After I drop my daughter off at school in the morning, shower and dress, I take a steaming cup of coffee into my home office and get to work. I open my Mac laptop, click on Word, and a blank page appears on the screen in front of me. Now...what to write?
Over the last few years, enrolled in undergraduate writing courses, I've been able to rely on assignments to feed my writing. Rarely has a professor looked at me and said, "Okay. Go write something. Whatever you feel like writing." This is a new experience, and one that I'm finding more than a little intimidating. This semester, my "assignment" is to write short pieces, many of them. Topics are completely open, but the finished pieces need to be self-contained (a beginning, middle and end), and range from a paragraph to no more than five pages. Those of you who have been in writing classes with me, or who taught those classes, know that writing short is not my strong suit.
More than one professor has told me that I'm a "book writer", someone for whom the long form is the most comfortable fit. A lover of detail and setting, even when I try to write short pieces, they turn into longer ones. Whenever I work on something that was originally intended to be short, someone that reads it will inevitably ask me if it's going to be book length. "No," I reply. "This one's really going to be short." They look at me, bewildered by my answer. "Are you sure? I think this needs to be long." Sigh.
So, even though writing short is a difficult thing for me, doing just that for an entire semester will help me to grow immensely as a writer. My longwinded tendencies have to be shoved into a drawer, as I create short pieces that actually end. I'm starting with the longer ones, four or five pages, and working my way backwards to the shortest of them. Provided that I can think of enough short topics to write about, this should be a great experience for me.
The blank page stares back at me, and it knows that I'm struggling. It teases me, taunts me with it's open space, knowing that even finding a topic is elusive. I grab an old journal and dig for inspiration. Something catches my attention - a snippet of an idea that I never followed, or a line of dialogue that I wrote down on the train. I write one sentence, maybe two or three, and stop. I save the document and continue digging, mining for new ideas while the others marinate. Right now, getting plenty of ideas down is half the battle. The war awaits...
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Cookie Mania
For Girl Scouts all over the United States, cookie season kicked off yesterday! It's no different in my house, as Emily sets her sights on her order goal for the 2012 cookie sale. In Colorado, all troops are selling cookies directly this year - there are no order sheets here! My dining room table is covered with colorful (and tempting!) cases of cookies of every variety. Tagalongs, Trefoils, Thin Mints, Savannah Smiles, Samoas, Dulce De Lece, Thank You Berry Munch, and Do-Si-Do's are piled high, just waiting for the buyers to snatch them up.
Yesterday morning, Em and I loaded the wagon with cases of cookies and set out around the neighborhood. This is the first year that Coloradoans have been able to get their cookies immediately, and they couldn't have been happier. Most people responded, "You mean, I can order them, and have them RIGHT NOW?" I pulled the wagon, walking behind the little girl that used to ride in it. She's growing so fast that I can hardly believe it. We've gone from onesies to flared jeans, pink t-shirts to training bras. How does the time go by so quickly? Before I know it, she'll be starting middle school, then high school, then college. I watched the breeze ruffle her brown hair, watched her smile and giggle when a homeowner said that they'd love to buy some cookies from her. These moments are important ones, as she learns the value of hard work, of pounding the pavement in search of a goal and reaping the rewards. I remember my own days of selling Girl Scout cookies in Stratford, Connecticut. At the time, I believe cookies were still about $1.50 a box, and it seemed like an enormous sum in 1973. Regardless, selling those cookies left me with a feeling of pride and accomplishment, and I hope that Emily will get the same thing out of this experience.
We left a lot of Smoky Hill homeowners with boxes of cookies and huge smiles, but the biggest smile was on Emily's face, as we counted up the money at home and figured out how many boxes we'd sold. If you see us out there, dragging the wagon behind us, stop and say hello. Buy a box of cookies or two, and help us to remember these magical moments of being mother and daughter - bonding over cookies and a job well done.
Yesterday morning, Em and I loaded the wagon with cases of cookies and set out around the neighborhood. This is the first year that Coloradoans have been able to get their cookies immediately, and they couldn't have been happier. Most people responded, "You mean, I can order them, and have them RIGHT NOW?" I pulled the wagon, walking behind the little girl that used to ride in it. She's growing so fast that I can hardly believe it. We've gone from onesies to flared jeans, pink t-shirts to training bras. How does the time go by so quickly? Before I know it, she'll be starting middle school, then high school, then college. I watched the breeze ruffle her brown hair, watched her smile and giggle when a homeowner said that they'd love to buy some cookies from her. These moments are important ones, as she learns the value of hard work, of pounding the pavement in search of a goal and reaping the rewards. I remember my own days of selling Girl Scout cookies in Stratford, Connecticut. At the time, I believe cookies were still about $1.50 a box, and it seemed like an enormous sum in 1973. Regardless, selling those cookies left me with a feeling of pride and accomplishment, and I hope that Emily will get the same thing out of this experience.
