Day 1

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I don't know how long this has been going on, but for several years now, a devoted bunch of folks have stood in Grand Central Station clad in sandwich boards declaring that March 21, 2011 would be The End. Seek your savior now because on that day, the world would end, judgments would be rendered from on high, and you had better have your act together, buddy, because after that day...it is so over.

I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for them when I woke up on March 22. Here was this determined cadre of proselytizers, rendered purposeless. What did they think when the 22nd dawned? Were they disappointed, disillusioned, jubilant? Had they sold off everything and now found themselves having to go to Macy's for new underwear and an easy chair? Were they burdened by the stuff of life that remained - the laundry, the disaster in Japan, the rent coming due next week?

I first noticed them back in July 2009. I blogged that it was 666 days til The End. I worry that I haven't accomplished much since then, but then again, if you believed what this crowd believed, the 22nd of March was like Day 1, 0001. A do over. How often we wish to hit the reset button! Is there a way to - ok, ok, I have to say it - take a mulligan and still retain the sum of our life lessons without the burden of guilt or sting of memory?

I would like to think that if I had sold off everything in anticipation of the End Times on March 21, I would face March 22 - just any old day - as a special day. We're still here! We made it! Wow! Being able to look at the world with a child's amazement and an adult's sobering store of memories is a groovy combination. No sandwich board required.

And you? What would you have felt on March 22?

The Oslo Diaries - a Guest of the Guest

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I know. Fridays are reserved for the Oslo Diaries by our intrepid expat, Jennie Baldé, but she is traveling. What with juggling TSA rules, customs, and two toddlers, it is hard for a lady to know which end is up. How does anyone with kids do it? I have a houseplant and my Andy to take care of and that's all I can manage. Actually, my Andy minds the houseplant. Come to think of it, he tends to me as well, so basically, I've got nothing to offer that comes close to what Little J is managing.

To make life more exciting, her 2-year-old is sick with one of those brutal bugs that children always seem to catch. I call him The Dictator. Reasons: he is built like a brick house, he knows his own mind, and when he wants to add particular emphasis to a point, he will take a wooden spoon and raise it in the air authoritatively. It is quite intimidating.

En route to the US from Norway, The Dictator advised the Iceland Air flight attendant that he had brought along his Ikea tool kit just "in case the plane go stuck in the mud." This was a contingency for which Iceland Air was unprepared. Rarely have I felt so prepared for anything.

What's in our life tool kit? Compassion, connections, mindfulness, prayer. Maybe a dose of humility to go with an honest approach to communication. That and a wooden spoon for emphasis will go a long way.

Safe travels, Jennie! We look forward to hearing from you again next Friday!

And you? What's in your tool kit?

Guest Post! Finding Your Center

Hello, Flamingoes! A few weeks ago, a fellow blogger named Maria reached out to me, and some correspondence later, the idea of a guest post was born. Welcome, Maria! We thank you for your feedback.

Interested in writing a guest post? Click here for more information. Share with us!

~ Catherine

Finding Your Center in the Modern Landscape: A Philosophy of Anti-Reaction

by Maria Rainier

The integration of new technologies into society has a long history of unintended consequences. For example, the initial intention of the Space Race was to provide a militaristic and ideological victory over the Soviets; however, the result was profound changes to our society and culture. The computer you are reading this on would not exist if it wasn’t for the space program.

Our interconnected, on-demand culture has brought to light many issues, some good, and some not. One unintended consequence is information overload, which in turn produces media fatigue. It is normal to be appropriately concerned over the current state of affairs. It is also understandable for people to react to these injustices, and to fight for what they believe in. However, these reactions also produce unintended consequences, and can end up causing more harm than anything, which is why I have developed a personal philosophy of anti-reaction.

Reactionary Attitudes are Inherently Weak

· Reactionary attitudes are often based on emotion and not logic. In my opinion, the best decisions take both into account as emotion without logic is inherently childish, and logic without emotion is devoid of principle.

· Reactionary attitudes tend to focus on the particulars without taking into account the bigger picture. The internalization of information is a necessary step to understanding and processing information. Nobody sees the bigger picture until they take a step back.

· Reactionary attitudes are often based on partial data sets. This is primarily driven by agenda. When someone has an agenda, it is in their best interest to withhold information, or even outright lie in order to further their agenda.

