The Flamingo Room

Life: a Team Sport

2011-10-21T13:15:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine recently said he was a bit frustrated on his last birthday. He had hoped by his age, he would have a thing or two figured out, instead, it seems, confusion reigns. My guess it's a feeling we can all associate with. If this life's journey is one of moving toward our truest selves, the closer we come to a willingness to pursue authenticity (a remarkably scary prospect, for some reason), the more undone we feel. Opening our hands means loosening our grip on familiarity, and the ensuing ambiguity can feel like a free fall. Still, we can take comfort that there's a net that will prevent the feared thud.

I don't want to go all "you complete me" on you, but I am thinking that when we pay attention to connectivity and to what our hearts need at any given moment, the universe will send us the people we need. The expected ones, the unexpected ones; the ones who will stay a short time, and the ones who will reappear after long absences. These are the people who comfort us, who teach us, and who make us laugh. I know, I know: God's Army is a favorite topic here. Then again, the universe tugs us back to the truths we need, over and over, as often as our hearts need reminding. And sometimes we need reminding that the silver light of the heart strings are unbreakable; they have us securely tethered after the leap.

Disappointments, loss, and suffering are tireless, it's true, but as Gregg Levoy writes, "you will also suffer loss, and that loss is a skill." Invisible spirit hands lift and guide us through these times, just as people hands will hold and warm us. The skill can't be learned without the letting go, but the letting go doesn't have to happen in a vacuum. Ambiguity is an uncomfortable place, but the learning to live with it is a team sport. Ask the universe for help, then pay attention to who comes along to help us.

And you?

Do you trust God's Army?

A Thing With Wings

2011-09-19T07:00:00.002-04:00

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My sweet spirit partner, Alpana, loved birds. Not only did she keep birds as pets, she also castigated me harshly for my love of pate'. Frankly, on both points, we had to agree to disagree. Still, I mourned with her when her little lime green parrotlet, Ezabel, flew the coop. We imagined her going for brunch with $10 mimosas. Or maybe she was going to the Barney's Co-op annual sale. But really, Alpana was just very sad and a little angry at the loss. It felt particularly unjust that she should lose something she loved, when she was already on such a difficult path, one that involved lots of letting go, both bitter and resigned.

Ezabel flew away over 2 years ago, and Alpana flew away over one. I'm left here wishing I had wings, not knowing where I'd fly. Life is hard for me without Alpana. She was braver than I am. And if you think that's fantastical revisionist history, the kind where we make people out to be more noble than they actually were in life, then you haven't fully tried to imagine what a crusty and hardcore little character she could be. (Remember she was a lawyer. Read: tough.) Her bravery is a simple, irrefutable fact.

My recent efforts to become a runner are part of a campaign I'm trying out to become more grounded and centered. Maybe here, in my body, I can find some courage. I have a tendency to float space-headed into the ether so that I'm no longer paying attention to my body, to my feet on the earth, and, well, I confess, to most everything that's going on around me. It is the single biggest reason that I never see any celebrities when I'm walking the streets of New York. "Look!", my Andy will say, "You almost ran into Wolf Blitzer." Well. I hadn't noticed. (Sorry, Wolf.)

I've heard that when we meditate, our auras become huge and porous, and we have to be careful to pull them back in, like keeping our elbows near our sides when we run. Having a spirit with wings is fine, as long as we remember that, for now, it dwells in our body, that imperfect and strange and miraculous vessel. Exercise is a way to bring us back to being grounded in our bodies. I think I'm supposed to feel safer here, in my body with its one leg shorter than the other, but instead I feel ponderous. Still, I plonk along on those jogging trails in Central Park, and I think about having wings.

Coach says you have to tell all the muscles in your body to "get in the game" when you're running. "Hey, Abs! Pay attention! And, you, Gluteus Maximus, you heard me. Get a move on!" It works tremendously, and it brings me right back into the action, all those creaky bones and resistant tendons, that lopsided gait. I remember to say thank you for my body and for the newfound respect I'm showing it.

So, I plonk and flap and fret my way along, asking Alpana for advice and hope and guidance. I wonder what's next. I consider possibilities, I ponder action. I put one foot in front of the other because I don't have wings.

Yesterday, I went for a run in Central Park. Up the Bridal Path with it's soft sand and gentle hills. Safely parallel to the Lance Armstrong imitators on their bikes, the epic battle of Peloton versus Tourists. Past the grassy area where I recently saw a flock of snow white birds, then past the one where over the summer I sat reading the paper and a little boy named Raymond asked me to "watch" his lump of Silly Puddy while he rolled down the hill.

I stopped at the water fountain before stepping up onto the trail around the Reservoir. I barked a friendly order to my muscles: keep moving! I glanced at the shimmery water in the emerging Fall light, but mostly I kept my focus straight ahead. Centered, grounded, centered, grounded.

One quarter of the way around the reservoir, I saw the pecking and fluttering of a few birds on the side of the path. They were lovely common grey chickadees scratching around in the leaves and dirt. And in the middle of the bunch, this: a teal-breasted parakeet, with grey and white wings and a golden yellow crown, an improbable jewel in the middle of New York City.

As Anne Lamott might say, I ask you.

It's just like God and Alpana to be funny and cryptic and beautiful all at the same time. I stared and smiled then I kept going, around the pool, back down the Bridal Path. A little lighter, a littler more engaged, thinking to myself, "Stay centered and grounded, and you might become a thing with wings, following your own Spirit Path." (Thank you, Alp.)

And you?

What miracles - winged and otherwise - have occurred for you?

A New Story

2011-09-18T14:01:00.016-04:00

photo source

Back in February, I called an old friend of mine. We had not spoken in several months. I had been wrapped up with a new job, and we don't live in the same city. When he answered the phone, his first words were, "I have big news!" My heart did when of those crazy roller coaster loops, when you're gearing up to hear someone's "big news": you're hoping it's good but scared it might be bad.

"My wife had a liver transplant!"

That was unexpected.

Turns out, she had had liver disease caused by an autoimmune disorder of unknown origins. Moreover, she had struggled with this disease for 15 years! It wasn't something she had wanted to make public, so, even though I had known this family for most of those years, I had not known she had any health problems. Turns out the diagnosis had many troubling layers, as such things often do. Not only was she faced with a variety of exhausting symptoms, the doctors could offer the following "plan":

We'll wait until you get really, really sick and then hope to find you a donor. The good news is, we can now do live donor transplants (more on that later) provided you can find someone willing to give you part of their healthy liver. The bad news is, you could develop liver cancer in the meantime. If that happens, there is nothing we can do.

So she did what one can do in the face of grim uncertainty: she kept going. She raised children, cared for an ailing parent, fended off exhaustion and pain. And everyday, she wonder about that anvil over her head. Would she beat the clock or would cancer make a photo finish?

When my friend came to town several weeks later, we caught up more. The awesome news was (and is) that his wife was doing astoundingly well. A distant cousin was a "match" and had courageously agreed to participate in the live donor procedure. The doctors took the diseased liver from my friend's wife, and implanted part of the donor's healthy liver. In one of those miracles of the human body, a healthy liver can regenerate, so, if all went according to plan, both donor and recipient would start with half a liver that would grow into two new wholes! Who can get one's mind around it?!

Several months had gone by, and both donor and recipient were doing very well. It was time for my friend's wife to consider her future. Suddenly, overnight, she was disease free. This albatross that had weighed heavily for so very long was gone. This burden that had defined every detail of her life had disappeared. What now? My friend and I talked about it a lot, and as you can see, it is still on my mind. How do you start a new life when the old one seemed so clearly defined?

The motivational speaker Byron Katie asks, "Who would you be without your story?" My friend's wife had a very literal story: she had a bad liver, then she did not. So what about the rest of us? What if we set down our stories? "I have a bad relationship with my step-father;" "My co-workers don't respect me;" "My alcoholic mother ruined my life;" etc. What if those didn't exist for us because we chose to live without them?

It occurs to me that a wide open space would stretch out in front of us, and the thought of that emptiness, just sitting there, waiting for us to define it, could be terrifying. If you're anything like me, the terror would cause a stiffening of the limbs and heart, making action a challenge at best. But what if even that terror is just a character in my story of who I am and what I'm capable of?

Freedom is like that healthy liver, always capable of expanding and growing. We just need to choose to implant it.

And you?

Who would you choose to be?

36 Things @ Newvine Growing

2011-09-17T13:20:00.001-04:00

Remember the super cool list of life lessons that my friend, Lisa, wrote about over at Newvine Growing?

Well, Miss Colleen Newvine Tebeau herself has graciously allowed me to contribute my own list!

This was was daunting after reading Lisa's list and the other thoughtful submissions that Colleen has already shared with us. I confess that I thought about just breaking out my Aaron Neville megaphone to record "Don't Know Much (But I Know I Love You)," but I lack the technology to dub in the harmony. So you're stuck with my own musings:

36 Things I've Learned at 36

Head on over to Newvine Growing and check it out....you may even win a prize!

Remember to Love

2011-09-11T17:18:00.007-04:00

The other day, I received a text urging me to get out of town this weekend or at least to avoid the subways. "Why?" I thought. Then: Oh. That.

I live in New York City. And you know what today is.

Bearing witness is achy, slow work. The images zap us into sensory overload. But the thing is, it's a daily thing here. I work next to the World Trade Center site, so a few times a day, I walk by it or look down at the construction work. That means a few times a day, I send up a prayer for all the people who were there that day, those who lived and those who did not and all their families. I pray for help in maintaining my game face, all gritty New Yorker, riding the subways every day. What else can I do? Pray, pray, pray....

I took these photos from my office. This tower is going to be lovely, and you can see in the second photo, the water already running into one of the two footprints.

St. Paul's Chapel, which was a safe haven for so many workers after that day, has posted a theme: 'Remember to Love'. People wrote notes on white ribbons that were also printed with that message. That's what I'm doing today. Loving is an antidote to grief and sadness and fear, whatever the circumstances. One mother who lost her son in the Trade Center was quoted in the New York Times as saying, "'How to resist falling in love with death was the question...Depression and despair is one way of falling in love with death. Violence and aggression is another way.'" Cultivating love raises us to the light.

I've gotten some inquiries about how I'm spending the day today. My Andy and I took a walk in Central Park with a cherished friend. I snapped this photo of Sheep's Meadow. The scene was so peaceful and normal and alive. This is New York too. Anne Lamott wrote: "Hard rain makes a mess, but it also fills in space we usually walk through without even noticing. It makes the stuff we can't usually see - air and wind - visible." That's how I feel about September 11th; it throws into relief the simple loveliness of life. It makes me grateful. And I remember to love.

And you?

How did you remember today?

What's Your Red Dress?

2011-09-02T09:46:00.020-04:00

Photo Source

It was sort of fitting that Hurricane Irene ushered in my first vacation of this year. After starting a new job last July, I have been on the road about 21 of the past 52 weeks; I regularly work 12 hour days. Mind you, I'm not complaining (I'm employed! And I like my team: bonus!), nor am I doing that wacky New Yorker routine of "I'm busier than anyone in the entire world, which demonstrates my inherent worth to all of you less busy/important people around me." I'm just saying, I'm a little keyed up. (This is also the person who was so focused on an Excel spreadsheet she thought the recent earthquake we felt in New York City was just the HVAC system kicking in in her office building. In other news: I need a life.)

Although the hurricane largely spared* both New York City as well as my parents' house, where we camped out for the weekend, the lead up to it was all booming headlines and dire warnings, generating for me an exciting level of low grade anxiety. By the time we reached the beach house, I was a ball of stress: my first night here, I found myself sleepwalking!

Instead of catching up on various creative projects, I have largely spent my time here staring blankly into the middle realm and wondering if The Muse has given up on me. Remember those blissful days when I was able to post here daily? Sigh.

So, absent my own creative energy, I bring you other people's!

Remember how Litachiquita from For Serious Batman, who guest posted here about life's amazingness and the accordion that saved her from a bad marriage, taught us the word "peen?" Well, she recently saved my life by sending me a link to The Bloggess and her adventures with Beyonce' the giant metal chicken (now you know why everyone has been running around screaming "knock, knock, motherf*cker"). Which led me to reading back-posts over at The Bloggess til I found the famous, traveling red dress. Which is what I wanted to tell you about.

It's about living with exuberance and abandon and laughter. It's about valuing yourself enough to go for it, whatever "it" might be for you. Interestingly, she doesn't mention Excel spreadsheets even once...

I'm thinking, that red dress would look sweet with my red hair. Exuberance suits us, don't you think?

And you?

What's your "red dress"?

*I know a lot of people were hit really hard by the storm. Sending well wishes during the recovery.

Lessons from my Friends

2011-08-26T07:34:00.004-04:00

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Is there any limit to Colleen Newvine-Tebeau's dedication to shining a light into the dark corners and striving to live as full a life as possible? Over at her blog Newvine Growing, she has launched a series of Things I've Learned lists. The varied perspectives are thoughtful and heartfelt. (If you ask her really nicely, she may even welcome your list!)

Now, I know I'm biased but my favorite by far has been my our mutual friend, Lisa. Remember when Lisa wrote such a lovely post about losing her mom? She has put the same careful and compassionate thought into her latest guest post.

I can't overstate how much I loved Lisa's list: 40 Things I have Learned at 40. Head on over to Newvine Growing to check it out and leave a comment.

Dear Alpana: 12 Months

2011-08-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

It has been twelve months since my sweet spirit partner, Alpana, passed away.

How do you mark time on the soul's journey? You send daily prayers into the heavens, hoping their gossamer threads will be enough to link eternity with our heavy existence here. Twelve months hardly seems to matter in the infinite, but twelve months here is long hollow knocking in the heart. This is to say, I have faith in Alpana's continued journey (she's one spicy spirit up there!), but I wonder at my own lumpy progress.

How do you mourn a phantom limb? The body and mind remember it, need it, and even briefly forget that its gone. (The latter, when it occurs, is a searing terror that can take your breath away as you whisper a "please.") My daily discussions with Alpana and sparks of her brilliance that can blaze across my path, remind me that this unique and important part of myself, my cherished friend, still exists.

How do you live in The Other Half? I'm still trying to figure it out. I'm praying. I'm breathing with mindfulness. I'm speaking my mind as she did so well. I remember you, Little One.

Thank you all for your ongoing help and support during this past year. And to Alpana's parents and all her friends who are missing her also, I send you love and prayers as well. Namaste.

In the words of Maria McKee, "I'm her twin/I live in The Other Half"...

Me, the Runner?

2011-07-24T16:16:00.012-04:00

How on earth did they manage to snap this photo

of me jogging at the beach? (a/k/a Abs I Want to Have)

My friend was predicting her oldest boy will excel at cross country when he tries out for the team at school this fall because he's good at math. I didn't have time to unscramble the logic before her husband practically shouted, "I hate running! We English majors [sweeping arm motion to include me in this] can't focus long enough to be any good at it."

It's true I have some rather flaky tendencies and my monkey mind is legendary for its skittishness. It's also true that until recently, I hated running too. Oh sure, I was built like a runner in my skinny days, only I smoked too many cigarettes for this to be a viable hobby. Even after I dropped the smokes and a host of other bad habits (a shitty marriage, self-loathing, and other tyrannies), and even after Black Hockey Jesus wrote this inspirational post about personal revolution and finding dignity under your extra layer of fat, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Until I did.