We left a lot of Smoky Hill homeowners with boxes of cookies and huge smiles, but the biggest smile was on Emily's face, as we counted up the money at home and figured out how many boxes we'd sold. If you see us out there, dragging the wagon behind us, stop and say hello. Buy a box of cookies or two, and help us to remember these magical moments of being mother and daughter - bonding over cookies and a job well done.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The Wisdom Project
The semester is in full swing and I'm hard at work on the reading and writing for the first submission which is due in a couple of weeks. I'm also working on my interdisciplinary studies class for the semester, and I'm really quite excited about it. The class, Creative Writing Pedagogy, allows me to create any type of creative writing class that I might be interested in teaching, and among my tasks for the semester is coming up with a series of 12 lesson plans that would comprise a full class. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do. I'd love to teach, and the options for what kind of class I could create were endless, but the choice was an easy one for me: I'm creating a memoir writing class for seniors.
My workshop, tentatively titled "The Wisdom Project" is something that I can teach to seniors in many different settings, including senior centers, community centers, assisted living facilities, and more. My goal is to help seniors to learn how to record meaningful snapshots of their personal experiences that can be passed on to future generations. The wisdom that our seniors hold within them is priceless, and that information is integral to the history of our country, and to their own families.
By the time that my beautiful Mom, Margaret Lane DeChario, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, so many of her memories were either lost to her or so intertwined with others that it was nearly impossible to record them in any kind of meaningful way. While I remember some of the stories of her life, there are far more others that I never had the opportunity to learn. A project like this, that might have preserved them for my siblings and I, our children, and generations still to come, would have been something that we would have cherished forever. What a gift it would be to be able to give that gift to other families!
At some point, I'm interested in following this project with the creation of a business as a personal historian. As such, I'd have the opportunity to interview families and create audio, video or written stories or books that comprise some of the important memories that we build our families on. I'm hoping to ask my father to be my guinea pig, creating the kind of history of personal experiences that I was unable to gather from Mom. Every now and then, when I least expect it, he pops up with some obscure memory that has me enthralled and amazed. It's time to write them down, to record his words, and have something that I can give to my children someday. Something to cherish forever - a piece of Dad that will live on forever.
My workshop, tentatively titled "The Wisdom Project" is something that I can teach to seniors in many different settings, including senior centers, community centers, assisted living facilities, and more. My goal is to help seniors to learn how to record meaningful snapshots of their personal experiences that can be passed on to future generations. The wisdom that our seniors hold within them is priceless, and that information is integral to the history of our country, and to their own families.
By the time that my beautiful Mom, Margaret Lane DeChario, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, so many of her memories were either lost to her or so intertwined with others that it was nearly impossible to record them in any kind of meaningful way. While I remember some of the stories of her life, there are far more others that I never had the opportunity to learn. A project like this, that might have preserved them for my siblings and I, our children, and generations still to come, would have been something that we would have cherished forever. What a gift it would be to be able to give that gift to other families!
At some point, I'm interested in following this project with the creation of a business as a personal historian. As such, I'd have the opportunity to interview families and create audio, video or written stories or books that comprise some of the important memories that we build our families on. I'm hoping to ask my father to be my guinea pig, creating the kind of history of personal experiences that I was unable to gather from Mom. Every now and then, when I least expect it, he pops up with some obscure memory that has me enthralled and amazed. It's time to write them down, to record his words, and have something that I can give to my children someday. Something to cherish forever - a piece of Dad that will live on forever.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Goodbye, Cambridge - Hello, Berkshires
The Lesley University MFA students scattered to the winds this afternoon. Warm hugs, smiles and promises to keep in touch dwindled as the day went on and less and less of us were still there. I was one of the last to leave, hanging on to every remaining minute, I attended graduation, said my goodbyes, and walked out of the empty quad for the last time. Just before I got to the street, I looked back over my shoulder to imprint the place where I spent so many hours in the last 10 days on my memory.
I'd heard that MFA residencies tend to form close bonds, creating relationships that last through long, sometimes lonely semesters at home, each of us huddled in front of laptops in our individual places in the country (and abroad). In such a short but intense period, it's amazing how close you can become with a group of people that you otherwise never would have met. I'm awed by the talent and the generosity of the students here - so willing to let me into their exclusive circle and make me one of their own. I worried, before I got here, that I might not fit in, but I'm glad to say that I was wrong. It's easy for me to imagine the happy reunions that I'll have with this new writing family when I return for the next four residencies.
It's time to move on, to cap off my time here with a couple of precious days with my best friend of 36 years and her beautiful family. I get to see them so rarely, and I'm so excited to wrap Ginger, Ken, Ashleigh and Paige in a huge hug and nestle into the Berkshires for a couple of days before I make my way back home. What a great way to end this magical experience.
Goodbye, Cambridge. This is a trip that I'll always remember. When your trees burst with leaves, your flowers blossom, and the sun warms your streets, I'll be back. See you in June.
I'd heard that MFA residencies tend to form close bonds, creating relationships that last through long, sometimes lonely semesters at home, each of us huddled in front of laptops in our individual places in the country (and abroad). In such a short but intense period, it's amazing how close you can become with a group of people that you otherwise never would have met. I'm awed by the talent and the generosity of the students here - so willing to let me into their exclusive circle and make me one of their own. I worried, before I got here, that I might not fit in, but I'm glad to say that I was wrong. It's easy for me to imagine the happy reunions that I'll have with this new writing family when I return for the next four residencies.
It's time to move on, to cap off my time here with a couple of precious days with my best friend of 36 years and her beautiful family. I get to see them so rarely, and I'm so excited to wrap Ginger, Ken, Ashleigh and Paige in a huge hug and nestle into the Berkshires for a couple of days before I make my way back home. What a great way to end this magical experience.