· Reactionary attitudes help your enemies by framing the debate for them. For those reading with a interest in politics, I recommend checking out George Lakoff’s “Don’t Think of an Elephant”

Anti-Reaction is Different from Non-Reaction

By anti-reaction I don’t mean to suggest that we should ignore (non-reaction) the great social issues of our time, but instead take a systematic approach in acknowledging the shortcomings of reactionary thinking, and attempt to find a better way. Anti-reaction is based in reason, love, and hope. It explicitly rejects the tenets of nihilism and cynicism as outdated modes of control. Technology is providing the world with tools that allow us to abandon the current media hierarchy, a system driven by agenda and rooted in lies and deceit, and instead celebrate truth, love, and understanding.

Tenets of an Anti-Reaction Philosophy

· Do a Little Research – Listen to all sides on an issue. Read periodicals from a number of different sources, including other countries. Even if you don’t agree with all of it, you will at least know how the opposition is framing their arguments, and you will see the bigger picture.

· Give New Information Some Time to Sink In – Our subconscious mind is continuously processing information, so it’s always a good idea to sleep on it. Don’t worry, there’s no rush.

· Be Mindful of Your Thoughts – Think about why you feel the way you do. Reason out logical alternatives.

· Consider All the Possible Consequences – Think about the consequences in terms of trade-offs, instead of absolutes.

· Once you’ve developed your idea have some Conviction - But realize that people who think in absolutes are unlikely to be persuaded and that’s ok, everyone has a right to an opinion.

About the author:

Maria Rainier is a freelance writer and blog junkie. She is currently a resident blogger at First in Education where she writes about education, online degrees, and what it takes to succeed as a student getting an online masters degree from home. In her spare time, she enjoys square-foot gardening, swimming, and avoiding her laptop.

Legacy

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The other day, I received two separate emails from my mother. One included the full text of the eulogy written by her sister-in-law, whose beloved dad recently passed away. The other said that a friend of my mom's from work asked if I knew "the gal who plays on 'Housewives'." Apparently, one of them went to my high school.

The first email contained loving rememberances of a man who had traveled expansively in the armed services, who had competed good-naturedly on game shows, and who possessed an unexpected gift for cake decorating. He was an actor and a singer. He loved all things French, his wife, and his children. And every aspect of his life was marked by his deep faith in God. He honored his God-given talents and lived life fully.

The second email included the Wikipedia entry for the Housewife in question. (This was handy information since I have never watched any of the Real Housewives reality shows; neither had my mother, so she Googled it.) Evidently, this lady is what they used to call a "kept woman," as her married boyfriend finances her extravagant lifestyle. She insists, "people say I'm a golddigger but they just want what I have."

Frankly, I don't really care if this woman wants to have a sugar daddy, and while I will admit that I would like to have her abs, I'm not sure I really need her life. Stills on the internet show her in one episode trying to light a cigarette on a stovetop griddle. I don't need that kind of aggro. I just was struck by the difference between the two profiles. I thought about what kind of legacy we will leave behind. What are are we capable of?

When Alpana passed, all the high school friends got together to celebrate her life (yes, Alpana was an alumna too, but we were all a few years ahead of the housewife, so I have no idea who she is from the teenage years). Our friend, AnnCarey, hauled out a scrap book she had kept with clippings, photos and other doodads from those days. In the records, we were geekily fabulous as most teenagers are even though we didn't appreciate it at the time. As we laughed and cried, we remembered individual stories about Alpana and especially her unique personality. We remembered her as bold, as fierce, as fabulous.

When the emails fly around about us - now or later - what will they say? Our mistakes are inevitable, but they don't have to be indelible. We can strive to understand our best selves and our talents. We can live with fearless compassion for who we are. Even if we watch reality TV, maybe we'll create things like a beautiful wedding cake or at least the memory of something beautiful with our personal stamp on it. All those memories will add up to a shining legacy.

And you? What will your legacy look like?

Trust vs. Fear

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There was a lovely piece in the New York Times recently written by a man whose car had broken down three separate times and who stopped versus who did not stop. It was a thumbed nose to the immigration debate in the United States, and it was a commentary on trustworthiness. I was feeling pretty good about it, until I realized this: I would not have stopped to help the guy. Oh sure, I believe I would have taken the passive approach and phoned for help, but I would not have pulled over, gotten out of my car, and walked over to talk to him. It's a thoroughly modern, practical, and depressing commentary on life in this country, but I would have been nervous about the stranger's intentions. So I would have kept driving.

