Things I Learned in 2013

Kids leave the nest.  I know as little as I did when they first entered, minus the anxiety.

Elementary schools are incredibly cheery places to work.

I taught my girls about living in the suburbs; they are teaching me about city living.

Looking down the barrel of 'way over fifty' feels odd and scary.

Shucking clams is a fine skill.

When kids visit the nest, familiar patterns sneak in as well.

Julian Barnes' writing gives me goose bumps.

Movie sing-alongs wash away worries and create a crazy sense of community.

Mediocre books get way too much undeserved attention (and book sales) when the pen name is unmasked: i.e. The Cuckoo's Calling by Robert Galbraith/J.K. Rowling

Moving your child three times in four months to varying walk-up apartments tests Love's practical side.

View Shmoo: first floor apartments = heaven.

Best thing about my job:  mandatory recess twice daily.

Second best thing: giving kids Tooth Fairy certificates and stickers after they lose a tooth.

The blog (and now book)  Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh is quirky perfection.  http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

Having a very vague clue re: the book I am seeking turns into a blissful treasure hunt with the dependably informed staff at the reopened Chester County Book Company  http://www.ccbmc.com/

Letting go of ego is super hard; succeeding at it is super satisfying; failing at it is super easy.

Saying "my college grad has a full time job with benefits" is really one word. Ditto for my college student's part time job, minus the benefits

Key and Peele's comedy lays me out!  Here is the link to one of my favorite skits so far -  Luther the Anger Translator- Obama Shutdown:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDpVg-UEGCI

 

Thanks for reading my blog and for your generous feedback.  May 2014 be kind to us all!

What's It Worth?

Looking at level upon level of shopping options last holiday weekend, I admit I was overwhelmed but impressed by the diversity. 
 
First there was the buzz noting which stores would be needling their way into the untouchable 24 Thanksgiving hours by opening for business that day. This tapped core beliefs of both shoppers and workers.  An unwritten moral line wriggled.  Facebook posts by folks boycotting the retail infringement appeared regularly during November. 
 
Invoking MC Hammer's famous refrain of "U Can't Touch This," the Thanksgiving purists let it be known their day was not up for sale.  I didn't post or demand my intentions be heard, but Thanksgiving remained an indoor home event (so much so that my Black Friday imperative became  "Get Outdoors Day" with a long walk at a local park with my daughters.)
 
Then the Shop Local Saturday followed, steering shoppers to buy gifts at local businesses.  I recall bragging in years past how most of my holiday shopping could be done by clicks on Amazon - oh the ease and savings just a touch away.  This year I am making the effort to find nearby answers to gift questions thanks to 'shop locally' reminders. 

 Cyber Monday exploded in my inbox with deals to stretch Black Friday further.  I'm not an economist, but how much does our consumerism benefit us in the long run?

What is it all worth?  What's the currency we're using to get the value we desire?  Are we trading some emotional currency for physical stuff?  What happens when worth and value clash?


The Bay Psalm Book, printed 1640.

The NYTimes recently reported on a record breaking Sotheby's auction of a 1640's religious item. The Bay Psalm Book sold for over $14 million, making it "the most expensive book ever sold at auction." 

The price tag, while steep, is just part of what makes this notable. The decision to sell the rare book addresses both worth and value.  And, as with all good stories, this one has intriguing points of view. 

Old South Church in Boston sold one of two books it owns. (It is believed that only 11 copies exist.)  Why sell it?  According to the Times article, "the congregation voted last year to sell one copy to pay for ministries and repairs to the church’s 1875 building." 

Senior Minister The Reverend Dr. Nancy S. Taylor noted following the book's sale, "We're not in the business of being a museum; we're not in the business of being a library...what is our business is mission in the city of Boston."  Selling the book has worth to the church and its community.

But it's value - an intangible to some - was great enough for the church historian and longtime member to resign in protest of the sale. While the congregation voted 9-1 in favor of putting a book up for auction, dissent came from those who valued history first.
Old South's pedigree places it as Ben Franklin's baptismal church and includes Samuel Adams and Richard Dawes (who rode with Paul Revere) as former congregation members.  This is not your average bear.

The intersection of worth and value marked the place where the book became either a type of commodity or a treasure.  In the language of education, History was trumped by Economics. In some ways those on opposing sides of the debate held true to their view of what the book primarily represents: to the historian, it is a precious piece of history which is church property; to the church leaders it is a means to an end of serving the community.   I land on the side of Economics because the church still owns another copy of the rare book.  If #2 ever comes up for auction, perhaps the debate over its worth will have even greater intensity. 

The book's new owner,  David M. Rubenstein plans lend the book to libraries around the country, eventually naming one to house it.   He has no interest in keeping the famed item at home. In biblical terms, there's no light left under a bushel here.   

While preciously rare books of psalms have no place on my holiday shopping list, the value of what I am giving this season is shaded by more thought about my intention.  Wrestling with worth and value makes me uncomfortable.  I think this is an invaluable thing.

Link to the NYTimes article on Sotheby's auction:  http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/27/nyregion/book-published-in-1640-makes-record-sale-at-auction.html?_r=0

Birthday Boy

Today is my brother Vincent's birthday. He and I are the 3rd and 4th children of four, so we are naturally connected by birth order.  I was (am) the nudgey little sister who always wanted to be part of the action with he and my older brother Joe whether it was playing army men, navy men, wrestling, running, dodge ball - the activity didn't matter.  Like a horse at the starting gate, I just wanted to burst onto the track and get in on all that I saw in front of me. 

