Nearly Perfect

Some days are nearly perfect. Mine has been filled with sunlight, laughter, yoga, warm walks, puppies, snow drops, ideas, sidewalk chalk, freeze tag, scooters, bees and margaritas and converstaion on the deck.

I spent the day trying to figure out how I could start a community movie theater... marveled at the first feisty bee the swarmed my head while Cate screamed, "I hate bugs! I just hate them!" Played a round of freeze tag after Alex bolted from the bus shouting, "We didn't have to wear our mittens or hats to recess today!" And took to the yard with my coatless kids.

My budding gardener stopped by the side of the house to assess the spouting of the crocuses. We stomped down the muddy hill to the herb garden... delighted when we discovered thyme already growing and fragrant, rejoiced when we pushed the withered leaves aside and discovered tiny mint leaves, strong and pungent.

I laughed at Cate, dressed in line green pants and fuchsia shirt, looking like a flower. Felt silently content as we closed our eyes and listened, really listened, so we could hear the melting snow running under the earth, down the hill to the now raging creek, the creek finally free of its icy encasement. I laughed as Alex, the boy who is in so many ways, all me, told us to find a tree stump and sit down, lay back if we could, face the sun, close our eyes and say, "Ahh..." My heart sighed with that mother's sigh as he abandon his Adirondack chair and said, "Mommy! You have to sit here with your eyes closed! You are going to love it. It feels like a powerful laser beam is hitting your face and making you happy!" We laughed as Milo the cat raced like a crazy dog all about the yard, following Alex, racing up trees, chasing every leaf and bug that skittered across the yard.

We stayed outside as long as we could, until the sun set behind the trees and the breeze whispered, "It's still winter. It's still winter." And we went inside... everyone alive with possibility.

Reading List

My reading list lately has been a bit heavy - all four of the books I am alternating my way through deal with women's lives around the world. Each book tells the story of individual women - stories laden with oppression, crime, cruelty and complete violation of human rights. In many of these harsh tales, the women are enslaved, either by their husbands, or in factories, or trafficked into brothels. And even the women who live "freely" must do so in the most bleak and demeaning of conditions. In some cases, opportunity, escape and strong spirit help them to rise above. In many, the oppression is too heavy. Their spirits break. They live lives without a childhood, adulthood without hope. Lives devoid of joy.

Reading these stories at this time in my life has been eye opening and forced me to consider the luxury of we few and fortunate women of the world who can ponder whether or not we are fulfilled - if we are reaching our potential, following our calling, living our best lives. So many of us struggle in a life that would look like beautiful luxury to most of the world's women. Maslow created an entire theory of psychology - his hierarchy of needs - outlining this struggle. We need basic needs met, food and water and sleep, and then we need safety and security before we can begin to strive for love and self-esteem and finally - finding our callings. Most of us live in the top of his little pyramid, carelessly taking for granted the foundation that lies below.

And I am not sure what to do with this knowledge - not sure how we begin to address the plight of millions of women around the globe - not sure what to do with this intersection of life stories, so vastly different and yet with the same.

Melting

Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it. -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Last winter, I spent an afternoon at a nearby wilderness center. The place has been in the area for several years and offers earth-based education programs, but most locals don't even know about it. I was there as a reporter - hoping to help the owners reach out to the community and invite its members to visit and learn. As is often the case when I am sent somewhere to write a story, I found myself completely drawn in by the owners - a husband and wife team, Trista and Ricardo - who seem totally at peace with themselves and the universe.

The changing of the seasons is integral, of course, to our connection to the earth and Trista spent a lot of time discussing the importance of tuning ourselves in with these changing seasons. She talked especially about winter, about how so many of us dread its coming, long for its parting and in general, fight it the whole time it is here. Look at the trees, the animals, the plants, she said. They use it as a time of rest. A time of rejuvenation. If we were to follow their lead, and turn inwardly and rest, we would find ourselves renewed by the coming of spring - not strung out and depressed.