Maybe this is an indication that I've lived in New York City too long. Here, we know to move quickly past conflict or "something going on." You might find yourself in the middle of it, and odds are, you don't want that. We recognized this in ourselves when my Andy and I were in Australia. As we were walking down the steps of the Sydney Opera House, we were stopped by a police barricade. They were expecting a visiting dignitary, who was approaching by car and leaving by boat. Police helicopters hovered overhead, and a SWAT team with machine guns sat in a boat bobbing next to the visitor's waiting vessel.

The motorcade roared past and we were allowed to move on. We did not stop curiously to see if we could spot a famous person; we beat-feeted it up to the Circular Quay Botanic Gardens, and didn't stop to look til we were atop a hill. Reason: we knew that if something was going to go sideways on a grand scale that day in Sydney, it could be on that spot, triggered by that politician. Nothing happened, of course, but the story indicates our reluctance to find ourselves in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation, the awareness of which is heightened by our big city living.

The younger Stephen Covey has written a book about trust as a measurable asset in the workplace. He calls it "the one thing that changes everything." I agree with him, even on the slightly unsavory point that trust can be commoditized. While work teams should have trust built in from the start, I regret that I don't think I can approach everything in life this way. Maybe I've watched too many scary movies or true life crime shows. Remember Silence of the Lambs? The girl was just trying to help the guy with his arm in a sling move a sofa. And she ended up in a hole in the ground in his basement. No, thank you.

It defies statistical logic to think that there will be a terrorist attack whenever a dignitary flies into town or a violent abduction whenever someone stops to help a guy with car trouble, but the kitty of the world's trustworthiness is running low on chips. What can we do to build it up again?

And you? Would you have stopped?

Keep Calm & Carry On

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Today's Sunday New York Times Magazine includes an article by Mireille Silcoff about the rise in the UK of "fond nostalgia for the wartime deprivations of yore." From TV shows about rationing to cookbooks about how to handle the vegetables grown in your own muddy garden, Rilcoff describes how activism and hipness in Britain have embraced the dreary. She says, "The slogan for this movement is 'Keep Calm and Carry On,' lifted from the wartime Ministry of Information poster that's now standard décor in a certain kind of British starter loft." I'm not sure I need to grow rutabagas in a victory garden, but it occurs to me that this isn't a bad slogan.

Perhaps the appeal of austerity is that it affords us a measure of control in a world that can be "dreary" at best, scary at worst. Earthquakes and tsunamis remind us safety can be an allusion; uprisings tell us that humans will fight and clash. A return to simplicity folds us into this volatility and lets us create some order and even feel a bit virtuous in the process.

As for Carrying On, well, it's what we do. My friend said that her 7-year-old frequently presents disaster scenarios to her: "Mom, what if the house burns down?" We talked about it, and, really, the only answer is that we'll deal with it then. Obstacles present themselves every day. The small ones are the delayed flights, the traffic jams, the damage done at the dry cleaners. The big ones are the car accidents, the diagnoses, the divorces. And the huge ones are the unthinkables, the unnameables - death and destruction and tragedy. What to do but Carry On? Even better if we can Stay Calm.

I don't know if a "dreary salad" with "salad cream" will aid with the keeping calm part, but maybe simplicity is a ballast when life gets unstable. Whether our worries are what-if scenarios or real crises, we can choose to drop unnecessary complications and stick to the basics even if that just means saying a prayer. Pass the humble pie.

And you? How do you Keep Calm and Carry On?

The Oslo Diaries- Part 2

Welcome back to our regular contributor, Jennie Baldé, who brings us life lessons from her adventures as an expat in Oslo, Norway! We'd love your feedback. ~Catherine

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THE OSLO DIARIES

by Jennie Baldé

Norway is full of extremes: extreme light during the summer (which I’ve yet to experience; my husband swears it produces an extreme amount of flowers); extreme darkness during the winter (which made me extremely impatient); extreme weather; extreme landscapes; extreme sports (including an extreme love of skiing).

These extremes are magnified through the eyes of an expatriate. Each time I have spent an extended period of time in a new place, my inner barometer is completely out of whack. This makes for daily extreme highs and extreme lows in an extreme place.

Case in point: the bus. Public transportation isn’t something I would typically get worked up about in the U.S. In Norway, public transportation is simply at a different level than what we know in the States. Everything runs on time, and you can get virtually anywhere without a car. This is a good thing! Yet, I have wept tears of frustration over the bus on bad days. I have wanted to hug bus drivers on good days. The bus has sent my mood meter to extreme places.

