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.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Mother's Day the World Over
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sun-Baked Wood
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Silent Nights
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.
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.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Peaceful
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.
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.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
If I Was Stronger Than I
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.
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
My Own Goodness
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
My Own Failings
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.
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.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Lucky, Lucky Me
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.
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.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Joy and Heartbreak
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."
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."
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Revolution
(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.
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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Styleless
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
H-O-T Hot
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Rerouted
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 09, 2010
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Friday, August 06, 2010
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