Goodbye, Cambridge. This is a trip that I'll always remember. When your trees burst with leaves, your flowers blossom, and the sun warms your streets, I'll be back. See you in June.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Message from Home
Imagine my surprise and delight when I returned to my room this evening after a long day at residency and found the message light blinking on my room telephone. For a split second, I was worried, wondering if maybe something had happened at home in Denver and that perhaps my family had been trying in vain to reach me. I picked up the phone and called the front desk. "The message light is blinking on my phone; did someone leave a message for me?" I asked. "No," the young desk clerk replied, "but you have mail." Mail? Someone mailed me something in Cambridge?
The curiosity was killing me, so I immediately descended the flights of stairs that I had just walked up and asked for my mail at the desk. Seeing my bewildered look, the clerk smiled and handed me a bright yellow envelope. The return address should not have surprised me. My son's beautiful best friend, Alex, who in maybe 10 years time might turn out to be the boy's soul mate, had taken the time to mail me a card, all the way here to Cambridge, just to make me smile.
I remember a time, not long in the past, when writing letters was commonplace. I wrote them often to friends, grandparents, and my own parents when I lived far from home. Then the internet stepped in, and the immediacy of electronic communication caused the epistolary form to wane. While we can still write letters and send them through email, those messages are a sorry replacement for a handwritten note. There's something timeless and beautiful about the craft of writing something special to someone in our own hand. It's careful, deliberate, and full of thought. Email is wonderful, but it exists in a brief moment of space and time that is fleeting. Cards and letters, sent through the mail and still hand-delivered to the recipient are tangible in a way that email will never be.
I've already dated this card, and added a note about where and when I received it on the back. I'll get home and add it to my memory box, as it is as strong a memory of my Cambridge experience as any other. This beautiful young woman whom I adore, took the time to tell me that she was thinking about me and wanted me to know. With her sparkly green pen, she filled up the side of the card with her thoughts, and likely more praise than I deserve, but she means it and I hope that I can live up to it. It is a gift of dramatic proportion to be thought of in that way. "Daughter-in-law", I love you, too.
The curiosity was killing me, so I immediately descended the flights of stairs that I had just walked up and asked for my mail at the desk. Seeing my bewildered look, the clerk smiled and handed me a bright yellow envelope. The return address should not have surprised me. My son's beautiful best friend, Alex, who in maybe 10 years time might turn out to be the boy's soul mate, had taken the time to mail me a card, all the way here to Cambridge, just to make me smile.
I remember a time, not long in the past, when writing letters was commonplace. I wrote them often to friends, grandparents, and my own parents when I lived far from home. Then the internet stepped in, and the immediacy of electronic communication caused the epistolary form to wane. While we can still write letters and send them through email, those messages are a sorry replacement for a handwritten note. There's something timeless and beautiful about the craft of writing something special to someone in our own hand. It's careful, deliberate, and full of thought. Email is wonderful, but it exists in a brief moment of space and time that is fleeting. Cards and letters, sent through the mail and still hand-delivered to the recipient are tangible in a way that email will never be.
I've already dated this card, and added a note about where and when I received it on the back. I'll get home and add it to my memory box, as it is as strong a memory of my Cambridge experience as any other. This beautiful young woman whom I adore, took the time to tell me that she was thinking about me and wanted me to know. With her sparkly green pen, she filled up the side of the card with her thoughts, and likely more praise than I deserve, but she means it and I hope that I can live up to it. It is a gift of dramatic proportion to be thought of in that way. "Daughter-in-law", I love you, too.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The Freshman 15
I hope that it's only 15. Pounds, that is. The coziness of my room at the inn withstanding, this residency has other things in common with a cruise ship. I expected a small room, but I didn't expect a full buffets for all meals, and free baked goods, coffee and soda all day long. And the food is fantastic. I'm not talking about the ironic kind of fantastic, the air quotes kind of fantastic, or the for-a-college-cafeteria kind of fantastic. I'm talking about the fantastic kind of fantastic. Steaks, pork tenderloin, seafood, carving stations, cooking stations, dessert stations and more. That's just for lunch. Add salad bar, sandwich bar, breakfast stations that feature omelets, quiche, pancakes, sausage, cereal, bagels, muffins, fruit and more? It's a virtual shmorgasbord, and an accident waiting to happen for those of us with little self control and no adult supervision.
And that's just on campus. My inn also has a pretty palatial spread each morning, and free coffee and baked goods literally from dawn to dark. Being the coffee hound that I am, I can't seem to stop myself from pouring a cup, and grabbing a molasses cookie or two (or three) while I stir the cream into the cup. I'm surrounded by temptation, and it seems to lurk around every corner, just waiting to exploit my moments of weakness.
When I talked to my daughter tonight about all of these wonderful foods and beverages offered to me, including the chocolate layer cake that was one of tonight's dessert selections after dinner, she gave me a very wise piece of advice. I should know it's wise, because I'm the one that taught it to her. "That's a 'sometimes food', Mommy."
At the very moment that we're convinced that our children never listen to a word we say, they find the most inopportune times to throw our wisdom back in our faces. :)
And that's just on campus. My inn also has a pretty palatial spread each morning, and free coffee and baked goods literally from dawn to dark. Being the coffee hound that I am, I can't seem to stop myself from pouring a cup, and grabbing a molasses cookie or two (or three) while I stir the cream into the cup. I'm surrounded by temptation, and it seems to lurk around every corner, just waiting to exploit my moments of weakness.