Let me provide you with a little bit of context. We live on a beautiful peninsula, Nesodden, just on the other side of the fjord from Oslo. There are a lot of benefits to living in Nesodden because we can enjoy Norway’s natural beauty but are also relatively close to the city. We have a short but uphill walk to the bus, which comes every hour. After a five-minute ride, the bus drops us off at the dock for the 22-minute boat trip across the fjord to Oslo. On the handful of occasions that I’ve gone from my house to Oslo on my own, I’ve loved the trip. The boat ride is beautiful, and the public transportation system in Norway is clean, efficient, punctual, and perfectly coordinated. Enjoying the scenery and feeling privileged that I have the opportunity to experience a different place has been the source of an “extreme high.”

When I’m not alone, however, there is a major roadblock standing between my love of efficient and punctual public services and me: my two toddlers. It’s probably not fair to blame my extreme feelings on my kids, but in this particular case, it’s totally their fault. No matter how much I plot and plan and strategize (and bribe them) to get out of the door so we don’t miss the ever-punctual bus (remember, it comes once every hour), we are always running late and often catch the bus with seconds to spare. I always leave a 20-minute time cushion that invariably is eaten up by someone’s refusal to get into the stroller because he wants to walk “like Daddy does it” or someone’s desire to catch every snowflake on his tongue because he’s “thirsty.”

One rainy day shortly after we arrived, we missed the bus by seconds. I did what any reasonable woman would do: I called my husband and proceeded to cry. I used to miss the bus all of the time in Boston, but it never drove me to tears. My kids were a bit confused, and while I’m sure I haven’t emotionally scarred them, they bring it up all of the time. Since this episode, whenever tell my boys to “hurry up or we’ll miss the bus,” one of them invariably adds, “yeah, or Mommy will cry.” Thanks, guys.

This week, the bus almost drove me to tears again…but the good kind of tears. I was running after the bus, late as usual, arms flailing and everything, and the bus driver actually waited for us to cross the street to hop on. Maybe he was running ahead of schedule or maybe he was just a nice guy. This made my week! I didn’t know even how to properly thank the bus driver. I wanted to get his address so I could send him brownies or invite him and his family to our house for dinner. It sounds crazy, but it’s one of the best memories I’ve had since we arrived. It was the highest of all “extreme highs.”

And you? What can bring you to extremes?

About the Author:

Jennie is a development/non-profit generalist who has focused much of her career on human rights. She is currently living in Oslo, Norway with her husband, Bady, and their two boys, Ghibriel and Baillo. In Jennie's spare time, she enjoys cooking and reading. Jennie has know Catherine since high school, when they met in homeroom. (We met because I complimented Jennie on her cool lipstick! She's been my cool friend ever since. xoxo Catherine)

Almost Royalty

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I met Tony Blair yesterday. Yes, the former British Prime Minister. I actually shook his hand, which means I am now one degree from the Queen. That makes all of you, my fine feathered friends, a mere two degrees from the Queen. (You are also close to Kevin Bacon: I stood next to him on the subway once. He was wearing a trucker hat. Tony Blair was not wearing a trucker hat.)

I entered the event, which was held at a country club with jillion dollar houses overlooking a golf course where Tiger sometimes plays, and endured the first of many golf jokes from the lady/clown handing out the name tags: "Mulligan? You're not here to play golf." Stock response: "It never gets old." The last time I met a British person (two weeks ago), he told me that the "Irish are the loveable losers," so you can appreciate that I was a little worried about how Mr. Blair would respond to me. Since he shook hands with over 300 people, though, I am pretty sure he had stopped listening to my name when I got as far as "Ca-".

Which is not to say he wasn't gracious. First of all, if you're Tony, don't you want to go diving for the hand sanitizer after shaking all those hands? If he was thinking that, he didn't let it show. Second of all, if you're Tony, would you tell a humorous story about the first and last time you played golf. With President Bill Clinton. Well, ok, I don't have any stories like that either, but if we did, would we tell a funny at our own expense just to warm up the crowd?

He spoke cogently on current affairs and answered lots of important questions about things like the Middle East peace process. He did not answer some of the tougher questions that were on my mind. Questions like "What on earth would ever prompt Helen Mirren to do a remake of 'Arthur'?" Still, I appreciated the opportunity to hear a world leader speak about, well, the world!