So, today I celebrate the sibling who is directly in front of me as he completes his six decades around the Sun because I have been a beneficiary of his big heart and passion for life all these years.  Vincent has always taken his role as big brother to heart.  Our grade school parking lot was the 'playground' at recess and the boys and girls were separated by a white line - woe to anyone who crossed it. (Can you guess it was a parochial school?)  Vincent would regularly stand on that line and send an emissary to get me and check if I had lunch money, snack or whatever.  Of course I would huff in exasperation as I was pulled from my friends to answer his queries but I loved that he cared so much. 
 
His best buddy in high school, Tom,  stood well over six feet tall so when I finally became eligible to attend the Saturday night mixers, I was shadowed by my brother and his posse which was easy to identify because of very tall Tom.  While my friends loved the attention of older boys, I was irritated by the glaring intrusion into my gaggle of girls.  One friend noted that her brother always ignored her at the dances, and, well, everywhere else.  The sting of her statement translated clearly for me.  Outwardly I would sometimes be annoyed by Vincent's attention, but inside it felt good to know he was watching out for me.
 
Ironically I attended the same university as Tom, so Vincent came a callin' on my college campus - same deal, different location.  By then I had accepted that this was the painless cost of being Vincent's younger sister.
 
When I picture Vincent in my mind he is always smiling.  His grin, while often a sign of joy, can also be a sign of nervousness and this became no more clearer than when he became an altar boy.  We all attended one of the first Masses he served alongside our brother, Joe.  Joe knew the ropes and had a somewhat serious nature, so pairing him with Vincent proved interesting.  As the brothers rounded the sacristy together Vincent's smile overtook his face for the entire Mass.  It still makes me giggle.  Joe kept telling him to stop smiling which of course had the opposite result.  Vincent caught the wrath of the nun in charge of altar boys and so emerged his relationship with authority.  The tale is a family favorite.
 
Just as I finished up my four years away at school, Vincent packed up his things and moved to Hawaii.  (Or as my mom describes it, referring to its distance from home, the Moon.) He heard the Siren's call and actually answered it.  I wonder how many of us really do that?  Thirty-five years later, he nurtures his family business on their organic sprout farm as he doggedly seeks better soil health as a small farmer/activist. He lives his passion with no stop button.  As he says repeatedly, "It's all about the food."

I love that his legacy, so far, is one of love, humor, and big-heartedness.  Vincent is a wide open door to Life.  I deeply admire these qualities especially because boys/men don't necessarily go first to these emotional places with such gusto.

Here is his TedxMaui Talk titled "Soil: Having a Sense of Humus" given on Maui in 2012.  It says everything about who he is.  Happy Birthday, dear Brother - Vincenzo no ka oi!

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAbhN3SESpI

That Suit

"If there is a single item that captures both the shame and the violence

that erupted that day, and the glamour and artifice that preceded it,

it is Jackie Kennedy’s bloodstained pink suit,

a tantalizing window on fame and fashion, her allure and her steely resolve,

 the things we know about her and the things we never quite will. "

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/15/fashion/jacqueline-kennedys-smart-pink-suit-preserved-in-memory-and-kept-out-of-view.html?ref=style

 

The Kennedys arrive in Dallas 11/22/63.

 The recognizable pink Chanel suit with matching pillbox hat.  It was a soft feminine touch on a day that would land like granite in our American hearts.

 

The NYTimes article which recently noted the blood stained suit's whereabouts joins the chorus of media outlets focusing on the five decade anniversary of JFK's assassination. The First Lady's well known suit has been packed away in a National Archives storage site in Maryland where it will be kept from public view until 2103.  This decision made by Caroline Kennedy in 2003, provides rare privacy to an otherwise overwhelmingly public family.

 

I used to dress my Barbie doll as Jackie Kennedy using colored tissues and leftover fabric pieces from my mother's sewing box.  I would tape and pin what appeared to my 7 year old brain to be striking replicas of the tailored skirts and dresses worn by the First Lady.  My guess is that her youth and beauty made her more reachable to my little girl sensibilities unlike Mamie Eisenhower or Lady Bird Johnson who seemed more grandma-like. 

 

I distinctly remember asking for pink colored Kleenex so my Barbie doll could be appropriately dressed in that sad November of 1963.  Playing with dolls was such a favorite pastime for me; something I did way past the acceptable age for such childhood fantasy.  When history slammed into our collective living rooms that year, one way it translated in this little girl's life was as Barbie morphing into Jackie in a pink Chanel suit.   
 

As a second grader in 1963 at the now shuttered St. Philomena parochial school, I have a crystal clear memory of hearing the news about the assassination.  Class was interrupted by the principal speaking over the school PA system. I was seated at my desk as the unusually shaky voice of Mother Pasquelina stated the President had been shot and killed.  There was silence and then some sniffling from a few classmates quick to feel the universal pang of sadness.  It is a stabbing, singular memory.

 

In the following days my family, like so many others, sat transfixed to the television reports.  Time seemingly stopped on 11/22/63.

 

My brother Vincent's birthday is 11/23.  The national mourning ran roughshod over his tenth birthday. His memory is one of a sadness that especially consumed the adults 
around his special day.  John Kennedy Jr.'s birthday was 11/25 - the day of his dad's funeral.  Days of gift wrapped grief collided with what should have been happier times.

I'm glad the Chanel suit is packed away, unseen for another 90 years.  While it may add allure to the iconic Jacqueline Kennedy, the deliberate privacy tenderly reminds us that loss is first a personal experience, even if you were the First Lady.

Hold That Thought...and Note

Imagine 70 singers and musicians holding a single sound for 20 minutes. 