I visited on a beautiful January day last year. We sat in her cozy home, surrounded by canned goods and drying herbs. We walked through a field to a hut made of snow. We sat inside. It was warm and welcoming and not at all like winter. What she said stayed with me. This year, with her words and massive doses of vitamin D, winter has been a time of quiet introspection. At times, the introspection has brought me peace and better understanding. At times, it has rattled me to my core and made me wonder if hibernation might not be the better option. But of course, without looking inward, we cannot blossom.

This winter has been an exceptionally cloudy one - both in the physical world and in my own head in many ways. Thursday's beaming sunlight brought lightness to my step. In town, everyone seemed a bit more cheerful and ready to smile. Friday's weather was a repeat performance. And Saturday's. And Sunday's. And today's too.

Yesterday, my family members all happily engaged with this or that, I slipped out the door, dug my beach chair out of the garage, and set it up on the ice in our driveway. I wrapped my scarf around my neck, sat down and closed my eyes. There, close to the ground, sheltered from the wind by snowbanks, I might have been on a beach. What is it about the beating sun shining through my eyelids that melts away layers and layers of cold weight? With my eyes closed and face warm, I listened to the sounds of melting every place around me. The steady drip, drip from the roof and gutters. The sounds of unseen streams running down the hillside and under the snow. The icy driveway gurgling like a thousand tiny springs as the warm rays found their way into its frozen cover. The wind rustled through the bare tress. Occasionally a pine branch would sigh and release another load full of snow. It skittered and slipped and ripped across every branch on its way to the ground. The phoebes sang a virtual Hallelujah chorus while the crows sounded off from the high branches.

I sat with my eyes closed as long as I could - longer than I had dared hope - before anyone found me there. I tried to breathe in joy and breathe out gratitude and found it suddenly so easy to do. I came inside and found a ladybug crawling across my shoulder.

Today the kids headed out with shovels - pushing the slush in the driveway this way and that before hopping on their sleds and taking too fast and crazy runs down a steep and snowy slope. Tomorrow promises sun and the next day too. Snow will fall again before it is over, of course. But my heart is already filled with that unique sense of joy and accomplishment belonging only to those of us who winter in the Northeast. I have made it through.

Yoga Night

There is much written about women and the relationships that women share. Before I even begin this post, I would like to say, this is not a judgement of men and their friendships or men and their relationships with women. I am not a man.... I would not know what the bond between men means to them. And relationships between men and women are without saying, the subject of most of the world's literature and songs. But they are not what this post is all about. This post is about women and their friends, their mothers, their daughters.

Women sustain each other. I know we have a reputation for being catty, gossipy, even cruel. And for some women, sometimes, it is true. But the greater truth is that we enrich each others' lives. It is Wednesday - yoga night - and so I tend to be a bit more philosophical... but I also tend to have come home from time with a circle of women. Biologically speaking, women are the nurturers. Not always true, of course, but true for most. We are emotional. Empathetic. But also thinkers and dreamers and doers. We provide a safe place for one another to discuss just about anything - concern or desire - without judgement. We gather strength from each other with support and understanding and common ground. It does not matter if we are best friends or new acquaintances. We get it. We support each other. We laugh and cry and laugh again in the same conversation. We leave each other feeling uplifted and understood.

I have a small daughter, Sometimes I feel I am too tough on her. Tough on her in the way that is called "mother love" in Chinese. Tough on her because she will need to be strong - someday she will be the keeper of her family. But underneath she will be loving and kind and generous and empathetic. She will need to instinctively anticipate the needs of others. She will need to find a way to fulfill her own dreams too. There is a Chinese proverb that states women hold up half the sky. And of course, it is true. I have lead a privileged life. I have been cherished and loved and educated and encouraged. The books I have been reading lately detail the lives of women far less fortunate - those in Afghanistan, China, Pakistan, India, Viet Nam - places were women are often undervalued or abused and exploited. Their stories are filled with terror unimaginable to most Western women. And yet what strikes me is their need to reach out to other women. No matter what their circumstance, no matter how sad their tale, they reach out to other women.