The connectivity is fascinating. Through Mr. Blair, we're linked to the Queen. Through the Queen, we're linked to Winston Churchill. History in three handshakes. Through Mr. Blair, we're connected to all the leaders of the Middle East, where history is unfolding. I'm sure we could fill a huge white board with all of the possible degrees of separation. (Through me, Tony Blair is only one - sort of - degree from Kevin Bacon.)

All these ties tell our collective story. The fact that our lives are interwoven gives me a sense of safety. More than just a numbers game, it places us in context, which is a friendlier feeling than solitude. And being part of something encourages us to have agency over our place here. We all matter. Our values and contributions affect the whole, so make them meaningful. (Helen Mirren, I'm talking to you. 'Arthur'?!)

Mr. Blair is flying back to the Middle East to continue his work there.* I flew to another city for more business stuff. Maybe you did the dishes. I wonder what Queen Elizabeth is up to? Probably not the dishes. Every little vibration that each of us makes zings along the channels of time and space and creates a little wave. Let's tap into our own nobility and be a bit royal in our own right.

And you? You're one degree from__________?

* If you're interested in what Tony Blair is doing now, click here.

Japanese Game Shows

And, now, I give you: Japanese Game Shows as Metaphors for life.

HUMAN TETRIS

Don't you feel this way sometimes? What is it about life and social mores that compel us to to contort ourselves into some wacky shape that doesn't make any sense? It's all better when done in a shiny suit and a willingness to laugh about it.

THE MONITOR LIZARD

Sometimes life is the monitor lizard. And you're the girl with the pork chop taped to her head. All you can do is duck for cover and wonder if there is a prize at the end of all this.

TAKESHI'S CASTLE

If only we each had our own British commentator on the obstacle course of life: "you're hurling yourself at a door." Thanks, mate.

And you? Do you ever feel like a contestant in life's wacky game show?

Fortune Cookie

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The other day, I posted some of the ground rules for communication that my Andy and I have established in my house. I hope it didn't sound smug. Just in case it did, I would like to contribute an addendum so that you know we're human. The truth is, the last two times we ordered Chinese food, we fought about it. I wish I could tell you why, but I can't really remember. Isn't that always the way?

I'm pretty sure it was mostly my fault. I'm not saying that to be gracious, but I don't really care for Chinese take-out. I am also a general stress ball. The two don't mix. A suggestion that we have dinner delivered from the place downstairs (yes, we're that lazy), can send me into a huffy state of defiance mixed with grudging compliance. "Doesn't he know my feelings about lo mein? Well, he should." It's a petty inner monologue, but sometimes I still struggle with speaking up. In the end, my patient Andy has to bark at me to say what's on my mind, which only makes me more crabby.

What is wrong with me?!

The details of life are where we parse through the tiny inner-workings of ourselves and our relationships. My guess is that we all have stories of The Stupidest Fight We Ever Had. Sometimes, that minutia can build up into a dangerous plaque that hardens and makes us less pliable in our relationships (resentment as relationship quick sand). But other times, if we have a sense of humor, can resolve the issue quickly, and are honest enough to do some self-reflection, the conflicts that arise in the mundane stuff of life can clear out cobwebs and shed some light on our darker corners.

I am a compliant person, conditioned to bend myself to fit a situation irrespective of its suitability. Here, The Stupidist Fight was a fortune cookie. The lesson in it: Speak up if you want a burrito instead of an eggroll. It's that simple. Sometimes it takes a conflict over something inane to show us the lessons we have a hard time seeing in bigger, usual circumstances.

And you? Was there a lesson in your Stupidest Fight?

Many Pieces, One Puzzle

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Remember how super awesome I told you my little friend, Benny, is? His super awesome Mama Bear is always working to raise autism awareness, to find solutions to her son's immediate needs, and to craft resolutions for the long term future needs of autistic kids who will one day be autistic adults. She also finds ways to keep life fun. She is tireless.

Anyway, she alerted me to a neat post by Diary of a Mom, a blog about fierce love. I don't know about you, but I have so many little friends ages 2-19 who are on the autism spectrum. Reading this recent post from Diary of a Mom helps me understand how scary their world can be and how challenging it is for their parents to create peace in that world.

This world is a community of individuals, all of us with our own range of talents and gifts. A mystery like autism has the potential of being isolating and overwhelming, but Diary of a Mom shows us how the power of one can link to the power of community, creating hope and motion. In short, here's what happened: an old friend reached out to her. He's a politician now. He wants to take action to help our autistic friends and their families. He found his old friend "Diary" online, saw her activism in the universe of autism awareness, and tapped her for the "parental perspective". Click here to see what happened next.