When I talked to my daughter tonight about all of these wonderful foods and beverages offered to me, including the chocolate layer cake that was one of tonight's dessert selections after dinner, she gave me a very wise piece of advice. I should know it's wise, because I'm the one that taught it to her. "That's a 'sometimes food', Mommy."
At the very moment that we're convinced that our children never listen to a word we say, they find the most inopportune times to throw our wisdom back in our faces. :)
Monday, January 9, 2012
Mama Said There Would Be Days Like This
Well, I've done it. I broke my New Year's Resolution and it's only the 9th of January. Be glad. I saved you from last night's pity party, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. I've built a bridge, I've gotten over it, and I've landed on my feet on the other side, so now, and only now, I can tell you the story.
Writers workshops are a curious thing. What do you love? Knitting, painting, sewing? Think about that thing, and then about the project that you were the most excited about when you created it. Got it? Now, imagine being in a room with 8 other people for an hour. Those 8 people are charged with the responsibility of telling you every single thing that they can think of that is wrong with it, and you sit silently on the sidelines and listen to the conversation. For an hour. You cannot speak, or defend your prized project, or tell anyone that you disagree. You just listen. For an hour.
It's bound to be the longest hour of your life. Trust me.
When I submitted my manuscript with my MFA application, my biggest concern was that people wouldn't get it because it doesn't feel "literary". It's funny. Really funny, if I do say so myself. I've seen people howl, hold their sides, take a moment to catch their breath. But literary? Serious literary work? Probably not. So, in addition to my fear about my application, even after I was accepted by both schools, I started to worry about the workshop. I was right to worry. My workshop was yesterday, and it was less than stellar, to be sure. All of my workshop peers, and my mentor, were professional, and gave me their best, honest feedback. It's taken me 24 hours to get to that frame of mind, but I'm there now.
In this new world where I reside, in this new context that I'm writing within, it's simply the wrong piece of work at the wrong time. It's still a story that is worthy of telling, that is funny and poignant and honest and self-deprecating, and above all, readable. But, it's not the MFA's story. As I wrestled with these thoughts last night after coming back to my cocoon to do a little (or a lot) unapologetic wound licking, I realized that I have an opportunity to have the best of both worlds. I won't let go of that manuscript, because it's a story that I believe in, and I'm proud of it so far. It has a very long way to go, but I'll get it there. However, there are so many other stories to tell. Those serious literary stories are within me, and the truth is that I write them all the time. For now, for this program, I'll shift my focus, keep working on my comedic manuscript in the background, and generate new material that's a better fit for this particular time. Meanwhile, I'll take everything that I learn during the next two years and use it to make all of my work, including the dreaded comedy, the best that it can possibly be.
Mama said there would be days like this, but she also taught me how to get through them. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and forge ahead. Tomorrow, alas, is new day.
Writers workshops are a curious thing. What do you love? Knitting, painting, sewing? Think about that thing, and then about the project that you were the most excited about when you created it. Got it? Now, imagine being in a room with 8 other people for an hour. Those 8 people are charged with the responsibility of telling you every single thing that they can think of that is wrong with it, and you sit silently on the sidelines and listen to the conversation. For an hour. You cannot speak, or defend your prized project, or tell anyone that you disagree. You just listen. For an hour.
It's bound to be the longest hour of your life. Trust me.
When I submitted my manuscript with my MFA application, my biggest concern was that people wouldn't get it because it doesn't feel "literary". It's funny. Really funny, if I do say so myself. I've seen people howl, hold their sides, take a moment to catch their breath. But literary? Serious literary work? Probably not. So, in addition to my fear about my application, even after I was accepted by both schools, I started to worry about the workshop. I was right to worry. My workshop was yesterday, and it was less than stellar, to be sure. All of my workshop peers, and my mentor, were professional, and gave me their best, honest feedback. It's taken me 24 hours to get to that frame of mind, but I'm there now.
In this new world where I reside, in this new context that I'm writing within, it's simply the wrong piece of work at the wrong time. It's still a story that is worthy of telling, that is funny and poignant and honest and self-deprecating, and above all, readable. But, it's not the MFA's story. As I wrestled with these thoughts last night after coming back to my cocoon to do a little (or a lot) unapologetic wound licking, I realized that I have an opportunity to have the best of both worlds. I won't let go of that manuscript, because it's a story that I believe in, and I'm proud of it so far. It has a very long way to go, but I'll get it there. However, there are so many other stories to tell. Those serious literary stories are within me, and the truth is that I write them all the time. For now, for this program, I'll shift my focus, keep working on my comedic manuscript in the background, and generate new material that's a better fit for this particular time. Meanwhile, I'll take everything that I learn during the next two years and use it to make all of my work, including the dreaded comedy, the best that it can possibly be.
Mama said there would be days like this, but she also taught me how to get through them. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and forge ahead. Tomorrow, alas, is new day.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Nestled in my Cocoon
My room at The Irving House in Cambridge is one that I would have aptly described in my former life as a Realtor as "cozy". The pretty key word for small, this room is cozy to say the least. At just 7 feet wide by 12 feet long, it's approximately the size of my walk-in closet at home, a space I never could have imagined sleeping in for 10 days.
