A Thousand Joys

Annual Disorientation

2011-10-25T11:46:00.000-06:00

This post is a repeat of last October and then the October before that, but I can't help it. I cycle through this emotion each year that I live in Arizona. It's my SAD. But every fall, I become disoriented in both time and space with the static weather. I'm still running my air-conditioner even though The Simpson's Halloween specials are running during the 10-o'clock hour.

At no other time of the year does the shimmering heat of this city in the sun bother me. I soldier through the stickiness of late July and August with the best of them and a smile on my face. But just as everyone else is thinking of hot apple cider, fall leaves and pumpkin donuts, I'm thinking, "Holy shit, why is the pool closed!?" I still operate as if it is summer, but it's actually nearly November and autumn is firmly in place.

CEWG saw fall leaves for the first time when we were in Virginia last week for Roommate Barbara's wedding. We walked outside on a drizzly day and she saw the orange leaves floating along in the gutter. A beautiful red maple caused her to shout, "Look, Mommy, that tree is on fire!" Autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the smells of wet leaves, damp earth, the chill in the air as the sun sets earlier and nights grow longer. The smell of woodsmoke curling through the trees bringing memories of marshmallows, cold noses and frost on a windowpane.

Every year, the holidays sneak up on me. I have elaborate plans to decorate, bake, craft and carve, but every year, as I continue to sweat my way through November, I forget because it still feels like August and suddenly, it is too late. This year, it will be different. I am going to try to put effort into making the season one to be jolly, to hold those I love close, to find something to celebrate in a big way, to remember to turn my face up to the blinding sun and say a prayer of thanks that despite 90-degree heat through November, at least I don't have to scrape ice off my windshield in the morning.

Inside and Out

2011-10-24T23:59:00.000-06:00

A very dear friend has recently introduced me to the idea of inside clothes and I have embraced it wholeheartedly.

The idea of different clothes for different things isn't a completely new idea. Growing up, we had a strict dress code that required dress clothes--longer skirts or dress pants, nice shoes, blouses... So every day, coming home, we put on play clothes--standard jeans, t-shirts, tennis shoes. My parents also changed when they came home. Ties exchanged in favor of Periodic Table shirts, pantyhose shed for socks and sneakers. But it was never clothes only meant for inside, not to be seen by others outside your family.

The idea of inside clothes is completely different than simply having dress clothes vs play clothes. Inside clothes are lounge clothes--soft shirts, knit pants. Not sleepwear, exactly, but not something you'd wear out in public. Only those closest to you get to see your inside clothes. Inside clothes are your private persona, your most intimate wear.

I've dug out some old comfortable clothes (as well as purchasing some new ones). As soon as I get home, I put on my inside clothes to vacuum, cook, nap, paint, play or write. If I go out to run an errand, I change--even if it's changing into casual clothes. When I get return home, I immediately put my inside clothes back on. I wear inside clothes several days in a row before washing them. Who cares if they smell like last night's dinner?

I like the idea of inside and outside. A public me and a private me, a comfortable persona that exists underneath the skirts and high heels of the office. I do often think of clothes as a form of protection. I dress a certain way to invoke a certain image, but every so often, it's good to remember just me. To shed that external skin of appearance and take a deep breath to just exhale. The inside me in my inside clothes can relax enough to know just where I am at this moment in time, even if it's in lounge pants.

Taking Care

2011-09-26T13:46:00.000-06:00

Recently, someone posed the question, "How do you take care of yourself?"

The first thought that popped in my head was "work."

And I realized that it's true. Work is a way for me to take care of myself. Not every day, of course. Some days are exhausting and hard, but eight mornings out of ten, I wake up excited and ready to go to work.

I feel privileged that I have a job I love. I know not everyone does. I feel so thankful that I do what I do and with whom I do it. I'm honored to be surrounded by individuals who have dedicated their lives to helping others. I forget, sometimes, that any one of them could be working a better job, making more money in the private sector and yet, here they are, next to me, striving to help people help themselves.

How fortunate I am.

Dirty, Beautiful

2011-09-25T11:55:00.002-06:00

I love seeing my daughter dirty.

I love when she has dirty, bare feet and flushed cheeks, slightly damp sweaty hair, smelling like the outside. The joys of childhood run deep and it is a beautiful thing to watch her unselfconsciously exist in this magical moment of complete freedom.

Vocabulary Lesson

2011-09-18T23:44:00.001-06:00

The last few days, I've been caught up in reading a popular YA trilogy about war and revolution in a futuristic time. It's nothing mind blowing and it's a quick, easy read, but I am absorbed in the story line. When I get focused on a good book, I have a hard time doing anything else but sitting and reading. In fact, even as I sit here, the other part of my mind's eye is pulling me towards my Nook, to rush through whatever I am doing, asking to refocus on the story, to reach the conclusion sooner rather than later. It's a good thing that I'm an incredibly fast reader (my one skill) otherwise, I'd be bogged down for weeks every time I opened a book.

But as I started the third book last night, a word I see every day jumped out at me on the first page.

Refugee.

Staring at me. And for a minute, I was overwhelmed at the meaning of that word.

I know what it means. Every day, I say the word refugee, see it written a thousand times. At least once a week, I'm explaining to a stranger the nature of my work, the individuals whose lives I am privileged to be a part of, even for a brief moment. The weight of that word is so heavy. War. Pain. Loss. Grief. Dehumanized. Fear. Desperation. Flight. I live in a world of privilege where I am allowed to look how I want, speak the language I know, practice my religion how I see fit. I've seen poverty, sadness but truly, I don't know what it means to lose everything.

The individuals I have met have endured the most horrific things imaginable. Wars, sometimes continuous over decades, wars that never end, just a different group in power. Persecution because of their ethnic group, their language, their religious beliefs. Watching people die. Rape. Tortured for what they know, or don't know. Aggressors stripping them of what makes them human. Fleeing what they knew, leaving behind homes, towns, family members and friends, knowing they will never ever go back. Illness in camps. Deaths of children from diseases that no longer exist in other parts of the world. Discrimination in their nation of asylum because they look different--their skin is darker, their accent is odd. Arrests, interrogations simply because they don't quite fit into the norm. Always on the run, the defensive, waiting for the next blow. Never quite being safe.

Every story unique, every story different, but somehow, every story the same. Heartbreaking.

Refugee.

The weight of that word is so heavy. Strength. Resilience. Safety. Forward. Ahead. Future. Hope. People come here, sometimes with one bag, holding the only belongings that anchor them to this world. They come here with only the family they have left. Or, they come here alone, leaving their families behind. They pick up the pieces of their lives as best they can and keep walking forward because it's all they can do. Sometimes, they do it for themselves. Sometimes they do it for their children. And sometimes, once they get here, they can't do it at all. They are finally safe and that's when they give up, go under and just let go.

I know most of my clients would think I'm ridiculous for having these overwrought thoughts about them and their experiences. "I'm just here. I do what I have to do. You would, too." I am certain that several of my colleagues who were refugees themselves, if they ever read this, would outright laugh at my wonderment at their experience. "You just have no idea how the rest of the world is. This is how it is."

But truly, the meaning of the word refugee is so far beyond my comprehension of reality, that when I really stop to think about it, really dwell on what that would mean for me, now, to become that word, to put myself in their shoes, I don't know that I would be one who made it. I mean, I white whine when I'm told the restaurant I'm dining in is out of ranch dressing. How could I possibly deal with the reality of fleeing for my life?

I'm humbled to know these individuals, my clients, my coworkers, my friends. Their lives are a testament to the sheer will of humans to survive. Their lives are a reminder to give thanks for what I have and continue to give back to those who have not.

"You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them."
--Albert Camus

Rewriting

2011-09-15T12:27:00.000-06:00

Before CEWG was born and during the time I stayed home with her, I wrote. A lot. Short stories, novellas, full novels, tiny memoirs. In ABQ, I had a fantastic group of writer friends and each week, we came together to read each other's stories, share ideas and laugh about bad plot points.

But after moving to the Valley of the Sun, leaving my writing group, rejoining the workforce and juggling mothering and working meant all that writing went by the wayside.

Except it shouldn't have.

I have no other creative outlet. In fact, I would argue that I'm not a creative person at all. I can't paint, draw, sketch, play an instrument, read music, or sew. I blame my private school upbringing where there was no art class or opportunity to stretch oneself creatively. However, I can write. But even in my writing, I find that I'm not particularly creative. I've reconciled myself to the idea that I lack an artist's soul.

