incessantly. Child psychologists have determined that for some children, negative attention is preferable to no attention. I think this is true for adults in waiting - we'd rather just know that we didn't make the cut. I tell this to myself every time I receive a rejection by mail, the SASE with my handwriting on the front and my manuscript inside. It hurts - it hurts like hell, actually - but at least I can move on. Send out another envelope.

For book publishing, you first submit a query letter (1 page max) to an agent or a publisher who will accept queries from writers without agents. Then you wait. You may hear back, but most likely (in my experience) you will not. This is giving someone your number. Creating an online dating profile. Submitting a resume. Smiling at someone on the train. You're out there now.

If you receive a response at all, your heart leaps (sorry for the cliché description, but that's exactly how it feels). Before you even listen to the voice mail, click on the email, tear open the letter, you have an instant, albeit small, sense of worth - you have been recognized, acknowledged as a human on the other end of the number or resume, a human deserving of a reply. Connection.

Often the response is a gracious "thanks, but no thanks" (I do not mean to be pessimistic, but I have submitted enough writing to know that the odds are not in your favor. However, they are just odds, so you must keep submitting, or so my faithful, indispensable boyfriend keeps telling me). But a reply! A hand reached out, and a hand in return. The power of connection has never mattered so much.

Sometimes the stars align and you are told that your submission seems interesting, and could you please send a proposal (for nonfiction) and some sample chapters? You are told that email is fine. Of course you can! You would walk to the next state, re-write your manuscript by hand, change your main character to a pumpkin-headed scarecrow if that's what they wanted - a proposal and some sample chapters via email? Cake. Even if you are not a writer, you know how this feels. You'd like to schedule an interview on Monday? You'd like to see me for a drink after work? You'd like to move one seat over on the train to discuss the book I'm reading? Of course I can do these things - you are telling me, in so many words, that I matter, and believe me, I'm going to show you just how much I do.

And then you wait.

And you keep waiting.

And four weeks go by, and you send an eloquent and polite follow-up email, suggesting that perhaps there is something more the agent or publisher needs, and you know how busy they are, so no rush - but just checking in.

And you wait and wait and wait and wait and then another follow-up email to say that it has now been almost four months (and you know for a fact that the book takes no more than three hours to read), and you know they are busy so you will happily wait four more weeks and then assume they are not interested before going to another agent.

And you wait, and there is no reply, and still no reply, and now the worst realization of all: you are truly and completely out there on paper - all memories of you and your sick grandfather and your family's dynamics, and the thoughts you are not proud of. All of these are on paper, in the hands of an agent, or, by now, on the floor of the agent's office. Crushing defeat - it's not the writing - it's the silence on the other end, the messages not returned, the knowing that the other person has completely moved on while you are losing sleep, only because you were not acknowledged. At least tell me that it's over. I know there are other fish in the sea, but I want to make sure there is nothing on this line before I re-cast. That's all I want to know.

This is where I am. I have been luckier than most - I had two agents request my manuscript and proposal - but I am back at the bottom, with no reply. On hold indefinitely. Out there...

I have found this process so fascinating because it is so universal in its nature. We are all out there in some sense, reaching, almost begging for connection. Let's make sure no one goes unnoticed.

Below is the query letter that I have sent to almost 50 agents and publishers, and will keep sending until I die. It's ok if nobody wants to publish it. I just want them to know that I'm real.

Dear Agent,

According to the Alzheimer’s Association, 5.3 million Americans are living with Alzheimer’s – and seventy percent of those live at home. As increasingly more families become caretakers, they do not simply witness the emotional, physical, and psychological burden of the disease – they share it. I shared this burden while my grandfather battled Alzheimer’s, and used our family’s experience to create my memoir, At Ease. This perspective is unique, as memoirs about Alzheimer’s are typically written by the primary caretaker, often a spouse or child of the patient.

At Ease recounts the story of a World War II veteran fighting his final battle against a disease with no cure. It is a granddaughter’s memory of a family fighting together, each person assuming a different and vital role. The narrator relives her memories of a younger, healthy grandfather as she learns to interact with a man who no longer remembers her name. At Ease is not a linear story; its mingling of past and present mimics the way an Alzheimer’s mind functions. The memoir begins with a memory from the narrator’s childhood, then jumps to the funeral of her grandfather. Thus the story unfolds.