I admit to being a little shocked when I opened the door for the first time. When I reserved the room, I knew that the website said that it was a small one, and let me reiterate: they weren't kidding. It's tiny. I've had cut-rate cruise ship cabins that were bigger than this hotel room, and that's saying something. Quite literally, the room is just twice as wide as the door to enter it. With a double size bed, a nightstand, small desk and chair, it's pretty well full. I heaved my large suitcase up onto the bed to get ready to unpack, and looked around for a closet and dresser, somehow assuming that I must have missed during the 4 foot walk from my door to the bed. I hadn't. There were none. There's a two foot long bar hanging in the corner by the door, a makeshift closet in a tiny space. I'm here for 10 nights, and although I didn't pack enough clothes for every day that I'm here, the suitcase was full.
I improvised. I hung as many things as I could on the bar by the door, tucked my shoes under the little desk, and put the rest of my clothes into the nightstand, sans my socks, which are too bulky and have to sit on top of it. I began to wonder if I'd go crazy in this tiny, blue closet after 10 days of being cooped up in here.
As it turned out, it didn't take long for me to learn to appreciate the advantages of my new surroundings. The walls are painted a soft blue, the wood floor creaks softly beneath the carpet, and it stays warm during the day and cool at night. I'm using the fire escape outside the bathroom window as refrigerator, and it works like it was made just for that purpose. When I want a cold drink, I don't have walk down three flights of stairs to get one. I just open the bathroom window and reach out onto the fire escape. There's a little flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above the desk, which I have yet to turn on and likely never will. I in this roughly 84 foot square space, I really do have everything I need.
Residency is both exciting and exhausting. When I come back to my room at the end of the day and nestle into the soft bed covered in a down comforter and pillows like clouds, I'm at home for the moment in a space that seems less and less all the time like a closet, and more and more like a cocoon. When I think about my big house back home, as I sit here on the bed and write, I wonder for a moment why I ever thought I needed that much space to begin with. I love my house, don't get me wrong, but I love this little room near a rooftop in Cambridge in a very special way. For these 10 days and nights, it's my haven. My safe place to write and think and dream. My place to worry about what might happen in my workshop tomorrow, when 7 people whose opinions mean a great deal to me will spend an entire hour talking about my work and deciding whether it's good enough. Somehow, though, this space gives me comfort. When I'm in this room, nothing else really matters. For today, that's enough.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Bubble Days
I don't think I can remember the last time that I had time to myself to just walk, and explore, and dream, and be. I got an early start today. Up at 6 and showered and dressed for breakfast at 7, giving me the rest of the morning to do as I pleased. Knowing that I didn't have to be at residency until 1:30 this afternoon, I did something rare: I took advantage of a day with no responsibilities pressing on the back of my brain, and I actually did something simply for the pleasure of doing it.
The sidewalks throughout Cambridge, Massachusetts are made of inlaid brick, most of which have been there since the late 18th Century. Worn smooth by time and weather, the stones are tones of sienna, crimson, ruby, russet and auburn, and to walk on such history is fascinating. I couldn't help but wonder who had walked there before me. Louisa May Alcott, Emily Dickenson, Benjamin Franklin, Nathaniel Hawthorne, e e cummings, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendall Holmes, and Edgar Allen Poe are just a handful of the renowned writers who grew up in this area, who went on to become some of the most revered American authors of any generation, whose feet may have stepped upon the very same stones as I did today. I did more than walk the streets of Cambridge: I walked through history.
Today was a bubble day. No cares, no worries, no where to go and everywhere to roam. My husband reminded me tonight that we had some bubble days when we visited France in 1999 and canoed down the Dordogne River, just the two of us, a picnic lunch and a lot of warm July sunshine on our shoulders. Though the winter in Cambridge is hardly like July in southwest France, this day had the same carefree quality. It was a day to absorb this miraculous time in my life where everything feels so unbelievably blissful. I walked through the grounds of Harvard University, marveling at the banners announcing that this is the school's 375th anniversary year. I passed babies in strollers, students with backpacks laden with schoolwork, professors with tartan plaid driving caps and worn leather briefcases. I wandered into the Harvard Book Store and browsed the aisles, running my fingertips gently along the bindings of weathered editions of Plath and Thoreau and Longfellow. I bought a sandwich at a coffee shop and ate it while I meandered along the streets, feeling the lettuce crunch between my teeth and enjoying the sting of dijon mustard on my tongue. I resisted the urge to throw my hat in the air in Harvard Square while signing the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song, but just barely.
My journey, probably a total of five or six miles walked at a beautiful snail's pace, came to it's conclusion when I rounded a corner on Oxford Avenue and saw the sign that read: "Lesley University - Doble Campus." I expected my heart to leap when I finally saw that sign, but something unexpected and wonderful happened instead. My heartbeat slowed down, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and had to be brushed away with gloved hands, my body warmed and my soul followed. Amazing. Truly amazing. Just one look, and it felt like home.
I wish that there could be more bubble days, for all of us. Instead of walking to something, I want more moments in my life that are simply desinationless. Meandering, wandering, wondering. Drinking in the rare times in life that things are truly wonderful, and remembering to be grateful for simple miracles. What brought me here, to this moment, to this place, to this city, I may never know. But, I couldn't be happier or more thankful that the sun shined on the worn sidewalks of Cambridge today, or that I was here to enjoy it.