We always say here in The Flamingo Room that we're all in this life thing together. Diary of a Mom shows us that we are many puzzle pieces who can link together to create new pictures, new realities.

And you? What's your puzzle piece like?

Balloons

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When you belong to The Big D Club - that's divorce, not Dallas - newbies who come wandering in, bleary-eyed, scared, confused, look to the long-initiated for advice and hope for better things to come. It's like we're all some kind of addicts finding our way through a 12-step program: when you're new, you need a sponsor. Here's one piece of advice I learned and now share with newcomers, but even if you're no where near this particular club (it's not a fun one, per se), it's still relevant. I have employed this process with lots of other scenarios in my life.

Some decisions are made automatically by the court. Your state might not allow alimony, so that's done. Or there's a set calculation for child support based on things like number of children, their ages, the cost of your healthcare, how much money you earn, etc. Done. And lots of places in the States are 50/50 so buh-bye half of that 401k you worked 14 hour days to build up while your ex was unemployed. Sure, it's upsetting, but the law says, so you just move on. It's the discretionary stuff that gets really tricky.

A friend of mine was wrangling with her ex about her wedding dress. He wanted it, along with the engagement ring; she didn't think it belonged to him. She had a story to support her claim. Almost 20 years ago, she and her mom wandered into a little bridal boutique in New York City. The designer was some unknown called Vera Wang. She found a dress made of delicious silk. She loved it, but it was out of her budget. She was prepared to leave the dress behind. When she came out of the dressing room, back in her civvies, her mom had paid for the dress as a surprise gift. "My parents didn't come to my wedding [it was an interracial marriage in 1950's or 1960's Virginia], much less buy me a dress," her mother explained.

"That's not his dress to have!" my friend said to me now. "My lawyer said he has no right to it. And why would he want it?"

"Why would you?" was my question. Perhaps her daughter would want it? "Or maybe not," I said. The conflict was in his impulse to control the situation bumping up against her sense of justice. I have to say that I agreed with her sense of what was right in this case, but I said, "Let it go."

This was an upsetting and, at first, unthinkable option for her. Why should she let it go? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Why was he being so mean about it?

There's so much about a divorce (or, let's face it, about life) that challenges our sense of what is right or wrong. So much that's not fair. Everyone is angry. Everyone's hurt. Taking something belonging to the other party is an act of aggression. Often, by the time you get to The Big D, you've had quite enough of aggression in your relationship, so why stay on that worn rut that led no where good?

Like a good sponsor, I will only tell you the truth, what will work, even if you don't want to hear it. Here's what I learned:

Think of a bunch of balloons. Each balloon represents something important to you. You're holding onto the strings as tight as you can. In contentious break-ups, I see angry ex's tugging on those strings. They want all the balloons. They believe you owe them all of those balloons. The more they tug, the more you pull back. It's an exhausting push-me-pull-you. The best thing to do is think carefully about every balloon. What can you let go of? The more balloons you can release, the less tied you are to a sadness and badness. This applies to physical items (your "stuff"), money, fights, people (especially family). So, I said, "Consign the dress and send him the receipt along with half the money. Let it go."

We think our balloons lift us up, and often they might, for awhile, but a simpler approach provides more freedom and agility to move through life with ease because we're not afraid to lose, to let go. The Buddhists say that "grasping and wanting" is the source of all suffering. Who needs it? Letting go with forgiveness, with compassion, with an acknowledgement of fear, allows us to move into a better place, even if it's a new place in The Big D Club, Grasshopper.

And you? Have you ever let go of something important?

The Oslo Diaries- Part 1

Do you remember my friend, Little J? She has commented here before, and I wrote about her sweet husband last year. The thing is, Jennie is a thoughtful and funny and amazingly sweet person. Now that she lives in Norway, she is farther away than ever, but she is going to work to help us understand. As often as she can post (I hope every week!), she is going to help us know many truths. We both would love your feedback. - Catherine

Photo courtesy of the author

About six months ago, I moved to Oslo, Norway with my two boys. We joined my husband here whose summer job at an international organization turned permanent. He fell in love with Norway, and the kids and I arrived here with very high hopes of folding right into Norwegian life. After all, I've adapted easily to new environments and different cultures in the past. I've spent a bit of time in Europe and Africa and adjusted with complete ease. In fact, I've often felt more at home while abroad than in my native United States. There was no reason to think that adjusting to life in Norway would be any different.

