Things I Learned in 2012

(Once again, thanks to my friend Heather as I steal her idea for a year in review...)

I learned more about SuperPACs from a political pundit and faux newscaster (Stephen Colbert) who took them for a spin around the block with his own SuperPAC "Americans for A Better Tomorrow, Tomorrow." (start video below at time marker 3:47)

 

 I am waiting for Stephen Colbert to simplify the college application process.

When you start walking almost every day, you eat better and clothes fit better.

When you stop walking almost every day.....oh, you know the rest.

North Carolina is a very beautiful state with changing landscapes.

I can drive for 8 hours and not turn into a pumpkin. .

Skype is the best free thing around.  It took me to London, Milan and Hawaii.

Hearing my freshly minted 21-year-old order a drink with dinner is weird.

Toasting to my freshly minted 21-year-old is satisfying.

Making a photo book using Shutterfly's endless options can turn into a full time job.

Our childhood is everything, but not the only thing.

Helping backstage at Rock West's Nutcracker was fun every time.

Dancers are athletes who happen to dress fancier.

How we treat our children says everything about us.

 

Baronness Schraeder (The Sound of Music) is not a demon - she's just misunderstood. (This is for my dear friend Joanie who has voted herself President of the soon to be formed 'Baroness Fan Club')

Opening zany gifts on Christmas Eve turns me into a 10-year-old girl.

Photos of star forming nebula and all things outer space silence me. (Thanks to my brother, Joe, for sharing this on Christmas Eve.)

.

from http://blog.sciencemusings.com/2012/12/o-holy-night.html

Happy 2013 to all!

.

That's Me in the Corner...

...that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion.*

I think I asked a lot from religion - to be the path, the salve for our wounds, the rule maker, the forgiver of rule breakers, the answer giver, the safety net for an afterlife.   

And religion responded with answers.  First it did so literally in the form of questions and answers from the little blue Baltimore Catechism of my childhood.  That suited my tiny brain perfectly.  Have a question? Just look up the answer.  Done!

I remember memorizing these succinct morsels. 
Q. Who made us?  A. God made us.  Q. Why did God make us?  A. Because He loves us. 

While wrapping Christmas gifts this year I was channel surfing to find a holiday movie and stumbled upon "Roots" - the 1977 miniseries based on Alex Haley's novel.  It was the first episode and I was locked in.  A favorite scene is the one with the father of Kunta Kinte raising up his newborn son to the consuming starry sky. He says the memorable line: "Kunta Kinte, behold the only thing greater than yourself."  What an ancient proclamation.

This nugget has become my religious baseline.  For me, a spiritual foundation is essential. As for organized religion, let's say I have lots of questions. 

Upon graduating from  a Catholic high school I went to a college run by Jesuits.  What a difference! After being part of a very traditional rigor where students were receivers of information, I entered a world where challenging religious tenets was encouraged. I was a lightweight compared to the heft of Jesuit knowledge but they loved a good fight and a well thought out argument.

In those brief four years, having a seat at the table with those thinkers, renegades, and passionate educators rocked my world.  But just as quickly, I returned home to the familiar structure of belonging to a local parish.

The more lockstep religion became, the more I silently questioned its role in my life.  But I stayed on the path, had my daughters baptized, volunteered, and I even taught CCD.  I suppressed my questions with the comfort of doing what was expected.

CBS Sunday Morning recently aired a piece titled "Losing Our Religion" in which organized religion membership was the topic.  http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-3445_162-57559432/losing-our-religion/

 It was a look at the declining numbers of people in the US who belong to a church and why.  According to a new study by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, the nation's spiritual landscape may be becoming a little less.religious.  "Some 45 million people, or one-fifth of the U.S. adult population, now say they belong to no church in particular," CBS reporter Lee Cowan explained.

And it's not a question of folks losing faith since only six percent identified themselves as either atheist or agnostic. No, the study suggests, Cowan reported, that "it's organized religion - with respondents overwhelmingly saying many organizations are too focused on money, power and politics."

For the first time Protestant religions are not the religious majority in the US, now representing 48 percent of the population.  No one faith is immune from this gradual shift. The study suggests that religious expression is not in danger but rather religion is not keeping pace with social issues. As the two collide, believers are frustrated by the immobility of organized religion. 

Cowan reports the demographic making the change is, not surprisingly, a youthful one. "Indeed, it's the young - one out of every three persons surveyed under the age of 30 - who say they don't link themselves with a church, a mosque, a synagogue, or anything else. Compare that, with the "Greatest Generation," where only one in 20 claimed no religious home."

Just like a tenant is at the mercy of the landlord, believers can be at the mercy of their organized church of choice.  It seems however, rather than argue with the landlord, renters are opting out.  Faith is not taking a hit, but houses of faith are.

On Christmas Day, columnist Maureen Dowd handed over her op-ed spot in the NY Times to a longtime friend Father Kevin O'Neil.  He wrote a frank, bare bones piece titled, "Why, God?" It is simply beautiful.  http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/26/opinion/dowd-why-god.html

Father O'Neil shares his beliefs with a good dose of wonder.  When his brother died unexpectedly at age 44, the priest questioned why, knowing no answer would satisfy.  Yet, something was revealed that become more precious.

