#22: Cooking

By then, I’d come to realize that no one was ever going to put my recipes into a book, so I’d have to do it myself…. A food writer who wrote about the book carped that the recipes were not particularly original, but it seemed to me she missed the point. The point wasn’t about the recipes. The point (I was starting to realize) was about putting it together. The point was about making people feel at home, about finding your own style, whatever it was, and committing to it. The point was about giving up neurosis where food was concerned. The point was about finding a way that food fit into your life. (28-29) I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron

I have been thinking about how work can fluctuate between drudgery and delight or stress and satisfaction or mindlessness and meaningful engagement. I don't know of a single job that doesn't come with demands we don't like. I believe the goal is to find the core of the work to be satisfying and rewarding. Often, we also have to struggle through some rough spots to get to a better place and focus on the core. Or, we need to work our way up the ladder to gain the experience and expertise to allow us to do the work we desire. If I can't get to a better place or see a better place in the future, I know that I am doing the wrong kind of work. I need to make a change, if possible now, or plan for a change with a long-term goal in mind.

I find this to be equally true in work on the home front as in professional work. Lately, my writing has brought me unbelievable satisfaction. Actually, I would have to say joy. Successfully, pulling together a post where I say what is truest to myself that day in the most articulate words I can muster within the structural parameters of an essay makes me incredibly happy. I can honestly say that my ability to do so comes from years of practice that taught me how to find my voice, develop the skill and artistry, and build confidence in myself. Now, instead of trying to control my writing, I try to control the context and give myself space, knowing the words will come. Some days are much harder than others and some posts are far better than others. Yet, I have learned to set ideals of perfection aside, put my head down in good faith, and write on.

I find the same is true for me in cooking. Sometimes, I simply can't think of anything I want to cook and need a break from preparing meals for a week or two. Then, food at my house tends toward the most basic like simple grilled cheese sandwiches. Or, we eat plenty of takeout. Or, I find myself scavenging through the prepared and frozen food aisles of the grocery store, looking for something, anything that might fit the bill and not kill us. However, I have cooked enough, just as I have written enough, to know that if I maintain a well-stocked larder, I can pull together a healthy meal from scratch and enjoy cooking, too. I have learned that the more chopping involved, the more vegetables and fruits I prep, the more likely the product is healthy and flavorful. I am in the camp with Nora Ephron: I have found my food style and am committed to it.

Still, cooking is hard work as memories from my childhood remind me. My Midwestern roots are German, and my family tree includes numerous cooks and gardeners (and even earlier, farmers). These are women, who often cooked three meals a day from scratch and fed a house full of hungry mouths, because families were often larger than today. Whoever showed up at mealtime was offered a seat at the table. Your designation as extended family member, old friend, or new acquaintance mattered little. However, a good appetite was of the utmost importance. Food was served in abundance, and eating ample portions of just about everything was expected. I hold this principle of hosting a welcoming table full of good food as a mantra dear to my heart.

I can remember my aunts making cheese, baking bread, preparing sausage, decorating tortes, and preserving everything from sauerkraut to dill pickles to gooseberry jam, usually without a recipe. I remember how they planted asparagus crowns in their gardens and harvested the vegetable two years later to make the most delicious cream of asparagus soup. And, given their immigrant roots, nothing was ever wasted. Food was not to be taken for granted. It was to be fully enjoyed but respected. These women practiced culinary skills which were practical from the most simple of foods to the most sublime of flavors. These women worked hard and certainly could not have enjoyed it much of the time. Yet, these women inspired me and nurtured an appreciation for the well-cooked meal that took me time to understand, years to master, and experimentation to personally define.

As in writing, I try to set the neuroses aside. I try hard not to be a control freak (and my daughters will likely note that I have a long way to go on that front!) or aim for perfection and simply cook with health, flavor and variety in mind. I am a cook, a hard working cook in my own home like the women before me, not a chef or Martha Stewart wannabe. As a result, I continue to enjoy cooking, finding the work satisfying and the experimentation rewarding. I am also putting my most trusted recipes together to give voice to those who came before me, to express my food culture, and to compile a food narrative for my daughters, who may or may not enjoy the work of cooking but may appreciate the memories that lie strewn among the recipes. 

To read more about how cooking empowers me, see my food blog Gatherings and The Culpable Cook at www.theculpablecook.com, or how cooking empowers others see this perspective. 

Cook

Jane Hirshfield

Each night you come home with five continents on your hands:
garlic, olive oil, saffron, anise, coriander, tea,
your fingernails blackened with a marjoram and thyme.
Sometimes the zucchini's flesh seems like a fish-steak,
cut into neat filets, or the salt-rubbed eggplant
yields not bitter water, but dark mystery.
You cut everything into bits.
No core, no kernel, no seed is scared: you cut
onions for hours and do not cry,
cut them to thin transparencies, the red ones
spreading before you like fallen flowers;
you cut scallions from white to green, you cut
radishes, apples, broccoli, you cut oranges, watercress,
romaine, you cut your fingers, you cut and cut
beyond the heart of things, where
nothing remains, and you cut that too, scoring coup
on the butcherblock, leaving your mark,
when you go
your feet are as pounded as brioche dough. 

#21: Presently

Over the weekend, I had mandated a news black out for myself. I was bone tired from both life demands of late and the incessant cycle of dire information that currently haunts our daily lives. Nothing but tuning out and a long afternoon nap could pull me from the mental quagmire that seemed to hijack me from the moment I woke Saturday. Then, I slowly began to immerse myself back into the grind of the daily news. I am very selective these days with my news sources and the amount I ingest. I am sure you may do the same. Still, I get bogged down now and again.