My boys are still quite young, so they haven't skipped a beat. My transition, however, has been really challenging. Sometimes, I don't know what's harder to accept: the daily challenges and growing pains that come with life's difficult adjustments, or the unexpectedness of not adapting as easily as I had anticipated.

After an insanely busy and eventful five-year stretch leading up to our move, I'm adjusting to stay-at-home motherhood. I'd like to think, though, that Norway shares the responsibility for my less than smooth transition: the words here are rife with unexpected "k"s and "j"s and letters that I don't know what to call or how to pronounce; the wintertime darkness seems never ending and would likely dampen the cheeriest of moods; the bus drivers rigidly stick to the timetable and will not stop for a screaming woman running with two toddlers who is seconds late. The biggest adjustment is probably the cost of living. Gone are the days when I could ease a bad day with an afternoon latte; that would set me back about $12 here.

Inspired by Neil Pasricha’s 1000 Awesome Things blog and inspiring talk on TED, I’m trying to fin

d simple and tangible ways to shine light into my dim corner. Something that immediately lifts my mood is a treat I make for myself nearly every afternoon: an Earl Grey Latte. It’s something I used to order when I met my husband for a coffee break at Crema Café in Harvard Square. It’s absolutely divine, and the warmth of the tea somehow fits well with the cold Norwegian winter. I make a cup of Early Grey tea, to which I add a generous dollop of frothed milk that I’ve flavored with a teaspoon of sugar and a couple drops of almond extract. I love whipping the milk with the $4 milk frother I picked up at the Ikea here. It works way better than the one I purchased at Williams Sonoma and left in the States. My special afternoon tea lifts my mood, albeit temporarily, each day! What a treat!

When you're feeling out of sorts, sort of like you're wearing two left shoes, treat yourself to something small and special. It doesn’t even have to cost any money, and it just may shine a little light on your afternoon!

Just Ask Alanis

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I just Tweeted Alanis Morissette. Yes, I did. My iPod, on shuffle, had pulled up a song from the archives, her 1998 expression of gratitude for lessons from her journey, "Thank U" . I told her it still mattered. And something occurred to me: saying Thank You is a cornerstone of peace in my house.

With so much out of our control, my Andy and I have established ground rules for communication that keep the union strong even as the ways of the world are buffeting the structure of it. I am no relationship expert, to be sure, but so many of these parameters rose of the ashes of failed relationships:

-- Honest dialogue about what you're feeling is an imperative; hiding only hurts and does more damage.

-- No raised voices. Ever.

-- Crabbiness is allowed - bad moods happen - but with a clear statement about why you feel that way and what you need, even if that need is personal space.

-- Don't give up expressions of affection.

-- And this: acknowledge the other person with gratitude. (Note: The little stuff counts.)

A steady stream of thanks can provide a lovely smooth river over even the most jagged rocks of life. Corny, you say? Nothing to be grateful for, you say? S/he already knows I'm grateful, you say? Okay. Maybe all of that is true. But just as a gratitude journal kept for nightly personal acknowledgements can create an unexpected road map through troubles and trials, so an ongoing public statement of thanks can knit together the most tenuous relationships in uneasy times:

"Thank you for making breakfast."

"Thank you for picking up the dry cleaning."

"Thank you for digging the car out of the snow."

"Thank you for folding the laundry. You know I don't like folding."

"Thank you for meeting me at the doctor's office."

"Thank you for helping me talk through that work problem."

"Thank you for driving home. I was so tired."

"Thank you for picking up stamps."

"Thank you for your help making the bed."

"Thank you for your help in preparing dinner."

"Thank you for taking the kids to school."

It's an endless stream that will not run dry with the right attention and can nourish dry patches and sweeten the most sour times. Just ask Alanis.

And you? How do you say thank you?

Lessons from Carnegie Hall

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A few weeks ago we were at Carnegie Hall. Holy New York experience, Batman.

The tickets were my Christmas present. My Andy has a friend who is a musician there, and he had recommended we see Berlioz's Requiem, Op. 5 performed by the Carnegie Hall Festival Anniversary Chorus. This was all Greek to us, but as my Andy knew I would love a choral work, it was decided.