He writes,"I experienced family and friends as unconditional love in the flesh." He marveled at, "the many ways that people reached out to me let me know that I was not alone. They really were the presence of God to me. They held me up to preach at Brian’s funeral. They consoled me as I tried to comfort others. Suffering isolates us. Loving presence brings us back, makes us belong."

After the Newton CT killings, a sobering need to be kinder, gentler seemed to pulse.  It reminded me that we are a community of people first. If we choose to be a member of an organized religious community, it is a freedom we enjoy as Americans. It is not a necessity. Sharing ourselves,  person-to-person,  to ease another's pain, that is the necessity.  I may struggle with organized religion but I feel at peace with our expression of God's love.

Father O'Neil puts it this way: "Unconditionally loving presence soothes broken hearts, binds up wounds, and renews us in life. This is a gift that we can all give, particularly to the suffering. When this gift is given, God’s love is present and Christmas happens daily."

The Hills Were Alive...

Thanks Bryn Mawr Film Institute for another joyous "The Sound of Music" singalong this week. 

Both sold out theatres burst with enthusiastic (and many costumed) moviegoers who channeled their inner Maria, Captain von Trapp, or any of the seven von Trapp children and belted out lyrics and dialogue to the 1965 hit.

 I once again savored the wonder that is the voice of actress Peggy Wood who, as Mother Abbess, brings the audience to unknown heights with her blessedly powerful "Climb Every Mountain."

Thanks to the friends who joined in the fun.  There is something magical about friends from different parts of our lives meeting at such a silly, joy-filled event.  I inhaled all of it. Here is the link to my post from the 2011 show and photos from 2012.
http://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2011/12/favorite-thing.html

How do you solve a problem like 4 Marias???

They are 16 going on 17!

Mother Abbess, Max and the audience pleasing Fraulein Schweiger
whose constant bowing brought down the house. 

A couple of Favorite Things! Girls in white
dresses with blue satin sashes and brown
paper packages.



Some Abbey residents share a night out with a brown paper
package.

More girls in white with blue satin sashes!

Ray- a drop of golden sun!

A very existential "La" who was a music history
major before going to Penn med school.  Love it!
 

Anne Lamott

 

If Anne Lamott wasn't an author, I believe she'd be a comedienne - a very introverted, dry, one.

I appreciate her writing and her wit equally and was thrilled when my friend Heather, who introduced me to Anne's writing long ago, alerted me to the author's local visit last night.


Anne Lamott signing books and
chatting with guests.

Anne's broken, loving life has been a topic covered in many of her non-fiction books with her most recent effort titled "Help Thanks Wow." Her talk at the sold out Bryn Mawr Presbyterian Church quickly settled into the comfy chair of those three single word prayers.

"I love to write about what I come upon and I love to come upon spiritual stuff," she shared.  Books about truth, resurrection, healing - these fill her huge heart. 

The "Help" in the book title is probably the most common prayer.  Life tosses us all sorts of hot potatoes.  When the juggling gets dicey, we ask for help.  This prayer has many faces when I beg, cry, scream, demand or negotiate for it. It is the Wild West of prayers - anything goes.  Anne's experience in recovery has kept this prayer active for her.  "It's when you've made such a catastrophe of your life and have run out of options that you allow yourself to be helped," she noted.

"Gratitude is a habit," she said regarding the second prayer of the title.  "It's irresistible." The author joked about often being scattered in thought but on this point her clarity shimmered.  Gratitude is not just for the good times.

Author Anne Lamott

She writes in the book, "sometimes our mouths sag open with exhaustion, and our souls and minds do too with defeat and that saggy opening is what we needed all along.  Any opening leads to the chance of flow, which sometimes is the best we can hope for, and a minor miracle at that, open and fascinated, instead of tense and scared and shut down.  God, Thank you."

''Wow" is the prayer for everything else.  "You don't go outside and see a starry night and say 'eh,' Anne said with a tilt of her head. "You say wow!.'"  Recognizing those moments is the task.  "To us much is given, we just have to be open for business," she writes. 

Anne touched on aging, body image, recovery, her son Sam and her writing process - each infused with her well-honed humor.  "The grace of getting older is that you get you back," she stated. "No one notices your butt, no one cares. Get on with it." 

Anne converted to Christianity 27 years ago - she was drunk.  "I got sober 26 years ago - I call that 12 months in between my gap year," she wryly added.

A question about Advent and holidays prompted Anne to discuss her anxiety over the hype of the holidays and her conviction that we need to be lights to one another.  "Be a lighthouse," she suggested.  "Stay lit.  Lighthouses don't go running around the island looking for ships to save," she added  "They simply stay lit."  Light was a consistent theme during her talk.

In the hour before the event start time, Anne made her way all through the church signing books, talking, listening, connecting.  It was warm, easy, welcoming.  She is accessible without giving up her essential self. 

She closed her talk stating what seemed to be her strongest conviction, "You are loved and chosen exactly as you are, exactly as you are."

 

"You know how vulnerable we are.  It's not out there.  You're not going to find it , lease it or date it. 

Grace is knowing you can stop the mad scrambling after things."   Anne Lamott

Lingering

I'm nearing the end. The urge to pause overwhelms me, so I stop for a moment.  This is the place to linger.