Yesterday, news broke that Sudan, the last male northern white rhino, died in Kenya. Heartbreak. ?#@*&%! My initial response was both sad and mad (with a bit of swearing thrown in, too!) For me, the loss is a painful reminder that our human failings can cut deep with irreversible results. As always, nature teaches lessons of both unbridled joy and shameful gravity. It is both a merciful and merciless master, although we might like to think otherwise.

When I was young, I was labelled naively optimistic. Family members thought I simply hadn't seen enough of life to understand where their pessimism found its inception. Of course, the world provides ample evidence that a glass half empty might be the most sane benchmark to adopt. Still, my soul rests in the camp of those who see the world as a glass half full. What choice do we have but to see the world for what it is, the good and the bad, from our small vantage point? To choose where we focus and place our efforts and continue anyway? Right now, as I type my thoughts at the computer or garden as steward of a small plot of land or volunteer for meaningful causes and people or devote energy to relationships and community, I invest with hopeful and positive intent.

In the scheme of things, I work hard to not forget my good fortune and privilege as well as find ways to best share them with the world. I must be realistic and engaged enough to know the events swirling round while also goal oriented and detached enough to get to work. At times, I feel like I am spinning my wheels and failing to accomplish the positive, long-lasting outcomes I desire. So much of this negativity stems from a lack of focus, of failing to be present in my work. As my husband reminds me, research shows that multitasking is a myth. Multitasking reduces human productivity. In my case, it muddles my mind.

In a PBS News Hour Opinion piece, Ann Patchett shared the same:

In order to write a novel, I have to show up to work fully present and concentrate on one thing. It turns out this is also the secret to baking a cake, and being in a successful relationship, and being a good parent, and a good friend.

The author and independent bookstore founder inspired me to be present today even though the earth appeared to slumber away the hours of daylight and the storm muffled the song of the cardinal, the pecking of the pileated woodpecker, and the honking of the migrating geese. Nonetheless, I was able to be present to witness our puppy's pure joy, racing and playing in George's first sizable snowfall. I made an effort to be present as I baked a peach tart, topped it with vanilla ice cream while still warm from the oven, and enjoyed slow spoonfuls reminiscent of summer's bounty. And, I tackled the muddle, elbowing my way through my crowded mind to find direction with conviction, right here, right now, presently.

Today

Mary Oliver

Today I'm flying low and I'm
not saying a word.
I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.

But I'm taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I'm traveling
a terrific distance.

Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.

#20: Control

Control is a drug, and we are all hooked, whether or not we believe in the prosperity gospel’s assurance that we can master the future with our words and attitudes. (84) Everything Happens For a Reason  by Kate Bowler

 We ponder each word, aim high, strive for both music and meaning. We know that one is nothing without the other. But we are not in control, and perhaps the silence, solitude, mug, and pen are our way of dealing with the fact that we are not masters of any universe

—not even the universe of our own creation (144) 

Still Writing by Dani Shapiro

The weekend offered me an exceptional gift: two mornings in a row to sleep in without an alarm clock dogging me to rise and get going. Add in the challenge of Daylight Savings Time, and I couldn't be more appreciative. I have been hitting the pillow each night this week completely spent as March has beckoned me to the garden. I am working for an hour or two each day simply clearing the beds of last fall's remnants as well as the debris field caused by the recent wind storm that wrecked havoc on the East Coast.

All around trees have fallen: in our own five acre wooded lot, on the car parked in the driveway of a house outside the high school that we pass each day (although the car is totaled, thankfully no one appears to have been hurt), and even in the neighbor's yard where chainsaws have been droning on all day, felling perfectly healthy trees of immense stature to make way for the planting of grass. Can you hear the frustration in my voice?

Don't get me wrong, I completely understand the mess our woods cause as seen in full measure after the last storm. Trees of wide girth have grown in our small neighborhood for perhaps 100 years and shed amply when the wind whistles to litter twigs, bark and branches of all sizes and shapes haphazardly far and wide. I will be cleaning the mess for weeks and certainly can see the ease a well manicured, grassy landscape conjures.

Consequently, you could imagine me bending and gathering and lugging the unwanted offerings of our small stand of trees day by day, contemplating the notion of control, an insidious human nemesis. Our attraction to manicured, grassy lawns is simply an example of our obsession with controlling nature gone awry. When we remove the vegetation nature itself planted with great wisdom to plant grass seed, our folly is twofold. First, we end up in a vicious cycle of water, fertilizing, and cutting, three tasks that take a heavy toll on natural resources. Second, we tamper with an ecosystem so complex both above and below ground level that we are only beginning to understand its brilliance.

[As an aside, here are a few reads that explore our evolving understanding of nature:

• The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben
• Planting in a Post-Wild World by Thomas Rainer and Claudia West
• Let Your Winter Garden Go Wild by Margaret Renkl (NYT, Sunday, February 11, 2018)]

A grassy lawn also graces NARA House. Although I certainly do not want to remove all of it, I do hope that we can reduce its presence on our property. As I garden and plan our landscape, my mantra, to my father's chagrin, is "managed chaos." Rather than taming the land and bending its will to my personal regimented, postage stamp notions, I hope to get to know the land over time, to work with its bones and enhance its natural beauty, and to engage in a relationship both productive and rewarding to both parties.