So now I am out there in Central Park trying to remember form and "progress not perfection." In the meantime, that's a lot of time spent in my tiny little mind, not always a safe place to be. Yesterday it occurred to me that that could be the root of my long-standing avoidance: time alone means getting awfully comfortable and intimate with those awfully uncomfortable feelings and truths about oneself. It's part of what makes meditation so hard.

But something grand has happened: this new motion has become a sweet moving meditation for me. I realized it yesterday (wouldn't Alpana be proud of me?!). The song "Two of Us" sung by Aimee Mann and Michael Penn came on the iPod as I plodded along, out of the shade and into some sunshine, which cast my shadow to my left. There we were: me and my shadow, feeling all right, and moving to a new beat of self-contentment.

I'm hoping you feel the same today....

(Sidebar: not sure what's up with the duck-themed home video; good old YouTube.)

Postcard from the Universe

2011-07-16T10:46:00.011-04:00

photo source

Sometimes, a precious pearl of wisdom will appear when you most need it. The universe knows when you're not paying attention. This happened to me recently, when my friend Julie posted this:

"Some days the power of intention and of choice are so clear that I am left baffled by the individual's pure ability to create her own outcome. Do what you want, you own way."

Lest you think she's a petty dreamer, let me attest that the woman has designed her entire life around this principle. She has lived abroad for several years and has more pushpins than you can count in the global map tracking her travels. I think it's significant that she has a sparkling eye for photography as well: Julie is paying attention to the world, with gratitude, so beautiful things and moments present themselves to her. She captures them lovingly, and the resulting photos become little postcards from the universe to us: "Wish you were here!"

I confess I am baffled by my own capacity for living closed off to possibility, to dreams. Fear is a great influencer or can be. I sometimes think that the letting go of fear is one of the Big Lessons we're supposed to learn in this life. Poke around long enough in your tenderest places, the deep stores where we hoard our fears like precious treasures, and we can find actual terror at the prospect of letting them go. How strange.

The good news is that the heart resides in an even deeper place. And it's patient. It will wait for us to listen to our intuition, our passions, our calling. This is more than simple magical thinking, this is full on participation in life. With some courage and a stock of gratitude, unexpected possibilities will rise up, a new path beneath our feet. It's the road to your way.

Thank you for the reminder, Jules. xoxo

And you?

What does your postcard from the universe say?

Guest post! The Light

2011-06-03T13:35:00.011-04:00

Today's guest post is by a very old friend of mine, Sara, who writes about her amazing daughter over at Miracle Maggie.

Interested in writing a guest post? Click here for details. Share with us! You know you wanna...

The Light

By Sara Midwood

My daughter, Maggie, turned 3 today. I am filled with the typical incredulity a parent feels in watching their child transform before their eyes: “Where has the time gone?” Yes, these three years flew by in a blink. But, fellow Flamingoes, I am also haunted by these three years. I am haunted by memories of her birth. The day Maggie was born was, hands down, the hardest of my entire life.

It began as a typical Wednesday morning. I woke up early, that infernal pregnancy bladder stirring me to pad onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, praying I would be able to snooze another hour or two before getting up and ready for work. I’ll admit now, I noticed an abnormal leaking of fluid. But in a split second, my fatigue talked my brain out of its alarm. I went back to sleep… Blissful, ignorant sleep.

As an OB/GYN Nurse Practitioner, it was seemingly impossible that, seven hours later, one of the attending physicians in my practice diagnosed my rupture of membranes. It was impossible, of course, because Maggie wasn’t due for another 3 ½ months. When I arrived at the hospital, I was told that my daughter would be born a “micro-preemie”, the medical term for the smallest and most fragile of premature infants. At 26 weeks gestation, the staff quoted me statistics: Maggie had only a 60% chance of survival, and an almost 80% chance of long-term medical complications.

Oh, how I fought for my girl! With each contraction, I begged God or The Universe or Whomever to stop the nightmare. When one of the Labor & Delivery nurses mentioned that keeping calm could sometimes slowed down labor and improved my baby’s heart rate, I achieved an almost Zen-like calm. I fought against The Darkness. I focused on The Light- the hope that labor would stop and that I would be able to keep my tiny baby safe.

The following morning, I spiraled into despair when the doctors told us there was nothing more they could do (Funny, I always thought that phrase was the stuff of movies…), and that Maggie’s arrival was imminent. I lost my inner Zen. I remember looking numbly at the roomful of doctors and nurses, at my mother and my husband, wondering why everything was so loud: “What is that noise?? Please, quiet down, I need to focus.” It was months later that I realized the sounds were my own wails and cries as I begged them all to save my daughter. The Light was gone, and my heart shattered as my one pound, nine ounce baby girl made her way into the world. I did not feel joy. I did not feel gratitude. I did not feel love.

And so, a 105 day vigil began. I stumbled through The Darkness, working full time and going to the hospital at night. Maggie came home from the hospital in mid-August, a week after her due date. She was small, had severe reflux, and had a feeding tube threaded through her nose down into her stomach. Our family struggled through Physical, Occupational, and Speech Therapy appointments. We saw countless GI specialists. By her first birthday, Maggie weighed only 12 pounds, was not able to sit up on her own, and had no teeth and very little hair. Nutritionally, she would not survive without intervention. We made the decision to have a feeding tube surgically implanted into her stomach, as well as a procedure to control her vomiting and reflux.

It was a dark, dark time.

Because of her precarious entrance into the world, and the months and years of medical struggle that followed, Maggie’s birthday is an emotionally difficult time for me. In the days prior to her birthday, I battle nightmares, sudden bursts of tears, and panic attacks. Call it Post Traumatic Stress, Depression, or whatever you want, but The Darkness is a powerful force. So how do I find The Light in these days? Will I ever enjoy my own daughter’s birthday?

I decided to make this year’s birthday different than the first two. I’ve learned that it’s important to embrace, but not dwell in, the pain of my memories. To recognize it, but not to relish in it, I suppose. I began, over the last several days, to seek out The Light. Every moment with Maggie was like one speck of Light. Each of Maggie’s goofy giggles, her sweet smiles, her funny quips about the world (She would like you to know, there are NO dragons living in our house…), is ammunition against The Darkness. There IS joy here! There IS gratitude here! There IS love here! I collected them like stars and held them in my heart.

Tonight, during an early bedtime routine (because, you know, birthdays are EXHAUSTING work when you’re three…) I held my Maggie in my arms. We sat together in the pink rocker in her nursery, and she asked for a song. I hummed and sang and rocked until she relaxed against my chest. Her breathing found its sleepy rhythm, and her full head of crazy blonde curls tickled my neck. I smoothed her butterfly pajamas across her warm back, and I breathed in her freshly bathed Maggie scent. Suddenly, my eyes pricked with tears. For once this week, they were not the tears of painful memories. The tiny stars in my heart rushed together and exploded brightly. And it dawned on me that I never had to look for The Light, it’s been here all along…

SHE is The Light.

And you? Who or what is your Light in the Darker times? And how do you find it?

Separation Anxiety

2011-06-03T12:26:00.005-04:00

Photo source

If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to

the thing itself but to your own estimate of it;

and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.

~ Marcus Aurelius

A few years ago, an important friend and I had a falling out. It was complicated with hefty guilt and recriminations in both camps. A flirtation with rapprochement ultimately was unsuccessful due to unrealistic expectations and unreconcilable wants and needs. The ensuing separation carried the grave weight of finality. Confident I was in the right, I blazed with anger: surely a more reasonable person could find a way to peaceable accord!

With the surety of righteousness on my side, I furiously deleted all contact information, all old emails. I binned photos, letters, any momentos of years of inside jokes and understanding. This is unlike me. But rejection touches emotional scar tissue for me, so this time, I decided to embrace it. Friend, you are undeserving of me.

Years passed. I met any pang of loneliness with the fierce steel of anger. I only allowed the occasional cloud of wistfulness, usually when I heard a song or something I just knew my friend would appreciate. The Buddhists say that the root of all suffering is "grasping and wanting," so I told myself this was a healthy letting go. (Oh, my clever, clever ego...)

When I saw the inevitable crossing of paths approaching, I extended the olive branch, which was accepted, I think reluctantly. I was elated. Maybe this, finally, could be the reconciliation I really had wanted all along. I met every angry argument in my head with compassion for my friend's point of view. As always, it worked, and I found the anger went away. When we met, I remained doggedly upbeat and we stayed on safe ground. (How about this weather? Any fun vacations planned?) I worked up the courage to say it - I miss you - and I tried not to wait for a response in kind.

But of course, I did. I waited. No follow up came, and all the old grasping and wanting returned - I want, I want, I want - and the fear and loathing of rejection bloomed. I'm learning to sit in this garden, open to the lessons I guess I still need to learn. How curious our reluctance to let go of those tiresome wants, as if letting them go means forgetting and losing something precious in its entirety: better to hang on to a ragged fragment of something valuable than lose it all together.

Grief is the story of letting go. We mourn the loss of ourselves, of the people we love. Sting sang, "everybody's got to leave the darkness sometime," but the only way to get out of the darkness is by going through it and saying good-bye.

And you?

How have you learned to let go?

Unexpected Dreams

2011-05-16T07:00:00.002-04:00

When we were in high school, Little J and I would drive around trying to figure out life. I think we were following our instincts to stick together. Life was hard, we knew that much, but we hadn't gotten much farther than that. One of our go-to resources for beauty, truth and wisdom was Paul Simon. That's Paul "Bridge Over Troubled Water" Simon, not the Illinois senator. (And if you get that reference - credit: Charles Grodin - then we know you too are a super fan.)

I consider Simon one of the best poets of our time. He puts it all into graceful context, which lets us know we're not alone.

Today, Little J sent me this link. I feel all Jiminy Cricket-y inside just thinking this: maybe dreams really do come true.

Guest Post! Non-Nationals

2011-05-15T07:00:00.001-04:00

My dad's first cousin (my first cousin once removed? How does that work?), John, is a world traveler who i fascinated by observing life. The following was shortlisted for a literary competition last year. It's set at Christmastime, but I figure that the way life is, we could use a little Christmas, right this very minute. We'd appreciate your feedback.

Interested in writing a guest post? Click here for details how and drop me a line. Share with us!

Non-nationals

By John Mulligan

There's a rasthof about an hour south of Munich that does a decent Weiner Schnitzel. Good food isn't something you expect to find at a truck-stop, but this place does it well, with nice small boiled potatoes and a bit of parsley and butter on top. Like your mother used to make, if your mother was German.

The traffic was easing a bit, and apart from the long tailbacks behind the gritting trucks it was moving along fairly well. The digital thermometer on the dashboard read minus twelve; cold enough in anyone's language. He saw the sign for the rasthof and pulled carefully across towards the exit lane. A big plateful of the tasty battered pork and some good potatoes would be nice, maybe washed down with a beaker of strong coffee. That sounded like a plan.

The day was darkening rapidly, heavy snow clouds adding their greyness to the fading daylight. It wasn't actually snowing but there was a bitter cold fog that got right into your bones if you stood around. He pulled off the Autobahn and into the parking lot, past the twenty or so trucks that were still there, drivers dozing and waiting patiently until their tachographs gave them permission to proceed. It was a United Nations of a truck park, with plates from Italy, Hungary, Turkey, Poland and a few he didn't recognise. He drove slowly past the trucks and pulled into an empty space by the kerb, close to the rasthof doors.

He paused for a minute, reluctant to leave the warmth of the car. The young girl mistook his intentions and sidled up, saying something to him in German that he didn't understand, although he knew what she meant. She was shockingly young, a mere child. 'Go home to your mammy' he said, more in sorrow than in anger. He hoped that she would do just that, on this night at least.

She shuffled down between the trucks and was rewarded by the flash of an interior light from a big Scania with Italian plates. She climbed quickly up to the darkness of the truck cab with an agility that reminded him of a little girl climbing trees.

The slush and snow was frozen into a dangerously rutted and slippery mass that crunched under his feet as he got out of the car. He felt the sharp sting in his lungs from the freezing fog as he took a deep breath; the skin on his face burned in the cold air. Along the footpath, the intermittent ice was polished and treacherous; he picked his way carefully towards the warm glow of the single storey building, eyes on the ground to keep a safe footing.

The white-coated woman behind the counter was smiling, middle aged and welcoming. The Schnitzel was as he remembered it; like home cooking, warm and tasty. She spooned extra potatoes on to his plate; it would be quiet this evening, not many people on the road, and the food would go to waste otherwise.

He saw them arrive as he finished his dinner at the table by the window. They pulled up to the petrol pump in an old Passat estate that was sitting low on its springs; it's back stuffed with bags and suitcases. The man got out first, followed by the boy who had been sitting in the back. They were wearing leather jackets; the man in black, the boy in brown. The man had a black woollen cap pulled down to cover his ears; it was getting colder out there and their breath trailed behind them like smoke. The woman was in the passenger seat, her black hair mostly hidden by a headscarf that made her look older. She had a navy overcoat on her; she hugged herself against the cold but she didn't get out of the car.

The man peered at the prices on the pump; petrol is dearer on the Autobahn, you have to get off and into the towns to buy it at the normal price. He spoke to the boy and they put five euros worth in the tank. Inside the window, the watcher could imagine the conversation.

'That'll keep us going until we get across the border, it's cheaper there. The prices are just mad here, you'd need to be stuck to buy anything at a rasthof.'

The man screwed the top back on to the tank. The hinged flap was missing, and he double checked the cap to make sure that it was secure before heading towards the shop to pay for the fuel. The boy followed him towards the automatic door; the cold draught plucked at the ankles of the solitary diner as it slid open.

The man approached the counter while the boy browsed the periodicals on the rack. As his father returned he showed him a motoring magazine, pointing to the price in astonishment.

'Eight euros! Who would pay so much for an ould book?'

At least that's what he seemed to be saying; the man at the window table didn't speak Turkish though, so maybe he was wrong, but that seemed to be the gist of it.

Gastarbiten, that's what they are called. Guest workers who do the jobs that the local don't want, at wages that the locals won't work for. At home they are called non-nationals. They are like the Irish in England and America over so many years, hard-working people trying to save a stake to get ahead in their own mismanaged countries. Believing the stories of the people who came home for the holidays, loaded down with presents and driving cars, buying drinks and telling them how good it is in the new El Dorado.

'You wouldn't believe how much I make in Hamburg, Mustapha, on the buildings. We have our own car and an apartment, and the boy has a leather jacket. It's only a cod staying here, trying to scrape a living off a bit of land.'

He finished the food and went outside to the car, pausing for a minute to run through the headlines on the paper before setting off. There was plenty of time; he was booked on the last flight and it was still several hours away. The woman had emerged from the car and he could see that she was younger than he had first thought, probably no more than forty with shining hair peeking from under the multicoloured scarf. She was very attractive, once you saw past the careworn look. A typical Turkish beauty, like a picture of Mary from the bible. Mary came from Turkey, didn't she? He wondered whether Joseph had been a Turk as well, or had he been one of the gastarbiten, one of the non-nationals? They never tell you the whole story in school.