Even so, it's nice sometimes to sit down and have actually done something with my time. Not just worked to produce education, knowledge or behavior change as in my day-to-day work, but actually have a product, something I can hold, wave about as proof of my existence. See world, here I am, I am real.

I have no excuse for not sitting myself down at least once a week and just doing it. The Doctor's nighttime work schedule means I have ample evening time to write after CEWG is in bed. It's just a matter of choosing to put words on paper. So one night a week, I am going to start choosing to write instead of reading celebrity gossip websites, lingering on Facebook and doing work.

Secret Fulfillment

2011-09-11T14:42:00.002-06:00

I love being domesticated. Leisurely weekends, cleaning, cooking and making my house a home are my favorite weekends. It is my secret fulfillment to center myself around my home, even for just one day a week.

Busy weekends are enjoyable, of course--catching up with old friends, dinners out, nights out, play dates and pools. But I love Sundays when I wake up slowly, drink coffee around the house in my pajamas, catch up on reading. I sort the mail in my bare feet, plan out my menu, make lists of what I need to do.

I love to do the wash, make the bed with clean white sheets, put out fresh towels for the week.

I wear my inside clothes all day, put on my apron and cook meals for both tonight and later in the week.

There is something sacred about a day of creating order in preparation for the chaos of the week, knowing that as the busy days march forward, I have groceries stocked in the refrigerator, my counters are clean and I am ready to start the week.

Forever Friends

2011-08-31T23:00:00.000-06:00

Every so often, we meet people in this world who change our lives in a real way. Or maybe, it's that you have friends who are with you during life-changing periods of your life and they forever remain tied to that person you were as you were becoming who you are.

I have several of these friends, women who stood by me, walked with me and held my hands during critical points of my life. They have my secrets in their hearts, they know my soul. Some of them are still my friends, some still flit at the edge of my friendship circle, while others have wandered out of my life entirely.

But every so often, one of them returns. This past weekend, one of these women came back to me. From the moment I met LC, I knew we would be friends of the truest kind. But on Saturday, when I saw her name flash up on my phone for the first time in years, for a split-second, I worried that her voice would be different, that I somehow wouldn't recognize her, that the years which have passed would have altered us so much we would have nothing to share.

I couldn't have been more wrong.Her laugh was the same. Her smile. We were seven years older, but there she was, standing in front of me, seemingly unchanged. Wiser, perhaps by another degree or two. But still the same girl who I trekked across a foreign country to visit, who shared whispered hopes and understood darkest fears. We couldn't keep our arms by our sides, hiking side-by-side, arms around each other, making our gait awkward, but still we moved forward.

Moments like these makes me remember how fortunate I am in the realm of friendship. How lucky I am to have a host of women who touch me, who love me tenderly and toughly, who simply know me.Thank you, my friends, far and wide, for loving me and all of my numerous imperfections.

Thank you for standing by me, for holding my hand, listening to my words, hearing me. It has been a privilege walking this journey of life, sharing my joys.

Thank you.

Mother's Day the World Over

2011-05-08T11:04:00.005-06:00

I marvel at the love a mother has for her child. When she puts her sticky hand in mine to walk across the street, I get a catch in my throat. When she snuggles herself up against my chest and puts her head under my chin, the smell of her hair brings a wave of joy and sorrow surging through my chest.

Motherloving is letting go, slowly, surely. I don't want to keep my daughter from growing up. I want to see her experience climbing a tree, riding a bike, reading, the joy of girlhood friends, the awkward braces/glasses years, and eventually, I want her to experience the love of a man and to know how to cherish someone in return.

And, yes, I want her to be a mother someday because only then can she ever truly understand how much I love her, truly understand what I would do for her. It's selfish, of course, but I think all mothers must feel that way--to have our daughters understand why we do what we do and to know that it's always meant out of love.

But sometimes--no, all the time--I want her to do her growing up a little more slowly.

Why is childhood the shortest time of our lives? Why must we power through these magical toddler years of "Why" and "How" and "I love yous" whispered into my ears before bed. I want her to stay three for two more years to soak up all that being three means. And I'm fairly positive I'll feel the same way about four, five, six, ten, fourteen and beyond.

But this day always makes me think of mothers around the world, too. Until I became a mother and had a taste of motherlove, I had no concept of how much love is in the world. When we hear of current events and news around the the world, it's tragedies--bombs, war, stealth, killing. What we don't hear enough of is the day-to-day love that exists around the world because we are all humans and, when it comes right down to it, motherlove is the same the world over. Every Mother's Day, newpapers run human interest pieces about motherhood around the world to remind us that love does exist everywhere and is in everything--even the places (and the people) seemingly most forsaken by both God and man.

Many of the women I work with have lost babies and children during the course of their lives. We all know the statistics of neonatal, infant and child mortality rates. We know that it is a dangerous occupation around the world to be a child. But nothing is like hearing a story from the mouth of the mother. Then it becomes real. There is suddenly a name on the tongue to one of those 105.56 per 1000 live births that died last year in Somali.

Tragic stories of broken children and broken mothers who healed, but only partially, whose hearts are still raw, even all these years and miles passed. Children shouldn't die before mothers. Mothers' hearts are already exposed to the world at large. We should never have to feel that unnatural pain, that loss that rips a woman's already-exposed heart out of her chest.

Today is the day that I think of all mothers and rejoice that we are blessed enough to feel this motherlove and I hope for the day that will never come that mothers around the world need not fear the pain of losing a child.

Sun-Baked Wood

2011-03-29T20:35:00.004-07:00

Today, I was sitting outside on the picnic tables at work with (soon-to-be) NewYorkRachel and I kept smelling this familiar scent. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I definitely associated the smell with summer. And then it dawned on me. It was the smell of sun-baked wood, a scent I strongly associate with the beach.

Growing up, we used to spend weeks at the Outer Banks. I am unable to even remember a summer that I didn't go to the beach. My earliest summer memory is when I was four, my mother was pregnant and we spent a good portion of the summer at the beach. I remember my mother's red and white maternity bathing suit, the tang of the salt water and the grainy sand between my toes.

The sounds and smells of summer stick with me. Beach houses in the Outer Banks are made of wood, weathered over time and in the middle of summer day, smell exactly like the picnic table, this indescribable smell of wood and sunshine.

I've been living out West, away from home, for almost 7 years. It's a long time to be away from the smells I grew up with. But sometimes, I still wake up in the morning, sun streaming through the shades, the call of a morning bird piercing the air and for a split-second, I'm 11-years old again, waking up to the indescribable joy of a summer day yawning before me.

Silent Nights

2010-12-22T22:08:00.004-07:00

This poem was on The Writer's Almanac yesterday and it captured the heartache and beauty of Christmas for me.

Noël
by Anne Porter

When snow is shaken
From the balsam trees
And they're cut down
And brought into our houses

When clustered sparks
Of many-colored fire
Appear at night
In ordinary windows

We hear and sing
The customary carols

They bring us ragged miracles
And hay and candles
And flowering weeds of poetry
That are loved all the more
Because they are so common

But there are carols
That carry phrases
Of the haunting music
Of the other world
A music wild and dangerous
As a prophet's message

Or the fresh truth of children
Who though they come to us
From our own bodies

Are altogether new
With their small limbs
And birdlike voices

They look at us
With their clear eyes
And ask the piercing questions
God alone can answer.

As an adult, Christmas brings twinges of bittersweet with the joy. Those memories of years past, the excitement of childhood, the anticipation, the magic that comes with the smell of a pine tree and the twinkle of lights. Christmas, the story of Christ (even though, yes, I know that Jesus' birth didn't actually occur in the angelic manner described in Silent Night), resonates with me in an unexplainable way. Perhaps because now, I cringe at the thought of riding a donkey at any point during pregnancy, much less giving birth on a pile of dirty hay. Perhaps because I already know the ending of the story that begins with a manger and a star but closes with a night of agony on a cross; my mother's heart hurts for Mary and what awaits her.

My favorite Bible verse of all time speaks to me as a mother. I think about Mary, tired, sweaty, bleeding, holding a tiny, red, screaming infant in her arms, wondering if this was her miracle. (I also wonder, at times, if she felt a little cheated after all that angel build up.) Like most women in the Bible, Mary isn't much more than a bit player. I mean, yes she is Virgin Birth, but aside from being cherished for her virginity and a vessel for the Christ-child, she really isn't much more than a silent witness to the acts of her son. But the verse....makes her so....real.