In essence, I want to try to control the land less and appreciate the property's strengths and weaknesses more. Just as I am working through my thoughts on control with this very post, I also recognize that I don't control this universe, not even five acres within its vastness. Just as I have learned as a parent I cannot control my children, I am going to try to guide and nurture my garden as another offspring. Just as I must let go of life one day, I must also let go of the notion that I alone own this land that is ruled by its own laws and tolerates its own share of freeloading weeds and invasive plants.

Overall, I think we are all trying to be good stewards of our lot in life, trying to find the right balance of letting go and taking charge. I once had a parent of one of my students share with me her linen closet. It was a marvel of perfection: sheets were crisply ironed and uniformly folded, bedding was organized by mattress size and season, and towels were stacked high with exacting precision. I had never seen anything like it. Its creator admitted that this was her oasis: in the midst of a life that was often chaotic, demanding, and unruly, she could open the linen closet doors and find respite -- a place she could control which, in turn, calmed her spirit just as she chased a life which felt, day in and day out, far beyond the reach of her best self. 

I can relate and, perhaps, my neighbor can, too. I certainly have my own anal-retentive tendencies and struggle to let go of control, but the more I do, the more my spirit is freed. Just as the trees shed parts of themselves in the storm and let more sun through for new growth to happen elsewhere, I am reminded that I also need to loosen my grip and surrender more. I have a hard enough time managing myself much less nature or anyone else. As a result, the more I let go of control, the more I let go of fear. The more I let go of fear, the more I relax. The more I relax, the more I allow space for new growth to happen within myself, too. Although I can't control its exact arrival, I can say with gratitude that spring certainly may be at hand in more ways than one.

Folding My Clothes 

Julia Alvarez

Tenderly she would take them down and fold
the arms in and fold again where my back
should go until she made a small
tight square of my chest, a knot of socks
where my feet blossomed into toes,
a stack of denim from the waist down,
my panties strictly packed into the size
of handkerchiefs on which no trace
of tears showed. All of me under control.

But there was tenderness, the careful matching
of arm to arm, the smoothing of wrinkles,
every button buttoned on the checkered blouse
I disobeyed in. There was sweet order
in those scented drawers, party dresses
perfect as pictures in the back of the closet—
until I put them on, breathing life back
into those abstract shapes of who I was
which she found so much easier to love.

#19: Limits

 

I found myself taking inventory of the obstacles and upsets that people I knew were dealing with. There were children with autism. Parents with Alzheimer's. Financial crises. Career disasters. Addiction. Abuse.

And that was merely the stuff at the tip of my nose, in plain sight. How much else lurked beneath the surface? Show me someone with a seemingly unbroken stride and unfettered path. More often than not, he or she is hampered and haunted in ways that you can't imagine.

....What I am going through is what everyone endures as the years accumulate and the wear and tear starts to show. It's aging writ vivid and large. I'm bumping up against my limits. The trick is figuring out when to focus on them and when to look away. 

Am I Going Blind? by Frank Bruni 

New York Times Sunday, February 25, 2018

On Tuesday, I celebrated my friend's 60th birthday with a group of wonderful women. Inevitably, discussion turned to the milestone of reaching another decade of life and the challenges of aging. For me, 40 was far more notable than reaching 50, because my body sent me the first indications that I was aging: aches and pains, wrinkles and gray hair, and restless nights made their first appearances. Prior to 40, aging was completely off my radar -- never discussed or considered in any way. Even menopause was a mystery to me.

Part of my ignorance rests in the fact that my father has aged incredibly well. He has always looked young for his age, has never battled any chronic illness, and has exuded boundless energy. At 84, my father remains active and engaged in the activities he most values like walking and biking, gardening and woodworking, helping family and neighbors. I have always imagined that I would age just like him, I guess. However, in my 40's, I began to see in the smallest but most unanticipated ways that my body was going to be worse for wear. I could no longer deny that I would have limitations of one sort or another as I got older even if I aged as well as my father.

When I think of aging, I often return to a brief encounter with an older women who seemed to embody a sense of how I would want to age. In my early 30's, I was invited to attend a Harvard Principals Summer Institute, a three week program for new principals. We engaged in intensive learning throughout the day and socialized most evenings. At a dinner one night, Harvard rolled out the dance floor and a DJ encouraged us to dance with Motown hits and disco beats. I remember being mesmerized by an African American woman from Houston. She was tall, big boned, and angular. She wore a colorful dress, orthotic shoes, and a well-coiffed hairdo, a look that reminded me of how many women were portrayed in movies in the 1950's. As she danced, she lived in the music and the moment. It wasn't beautiful or graceful, but it was freeing and all-encompassing. She enjoyed herself with every fiber of her being, and her dancing was magnetic. I wanted to let loose, too, but I was too self-conscious, too intimidated, too uncomfortable in my own skin.

As the years have passed, I realize that rather than simply bumping up to my physical limits aging may be more about coming into my own. Each year, I feel like I am understanding who I am all the better and shedding notions of who I ought to be. I am finding and expressing my own passions and desires rather than the expectations I perceive that others may have for me. I want to be fully myself rather than a carbon copy of someone else. I care less of what others think of me and care more that I am content with myself. I like to think of this as a shedding of all the layers of uncertainty that come with youth only to reveal more of the pure essence of who I am and have always been as a person.

As I reach the core of who I am, the essential elements of my being, I am able to make the most of every moment and live with greater contentment in the present. I know that some people just seem to instinctively be themselves fully and completely from early on and couldn't imagine being anyone else for one moment -- in fact, it would be impossible for them. In contrast, I have been slow to embrace myself, slow to remember that a daffodil has always been a daffodil and couldn't ever be a tulip. In the same way, I have always been myself and couldn't ever be anyone else, yet it took me a long time to see the foolishness of such yearnings and uncover the wisdom even nature understood.