Interest in Alzheimer’s continues to rise; many adults are caring for their aging parents while facing the reality that as they live longer they are almost assured of developing dementia themselves in some capacity. Several generations, then, must consider the care they will provide for their parents, and prepare themselves emotionally for the future. They will seek out the stories of those who have done the same.

I have completed the manuscript, as well as a formal proposal including my research on other competitive titles and my ideas for marketing. I would be happy to send you any materials you wish to review.

Thank you for considering At Ease, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,

Dianna Calareso

*Finishing a piece of writing is actually quite impossible, as any writer will tell you. With every read, you discover something you wish you'd said, a comma you wish you'd removed, a dialogue that goes on too long. But at some point, you must "finish," if only for the sake of giving you space to work on something new.

high tide.

2009-10-17T12:19:00.000-07:00

This morning the beach was gone. High tide and a weekend of storms in New England forced giant slaps of ocean to the shore, covering the sand and splashing over the height of the seawall. One wetsuit-clad surfer paddled around in the violent waves, but the rest of us walked along the sidewalk, sometimes shielded by the seawall, sometimes getting sprayed or doused as stories-high waves leapt over, bringing rocks, seaweed, and sand to the street. Rocks collected between the cars parked along the seawall, and we shivered in our coats and hats as we picked up a few stones, to remember the day the ocean spoke.

It said, "Stop condescending me. I'm not just beautiful, calming, and picturesque - I'm alive, and I am restless."

To prove its life, and power, and force, and choice, it threw things back on the beach that had once been thrown in: a sneaker, a child's shoe, dozens of pieces of Styrofoam, and several mangled lobster traps. It didn't want these things - they were no good for the ocean, and the ocean knew it.

"It's a good day for a beach cleanup," I said. But I kept walking. Who wanted trash? Was moving it from the sand of the beach to the dirt of the landfill really helping? If I buried it in the sand here, could we call it even? As long as it's covered up, it's not there...right?

It seemed that in its violence (provoked only, it seems, by pressure systems in the air, or however the Weather Channel explains it), in its tumultuous somersaulting, slapping, leaping, pushing, breaking, and retreating, the ocean's worst was exposed. A purge, of sorts, and it's easy to understand the physical need to purge - the body constantly refuses things it does not want, reminding us again and again that everything is not for consumption. The body needs cleansing. What struck me about the ocean's refusal of these things is that it took this storm - this intensity of wave and salt and foam - to reveal all that is unwanted. Such a fit, such a temper, that ocean. But a fit of necessity, as if the ocean had no other way to cleanse itself than to rear up on its hind legs and roar.

Beyond the body - the heart, the soul, the mind - how are these purged for cleansing? Confessing, either to God, to a friend, to a parent, or to the self when we are alone and try to think of nothing while the garbage distracts us. There's the verbal processing, talking things through so as to discard what we do not actually think or believe while getting to the root of who we are. And then there's rest. In sleep, our minds storm like the sea, bringing up the mangled lobster traps that we didn't want to think about, or didn't even know were there. The old shoe that someone left by accident, whether we wanted to remember or not. A fitful sleep brings all these things to shore, and they are left on the sand when the tide recedes and we wake.

I also believe in cleansing through peace. In quiet reflection, meditation, prayer, true stillness. There are some things that simply sink when we are still, and do not disturb the waters. Things that may have seemed to be as disruptive as a lobster trap, but were in reality no more than a floating leaf, or a shell that finds a place in the sand and is allowed to stay. When these lighter things have drifted away, we have clarity, seeing straight through to the bottom, to the sides, to the sky where the sun reflects like gold on the surface. And in that clarity, that vision, that gold from above, there is joy, and in joy, peace.

I want to return to the ocean when the weekend storms have ceased, when there is peace and stillness again. I want to see what has been purged, what has floated away, and what remains. I want to hear the ocean speak again, sighing, "Peace be with you."

And also with you.

following.

2009-10-13T12:11:00.000-07:00

This weekend I met a poet. I met him in Concord, where I had gone to hear the poetry of one of my co-workers. It was a quintessential fall day in New England: we sat on a blanket, wrapped another around us, and ate pecorino cheese and pepperoni slices on ciabatta bread as yellow, red, and orange leaves blew across the lawn of the Old Manse (www.oldmanse.org). Even in the sunlight it was chilly, but no use complaining - winter will be here soon.