"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." (Luke 2:19)

These words make me pause every time I read them, but especially during this time of year. What am I missing in the life of my child? What am I neglecting to treasure as I rush around to get through the day? This time of year, especially this verse read in the same breath as the Christmas story, reminds me to linger, to slow down, to listen, to treasure and to ponder the joys and wonder of my child because before long, all I will have are these few moments, treasured in my heart and my memories.

Peaceful

2010-11-13T21:00:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been filled with joy and peace. Some days, I find my mothering groove so much easier than other; the last few days, this parenting thing has flowed naturally.

Today was a simple day. We played in the morning together and in the afternoon, we went to the library, park and grocery store. We made muffins at night, breaking the eggs and stirring the batter together. She lined the muffin tin with papers, counting up to twelve and helped spoon the batter (taking little licks along the way). We read Madeleine books and laughed as Miss Clavel ran fast and faster before I tucked her in bed with a kiss.

I love days like today, when peace flows around. I have patience and hold my temper, which is something I don't always do well.

Mothering is such a tremendous joy and a terrifying job. Small sticky hands hold mine, big eyes look up at me full of trust and love and I know that somehow, I will fail her because all parents fail their children somehow, someway because we are only human. I can only hope that I do right by my child to the best of my ability. I hope that I can lead her and teach her how to be a kind person, a compassionate person, a person who knows that she is worthy of love and respect.

If I Was Stronger Than I

2010-11-06T10:14:00.007-07:00

Five years ago, I began a healing process from an experience that forever has altered the course of my life, both emotionally and physically. Although it has been five years and I have found peace, my soul still searches for sunshine and forgiveness on this day.

Last year, on this day, another life-changing experience occurred. I am still struggling with the ramifications of another's betrayal, still working to trust, to forgive even when I know I don't deserve to ask for it. I don't know if I will come out of this experience intact as a person whole.

How does one piece this puzzle back together? How do you move forward if you aren't even certain that moving forward is what should happen? How does one even decide to contemplate making a choice?

If I was stronger then I'd decide to make that choice. But instead, I'm stalled out like a car on the side of the freeway, just sitting on the exit ramp, holding a discourse alone in my head.

My Own Goodness

2010-10-21T20:41:00.003-06:00

Originally, the whole idea of writing out my worst faults and thoughts about myself was to provide a foil for my goodness. I was going to write a list of all the things about me that are good and wonderful and, ultimately walk away celebrating who I am and where I am going.

Except this day, this week, this month, this year it seems I'm having a hard time saying those positive attributes about myself. Not that I'm dwelling on my negatives or don't realize my own goodness, just that speaking what I think is worthy about myself out loud suddenly makes me feel very self-conscious. And uncomfortable.

Ironic, of course, because I'm generally not a self-conscious person. In fact, I would say I tend towards brashness and overconfidence (again, to a fault), not modesty.

Or perhaps I'm learning that I don't need to speak my goodness out loud. I know those things. I don't need to hear them, I don't need to write them because I am them. I am the good as well as the bad. Everyone is, really. We have to have the bad with the good to make up the ying and the yang, the two sides of the coin, the comedy and the tragedy. I can't be one without the other. Together, they make me whole.

I've been reflecting on my list of failings over the last week. I realized, as I read and reread them, that many of these have been my failings for years. They are nothing new. And most of them probably aren't going to change much. I can turn over a new leaf, try harder to be a better person, give up my vices (and I try I will), but the reality is I am who I am. I've spent nearly 30 years becoming this individual and it's unlikely that the next 30 years is going to yield dramatic change to the basic person I am.

So where to from here? How do I reconcile my failings and faults, know they may not change, but continue to strive to be the person whom I wish to be, a person who is better/kinder/stronger/smarter than I am right now?

Perhaps I just do it. I be the better person, choose the harder path and hope that with each passing day, I'll grow, change, stretch into the woman I know I am.

My Own Failings

2010-10-13T21:48:00.004-06:00

I belittle others.
I am easily distracted.
I railroad conversations.
I cheat.
I don't care enough about those around me.
I am selfish.
I lie instead of telling the truth.
I have inflated self-esteem.
I turn a blind eye to what I could help.
I steal what does not belong to me.
I have intentionally hurt those whom I love.
I lose patience quickly.
I act like 24 even though I am closer to 34.
I drink too much..
I smoke and lie about it.
I work too much.
I am arrogant.
I make poor decisions.
I am not grateful enough for my blessings.

Seeing my flaws laid out in black and white is rather shocking. Like anyone, I don't like to look at my failures in the harsh light. Can I change these, this list of who I am? Can I become a better person? Or are these failings ingrained in who I am and as much a part of me as my brown eyes and wavy hair? Things I can change, but the truth is there, always underlying, simply suppressed for the time being, the way my brown eyes can become blue with colored contacts and my hair straight with a brush and dryer.

It's not a pleasant thought, that we don't really become better people, that human failure haunts all of us until we die.

But possibly, being honest about one's flaws means being honest about one's humanness. And being honest about humanness raises an awareness of ourselves to work towards being better, to suppressing our innate flaws, to straightening our hair in hopes of fooling everyone around us. Except ourselves.

Lucky, Lucky Me

2010-09-10T14:54:00.004-06:00

On my drive into work this morning, I was chitchatting with a good friend many miles away. She is about to embark on a major life change and I was lucky enough to be sharing both her abounding joy and smidgen of fear.

I started thinking about my own transitions in life. We've lived in PHX now for well over a year and I'm rounding my one-year anniversary of my job. My life has become routine and settled after years of transition. In three years, we moved twice, got married, had a child.

But now, my life is relaxed. When a long-lost friend (or just someone across country) and we haven't spoken in a while, I love the fact that when I am asked if anything new is going on, my answer is, "Nope, holding to the status quo."

A year ago, my life was on the brink in a bad way, even though I didn't know it yet. But miraculously, somehow my life recovered and became better than ever. How did that happen? How did I get so lucky?

I can't really answer that. Sometimes, I find myself crossing my fingers, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering when the bottom will fall out again.

Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But all I can say is that right now, this very moment, I am satisfied with my life. I am lucky, lucky indeed.

Joy and Heartbreak

2010-09-06T09:04:00.002-06:00

CEWG thinks she is a princess. Who am I to dispute, really?

This age is miraculous. She is uninhibited. She is joyous. She is filled with honey and with vinegar. She exudes confidence in everything she does. She knows she is the best dancer, the best singer, the best princess that has ever existed.

I wish I could bottle this joy. I wish that she could keep this love of herself forever. She has not learned to dislike herself yet, to wish that her hair was straight or her thighs thinner, to think she laughs too loudly or smiles too widely. She has not learned to criticize, just to adore and be proud that she can jump so high and dance so wildly.

How do I teach her to hold on to this part of herself? How do I teach her to love her body and her mind and her soul for all that she is? How do I show her that imperfections are not necessarily flaws that should be changed, but merely a part of the sum total of who she is and who she can be?

I try to show her by loving myself, by embracing my body how it is now, for all its imperfections which are not imperfections, really. My body grew another life, gave the light to that life, nourished that life for over two years. I am not only teacher, but also student, learning from my daughter to take pride in that body, to shower it with grace and love for doing all these wonderous things.

I want my daughter to hold on to her confidence forever. I want her built on a solid foundation of self-love and self-acceptance, so that inevitably, when someone calls her "fat" or "clumsy" or "ugly" she is not shaken and falls, but stands tall in herself and retorts, "No, I am better than that."

Revolution

2010-09-05T22:41:00.000-06:00

(Warning: I'm about to get on my high horse and cliched, so be warned. Read at your own risk, dear reader.)

I read The Omnivore's Dilemma and I am duly horrified. Objectively, I knew much of the book's content. I've heard of docking chicken beaks and the cruelty of slaughtering beef on a slaughter line. I've always teetered on the edge of becoming a vegetarian because of my love for animals. (Ironic, of course, because I actually slaughtered my own chickens in Kenya.) But there is something about eating animals that I've always had a difficult time dealing with.

But there were plenty of things in the book that I didn't know. For example, it takes about 87 calories of energy to transport 1 calorie of food. I mean, that's crazy.

So The Doctor and I are attempting to revolutionize how we eat and drink in our small house in the desert. We're trying to buy local as best we can in Arizona. Farmer's markets, local stores, grass-fed, free range meats. I'm considering this my revolution, my food anarchy.

Styleless

2010-08-31T19:33:00.003-06:00

Last night, I went to a coworker's home to see some photos from her recent trip to Asia (Hong Kong, China, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, in case you were interested). She made some appetizers consisting mostly of cheese (delish!) and uncorked a few bottles of wine. The photos were fantastic. I really enjoyed seeing and hearing her stories about rices paddies and buffalo shit.