She headed towards the restrooms just beside where he had parked, but stopped short when she saw the stainless steel turnstile and the winking light above the two euro slot. The toilets are like the petrol; expensive on the autobahn.

Her husband fished in the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a coin; she smiled gratefully and turned back towards the turnstile. The man and the boy walked back to the field at the rear of the rasthof; no point in throwing money away. He saw them head towards the dark wooden shed with its thick capping of snow that stood in the middle of the field, about a hundred meters from the edge of the carpark. Two lines of footprints in the deep snow.

He didn't know what came over him, what led him to the Passat to unscrew the filler cap, thrusting the nozzle of the petrol pump into the neck of the tank and squeezing the trigger. The metal felt bitterly cold to his bare hands, the fuel gushed into the tank and the numbers clicked over. Ten, then twenty, then thirty. The dial seemed to be moving ever more slowly; he wanted it to hurry, he could see the man and boy emerge from behind the shed. A puff of smoke rose up from the father's cigarette as they stood in the snowy field and debated something, maybe nothing more than the fact that they had just saved themselves four euros.

At last, the meter reached fifty and he slotted the nozzle back in its holder, screwing the cap quickly on to the tank. His hands were shaking; he didn't want to be seen doing this crazy thing.

He heard the turnstile click as she came out of the bathrooms, smelling her hands; you get plenty of sprays and potions for your two euros. He was fumbling with the cap and didn't move away quickly enough and she saw him. She looked alarmed, frightened, clasping her hands in front of her mouth, but then she saw the fifty euro note in his hand and her expression changed from fear to puzzlement. He rushed through the sliding door and almost threw the money at the cashier.

She was looking at him strangely as he jumped into his car and started the engine. He was moving down the slip road as he dragged on his seatbelt; in the rear-view mirror he saw her waving urgently and calling to her husband and son. He accelerated hard and joined the empty autobahn at speed, so much so that he had to brake sharply a couple of hundred meters away to get down to the underpass and to cross to the other side.

He emerged from the tunnel and hit the north bound lane; he could see the rasthof approach on his left as he rejoined the autobahn. They were still there, mother, father and son, like Jesus, Mary and Joseph, huddled together and gesticulating in the direction he had gone; they didn't notice him passing them again on the other side of the motorway. Then he was in the darkness, away from the lights and he couldn't see them any more.

It would be good to get home; hotel nights and empty evenings can wear a bit thin. He checked his watch, there was time, but better be early than to miss the flight. He had no choice but to catch this one; there wouldn't be any flights tomorrow or the day after, and this would be the worst possible time of year to be stuck on your own in some hotel in Munich. It had started to snow again.

The airport was quiet; he had never seen it so peaceful. The girl at the check-in desk was friendly, smiling, and full of the joys of the day that was in it. She gave a cursory look at his passport and handed him the boarding pass.

'Have a good trip, sir, and a merry Christmas to you and your family.'

About the author:

Irish Writer, political commentator, hiker, human rights worker and lover of life! Past his sell-by date but doesn't know it yet. For more information about John and the books he has published, visit www.noplaceinthesun.com.

Find and Connect

2011-05-01T17:13:00.007-04:00

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In her book Taking the Leap, Pema Chodron encourages us to make friends with ourselves. Sure, this means making friends with the parts that are charming, lively, compassionate, but it also means making friends with your inner asshole. Admit it: you've got one. I do too. And I'm fascinated about how much energy I spend trying to escape that fact. Chodron and her teacher Chogyam Trungpa say our fears, particularly our fears of sitting with our true selves, promote separation. Rather than smiling at what is and engaging with the present moment, we prefer to pull inward, chase distractions, and avoid connections.

It is encouraging then to find someone who is operating at a higher level of spiritual awareness than this humble Flamingo. My friend, Sara, sent me this video of American classical composer and conductor, Eric Whitacre, speaking at a TED Conference (tagline: "ideas worth spreading"). There is so much here. For example, Whitacre followed his dreams by being open to an unexpected path that allowed his talent to flourish as it was meant to; we could talk a lot about that one. And here, he describes how he followed a spark of inspiration to create something that enriches the soul. The resulting project proves that in spite of our deepest fears which nudge us toward separation, "human beings will go to any lengths necessary to find and connect with each other."

Chodron assures us of this tremendous truth: we all have an essential core of goodness. What if we all tapped our inner wellspring of loving-kindness and inspired possibility? We don't have to guess at the outcome: Whitacre and his virtual choir show us.

I tried to embed the video from the TED Conference below, but I'm not sure it linked properly.

If not, try this link, which works for sure. It's 14 minutes long. Watch it anyway. To take Whitacre's phrase, it's an "electronic message in a bottle" to your best self.

Dear Alpana: Happy Birthday

2011-04-19T20:39:00.009-04:00

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Dear Alpana,

Tomorrow is your birthday. The one here, I mean. The one that we would celebrate with pink champagne. I saw you this time last year. The champagne flowed and the rain came down in endless sheets, granting permission for stillness and the intimacy of friends, Spirit Partners. There was so much in all that nothingness.

I know your soul's journey continues, but mine has only made halting progress without you. The other day I asked you for a breadcrumb: this is so hard, what am I doing, where am I going? The tiniest voice behind my ear said, "Sssshhhh. Keep going." And for a moment, my monkey mind was quiet.

My eternal quest for the next thing, the right thing, The Path, makes me anxious, especially since I always feel like I'm not doing enough or something right. Coming up short is an exhausting story. My myth: I "should" be doing something that has value, as if breathing didn't have value enough. A search for profundity ignores the fact of the profound in, well, most everything. I'm thinking your birthday gift to me is, once again, permission to be still. My gift to you is to reaffirm our promise to be Spirit Partners, to journey, to learn. I just miss doing that without you here, Little One.

Your birthday is in Spring. This is good. It's a time of renewal. It's a time when wonders burst from hidden things. I'm going to try to sit with it, sit with permission to myself to be still. Quietude is a mountain for me, so I reckon this will take some work, but it is work you taught me so much about tackling. The mindfulness of Spring is the mindfulness of you.

Happy birthday, Little One.

Love,

Catherine

Guest Post! Life: An Amazing Waltz

2011-04-01T07:00:00.004-04:00

It's time for another guest post, my fine feathered friends. Litachiquita is coming into her own with her unique brand of humor and appreciation. We'd love your feedback.

Interested in writing a guest post? Click here for details and drop me a line. Share with us!

Life: An Amazing Waltz

by Litachiquita

from the blog For Serious Batman

I'm halfway round the world, wondering how on earth I got here. Let's see...I remember boarding at JFK (or was it Newark?? dang.), changing planes in LA, and landing in Sydney. I remember picking up a rental car and beginning the 12 hour trek up the coast, heading towards Brisbane and an old friend's wedding. I remember all of it, but what I still could not figure out is how I landed HERE, in this particular moment.

I am traveling with my husband and we have stopped for the night in the sweet town of Bellingen, NSW. My husband had never visited the country before, so I had laid out a pretty industrious itinerary for showing him as much as we could in a 7 day window.

Bellingen is part of what's known as the "Waterfall Way" and is nestled into a rain forest - what I figured would be a nice change of pace from the cities and the seaside towns that made up the majority of our trip. I had booked us into a funky little hostel that had great vibes in all the reviews, and was really looking forward to doing some exploration in a part of Australia I'd never been before.

We arrive with our usual amount of bickering in the car, and then set out to explore the tiny town. We have dinner at the local typical Australian pub/hotel, and I say something deemed snarky or stupid, and I find myself left at a table before our food arrives, with a husband storming off back to our hostel - at 6pm. I go for a walk to let things cool off, and when I return to our room, the lights are off, there is a half eaten pizza on the floor, and my husband is asleep. At 7pm. I am at a loss, but this isn't the first time I have found myself in this situation. I feel awkward bopping around the hostel by myself, and I'm still kinda jet lagged so I just admit defeat and crawl into bed next to my indifferent other half.

After staring at the ceiling for a good half an hour trying to figure out where exactly everything has gone wrong, someone in the hostel sits down to the piano in the common room and begins to play. It's a beautiful, mournful song, and one that I recognize. I wrack my brain.....aha! It's from Amelie:

As I lay there listening to this gorgeous mini-concert (husband laying unmoved next to me), this is what is going through my head: "OH MY GOD! THIS MUSIC IS AMAZING! I can't believe I'm HERE! On the other side of the universe! Life is so wonderful! There are so many beautiful things EVERYWHERE! At every turn, in every crappy moment, there is something phenomenal happening, and this guy? This guy is missing ALL of them."

Ok, so just for clarification's sake, I am not some new-age nut job, and I don't walk around in a haze petting squirrels and making daisy chains. But come on, most everyone I know - even if touched by setbacks - has a pretty damn good life (1 in every 6 people on earth entered the 21st century unable to read a book - so if you can read, your life already falls into the PDG category) and I think it's pretty important for us all to recognize that.

So I get out of bed and follow the music downstairs (after putting some pants on, let's not frighten the children!), bringing a book for company. I then sit there for the next hour, listening to a fellow traveler treat a handful of people to a night of music. And it was fantastic.

Fast forward a month, and I am waiting for the G train at the Metropolitan stop with my husband. A busker playing the accordion, who is there frequently, begins to play.....

The same beautiful song!

A smile breaks out across my face as I recall the magical moment of having a stranger perform the same song for me while sitting on a porch amidst a rain forest on the other side of the world - this song bringing together these two universes so far apart from one another. I turn to my husband, wanting to share my smile, but he is glaring down the tracks, impatiently awaiting our train. Not a hint of recognition that he, too, was serenaded by this song before. He didn't experience the moment I did. You pick a partner because you think you've found someone to SHARE with, but sometimes you can be with someone and discover you're really not sharing anything at all. On the subway tracks, the voice returned: "This is AMAZING! This moment is so beautiful, and we are so lucky to be entertained as we wait for the stupid, crappy, never arriving G train."

That was all 8 months ago. After a million more this is awesome!!! moments that went unnoticed or flat out rebuked by my husband, I decided I would be better off experiencing my awesome!!! moments alone, as that is what I was essentially already doing. And as difficult a conclusion that was to come to, I am so much better for it. So I think we should all take a moment to seriously consider this statement by comedian Louis C.K.: everything is amazing and nobody's happy. (This is the best clip in the history of ever, so please watch it.)

He says, "Next time the internet isn't working on your plane, just take a moment to step back and realize "WOW!!! We are FLYING!!!!" And maybe next time you're waiting for that G train that never comes, you'll be more attuned to the random acts of amazing that are happening around you :)

And you? What's one of your "this is awesome!!!" moments?

About the author:

Litachiquita spent her childhood bopping around Europe, being forced to go to boring museums and stuffy antique stores. Fittingly, she grew up to be a museum/cultural administrator, and now loves hanging out at the Brooklyn Flea. She likes laughing more than anything, and recently downloaded an auto-tuner app on her phone and recommends you all do the same. She always had a love for writing, but this is her first ever blog, so please, be gentle! - Until she started her own blog of stories about "life through funny colored glasses" called For Serious Batman. Head on over there.

Day 1

2011-03-22T19:06:00.008-04:00

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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

2011-03-18T11:18:00.008-04:00

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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

2011-03-15T07:00:00.001-04:00

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

2011-03-14T07:00:00.005-04:00

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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

2011-03-13T12:28:00.016-04:00

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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

2011-03-12T11:39:00.018-05:00

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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

2011-03-11T17:08:00.010-05:00

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

2011-03-09T07:00:00.002-05:00

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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

2011-03-08T07:00:00.001-05:00

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

2011-03-07T07:00:00.014-05:00

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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

2011-03-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

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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

2011-03-05T10:33:00.019-05:00

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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

2011-03-04T01:56:00.005-05:00

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

2011-03-03T07:00:00.001-05:00

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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

2011-03-02T07:00:00.004-05:00

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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

2011-03-01T07:00:00.011-05:00

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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.
INTERESTED IN WRITING A GUEST POST? CLICK HERE FOR THE RULES OF THE ROAD, THEN SEND ME AN EMAIL AT THE ADDRESS ON THE LEFT HAND SIDE OF THE PAGE. SHARE WITH US!

Every Hour

2011-02-28T07:00:00.003-05:00

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I have a desk calendar of daily quotes meant to inspire and calm. I need all the help I can get. The other day, I flipped the page and found this:

"To me, every hour of the day and night

is an unspeakably perfect miracle."

~ Walt Whitman

I'm certain I shall burn for this, but I have to confess that part of me thought doubtfully, "every hour?"

With my apologies to Mr. Whitman, sometimes my barbaric yawp is less than miraculous. In fact, it is often less yawp than uncertain mewling. Or anxious hiccough. Or pushed-to-the-edge-of-anger-and-annoyance snort. (I live in New York City; that last one can happen up to 12 times on a single subway ride.) It's easy to grasp the miracle of a moment when you have the presence of mind to "loafe and lean...observing a spear of summer grass." But sometimes I feel like I'm just huffing through the day, arriving exhausted at the night.

Oh, I don't mean I'm ungrateful, but seriously. Life is difficult. (Again, quoting my mother - all together now - "You're goddam right it is!!") Am I to understand you correctly, Mr. Whitman, that you want me to acknowledge even the shitty moments as miraculous? This mindfulness thing is going to be harder than I thought.

This is when I need Alpana. The woman was far from precious. She sounded her barbaric yawp with very little timidity. And that was pre-cancer. She was a devoted practitioner of mindfulness. She lived with emotional honesty, which is what brings the miracle to the moment.

Her cancer symptoms and effects of chemo were, in short, brutal. Painful, embarrassing, and terribly inconvenient, these indications had the power to render her crabby, short tempered, and bitterly annoyed. Yet, she wanted to stay here - with us, with wine, with possibilities - so she pushed through those moments on into a more aware state.

The last time I saw her was on a girls' weekend retreat at the beach house. On the first night, the rain came down in buckets, and I almost burned the house down trying to roast a chicken. Still, the wine flowed and we tried to overlook the dry state of the salvaged chicken. The next day, however, did not start in a blissfully miraculous way. Alpana came downstairs and declared, "I am so fucking dehydrated" (a significant problem, given her specific illness and treatment). She hooked up an IV bag of her critical fluids and lay down on the living room floor under the ceiling fan to cool off.

Lesson: The moment does not have to feel good in order to be miraculous.

The bag of fluids and our subsequent hearty breakfast energized us. Calm ensued. We turned on Latin music. We broke out the colored pencils to color and sketch while we talked. Around 2:00PM, Alpana said, "I think it's time to break out the sparkling rose'."

Lesson: Everything is just a moment, each replacing the last.

(Bonus Lesson: Sparkling Rose' can improve most moments.)

She might have squabbled with Walt Whitman if she thought he were being too cute about it, but I believe Alpana did find every moment miraculous, even the crummy ones. She strove to be here, present and thoughtful, for however many days or nights would be granted to her: yes, friends, every hour.

Lesson:

Be where you are with your full attention and an open heart,

and every hour becomes miracle.

There's hope for me yet, Mr. Whitman.

And you? How do you find the miraculous in every hour?