A single sound - namely a D major chord - for a full 20 minutes.

And then silence.

For another 20 minutes.

Stay with me now.


Monotone Symphony Orchestra

The performance, called Monotone-Silence Symphony, was the 1960's brainchild of Yves Klein, a conceptual painter who died at age 34.  It was recently performed at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York City.  CBS Sunday Morning reported on the eccentric piece.  http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-3445_162-57603921/passage-a-concert-of-note/

My first instinct was to grab some breakfast when the piece aired, but curiosity got the better of me.

What hooked me was the simplicity of it all.  One sound.  What a focused luxury in a world where buckets of sound flood our ears every moment.   Like octopi, we daily grab for texting, tweeting, emailing, and messaging at warp speed.  We send and receive messages, often thoughtlessly.

Monotone-Silence Symphony challenges its listeners to surrender, receive and then sit with silence.  The NY Times reported on the event and quoted Daniel Moquay, who oversees the Klein archive and estate in Paris, as saying that the silence is sometimes more difficult for audiences to take in than the sound. 'You get into the deepness of a silence and you realize that silence is not a nothing,' he said. 'Silence is something that is very, very powerful.'" http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/18/arts/music/yves-kleins-monotone-silence-symphony-comes-to-manhattan.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

Lunar-scape at Haleakala Volcano crater on Maui.

One of the most profound silences I've experienced was while hiking on Maui.  Haleakala (House of the Sun) volcano rises 10,000 ft. Various trails take you to the crater floor at about 8,000 ft.  On a day trip with my brother, Vincent, we walked the elongated switchbacks during a cloudless winter dawn.  The lunar landscape rapidly erased island visions of palm trees and jewel tone seas.  (In fact, the Apollo 11 astronauts trained on the crater floor because it is a close replica for conditions on the Moon's surface.)

As we settled into the daylong trek and conversation became sparse, the sound of my boots scraping the gravelly lava rock pebbles increased. The gritty sound filled my ears.  After a while the raspy noise gave way to my breathing which became the overriding thing I heard.  I expected to experience stock still silence while walking through this desolate place.   Instead my breathing became the lone sound that was amplified almost to distraction. 

This shocked me. 

Where was the quiet?  Even swallowing water turned the volume way up! 

It dawned on me that removing the daily exterior sounds had made room for the rhythmic interior tones which are always in play.  I didn't know it at the time but I was in the middle of a meditation while hiking.  I was unexpectedly aware of myself in a sparse, alive way and nothing else could break the connection. 

I think Monotone-Silence Symphony offers this same path to meditation.  How often do we actually try to quiet down to this level and let our controlled breathing open ourselves up?  It is an overarching challenge in our electronic lives.  

To think this symphonic idea sprung forth just about 60 years ago before everything beeped, rang, and bellowed at us (and that is just from our phones!) makes me appreciate the artist's intention.  The cacophonous sixties had their own distractions.  The 21st century heightens them exponentially.  Klein sure had a vision.     

Several people from different parts of my world have recommended Deepak Chopra's 21-Day Meditation Challenge.  Monotone-Silence Symphony was the final push to inspire me to try meditation.  Plus, Deepak Chopra is no slouch when it comes to this practice - why not start at the top?

I am not a quiet person.  Meditation is not meant to change that, but rather, to allow some room for internal quiet - to silence the distractions and be.  

Wish me luck. 

Now, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

New York State of Crime

One moment I was texting my daughter about a her new part-time job at school; the next there was nothing.  So I followed up with email and Facebook messages.  Where did she go?

Well, she went nowhere; her phone took off.

A ne'er-do-well (aka vile thief) stole her phone at a local coffee shop.  It was a slight of hand that, while irritating and unfair, thankfully did not culminate in her being harmed. 

Image courtesy of
 Iamnee/FreeDigialPhotos.net 

She demonstrated calm and decisiveness in seeking help.  She also experienced her first trip to a police station to file a report since the thief's sticky fingers were hard at work elsewhere in lower Manhattan. I pray it is her only ride in a police cruiser. 

A friend's daughter smartly categorizes these types of life events as "First World problems."  It is a perspective builder I often use in conversation.

Yet, I realize my perspective is damaged. 

I am transported to a zany car ride to JFK airport in 1989. My husband and I were headed there en route to our honeymoon destination.  We were uber late and pathetically lost in a non-GPS world.  The ride to the hospital years later when I was in active labor now seems leisurely compared to the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride to JFK on that autumn afternoon. 

As we screeched to the airport departure curb we breathlessly agreed he would return the rental car and I would check in the luggage.  A quick bag count netted a false confidence. Bags were tossed. I ran hither and yon. He ran hither and yon - we looked one stooge shy of Mo, Larry and Curly.  (Skycap? Not for the thrifty, self-sufficient newlyweds.)

Upon checking in I noticed my tan camera bag was missing.  I scanned the area of our messy luggage exchange - nothing.  "He must have it," I thought.  I rushed  directly to the gate.  (Shoe removal and body scan security measures were 12 years into the future.)

My husband breathlessly arrived as the final boarding call was announced.  We finally exhaled until I asked about the camera bag.  He didn't have it. 

The phrase "This is a First World" problem was not remotely in my mind. 

Mo and Larry were had.


Image courtesy of 
nonicknamephoto/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This all bubbled up in anger and letdown as my daughter told me her tale.  A social trust was violated. Her surprise at broad daylight crime reminded me of mine.  And hearing that one of my cubs became a thief's target inflamed this Mama Bear. It made for a short trip to yesterday.