As such, I am no longer a spring chicken, but I will no longer focus on the limitations of aging. Rather, I will watch the daffodils emerge from the soil once again this March with surprise. I always forget where they were planted and am sure to find myself startled by their color against a backdrop of brown, wet leaves. I will pause to see the beauty of being a daffodil and nothing else, of being myself and no one else. May I make it my mantra to dance among the dew drops, in the kitchen with my husband to the laughter of my daughters, and in my soul to the beat of my own drum without hesitation. May I embrace aging for all it might possibly offer rather than only see what it might take away.

Some Glad Morning

Joyce Sutphen

One day, something very old

happened again. The green

came back to the branches,

settling like leafy birds

on the highest twigs;

the ground broke open

as dark as coffee beans.

The clouds took up their

positions in the deep stadium

of the sky, gloving the

bright orb of the sun

before they pitched it

over the horizon.

It was as good as ever:

the air was filled

with the scent of lilacs

and cherry blossoms

sounded their long

whistle down the track.

It was some glad morning.

#18: Vagility

In Chile, where friendship and family are very important, something happened that can be explained only by the effect fear has on the soul of a society. Betrayal and denunciation snuffed out many lives…. People were divided between those who backed the military [Pinochet] government and those who opposed it; hatred, distrust, and fear poisoned relationships…. Chileans learned not to speak out, not to hear, and not to see, because as long as they were not aware of events, they didn’t feel they were accomplices. (p. 160) 

My Invented Country by 

Isabel Allende

I haven't been able to gather my thoughts enough to write a post since the school shooting in Parkland, Florida last week. Not that I didn't have anything to write. Instead, I would say that my mind was a sea of swirling thoughts that either shouldn't be shared, because they were unproductively laced with emotion, or couldn't be shared, because they lacked cohesion. Such an event requires the reflection and restraint of a blog post both weighed and measured (in contrast to a Twitter rant, for example) in order for its message to be both appropriate and responsible.

I was thinking of the reality that our world is shrinking. Our population now tops 7.5 billion, currently increasing by 83 million per year. (To feel the impact of such growth, you can watch the numbers increase in real time here.) In turn, as our population increases, the land per person logically decreases, meaning our neighbor's address is inching ever closer to our own. Add in technology's ability to break down barriers and bring any information, events, and beliefs from anywhere on the planet directly to the Smartphone at your side right now and you might even say that our neighbors never asked permission but have unwittingly moved in with us, nonetheless. 

Animals have seen a decline in their vagility, their ability to roam freely and not have their migratory movement impeded as discussed in an article just published in the journal Science. In our shrinking world, humans are increasingly encroaching on natural habitats and altering them significantly, leading to the growth of a new field of study called "movement ecology." Likewise, humans are seeing their vagility decrease as well as we encroach on one another in innumerable ways beyond the straightforward physical. As a result, our future will depend on thoughtful study of human movement ecology as well as deep discussion and debate in order to reach compromises despite our differences. The survival of "I" will demand we increasingly think about the "we." Somehow, we are going to have to figure out how to not only coexist but rather thrive together on this small planet, where we might not have it all but certainly may have more than enough.

Perhaps, it would simply help, if we all began to pay attention more. To the well being of others. To the lives others live. To the views others hold. To the values that underpin those lives and views. To things as they really are not as we want them to be or are told by others that they are. To the impact far and wide of our decisions big and small that reverberate well beyond our own personal space. Paying attention requires steadfastness and constant effort. Paying attention takes the focus off of ourselves and places it on the other, our co-inhabitants within our mutual context. It tempers our demands for individual rights with a sense of responsibility for the well-being of all. 

Heather Lende wrote in her blog that paying attention is like prayer and prayer is like meditation and meditation is like mindfulness. I would take it one step further: for me, mindfulness expands the imagination. Suddenly, new possibilities emerge within the overwhelming complexity of living. At least, this is why I pay attention. This is how I pray. And, this is how I come to the conclusion that thoughtful, reasoned and straightforward gun laws are essential within the crisis of school shootings. I am not talking about laws that ban guns completely in violation of the Second Amendment. I am also not talking about laws that knickknack about, failing to deal substantially with the issue at hand in an attempt to appease without truly changing anything. 

I unequivocally believe assault weapons in any form must be banned. Background checks must be universal and strictly enforced. Gun ownership of any sort must come with required training and certification with regularly required renewal -- we demand nothing less of driving a car, for goodness sake. Why? Because the lives of our children and all our fellow Americans are more important than anyone's desire for unrestricted gun ownership. Further, I am an educator and the public letter written by a furious teacher from Richmond, Virginia resonates with me to my very core and should be read by everyone, including you.  "Hardened schools" as our president proposed are completely antithetical to the educational ideal we hold for public education as well as the Preamble of the Constitution:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Let us not forget that the Amendments to the Constitution rest on this foundation of general Welfare, domestic Tranquility, and the Blessings of Liberty. I didn't see our nation advancing these fundamental commitments in Parkland last week and we, the people, must no longer stand by as accomplices but rather demand better. Our vagility and rights must be tempered for the greater good. Such sacrifice is worthy and appropriate as spring approaches. Let us vigilantly pay attention and lead with our imaginations for a better society rather than remain mired in the fears and manipulations advanced by others with selfish intent. In this way, paying attention may finally lead to just actions, in memoriam for those senselessly lost yet full of hope for those still to walk through our school house doors and beyond.