The day was unseasonably mild, hinting that the giant frozen piles of snow that had accumulated during repeated storms would one day melt. We walked to the concert hall through Central Park. When the watery winter sun hits your face after weeks of grey and snow, you remember to look up. You might even start to hope again.

There's something really wonderful to me about the fact that Carnegie Hall sits on a miscellaneous corner of Midtown Manhattan. This is the place where Mrs. Andrew Carnegie used an engraved mason's trowel to the lay the cornerstone of a building where some of the greatest talents in the past 100+ years have performed. It's humbling. A velvet box in the first tier balcony makes you feel like Austrian Royalty in the age of Mozart. Or President Lincoln. Or Julia Roberts' in the opera scene in Pretty Woman ("Hey, look! There's a band."). That is to say, you feel grand, part of history, and overwhelmed all at once.

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It turns out the Festival Anniversary Chorus is part of a professional training workshop of the Weill Music Institute, which means high school singers from top choruses in the US get to come to New York to train for a week with this professional group. Then the combined choruses perform together. We were in a box with nervous parents of some of the high schoolers, who were part of The Concorde Vocal Ensemble of the York County Senior Honors Choir (a community choir) and the Capital Pride of Leesville Road High School choir.

The combined choir filed out onto this historic stage, and you just felt a swell of pride for these teenagers. Seeing their young, fresh faces, grouped in with the older adults gave a sense of a continuity - a suggestion of connectivity to history, to music, to each other. The program described Berlioz's Requiem as being "a work far ahead of its time" with "offbeat modulations, extreme chromaticism, displaced rhythm, and fragmented architecture." I would say this: it is a reminder that people throughout the ages have been longing and searching, creating music as a superior means of expression, reaching out in prayer as a group, and letting the rhythm of something ancient overtake their search for God. Berlioz just did some of the work for us.

In that context, it's easier to relax about life. I, for one, was able to calm down: These epic struggles are not mine alone. We can float through the music of them today, and we will know we have joined a forever journey of the soul.

And you? What sings to your soul?

Guest post! Letters Better Sent

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I've known Jeremy since high school. Senior year, he did a presentation in Physics class about ancient methods of naval navigation. I don't know, but there were sextants involved. Needless to say, he went to a prominent Maritime Academy for college and became a merchant marine. Despite the real job hazard of pirate encounters, Jeremy finds a way to create connectivity in his world that for half the year is the cramped quarters of a giant ship and the vastness of the open sea. My first piece of mail from Jeremy was a post card from New Orleans, when we were in college. It mattered. ~Catherine

Letters Better Sent

by Jeremy Allen

When was the last time that you received a letter? I don’t mean an email, or a credit card company writing you that you are once again delinquent with your payment; but an honest to goodness real letter. I bet that it has been a long time, and it was probably from an elderly relative.

Now ask yourself when it was the last time you sent a letter. Chances are you probably don’t remember. I know that it is more time consuming than an email, and certainly not as convenient as a text message, but there is something quite special about a letter.

I write quite a few letters, and given that I am also sending them from the far ends of the globe, it adds a new dimension to the term troublesome. In Jakarta, Indonesia I nearly met my maker as my 5’2” guide pulled me into the middle of traffic and held his hand up to the oncoming traffic, confident in his ability to stop that bus hurtling towards us; all this just to get to the post office to mail my letter. Fortunately for all concerned, his hand signal worked, but alas, the post office was closed, so my letter did not make the mail for yet another day.

The reason I mail letters it because I know that on some future day, maybe months from the time I slid that letter in the mail-slot, the recipient is going to be coming home from a long day at work and mechanically opening that mail box, expecting only the latest bill or flyer. In addition to all of that junk mail filling the mailbox, out will tumble my letter, probably mangled by some foreign mail clerk, and bearing an unusual stamp and postmark. I imagine that that person will get a smile on their face having received a letter from some exotic port of call, and maybe, just maybe, enjoying the yarn I weave in those lines.

So in the spirit of the Flamingo Room, I challenge you to write a letter and pick a family member, loved one, or friend; and even if it’s just across town. Doing this small gesture will hopefully brighten someone’s day, and isn’t that what we should strive to do every day?

And you? Are you inspired to pop a letter in the post?

Jeremy is an officer in the US Merchant Marine and is currently serving as chief officer of a 650-foot container ship in the Indian Ocean. When he is not on the ship, you can find him wandering around the North Fork of Long Island or in Northeast Pennsylvania, usually with a camera or two slung over his shoulder. Samples of his photography can be found on his Flickr page.

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