How to Fix It

2011-02-27T07:00:00.002-05:00

It's true: I love me some Armageddon. A merry band of losers led by Bruce Willis is sent to space to embed a nuclear bomb in a meteor that is coursing straight toward earth. Blow up the rock in time, it will blast in half and miss the earth; miss the mark, and the earth is vaporized. What? It's totally plausible.

Due to a variety of technical difficulties, Brave Bruce will have to forfeit himself on the meteor by manually detonating the bomb. He hurries his mates to take off in their space shuttle and fly home, which will still be there thanks to his sacrifice, but in an 11th hour wrinkle, the rocket ship won't start. Ack!

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is the Russian cosmonaut's solution to this most unfortunate mechanical malfunction:

How often have you observed a problem in your life with frustration, after having tried what you think is everything possible to fix things, and you just wish that you could smash the thing with a giant wrench, screaming,

"THIS IS HOW WE FIX PROBLEM ON RUSSIAN SPACE STATION!"

Imagine your relief and satisfaction if such an approach worked! You'd be on your way home. And you'd have done it all by yourself with the benefit of a little anger release in the process.

Alas...

May I offer you an alternative approach, as supplied by writer and faith proclaimer Anne Lamott? She says, "Here are the two best prayers I know: 'Help me, help me, help me' and 'Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Said often enough, with openness, sincerity, and surrender, I suspect they are more powerful that a nuclear bomb and as effective as a Russian wrench. Give it a go. You're not out of options yet.

And you? Are you more Wrench or Prayer?

The Mayor

2011-02-26T01:41:00.002-05:00

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There is a man who sits on the corner West 71st Street and Columbus Avenue in Manhattan. He is an elderly African American man with watery eyes and a limp. He sits in front of the senior center, where I imagine he spends his days. His chair is more like a walker with wheels and a little bench for a perch. He sits on the sunny side of the street. I see him there almost every morning on my way to the subway.

On cold days, he wears an orange knit cap with cock's comb of soft orange spikes. He sits there on even the coldest days. "I'm a survivor!" he says, when you comment on the cold. Yesterday, he told me, "That's not rain. That's liquid sunshine!" The only days I haven't seen him there are the ones with heavy snow and wind: survivors know when to take shelter.

Often, he has the New York Times in hand, but mostly, he greets his neighbors as we walk by. "Have a safe and pleasant day" or "Enjoy this most perfect day." He pets all the dogs, who seem to know him, and he acknowledges all the children: "You are the future of our world!"

I do not know his name, but for his friendly ways, I think of him as The Mayor of New York. I don't know how old he is but with all this good natured hand-shaking and baby-kissing, I imagine this Mayor could live to be a hundred fifty years old. That's the power of a good attitude and an understanding of the importance of connectivity with the bigger world and our fellow inhabitants.

The other day he was sitting a little closer to the actual corner than usual, so he was directly facing the crosswalk. He was reading the paper, but he looked up as I began to cross the road, walking straight toward him. I smiled and waved. He waved back, and when I got closer he said,

"You emit goodness."

The impact of the words felt a little like the sparkle of Pop Rocks when they hit your tongue - all silly sweetness and giddy delight.

But it didn't take long for that chorus of voices we all carry with us to pipe in with judgments and criticisms. Humorist and motivational speaker Loretta LaRoche calls these voices The Committee. Here's what my committee had to say:

The Historian: "This is historically inaccurate information. I have volumes of data that prove she has done the wrong things enough times to cancel out any perceived 'goodness.'"

The Logistician: "It does not follow that she could emit goodness, considering all the evidence to the contrary."

The Scientist: "Empirically speaking, the only thing she could possibly be emitting is CO2. And that's poisonous."

Then, this small voice: "What if he's right?"

Loretta LaRoche instructs that we should ignore our committees. So, I considered the import of that approach.

What if it's true that at our core, we all have a light of goodness? What if we pay attention to that light and tend to it with the same attention and care that we so often give our committees? What if we allow it to shine?

What assumptions or stories about ourselves would we have to give up in order to make room for this new, better story? And why are those old and crabby stories so hard to release?

If a stranger walking down the street were pulled into your aura, what would he experience? If we can flake off the hard shell formed by years of listening to The Committee, would we feel lighter and brighter and would that feeling bless those in our paths? Are we brave enough to make that change?

I know this: while my logical left brain was toiling to puzzle through this philosophical crisis of confidence, my right brain jumped for joy at The Mayor's comment. The soul delights in acknowledgement. Sometimes it takes a stranger in an orange hat to get through. Shall we listen? Let's try it. We're survivors too.

And you? What has made your soul jump for joy lately?

Wanted: Guest Posts!

2011-02-25T08:24:00.003-05:00

The very day I decided to recommit to regular posts here, a blogger who was new to me reached out via email and asked if she could guest post here. It got me thinking:

So many of you have sent me thoughtful and heartfelt emails in response to something you have read here. Why not share those with other readers?

The parameters are broad:

The Flamingo Room is my little effort to create positivity in the world. It is a place to muse on the tough stuff with compassion. Given the comments and emails I receive, I suspect positivity and compassion are in short supply these days. So, let's create more!

Write about anything you want, using the above as your platform. You don't have to be a blogger or a writer (remember: I'm an insurance underwriter). Anonymous posts or Nom de Plumes are fine if you're shy.

Interested? Drop me a line at the email address on this page (see the link on your left).

I figure this game of life is a collaborative effort. Come on over and add your voice.

Earthquakes

2011-02-24T07:00:00.000-05:00

Lately, I have been having a lot of dreams about earthquakes. I've had three or four in the past two weeks. This is what my tiny little mind conjures up: in times of uncertainty, I dream about earthquakes.*

I really wish that I were dreaming about this:

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Instead, my clever, clever brain thinks deep, deep thoughts...and comes up with something...completely unoriginal. Still, I have to admit, maybe my dreams are trying to help me out here.

The emotional, spiritual realm is an uneasy place, all tectonic plates and shifting sands. When the ground shimmies there, it can leave the whole enterprise feeling buckled and unsteady. And there's so much to do in the Real World - pay the bills, walk the dog, buy milk, pick up the kids - that it can feel like too much work to go deep. Who has the time and energy to repair the foundation?

In my dreams, I'm running around a house trying to remember what to do in case of an earthquake. It feels like the earthquake page has been torn from of my inner Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook. I can remember what to do if an alligator charges (run in a zip zag pattern!) or if buried by an avalanche (spit in the snow then dig!), but I can't remember the earthquake rules. Still, I'm trying to explain to everyone else in the dream that hiding in a closet is not a prudent choice.

Maybe the dream itself is the page from the Spiritual Survival Handbook. It's saying, pay attention to the foundation. Here are the action items I've decided on:

Simplify -

Now is time to conserve emotional energy. Take care of yourself - body and mind - and keep up with the basics (we still have to pay the bills), but dismiss narcissists, manipulators, losers. Let them feed on someone else's energy.

Play -

Find some way to engage your logical left brain so your right brain has a chance to relax. Problem solving happens there when our creative brain can dance. A box of crayons distracts the ego and colors in the jagged edges of our nerves.

Pray -

This is the critical aspect of spiritual surrender. Name the problems that are out of your control then turn them over to the good universe. Mad at God? Don't believe? That's ok. That's not really your issue right now. Don't seek an outcome, just seek help.

These are hardly revelatory. I would be bored with myself if I weren't so busy trying to keep my footing. In shaky times, focus on the foundation and shore it up with the basic building blocks. Then dream of more serene future.

And you? What actions do you take in uncertain times?

*As I was finishing up this post, I read about Tuesday's actual earthquake in New Zealand. You lovely Kiwis are in my thoughts and prayers.

Toward Authenticity

2011-01-03T22:00:00.013-05:00

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The New York Times' year end retrospective on people who left us in 2010 included a piece about the actress Lynn Redgrave. The article explains how she always was overshadowed by her famous family and "never quite fit into the patrician lineage that was hers." Rather, her best work as an actress came from her own soul spring which fed her "search of subtle, private truths."

Ah, Authenticity. May we all come to you in our own way in 2011.

If that seems a daunting goal, consider this quote by Lynn Redgrave:

"There is no such thing as a 'small life' as far as I'm concerned."

Sometimes it can feel like if we're not Wolfgang Mozart, William Shakespeare, Warren Buffet, Meryl Streep, Michael Jordan or whomever represents excellence in the realm of our talents, we can wonder if our talents are big enough to be important. We even might doubt the veracity of our callings, no matter what the universe is trying to tell us we must do to reach our own "subtle, private truths."

When we lay down the weight of expectations or comparisons, we're left with ourselves. This is good news since we have everything we need to accomplish our best "stuff", big or small. I thank Ms. Redgrave for reminding us.

And you? What's your subtle truth?

Bring Your Camera

2010-12-27T15:22:00.024-05:00

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Many years ago, a friend of mine was looking for a way to help her husband out of a funky rut. A well-meaning friend suggested he attend a workshop by The Landmark Forum, an educational enterprise aimed at teaching participants the tools they need to build "an extraordinary life." The friend was an enthusiastic devotee, having attended numerous workshops and having earned certification as a Landmark instructor. The husband was dubious, but he agreed to go. My ex offered to join him.

The outing was an unmitigated, hilarious disaster.

With all due respect, these two gentlemen - both now ex-husbands - were depressive alcoholics with rage issues and a commitment to their shared belief that the world was against them. Accountability was not their strong suit. Still, I do give them credit for giving it a try irrespective of how opened or closed their minds were about it.

They stayed for the morning session before demanding their money back and running straight for the bar. To hear them tell it, the workshop was peopled by losers looking for a magic spell to transform their loser lives. The group spent the morning sharing their dreams for the future. My favorite was this flaky gem:

"It is my life long dream to be a photographer!....But I always forget to bring my camera with me..."

As I think about my own potential for sea change in 2011, I confess: I worry about being that guy! Oh, I'm a fan of therapy and open to life-coachy methods of self-improvement, but how committed am I to putting my proverbial money where my mouth is? I've got lots of good ideas and lists of action items and hoped for outcomes, but I sometimes struggle in the action department.

I recently attended a conference where one of the speakers was Warren McDonald, a mountain climber and motivational speaker who lost his legs in an accident several years ago. 10 months after the double above-the-knee amputation, he was back to climbing. Among his many accomplishments since then is a successful climb up Mount Kilimanjaro. (Incidentally, one of companions on that climb was a man who was born without arms. What's your excuse?) One of his answers to the inevitable question "how?" is that he reminds himself to only think about the stage immediately in front of him. Don't think about the summit or the magnitude of what you're trying to accomplish; only think one step at a time.

Whether it's The Landmark Forum, the college class, the mountain climbing lesson, the important thing is the open-hearted decision to start followed by the first step.

In short, bring your camera.

And you? What will your first step be?

It's Time

2010-12-26T13:03:00.026-05:00

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As we hurtle toward year end, the urge to set (and keep) New Year's resolutions looms large. Typically, I give up before I even start, but this year, I'm giving more thoughtful consideration to the possibility of long-term change.

When I nuked my entire life in 2007, I was exhilarated and terrified by the rush of change. It was a mad river ride: I was hanging on for dear life but oddly calm in the knowledge that I was heading in the right direction. During 2010 though, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had ground to a halt. Whether real or perceived, stagnation is annoying. Now I'm wondering if change has to occur as the result of a giant disaster or well-timed detonation of a land mine. I hope not, but I'm bewildered about where to start.

Inspirations abound:

My friend, Lisa, is a goal setting machine. Example: she headed into 2010 with the aim of running a half marathon in Jordan. She booked the flights, trained through the snowy winter, and finished the run to the Dead Sea even when the race organizers ran out of water between miles 3-7. One of her goals for 2011 is running a full marathon in Capetown, South Africa! She'll do it too.

The graceful goals set by Colleen over at Newvine Growing are more affirmations of the ideal life than stringent To Do list. Her strategy is deceptively simple: envision your life as you want it to be then go do it. I've got the vision part down, but I get tangled in my good intentions. Not Colleen. For example, she is well on her way to being able to play a song on the piano by her next birthday. She practices on her iPad piano app (with headphones) while commuting on the subway! This takes my breath away.

What the hell is stopping me?

When I pare back the excuses (and I've got all the usual ones), I come face-to-face with my ego. Change threatens our sense of safety. For me, my sense of self-worth can get tied up with my need for perfection. I'm impatient with the learning process, and although I've lived through major failure so it no longer scares me, I still struggle to give myself the chance to try. If I'm not good at it immediately, says my ego, then I should just stay put.

I was trying to explain some of this mess to Lisa recently, when she offered this as permission to my soul to speak freely: "How about being human today and being perfect another day?"

It's a bell of mindfulness. Here is my New Year's resolution! Give the head a break and the heart a chance. Try. Embrace growing pains if only because they are the stretch of spirit muscles that brings us through today without the violence of a landmine forcing us into tomorrow. Surrendering my need for perfection might just free up some time to work on being human.

And you? What's your resolution?

For What You're Worth

2010-12-17T11:23:00.007-05:00

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In Garrison Keillor's estimation, "The Little Drummer Boy" is the world's worst Christmas carol. He said so at last night's taping of A Prairie Home Companion. True, there are some crummy versions of it out there like all carols, but I have to say I like it.

In the rush of the holiday season, we scrabble around to meet expectations. Have we been good enough for Santa? With a secret sigh, we wonder if we haven't fallen short.

"The Little Drummer Boy" reminds us of our inherent worth. What we bring to the world is enough. Click HERE to watch a video of a beautiful version of the song by Josh Groban, just in case you need a little holiday reminder: your soul's gifts are worthy of kings and queens!

A Revolution

2010-12-04T13:31:00.032-05:00

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A few weeks ago, I heard Condoleezza Rice speak at a conference. The theme of the event was "Blazing New Trails." The former Secretary of State approached the theme by discussing the global economy, which countries would lead it forward and which would not be up to the task. In talking about countries that restrict their citizens' civil liberties, including communication and press, Dr. Rice said, "They all fear their Ceausescu moment."

She went on to give a brief description of the seminal moment in the Romanian Revolution when a crowd turned on the totalitarian leader Nicolae Ceausescu. When he tried to escape via helicopter, the pilot turned around and delivered Ceausescu and his wife to the crowd. Both were executed. Dr. Rice said that all totalitarian regimes know that the people's will can simmer and grow until it demands freedom.

My tiny little mind made a connection here: so it is with the soul.

The soul is a light seeking entity. It longs for authenticity and stretches toward the easy freedom of the life we're each called to live. But the ego is our inner tyrant, and it always amazes me how much control the ego can successfully exert over our souls. We know who we long to be, and yet, we fight it, constantly tamping down our true callings.

The Ceausescu metaphor is not one I make lightly. The Romanian Revolution's precedents, actual events, and after effects were traumatic and violent. The cruelties of poverty have no doubt made a lasting impression on the cultural memory of the Romanian people. Still, I can't help but think how often we force ourselves to live in such spiritual poverty that only a truly tumultuous, perhaps almost violent, event will set us on a path to recovering the soul's worth.

An example comes to mind: an old friend has struggled with alcoholism for going on 30 years. After a broken marriage, a serious legal issue, unemployment, a near death experience, a painful detox, and 2 months of inpatient treatment, he got sober. That is to say, he was not drinking. I couldn't help but notice however, that he never really seemed to let go of the need for alcohol and the role it played in helping him avoid his true self.