But what I loved most of all was her condo. Her sense of interior design and style wowed me. Everything from the paint colors and placement to the wall hangings to the knick-knacks to the pillows and throws just complemented each other. It was bright, cheery, modern, bohemian, gorgeous. The style of the home was eclectic (e.g. NOT Pottery Barn, etc.), but it looked fantastic. So pulled together and lived in and I loved it.

For whatever reason, my sense of home design and style is terrible. (To be honest, my sense of personal style is kind of lacking, too. Clothes I can do, but accessories? Forget it.) It's not a family gene becauase Golden Brother has a fabulous sense of style (especially for a straight man) and his little studio apartment looks a thousand times better in shades of orange and green and modern art and contemporary furniture. Granted, Golden Brother studied art and architecture at university, so maybe it's a learned gene.

Whatever I lack, I lack in a big way. My house has prints hung up throughout, but they all look a little mismatched and oddly out of place. My furniture is a hodge-podge of stuff (and stained with child crap like food and paint and crayons).

I wish I had an innate sense of style. But for my house to look like anything other than thrown together and mishmashed, then I'll have to hire someone to come and pick out colors, furniture and wall hangings.

At least I can cook.

H-O-T Hot

2010-08-25T22:32:00.002-06:00

This is the time of the year I despise living in Arizona. Everywhere else, it's the winding down of summer, the beginning of fall, the anticipation of school and a fresh start. A change of seasons.

Except in Arizona. Right now, it's only the middle of the summer; the heat will continue the sizzle for another few months as the air conditioner drones on outside my window, providing an incessant hum as backdrop to my nights.

I love the fall. I love the cooler mornings, the crispness in the air, the slow but steady change of the leaves from deep summer green to crackly orange and reds. I love apple picking and cider, pumpkin-picking and looking at new pink erasers.

I miss the change of seasons right now.

Rerouted

2010-08-24T13:19:00.002-06:00

Clearly, I've quit doing a photo a day. My life has had a few speed bumps pop up over the last few weeks, the last of which ended up with me in the ER in VA Beach the day of my grandfather's funeral. Despite my smugness, apparently gallbladder problems do run in my family and hit all women right around the age of 30. I'm close enough to 30 for it to count and had a laparoscopic cholecystectomy (that would be a gallbladder removal surgery) on Friday.

So I'm home for a few days relaxing and healing. CEWG is at nursery school, the Doctor is sleeping off his night shift work and I'm watching bad reruns of afternoon television and generally enjoying being home.

8:11

2010-08-11T21:11:00.001-06:00

Study in Clouds

8:10

2010-08-10T20:28:00.001-06:00

8:9

2010-08-09T20:23:00.002-06:00

8:8

2010-08-08T20:21:00.001-06:00

RADM Edward W. Carter III

8:7

2010-08-07T20:07:00.000-06:00

8:6

2010-08-06T22:14:00.002-06:00

8:5

2010-08-05T22:00:00.002-06:00

8:4

2010-08-04T21:57:00.001-06:00

8:3

2010-08-03T23:17:00.003-06:00

A Favorite

8:2

2010-08-02T23:09:00.000-06:00

Bits and Pieces

8:1

2010-08-01T17:03:00.002-06:00

after the rain

Balance

2010-07-31T15:17:00.003-06:00

Over the last few years, I feel like my life has lacked balance in many ways. In general, maybe, my personality lacks balance. I tend embrace life's extremes (hopefully not in a bipolar-kind-of-way, but in an exuberant-kind-of-way). The last five years of my life have been extreme. Graduated, married, moved, job changes, baby, motherhood, moved again.

I'm finally feeling settled. For the first time in my life, I'm living in a place with no end in sight. Up until now, my life has been divided into stages: university, Peace Corps, grad school, the Doctor's residency. Each stage had a finite life-span, a time when it was definitively over and it was time to move on.

But now, here I am. And I feel settled. I feel like I am sliding into my life, sinking in. The knowledge that I could live here for ever (or not) is comforting. This isn't a stage, this isn't a phase, there is no end in sight. It just is. This is my life.

And I am filling my life with bounty. I have a job that excites me, a child who inspires me to be better and stronger, even as she becomes her own person. I have the time to both work and cook, to do and create. I am enjoying summer and food and monsoons and rest. I am balancing my family, my work, my passions and my loves.

For the first time, I really understand how life is about the journey and not the destination.

Home Again, Home Again

2010-07-27T18:07:00.005-06:00

We're back from a lovely vacation armed with Virginia peanuts (but no ham). I always feel so sad when I leave my family behind to head back out West, but simultaneously, it's always somewhat of a relief to be back in my own home. We sunned, surfed, spent time with beloved friends and family members, ate and drank and ate and drank and ate some more. My mother's brothers are both "foodies" in the best sense and family get-togethers inevitably result in massive piles of shaved parmesan, giant boxes of pasta, links of sausage and a hot grill. Oh yes, and lots of bottles of wine. There is nothing like beautiful, messy, lovely family to make a holiday trip feel blessed.

After getting home, we went shopping. I love having a fridge full of fresh foods. The colors of summer are so vibrant on my counters.

Discouraged

2010-07-13T22:34:00.002-06:00

Tonight I feel discouraged. This week hasn't been particularly overwhelming (or underwhelming), so I'm not really sure where this maudlin feeling has come from tonight (maybe that second glass of white?).

We have had some client losses these last few weeks. It's been sad. I don't like telling women they are no longer pregnant. They hear the initial news from the doctor, but inevitably, they come to me for reassurance, for understanding, for asking "is it true?" It is so hard holding a woman's hand while she cries in a language that I don't speak. Grief is universal, but there is still a chasm between us for reasons I can't explain. I am not fluent in the specific language of miscarriage loss and I know the grief of any pregnancy loss is so personal and different for each woman and each experience.

I know there are reasons for loss, all loss. I believe there is a place for us all to meet again, to see those we have lost, known or unknown, again or for the first time.

In a few short days, I am headed back to the sticky summer heat and green of Virginia. I am looking forward to taking a break from work, seeing my beloved family and having my tired, dried-out soul renewed from the ocean's salty breeze.

Stoned Fruit

2010-07-11T10:22:00.003-06:00

I used the term "stone fruit" the other day (as in, "Please pick up some stone fruit at the store") and The Doctor looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Though I didn't ask, I suspect an image of eating rocks flashed in his mind. Clearly "stone fruit" isn't a term that is as commonly used as I thought.

Stone Fruit: In botany, is a fruit in which an outer fleshy part (exocarp, or skin; and mesocarp, or flesh) surrounds a shell (the pit or stone) of hardened endocarp with a seed inside. These fruits develop from a single carpel, and mostly from flowers with superior ovaries. The definitive characteristic of a drupe is that the hard, lignified stone (or pit) is derived from the ovary wall of the flower.

Stoned fruit salad is a delicious summer treat. Cut up a variety of stone fruits into chunks (peaches, plums, nectarines). Add a handful of berries (your choice, but I'm partial to raspberries or blackberries, myself). Add 2 Tbsp of sugar (or to taste, depending on your sweet tooth). Squeeze the juice of one lime (or equivalent amount of refrigerated juice from concentrate if you swing that way). If you have a zester, zest away (but I don't, so I don't). Tear up a nice-sized handful of fresh mint and mix well. Let sit at room temp for 30 minutes to let the flavors absorb. Refrigerator or eat. Also amazing when paired with Dutch babies (as in the pancakes, not actual babies).

Cherish the Heirloom

2010-07-10T10:44:00.005-06:00

Tomatoes are my favorite part of the summer. We always had tomato plants growing on our deck during the summers; they never yielded much bounty, but plucking tomatoes right off the vine and eating them on the deck, juice running down our chins was most certainly the best part of the summer (besides the smell of chlorine and no school).

I can eat a tomato like an apple. Heirloom tomatoes are my favorite. Often, they are so thick with flesh on the inside that I have to slice them and eat them like a steak, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with some balsamic vinegar and chunks of mozzarella.

I haven't been successful at tomato-growing, here in the dry and dusty southwest (but let's face it, I haven't been very successful at making anything grow--even weeds). Thank heavens for stores and farmer markets. There is a lovely place, just down the street, called the Fruit Barn which always sells delicious and fresh tomatoes a short walk away.

In honor of summer, here is my new favorite summer tomato recipe (so easy, I can actually make it after work):

Tomato and Goat Cheese Tart
Two sheets of puff pastry dough, thawed according to package directions. Slice one sheet into four equal squares. Cut the second sheet into strips about 1" thick. Lay the strips along the outside of each of the squares (goal is a tart with raised sides).