#17: Prose

The 21st century public psyche seems to be fickle. On the one hand, discourse revolves around the future, fueled in part by technological changes and an entrepreneurial spirit. Think driverless cars or a mechanized workforce or virtual reality. The coming revolution rests both on an optimistic outlook in our ability as humans to solve problems as well as push beyond the limits of our imagination.

On the other hand, social media spreads advances as fast as lightning. This alone ignites anxiety in us to get on board (and fast!) or risk obsolescence. Even worse, each advancement ignites fear. The speed of change provides little time for reflection on the inherent complexities or preparation to brace for impact or discussion of associated social ills. Think drones or genetic modification or cell phone addiction.

The other day I came across Welcome to the Post-Text Future in the New York Times. The piece explores a phenomenon: the reading of text on a screen is out of fashion, being replaced by audio and video. The words of our online world in blogs such as this are being replaced by sound and image. Think YouTube or Instagram or Netflix. Clearly, communication is changing with both positive and negative outcomes. I found the following quote particularly thought-provoking and disconcerting:

Then there’s the more basic question of how pictures and sounds alter how we think. An information system dominated by pictures and sounds prizes emotion over rationality. It’s a world where slogans and memes have more sticking power than arguments. (Remind you of anyone?) And will someone please think of the children: Do you know how much power YouTube has over your kids? Are you afraid to find out?

Emotion over rationality equals easy manipulation, no? Further, so much of what underlies the discussion of technological advancement is laced with grief for all that is being lost from handwriting to blogs to newspapers. Will our human communication be enriched with an increasing diversity of means of expression? Or will prose be lost along with the rational discipline it demands, relegated to the graveyard by memes and slogans? I wonder whether we ought to embrace a doomsday scenario.

In many ways, I do worry about the future. Yet, I believe in the insatiable desire of humans to express themselves, fundamentally by speaking and writing. Communication is essential to the survival of living things; by extension, language and creativity are essential to human expression. As such, we may be in for a bumpy ride as we add new forms of pictures and sounds to our daily lives, but my own yearning to write is a testament to the power of language and our desire to interpret experience through prose.

Friday night, I photographed a February sunset. The lantern beckoned from the drive. The sky spoke in streaks of color like the ribbons flowing from my daughter's hair as a child. Fuchsia screamed. Indigo bled. Violet relented. Light stretched through the darkening trees that towered overhead. Nature had me in its grip. I couldn't move despite the tugs on the leash from the dog who had had enough and finds nighttime unsettling. I persisted long enough to snap a photo and pen these very words in my mind. For the photo endures as do the words. Technology will change our lives. Yet, I wrote, I write now, I will write tomorrow. Prose abides.

I will write until the day I die, or until I am robbed of my capacity to reason. Even if my fingers were to clench and wither, even if I were to grow deaf or blind, even if I were unable to move a muscle in my body save for the blink of one eye, I would still write. Writing saved my life. Writing has been my window—flung wide open to this magnificent, chaotic existence—my way of interpreting everything within my grasp. Writing has extended that grasp by pushing me beyond comfort, beyond safety, past my self-perceived limits. It has softened my heart and hardened my intellect. It has been a privilege. It has whipped my ass. It has burned into me a valuable clarity. It has made me think about suffering, randomness, good will, luck, memory, responsibility, and kindness, on a daily basis—whether I feel like it or not. It has insisted that I grow up. That I evolve. It has pushed me to get better, to be better. It is my disease and my cure. It has allowed me not only to withstand the losses in my life but to alter those losses—to chip away at my own bewilderment until I find the pattern in it. Once in a great while, I look up at the sky and think that, if my father were alive, maybe he would be proud of me. That if my mother were alive, I might have come up with the words to make her understand. That I am changing what I can. I am reaching a hand out to the dead and to the living and the not yet born. So yes. Yes. Still writing. (227) 

Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life by Dani Shapiro

#16: Listening

I am teaching George to take a walk. Being a Dachshund-Beagle mix, our 8 month old puppy is easily distracted. The hound in him is led by his nose which means he meanders widely and stops frequently to investigate. More importantly, he is led by his eyes and ears which means his fright and flight response is easily triggered. If he sees deer, strangers, or trash bins, his first instinct is to make a beeline back to the safety of the house. George responds similarly to sounds; a loud truck in the distance, a low flying plane overhead, a leaf blower, or a dog barking elicit the same response. As his walker, my ears are similarly attuned as I try to anticipate his reactions and calm his fears. 

Today, our walk was mostly uneventful, yet winter in Virginia continues to delight. The sun, stillness, and temperatures in the 40's welcomed us as we stepped outside. The ice that formed overnight and coated everything after yesterday's rain had largely melted. The earth slowly soaked in the moisture, and we slowly soaked in the sun. We were not alone. Unlike the winter weather farther north, where nature tends to be silenced by frigid temperatures, deep freezes, and the necessity of migration and hibernation, nature comes to life with the smallest amounts of encouragement here. I listened to no avail for startling sounds and instead heard birds in full song.

Feather and fowl of many species remain all winter long in Virginia. Here, one need not wait for the arrival of the first robin as an early sign that spring has arrived. Rather, a flock of robins seems to have settled in the neighborhood, forming a congregation divinely sanctioned to entertain in song for the fortunate listener. And, the robins are not alone as I could easily identify a Titmouse, Nuthatch and Chickadee among the bare branches and decomposing leaves of February. I worked at listening to be sure I didn't miss the woodpecker in the distance or the deer that blended in as masterfully as George to our landscape. 