The Minolta 35mm camera and lenses, college graduation gifts from my family and tools in my young, small newspaper job life, held sentimentality and utility. I told myself they are just things but I know I marked the bruised spot on my ego.

Years later, a house fire, where many more sentimental things vaporized, gave me another chance to weigh not only personal safety fears but also my hold on the value of valuables.  It's psychological ping pong.

Anger over having my camera bag stolen has been locked up tight all these years later - to what end?  It's like an engine that revs wildly yet remains in neutral. 

On the other end of the crime spectrum, I am reminded of the time my husband lost his wallet in New Jersey only to see it returned completely in tact via the US mail.  The only thing missing was $2.00 used to mail it. There was a brief note explaining the missing $2 but no name or return address.  My daughter lost her driver's license at the Philly airport this summer; a few days later it arrived via the US mail. No note or return address. 

I can't help but think these phantom finders simply followed the Golden Rule.  

They were satisfied with doing the right thing even when no one was watching.  I pass it forward every chance I get.  It softens my anger to remember their kindness as the perfect counterbalance. 

 I manage to get a chuckle from my daughter as I greet her with "Hey there, world traveler!" when Portland, Oregon or Denver, Colorado show up on my phone while she borrows friends' phones to call me.  She is riding the waves.  She is building "city life" muscle. 

Lots of learning is happening inside and outside my girl's college classrooms.  I am happily caught off balance by the lessons sent my way via her world.  

Why I Love "Breaking Bad"

In a drug laced world of hardcore bad guys (and some ruthless women,) Walter White aka Heisenberg (actor Bryan Cranston) is a car wreck and I cannot stop rubber necking.

I am addicted to the AMC series "Breaking Bad" and know that I will experience some serious withdrawal when the series finale airs this Fall.  For now, however, I wait along with millions of other rubberneckers for Season 8 to begin on August 11th.

Why do I love this show? Ten reasons:

 1. Whether he is running for his life or negotiating his share in the meth cooking business, Jesse Pinkman (actor Aaron Paul) defers to his days as a high school student and always addresses his former chemistry teacher and current business partner as "Mr. White."

2.  The Albuquerque desert is a major character.

3.  The writers manage to inject humor into every episode regardless of how dark the storyline.

4.  These infamous lines: "You clearly don't know you you're talking to so let me clue you in.  I am not in danger, Skyler; I am the danger.  A guy opens his door and gets shot and you think that of me.  No, I am the one who knocks."  Walter White

5. While drug use is part of the show,  the primary focus is the drug production/distribution world's underbelly.  Viewers have a front row seat to the deadly compelling business. 

6.  Another beauty: "Just because you shot Jesse James, don't make you Jesse James"  Mike Ehrmantraut (actor Jonathan Banks)

7  Brilliant, unexpected music choices.

8.  Each character grabs viewers by the lapels - there is no rest.

9. Bryan Cranston's character range from "Malcolm in the Middle's" clueless father, Hal to the ingenious, delusional meth cook, Heisenberg - priceless.

10.  Saul "Better Call Saul" Goodman (actor Bob Odenkirk) and his endless supply of legal sleaze.
Here is a YouTube video link showcasing his better lines: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBeQO1nBThQ

How will it all end?  I'd love to see the desperate video Walt takes of himself in the pilot episode somehow woven into the conclusion and for Jesse to wind up with a better life.  What is certain is the conflicted relief I'll feel when Sunday nights simmer down to a lordly gentility as "Downton Abbey" returns in 2014.

This YouTube link is of Vince Gilligan (show creator/writer/director/producer) and the cast in a panel discussion at the 2013 Comic Con in San Diego, CA.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EXZPJwfuTY

The Profile

It was a late afternoon in early December, 2006.  Autumn's last gasp.

Leafless trees along with lawns long past their prime offered little wonder.  It was as good a time as any for the two men to take a walk.

They were far from home, yet Drexel Hill would be home for the next week.  Jet lag gnawed at them. The brisk air clipped any memory they had of  a tropical climate.  Gloves on, hoods up, scarves tucked in, they went out into the chilly afternoon and kept a pace strong enough to warm up.

As they walked along the even grid of short blocks they talked of sports and their excitement over seeing an Eagles home game at the Linc in Philly.  Typical guy talk.  Few, if any, other folks were out.

They didn't notice the police car as it approached from behind.  Only when it stopped alongside them, window rolled down, were they alerted.  The officer asked where they were from, where they were headed, and if they had ID. 

The two men walking in Drexel Hill were my brother and his 22 year-old son.  My brother produced his driver's license showing the officers his Hawaiian home address.  Still puzzled by what initiated the police interest, he simply answered the questions saying they were in town visiting family.

The officer said that a resident called the police when she saw two dark skinned men wearing  hoodies walking past her home.  My brother's skin tone reflects his Italian heritage and the fact that he's lived in Hawaii since 1978.  My nephew's deep skin color reflects his mostly Hawaiian heritage.

The exchange with the police was polite, brief.  Yet, the discomfort for my brother was the fact that his son had to experience this moment.  That walking in his grandparents'   neighborhood minding his own business was cause for a visit from police. That dark skin and hoodies made the pair suspicious.

 Seven years ago the incident was briefly discussed and dropped.  We see my Hawaiian family too infrequently for this to alter our precious time together.  The events in Sanford, Florida however brought back the memory of that profiling.  Granted, on a "life altering" continuum, the moment in Drexel Hill is a speck of water compared to the torrential downpour of horror that took place between George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.

Yet it cast a sliver of light on what those with dark skin experience in America.