The sidewalks throughout Cambridge, Massachusetts are made of inlaid brick, most of which have been there since the late 18th Century. Worn smooth by time and weather, the stones are tones of sienna, crimson, ruby, russet and auburn, and to walk on such history is fascinating. I couldn't help but wonder who had walked there before me. Louisa May Alcott, Emily Dickenson, Benjamin Franklin, Nathaniel Hawthorne, e e cummings, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendall Holmes, and Edgar Allen Poe are just a handful of the renowned writers who grew up in this area, who went on to become some of the most revered American authors of any generation, whose feet may have stepped upon the very same stones as I did today. I did more than walk the streets of Cambridge: I walked through history.
Today was a bubble day. No cares, no worries, no where to go and everywhere to roam. My husband reminded me tonight that we had some bubble days when we visited France in 1999 and canoed down the Dordogne River, just the two of us, a picnic lunch and a lot of warm July sunshine on our shoulders. Though the winter in Cambridge is hardly like July in southwest France, this day had the same carefree quality. It was a day to absorb this miraculous time in my life where everything feels so unbelievably blissful. I walked through the grounds of Harvard University, marveling at the banners announcing that this is the school's 375th anniversary year. I passed babies in strollers, students with backpacks laden with schoolwork, professors with tartan plaid driving caps and worn leather briefcases. I wandered into the Harvard Book Store and browsed the aisles, running my fingertips gently along the bindings of weathered editions of Plath and Thoreau and Longfellow. I bought a sandwich at a coffee shop and ate it while I meandered along the streets, feeling the lettuce crunch between my teeth and enjoying the sting of dijon mustard on my tongue. I resisted the urge to throw my hat in the air in Harvard Square while signing the Mary Tyler Moore Show theme song, but just barely.
My journey, probably a total of five or six miles walked at a beautiful snail's pace, came to it's conclusion when I rounded a corner on Oxford Avenue and saw the sign that read: "Lesley University - Doble Campus." I expected my heart to leap when I finally saw that sign, but something unexpected and wonderful happened instead. My heartbeat slowed down, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and had to be brushed away with gloved hands, my body warmed and my soul followed. Amazing. Truly amazing. Just one look, and it felt like home.
I wish that there could be more bubble days, for all of us. Instead of walking to something, I want more moments in my life that are simply desinationless. Meandering, wandering, wondering. Drinking in the rare times in life that things are truly wonderful, and remembering to be grateful for simple miracles. What brought me here, to this moment, to this place, to this city, I may never know. But, I couldn't be happier or more thankful that the sun shined on the worn sidewalks of Cambridge today, or that I was here to enjoy it.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The New Airplane Frontier
An airplane is an interesting place to be these days. My flight from Denver to Boston was 4 hours long, giving me more than enough time to reflect. Just before I started writing this post, I finished not one, but two packages of cheesy crackers. Practically unheard of now. The chief of the flight attendants, a grey-haired gentlemen in his fifties with a midlife paunch and a bushy white mustache looks to me more like an auto mechanic than a flight attendant, but I digress. As he comes around with his box of Southwest Airlines goodies and a wry smirk, he says to my seatmate and I, “Take a couple, ‘cause that’s all you get these days...”
The days of “Pan Am” are a little outside of my experience, but I clearly remember taking trips with my parents and being given an actual meal on an airplane, even if the distance of the flight was somewhat short. It might not have been the most delicious meal, but it was a meal nonetheless, and there was bound to be at least one tasty something on the tray. Then came the days of the sandwich, and I’d purposefully book my seat in the middle of the aircraft, so that there would likely still be turkey left whether the crew started passing them out from the front or the back, and I wouldn’t be left with something truly disgusting, like boiled ham. Those sandwiches weren’t much bigger than a silver dollar pancake, but again, it was food. Real food.
Those days are gone, and the memory is a nostalgic blur. When I was a kid, flying on an airplane was part of the vacation, not simply a way to get to the vacation. People used to get dressed up to take a flight. Not that the attire was too formal, but there were no passengers wearing the glorified pajamas that are currently adorning my person. No, they’re not really pajamas, but they’re close. My fleece top and velour sweatpants are probably more comfortable than my jammies, anyway. I wear this “uniform” on nearly every flight these days. I’ve eskewed fashion for comfort, and I’m not ashamed.
That’s okay. The attire of the flight crew has changed, too, so I’m in good company. The perfectly coiffed and model thin female flight attendants (read: stewardesses) wearing polished patent pumps and perfect pantyhose have gone the way of the dinosaur, and I say: “Good riddance!” For what reason I can’t seem to understand, I can’t get through a flight of more than 90 minutes without getting off the plane looking like I slept on a park bench and was rolled by a wino for spare change. It makes no sense, but that’s the way it is. I’m an ugly flier. So, why would I want to spend the whole flight looking at the epitome of femaleness? I much prefer the paunchy auto-mechanic/flight attendant, thank you very much.
The days of “Pan Am” are a little outside of my experience, but I clearly remember taking trips with my parents and being given an actual meal on an airplane, even if the distance of the flight was somewhat short. It might not have been the most delicious meal, but it was a meal nonetheless, and there was bound to be at least one tasty something on the tray. Then came the days of the sandwich, and I’d purposefully book my seat in the middle of the aircraft, so that there would likely still be turkey left whether the crew started passing them out from the front or the back, and I wouldn’t be left with something truly disgusting, like boiled ham. Those sandwiches weren’t much bigger than a silver dollar pancake, but again, it was food. Real food.