After a year of sobriety, he recently fell off the wagon. His loneliness and desire for connection, roots, a family, are palpable; his true self longs for forgiveness and acceptance. My theory? He is still obeying his Ceausescu, hanging on to the one thing that's keeping him from realizing everything that is possible for him. He still believes he is not worth it, so he marches to his tyrant's demands. Who knows what his "Ceausescu Moment" might need to be, but one can imagine that a cataclysm is required.

That is a dramatic example, but I suspect many others come to mind: Putting up with jealousy in a relationship because we're afraid to be alone. Settling for someone who is nice but who is not a true emotional well-spring. Waiting for "the right time." Hating a job but never looking for a new one because we doubt a better situation could exist. And the list goes on, joined by its attendant excuses about why change is an impossibility (when the soul knows it is not).

Maybe together we can sit quietly and acknowledge our deepest hurts and hopes and release them with trust in a benevolent universe. Even if you don't believe in God or a benevolent universe, there still seems to be little use in keeping hurts and hopes in a vice grip.

There is freedom in the release of excuses and "if only's". Letting go and listening for the distant cries of our intuition is at once revolutionary and peaceful. An honest accounting and compassionate acceptance of what our souls demand can be the moment we overthrow our egos and listen to our hearts. Our moment of revolution can be right now.

And you? What might your personal revolution look like?

Dear Alpana

2010-11-21T16:49:00.017-05:00

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Dear Alpana,

This spirit journey through grief is a strange one. How I wish we could share notes...

You are with me every time I yank myself back to mindfulness. And I appreciate the nudges as well. I am relieved to know you are as bold on the other side as you were on this one. For example:

After you went to hospice, my Andy offered to come downtown to meet me for lunch, a friendly face to ease the anxiety of the vigil, especially since I was almost brand new at my job. We were walking back to the office around the same time you passed away, but the news had not reached me yet. We turned a corner and found we were walking behind two grown ups and a little girl. She wore a purple dress with a bold floral print. Her little brown head was almost bald, that trait of folks who have to endure chemotherapy. Still, she had the bounce in her step characteristic of children, for whom the present moment is enough. I said to my Andy, "Look! It's a mini Alpana!"

Thank you for including lower Manhattan as a stop on your high speed spirit course that day. I wish I knew what you might need from me now as the soul's journey continues.

This is the grateful season. The season of light and prayers for peace. I'm ushering it in with more tiredness than ambivalence, trying to keep an open heart and mind. I have feeling I'm waiting on a sign, a course of action, but I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Maybe twinkling lights on trees will illuminate a secret that's been waiting for us in full view.

Your grace is a beacon.

xoxo

Catherine

Contest! Guest post from Newvine Growing

2010-11-16T23:14:00.003-05:00

My sweet friend, Colleen, continues to spread goodwill as well as fun to read blog posts (which is more than your lame little Flamingo here can seem to muster these days). So, I wanted to alert you to her two contests regarding a favorite topic: GRATITUDE! Here it is... (and the link if you need it)

What are you grateful for? Contest #2

November 13, 2010 — Colleen Newvine Tebeau

I'm grateful for my morning cup of coffee. Are you grateful for the perfect espresso? Here's a celebration of espresso painted by my artist hubby, John Tebeau.

A week ago, I asked who you’re grateful for and some of the great responses that came in ranged from “my husband” to “my daughter’s bus driver.”

There’s still time to enter that contest – and now let’s add another to the mix.

Besides the people you’re grateful for, what inanimate objects are you grateful for? What things make your life better?

My list ranges from farmers market to my morning cup of coffee, from my favorite shoes to my iPad, from our super-comfortable bed to our well-equipped kitchen. That’s just a start because I have a lot to be grateful for.

Tell me what you’re grateful for and you might win a gift basket of things I’m grateful for.

Comment on this blog post telling me what you’re grateful for and why, and I’ll choose my favorite and send you a sampling of some of my favorite things – probably some coffee and dried fruit from my amazing neighborhood grocery store, Sahadi’s; a CD or two from favorite bands; maybe a kitchen gadget or two. I’ll assemble my little goodie box based on what inspires me and what seems appropriate for the winner.

Both contests close on Nov. 20 – you’re welcome to enter either or both and to submit multiple entries.

I’ll make my selection based on the sincerity of your gratitude, the reasons you give, creativity and originality. YouTube videos, photo slide shows and any other form of submission are welcome, in addition to good old fashioned text.

I Do Believe in Spooks

2010-10-31T13:53:00.014-04:00

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It's Halloween. Little ghouls and goblins are gathering to celebrate a night where we face and even embrace that basic instinct: fear. Devotees of horror films maybe are an exception to this, but I think most of us try to avoid fear and the goopy stuff of life that promotes it.

Last night, I had a conversation with a woman who shared with me that she stayed in a relationship longer than she should have because she was afraid of any other alternative, particularly, the unknown. I know the feeling. Who doesn't?

That prickle of fear that we sometimes push down is a warning signal. Hairs standing up on the back of the neck can indicate a change of course is necessary: Dial down the emotional vampire of a friend. Get a second opinion. Follow a new career path. Leave.

Still, I'm ceaselessly amazed at the amount of energy and tenacity we display in avoiding the truth behind the fear. Teeth ground down to nubs while we try to make the wrong thing work are a remarkably common phenomenon.

Maybe Halloween is just the holiday we need to take us out of our tunnel vision so we can bring our fears into the open, sit with them in a friendly, compassionate way, and stay open to new possibilities without forcing an expected outcome. Tomorrow is All Souls Day, when we can pray for direction, but today, bring courage to your fears. Happy Halloween!

And you? What's your approach to fear?

Visions in the Dust

2010-10-28T06:42:00.000-04:00

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We have a stack of magazines in our already too-small living room. At first, we kept them in the wrong-headed, though well-intentioned, belief that we might actually finish reading them cover to cover. Then I read this article by Martha Beck regarding vision boards. Maybe the answer lay in a crafty project that would serve as a visual cosmic want ad?

I dragged my patient Andy to an art supply shop for a square of poster board in the perfect shade of blue to represent my ideal future. I started clipping and pasting. I found lovely photos and phrases that represent my hopes. Then, I got a new job, got busy, and stuck the thing in the dusty place that is the mother of all storage for apartment dwellers: under the sofa.

But these things have a way of nagging, even from under the dust, and, per the usual, for inspiration I didn't have to look farther than my circle of friends. Remember Colleen over at Newvine Growing? Her charming husband, John, an artist, created a custom vision board in the form of a painting for her! She is living the dream with trips to New Orleans and piano lessons. (Go on over to her blog to see the painting and what I mean.)

So...in an effort to open up creative space for myself, I have pulled out my vision board again. It won't be anywhere near as beautiful or clever as John Tebeau's painting, but I'm counting on the universe to pick up my earnestness and subtly ignore any shimmering vibes of fear I might emanate. One picture glued to the board will, I hope, unstick one lingering doubt from my mind. And so I might construct a wide open future.

Maybe all I'm doing is winnowing down a pile of old publications, but what's wrong with giving voice to a dream or two in the process? Wish me luck.

And you? Have you ever tried this?

How do you feel about the Universal Law of Attraction?

Buenos Aires, my True Home?

2010-10-27T07:00:00.000-04:00

photo from the Buenos Aires Board of Tourism

I'm beginning to think the universe is sending me messages that I must move to Argentina.

Blame it on Tipper Gore. I fell in love with her photo of two Argentine youths mugging for the camera back when I was newly separated, living with my parents, unsure of the future, and clipping items I adored from magazines. The clipping of this photograph - all joy and teal light - secured a place of pride on my Wish List, where it remains since the Mitchell Gold + Bob Williams price for a framed version of it is something like $2,900 (one day, my friends, one day...).

While the photograph might have been written off as a random objet d'amour, the evidence has been mounting that Buenos Aires might be my true home.

Last year, Smithsonian Magazine published this article about how Buenos Aires has become a damn fine place for expats. A good exchange rate? "Time and space" as noted by a New York City transplant? A vibrant food scene? Yes, please!

Over the weekend, we met some friends for dinner at an Argentine spot in Brooklyn, El Almacen. I'm officially hooked. One of our friends is a native of Buenos Aires. She said that a day there might involve getting to work around 10am, followed by a coffee break then lunch around 3pm, then another coffee before leaving work at 6pm. Dinner is late, later, and latest, with an 11pm or midnight start and 3am finish being nothing. Although our dinner here was at a more tame time of 8pm, it turns out, the rhythms of Buenos Aires fit my natural rhythms perfectly!

The atmosphere in El Almacen was cozy, friendly, and unhurried. Our friend and her American husband said that service in Argentina is like this across the board, from cafe to fine dining. We shared a feast of calamari with plantains and radishes, empanadas, steak, sweetbreads (we love that stuff), sausage, and truffled fries. Wash it down with some delish wine, the sway of the tango playing all around you, and you're ready to buy your one way ticket to the Southern Hemisphere.

It probably makes sense for me to refocus on my Spanish studies and actually take a trip to Argentina before committing to anything, but for now, armchair travel is a nifty solution to malaise, stress, or a vague longing for home. And I can always save my pennies for that Tipper Gore photo.

And you? Do you ever daydream about a new place to call home?

The Right to Be

2010-10-26T06:16:00.000-04:00

Central Park

June 2007

I was so pleased on a recent Friday night finally to be able to bring my Andy to an old haunt from my days in Boston. This one holds happy memories, lit with tiny white Christmas lights wrapped around hanging crab traps and the glow of a wood stove fire in the winter (not to mention the spicy goodness of locally brewed beer). We opted to eat at the bar rather than waiting for a table in the crowded dining room, and a friendly couple from Texas offered to scoot over to make room for us.

They chattered breezily to each other, to the bartender, to us. They asked for advice about places to see and eat in Boston. We compared Bloody Mary tastes - spicy! extra olives! We talked about Texas college football (okay, that was the boys).

By the time I offered the wife to share the hook under the bar to hang her handbag, we were old pals. Her purse was unzipped, and I reminded her that she was in a city now, so zip it up, girl. I realized that my cautious approach has been informed more by my 6 years in The Big Apple than my previous 8 in Beantown. (I also noted the irony that if I had been ill-intentioned and sticky-fingered, I could have told her to share the hook only to rob her.) I told her that I'm just more aware of open handbags and wallets and iPhones in plain sight now that I live in New York City.

Per the usual, the news of where we live generated a vigorous response.

Picture a middle-aged couple with Texan accents speaking in rapid fire tandem:

"We were just there for four days...

...Times Square!...

...It was crazy there...

...I mean, it's nice to visit...

...Yes, nice to visit...

...But I don't see how anyone could live there...

...Well, I'm sure it's not all like Times Square, but..."

And, then. It came. The inevitable:

"When I try to imagine what it was like on 9/11..."

This is a familiar course of conversation with friendly folks who like to visit our fair city but are anxious to leave its frenzied dance. They don't want to offend, but they struggle to disguise their mild shock and borderline horror that we can live there. Here, we typically point out that we don't live in Times Square, an important distinction when talking with good people who think it's all like Midtown. Then, they turn with reverence to a topic beyond any comprehension.

I know they want to talk about the events of 9/11 in part out of solidarity in the memory of an event that rocked our national psyche. I know that they have the human need to process details and share "I heard" stories in a vain attempt to create a space where any of it makes sense (it doesn't, it can't). But it always makes me uncomfortable.

I usually point out that this is a topic that I, for one, try to keep at bay because I have to move through targeted streets, ride the Subway, and work in a building next to the World Trade Center site and just around the corner from the heavily guarded U.S. Stock Exchange. Danger of a stolen wallet is, perhaps, the least of our worries, but it is, after all, more in our control. Friendly visitors usually don't get the hint to change the subject, and my Andy (who did live in NYC then) and I (who did not) always oblige their sympathies with "uh huh's" of understanding and urgently insistent examples of why we love it here.

New York is a weird place with greedy people, with flaky people, with erudite people. As the list of "types" of people grows in my mind, it occurs to me that your town likely has the same kind of people. We live piled on top of each other here, which is sometimes annoying, sometimes scary, but often is just...whatever. For example, newly single friends in the suburbs talk about how hard and uncomfortable it is to eat alone in a restaurant; New Yorkers would never think twice about this. We even go to the movies alone. It's not always a tender peace here, but usually we maintain a reasonably respectful distance...except to remind you to zip up your handbag, which you can count on a New Yorker to tell you, to keep you safe.

So it is with disappointed unease and growing anger I witness the rants of political bloggers and spotlight grabbers who want to rage against the Muslim cultural center that is under development in downtown Manhattan. Last time I looked up at the flags flying overhead, they were all the flag of the United States of America, which Constitution promises freedom of religion. Now, it protects freedom of speech as well, so rage away if you must and even if I disagree with you.

But for all the people who want to know how I do it here, why I stay here, and what is my approach to fear, I say this: I love New York for our diversity, for our weirdness, for our protectiveness of our collective right to Be. To change it because of threats or xenophobia would be, well, un-American.

And you? What do you think of this topic?

No Excuse Needed

2010-10-25T06:24:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, we went hunting in the dark, mysterious corners that count as "storage" in a Manhattan apartment. We were in search of our Halloween decorations. Some are gewgaws supplied by my mother, mostly wacky jack-o'-lanterns. Last year, my Andy surprised me with little paper lanterns - orange orbs with patterns of witches and bats that light up from the inside with white electric lights. We also have a small, witchy broom that sits next to the fireplace, waiting for its dark mistress.

For people who live in New York City, where storage space is limited, coveted, highly valued, we have a lot of party decorations! I was reminded of this as we dug through the following in order to find the Halloween gear:

Stuff from my Havana Nights party, my first celebration in my old apartment after my marriage dissolved. My apartment was so cool and peaceful with new furniture and a new vibe, I dubbed it, yes, The Flamingo Room!

2008 was The Year of the Rat in the Chinese Zodiac, which is said to be an auspicious year for new beginnings. My friend, Sharon, was living in China at that time. She said that in China, there are giant fireworks to usher in the new year. I settled for the lanterns she sent from Shanghai.

It poured rain during our Tiki party in a Brady Bunch bad luck turn, but the lanterns glowed and assured us that summer rains are healing and good. The beer from the keg helped too.

Who can deny this Christmas in July miracle?! And who can deny the need for a miracle at any given time of the year?

A couple of things occur to me:

1) My friends and I require very little reason or excuse to have a party!

2) Lots of our parties revolve around lights - candles and lanterns and strings of wee bulbs. Fending off the darkness with a celebration is a good way to keep on the sunny side of life.

Need a reason to have a party? Here's one: Life. As Neil Simon said: "I love living. I have some problems with my life, but living is the best thing they've come up with so far." Light it up!

And you? What's your best celebration to date?

Why I Oughtta...

2010-10-24T10:00:00.001-04:00

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When I moved into my apartment in Washington, DC almost 15 years ago, I bought an area rug for the living room. It was an $84 pine green number with a pattern of large flowers. Approximate size: 5' x 8'. At some stage, I hauled out the vacuum cleaner to make a quick pass over this masterpiece of design inspiration. My roommate, Jenny, watched my hasty effort and offered some advice:

"You have to go up and down 10 times over each line."