So to my mother, my daughter, my mother-in-law, my best friend, my old friend, my former boss, and the woman I met yesterday in the grocery store... thank you. We need each other. We hold each other up. We tell each other that an idea is great, that our kids will be okay that we did that crazy thing once too. We raise money for schools and Haiti and soccer clubs. We buy each others' breads and cookies and chocolates and quilts. We drink tea and coffee and wine. We walk. We do yoga. We laugh. We cry. We notice each other's hair. We may not remember each other's birthdays, but we remember the anniversary of a parent's death. We see the artist, the the creator, the humanitarian in each other. We hear the thing that isn't quite right in each others' voices. We look at each other's wedding albums and sigh and exclaim like the pictures were from yesterday. We wait in front of the school in all kinds of weather. We talk about the origin of the food we eat, the careers we have, the education our kids are getting, the state of the economy, the health of a family member, the lump we found, the thing we discovered under the seat of our car. And we understand that it is all relevant. We listen and tell each other that something is great. That something will be okay. That we will see each other through and laugh on the other side. No - we will find the humor all the way through.

And late at night, from far away, we will have girls' night with our oldest friend... over email... because it is all we can do... but the laugher will still be loud and the feeling will still be the same.

Passport, please.

If you have only two pennies left in the world,

buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other.

- Chinese Proverb

I must state clearly, again, for the record, that I must not die without ever having lived in Italy. My mother called me yesterday to read a postcard I had written during my first Italian affair. I was about 23 and travelling with a close friend. We landed in Paris without a plan, took a night train to Turino and embarked on an adventure in a tiny Fiat with her Italian cousin and a friend that took us to Montecarlo, Alassio, Verona, Venice, Florence and Rome. We departed again from Paris. The postcard described, in highly romanticized detail, our journey and concluded with the line, "We have decided we need no men. Italy will be our lover."

I emailed my friend, (now married and living in Jerusalem) that line and she responded, appropriately, "Wow! We were Thelma and Louise on Shakespeare."

If Italy was to be my lover, I am not quite sure how to personify China. But my fantasy since our last trip there is to go back. The fantasy takes several forms. One is just to go back. To be able to visit frequently enough that it feels, if not like a second home, than a place that is not foreign. I have always wanted this for Cate, for obvious reasons, but as time passes, I want it for all of us. We have been drawn in by the ancient history standing silently and graciously behind its modern development. Drawn in by the food, the sounds, the smells, the encompassing feeling of being alive and alert and aware. My second fantasy is to return for my 40th birthday as a volunteer for Half the Sky or perhaps our own agency and to work in an orphanage for a couple of weeks. My last is to actually just move there. Not forever. Maybe just a year. Maybe two. We keep our Fly Creek home, of course. This is always our base. But I go and teach. The kids learn the language and absorb the world. I could write a book about our experiences. Steve... well... he is the stumbling block in this fantasy... it is hard to work in a time zone completely the opposite of one's own. And of course, I know any of these scenarios, although ultimately rewarding, would be fraught with difficulties and challenges, all part of the adventure... At the very least, we will return when Cate is older to show her the place of her birth. And I wonder what it will mean to her then... this one great trip in isolation, but that is for another post.

Last year, at about this same time, I believed for a day or a week that we could actually move to Belize for a year. Winter was wearing thin. How hard could it be? I researched house rentals and teaching jobs. Alex was 100% on board. I saw him, barefoot and happy. I saw Cate on the beach, fresh mango juice dribbling from her chin. We decorated the house from top to bottom with tissue paper flowers and a palm trees constructed from poster board and grocery bags. We bought coconuts and pineapples. We names the geckos that would most certainly be peeking at us through our thatched roof. Steve seemed on board... but maybe only for a few months, okay, maybe two months, really one month, and the beach shack had to have high speed wireless Internet that met American, not tropical place, definitions of "high speed". Two weeks was probably more realistic, and as Steve pointed out, he and Cate hate to be hot. That is better left to my little son and me. My barefoot dreams began to crumble. Our long lunches in the sandy floored "Shark Bar" in San Pedro drifted out to sea. But we left the decorations up for months, popped in Jimmy Buffet's greatest hits and turned the volume up as high as it would go.