I am 75 pages away from finishing Cheryl Strayed's novel Wild which chronicles her solo 1100 mile hike along the Pacific Crest Trail in 1995. She was 26. She has gently brought me along the trail and her life in such a way that I have been lulled into the journey forgetting, like all journeys, this too must end.

But not yet.

I am a lingerer.  In sorrow or joy, I find a strong pull to pause. It could be defined as a moment to be in the moment.  Ah, I wish I was that evolved.  I'm not.  I linger because I know what I'm dealing with versus the next moment where I don't.  In the case of Wild, I don't want it to end.

Often I linger not because I am appreciating the moment but because I fear what may or may not come next.  It isn't a terrific life skill.  It can be a pseudonym for avoiding. It's the old devil you know besting the devil you don't know. In that vein, I am a repeat lingerer.

Sometimes, just sometimes, lingering serves me well.

As the grandchild of Italian immigrants, I learned that lingering was the thing you did after each meal and before you left someone's home. It was second nature.  Doorways and dining room tables were the places we paused to stay gathered as a unit.  It's primitive - gathering around the hearth, campfire, or wherever early families ate. 

Several years ago I traveled to Sicily with my folks and niece to visit my dad's extended family and to see the house where his father was born and raised.  I expected to learn about living in Sicily.  I learned more about how similar my extended family and I are.  We resemble one another, we share the same hand motions and verbal intensity in conversation, and we are bossy, loud, and hospitable.  We marveled at our family tree whose branches crossed land and seas. 

My European relatives always take time to linger.  They raise after-meal time to high art. Italians drive their cars like demons ablaze, but they slam on the breaks when it comes to sitting at the table.  Conversation, espresso, fruit, pastry and anisetta keep everyone at the table in luscious lingering.

Passeggiata
 

Another form of this primordial pause is the passeggiata (pah-sah-JOT-tah) Every Sunday evening around dusk in many small Italian towns it is the time for passeggiata - a collective saunter through the streets. Families, couples, singles stroll down narrow streets closed off to cars greeting neighbors, meeting friends, sipping coffee, eating gelato, heading nowhere, being everywhere.

It is the ultimate "see and been seen" scene.

I recall watching this unfold from my cousin's Castelbuono balcony, drinking in the sweetness of it all.  As we strode through town everything emanated warmth, family, togetherness.

This need to linger extends beyond the home mealtime table.  The evening before we met our relatives, the four of us ate at a quiet seaside restaurant.  Business was slow and so were we.  After dessert, we asked for the check.  We not only insulted the waiter but most of the employees with our very American request.  After much arm waving and spitfire translating by my dad and niece, we were admonished to aspetta (wait). 

It was the first time I was yelled at because I was freeing up a table at a restaurant.  Once we agreed to stay, the self-satisfied smiles returned to the waitstaff and we lingered in the land of our ancestors.  It was a glorious hint at what was to come with our deliciously cordial relatives.

In her memoir, Cheryl Strayed sought out the solitude her trek offered. Yet, when she could spend time with fellow hikers at various stops along the trail, she lingered with fresh appreciation.  She cautiously welcomed time for togetherness. It offered an unexpected balance on her solo hike. I believe she embraced the Beatles' suggestion to "Let it be."

As I near the end of a really good read, I feel the familiar ache of losing something dear.  I hoard the moment.  It's like the end of a great vacation or an unexpected call from someone special.  Please don't end, please don't end - this is my prayer-like wish. 

Learning to let it be and accept the moment morphing into the next does not come easily.  But I am trying - trying to linger with less of a death grip and more of the gentle whisper of aspetta.  

A Two Party Home

The running joke in my house is that for most - okay, all - presidential elections, my spouse and I have canceled out each other's vote.  We've always had opposing political points of view. 

The high-minded perspective suggests that it makes for rich dialogue.  But really, it can make life contentious. At this point in a presidential election year, it is wearisome.

While one of us is of the red persuasion and the other blue, we do find common ground.  We share an ardent belief in voting and we vote in every primary and general election.  We sadly witness the slim showing in the "off" election years when poll workers are not quite as busy. I guess it really is the full democratic experience - Americans can choose to vote or not vote.

When our two girls were little, we always brought them to the polls. Each of us would take one of them to the booth.  They would follow us as we punched holes, pulled levers, or filled in bubbles.  We wanted to imprint the importance of this act.

Those memories unexpectedly wash over me when I vote.  I recall the first time my husband suggested we bring our oldest daughter to the polls when she was just a baby.  I scoffed at the idea and he persisted.  I'm glad he did.  Our daughters have witnessed our pointed political differences at the dinner table, in social settings, and in the car. It is satisfying for them to also see us share in the act of voting.

Walking into the polls with kids in our arms or holding our hands showed we may disagree politically, but we see eye-to-eye on this eloquent right.

Sheila Heen's article "Sleeping With the (Political) Enemy" in the Sunday 11/4/12 New York Times shares the ups and downs of being married to someone who is the yin to her yang of political beliefs.  She writes the obvious noting, "when you marry across the divide, you have to give up things that provide the like-minded, self-satisfied comfort."