The poet told me that Sylvia Plath lived in Winthrop for several years of her life, and penned "Point Shirley" for the part of Winthrop where her grandmother lived.* I am not very familiar with Plath's poetry, but as a writer I am mysteriously affected by the knowledge that she once lived where I do now. It's not that I think Main Street is haunted, or that the rocks on the shoreline hold unspeakable secrets of the true Sylvia Plath, or even that her grandmother's house (which is still standing) will inspire me to write a book about the granddaughter who may have run through the rooms or played on the lawn or fell asleep at the table years before she put her head in an oven with the gas on, her children sleeping in the next room. But I do feel a new connection to where I live, a new sense of belonging and, perhaps, a calling - a calling to create and nurture art where it has been created and nurtured before, a calling to find in my surroundings the beauty, the secrets, the muse that others have followed here.

The first time I felt this strange sense of being pulled to a place, the sense that I had accidentally followed someone there, was four years ago when I moved to New England. I rented an apartment in Somerville, and only after moving in did I realize that I was only a few streets away from the house and baseball field where my grandfather had grown up - the grandfather who inspired my graduate thesis which has now become my memoir. After the initial "what a coincidence" feeling subsided, I felt profoundly connected to Somerville. As I wrote about my grandfather, I walked the streets he walked, sat in the bleachers and watched the field where he played, and tried to imagine that in some way - any way - he still lingered in the air, a cell, a molecule, a hair, a cloud of dust from the infield.

Since that time, there have been other strange and beautiful instances. My boyfriend, a gifted musician, discovered that he had rented the same apartment above a pizza joint near Boston College that one of Boston's greatest musicians had once rented while in school. We made this discovery at a small music festival in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, that we went to solely to hear this musician (Ellis Paul - http://www.ellispaul.com/). After the first performance, we found him sitting alone at a picnic table, and had the chance to talk for a while. He was friendly, appreciative, interested in our personal artistic pursuits, and revealed that in the old apartment, under layers of paint from all the tenants in between he and my boyfriend, he had painted Mickey Mouse holding a can of Bud Light (we briefly entertained the idea of knocking on the door, explaining the story, and scraping the paint off the walls of Ellis's old room).

When my older sister wanted to teach abroad in 2005, she applied to many places and ended up at a school in Okinawa. While she was preparing to go, an eerie shift took place: she packed bags and filled out paperwork and bought a plane ticket to Okinawa while my grandfather slipped in and out of lucidity, battling Alzheimer's and the post-traumatic stress he'd brought back from Okinawa towards the end of World War II. He'd unpacked his Marine bags years before, but a few items were tucked away, reappearing in nightmares, tremors, and his frustrating secrecy about the past. Once he died, these items finally left him, and shortly after, my sister left for the island where he'd faced the most brutal fighting of the War. While there, she explored the caves where Japanese had been killed en masse, sealed in from the outside with smoke and flamethrowers. She visited the American army base and memorials, and took pictures; her pictures showed an idyllic island with sun, palm trees, and smiling children making the peace sign with their hands.

I am fascinated by the unexpected following, the realization that we end up in certain places for reasons unknown, reasons suddenly unimportant as we discover the significance of the place, and the people who have gone before. Is the place so intrinsically special that it continues to draw people? Or do the people who go before us make a place special, leaving a trail of footprints to follow? Sometimes it is clearly one or the other, but in some cases, it must be both. I didn't see the light from Point Shirley or Sylvia Plath's footprints leading to Winthrop, but I followed them all the same. And now that I'm here, I will leave a set of prints; whether I leave them in wet concrete or in the sand just before a wave breaks and washes them away, I will leave them, and they will be there for someone else to follow.