Bake at 400 for 20-25 minutes on a cookie sheet.

While the tarts are baking, different varieties of baby heirloom cherry tomatoes in half (yellow, orange, red, etc.). Set aside. Take 2 oz of goat cheese (or more) and mix with sizable pinches of rosemary, thyme and oregano. Add two or so Tbsp of milk and mix it with the cheese so it becomes thinner and more spreadable.

When the pastry is finished baking, spread the goat cheese mixture on each of the tarts equally, top with cherry tomatoes, a pinch of salt and pepper to taste and put back in the oven for another five minutes.

Top with torn fresh basil and serve warm (or room temperature).

Heat Wave

2010-07-01T22:04:00.003-06:00

It's gotten hot. Summer has hit full force and the temperatures are soaring well over 105. The heat shimmers on the horizon and the asphalt is sticky.

I hate this time of year in the Valley of the Sun. It's unrelenting sunshine and heat.

I know that it's a dry heat, but still, sometimes, I feel like my soul is shriveling from the heat. The humidity represents a certainly level of fecundity that feeds a soul, keeps one alive even in the heat. Sweaty glasses of iced tea on a porch, the low hum of cicadas, the sticky feeling on the backs of your legs, the curls on the back of your ponytail.

I am looking forward to the humidity of VA.

Set Up

2010-04-28T22:02:00.005-06:00

Since I started work, I've been wanting to participate in an apartment set up, but unfortunately, until today, I hadn't been given the opportunity.

In a nutshell, our organization receives clients throughout the week. When a new arrival is slated to come, it's our responsibility to set up an apartment for them the day before their arrival with furniture, food and other basic necessities so when they stumble into their new home, exhausted from travel and the unknown, they're covered for a few days to get their bearings as best they can.

Today, I learned just how basic those necessities are.

Three of us went to Walmart and went shopping off of a list which included things like "female deodorant" and "laundry soap." Total, the apartment I set up cost $194 (not counting furniture). That's it. $194 covered everything from dish soap to a shower curtain to pots and pans and sheets and utensils and towels and dishes and toiletries.

In one way, $194 went a long way. I mean, we got a significant amount of stuff for that apartment. But simultaneously, I kept thinking how much excess there is in this world and in my life. I don't go around dropping $200 on stuff every weekend, but it was a bit of a sobering thought that the money I spend on miscellaneous and inconsequential things in a few weeks could put together an apartment for a family of 3.

XYZ

2010-04-26T22:05:00.003-06:00

Today, I walked around for a good portion of the day with my zipper down.

No one told me.

I hope the reason no one told me is because no one noticed my bright green panties peaking through my fly.

When embarrassing things happen (skirt caught up in tights, toilet paper on shoe, zipper down), I always wonder why people don't point out the obvious. Fear of embarrassment? I'll be honest. I'd much rather have a moment of slight embarrassment with one individual than a massive moment of embarrassment alone when I realize I've been walking around all day grinning at people with a big piece of lettuce in my front teeth.

Or flashing my green panties at all my clients as I sat on their floors playing with their babies.

Honesty Honestly

2010-04-21T14:57:00.001-06:00

Perhaps one of the greatest things about getting older is insight about honesty in one's own life. (Now, I realize that "getting older" means closer to 30 in my case, but you know, bear with me.)

This weekend, I had a my weekly 2-hour phone call with my Law Librarian Jen. I can't even remember what sparked the conversation, but LLJ pointed out that one great thing about maturing is being honest with yourself and subsequently making decisions based on what you enjoy as opposed to what you think you should enjoy. It's not about faking enjoyment for something that you hate, but more showing enthusiasm for something you feel apathy for.

I will never forget when I was about 20 my mother confided to me that she, in fact and contrary to what I had thought for the last 15 years, didn't actually care for shrimp. It sounds rather ridiculous for something so seemingly mundane to make a lasting impression in my adult mind, but after an entire life of summers spent at the beach, peeling and deveining freshly caught shrimp to boil for my entire family, I felt rather taken aback. Why on earth, if she didn't really care for shrimp did I have to stick my fingers in shrimp guts for hours on? She, like I, was taught that shrimp were a treat and something special saved for the summer (which it is in my opinion), but if she was honest with herself, shrimp would never be her choice of a treat or special meal. It isn't that she hates shrimp--just that if given the choice of a summer seafood meal, she'd rather enjoy something else instead; she simply tired of pretending that she thought shrimp was something special and was completely unapologetic about it. She said, "Life is too short for other people's shoulds."

She's right. LLJ is right. As I get older, and I'm sure LLJ and I are not alone in this, I find myself becoming more secure in myself and the small choices I make. Who I surround myself with, the parenting choices I make, the food I eat, the movies I watch, the music I listen to and the books I read. And frankly, no one cares that I'd rather read a modern British mystery novel than the searing political commentary of our time.

Honest.

A Farewell to Pride

2010-04-16T21:36:00.005-06:00

During 8th grade, one of the required readings for my literature class was The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. I hated it. I dreaded reading it, writing about it and (to be completely honest) am not entire sure I even finished the book. If you know me and know anything about my literature consumption habits, you know that refusing to finish a book is a rare thing indeed.

Since that 8th grade misfortune, I've refused to have anything to do with Hemingway. Flat out refused to read any of his novels or show any real interest in his life as a historical figure. In fact, I'd go so far to say that I purposely have been openly critical and hateful toward Hemingway and his writings (all based on one novel read when I was 14).

Weirdly, my life has paralleled his in many ways--at least in travel experiences. I've been to Havana (and am sure I insulted many a Cubano by telling them I was not interested in "Papa," and no, I didn't care about his damn six-toed cats), I've lived abroad in Spain (but refused to watch a bullfight), I've traveled to Kilimanjaro (though I failed to take home any big game animal heads).

Yet, the entire time, I adamantly maintained that Hemingway was an author I'd never read again.

And then a coworker and I started a conversation about books. His preferences tend more toward what I think of as *man-lit*--a combination of nonfiction and novels that appeal to men. But he mentioned Hemingway as one of his favorite authors. I laughed and told him I'd never touch a Hemingway book thanks to my 8th grade experience The Old Man and the Sea.

What a smug person I am. A day or two later, I found myself wandering the fiction section of the library again. I routinely do this--go to the library needing something to read but with no concrete ideas of actual books to take home. And then the idea occurred to me. I *could* check out a Hemingway novel.

After browsing the new releases but not finding anything inspiring, I settled for The Sun Also Rises. Short. Not too intimidating. I checked it out with low expectations.

I am a jerk. Clearly. I am willing to admit this publicly and openly.

All these years of my life, I've spent hating Hemingway, publicly denouncing my dislike for his writing and one novel, one short novel of his that took all of two days to read, felled me like a tree. I loved the story. Loved it.

I don't know if I was too young to appreciate his writing style, too immature to understand such adult themes in literature or maybe I've been a jerk my whole life. Who knows (although, I suspect the latter)? His descriptions of Spain's countryside had me reminiscing about riding through the countryside. The aimlessness of the characters floating through life abroad, the lost innocence, the effects of war on an entire generation, the drinking to suppress feeling the emasculation just resonated with me in a way I didn't expect.

All I know is this: I have given Hemingway another chance and I suspect it's a relationship that will last a lifetime.

PHX

2010-04-10T14:26:00.001-06:00

This city of shimmering heat is starting to grow on me. So much so, we're actually debating buying a home in the next year. Committing. To one of the hottest metropolitan places in the world. Forever. (Or at least a good 10+ years.)

I never thought I could make PHX my home. Too hot. Too crowded. Too sprawling. I would grow weary of the commuting, the distance, the sheer volume of people in my space.

Or so I thought. And then, I started to notice the culture, the arts, the community (yes, community) in this improbable city in the middle of the desert.

Maybe this isn't so bad, after all. Maybe, just maybe, I ended up in the right place.

I Forgot

2010-04-06T22:35:00.003-06:00

This year, I forgot.

Five years.

The days slipped past me without conscious thought and before I knew it, the moment had passed and I had forgotten.

I thought somehow this year would be momentous. Five years is not to be taken lightly. But miraculous that five years has passed and the day slipped by and I forgot.

For the moment of my life I thought I would be scarred forever and yet, here I am.