I asked why.

"That's how my mom always said...we had to..."

As soon as she said it outloud, she realized she had been duped. This had been an abiding "should" in her life. Now, in her 20's (at that time), she was free to look at it objectively, to question its usefulness, and reject it outright. (The latter was probably the most useful for Jenny, who was a truly terrible housekeeper. A nice person, and a highly intelligent person, but a messy, messy one as well.) We all grow up with "shoulds" that are something of a rule book for how we conduct ourselves. They are silent task masters, and we hold ourselves to their stringent expectations.

The idea of should has been on my mind recently. I started a new job almost 3 months ago and have found the team and the work invigorating. Still, the travel has been grueling, and the long hours have left me employing my entire arsenal of anxiety management techniques. There are 2 sides to this should: I have to commit myself to my team, to not fail them, and to work as hard as necessary to do so (and not become some kind of self-important jackass in the process); and I have to figure out how to do everything else I want to do in life. The classic Work/Life Balance conundrum.

I recently commented that I was disappointed to lack the time to visit you here at The Flamingo Room more often. A relative joked that I should "put down the remote," an off-the-cuff attempt to be light-hearted about something that I actually found, well, painful. The comment made me angry, mostly at myself. 12+ hour work days do not contribute to television watching much less "work/life balance."

Here are a few of the everything else-s that I want to do on the "life" side:

I should go to the gym and lose 10 pounds. I should meditate and transform my prickles of anxiety into light. I should take the time to be creative, fostering dreams about the one thing I think I might be good at. I should find a new church to build a vibrant relationship with a spiritual community which shares my values. I should run the vacuum over everything a minimum of 10 times...

Here's what I have decided, as long as I don't become a self-important jackass: it's okay if, for the moment, I reject this whole concept of "work-life balance." Who created that Should in the first place? When you have a newborn, for example, there is no balance. There is only the baby. There are only her needs. Your need for sleep, food, a shower, can wait (and wait, and wait). Life will even out once you establish a schedule, but for now, focus on the work at hand.

I am working to pay the rent, to help support my family, to establish a better financial foothold for now and the for the future. I am working to build a team, to create a vision and a work environment that they can believe in. This is good and necessary for now. It will require discipline to maintain a clear a vision that 12+ hours are a temporary construct and not an everlasting "should."

This life thing is not a linear process. Mindfulness for the task at hand is a healthier "should" than the brass ring of Balance. And it's acceptable to run the vacuum over the rug just once.

And you? Where are you on the Balance scale these days?

Lead Me

2010-10-23T13:28:00.010-04:00

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Asatoma Sat Gamaya
Tamasoma Jyotir Gamaya
Mrityorma Anritam Gamaya

Lead me from the unreal to the Real
Lead me from the darkness to the Light
Lead me from the temporary to the Eternal

- Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

This was Alpana's earliest chant. The only child of Indian immigrants, she did that first generation balancing act - honoring tradition and socializing with family and her parents' Indian friends while also being an American kid who was an exceptional student at Catholic schools. On the 20 minute drive to school in the mornings, her father would teach her her chants. This was the first.

In her last hours in hospital, he said her eyes were closed, and she was in and out of consciousness, largely incoherent. I pray the hospice people did their best to keep the last and worst of the pain at bay while she took the final steps of her journey here.

Her daddy said he asked her, "Alpana, do you remember your chant?"

"Yes."

So they chanted. To say goodbye. To open a door. To smooth the transition.

The soul incorporates truth, which gives it strength and eternal light. Alpana's soul pushed the boundaries of her physical limitations at the last and allowed her body to give voice to this prayer before she died. It is a map for the journey we are all on. And it's pure Alpana, providing me with another spiritual tool to keep me motivated on my sometimes limping progress.

Our purest truths are the Real, the Light, the Eternal. Honor them now so you will remember them later and always.

Call Home

2010-09-24T21:30:00.006-04:00

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On an Amtrak train after a grueling work week, and I’m finding the journey can be as much about my own assumptions as it is about my physical destination.

I confess I didn’t appreciate the shrill and ceaseless cell phone banter of the middle-aged woman across the aisle. I’m tired and fractious. I wanted to sleep. I woke up when her first conversation ended. I stayed awake for the second one, which began with loving baby talk:

Hi Baby. Hiieeee. Hi my baby.

I keep trying to call you, but the phone never works. How are you?

How’s the house? The Roommates?

Did your guitar make it out there ok?

Your classes start again on Monday, right? I guess you’re not too worried about your tet because your professor never showed up.

My annoyance spiked with this full volume conversation on a crowded train. I could hear my own self-talk. I wanted to tell her to shut up in a mean way: It’s Friday night! The kid’s away at college! He’s probably on his third Jaeger bomb by now! And if you don’t know what that is, well, then, you shouldn’t call him on a Friday night.

Oh yes. I steamed and silently raged, bitter about the intrusion on my fragile respite. I was not at my best.

I have your Social Security Number. Should I send it to you in a text message?

Will you remember to register to vote? And don’t forget to get your learner’s permit so you can get residency.

Oh, you need to call Bob So-and-So and tell him to pay your tuition bill. It’s due October 2nd, I think, and I don’t have your password. Will you remember to call him?

Here my own ice started to crack. The idea of a critical piece of personally identifiable information like a Social zipping across the airwaves via SMS was silly, frightening, and somehow lonely. I could feel her need to want to help, to reach across some abyss between adolescence and adulthood where her precious cargo is now suspended. (I noted my twinge of jealousy that Baby apparently is bouyed by a trust fund, administered by Bob.)

You sound so happy and in the right place for you to learn and grow. You know the story of my going out there, and driving my car out there? I arrived and just said, “I have to live here!”

Have you been riding your bike? I was really worried about your guitars. What a relief they made it safely.

Did you see Kayla again? You should write her a little thank you. I have her email. Do you need her email?

By now, I had dropped all cynicism in favor of a more gentle fascination with her nostalgia, her lonely enthusiasm, her eager anticipation of her baby’s bright future.

It’s so good to hear your voice. We have to figure out how to talk. You need to tell me when I can call you because otherwise, I never know when. Your phone never works. Let’s Sykpe! Oh, your Internet connection isn’t good?

Patching together the gigabytes, she is building whatever bridge she can to her faraway love, who carries her dreams.

Ok, I’ll let you go. Talk to me soon. Maybe Sunday. Ok, soon.

Good bye.

Note to self: call home.

In Lieu of a Seance

2010-09-13T20:25:00.019-04:00

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Between 1913 and 1937, a woman named Patience Worth became a writer of some fame. She was described as cheeky, charming, and clever. A powerful editor called her "altogether loveable." But as this month's Smithsonian magazine reports: "She wasn't real. She was an ambitious, hard-working spirit."

The story goes that a lackluster, nervous housewife in St. Louis, Pearl Curran, was the medium for the ghost of Patience Worth, who claimed to be an "unmarried Englishwoman who had emigrated to Nantucket Island in the late 1600s." Pearl became famous too, holding boisterous seances where she would channel Pearl's stories and poems.

They had their critics, as is to be expected. Patience was accused of being a talentless hack. Pearl, a fraud. Harry Houdini was among the notables who investigated the case in an attempt to either prove or disprove the Pearl/Patience phenomenon, which produced an undeniable and substantial body of work. The mystery remains, but this curious story provides us a lot to think about.

Maybe one day I'll write that sociology thesis, and perhaps it will focus on the science vs. spirit Zeitgeist of that era. Or maybe, the male/female lines along which these discussions often danced. But for me, the story is about hidden talent or talents, plural, depending on how you feel about the spirit world.

Patience said that she searched the world for 3 centuries to find the perfect able-bodied (literally) host to bring her creative talents, her ambitions as a writer, and maybe even her joie de vivre to the world. It seems the late 1600s was an inhospitable climate for a creature of her gusto. Sparkling narrative abilities are rather undervalued when you're churning butter for a bunch of Pilgrims (or is it Puritans? Note to self: email Sarah Vowell for clarification.)

And life in a Gibson girl updo was constrained for Pearl in the early 1900s: housework, cooking, failed attempts at conception, and life in the church choir fast lane might drive any of us to be a "classic Victorian hysteric." Pearl published a telling story under her own byline in which a character adopts a phony spirit guide to spice up her mundane existence: "She's everything I want to be. Didn't I find her? It ain't me. It's what used to be me before the world buried it." Was this a winking confession?

Whether Patience was real or imagined, when she and Pearl joined forces, they created something like magic. Together, they were relaxed and witty. They sparkled at parties. They produced volumes of creative stuff. Together, they found a voice, and isn't that all any of us want?

I admit to my own, wistful sentiments here. Don't I long for a message from the Other Side, the friendly voice of a loved one telling me I'm on the right track? Don't I frown on my stumbling efforts to create something worthwhile, wishing I had some force from the ether nudging me along?

Then again, the story of Patience and Pearl tells me there are two possibilities here:

I either already have those things and just have to quiet myself long enough to hear those spirit voices singing wisdom my way.

Or...

They don't exist outside of me at all. The Other Side is already In Side.

Either way, the mystery says that hiding from our talents, our voices, our gifts is impossible and unnecessary. We have what we need to shine on. And I for one do not want to spend three centuries finding a way to do so.

And you? What spirit helps you find your voice?

Details and Didgeridoos

2010-09-08T07:43:00.006-04:00

Here's how Anne Lamott describes the sound of a didgeridoo in her novel The Blue Shoe:

"if the sound of the didgeridoo was a color, it would be rich and earthy, plant purple, like eggplant with light behind it."

Don't believe her? Go on and take a listen. Even if Maori culture and the origins of this instrument are a mystery to you (as they are to me, and to historians to a large extent, really), you'll see it is true:

I bring it up because I am back in the City. After floating through wide open spaces out west last week, observing bison and bears and elk and wolves doing things in their natural habitats that bison, bears, and elk and wolves do, I'm back to observing the things we do in this, well, more forcefully crafted habitat.

I feel less at odds with New York than I have recently, and frankly, as I expected to feel upon reentry following my foray into the wilderness. (Sidebar to answer the most commonly asked question: did you camp? No. I live in New York City; I am not built for camping. I also don't want to get eaten by bear, and we saw 6 of them, by the way.) The recent piece in The Onion* about all New Yorkers realizing that the City is a festering cesspool and a "horrible place to live" had really resonated with me. So the fact that I'm feeling pretty Zen about this place, my home sweet home, is kind of amazing, and I won't go all cynical and say it hasn't even been 72 hours yet and I've only been on the subway twice since my return.

I'm Zen because I'm trying to see the world through Lamott-like eyes. Lord, but if it could be true; I don't have her talent, but I like her style! If a didgeridoo is like a sunlit eggplant, what else might we observe? A guy with a trombone on the subway becomes a lot more interesting when you note the glint of brass and create a backstory. The colors, smells, style choices, sounds of voices, and all the flickering details of the wide world around us - whether we're in Manhattan or the Australian outback - deserve our most acute attention. They are what we have at any given moment.

*Thank you, Jeanyves, for bringing the article in The Onion to my attention.

And you? What details have you observed in your world today?

Stay the Course

2010-09-07T07:27:00.007-04:00

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Did you see the article last week about the lady in South Korea who finally got her driver's license after 960 attempts? It seems the issue was not the actual driving piece, but the written portion of the test. Cha Sa-soon, age 69, was mostly illiterate due to lack of available education when she was growing up. She could read the basics, but the technical terms kept tripping her up.

She had decided to get her license after her husband died. There was Important Stuff she needed to do and waiting for the bus was an impractical option. There was a three year stretch of time when she took the test 5 days a week, a pace she couldn't always maintain, but she never quit. She finally got her license after 960 swings at bat. God bless her, she has become a folk hero in South Korea, where, the New York Times says, determination is a quality held in high esteem.

I just got back from a trip out west, where they weren't kidding when they called parts of the American frontier, "big sky country." As my Andy drove for hours and hours across the fruited plains, we couldn't help but think about the pioneers. What drove them to keep going? The land out there seems endless, even now. And unlike the Native Americans, who were practiced in survival on that land, the pioneers were ill-equipped.

How did some of these towns on the way to California come to be established? Did someone's exhausted wife, missing her family in New Haven and the smell of the sea (Willa Cather, holla!), just put her laced up foot down and say, "That's it Jedediah. We are stopping here. There isn't one thing you can say to make me go on even one more minute." And thus, Casper, Wyoming was established? Probably not an accurate historical rendering, but the point is, it makes one wonder how they got there, but more importantly, how they had the guts to stay.

I suspect a core issue behind staying determined is judgment. You have to suspend self-judgment and ignore the askance stares of others when you're pursuing a calling, whether it's a driver's license or a gold rush. Acknowledge your doubts, then pursue your dream, your goal anyway. A 69-year-old lady did. We can too.

And you? How do you keep motivated?

Weird Magic

2010-08-22T17:22:00.013-04:00

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I know it's a contrarian thing to say about the place I live and work and where I met my one true love, but sometimes I want to bulldoze New York City. In moments of clarity, I recognize and begrudgingly admit that this is more of a commentary on how I feel about my own life than it is about the place and the people who inhabit it. Still, there are moments where things here reach a maddening pitch, and I feel a hair's width from going completely insane.

Take for instance yesterday afternoon on the subway. The train was reasonably crowded, for a weekend, but I had found a seat. I was reading a good book, and I just had found a pair of jeans on sale that actually fit my expanding waistline. I was on my way home of a nap. So far, so good.

Then a small child in his stroller decided to entertain us with his cleverness. He held a plastic whistle in his grubby little hand. You know what came next: for 4 stops, he ceaselessly blew into his whistle, producing a trill, piercing tweeee, twee, twee, tweeeee! To be clear, I do not blame the child in this scenario. He's a child, and into a whistle he must blow. But where is the ignorant git of a grown-up who let him continue...in the confines of a tin tube filled with people??

My insanity wire tripped, I stumbled hastily out of the train and up to Broadway, sunshine and air, before I ran screaming to the whistle family to SHUT THE EFFFFFF UP!! I beg your pardon, but if you live here, you know what I mean. If I don't, I'm sorry if this story discourages you to visit. Don't let it. Here's why:

Later that night, my Andy and I wandered into Washington Square Park. We passed a classical jazz quartet surrounded by little lanterns and polite onlookers. We passed an ad hoc group of guitarists playing U2 and cheering about the return of their singer, who had gone, well, somewhere, as the folks who hang out in Washington Square Park tend to do.

Then we joined a growing crowd who gathered around an old stand-up piano, the kind old Mrs. Augsberger used to play to our kindergarten class - "The Farmer in the Dell" and "America the Beautiful," all tinny and joyful. A man in a white Hanes t-shirt passed the bucket and announced the show would start again soon.

He sang "Sweet Caroline" and encouraged the onlookers to join in. The crowd was motley: a tall skinny man who looked just like Professor Dumbledore wearing a tiara on his long white hair knew all the words to "I Will Survive." A transvestite grooved in a dreamy, writhing style, even when the tap dancer performed on a piece of plywood positioned in front of the piano. The singer didn't appreciate it when the local drunkard got down on the ground during the little-bit-softer-now part of "Shout," but I was over the moon when he selected me (and a few others) to dance to "Hey Ya." Oh yes, did I ever shake it like a Polaroid picture!