Point Shirley
by Sylvia Plath

From Water-Tower Hill to the brick prison
The shingle booms, bickering under
The sea's collapse.
Snowcakes break and welter. This year
The gritted wave leaps
The seawall and drops onto a bier
Of quahog chips,
Leaving a salty mash of ice to whiten

In my grandmother's sand yard. She is dead,
Whose laundry snapped and froze here, who
Kept house against
What the sluttish, rutted sea could do.
Squall waves once danced
Ship timbers in through the cellar window;
A thresh-tailed, lanced
Shark littered in the geranium bed ---

Such collusion of mulish elements
She wore her broom straws to the nub.
Twenty years out
Of her hand, the house still hugs in each drab
Stucco socket
The purple egg-stones: from Great Head's knob
To the filled-in Gut
The sea in its cold gizzard ground those rounds.

Nobody wintering now behind
The planked-up windows where she set
Her wheat loaves
And apple cakes to cool. What is it
Survives, grieves
So, battered, obstinate spit
Of gravel? The waves'
Spewed relics clicker masses in the wind,

Grey waves the stub-necked eiders ride.
A labor of love, and that labor lost.
Steadily the sea
Eats at Point Shirley. She died blessed,
And I come by
Bones, only bones, pawed and tossed,
A dog-faced sea.
The sun sinks under Boston, bloody red.

I would get from these dry-papped stones
The milk your love instilled in them.
The black ducks dive.
And though your graciousness might stream,
And I contrive,
Grandmother, stones are nothing of home
To that spumiest dove.
Against both bar and tower the black sea runs.

*for more on this, see http://www.jeffreyround.com/WinthropByTheSea.php

the willingness.

2009-10-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

"There is no character flaw in ignorance. The character flaw is the willingness to remain ignorant."

My mother and I had a conversation today about our students. She teaches high school, I teach college, and we both at times feel we are losing the battle against apathy, laziness, and a lack of intellectual curiosity. I knew I would face this when I signed my first teaching contract in September, but in my mind it was simply ignorance, a tragic character flaw. What my mother revealed to me in one simple statement is that ignorance isn't what makes a student - or anyone - tragically flawed. The tragic flaw is the willingness to remain ignorant, the refusal to change.

My concept of ignorance has always been directly associated with people who are racist, uneducated, irrational, intolerant, extremist in any way (leftist, rightist, elitist, supremacist...). I don't think my associations are unique: hyper-educated New Englanders pick on the "ignorance" of the Deep South; liberals despise the "ignorance" of conservative republicans; religious fanatics are belligerent about the "ignorance" of those who continue to seek or question; people on both sides of same-sex marriage debate hurl insults at the "ignorance" on the other side.

I, too, have used the label of ignorance for those I deemed tragically flawed - proponents of slavery, enabling parents, abusive spouses, anyone who argues that reading Twilight counts as reading.

But my mother is on to something, as she usually is, and I am learning something from her, as I usually do. If ignorance is, as defined by Webster, "a lack of knowledge, education, or awareness," then there is space for knowledge, education, and awareness. A lack of something means there is room, space, emptiness - in other words, the enormous potential for completion, for wholeness. How can potential be tragic? The tragedy would really be the opposite: a lack of space for knowledge, education, or awareness.

What my mother and I are discovering through unfinished assignments, apathetic responses to questions, and unexplained absences is a lack of space to grow. These students know very little - but what's worse than the fact that they know very little is their willingness to continue knowing very little. Their very willingness to remain as-is seals the opening to the great caverns of their minds. Our minds - how wondrous and mysterious that we continue to retain! Each of us is born knowing nothing but the scent of our mother. And then we learn to walk. And then to read. And then to analyze, criticize, protest, defend. And then we learn to change our minds - or, rather, our minds change. Our minds stretch with us, accommodating the newness around us. A look back at even the last year shows me that I was, in a way, ignorant about some things. But my lack of knowledge, education, or awareness simply acted as a catalyst for new growth. The lack - the space - cried out to be filled, and through various curious pursuits and endeavors, I have displaced the lack. And, beautifully mysterious as it is, the mind's curiosity is regenerative. It satiates the craving of the lack, and then expands, creating a new lack, a new space, a new raw potential that almost glistens in its infantile naiveté. The growth of the potential transforms ignorance into understanding, and the willingness to grow shines as the most redemptive of characteristics.

I now believe that it is neither knowledge nor the lack of knowledge that makes one tragic or redemptive - it is the willingness, either to remain or to blossom.