I have been thinking about the art of listening often lately and even remarked to my husband that perhaps we ought to teach listening skills in school as much as we teach speaking skills. Listening means so much more than simply being quiet until it is your turn to speak. Listening means being able to see the world from the point of view of another and being willing to concede the speaker may have a point of view worth considering. Of course, listening is essential to finding common ground, and humility is essential to listening. Only arrogance can lead us to the conclusion that our experiences and viewpoints are always correct for everyone in every place and all time, no?

I received a most surprising compliment from my younger daughter last week. We were talking about her guidance counselor at school, who responds quickly to her requests and questions, never fails to find time to support her, and listens to her concerns with great empathy. My daughter said, "Mom, I think you would have made a great guidance counselor, because you are a good listener, too." Of course, I allowed myself to relish the moment (Take it when you can get it!) but not too much. 

I do believe that I am a good listener, and my husband often exclaims that he can't believe what others share with me in short order. However, I also know that I need to work at it so that someone's name, for example, doesn't just go in one ear and out the other. Moreover, I need to listen so that the end goal is not to silence the other but to respect the simple existence of another. Then, conversation and even debate might not only be possible but also productive and enriching for both parties. If we listen well, we might sing a different song as surprising as the birds in a Virginia winter, each unique and significant to nature's chorus as a whole. Even George knows that this is something you don't want to miss, something worth exercising despite our shortcomings and fears.

The Winter of Listening

David Whyte

No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.

All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every living thing.

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,

what disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.

What we hate
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.

And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.

#15: Public

From our inception, nothing may be more American than division and our struggle to unify the whole. Pilgrims were Puritans a segment of Separatists from the Church of England which had splintered from Catholicism. The Founding Fathers struggled with who would be granted the right to vote and deemed only landed white men to be worthy of the honor. In large part, they also failed to see even a glimmer of their own humanity in Native Americans and slaves. Need I continue? I can only surmise that so much of our division must be attributed to ignorance, arrogance and fear. 

Yet, I take heart that division has continually been challenged throughout our history. The process has been painful, slow, incomplete, and repeatedly challenged, but we do engage in a process of civil engagement and overwhelmingly agree that this is invaluable itself. Further, I remind myself that from the very beginning our nation has deemed public spaces to be forums of great importance. Libraries, parks, schools, playgrounds, museums, and recreation facilities were built to eradicate divisions and create community with the well being of the public in mind. What do these public spaces have in common? They are supported by tax dollars and governed by a board to serve the public interest. They are open to all on a voluntary basis and generally free of charge, particularly to those in greatest need. 

I am a product of public spaces. I went to public schools and a public university. I have been a regular patron of libraries my entire life. I spent numerous hours at our local park, playing on the playground, swimming in the pool, sledding, skating, taking classes, cheering teams, and enjoying fairs of all sorts. I made annual pilgrimages to the museum with my family or on school field trips. And, I have tried to engage my children in these same practices in hopes that they might also one day value public spaces for their contributions beyond the self to the larger whole. 

Public spaces are venues for the common good. Here again, the common good rises to the fore of my thoughts. Last night, I attended my younger daughter's symphony orchestra concert and fine arts showcase at her public high school. I also organized the refreshments for the event, meaning I sent out a sign up sheet, shopped for a few supplies, and worked on logistics before, during, and after. Families and friends donate generously so that everyone can not only find nourishment post-performance but also find time to connect and catch up with others in the school community. Students always express deep gratitude and generally one lanky teenage boy emerges from the shadows at the very end to help clean up and mop up the leftovers. I adore this.

The time I volunteer is quite limited but the reward is always more than good measure. Our high school pulls from a broad socio-economic and cultural base drawn both to the outstanding arts program as well as the diverse community that sometimes struggles with difference but fundamentally values diversity and its common good. I generally leave exhausted, having shed some tears at the beauty of the work presented and lamenting how often we demean, misunderstand, and undercut our public spaces. Segregation and all the -isms are in play as well as our incessant complaining about taxes. Public spaces reflect not only the challenges that face our citizenry but also the flawed institutions that underpin them. As a result, they remain imperfect while also invaluable.

Public spaces work to erase division. They educate. They practice hospitality to all who may enter. They promote safety and personal growth. They bring understanding and foster camaraderie. I write today to laud the work of our public spaces and the benefits I have received in their graces, lest I ever complain about the cost of a museum ticket or the limitations of a recreation facility or the failures of a public school, Beyond my gratitude, public spaces need my commitment and investment as well as yours. How about a humble visit to a public space, particularly one outside of your own neighborhood? There might be no better way to re-engage in the common good and the personal benefits may be inestimable as well.

Public Space

Ken Babstock

Wandering wordless through the heat of High
Park. High summer. Counting the chipmunks
who pause and demand the scrub stand by
till their flitty, piggybacked equal signs can think
through this math of dogwood, oak-whip, mulch.
Children glue mouths to ice cream and chips, punch
and kick at the geese, while rug-thick islands
of milt-like scum sail the duckpond's copper stillness -
Over-fat, hammerhead carp with predator brains . . .
We can wreck a day on the shoals of ourselves.
Cramped, you broke last night and wept at the war,
at the ionized, cobalt glow that fish-tanked the air.
We're here to be emptied under the emptying sky,
eyes cast outward, trolling for the extraordinary. 

#14: Baffled

"Form serves us best when it works as an obstruction to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work and that when we no longer know which way to go we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings." Poetry and Marriage by Wendell Berry

I know that my mind is truly baffled when I cannot even decide what to prepare for dinner. Although I do need a break periodically, I love to make food, to try new recipes and prepare old favorites, and to introduce new flavors to my family's palette. Most of the time, my family plays along happily. I also have a tendency to set food goals like Meatless Monday or a lettuce salad to accompany every dinner or the inclusion of more beans and legumes in our weekly menu. So, when I can't find any inspiration or direction when it comes to dinner preparation much less writing, I know the problem largely points to my personal well being.