Those days are gone, and the memory is a nostalgic blur. When I was a kid, flying on an airplane was part of the vacation, not simply a way to get to the vacation. People used to get dressed up to take a flight. Not that the attire was too formal, but there were no passengers wearing the glorified pajamas that are currently adorning my person. No, they’re not really pajamas, but they’re close. My fleece top and velour sweatpants are probably more comfortable than my jammies, anyway. I wear this “uniform” on nearly every flight these days. I’ve eskewed fashion for comfort, and I’m not ashamed.
That’s okay. The attire of the flight crew has changed, too, so I’m in good company. The perfectly coiffed and model thin female flight attendants (read: stewardesses) wearing polished patent pumps and perfect pantyhose have gone the way of the dinosaur, and I say: “Good riddance!” For what reason I can’t seem to understand, I can’t get through a flight of more than 90 minutes without getting off the plane looking like I slept on a park bench and was rolled by a wino for spare change. It makes no sense, but that’s the way it is. I’m an ugly flier. So, why would I want to spend the whole flight looking at the epitome of femaleness? I much prefer the paunchy auto-mechanic/flight attendant, thank you very much.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Second Chances
My beautiful friend, Colleen, stood at the front of the room, nervously adjusting the hem of her simple, black shift dress, clearly trying to hold back tears of nervousness, excitement, and pride. After an arduous six-month-long interview process, she watched the Douglas County Sheriff speak to the friends and family assembled in the room. He told us how these three inductees into the Sheriff's office were the best of the best, the only three chosen from a large pool of candidates to become members of the department. I watched her husband and children beam with pride, and I was incredibly happy to see her get her second chance.
After a couple of intense and difficult years, she had achieved her goal. She now has an excellent job, the benefits that her family needs right now, and another chance to make a difference in her community. I say, "another" because Colleen is one of those people that makes a difference every day, just by being the loving and wonderful wife, mother, friend and volunteer that she is. She is as devoted a person as I've ever met, and I couldn't be happier for her.
I know a little bit about how she feels, as I'm embarking on another chance myself. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags and get ready to depart to Boston on Thursday morning, for a chance at the life I've dreamed of. While my chance is nowhere near as profound as hers, it's an opportunity to create something magical. The work will be hard, the hours will be long, but it'll be worth every ounce of effort.
So, I say to you, lovely Colleen: Let's hold each other's hands, and jump.
After a couple of intense and difficult years, she had achieved her goal. She now has an excellent job, the benefits that her family needs right now, and another chance to make a difference in her community. I say, "another" because Colleen is one of those people that makes a difference every day, just by being the loving and wonderful wife, mother, friend and volunteer that she is. She is as devoted a person as I've ever met, and I couldn't be happier for her.
I know a little bit about how she feels, as I'm embarking on another chance myself. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags and get ready to depart to Boston on Thursday morning, for a chance at the life I've dreamed of. While my chance is nowhere near as profound as hers, it's an opportunity to create something magical. The work will be hard, the hours will be long, but it'll be worth every ounce of effort.
So, I say to you, lovely Colleen: Let's hold each other's hands, and jump.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Virgo - Sign of the Neurotic
Last night, while my husband, kids and I devoured left over Chinese food for dinner, we started talking about the Chinese zodiac and eventually, western astrology. Dave grabbed the computer and he looked up all of our signs, Chinese and otherwise. According to the Chinese zodiac, I'm a goat, and I live with two snakes and a pig. Look at the western charts, and my husband is a Scorpio, Emily is a Libra, Alex is a Cancer, and I'm a Virgo.
I hated growing up a Virgo. While other kids were the sign of the crab, the lion or the fish, I was the sign of the virgin. As a middle- and high-schooler, that was a good enough reason for a proliferation of jokes, with me as the object. Besides, it wasn't like Virgoes had lots of cool attributes like the other signs. If you were born an Aries, you have a brave heart; if you're a Libra, you're harmonious; if you're a Sagittarius, you're adventurous. Virgo attributes? Picky, fussy, perfectionist, and practical. Excellent.
It's hard to argue with fact, and although I don't believe that the attributes of different signs apply to every individual born under them, I see a great deal of myself in the Sign of the Virgin. I am all of those things, and more. I'm a perfectionist to my core, especially when it comes to my expectations of myself. I can't be happy unless I feel like I've given 1000% to every endeavor that I undertake, whether it's school, work, home, volunteering or something else. It's a sickness, really. They say that Virgo women, particularly, are great people to have on your side, because we're so dependable and love to take care of others. That may be true, but I was kind of hoping that someday my loved ones would write words like "vivacious" or "creative" on my headstone. "Here lies Gina - she was practical and dependable" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it.
For now, according to the ultra-reliable Yahoo! Astrology, it looks like it might be a breakthrough year for me, and I'm happy to take that as a good omen:
"This year is all about non-stop action for you, Virgo. With Mars spending the entire first half of 2012 in your sign, you may start to wonder if there will be any break in sight before 2013. The first quarter of the year will be under Mars's retrograde influence, a transit that could push you into a semi-neurotic workaholic mode. Be sure to give yourself plenty of physical outlets in order to channel all that excess Mars energy. When Mars turns direct in Virgo in May, you'll possess tremendous energy to make amazing things happen!