She and her husband, John Richardson, are both Harvard Law School graduates who work in and teach the art of negotiation.  Imagine the chatter at their dinner table! Better yet, imagine a double date with seasoned political consultants and married couple James Carville and Mary Matalin.  What a hootenanny!

Ms. Heen deftly comments on what being married to the other side requires.  She understands the importance of civility in disagreement.  "As tempting as it is, we can't demonize those on the other side as idiots who are out of touch, because they're liable to reach out across the dinner table to touch you (and rather sharply.)" There is always some truth in humor.

Scrolling through the mountains of comments that follow political articles on my hometown Patch website, what becomes immediately clear is the bitter banquet of ideology on both sides.  It's clear there is frustration out there, but it spills over into name calling and self-righteousness.  I picture pulsing neck popping veins and the pounding of computer keyboard keys as people do lots of proclaiming and little listening.  Conflict trumps conversation.

The fact that bothers me most is that those commenting can use pseudonyms. I believe if they had to use their real names civility might be the victor.  One can only hope.

On Tuesday, our youngest will be doing some local exit polling as part of her high school government class. Next year she will be old enough to vote.  Taking this class in a presidential election year is poignant and I savor her questions and thoughts as the process comes alive for her.

I hope her experience tempers the vitriolic noise out there as she and her classmates query voters one on one about their choices and the reasons behind them.  Most of all, I hope she understands political passion can be harnessed so we hear each other and that the process starts at home.

Pieces of Time

A recent supplement in the New York Times Sunday edition was a 66 page, full color advertisement dedicated to - wristwatches. Excuse me, I mean timepieces.   It was an odd ode to time - well, very pricey time.
                                                                                              

The unfamiliar brand names were no surprise but what did surprise me was the full throttle marketing effort.  Every page advertised watches. No sidebar stories - just a slick catalog of  watches.

There were some with faces that contained dials within dials, some had sleek minimalist faces, and then there were those that looked one code short of launching a rocket.

I thought the day of the watch was waning with cell phones replacing them as personal timekeepers.   I was wrong.



My first wristwatch

I always wore a watch since my First Communion when I received my very first one - a silver colored Timex windup with a metal stretch band.  I loved that watch. I remember the TV ad for Timex -"it takes a licking and keeps on ticking."   It sits in my jewelry box to this day. Why? Because it reminds me of a precious time way back in second grade.

And, yes, it is still ticking.

If someone would have told me then that a phone would replace the timeless timepiece a few decades into the future I would have laughed at the idea of a phone being portable and mutating with a watch. The laugh would be on me.

I used to marvel at the watch my grandmother wore, not because it was dazzling but just that its face was so small there was no room for numbers - only short lines with longer ones for 3,6,9 and 12.  My seven year old brain could not understand how she knew the time minus critical numbers.


Swatch watches

And remember Swatch watches? What a fabulous fad.  The serious timepiece got a fashionable update introducing the idea that watches in zany colors could complement outfits.  Their soft plastic bands and bold hues were revolutionary.  Owning more than one watch became the norm. The ever colorful Swatches are still around moving them from fad to strangely timeless .

Then, the knock off watches started showing up on city street corners and designer time became a commodity for everyone. 

Several years ago my watchband broke.  I kept it in my purse to remind me to have it repaired at the jeweler but it never made it.  By then my phone - the new constant companion -. gave me the time of day.

I felt deceitful to my pretty gold watch.  On my wrist, it was always ready to do its job.  Lord knows my phone is not at the ready, but rather it swims among the detritus in my handbag as I play a form of the Halloween game - Guess What's In the Bag? - while my hand fumbles through my purse searching for the rectangle timekeeper.  And yet I choose it over a wristwatch.  It doesn't make sense.

I never owned a digital watch - that was a bridge too far for me. It is a generational divide.  As my kids learned how to tell time, they were consistently tripped up by the expression that it was "twenty to four" instead of 3:40.  I might as well have been speaking in Klingon to give the time.  A quarter to three? Forget about it.  It was and will always be all digital for them.

Analog is the cursive handwriting of time.  Alas, no surprise that I still love cursive handwriting.

My uncle, a soldier returning from Europe after World War II, brought back a cuckoo-clock for my grandmother. He stayed on after the fighting ended searching for his kid brother who was missing in action in Germany.  I guess it was a tangible metaphor that time marches on even when a loved one dies way before their time.  That clock was a constant tick-tock sound in her living room for as long as I can recall.  When she died it became mine and, even though I still lived in my parents' home, that noisy cuckoo tick-tock timekeeper was anchored on my bedroom wall keeping time (as well as keeping me awake during those first weeks.) 

 

Today the little bluebird (of happiness, perhaps?) peers out on the hour and half hour 67 years since my grandmother first mounted it on her wall.  My nieces and my kids all marveled at that bird's appearance when they were younger.  Each spent some time keeping vigil in front of the door above the twelve waiting, waiting, waiting for a chirp of time.

I thought it was cuckoo when I saw that overblown wristwatch supplement in the Times.  But it did give me an odd reminder of the enduring role time plays. No matter the money spent measuring it, time continues as a constant, unstoppable known.  I know that even as 'Frankenstorm' fast approaches the northeastern US my cuckoo clock and land line phone (sans answering machine) will defy electricity if we lose power.