At least once a week, I seem to find myself distracted and lacking focus as if I am carrying all the cares of the world on my shoulders and cannot be bothered with the day's work. I could blame this on social media or my hormones or the weather or a poor night's sleep. Trust me when I say that the list of culprits could go on and on. However, I know that I really have no one to blame but myself. I work at home and write at my desk in my office, a solitary endeavor the majority of the time. Silence, not solitude, is the real issue. I am learning to consciously cultivate external silence which in turn gives voice to my internal thoughts and desires. Soon, the words I string together are authentic. I feel centered and ready to tackle any task, including dinner.

I try to cultivate silence each day at home by following these guidelines:

1. See the family off to work and school;
2. Complete a small list of daily chores;
3. Turn the TV and radio off;
4. Quiet the dog and cat;
5. Check email -- be ruthless in unsubscribing and deleting invasive messages and responding solely to mail that builds relationships or increases productivity;
6. Uninstall any application, software, or social media platform that is not essential or in line with #7;
7. Engage in bits of reading that inspire the imagination and challenge thought;
8. Make a concerted effort to each out to one person each day by telephone, email, or snail mail, particularly friends and family spread far and wide, to maintain healthy and supportive long-term relationships;
9. Walk the dog on our daily neighborhood loop no matter the weather and breathe; and
10. When scheduling, be sure to leave a three hour block open in the morning or afternoon.

I build my daily routine around these ten steps. Although I can't say these guidelines help me do my best work, I believe they help me do steady, productive work. My goal is to turn writing into a practice rather than a periodic endeavor. And, I hope to be able to better direct my baffled mind and sing with clarity as I cobble together words on the page as best I am able, impeded yet unencumbered. And, also always ready to share a meal.

#13: Books

"What an astonishing thing a book is. It is a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts, on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person. [...] Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. Books are proof that humans are capable of working magic." Carl Sagan

Despite the advice writers get to journal, I was never able to engage regularly in the practice, especially in regards to my day-to-day life. I tend to be the person who is so exhausted at the end of the day that I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. Reflecting on and documenting my rather mundane life as the warning light on my personal battery begins to flash is an exercise in futility. I am lucky to get a few pages of reading in before my brain turns out the lights.

However, I have been able to keep two long-term journals of a different sort. One is a journal of quotes and poems I have collected over the years. Naturally, I organize them around a single word which encapsulates the theme of the quote or the gist of the poem. The second journal is a list, beginning in the millennium, of all the books I have read, including date of completion, title and author. To be clear, the list only includes books I have read from cover to cover. I mention this because I read prolifically elsewhere as well, particularly articles in newspapers, magazines, periodicals, and online sources. Further, I have had to work hard over the years to give myself permission to stop a book I began that didn't grab me. This may be due in part to my obsessive, perfectionist personality and in part to my years as a graduate student, who had to plow through stacks of obligatory reading -- personal interests be dammed! Somehow I always struggled to sacrifice the time already invested and set a book aside midstream.


Recently, I took the time to look more closely at the list of books I have read over eighteen years. I was inspired after reading the following from a Philip Roth interview in the New York Times:

C.M. What have you been reading lately?
P.R. I seem to have veered off course lately and read a heterogeneous collection of books. I’ve read three books by Ta-Nehisi Coates, the most telling from a literary point of view, “The Beautiful Struggle,” his memoir of the boyhood challenge from his father. From reading Coates I learned about Nell Irvin Painter’s provocatively titled compendium “The History of White People.” Painter sent me back to American history, to Edmund Morgan’s “American Slavery, American Freedom,” a big scholarly history of what Morgan calls “the marriage of slavery and freedom” as it existed in early Virginia. Reading Morgan led me circuitously to reading the essays of Teju Cole, though not before my making a major swerve by reading Stephen Greenblatt’s “The Swerve,” about the circumstances of the 15th-century discovery of the manuscript of Lucretius’ subversive “On the Nature of Things.” This led to my tackling some of Lucretius’ long poem, written sometime in the first century B.C.E., in a prose translation by A. E. Stallings. From there I went on to read Greenblatt’s book about “how Shakespeare became Shakespeare,” “Will in the World.” How in the midst of all this I came to read and enjoy Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography, “Born to Run,” I can’t explain other than to say that part of the pleasure of now having so much time at my disposal to read whatever comes my way invites unpremeditated surprises.

Don't you love the way Roth recounts what he has been reading like a series of clues he uncovered or a journey, where one piece of reading led to another. Sometimes, he veered off course and meandered through an unexpected text. Other times, one book simply peaked his curiosity in another author or pushed him to explore a topic further; one book taught him something and directed him to learn more. Roth beautifully exemplifies how books are magical landscapes for the inquisitive mind.

Looking back on my reading list, anyone could discern that I have a penchant for female writers, memoir, and poetry. One would know that I became a parent, knew grief and often sought the company of those who write and garden and prepare food. The list includes periods of time when I sought inspiration or explored gratitude or deeply reflected on nature along with those who formally and informally study its workings. No one could say I only read the latest novels to top the bestseller lists in any given year, but one would know that I dabbled in serious works of fiction along with those much lighter in essence, particularly in the summer. I am grateful for this archive, a reminder of how one's life in the world intertwines with one's life of the mind. 