So for one more year, one more moment. Even if a bit late.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Lost in Translation

2010-02-23T19:27:00.004-07:00

We had a baby group at work today. (Side note: Burmese babies are the cutest babies in the entire world and I am always scheming as how to get myself a Burmese baby. Unfortunately for me, any baby that comes out of me is NOT going to look like a Burmese baby, no matter what I do.) Anyways, our program's baby groups replace the regularly scheduled well-baby checkup which means that babies get naked and weighed for their vitals.

This particularly baby group had all three and four-month-old babies. Truly the best part about that age is just how fat the babies get. They have rolls on their thighs--roll upon roll upon roll. It's most certainly a product of being in the baby furniture stage. Babies that age are like seals storing up their fat for when they start becoming mobile and then they just burn through that fat and become lean again. (Another side-note. All of our babies in that group were well above the 75th percentile in both weight and height which just warms the cockles of my heart. So healthy and strong!)

At one point, I was holding a chubby boy who was wearing nothing but a diaper. He had these luscious, squeezable rolls and I had the sudden desire to just gently bite his soft thighs like I used to do to The Bean at that age. I turned to our interpreter, a lovely middle-aged gentleman, and asked him if there were any affection expressions in Burmese that expressed a desire to eat a child. I was thinking along the lines of the English phraseology of, "He's so cute, I just want to eat him up!" or "I just want to nibble his thighs!"

However, "S" immediately gave me a look of panicked alarm and I realized how culturally relevant expressions about eating children are. After I explained what I meant (i.e. terms of endearment, because the fat rolls are so kissable and naturally, kissing leads to biting, just a figure of speech, etc., etc.) he had a good chuckle and assured me that, no, there was not an equivalent turn of phrase or idea in Burmese.

But at least now I've realized how the rumors that white people eat ethnic babies got started.

Chop Chop

2010-02-14T13:04:00.004-07:00

One of the most annoying things about moving is having to find a new salon. The entire three years that we lived in ABQ, I never once found a salon that I liked. After the first year, I pretty much gave up getting my hair cut. It's been a long time since my last hair cut. It was time. I found an ad in a local paper (support local business, right?) for a salon the next block over and made an appointment yesterday.

The stylist was a nice older gentleman and he did a great cut. Unfortunately for me, the style (blunt, chin-length bob) makes me look like I'm about 12. I profusely thanked him, tipped him well and then left with a sinking heart. I hated my hair.

But more than hating my haircut, I hate the fact that I lied. I had the sinking feeling as he was cutting that the style that I requested was not the style that I envisioned in my head. And yet, I effusively thanked him.

Why is it so hard to tell someone that I don't like a service they did for me at the time the service is rendered? I mean, I flat out lied to the man. I tipped him 20% for crying out loud! What the fuck? Why am I sitting here the next day, dreading going into work on Tuesday because I know that my haircut is not flattering? Why do I feel the need to help a hairstylist who I don't know save face? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings?

I think perhaps this is an American trait. Or an American woman trait. I have several coworkers who are not American who flat-out tell you what they don't like. You ask them if you look fat in this dress, they'll tell you yes. No sugar-coating it by saying "Oh, I think it brings out your eyes!" They'll just say, "Yes, it does." And you know what? Said dress probably does make me look fat! Better to not wear it again than naively walk around thinking I look svelte when really I look like a Guernsey cow. In the long run, an honest opinion is far better than a lie (for fashion, anyways. Perhaps not other things?).

I really do think I need to do a better job of being honest when people ask for my opinions.

Especially if I'm paying them.

Footloose

2010-01-26T21:31:00.002-07:00

In a desperate attempt to make friends at work and actually make this craphole town feel like my home, I've done the unthinkable (well, unthinkable since I was in my early 20s). No, not binge drinking--my last attempt at that ended in my mid-20s with my head in a toilet next to Roommate Barb sometime in Feb. 2007.

I have joined work's intramural soccer team.

Since The Doctor works nights, CEWG will be accompanying me to the games which are every Weds night. I haven't run in a long time, even after my own child (I tend to just let her go off. She usually come back pretty quickly if I stop looking for her.), so this should be quite the adventure.

So here's to a whole new round of shin guards, soccer socks, sweat and sore muscles starting at 7:30 tomorrow. I can't hardly wait.

Seriously.

Small Heros

2010-01-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

One of my personal pet peeves since 9/11 is the overuse of the word "hero." Everyone is a hero these days. It's all over the Info-tainment: "Hero Dog Saves Small Squirrel from Certain Death!" But surely, we can't all be heros, right? What use is a word that applies to us all?

Working with such a significantly underserved population has again reminded me that sometimes, the word hero is still applicable to regular people. There is so much need in my line of work. So much material need--people needing rent, food, clothes, shampoo. Not to mention emotional need and spiritual needs that are neglected in favor of those more pressing physical needs like hunger and shelter.

But every day, my colleagues come into work to face another day of doing only what they can, giving only what they can and having to say "no" more times than they say "yes."

This line of work isn't for people who want to be heros or have glory. It isn't a career that will pay much more than entry level. Ironically, it isn't a career that even has a lot of gratitude. Sometimes, it seems that everyone is always asking for more and something is never enough because when you have so little, there is always more needed.

But every day, my coworkers come back. Some days more burned out than others. Some days, tired with circles and exhaustion, the toll of endless "no's" and "cannot's" evident in their eyes. Some days there is a triumphant smile or a story of success. But still, my colleagues come, each with their own reasons for their work, their own passions, their own stories to tell but with one goal: a desire to give respect and dignity to those who have gone without for so long.

Confessions of a Monoglot

2010-01-18T14:09:00.004-07:00

For someone who would love to fancy herself a writer, I have absolutely no talent in language. Well, let me rephrase. I have adequate command of the written English language. I often joke, however, that my written vocabulary significantly exceeds my spoken vocabulary-- not because I don't know the words but because I simply cannot pronounce the words correctly. I often settle for words that don't exactly convey the true meaning and intent because at least I won't make an ass of myself if I say the word incorrectly. (I once pronounced the word "hypothetical" "hi-poth-i-call" in front of my entire 150-person MPH Biostatistics class and almost died of shame when, yes, everyone in the room burst out laughing. And let's not even talk about "posthumously.")

I distinctly remember the day that I discovered that language acquisition was not my forte. I was about 9 and struggling through 3rd-grade phonetics (Mrs. George, how I hated chanting those charts out loud: "PH says ffff, TH says thhhh"). I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table eating lunch and reading a list of clothes that my father was planning on ordering from L.L. Bean (these were the days of the catalogue phone orders, mind you). I saw the word (forever burned in my memory) written out next to "pants" and I could not figure it out. I asked my father how to pronounce the word and I will never forget the incredulous look on his face. "Sound it out, Elisabeth. You know this word. You've heard it before." I struggled and struggled for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes, and still, I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to shout to my father, "I may have heard it but if I haven't seen it, it's meaningless to me!"

When he finally said the word out loud, I felt like a dipshit (though, that word had yet to be in my vocabulary). The silent "k" combinations had yet to be covered in my phonetics class.

"Khaki." Please.

I've tried my best to move forward from my 9-year-old self. I studied Spanish through high school and in college every semester my entire four years. I even studied abroad in Spain, desperate to learn another language and prove myself to be better than those Amerophiles who refused to learn foreign languages based on principle. I flopped at Spanish. Next on my list was Kiswahili during my stint in Kenya, at which I also failed.

Well, perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. I actually had an amazing grasp on the rules and structure of both foreign languages. I loved seeing how sentences and thoughts fell together, how the rules guided the parts of speech, the nuances of verb tenses. Even the structure of the noun classes of Swahili opened a whole new world for me. But for the love, I could not pronounce a damn thing correctly in either language. My tongue always felt thick in my mouth, unable to make the proper combination of sounds at the right time.

Fast forward to my life in the present. I've given up on foreign languages. Completely stopped. It's been five years, more or less, since I've even attempted speaking more than a short phrase of anything other than English. Whenever my linguistic past arises in conversation, people always smile knowingly and say, "Oh, it'll come back to you if you just practice." I have to refrain from outright laughter and tell them that it was never really there in the first place. No one ever believes me, though.

One of the best things about working at an international organization is the languages. Every day that I walk into that office, it's like being greeted by the Tower of Babel. It's not just languages spoken by our clients, but our staff, too. Each day, there's a good chance that I will hear each of these languages: Arabic, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Nepali, Farsi, Spanish, Cuban, Russian, French, Swahili, Kirundi, Chin...the list goes on. My office mate alone speaks four languages fluently and I am beginning to pinpoint who she is talking to on the phone by the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.