For a few moments, the world was good, worries were on hold. New York City produced its patented magic, turning down the whistles and calming ragged nerves.

I took some videos on my cell phone. They're rather dark, but you can see Dumbledore clearly in the background of the first video - behind the piano and the singer, to the left of the lamp post. I hope they work. Everyone deserves some magic.

And you? What magic do you count on to appear when you need it?

The Banana Trail

2010-08-20T19:11:00.009-04:00

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My friend, Lizzy, keeps a running photo log of a phenomenon she encounters at an unusual rate: banana peels on the ground. It seems everywhere she goes, another peel awaits her. Thanks to camera phones and Facebook, it's a trackable trend. She calls it, The Banana Peel Diaries. I love it.

Maybe it's because I am reading a novel by Anne Lamott, who has a witty, compassionate eye for the mushy and wacky details of our daily lives, but I'm really grooving on the tiny weird things around us. They are wee delights, like the 2 small girls in a park near my office twirling and flapping their little wings in a show of solidarity with the birds. They are slightly off-kilter, like the guy practicing his juggling on the sidewalk one morning as I walked to the subway.

They are the last fig. They are evidence that we are here. They are proof of our imperfections and our limping insistence to Keep Going. Lamott would say they are moments of grace. Lizzy is right to track them. They're like a breadcrumb trail to our best, and strangest selves.

And you? What wacky details are coming into your life?

Connections

2010-08-18T21:06:00.005-04:00

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The other day, my friend went to take the dog for a walk...and forgot the dog.

This particular friend of mine is quite bright with clever thoughts tumbling around his brain at a noisy rate. His dog oversight drew comparisons to Einstein, who, according to my friend's father-in-law, "often realized that he had passed his train stop only when he reached the end of the line." So, thinking his many thoughts, my friend wandered out the door with purpose but without his stated purpose.

But, even absent any Einstein comparisons (in my life anyway) I know exactly how such a thing could be possible!

I can travel miles up and down Manhattan, surrounded by millions of people, and not remember one thing I saw, heard or smelled. I wander around my tiny little mind and never once set a conscious foot on the actual earth.

Awareness takes work. It can be tiring and distressing. It can be annoying, especially if one is riding the New York City subway at rush hour. It can be overwhelming. Sometimes we don't want the world to continue shifting and sorting all the tiny details of our lives; we just want to sink into the blue, thinking our thoughts.

Still, just as a dog has a leash, we are tethered to so many people who can ground us. Not to go all Bedford Falls here, but the connections we make remain and sustain us. With all those clattering thoughts distracting us, our sweetest connections whisper us awake, reminding us to look around, to say thanks, and to remind us: don't forget the dog.

And you?

Who are your most valuable connections?

Unexpected Harbors

2010-08-16T20:22:00.020-04:00

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When I was young and skinny and people used to compare me to Audrey Hepburn, my then-boyfriend and I took a trip to Canada. Okay, only one person ever compared me to Audrey Hepburn and that was my sweet friend, Tarra. You can appreciate why I wanted to visit her. Her husband, David, is equally charming, as all good Maritimers are.

The four of us had grand plans for the week. We had rented a houseboat - aptly named the R-Venture I - with the idea we would cruise up the St. John River, exploring small towns along the way.

Oh, the day started fine - all blue skies and puffy clouds. The boys, somehow confident in their boating abilities, stood proudly at the steering wheel. They were proper sailors at the helm! For our part, Tarra and I sat at the stern enjoying a brisk cocktail and the bucolic scenery of Atlantic Canada.

The problems started suddenly and with a loud clank, then a repeated angry bang, a metallic ting, and finally a sickly chug-a-lug-lug-lug. It was then we realized how un-seaworthy (river worthy?) we truly were.

Tarra took to the radio: "This is R-Venture I, R-Venture I. Come in!" I tried to decipher the maritime maps in search of a cove or proper place to, um, pull over?? The boys argued and steered, eyes scanning the waters for other boats. We all hoped the chugging and lugging and ring-ting-tinging would keep up - a dead engine meant we could drift into The Bay of Fundy, source of some of the highest tides in the world.

After a few tense moments, we found a wee cove, called Oak Point, and approached the public concrete dock. As we slowed, the engine croaked and went silent. We did a truly terrible job getting the boat tied up. Tarra stood on the roof of the cabin, waving her arms. I scraped my hand on the concrete as I tried to get a bumper over the side of the boat, not to mention the scraping the boat itself endured. David tried - almost in vain - to keep hold of the rope while the other fella tried - certainly in vain - to steer. The boat swung around to face the other direction, but David employed impressive muscle and daring, and pulled it into the dock and secured it.

We finally got through to the boat's owner and true captain, and he felt terrible about the unexpected mechanical trouble. He picked up extra supplies, and towed us to his riverside cabin, so we could still have a vacation on the water. It was all quite unexpected, somewhat frightening for a minute there, but the week passed in grand style indeed!

We swam in the river and watched seals sunning themselves on rocks. Deer scampered through the neighboring woods, while we grilled steaks at the old captain's house. And, it must be said, Tarra and I won every game of Trivial Pursuit (and the one game of Pictionary). The risk of drifting off in an unplanned direction yielded joy and lots of laughs.

Now I'm adrift in waters deeper than the Bay of Fundy.

Last week, when my dear friend, Alpana, passed away, I told you I was unmoored without her. That's true, and I ache at the loss. But the journey seems to be continuing, in spite of myself. Untethered from plans and expectations, and leaning into what is, I'm drifting into little coves and finding ropes and bumpers there. Mutual friends have opened their hearts so we have a shared safe place to celebrate Alpana and grieve for her. Friends who didn't know Alpana acknowledged her life and death, even celebrating her by wearing fabulous shoes on the day of her memorial. The connections are lifeboats, sailor's knots, and unmapped harbors. I am bouyed. And I am grateful.

The Myth of Preparation

2010-08-10T19:03:00.012-04:00

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"Where is the sound of the flute

that ushers freedom in?"

~Jane Stembridge~

Preparation is such a sneaky little mindset. A trick really. Preparation gives us the illusion that we can assert some control over our lives:

A dutiful boy scout packs his compass, flashlight, and bear repellent. And our daily lives are like his camping trip:

We buy toilet paper 2 rolls before we run out;

We bring 2 bottles of wine to a dinner party (3 if we suspects the guests will be boring);

We keep the gas tanks in our cars at least half full, and we hide small hammers in our trunks in the event a kidnapper tries to lock us in there (or is that just me?).

This is good risk management, the subject of my profession for the past 15 years, and I support it. Actually, I'm good at it.

But the emotional scaffolding of preparedness can amount to little more than a mirage. We think we're clinging to something sturdy and trustworthy until an event happens that leaves us grasping fistfuls of sand, shifting and unreliable. Even the most studious adherent to the Buddhist principle of impermanence can be knocked sideways - and here's the tricky part - even if they saw it coming.

Regular readers of The Flamingo Room are familiar with the thoughtful, big-hearted comments of my friend, Alpana. She has been sick for a very long time. Her unyielding grace and prickly loyalty to The Good Universe have taught me lifetimes of lessons. (I'm sure to talk about them here.)

Yesterday, after months of fighting and maintaining hope, she decided the end was near, and she checked into hospice care. That's when I started this post. The phrase "only a matter of days" was an anvil teetering above my head as I checked my bearings. Gone.

With selfish dread and loneliness, I searched for the windblown scraps of those life lessons I had assured myself - during all our talks about spirituality and The Journey - I had internalized. I wailed to my Andy, "But I thought I was so prepared!" The words sounded foolish, but I had had almost two years to consider an ending, to work my heart muscles to a capable level of strength, to check my spiritual compass for accuracy!

It wasn't enough time.

I scrambled in desperation as she slipped away, hoping prayers for peace were solid enough to ground me. A new, hastily constructed scaffold around Reality.

My friend Alpana passed away this afternoon. She was my sangha, my spirit partner. I am unmoored without her. And I feel wholly unprepared to know what to do next.

Dream Guides

2010-08-07T10:48:00.016-04:00

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Yesterday, I received this message from my friend, Lizzy:

I just remembered, I had a dream last night starring Bob Newhart -- even while I was dreaming I was thinking I had to tell you. Don't ask me what the dream was about, I have no idea.

Needless to say, this made my day.

It was timely as I had just dreamed that we were staging a revival of "Funky Winkerbean's Homecoming." By "we" I mean my revolving cast of dream friends plus some of the members of the real cast of the 1989 hit staging of that great American musical at my junior high. This was before Funky and friends grew up in the comic strip, and before I and my friends grew up in our lives and dreams. I had been musing about what this dream could mean when I received Lizzy's note.

In his book Callings - Finding and Following an Authentic Life, Gregg Levoy recommends keeping a dream journal. He says our dreams draw a road map to our souls' deepest desires. In search of our true callings, we only have to mine the details of our nightly journeys for helping in understanding what to do next. Levoy even asserts that you can ask a question before you go to sleep, then listen to your subconscious supply the answers.

I get it, but are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Bob Newhart? Funky Winkerbean? These are the spirit guides we conjure?

The New York Times recently reported that dream discussion groups have become popular - the new book club. Maybe wine and cheese can help unlock these mysteries. One group leader is quoted as saying, "Messages in dreams come through disguised so cleverly and with so much meaning on many levels...For me it's like opening a hidden well." I'll say.

And I can understand why some of the mental health professionals interviewed by the Times express concern "that dream groups might cause harm if traumatic events are exposed and not treated delicately." I have a history of some truly terrifying dreams. I'm still learning to remember that every element of a dream is a part of me, so even that psycho killer who is chasing me through dreamland wants something for me. Turning a curious and compassionate eye on all your dream characters can help us coax their mysteries out of them.

I hope Bob and Funky have something good for Lizzy and me.

And you? What are your dreams like?

Who are your dream guides?

The Sine Curve

2010-07-31T09:46:00.031-04:00

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When New York Magazine ran a cover that said, "I Love My Children, I Hate My Life," featuring a story entitled "All Joy and No Fun - Why Parents Hate Parenting," it was highlighted on a major news network.

It was a Saturday morning. We were standing in the kitchen at my Andy's brother's house. The TV on the counter played CNN or MSNBC in the background. The New York Magazine cover on the screen caught the eye of my Andy's 9 year old niece. Scrolling across the screen was a quote from the intro to the magazine story:

"Social-science researchers keep coming to the same conclusion: Having children makes adults less happy."

We hadn't noticed, but the 9 year old had. "That's not true!" she shouted. We turned our attention to the television. "Having children does not make people unhappy," she insisted.

A beat. Then I responded, "Well, maybe they're just talking about people who have rotten kids, not awesome kids like you." She's a keen child, and smiled at the comment, but it did seem to satisfy her. The story intrigued me.

Let me start by saying I know nothing about the topic of parenting. I do not have kids. Moreover, I have learned to stay relatively underground about the fact that I am entirely unconvinced that I want them. I'm getting a little long in the tooth and should be hearing my biological clock goin' like this. I don't.

The reactions to this statement generally range from shock to horror as well-meaning friends gently try to tell me, "but...yes you do. You want to have kids." Then they go on to tell me in the most sparkling, enthusiastic terms possible, how marvelously happy they are. And, look, they probably are. Sometimes. But it is impossible to be so over-the-moon all the time; the social science has got my back on this. (Moreover, I'm not sure why anyone - by anyone, I mean most anyone I tell about my ambivalence - should care if I procreate.)

But it's funny who I meet underground: those friends of mine who echo what the article is talking about. The comments usually go something like this, "I love my kids, but they're kicking my ass." This is whispered as if it is a guilty admission of something unthinkable. It seems rather reasonable to me, the uninitiated.

Often, they follow by waxing poetic about how they perceive my life ~ a more settled down but still fun version of "Sex in the City." One friend of mine, a married mother of two in Brooklyn, read a Flamingo Room post about a night my Andy went out to drink wine and eat cookies at a local restaurant. Her reaction? "That is so not my life." Well, it's only mine some of the time too.

I guess my response to all of it is, who is "happy" anyway, and what does that have to do with anything? It seems like a kind of unfair measure of whether any of us - parents or not - are living successful lives. Reason: like everything, happiness is an impermanent state. I don't mean that in a bad way. That's life. The author of the magazine article describes her life as a parent as "a high-amplitude, high-frequency sine curve along which we get the privilege of doing hourly surfs" though a range of emotions from bliss to anxious frustration.

I'm curious about this pursuit of happiness. I'm not against it, but it doesn't seem reasonable. I actually think it makes us kind of crazy. The "high-frequency sine curve" is definitely scary, but if we relax a little and just ride it, maybe we'll feel some more calm, so we can enjoy the highs and be politic about the lows. In other words, riding the wave is a way of showing some compassion for ourselves, so we don't have to mount elaborate, fervent apologies to whatever lives we are living. Not having to be HAPPY!! all the time takes some of the pressure off. And I know that if you have kids, you could use a break.

ps. I think any of Anne Lamott's books of essays are a beautiful depiction of finding grace in the scariest and most frustrating moments in a parent's (or anyone's) life. She loves her son fiercely, but sometimes he drives her crazy, and sometimes she feels like a bad parent. She sees God in all of it.

And you? What's your reaction to all of this?

To Fetch a Pail of...

2010-07-29T19:55:00.011-04:00

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Life's a funny little adventure, isn't it?

Sometimes, you're walking down a benign street. Not inspired to greatness, perhaps, but feeling a-okay (if a little bored).

Then you are scuttling down a rocky hill, arms windmilling backwards in your desperate attempt to remain upright. Even if you don't tumble ass-over-tea-kettle, you still end up at the bottom of the hill, dusty and exhausted, only to find yourself crab walking through an emotional minefield. The intense effort is distracting, draining, and, frankly, annoying. How can anyone be a caretaker, a risktaker, a creative-stuff-maker with so much scrambling your mind?

In times like these, the best course of action is to wait for The Miracle.

I'm glad I did:

Last night, surrounded by my sweet friends and their open hearts, I sat in a Lincoln Center penthouse overlooking the lights of the Upper West Side. Tables surrounded a stage, cabaret-style, facing a gleaming Steinway. The candlelight gave the crowd a peaceful glow. The wine helped too.

When the pre-eminent pianist entered the room, we lifted up in a magic bubble of anticipation, where nothing else would matter for awhile. He was relaxed and pleasant, sharing his thoughts and enthusiasm about the all-Chopin program, which took us on a sparkling ride across the wide range of emotions. It was oddly relaxing to be in the presence of such a gift, but he was like your favorite uncle, who just happened to be brushed by an angel wing. His gift made you think, maybe we're all born in the shadow of the angel wing.

Let's climb the hill again, chasing the shadow and the light.

And you? Any Miracles lately?

Cheers!

2010-07-01T11:40:00.004-04:00

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The motto of my Catholic High School was taken from the story of the wedding feast at Cana where Jesus turned the water into wine. The Blessed Mother told the wedding servers: "Quodcumque dixerit vobis facite," "Do whatever He tells you."