With Neptune moving back into your partnership sector in February, you'll settle for nothing less than your true soul mate; either that or you'll feel blissfully wedded to your spiritual nature ... or perhaps a little of both! In any case, this is the time of your life to realize how important it is to satisfy the longings of your soul. You've compromised, settled and rationalized trying to make the wrong relationship right for long enough. Now you're willing to wait for the real thing.
You'll be thrilled to know that Saturn, after putting the brakes on your spending over the last few years, is finally about to take leave of your financial sector. Any financial challenges you've had to endure since 2009 should come to an end this October. A change of residence or alterations to your current abode are possibilities under the next wave of eclipse patterns. June's full Moon lunar eclipse in your domestic sector is the beginning of many profound changes to affect both home and career prospects between late 2012 and early 2013. And then, the new Moon solar eclipse in November in your communication sector could bring new potential for learning, speaking, writing or travel opportunities."
Here's hoping!
I hated growing up a Virgo. While other kids were the sign of the crab, the lion or the fish, I was the sign of the virgin. As a middle- and high-schooler, that was a good enough reason for a proliferation of jokes, with me as the object. Besides, it wasn't like Virgoes had lots of cool attributes like the other signs. If you were born an Aries, you have a brave heart; if you're a Libra, you're harmonious; if you're a Sagittarius, you're adventurous. Virgo attributes? Picky, fussy, perfectionist, and practical. Excellent.
It's hard to argue with fact, and although I don't believe that the attributes of different signs apply to every individual born under them, I see a great deal of myself in the Sign of the Virgin. I am all of those things, and more. I'm a perfectionist to my core, especially when it comes to my expectations of myself. I can't be happy unless I feel like I've given 1000% to every endeavor that I undertake, whether it's school, work, home, volunteering or something else. It's a sickness, really. They say that Virgo women, particularly, are great people to have on your side, because we're so dependable and love to take care of others. That may be true, but I was kind of hoping that someday my loved ones would write words like "vivacious" or "creative" on my headstone. "Here lies Gina - she was practical and dependable" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it.
For now, according to the ultra-reliable Yahoo! Astrology, it looks like it might be a breakthrough year for me, and I'm happy to take that as a good omen:
"This year is all about non-stop action for you, Virgo. With Mars spending the entire first half of 2012 in your sign, you may start to wonder if there will be any break in sight before 2013. The first quarter of the year will be under Mars's retrograde influence, a transit that could push you into a semi-neurotic workaholic mode. Be sure to give yourself plenty of physical outlets in order to channel all that excess Mars energy. When Mars turns direct in Virgo in May, you'll possess tremendous energy to make amazing things happen!
With Neptune moving back into your partnership sector in February, you'll settle for nothing less than your true soul mate; either that or you'll feel blissfully wedded to your spiritual nature ... or perhaps a little of both! In any case, this is the time of your life to realize how important it is to satisfy the longings of your soul. You've compromised, settled and rationalized trying to make the wrong relationship right for long enough. Now you're willing to wait for the real thing.
You'll be thrilled to know that Saturn, after putting the brakes on your spending over the last few years, is finally about to take leave of your financial sector. Any financial challenges you've had to endure since 2009 should come to an end this October. A change of residence or alterations to your current abode are possibilities under the next wave of eclipse patterns. June's full Moon lunar eclipse in your domestic sector is the beginning of many profound changes to affect both home and career prospects between late 2012 and early 2013. And then, the new Moon solar eclipse in November in your communication sector could bring new potential for learning, speaking, writing or travel opportunities."
Here's hoping!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Starting the New Year Off Right
Did you make a New Year's resolution? I know what you're thinking, because I've thought the same thing many times in the past: New Year's resolutions are stupid. Everyone makes them; nobody keeps them. I think the problem with most resolutions is that we set unattainable goals. I've done that. I'm going to lose 40 pounds (which is never going to happen, because I love food and hate exercise) is a great example. So, this year, I made a new kind of resolution, and I know you can help me keep it.
I'm going to write every day. Every day, my blog of random thoughts will grow - sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. But grow it will, every single day. I'm going to honor those that I've lost by making the most of the life that I've chosen and the dream I've been chasing. I'm a writer, and it's time I started acting like one.
What's your passion? Your dream? Your vision? Whatever it is, do it. Throw yourself into it every day. Make yourself proud. Live your life as fully and joyfully as you can. Give yourself permission to spend at least a few moments each day doing one thing that makes you truly happy. After all, that's all we can really ask for in this life. To live every moment like it's a gift to be cherished. I'll do it if you will. :)
I'm going to write every day. Every day, my blog of random thoughts will grow - sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. But grow it will, every single day. I'm going to honor those that I've lost by making the most of the life that I've chosen and the dream I've been chasing. I'm a writer, and it's time I started acting like one.
What's your passion? Your dream? Your vision? Whatever it is, do it. Throw yourself into it every day. Make yourself proud. Live your life as fully and joyfully as you can. Give yourself permission to spend at least a few moments each day doing one thing that makes you truly happy. After all, that's all we can really ask for in this life. To live every moment like it's a gift to be cherished. I'll do it if you will. :)
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