Time is a bandit, whether it is tracked on my wrist, my wall, or in my purse.  The anthem-like Chamber Brothers song says all we need to know about it - Time has come today - hey. 

Now just for fun...

The expression "Time Stood Still" is just one of the things that fascinates me with the video below. The man flying dons a wingsuit and speeds at 100 mph down the side of a mountain in Switzerland.  While his flight takes about 40 seconds total,  to him it feels more like four minutes.  Why does time seem to go slower when we are scared? Neuroscientists believe that we don't perceive more when we are scared but we remember more of what we perceived.  In this case, time really is on our side!  Enjoy!

 

"Time Has Come Today"

written by Joe and Willie Chambers, 1968

 

Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can't put it off another day
I don't care what others say
They say we don't listen anyway
Time has come today
(Hey)

Oh
The rules have changed today (Hey)
I have no place to stay (Hey)
I'm thinking about the subway (Hey)
My love has flown away (Hey)
My tears have come and gone (Hey)
Oh my Lord, I have to roam (Hey)
I have no home (Hey)
I have no home (Hey)

Now the time has come (Time)
There's no place to run (Time)
I might get burned up by the sun (Time)
But I had my fun (Time)
I've been loved and put aside (Time)
I've been crushed by the tumbling tide (Time)
And my soul has been psychodelicized (Time)

(Time)
Now the time has come (Time)
There are things to realize (Time)
Time has come today (Time)
Time has come today (Time)

Time

Oh
Now the time has come (Time)
There's no place to run (Time)
I might get burned up by the sun (Time)
But I had my fun (Time)
I've been loved and put aside (Time)
I've been crushed by tumbling tide (Time)
And my soul has been psychedelicized (Time)

(Time)
Now the time has come (Time)
There are things to realize (Time)
Time has come today (Time)
Time has come today (Time)

Time
Yeah

Firsts, Lasts...Sigh

Today was a first and a last. 

It seems a lot of those having been filling up my dance card lately.

It was the first day of my younger daughter's last year of high school.  While it does not have the emotional vice grip it could have, there is a strong tug just the same. It's probably because I'm no neophyte in this arena. The timeline of school first days is one that parents know all too well because it swings around each year for at least 12 consecutive years (not counting kindergarten and pre-school.)

Measuring the alpha and omega moments tucked into everyday life is a comfortable yardstick for me; stopping to measure where my girls are and what it means to me suits my nature.

Taking the first day of school photos is non-negotiable in this house.  Fortunately there is little-to-no push back on it, but the scout motto of "Be Prepared" comes into play as I wait, vigilant and camera-ready by the door.  I savor being appeased.  The definitive moment came in 2009 when my oldest and her freshman year college roommate took pictures of each other on their first day of classes and sent them to me. 

What an unexpected bonus click of the shutter!

I love thinking about that scene being replayed across the world as students head off to their new school years.  It is strangely comforting.  Parents, regardless of culture, economics, faith all share in this small, yet solid moment.  It's like a moon rock in which the size has nothing to do with its incredible density.

That's what I felt this morning-dense in the heart.

These are marker moments - simple milestones.  I understand that what happens during those 179 other days in the classroom is more important and goes mostly undocumented at home as kids mature, but that first day - with its scrubbed optimism and perhaps a specially chosen apparel item is when things seem possible.  It grabs me in a fit of achy, breaky love.

The humorous part is that as a kid I moaned and groaned about the first day of school. It could have been that we usually vacationed at the shore right before school began so I felt bereft over seeing summer in the rear view mirror. It is more likely that I have always had awful transitioning skills. 

It seems 'firsts' have a powerful blast when they hit.  Baby books over-embellish those many events - first tooth, first steps, first word, first haircut - the list goes on.  Yet, the 'lasts' are often unplanned.  We can't really plan for the last book we'll read to our child or the last time they'll ride their bike.  "Lasts" sneak up on us in reflection.  Instead of blowing us away, they breeze by daring us to notice them.

Well, not today.  Today was the last first day of high school.  It was pouring rain.  The gods toyed with my emotions but I made sure I looked them squarely in the eyes and marked the moment.

Click.

College Tours in Season

My thoughts ranged from "Pennsylvania has some terrific universities to consider" to " I wish I would have seen more colleges when I looked years ago."  Either way, the college touring season officially opened for my high school daughter and with school visits scheduled and the GPS fired up we hit the road this month outside the Keystone state.

Free image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Since I went 'college shopping' with my older daughter four years ago, I felt equipped for this round.  Silly me.  This daughter has her sights set on performing arts and that introduces an audition segment to come this year.  This new sliver will keep us on our toes; me, figuratively and her, literally.

Here are some surprises I found along the way:  (I decided to omit the specific school names in deference to my daughter.)

- August can be a terrific time to visit schools.  We arrived on one campus without a tour appointment prepared to wander through on our own.  We stumbled into Freshman Move In Day and experienced an enthusiastic welcome everywhere we went.  It was an added treat to see firsthand how the incoming freshman and their families were greeted. It was one of several tugs at my heart on this trip.