The hum of foreign languages flows around me, seductively luring me in, enticing me to want to learn again, to pour over lists of flashcard vocabulary and learn new rules and structures of speech. I hate that I am that typical American, unable to communicate with anyone outside of my language because I think it truly hinders my ability to understand a culture. Understanding language and syntax is the first step to understanding a different worldview. Language is the first glimpse a novice has into the way things fit together in the mind of the other. I've always wondered if lovers who speak different language use their mother tongue in that critical moment of passion or clumsily try to use their common language to express their mutual feelings of ecstasy. I marvel when I hear the sounds of other languages spilling out of others' more fortunate mouths, "Does that sound/grunt/tone actually mean something to someone? Amazing!"

But I must accept my shortcomings. I will never be able to seamlessly switch between languages to use the words that best describe my intent. I will always be clumsy and never witty in another language. I am confined to reading inferior English translations of Tolstoy and Sartre and Rumi, never to grasp the full beauty of their written word.

Here is my confession: I am, and will never be more than, a monoglot.

Tonight

2010-01-13T21:30:00.003-07:00

It's raining in the desert right now. There is something so satisfying about the gentle patter of the drops as they run down my windowpanes. Most often, it seems, we get the torrential rains, the pounding sheets of driving rain that turn a person blind, the fast cataclysmic downpours that shake up our brown earth and turn our empty washes into coursing rivers..

But occasionally, we get the soft rains of the East, the leisurely splatters that instead of washing away the dust in a torrent of floods, gently caresses our dirt, healing, coaxing change and bringing green, even for a short time.

This is one of those rains.

Rediscovery

2010-01-08T20:19:00.005-07:00

I never thought going back to work would change me. I mean, I knew my life would change, I knew that my schedule would be different and I'd have less time to cook and clean and play with CEWG. I knew I'd be juggling the demands of The Doctor's career which is neither forgiving nor flexible. But I figured that at this point in my life (ripe old age of 29, thank you very much!), I've come to figure out who I am and where I am going. If not, what was that quarter-life crisis for?

Boy, was I ever wrong.

This job has thrown me into another world that I had forgotten which challenges who I am now and where I want to be every single day I walk into that office. I have never worked harder, more intensely and with more discipline in my life and I have never been happier than I am right now.

The only thing that has affected me more is becoming a mother.

I cherished the time that I spent with CEWG at home. I got 22 beautiful months to intensely fall in love with my child. Learning how to be a mother and setting a foundation for perhaps the most powerful relationship a person can have has truly been the most life-altering experiences I have ever embarked on. I feel so fortunate that I could make the choice to stay home and simply exist with my child without any other demands placed upon my time.

I feel like I'm in rediscovery mode again, but this time, instead of learning who I am as a mother, I'm relearning who I am as a person. I am reminding myself who I am outside of my family, reminding myself of my interests, my passions. Each day, I learn more about myself. Each day, I am given a new challenge, a new viewpoint, a new problem, a new way of looking at the world.

How awesome is this?

Old Friends

2010-01-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

Last night, ex-Beloved came over to my house for dinner. We hadn't really spent any quality time together in the last five years. In fact, I hadn't seen him in 4 years except for once for a brief encounter a few months ago (The Doctor, CEWG and I invaded his house for an hour to say hi).

There is something wonderful about seeing people from your past. They remind you of who you were and you can get a glimpse of your old self as well as a new perspective on who you've become. It was wonderful to simply sit and talk, laugh about old times, reflect on memories and who we used to be and begin to learn who we are now.

I am so thankful that I have so many friends who are comfortable friends. Friends who are like favorite pairs of jeans--you can slip them on and just be yourself. My college experience was wonderful, the education was top-notch. But truly, the best gift that William and Mary gave me was a collection of friends that have been there for each other through thick and thin.

A New Year, Another Beginning

2010-01-01T17:15:00.002-07:00

I can't believe it's 2010 already. For some reason, 2010 sounds so futuristic to me. But I suppose since it's here and now, futuristic it is not. And here I am. Starting another year, one step closer to 30.

We're firmly settled in PHX. I didn't turn the air-conditioning off until mid-November. Pity me, please? At least our electric bills will get a respite since we don't need heat and I doubt we will since the projected highs hover around the upper 60s/low 70s before they shoot back up to the upper 80s.

But of course, the biggest news is that I'm back at work full-time! I somehow, I managed to land my dream job with my dream organization. I'm still in shock that I'm so lucky to get up every day and do what I do and take home a paycheck for it! How does that happen? And how does that happen to me? But it did.

And amazingly, we've all adapted to the change well, CEWG included. She's enrolled in daycare (AKA nursery school) and after two to three weeks of transitional crying, loves loves loves her teachers and class.

I'd like to start to get back to blogging, simply because it forces me to write. I didn't get time to do NaNo this year because of personal extenuating circumstances. And of course, since I've moved, I have no writing group to force me to write, either. But hopefully, writing here a few times a month will at least get it out of my system and give me that creative outlet.

To here's to the New Year, you and yours!

Moving On

2009-09-28T14:13:00.002-06:00

Well, we've moved on. Or, over. Our family has officially relocated one state over, back to Arizona, but this time in Phoenix. It's taking a bit of adjusting (as to be expected, naturally) and I'm anxiously awaiting the end of summer (and thus the end of 105 degree heat). Yes, it is almost October and yes, it is currently 102 with a high of 106.

But we have a beautiful home that is (mostly) unpacked. Much more space than we had before, which is nice. We're slowly making new friends and reconnecting with old ones.

I am enjoying my toddler who occasionally tries my patience and almost always makes me laugh. It's nice to have a bit of my life back now that she isn't so needy as an infant.

I Didn't Know

2009-05-17T11:12:00.005-06:00

I didn't know it would be like this. Motherhood. Wearing your heart exposed. I see the photos of Mary holding the Christ Child, her Immaculate heart exposed with a sword in it and I just get it.

Motherhood is like that. A heart on the outside, waiting to be pierced with both sorrows and joys.

Last night, I spent the evening reading a blog by a mother whose fourth pregnancy had a "poor prenatal diagnosis." She chose to carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to a daughter who lived for two and a half hours, a daughter who died on her birth day. I'm not a sentimental person. But I wept, wept at the photos of her tiny daughter, wept at the thought of losing my child, wept because throughout the world, there are mothers who lose their children every day.

Every six seconds, a child dies of hunger.

Every thirty seconds, a child dies of malaria.

Every eight seconds, a child dies of lack of water or a waterbourne illness.

Every three seconds, a child simply dies.

That's 20 children per minute, 1,200 per hour, 28,800 per day.

Those statistics should stun anyone. But it should especially stun us who are mothers. The mere thought of losing my child is enough to bring me to my knees in grief because I love her so much. And motherlove is the same across all languages and cultures. Every child on this planet--every person on this planet--is loved like I love my child. The thought of that much love is staggering.

That is over 28,000 women a day whose exposed hearts break as their beloved babies and children die in their arms, the sword piercing.

The thought of that much sorrow is staggering.

The Deepest

2009-03-31T08:07:00.008-07:00

I thought maybe I'd forget this year, that my life had woven its way out of your memory and into the future. But here we are again.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
*e.e. cummings

Co-Sleeping

2009-03-27T19:24:00.002-07:00

Five tiny toes
pointed high
straight to the ceiling.
Arm thrown out.
Sweaty hair pressed
against forehead.
Hand patting my face
reassuring
while sleeping.
Sweet smell of
milk breath
mingling with mine.

Snapshots of my nights.

365:31

2009-01-31T11:40:00.000-07:00

365:30

2009-01-30T11:39:00.001-07:00

365:29

2009-01-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

365:28

2009-01-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

365:27

2009-01-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

365:26

2009-01-26T20:53:00.000-07:00

365:25

2009-01-25T20:51:00.001-07:00

365:24

2009-01-24T20:50:00.001-07:00

365:23

2009-01-23T11:16:00.002-07:00

365:22

2009-01-22T11:15:00.002-07:00

365:21

2009-01-21T11:14:00.006-07:00

HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY, BABY! These are our wishes for your next year. May you grow in light and love.