 

Levar Burton sat on a CNN panel earlier this month for a special one hour report titled "The N-Word."  Here is the actor's frank answer to anchor Don Lemon's question regarding if he had ever been followed:

"Listen, I am going to be honest with you.  This is a practice I engage in every time I am stopped by law enforcement and I taught this to my son who is now 33 as part of my duty as a father to ensure that he knows the kind of world in which he is growing up. So when I get stopped by the police I take my hat off and my sunglasses off.  I put them on the passenger side."  The actor then turns his body to demonstrate: "I roll down my window and take my hands and stick them outside the window and on the door of the driver's side because I want that officer to be as relaxed as he can be when he approaches my vehicle.  And I do that because I live in America."

I find this matter-of-fact commentary chilling.  Burton's primary default with police isn't to rest on his notoriety as a respected, award winning actor.   His default is to put the officer at ease because he knows his skin color is already cause for tension.

I've heard many versions of what is often referred to as "The Talk" when mothers and fathers talk primarily to their dark skinned sons about the real world of profiling.  It is distressing to think how dangerous a simple walk or drive home can be for some Americans.

Here is the link to the CNN special containing Levar Burton's comments - minute marker 5:40 to 6:25.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ims2qlfIjEU

Paula, Paula, Paula

As sponsors drop/suspend relations with Paula Deen like a steaming hot hush puppy, I wonder why she keeps making missteps.

My favorite recent Deen-ism summed it up when she spoke on the Today Show:  "I is what I is."  This 'regular folk' talk sure sells a ton of products but this time it just seems to add more cement to the coffin that is her vision of herself. 

Whoever Paula is, it is currently not working on her chosen medium - television. 

A mea culpa that does not address the possibility that she may hold/have held a smidge of racism in her heart is a butter-less dessert.  I would have liked to hear her express a newfound understanding  that her deposition answers were objectionable.  And that using offensive language, no matter how long ago, is still offensive. If she could have spoken only about how the backlash has raised her awareness, I would have listened more.

But she insisted on using the utensils that brought her success: the sassy, sweet, unprejudiced, "Ginnie" (her grandma name pronounced with a hard G) loved by all.  She thought by pouring more molasses over her explanation it would make her more beloved.  And why not?  This is the recipe she has used to formulate an impressive culinary empire. 

Paula the chef did not confer with Paula the business woman (as she did when she announced in 2012 she had type 2 diabetes and simultaneously became the spokesperson for a diabetes drug.)

I don't care about how she was raised, how she raised her kids, who her African American friends are or how she comforts them. I don't care what offensive language she has witnessed in her kitchens if she stayed silent until now.  Her silence showed tolerance.  It was the playground defense: "I said it but they said it too!"

I do care that she show up like an adult and simply say "I am sorry."  Period.

Pleading with a biblical reference to "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" makes no sense.  In trying to say she is just like everyone else, she separates herself from her apology.  The Southern celebrity thought sweet would trump sensible. 

Sensible isn't sexy but it is easier to swallow than a five pound bag of sugary words.

The Pig Speaketh

Well, sometimes I think the pig speaketh. 

He really just holds the sign on my kitchen counter which "speakeths" whatever I choose.  His droll look tells me he silently endures being the vehicle to display some occasion.  Lately, there's been a busload of occasions to mark.

I know this occasional game.  The excitement of a celebration pulling in and the merciless exit that always follows. 

Birthdays, first and last days of school, holidays, a college student coming home,  a dance performance coming up or just a weather report - the pig marks the moment.  And he does so via an impressive Twitter reduction - instead of 140 characters the pig's board space holds no more than 8 characters.  As far as social networking goes, he is way ahead of his time.

The hog is the new breed of 21st century techno-minimalism.  (Hmmm...perhaps that is a bit overstated.)

On the understated side, sometimes there's artwork. Well, okay, it is more like a caveman drawing.  It's always a challenge the pig and I happily take on. 

Christmas Eve: Seven Fish

There have been some favorites over the years. On Christmas Eve, when we prepare a seven fish meal, everyone gets involved because few fish recipes can be prepped ahead of time. (The pig particularly enjoys seeing his sea-bound brethren as a meal centerpiece.)  His sign displays the Roman numeral VII and a simple fish drawing.

Christmas Day will find the letter "L" crossed out: No-L aka Noel.

Summer has a sun rising on the horizon and Halloween is either "BOO!" or a pumpkin.  Not very original but heartfelt.

Lately the sign theme has been things ending - a college graduate and a high school graduate have summoned an array of "this is the last time for (fill in the blank)."  The pig has been busy. 

It is times like these that I appreciate the pig's facial expression.  It belies any emotion I am trying to express.  The pig keeps it real with his look of aplomb.  He is unaffected. Unflustered.  Unruffled.

The pig is an unwitting teacher of zen.

This weekend marks my younger graduate's last performances with her dance studio.  She is moving on to a BFA Dance program in college, so there will be more studio and stage time in her future.  Yet, leaving her current studio, where she has clocked a boatload of hours and nurtured a heart full of friendships, stings for now.

What, I ask my porcine friend, can I write/draw to capture this moment?  The hog is mute.

It's a lesson the pig repeatedly teaches: sometimes when words fail, our hearts succeed. 

I draw a dancing heart.

Mother's Day Exhale

Mother's Day can have the forced feel of New Year's Eve.  We're compelled to do something - after all, everyone started with having a mother.

I like the intention of Mother's Day but it can come with so much expectation.  Advertisers make sure we are bombarded with messages about how to thank our moms.  According to them, buying stuff is the answer.