I usually make Valentine's Day all about Italy. Red wine. Cheese. Bread. Opera. Frank Sinatra... but this year, it falls on the first day of Chinese New Year... Cold, cold beer or warm coke. Firecrackers, Longlife noodles. Dumplings. Dragons. On Friday night, I am preparing a tropical meal - Tropical Supper Salad. Shrimp. Mangos. Rum Drinks. Steel drums. I wish I could say, it's just February... but it is just me... seduced by the world... eating bread while I breathe in the scent of the lilies on the kitchen counter, my children happily crafting the scenery of our next adventure, my husband shaking the local cocktails...

What Next?

In eighteen months my children will both be in school, full time. My days of being a stay-at-home mother are coming to a rapid end. It is time for me to figure out what I am going to do next in my career.

So far, my career has been tied closely to writing and education. That probably won't change, although I would like to change the scope, although I do have some other ideas...

For this post, I think I will just list them all here - get them on paper, so-to-speak. They are in no particular order, although I have ordered them in my brain. I just wish volunteering was a career because I am really great at raising my hand at meetings and saying, "I can do that!" And I almost always get the job.

1. Open an eclectic takeout lunch place.

2. Become an adoption social worker.

3. Teach English in China.

4. Get a masters in teaching ESL or linguistics and become an ESL teacher.

5. Earn a MFA in creative writing and use it to write and to teach at the college level and in the community.

6. Go back to teaching high school English.

7. Try to make it as a freelance writer.

8. Start buying lottery tickets... either to fund the volunteer career or the MFA.

Advice and opinions are welcome.

Super Bowl Sunday

I am not watching the Super Bowl. Since Alex started school, I have the perfect excuse of needing to be home to put the kids to bed on time. Impossible then to watch a game that does not start until 6:30 p.m. It it the perfect guise because there is something about my brain that cannot stand the sound of sports on T.V. The announcers. The cheering. The buzzers and bells. I just can't stand it. And because I grew up in a small town with no high school football team and went to a college that never had a decent football team, I don't get football either.

This distaste for the Super Bowl did not stop me from eating nearly an entire bag of chips and a pint of onion dip today - on my own. I could have stopped the train wreck in the grocery store by simply not buying it. I knew Steve would not be here - he actually wants to watch the Super Bowl and found his way to a friend's house to watch it on a T.V. far bigger and more modern than our 20-year-old set. But I could not stop myself and tossed them in among the grapes and yogurt and apples.Worse yet, I bought the bag on my way to yoga, came home after yoga and cracked it open immediately, lightly assuring myself I was just giving Cate a little treat. (Cate covets chips - covets them). And I started delicately with a few chips on a tiny plate and a spoonful of dip. Then I taped the bag, tucked it behind some boxes and shoved the dip to the back of the refrigerator. They were satisfying with green jasmine tea, but not satisfying enough. I washed it all down with some vegetable soup.

Cate and I, left to our own devices, made valentines. But it wasn't long before I dug behind the boxes, carefully removed the tape, tunneled through the refrigerator and was back at it again... still with my little plate. By mid-afternoon, I had abandoned the plate and ate straight from the bag. By late afternoon, as I contemplated where I might get takeout that was not pizza (I knew I would have to wait hours for that), I began washing the heavenly duo down with red wine. By 5, I admitted defeat, congratulated myself for saving the money I would have spent on healthy takeout with a $2 bag of chips and a $1.50 tub of dip, took my last swing of wine and ate a handful of grapes for good measure.

And I guess the game hadn't even started yet?