365:20

2009-01-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

365:19

2009-01-19T11:12:00.001-07:00

365:18

2009-01-18T18:46:00.002-07:00

ZIPPY

365:17

2009-01-17T06:35:00.000-07:00

365:16

2009-01-16T18:34:00.001-07:00

365:15

2009-01-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

365:14

2009-01-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

365:13

2009-01-13T18:23:00.002-07:00

SELF PORTRAIT

365:12

2009-01-12T18:23:00.000-07:00

365:11

2009-01-11T20:46:00.000-07:00

365:10

2009-01-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

365:9

2009-01-09T20:44:00.003-07:00

365:8

2009-01-08T20:36:00.004-07:00

365:7

2009-01-07T20:32:00.000-07:00

365:6

2009-01-06T19:47:00.006-07:00

DINNER

365:5

2009-01-05T19:45:00.000-07:00

365:4

2009-01-04T10:30:00.001-07:00

365:3

2009-01-03T17:45:00.007-07:00

LUNCH.

365:2

2009-01-02T17:43:00.001-07:00

Just painted my toenails with a fresh coat of red.

365:1

2009-01-01T21:43:00.002-07:00

I am going to embark on a photography adventure this year. "Project 365" is a challenge to take one photo a day to document your life over the course of one year and post them to a blog.

So January 1, I give you Charlotte and her Ride Along:

2009

2009-01-01T19:58:00.002-07:00

Lately, I feel like the Virgin Mary.

Not in the virginal sense, of course.

My favorite verse from the entire Christmas story is the often unnoticed one.

Luke 2:19: But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

I love this Bible verse. In fact, it might be my favorite verse in the entire Bible. It's not a verse that is prophetic or life changing. It doesn't talk about salvation or the destiny of mankind. But, the verse is so...human. So real.

I've often wondered about Mary. Last year, I felt like her, being very tired and great with child. But now that I've had my child and hold her squirming body in my arms every day over the last year, the reality of what motherhood is has resonated with me--what it means to create a person from my body, nurture her body and soul every day with my own body.

These days are so long and these months are so short. And I find myself, every day, treasuring up all these things and pondering in my heart.

One More, This is the Last!

2008-12-01T22:30:00.001-07:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

On the First Day of December

2008-12-01T20:32:00.003-07:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

28

2008-12-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

So much wonderfulness has happened over the last year.

And I am eternally grateful to everyone who has held my hand through it all.

Thanks to you.

Toofers

2008-11-18T17:21:00.000-07:00

Can you see them?

Two tiny, teeny little pearly whites.

Poop.

2008-11-17T18:06:00.001-07:00

It smells like poop in my house.

And I don't know where it's coming from.

Mom-Do

2008-11-14T17:04:00.001-07:00

New Mom-Do to go with my high-waisted jeans and sensible footwear.

Confessions of a (Reluctant) Co-Sleeper

2008-11-13T16:54:00.001-07:00

Never in a billion years did I imagine that I'd be one of those. You know who I'm talking about...a co-sleeper. One who sleeps WITH their children.

That's right. Yes, you read it correctly.

Co-sleeper.

The Bean has a perfectly acceptable (and I'm sure, quite comfortable) crib in her own room. It's decorate quite nicely with warm flannel sheets with little sheep on them.

Prior to actually having children, I always imagined that parents who slept with their babies were simply crazy. I mean, give up a decent night's sleep to have your kid curled next to you?

Then I had children. And like most first-time parents the reality between what "should" happen and what "actually" happens hit me like a ton of bricks. Apparently, some babies do voluntarily sleep alone from the start. You can put them down and they'll simply sleep.

Not my Bean. Never has and probably won't for some time.

She liked to be held from the beginning, curled in the crook of my arm, on her side, facing me.

My one regret of parenting thus far was fighting this. I have tried night in and night out, months on end, to try to get her to sleep, alone, in the crib. But inevitably, she ended up back in our bed at some point during the night. She has never slept in her crib a full night. Not once.

So I am resigned. I have accepted my fate as a co-sleeping parent and have embraced it. We bought a king-sized bed. It's likely that she will not be moving out anytime soon.

And in my resignation, I have found that I love sleeping with my daughter. I love seeing her lips pursed in sleep, as if she is blowing kisses to me in her dreams. I love feeling her warm breath smelling of my milk against my cheek. I love how she reaches for my face at night, to reassure herself that I am right there, still next to her, still protecting her. I love feeling her little sturdy body next to me, being able to brush her hair with my fingers. I love that the first thing I see when I wake up is her round face peering at me, smiling at me with sleep in her eyes.

Why did I fight this for so long?

It feels so right.

Joyous

2008-11-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time.

I came across this quote today from Anna Quindlen. And, as luck would have it, I'm feeling exceptionally sappy. A rare day, indeed.

“I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of (my three children) sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages six, four, and one. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

My whole life, I've always had problems living in the moment. I forever feel like I'm looking to the next step and not simply enjoying the now.

I cherish my life, my baby, my husband. I am so grateful to them and for them. And for my friends, far and near. And I don't tell them enough.

So thank you.

Today, I will live in the moment.

2008-06-29T19:29:00.003-06:00

Today, when I stepped in the shower, I smelled something I hadn't smelled in a long time.

The scent of chlorine.

Although I am the fire sign of Sagittarius, I was truly born a Water Baby. My first foray into a pool occurred sometime around my sixth month birthday and I've never stopped.

I grew up in a pool. I started swimming competitively around the time I could read chapter books on my own. Early morning practices, biking a few blocks to jump in a cold pool, warming after a few laps back and forth. The snap of the rubber cap against my skull, the depression around my eyes that goggles would leave for hours after practice.

But mostly, what I remember is the scent of chlorine that never seemed to leave my body. Even though swimming indoors was rare (meaning, all of my pool activities happened in the summer), I smelled like chlorine year-round. When I jumped out of the shower, the smell of the pool hung in the air for hours afterwards. Sometimes, in December, I could scratch my arm and smell the pool lingering fresh on my skin.

Eventually, I stopped swimming so much. Early morning practices and hot Saturday meets ended with high school. Lifeguarding ended with college. Summers in Arizona were so hot, the pool felt like bath water and did not feel refreshing enough to make it worthwhile.

I am determined to make The Bean a Water Baby. I want her to love the ocean and the pool as I do, to count down days to summer not to be out of school, but to be in a pool. Last weekend, we took her to her first pool. She seemed a bit hesitant at first, making her serious baby faces. But she warmed up after a bit and by the end, splashed and kicked with gusto. I swam a few laps myself, ecstatic at the silvery feel of the water.

The monsoons have come early this year, and with it, bringing the summer molds which make my allergies go haywire for a few weeks before the rain leaves us for dust for another year. I haven't been smelling much. But today, when I stepped into the shower, I smelled the scent of the pool.

Summer is here.

A Worthy Goal

2008-06-23T09:01:00.004-06:00

There is a shop in ABQ that sells only cupcakes. It is called Cake Fetish (yes, google it). Cupcakes of a variety of flavors and tastes, styles and deliciousness. Here's a random sampling of flavors:
Half-Baked – Chocolate Chip Vanilla Cake, Vanilla Buttercream and a Cookie Dough Center
“Hot” Chocolate - Chocolate Cake dipped in Chocolate with Chocolate Red Chile Buttercream
Razzmanian Devil - Chocolate Cake, Chocolate Buttercream, Raspberry filling and Chocolate Ganache

They have some flavors that are available every day and some that are available only certain days of the week.

One great thing about breastfeeding exclusively is that I can eat pretty much anything I want and not gain weight. I may not lose weight, but I'm able to maintain my current weight even while eating chocolate chip cookie dough for breakfast four days in a row. God bless the milkies.

Keeping this in mind, my mom-friend Claudia and I have agreed upon a worthy goal to complete by the end of the summer. We shall sample every flavor of cupcake before Labor Day.

Kung-Fu Cats

2008-06-04T20:37:00.003-06:00

Naturally, now that we have a baby in the house, we have lots of baby items in the house. Paraphernalia that I was previously unaware of, stimulating the baby in ways I did not realize babies needed stimulating (I hate the term "tummy time." Barf). Swing, bouncer, Bumbo, carseat, Pack'n'Play, crib, dresser, changing table...the list goes on. (And now that I really take a look, I feel like this very small person---not even 14 pounds yet---is really taking up a lot of space.)

Lots of people ask how the animals are dealing with the transition. Since we own a menagerie of obnoxious animals, I can see the concern. The dog has adjusted well--she only gets a bit upset when the baby cries (but let's face it, who doesn't?).

The cats are a different story.

The cats, all three of them, are in love with the baby...or not so much the baby herself, but rather the previously listed things that come with the baby. They have taken up permanent residence on the baby's furniture. Every day, I find myself evicting cats from the bouncer, the crib, the changing table, the dresser...the list goes on.

It's really rather infuriating, getting their cat furs on everything.

I love them dearly, but I wish they were a bit less interested.