I am a mother.  I have a mother.  We are clear about loving one another.  We agree. We disagree.  We like being together and we tire of each other.  We are nondescript in the grand scheme of mother/daughter relationships and I revel in the everyday-ness of us.  Setting aside one day for saying I love you just seems superfluous.

More importantly I think on friends whose mothers are gone, or suffer illnesses, or those who struggle to know/understand their mom. There are friends who have a tough time with their kids and those whose kids don't care. And yes there are friends whose child has died. What does this day mean to these moms?  Does it just press harder on them?  What good comes from that?

I guess what I am trying to say that if we listen to Hallmark , there is no room for a less than wildly perfect relationship on Mother's Day.  Let's dial it back a bit and recognize that this day is not rainbows and unicorns for many children and mothers. And that's okay. But let's be mindful of it.

Motherhood is so many things.  But it is not the only thing for women. 

Instead of overly glorifying mothers, how about we celebrate all women - those with or without children.  Let's have a Women's Day.  Let's really be a sisterhood and be thankful for each other.

Sports Talk

The title alone tells me this will be a very short post.

I am a sports appreciator.  Team stats, season tickets, pieces of sports trivia have no traction in my daily life.  As I've mentioned in a previous post, I do love attending most sporting events and am truly in the moment.  And when the game ends, well, that's it.

There's no ethics code or high water mark that I'm following about athlete millionaires, billionaire owners, and $5 ballpark sodas.  I am simply unmoved by the minutiae of sports.

I am, however, curious about what gets sports folk riled and the current NFL draft is a doozie.  It seems like a gladiator movie without the blood.  The only things injured are athletes' egos if they are left out of the selection process in Round 1.  But fear not!  Rounds 2 and 3 etc. are just around the bend.

I feel for some of these young men who have been pumped up by coaches, agents, and scouts supposedly 'in the know' to believe they will be a first round pick.  And then they are not.  It's a return to the schoolyard complete with angst; 'coaches' pick who they want on their teams one by one - and inevitably the cheese stands alone (Manti T'eo). 

The late night talk show hosts all mentioned the impending draft in their monologues.  Jay Leno hit the mark noting, "It's gotta be a tricky night for Manti T'eo, huh? When that phone rings is he really being drafted or is it just another scam?"

The fact that the draft is held at Radio City Music Hall (for 8 years!) and is televised really gets my attention.  What's the draw? There's no game. No points are scored.  Players are merely being chosen by professional teams and this warrants prime time attention?  I understand that it is a very, very big deal to the athletes and their families.  How is it a big deal to everyone else?

The local FoxNews station did a funny bit by placing reporters with fans outside the venue asking them how they felt about certain athletes up for grabs - only they used fake names and stats.  Well, what sports fan can resist commenting on any athlete, real or bogus? Apparently not many.  Like fireflies drawn to the light fans gave strong opinions about why these phantom players had a chance.  Some even included stats! 

I say Round 1 of the draft goes to the reporters.

Well, at least admission is free.  That makes everyone a winner.

Here's the link to my last dip into the sports pool: http://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2011/11/nature-of-sports-dreams.html

The Door

In six days there will be no more wondering.

The tables will dramatically turn, and applicants will morph into decision makers.  It is the sweet/sour spot for many high school seniors.  The college door will either be open or shut - no more "Messing with Mr. In-Between."

As I watched Tina Fey's new movie Admission I was simultaneously chuckling and aching for  all college applicants.  The search can be exhausting (and expensive).
 

Image courtesy of koko tewan
www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net   

The application process has the look of computer circuitry to me where seemingly endless wired pathways connect to achieve a singular outcome; in this case acceptance to a school.


And if today's college search appears as the intricate guts of a computer,  my long ago quest looked more like the cardboard box in which the computer is shipped.   So much simpler.

It wasn't necessarily better, but simpler?  Yes.

In her rich memoir, My Beloved World, Sonia Sotomayor vividly details her life growing up in a rough Bronx neighborhood including her education and employment up to her Supreme Court nomination.  She joined the girls' Forensics Club in high school which was coached by an upperclassman, Ken Moy.  Ken urged Sonia to debate using her hands less and listening more so she could hear the vulnerability in her opponents' arguments.  How could he know these seedling ideas would root so deeply in the future Justice's life? 

Ken, whose parents ran a Chinese hand laundry in East Harlem and whose father was "trouble three ways - heroin, gambling, and a violent temper" was accepted to Princeton.  It was Ken, who called Sonia when he was a freshman there and  uttered the words that impacted her college choices saying "Try for the Ivy League."

Sonia's first view of an Ivy League school was from a movie theater seat when she saw the film Love Story.  She describes how the setting was other worldly to the high school senior: "Apart from Camden, New Jersey and the alternate reality of Puerto Rico, I had never traveled far from the Bronx  and I had certainly never seen anything like this."  (Ironically some of the film's outdoor university scenes were filmed at Fordham which is located in the Bronx.)

Her high school guidance counselor suggested Catholic colleges, but Sonya replied "I want(ed) to apply to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia and Stanford."   Sonia followed the application steps like every other student.  When she received a postcard from Princeton with the box of "likely" checked she asked her counselor about it.  The astonished woman's reply was, "There's a very good chance you'll get in."

Some of Sonia's high school successes included a top ten class ranking, achievement on the Forensics team and in student government.  She worked part-time during school and full time each summer. 

In her memoir, Sonia recalls that a few days after she received the postcard, she walked past the school nurse, who asked in an accusatory tone, "Can you explain to me how you got a 'likely' and the two top-ranking girls in the school only got a 'possible'?"