One of the first books I remember owning was a hard back picture book compilation of Grimms' Fairy Tales, including Rapunzel, Rumpelstiltskin, The Goose Girl, and Jorinde and Joringel that I received from my aunt at Christmas. I was in elementary school and certainly read other books I owned or borrowed regularly from the library, but this book remains with me to this very day as the first log in my memory's reading list. I can still see some of the illustrations very clearly in my mind and remember poring over it repeatedly. Here began my journey as an independent reader which has led over the years to the book I just finished last night, Hourglass by Dani Shapiro. So many books in between are forgotten, particularly before I began my formal reading journal, but the magical journey continues just the same: one book at a time read with great pleasure.

#12: Road

45 Synonyms for Road

1. alley: a narrow street, especially one providing access to the rear of buildings or lots between blocks
2. alleyway: see alley
3. arterial: a through street or highway
4. artery: a major road
5. avenue: a road or street
6. backstreet: a street set off from a main street
7. beltway: a highway passing around an urban area
8. boulevard: a wide road, often divided and/or landscaped
9. branch: a side road
10. bypass: a road passing around a town
11. bystreet: see backstreet
12. byway: see backstreet
13. causeway: a highway, especially one raised across water or wet ground
14. circle: a curving street, especially one intersecting at both ends on another street
15. close: a road closed at one end
16. corniche: a coastal road, especially alongside a cliff face
17. corridor: a local or regional route in the Appalachian region of the United States
18. crossroad: a road that crosses a main road or runs between main roads
19. court: a road closed at one end, especially with a circular end
20. cul-de-sac: see court
21. dead end: a road closed at one end
22. drag: slang pertaining to a road often traveled on as a leisurely pastime (or, as “main drag,” slang referring to the principal road, or one of the principal roads, in a city or town)
23. drive: a public road
24. expressway: a high-speed divided highway with partially or fully controlled access
25. freeway: an expressway with fully controlled access
26. highway: a main road
27. interstate: an expressway that traverses more than one state
28. lane: a road, often narrow (also refers to the portion of a road set apart for a single line of vehicles)
29. Main Street: the principal street of a town
30. parkway: a landscaped road
31. pike: see turnpike
32. place: a short street
33. route: see highway
34. row: a designation sometimes given to roads in place of road, drive, etc.
35. secondary road: a road subordinate to a main road
36. shunpike: a side road used to avoid a main road or a toll road
37. side road: a road that intersects with a main road
38. side street: see “side road”
39. street: a road within a city or town
40. superhighway: an expressway for high-speed traffic
41. thoroughfare: a main road, or a road that intersects with more than one other road
42. through street: see thoroughfare
43. throughway: see expressway
44. turnpike: a main road, especially one on which tolls are or were collected
45. way: a designation sometimes given to roads in place of road, drive, etc.

When my father recounts his childhood surviving the perils of WWII Germany, I am always struck by my good fortune. What if starvation had finally overcome him? What if he had not fled the Soviets, leaving his homeland behind to embrace his fate as a refugee? What if he had not been plucked from the line up and instead been executed along with the others? What if he had not seized the opportunity to emigrate to America? A thousand small detours and intersections on the road map of a life now 84 years long. Innumerable choices by others to act or help or sacrifice in uncharted territory would eventually permit me to grow up amidst the untold privileges of a life in this country. 

Of course, millions were not so fortunate which is why I commit my familial fate to memory. I hold my father's legacy, this mythical story I have written in part for myself with limited knowledge of actual events, as a guiding light on the journey. It reminds me how fragile life is, how easy it is to take one's circumstances for granted and squander undeserving gifts granted unselfishly by others, how different the existence of my fellow men and women both near and far remains, and how the context of the world continues to evolve while human behavior remains fundamentally the same. I use my familial legacy as my personal GPS in life, knowing I cannot always direct the itinerary, but I can decide the road I take. 

I see living as really about one life -- my own. It begins with me and ends with me. In between is all about the life I live, the choices I make and turns I take given the lot fate (or faith as you may see it) has handed me. And, I try, really try, to live up to the personal mission statement I outlined in an earlier post this month. However, I can honestly say that the road is rough sometimes. Perhaps, really rough and more often than I care to admit. Recently, I found the list of synonyms above for the word road on Daily Writing Tips. I thought of how the road I travel is often best described by these synonyms like how I would prefer to bypass the tough decisions. Or, how a decision leads me directly to a dead end. Or, how I am sure a decision leads me to the superhighway only to find out that I have been directed to a shunpike instead.

Given how hard it is to change, trying to take the right exit off of a roundabout may be the most vexing of all for me. I have every intention of taking a different route, the road less traveled (perhaps, as an ode to Robert Frost?), but miss the turn and drive round and round in circles instead. I end up driving in a rut I have created for myself or, worse yet, completely stuck in the mud with tires spinning. You see, I also lead a life full of what ifs. I have always been great at reading maps but not always so good at choosing the best route to take, if you know what I mean. In particular, my sense of direction stinks.

So, if my familial legacy has taught me anything at all, it's that I can't lament the road not taken. This can quickly turn into a pity party. Rather, I keep driving, get directions from others who know the terrain, and reroute. I can't control the weather or the construction delays or the heavy traffic. So, I try to enjoy the view from the steering wheel no matter what I encounter on the road and make the best of life's journey as it meanders in unexpected ways. Oh, and I carpool. Otherwise, it's a long and lonely haul. Besides, there is room in the car and always someone who needs a ride. All I need to do is pull up, open the passenger door, and offer. We'll see where the road takes us from here. Hop in!

The Journey

Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.