This has not always been easy. For one, I am in my secular period, which is to say, I am no longer Catholic. Secondly, to paraphrase Anne Lamott, God is not in the habit of downloading clear instructions via email. This makes it difficult to see the way at times, especially when we're busy, confused, sick, overwhelmed, or just generally feeling rigged up for foolish responsibilities. It's easy to lose sight of who you are.

I enjoyed a wonderful remedy to this dilemma last night when I met up with two dear friends from high school. We all remember the motto because we used to have to chant it at pep rallys - yes, the Latin (doesn't that sound weird and cult-like from this vantage point??). More importantly, we remember how each unique and fabulously wacky person in our group served as a beacon as we each tried to live our best lives or at least to get out of adolescence alive!

The thing was this: we were all like lengths of bamboo, lashed together to form a raft. Together we rode out some pretty savage storms. We can remember those times now with a certain softness and compassion, and for my part, I felt safe there, both then and now. It's nice to be seen for who you are and to hear encouragement to push yourself to grow from people who knew you when.

I'm still not exactly sure what He is trying to tell me or what I'm supposed to do next. But these boys are still beacons for me. I'm grateful they were there then. I'm grateful they are there now. It truly is a miracle.

And you? Who are your beacons?

It's a Memory...in a Bee Suit

2010-06-30T15:14:00.004-04:00

Last year, while my friend, Bobby, was in the hospital, I was tapping out prayers to Cuban music. Then he went home, where a year ago today, he died with his wife (his True Love) and his mom at his side. And we all spent the next twelve months trying to figure out how we would fill the sucking silence where his crazy laugh used to be.

Memory can be an albatross, a leaden thing around your neck that hinders your progress while you perseverate. It can be a scolding finger as you recall with regret all the mean and stupid things you've ever done. But mostly, it can be a flowering gift that will surprise you with remote details, which pollinate even more remote details as well as stirred emotions, and in my case, laundry lessons.

You see, Bobby was the primary caregiver for his kids, as his wife kept odd hours as a pediatric ER physician, which meant he did a lot of laundry. When I moved into an apartment with a washer and drier (a Manhattan urban legend comes true!), Bobby was quick to ask if it was rated Energy Efficient (it was), and if so, was I using the proper Energy Efficient Detergent (I wasn't). Lesson learned.

More importantly, Bobby was a rascal. He pretty much never stopped laughing, and almost everything that came out of his mouth was hysterical: color commentary delivered with a Kansas twang and the best Strother Martin immitation you ever did hear. And now, a year later, this is where things get interesting.

Bobby is like the Busy Bee we loved so much in Best In Show - we can't see him, but his presence is huge and far reaching. Many times when I do the laundry, for example, something happens to call my attention to that Energy Efficient label on the machine or the (proper) bottle of detergent. Or a yellow scooter like the one he used to drive - a.k.a.'d as Busy Bee, of course - will be parked outside of my apartment. Or, I'll be thinking of him as I flip on the TV only to find Cool Hand Luke is on.

Or, recently, I walked by a lemon yellow Smart Car with the black trim and interior like this one:

photo source

To Bobby, I whispered, "It's a mini...in a bee suit."

And on the back of the car was a bumble bee sticker.

It's just like him to be winking at me! These zippy little reminders bring that raspy laugh echoing back at me from some far corner of my mind so my heart does one of those weird little jigs between laughter and tears.

I wish he were here right now. I wish we could hear "the clinkity clank of them chains." But I'm glad to know he took his sense of humor with him to the other side. And his spirit is still moving.

I appreciate the winks, you MF. This is for you:

Waters, Still Troubled

2010-06-23T14:23:00.007-04:00

movie trailer

I finally worked up the courage to watch the documentary Trouble the Water.

The day before Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, a 24-four-year-old resident, Kimberly Rivers Roberts, who lacked the means to evacuate, began talking to her neighbors on her home video camera. She had creepy foresight: "I want people to know what it was like, to know that we had a life here before this storm." She continued filming as she and her family moved up into the attic when their home flooded.

Kimberly and her husband, Scott, end up meeting the film-makers who follow them for the next two years, tracking the impact of the storm on New Orleans and her most disadvantaged residents: poor people of color.

This film illicited overwhelming feelings of grief and shame over the government's disgraceful response in the wake of the storm. I know I've said that I am not a crier, well, I cried with a sick feeling in my stomach as tapes of 911 calls played over images of rushing flood waters: desperate residents, just blocks from the failed levees were stuck in their attics, as (evidently) calm-voiced emergency operators tell them, repeatedly, that help is not coming. The silence on the line as a caller asks, "So, I'm going to die here? In my attic?" is a devastating vibration.

Kimberly's faith, passion, and raw intelligence shine throughout the storm and throughout the trials and indignities following the flood. Scott, too, has found new hope, saying that he hated his life before the storm; he is pleased and grateful for a chance to work. They are just two examples of people who use their inner resources to create a renewed sense of community and hope around them. Kimberly tapes a neighbor rescuing people during the flood, using a large boxer-training punching bag as a float. He says that he is happy after the storm: "I didn't know that God could use someone like me."

I'm still chewing on the lessons of this film, which I know I have to watch again (and again...) in order to fully process, if not understand, everything in it. But I'm struck by this: no matter how small or imperfect I feel, there's a place for me, a role, a calling. For you too. Let it not take a Class 5 hurricane to prompt us to live up to it.

And you? What's your Call? Ever see the movie?

ps. If you're interested in this topic, I also recommend Spike Lee's documentary When the Levees Broke: a Requiem in Four Acts and Dave Egger's book Zeitoun.

Soccer Philosophy

2010-06-20T11:16:00.004-04:00

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FIFA World Cup commentators at the half, while number 78 seed New Zealand are tied 1-1 with number 5 seed Italy:

A lot can happen,

And probably will.

Kind of like life, eh?

Zoot Suit Riot

2010-06-18T13:06:00.036-04:00

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This week, the State of New York narrowly approved a week long budget extension, averting a state government shutdown that would have left the "state without authority to pay all its bills." A shutdown would impact 150,000 state employees as well as a wide variety of services, including unemployment benefits and Medicaid.

A friend of mine mused, "they can't just do that, can they?"

Why not? Whole countries have been taking such drastic measures lately (I'm looking at you, Iceland and Greece). It's another example of impermanence nosing around in our carefully constructed and controlled lives. It is an impertinent intrusion indeed, not to mention an uncomfortable one. As ordered, prepared, and circumspect as we try to be, the steady shush of of the sands of time dropping through the hour glass are the only constant soundtrack in our lives.

I mean, whatever happened to Lite Brite? They banned it due to the inherent choking hazard, you say? Well, who were the dumb kids putting those little Christmas tree bulbs into their mouths, for the love of pearl? They ruined it for the rest of us, and now, a good thing is gone. (Except for the used one coming out of China on eBay. A used Lite Brite?)

Then again, maybe impermanence isn't always a bad thing. Did you mourn when acid washed jeans went the way of the dodo? Wait. This just in: a denim ad on Rue La La crows, "Retro denim that takes you back to the days of disco and New Wave. Acid-washed styles and high-waisted wide legs epitomize old school cool." Resistance is futile - after all, the hour glass is a thing that moves in circles too. (Not all comebacks are scary either. See: Betty White and the Atlantic puffin. Awesome!)

I guess vigilance and a delicate touch are the best resources we can bring to this life. A willingness to be flexible and open help when life demands we let go of something important. An awareness of the present moment ensures we won't miss the good stuff as it goes by (it also means we don't have to endlessly marinate in the stew of sadness and badness when it comes our way either).

Which brings me to a biergarden in Brooklyn.

Mikey Freedom Hart & The Lucky Dogs brought their horns, their standup bass, and their toe tapping sound. A whole crowd of dancers brought their jitterbug, balboa, and fast Lindy hop to a swing dance competition. We brought cash for bratwurst on pretzel buns and half liters of German beer, and we watched from the sidelines.

The dancers' feet flew and stomped, skirts and Keds flying as each pair took their turn in the middle of the floor. The talent filled the room, which was made brighter by the shine of the band's brass and the huge smiles on the competitors' faces. It was all so beautiful I kind of wanted to cry. It was one of those ephemeral moments that shimmers and is gone, leaving you grateful you paid attention.

I hope those lawmakers up in Albany can come up with a budget solution before next week, but even if they don't, time will keep on moving, and we'll continue to create solutions, the best of which might involve shimmying...

In the words of legendary swing dancer (and fellow New Yorker), Frankie Manning:

"I've never seen a Lindy Hopper who wasn't smiling. It's a happy dance. It makes you feel good."

The man was the "Ambassador of the Lindy Hop" and lived to be 95 years old, so, you know, he had a point.

Keep Building

2010-06-14T15:18:00.005-04:00

I have read that in order to find the paths to fulfill our true callings, we have to be willing to live with the tension and paradox of head and heart. Gregg LeVoy talks about this at length in his book, Callings. He says that the rational and the creative are both parts of our true selves, so each should be invited to the negotiating table when we're trying to figure out how to live lives that tap our pure potential, our natural gifts.

Field of Dreams came on TV just as I was starting to let this idea rattle around in my brain. In the film, Kevin Costner's character must decide whether to sell his bankrupt farm to his banker brother-in-law or keep his farm open with help from the magical lure of a fantasy baseball field he felt called to build.

On the one hand, the brother-in-law: Logic! "If you follow your dream, you'll be foreclosed upon!" It's a deep fear for many of us.

On the other hand, the writer whose passion has been renewed by the baseball diamond in the cornfield. Who better to portray the character of the writer Terrance Mann than James Earle Jones? He is all sonorous voice and vigor. Oh yes, have compassion for logic (people will come and pay an entrance fee, saving the farm!), but stay open to the dream:

And you? How do you balance logic and heart?

La Estudiante: Capítulo 2

2010-06-09T10:58:00.025-04:00

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A few months ago, instead of being overwhelmed by the wonderfully expansive list of 100 Skills Everyone Should Master, I decided to pick one (#68) and go for it. Thus began my career as a Continuing Education student in the Foreign Language Department at The New School University. If I thought being a complete beginner in Spanish I was tough, I was given a run for my money last night at my first Spanish II class!

For some reason La Professora thinks it is a good idea for us to talk - en español!! - the entire time! Naturally, it felt like everyone there was way more advanced than me. I was sure I was the only one who had forgotten most of my vocabulary and verb conjugations (from Spanish I six weeks ago). I thought I sounded like I had a mouth full of marbles. It was a nerve-wracking two hours. Only 12 more classes to go!

Still, I'm resisting my instinctive urge to give up on something at which I'm not automatically proficient (read: awesome).

If this were a class on Napping 101, I would already have an A++ in the bag. Conversely, if this were gym class, I wouldn't care much about my abilities because athletics are not my gift. I already know that, so no pressure. I do recall with something like fondness how my high school gym teacher, Mrs. Reilly, would stifle laughter at my bumbling attempts at field hockey and (heavens!) archery. Oddly, I wasn't embarrassed. I knew she wouldn't grade me on whether I was any good at whatever activity we were tackling, rather on my effort. So, I tried, I ran slowly and goofily, then headed back to the library, where I belonged.

But that's the rub with this Continuing Ed business: academics are supposed to be my arena! Well, by "academics" I mean anything not involving math (pay no attention to the fact that I am in the financial services industry). Ok, maybe my stellar intellectual pursuits are really just reading library books. And doing the crossword. In the Post, not the Times. Still, isn't that enough for you people? I signed up for the class, for goodness' sake!

You see how easy it is to let self-judgment creep in?

I know Black Hockey Jesus and the Buddhists would tell us that these are the kinds of stories our Egos tell us and that they are only true if we believe them. As BHJ said on the topic:

But ideas are, after all, just ideas—thoughts in and around your head that ultimately possess no substance. They are made, like you, of nothing. And there’s a place beyond all the grandiose ideas you use to ground the pathetic story in which all your failures make sense (sniff sniff).

To date, none of my failures have ever made a whole lot of sense, they just hurt like hell, which is why my life has taken on a whole new luster of Humility and Enterprise...en español!

¿Como se dice, "Better late than never?"

And you? How do you feel about learning new things?

ps. For further inspiration and discussion on this topic, head on over to Newvine Growing, where our friend, Colleen, has taken up the piano!

What's Good Enough?

2010-06-08T11:36:00.012-04:00

Maybe this would make

some things easier to accept??

Yesterday, my brother sent me this link to the Sunday Opinionator column from the New York Times in which Princeton bioethicist Peter Singer asks, "Should This Be the Last Generation?" It's an exploration of the moral choice whether to have children, specifically: "How good does life have to be, to make it reasonable to bring a child into the world?"

Singer skips a major piece of this discussion by leaving the standards of "good" undefined. We can surmise good health and reasonable solvency that allows for shelter and food, but isn't everything else kind of up for debate?

Remember the heiress who rode in the ambulance with her brutally injured mother whose husband had attacked her with a hammer? The mother later died, the killer jumped to his death from the Tappan Zee Bridge...and the heiress? Well, she followed him off the bridge after a lifetime of devastating grief and depression. Money, good looks, and (per New York Magazine) an "idyllic childhood" did little to change the course of events, which, I'm guessing, no one would have predicted at the time of her conception or birth.

Maybe that's an extreme example. But what about my friend who grew up with strictly traditional immigrant parents, who provided their children with an excellent education and who loved their children even as while struggling with their own volatile temperments? When my friend began a long journey of sexual orientation and gender identification questions, well, let us say it has been a unique and delicate process in finding identity, acceptance and peace in the family. Is this a "good enough" life? If you knew my friend, you would say, "absolutely!"

And what of the idea of avoiding a "severe genetic disease"? I guess this is fair enough, such as, if you knew that both mother and father had the genetic marker for Cystic Fibrosis, then you'd probably want to avoid that genetic combo in advance by using someone else's sperm, for example. But what if you didn't know? I would submit that the child with CF still adds tremendous value in the world, even if his or her time here is truncated and marked by suffering because of the disease.

Interesting that Anissa Mayhew, the stroke survivor we've highlighted here before, commented on her life today. She says that good or bad, it's her life. Word, sister.

Singer explains the central thesis of a new book by philosopher David Benatar, "Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence":

"We spend most of our lives with unfulfilled desires, and the occasional satisfactions that are all most of us can achieve are insufficient to outweigh these prolonged negative states...If we could see our lives objectively, we would see that they are not something we should inflict on anyone."

For some, sardonic reason, that last sentence made me laugh out loud!

My mother is a social worker for the mentally ill. As a case worker, she helps these folks navigate the many systems of modern society, such as healthcare. Most of her clients are paranoid schizophrenics, and many have related problems such as drug and alcohol addictions from many years of self-medicating. One client saw the "Life is Good" sticker on my mother's car and remarked, "So. Life is good, is it?" Her answer: "Well, it was when I put the sticker on the car."

Doesn't that just about sum it up? The Buddhists remind us that life is suffering and everything is fleeting - the good stuff, the bad stuff, the boring stuff, childhood, illness, and finally, life itself. Should we inflict this on others? I suppose there is value in the debate (please do read Singer's pieces in the Times and share your thoughts and comments). In the meantime, those of us who are here now better decide how we're going to handle what we've been dealt, hopefully with as much ethical, spritual, and responsible heart as we can bring to the party.

And you? How would you respond to this debate?