And there it is - as true 41 years ago as it is today - the question of what factors make a college applicant 'worthy' of access? 

Sonia's access resulted in a graduating summa cum laude from Princeton, selected to Phi Beta Kappa, and earning the University's Pyne Honor Prize, a singular honor awarded to a senior who has most clearly manifested excellent scholarship, strength of character and effective leadership.

A NYTimes article titled "Better Colleges Failing to Lure Poorer Strivers" by David Leonhardt cites a recent study by two longtime education researchers (Caroline Hoxby of Stanford and Christopher Avery of Harvard) that shows a significant percentage of low-income students with top test scores and grades continue to not apply to the nation's best colleges.  While these top schools cast a wide net in some major cities and their surrounding suburbs, the study suggests that low-income students with very high test scores and grades who live between the nation's coasts are ignored. 
   http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/17/education/scholarly-poor-often-overlook-better-colleges.html?pagewanted=all

In plain numbers, of the 238 selected 'best' colleges listed, only 34 percent of low income high-achievers attend.  Among students in the highest income quartile that figure was 78 percent.

"Many top low-income students instead attend community colleges or four-year institutions closer to their homes," the Times article notes.  Even in the all access Internet age, top low-income students who have little to no interaction or exposure to someone from one of these schools ignore them in their college search.

I understand how this happens but not the why.  It seems dated in this abundant information age.  What is clear is that the issues these students face in their everyday lives weigh heavy in how they ignore top college options even though they excel in school.  Why are they not being reached?  How is this possible?

Interestingly, the Supreme Court will decide in June on a University of Texas case looking to restrict race based affirmative action as one criterion in college selections.  I look forward to hearing the court's responses, especially that of Justice Sotomayor.  (By the way, I recommend her spirited memoir.)

It's not only a matter of the door opening for students. As suggested in the Hoxby/Avery study, students first need to know where to look beyond their front doors.

Link to the Hoxby/Avery study from the  Brookings Papers on Economic Activity:
http://www.brookings.edu/about/projects/bpea/latest-conference/2013-spring-selective-colleges-income-diversity-hoxby

Link to the NYTimes article on the University of Texas affirmative action case:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/11/us/a-changed-court-revisits-affirmative-action-in-college-admissions.html?pagewanted=all

Where The Boys Are

The driving question being pondered worldwide now awaits an answer from 115 cardinals in the Vatican's Sistine Chapel.  Who will be the next pope?

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My question is this: where are the women?

No kidding. 

Christ chose 12 apostles.  All men. 

Where is it written that this decision was intended to be an ironclad, unbreakable rule of "men only" rule? Evermore?  The Bible? A tradition of male leadership is one thing.  When does tradition cement into law? 

Clearly this interpretation suits men.

How is it women have been deemed unworthy, unlikely, uninvited to lead for over 2,000 years?  No female priests - no female bishops or cardinals - no female pope. 

I am a lover of tradition -but not at the expense of every other option. 

Among other things I am a Roman Catholic with 16+ years of catholic education.  I embrace the many gorgeous mystical beliefs this theology brings.  I wonder how half of the over one billion worldwide followers are dismissed as secondary when it comes to leading the flock?

I am certain that Christ's message of love is the most important.  I understand Peter was chosen as the first pope and I do not presume to know what Christ's thoughts were on succession.  The rigidity of selecting subsequent male leaders seems more a product of cultural mores of the time than of spiritual awareness. 

Is it probable that Christ had no interest in women leading his church ever?  There is no spiritual basis for the formulaic 'men lead, women follow.' 

It does not ring of grace.  This rings of men making decisions in Christ's name. 

The old TV show titled "Father Knows Best" comes to mind as I watch coverage of the cardinals' conclave.

Two genders.  Only one gets to lead in this church.  Hard to imagine this is Christ's way - the way of light, love, compassion.  It's too one sided, too short sighted, too uneven.  Very man-made.

While white smoke will answer the question of "Who's Next?" the smoke I see hides the fire of
man-made inequality.

The 3/13/13 New York TimesCast looks at what Catholics worldwide want from their church. 

http://www.nytimes.com/video/2013/03/12/world/100000002113508/catholics-speak-modernization.html#100000002113508

Postscript  In a "60 Minutes" piece titled "The American Nuns" that aired on 3/17/13, Bob Simon gets an answer to the question of women as priests and church leaders. http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=50143033n

She's The Boss

My first female boss was the best boss I ever had.  She was also the toughest.

What a powerfully precious combination.


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She was not only likable and hilarious but an effective, hard-working, detail driven manager.  I cannot recall laughing as much and working as hard as I did in the years with her.   I have long left the Philadelphia corporation where she guided me.  She, on the other hand, has risen to one of a handful of Executive Vice President positions in the multi-billion dollar company. 

Her formula was plain - work hard at a job you love; everything else will flow.

It may sound corny, but I am grateful for her. She was/is a leader in every way. 

I write this after reading a recent NY Times article by Nicholas Kristof titled "She's (Rarely) The Boss" ttp://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/27/opinion/sunday/kristof-shes-rarely-the-boss.html  Kristof wrote the piece on the heels of a World Economic Forum event where international business leaders from large corporations met to discuss global poverty. http://www.weforum.org/

Kristof noted that female participation in the forum was 17 percent.  "Not surprising considering that global business and political leaders are overwhelmingly male," he wrote.  In the US, statistics bear this out with "only 17 percent of American Fortune 500 board seats held by women, a mere 3 percent of board chairs are women." Also, there are few women in the Obama cabinet.