-Even sweeter was making a wrong turn in the performing arts building and passing the dance program's Associate Dean's Office. She invited us in for an informal chat that lasted over 30 minutes.

- Another school was preparing to welcome back its students that week and again, no tours were offered.  Yet, an admissions counselor met with us and the administrator in the dance department showed us the studios, performance spaces and was chock full of program tidbits for us to digest. The quiet summer days leave space for folks to take unscheduled time they may not have during the regular semester.  It's a roll of the dice but luck was a lady this month.

Free image courtesy of
FreeDigitalPhotos.net

- Info session videos are pretty standard fare but one school showed a clip that was a direct hit on my heart - cue the strings - it began with scenes from their graduation ceremony.  With both daughters graduating in June, this was a blind assault on my sensibilities - they had me at hello.  Bravo!

-I have yet to be on a college tour in which the visiting students ask lots of questions.  Parents are the grand inquisitors, hands down. This was true four years ago and ditto for this go round.  Urban or pastoral campuses alike - it was the same story.  I think it is a bit of a shame to have us looming on each tour but trusted in the fact that our kids are really doing double duty as they listen to the flood of information while  trying to picture themselves living in the space.

-Two girlfriends were on one tour and were very chatty with each other and the tour guide.  The non-parental visit has its merits.

-On a campus in the heart of  New York City a mother focused most of her questions around safety. It was clear this topic weighed heavily on her.  Her daughter's questions, on the other hand, were freedom based as in: Is there a curfew? and Can guys and girls visit and stay over in the dorms?  They were reading from two entirely different scripts.  It was very entertaining.


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-Trying to break up a 7 1/2 hour ride home, my daughter searched for one more school that was somewhat on our route and hit gold scheduling a tour and a meeting with the Chair of the dance division.   Again, the quieter summer month made the professor more accessible and the one-on-one time was precious.

- I really appreciated the schools who created very small tour groups and who used the selected  major of the visiting student to pair up with a specific guide.  Twelve guides were on hand at one school so each tour group was no more than two or three students.  Our guide was a rising senior dance major from Pennsylvania.  Bingo!  She took additional time with us following the tour and made sure my daughter saw every facet of the program and facilities.

-My final thoughts are for the long suffering younger siblings who have no vested interest in any tour, but attend them in a forced march sort of way.  I feel your pain, pity your parents, and trust you will be rewarded in some way.

We have a few more colleges to visit in the fall. Then there are the auditions, which will be a chance to experience the dance instruction and feel the campus life.  And finally, the 'accepted students' days in April which could be called 'boots on the ground' moments when decisions loom large. 

All this just to get in the door.

Making Friends

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends...

At their popular peak, Lennon and McCartney wrote this song for their band mate, Ringo, to perform. It is, in and of itself, an act of friendship.

Before Yoko, before Linda, before Hamburg, Germany, before they hit the speed-of-light trajectory as The Beatles, they started out as teenage friends.  While the life changing fame the Liverpool lads experienced will elude most of us, we can relate to making friends in our youth.

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A recent NY Times article by Alex Willliams titled "Friends of a Certain Age" touched on a funny subject for adults - 'making friends.'  The phrase is so embedded in our childhood years that by the time we cross into our post education lives, we have learned to take it for granted.  Making friends is like breathing in your teens and twenties.

As teens, we fish in a veritable ocean of pal possibility. We surround ourselves with best friends, great friends and good friends.  It may be awkward, sometimes painful, and often unsuccessful, but the opportunity is always inches away in our travels: school hallways, sporting events, club activities, hanging out.

The nexus of Facebook is friends - requesting them, accepting them, unsubscribing (aka rejecting)  them.  And while Twitter users can 'follow' other users, some statistics show users most often follow their friends. 

So what happens in 'midlife?'

"As people approach midlife, the days of youthful exploration, when life felt like one big blind date, are fading. Schedules compress, priorities change and people often become pickier in what they want in their friends," says the Times article.                              http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/15/fashion/the-challenge-of-making-friends-as-an-adult.html?pagewanted=all    

 I agree, in part.

Friendship in midlife becomes situational.  At work, we are thrown in with fellow employees with whom we share one thing - location.  Hopefully a friendship or two grows out of this, but it can be tricky.  Talking solely about work gets tedious, so you have to let go of what obviously brings you together and dig deeper.  It would be interesting to see how women and men shake out on mining for meaningful friendships at work.  My money is on women for taking the time.

My friend Heather and I met while working at the same company almost 20 years ago and continue to be friends.  We meet up and the conversation flows effortlessly.  It amazes and soothes me. 

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Becoming a parent lands us in our kids' worlds.  Finding pals at the same stage in life may not be hard but, again, it can be tricky. Your child is the launching point for the new friendship but going further to find out more about the person behind the parent takes sincere effort.  Parents swim in pools of common ground. However, talking about kids all the time is almost too simple and gets old.

I don't know if I would have written that when my daughters were very young.  I was so happy to have other parents to talk to about kids, school, activities, parenting.  Their support and humor have buoyed me.  What was essential before seems like an easy default now.  Too easy.  As my girls move on, I find myself titillated by talking less about motherhood and more about other topics.

 I could have kept a better balance but, I didn't.  Thankfully many of my "parent" friendships flourish like a long distance run rather than a sprint.