My hope for the willingness to blossom is for myself, but also for my students, my leaders, my family, my world. My hope is for a future where the scent of blossoming overtakes the stench of decay, where ignorance is defined as, "the potential for knowledge, education, and awareness," and where we grow in faith, hope, and love simply because we are willing.

in harmonikos.

2009-10-03T16:23:00.000-07:00

For the second time in my city life, I am living in a third floor apartment. For the first time, however, I live above an accordion player. She is friendly, helpful, and currently practicing her scales while I write. Also, she sings Italian ballads while she plays.

Many people might be turned off by the idea of living above the owner of Gondola di Venezia (http://www.bostongondolas.com/), but I was thrilled to move in. She plays, she sings, she stores gondolas in the basement of the house, and she has a parakeet so vocal that I first mistook it for ten parakeets. But hearing her play the accordion makes me turn off my music, stop what I'm doing, and remain as still as possible so I don't miss a note.

I love Italy. I spent five months studying abroad in Florence in 2004 ("Firenze" to the Italian speaker), and every day I wish I were still there. The smallest reminder takes me back: a piece of dried fruit, the smell of basil, the red checkered vinyl tablecloth I spread when I order pizza from Paesan's. What gripped me about Italy was how comfortable I felt walking the streets, hearing conversations I didn't fully understand, running across bridges that stretched over the Arno river. What gripped me about Italy is that it took me in as I was and invited me to stay.

It wasn't an easy trip. Of course, I was privileged that my biggest responsibility was school (art class, wine tasting class, Italian language class, museum class...), and that my housing was arranged through my study abroad program. But it still wasn't easy. Even though I grew up in Florida, went to college in North Carolina, and spent a summer in Washington, D.C., Italy was the first new place where I'd really been a stranger - an other. I arrived knowing 4 people - my roommates and my friend John - but I said goodbye to many people who had met me, then known me, then cared for me, then loved me.

Because I love lists, I will list a few of my favorites...

1 - Marco: cheese vendor in Mercato Centrale; knew that when I arrived I would purchase 1/4 kilo of Pecorino Toscano Stagionato.
2- Marco and Kyoko: dried fruit vendors in Mercato Centrale; let me scoop my own bag of dried fruit every morning, even though customers weren't supposed to.
3- Pietro, Sylvia, Marco, Paolo: loving family; Pietro was the pastor of a tiny church that I went to, and I went to the family's home for Easter, my birthday, and any other Sunday that I wanted a big lunch.
4 - Anastasio, Cinzia, Barbara: another loving family; Anastasio and Cinzia picked me up for church every Sunday morning in the main square in Florence. They always picked me up in their camper so there would be enough room if I brought along friends.
5 - Angelo - my favorite gelato scooper; he knew that I liked a scoop of Bacio and a scoop of Pistacchio. I was mortified whenever he saw me running (faccia jogging) in the mornings, but he always smiled.

While my time in Italy was my most unique experience, I know that many others have been blessed by the hospitality and vitality of the Italian people. I had some of my lowest lows (a combination of my own insecurities and my sense of anonymity and otherness), but also the chance for great growth. I allowed myself to be foreign, to be other, and tried to be as curious, courteous, and respectful of the language and culture as I possibly could. This worked wonders with a people already inclined to welcome, feed, hug, and laugh with strangers.

The significance of these people was more than just the joy they brought to those five months, more than the excitement whenever someone I know is visiting Italy and I supply them with my own travel guide, more than the nostalgia when I flip through albums and relive the days of bakery smells, fresh Italian cheese, train rides through the Tuscan countryside to Lucca, Ferrara, Bologna, Ravenna.

The significance was how they taught me acceptance of strangers who come meaning no harm, strangers who come and say, "I'm new here. Will you help me?" My broken Italian had a thick American accent; my natural Italian appearance was highly Americanized by my clothes, makeup, and hairstyle; my purpose in Italy was like every other young American's - study abroad, drink wine, escape for a little while. Yet in spite of all this, I was treated as an equal, as a friend, as a person whose presence in their lives - even for a short time - mattered.

I can only hope that the last tourist to ask me directions, the last non-English speaker on my train who gestured to the seat next to me instead of asking if it was taken, the last person who paid at the cashier in front of me and took an extra minute to figure out the American money in her hands - I can only hope that all these people, these others, feel that to someone in America, they matter.