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Looking for a female executive view, Kristoff spoke with Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg.  Unsurprisingly the historical combination of chauvinism and corporate obstacles continue to be hurdles.  Sandberg added her perspective stating, " We (women) hold ourselves back in ways both big and small by lacking self-confidence, by not raising our hands and by pulling back when we should be leaning in."  Her book, due out in March, is appropriately titled, "Lean In."

My boss definitely leaned in.  She was not one of the boys but she demonstrated to them that her work was integral to success.  She had/has concrete finesse.

Sandberg sees both sides of the equation needing attention for women.  "I am hoping that each woman will set her own goals and reach for them with gusto," she noted in the article.  "And I am hoping that each man will do his part to support women in the workplace and in the home, also with gusto."  

Kristof adds his thoughts," we need more women in leadership positions for another reason: considerable evidence suggests that more diverse groups reach better decisions."

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I joined my boss' staff a few weeks before I was getting married and taking a two week vacation. Yes, legally she had no way of knowing this but I told her during the interview because I thought she had to know about my absence right out of the gate.  She was non-plussed.

She was already a young mother of one son when she hired me. Her second son was due in a few months.  She didn't make parenting look easy but, just as she did in the office, she worked hard at working things out.  Learning my job as well as what I would need to do during her leave left me breathless, excited, nervous. 

She was always in the office by 6:30 am.  She was a powerful influence who  presented an ease that welcomed managers, employees, executives.    People wanted to know her and be known by her.  Work was her arena; information, her armor. 

When I left my job after having my first child, I recall telling her my greatest regret was that we would definitely lose touch.  She was appalled at the thought.  I said, "I've seen firsthand how work crushes your friendships. There's just not enough room."

Eight months later one of the best calls came from her asking me if I wanted to return in a job share with another co-worker.  She configured this option and it lasted for five cherished years.  That 'parent-friendly' arrangement made me want to work better, harder.  She knew what she was doing.

I visited her in her current position a few years ago. Her job may have changed but she hadn't.  She was still warm and powerful all rolled into one. I couldn't help but think about what life would have been like had I continued working with her.  Those who did have had a template for success in their grasp.

This is her finest gift.  Showing other women (and men) how to succeed.  

To Every Thing There is a Season

As I packed away another season of Christmas decorations I lingered over a few that have become sweet symbols of the past.  Mostly they are the worn ornaments made by my daughters during their pre-school and elementary school years.  I am not sure why I am so attached to these things but I know it runs deep.

Looking at the abundance of homemade tree ornaments filling up the storage bins, I realize my zeal has resulted in too many "things on strings" for the tree. It's time to cull the herd of crafts, as it were.  And yet, as odd as it sounds, it's a struggle.

I thought about other things as strong symbols as I read a front page item in the Sunday NYTimes regarding what the town of Newtown CT is doing with its many memorials to the sweet lives lost in December. The items carry more than memories - they embody the desire to hold up those lives as important.  They also give people a place to grieve.   http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/06/nyregion/as-memorials-pile-up-newtown-struggles-to-move-on.html

Grief has a clear beginning but where it ends, if it ever ends, is vague at best. 

Officials in Newtown CT began the process of removing the most elaborate memorials a couple of weeks following the shooting. The town's selectwoman, Patricia Llodra, waded into those delicate waters with sensitivity and focus.  The community was alerted by phone about the removals. Plans have been made to process organic materials into "sacred soil" in a future memorial.  Stuffed animals and other inorganic materials will be processed into bricks for use in constructing a tribute.

Families of those killed were given police protected time to visit the memorials privately.  Then, in the middle of the night, items were removed.

Practical reasons like harsh winter weather pummeling the memorial items, rendering 
them as sad reminders instead of sweet honor guards, along with traffic issues moved town officials to take some action.  I applaud the light, thoughtful touch this effort is being given.

Grief's path is marked by infinitesimal movement. The term "moving on" is often used and perhaps this is Newtown's effort to do so.  I'd like to think it is more of a way to simply move regardless of direction. 

My friend Linda, whose 22 year old son died in May, recently shared one of the things she realized during this past difficult holiday, "I believe I can survive my grief.  I'm learning to move through it."  I relish her awareness.  We don't so much get over or under grief, but if we can come out on the other side of it, we learn how capable we are.  If and how we do this is where the work of love takes place.

There is a local roadside memorial to a young woman named Aimee that I used to pass each Saturday when I drove home from taking my daughter to dance class in the city.  (It sits along the southbound on ramp to Rte. 1 as you exit Rte. 476 in Springfield PA)  It marks the spot where this young woman was brutally abducted; she was later found murdered in a North Philly lot.  It has had various incarnations over the years with signs and symbols but they are mostly all gone.  Someone planted a tree in her honor and it flourishes.  I think of her every time I pass that spot. I hope those who loved her are also flourishing. 

It's not the spot where someone dies that contains meaning about their life; that singular spot is the place where we started grieving.  If we can learn to give our focus to how we loved their lives, then perhaps the place where they died receives a more balanced treatment.

My grandparents died in 1979.  The cemetery was near my home so I would stop by their gravesite to have some silent time with them.  Once I moved away a few years later, those visits ended.  I think the last time I was at their gravesite was at their son's burial in 2001.  I think I've learned to spend silent time with them in other ways.  

The Bible says it well but Pete Seeger's lyrics sung by the Byrds adapted it best:  "To everything (Turn, Turn, Turn) There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn) And a time to every purpose, under Heaven."

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 King James Version

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

 

Postscript: The topic of roadside memorials which mostly honor those where they died in traffic accidents is addressed in a 2009 documentary.  Here is a clip from that film.