The Times article cites three ingredients sociologists have agreed (since the 1950s) are "crucial to making close friends: 1) proximity; 2) repeated, unplanned interactions; and 3) a setting that encourages people to let their guard down and confide in each other."  Rebecca G. Adams, a professor of sociology and gerontology at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro notes, "This is why so many people meet their lifelong friends in college."

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Was there anything better than late nights with college friends? No parents stepping in - the blissful freedom of it all!  I agree that college was the best time for making lifelong friends.  And yet, I don't keep in touch with any of them.   I had the same college roommate for four years - Kathy was as blond, blue-eyed as I am brown on both counts. She was funny, lighthearted, a guy magnet, joyful in every way.  I can only picture her laughing.  We would  always hold hands when having our picture taken. It confirmed our tight friendship.  She was a marvelous surprise!

Of course, Facebook has brought back some friends from long ago - it is comforting, fleeting, reasonable.  We send birthday greetings.  We connect at arms length. 

 Last week I saw country singer Mindy Smith perform at the intimate World Cafe in Philly.  Two guys sat next to me.  They were serious fans and hilarious audience members.  In between sets we laughed and talked like lifelong friends.   We skimmed the cream off the milk of friendship.

Those kinds of encounters are safe and reassuring.  I think they are the early bones of  friendship; people just plunked down together who seek common ground.

Laura L. Carstensen, a psychology professor and the director of the Stanford Center on Longevity in California is referenced in the Times article as a professional who "observed that people tended to interact with fewer people as they moved toward midlife, but that they grew closer to the friends they already had."

"Basically," she suggests, "this is because people have an internal alarm clock that goes off at big life events, like turning 30. It reminds them that time horizons are shrinking, so it is a point to pull back on exploration and concentrate on the here and now."

Do we hunker down to only nurture our current friendships as we age?  I don't think so.  I think we become clearer about what fulfills us. If our current crop of friends meets that threshold then we'd be fools to let them pass.  But I feel equally excited about anticipating making new friends.  Numbers don't matter but I believe more friends are out there for me.

An old Girl Scout round resonates as I think about who we let into our lives and when - it's as true today as when I was 12 years old (and listening to the Beatles).  PS: I miss you Kathy!

Make new friends, but keep the old; One is silver and the other's gold.

Plates and Politics

Like many conversations, this one took place around the dinner dishes. 

In fact, the conversation was about the dishes. 

Oh, those dishes.

I sighed and murmured, "So THAT'S the china."  A woman next to me, turned and said, "I remember what a big ruckus they caused!"  It was July 4th and we were standing in the First Ladies Exhibit in the Smithsonian Museum of American History and the dinnerware in question was from 1981 - what was famously known then as the "Nancy Reagan china." 

I was prepared to dislike it.  I was wrong.  It is beautiful.

Reagan White House china, circa 1981

The sisterhood (and of course there were men too) viewing the encased china chosen by many Presidential wives, filled the room with a buzz of comments and opinions.  Entertaining gets us talking. Toss in the presidential seal, and there is no end to our general curiosity about the party dishes.

"I really thought it would be gaudy, but it is so classic," my chinaware companion confessed, adding "I remember being so annoyed at the cost." (which, after all the hubbub, was paid for by private funds.)  Lenox was selected to custom design the now infamous pattern and manufacture the set - 220 place settings for the tidy sum of $210,399.

I recall reading about the hullabaloo surrounding Mrs. Reagan's place setting choice - the showy color,  the cost and who was paying for it, why it was needed.  Her husband was slashing the Federal budget while she commissioned a new china pattern that reportedly required nine separate firings.  It was a big deal 31 years ago. 

 Mrs. Reagan's designer gowns, furs, and then the china, had some Americans shaking their heads, placing a twist on Dorothy's famous line to Toto in The Wizard of Oz, i.e. I don't think we're in the Carter White House anymore.

Lady Bird Johnson White House china,  circa 1972

There we were, two women of a certain age, recalling the national news about dinnerware to be used for the Reagan White House State dinners, surprised by our compliments for Mrs. Reagan.  It was refreshing to decide for ourselves after all these years.  This led us to some talk about other favorites, including one from the 1960s.

Lady Bird Johnson, known for her work on the Highway Beautification Act passed in Congress, sought improve the look of America's major roadways with the planting of wildflowers. Her choice for the White House service, made by Tiffany and Company, appropriately featured delicate wildflowers. She was true in every detail.  However, all those touches had to be hand painted, delaying the china's completion until 1972, four years into the Nixon administration.  She never ate off that china.

Hayes White House china, circa 1880

One moment, we were rating the best.  The next moment, oh you know.

"Oh dear, what was she thinking?" 'She' was Lucy Hayes, wife of the nineteenth President.  Her choice of various types of North American flora and fauna boldly painted on the dinner plates made a very strong statement.  A little too bold for my taste. The dinner plate on display showed a large ram taking up the a lot of space.  While  her national pride intention is easy to understand - the execution is, well, hard to swallow as I imagine the food atop it would  also be.  I could only picture some large slab of meat atop the painted  mountain animal. Nothing delicate there.   

If I let my politics rule my opinion, I would have appreciated the Clinton china choice and booed for the Bush china.  I gave them both thumbs down. 

As my fellow critic and I parted ways at the dinnerware, our conversation ended in agreement with the adage that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder.  Satisfied, I turned to leave, only to find the next room filled with an array of inaugural gowns worn by Presidential wives.  Time to call up the fashion police for more conversation, this time next to the dinnerware!

Spending Independence Day in Washington DC was a treat, albeit a boiling one temperature-wise. Seeing the AIDS Memorial Quilt on the Mall as names of loved ones were read throughout the day, witnessing two powerful exhibits at the National Art Gallery and sitting on Constitution Avenue watching an uber patriotic parade gave even this political city a hometown feel. At dusk, the fireworks display amid the national monuments put political wrangling on pause.  There, underneath sparkling bursts of light, we soaked up a little bit of the magic that is America.

Eisenhower Office Building

DAR Constitutional Hall

The National Archives

Live recreation of the flag raising at Iwo Jima

Parade balloon

Cloggers dance down the parade route

AIDS Memorial Quilt

Sprucing Up (and Down)

During these perfect summer days, I love the shade and privacy the trees around our 50 year old house provide. 

So, it makes me wince to say that five aligned spruce trees in our backyard, each averaging 60-65 feet tall, were literally lifted up and chipped into smithereens today.

New homes = money spent on new plantings.
Older homes = money spent to manage and sometimes remove older plantings.
New or old, there's no deal to be had.


The former row of spruces in our backyard.

These trees were beautifully clustered forming a gorgeous evergreen wall - they gave me a sense of security. They made the yard feel cozy.  One year, we laced them with white Christmas lights for a June party.  Wind and rainstorms shifted the lights into a droopy, tangled confusion by August, so I started pulling them down until I hit an unseen snag. Rather than investigate the problem,  I foolishly tugged harder and harder, finally giving a mighty yank only to hear the buzz of angry wasps around me. 

No more trees.

Screaming like a maniac, I ran into the house with some stings on my back.  There sat my young daughters peacefully coloring at the kitchen table.  My entrance shredded that tranquil scene.  Crying children, a crying parent, a crying shame.

Later, an evening visit under the trees 
 disclosed a sizable wasps' nest.  As months passed into the freezing winter, my husband took down the then empty nest for inspection. Its bulbous gray, paper thin beauty  mesmerized.  It eventually made it to the science table in my daughter's first grade classroom and enjoyed a spot of honor.

The spruce trees have been the backdrop to many parties since both of my daughters and my husband have early June birthdays. Countless balloons were tied to the ends of the broad branches.  And at Christmas, I would clip some boughs to drape over the mailbox, make door wreaths, and use others for indoor decorating.  A few sprigs would give a soft green carpet to the manger even though the Christ child was born in a desert climate. While sand would have been authentic, I went with the evergreen ambiance.

 I remember taking my oldest daughter out for a picnic at the foot of the evergreens when she was 9 months old.  I sat her on the grass and opened the blanket only to hear her screech and cry big tears.  Apparently, the feel of grass and the scrape of arching lower branches was all too much.

Last year, I began to feel the trees were too much myself.  A quick, fierce rainstorm caused the top half of the fifth tree from the house to break off and slam into spruce #4. It looked as though some giant hand snapped off the 35 foot topper and shoved it into the closest branches for safekeeping.

This was Mother Nature's warning shot over the bow. Trees break and the one closest to the house (with some branches draped on the roof) was lying in wait.

An interior view.

Four arborists all recently gave their opinions (and their eye-popping estimates) and the decision was made.  Those green giants had to go. 

I spent time this week photographing the trees and  enjoying the memories that bubbled up.  Then I walked in between the powerful trunks, looking up in wonder.  While the spruces gave a joined wall of green from the front, they told a very different story within.  Planted too close to each other five decades ago, they eventually blocked out any chance for lower branches to keep their inside needles.  The interior was a frayed, sparse collection of branches - brown and bare.

All this time these grand trees fronted a unified green canvas while hiding their threadbare bones. What a metaphor!  On the exterior they looked true to themselves, but a peek underneath proved otherwise.  These trees were teaching me a few things about truth and beauty - inside and out!  

Art depicting life.

Fourteen years ago, a tree service was in the neighborhood giving estimates on small jobs.  A tree next to the old deck was a mess.  We talked about having it cut but did nothing - until that summer day.  In 15 minutes, it was gone! As I patted myself on the back for making a decisive move, I was met by my then 7 year old girl sobbing in disbelief.  The tree was gone. She had no warning!

Inconsolable, she ran to her room, grabbed a pencil and quickly drew a picture of a man (with jagged teeth) holding a chainsaw (with jagged teeth) glaring at the stump of a freshly cut tree.  She titled it "My Tree."  Who knew it was hers?  The sudden change was all too much for this tender child. What I didn't know is that sometime later, she erased the gnarly, evil sneer from her tree demon and replaced it with a happy smile.  The picture makes me smile (without jagged teeth) every time.

In a proper twist, I shot lots of video of the daylong tree extravaganza to share with my daughters, who are both away for the summer. Lesson learned: I wanted today's sprucing up to bring down just the trees.