Simon and Garfunkel in the Park

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While writing at work, I was listening to Pandora on my headphones, Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson Live in Central Park  came on. It vaulted me back to being in the park that night.

A handful of friends from NYU and I had camped out early in the day and had good sight lines (still, we were probably a football field away). Central Park was seedy then. There were no lush green swaths of grass as there are now. We had spread our blanket in a tawny dry dirt field. The crowd swelled around us. Simon and Garfunkel’s vocals were unbelievable, so casual and so poetic.

Listening to that song yesterday, I felt a surge of nostalgia for that time in my life, for having just arrived in NYC, for having no commitments but to study hard my first year at NYU.

I remember that when the concert ended, we all walked out of the park together, shoulder to shoulder. At the park exits, it was very crowded. But we were so happy. We were smiling, humming, singing. We knew it had been a special night.

Yesterday afternoon, after the song played, I got back to work, back to writing about Dr. Martin Luther King’s legacy of advocating for poor people. I stared out my window towards Riverside Church.

Following Flylady

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I was one of Flylady’s first 10,000 followers and now she has well over 100,000. Flylady is a system of house cleaning (or home blessing as she says). I am not a religious follower of Flylady, but totally agree with her basic tenets:

1. Keep your kitchen sink clean and shiny.

2. When you wake up, get dressed to your shoes.

3. Follow morning and evening routines.

You can shine the kitchen sink any way you want. The point is that if the sink is clean and shiny, the cleanliness radiates out. The table, the counters, the appliances get clean too.

The sink is literal and metaphorical. Every room has a kitchen sink.  In the kids’ bedrooms, it’s a made bed. In the family room, it’s a picked up floor. In the bathrooms, it’s a hung-up towel.

I do not have CHAOS (Can’t Have Anyone Over Syndrome). And BTW, I love Flylady’s acronyms. FLY stands for Finally Loving Yourself and I think Marla Ciley, flylady, used to be a flyfisher. You can read her daily prompts and encouragement at:  http://www.flylady.com/

Another productivity tip I learned from Flylady is to set the timer for 15 minutes and just go until the timer dings. You can accomplish a ton in 15 minutes. Even 10 minutes. It’s the Swiss Cheese method and I use it for writing http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/2010/09/01/10-minutes-a-day/

Get Up Early

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I have been posting to one of my four (yes, 4!) blogs every day for a week.

The first few days I wrote first thing in the morning, around 6:30 am, right after I recorded my dreams in my journal and sipped my coffee.  Then the kids had to be at school early or I had to be be at work early, I felt a cold coming on, so I wrote at lunch time around noon. These last two nights, I have written while yelling at my kids, “Get. To. Bed. Now.” at 11 pm. I felt the day breathing down my neck. I felt, “I have to finish this blog post by midnight!”

I want to return to my early morning blog writing sessions. I want to write before the family wakes and wants me to make them bacon, sign their permission slips or pass out money for lunch. Benjamin Franklin’s admonition to “Early to Bed, Early to Rise,” can be supplanted by Arianna Huffington’s Ted Talk http://www.ted.com/talks/arianna_huffington_how_to_succeed_get_more_sleep.html

Arianna is brilliant and funny and so right. We Type A women are not getting enough sleep.  Arianna advises that women need to sleep our way to the top. Literally. For me, that means going to bed by 10 and getting up at 6 ish. (Some studies suggest the brain is most alert first thing in the morning.)

Incidentally, I met Arianna at a women’s writing conference at Skidmore College through the IWWG (International Women’s Writing Guild) probably 18 years ago. She was memorable, curious, friendly, smart and glamorous. I think we were in a memoir writing class together. Since then, Arianna has slept her way to the top and I want to too.

Getting In a Good Habit

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I want healthy habits, but they take time.

I don’t want to write right now. I want to go off on a tangent. I want to tweet and comment on my friends’ status updates. I want to check CNN and learn more about the senseless shooting of Congresswoman Giffords in Arizona. 

That story reminds me of when I was on assignment in Tucson a few months ago and saw bullet holes in the flags flown by Humane Borders, an awesome group that provides water to migrants in the desert http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/2010/09/14/humane-borders/ 

I dont’ know why anyone would shoot those symbols of water which could save lives. Vandals shot at Humane Border’s 100 lifegiving water tanks too. I don’t understand shooting at all. Violence begets violence. I hate gun violence.

I believe in peaceful solutions. I believe in the power of small steps to make the world better — small acts of kindness and small attempts at healthy behavior.

I don’t want to get sucked into watching TV and feeling angry and powerless tonite. My desire to develop healthy habits seems insignificant in the face of a national tragedy. 

To overcome stress and national trauma, it is necessary to perform small acts of self care. For me, that’s developing a habit of blogging or walking. I am comitted to these, even briefly.

Fifteen minutes a day is good enough. Between watching my son’s two basketball games this morning and watching the Columbia-Union College basketball game this afternoon, I went for a walk with Barbara in Central Park. We did not walk for long or far, but we walked and talked for about half an hour. It felt great.

How long does it take for a daily action to become a habit?  

One study says 15 minutes of vigorous activity a day reduces the risk of obesity. Another study says after 66 days of an activity you will acquire a healthy habit (and if you skip a few days, that’s okay).

So a week after my New Year’s goal setting, I am on my way to 2011 goal getting. Now that I’m done with this blog, I want to tweet, watch TV, check Facebook, but I think I will just go to sleep. I wanted to be in bed by 10 pm every night, but that goal’s not happening.

Central Park Skating

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There may be a few places in the world as magical as Wollman Rink in Central Park right after a snowfall, but I’m not sure where they are. The last time I skated it was October — tee shirt weather. The Willow Tree was still full of long, green leaves.

Tonite the Willow Tree branches were yellow and bare, better to see the snowy hills of Central Park. It’s dreamy skating under the Willow Tree. If you look up at the branches as you glide beneath, you can have an out-of-body experience.

The thumping music really moves you at Wollman. The DJ plays mash ups, oldies and hip hop. He will take your request. At least, he always takes mine.

I knocked on the DJ’s glass door tonite (as I did in October) to ask, “Could you play, ‘We No Speak Americano!'” I love that song and it’s perfect for skating around and around while holding your friend’s or your child’s hand.

I don’t want to brag (too much) but I have yet to see any adult skate as much as me — not counting the real professional-type skaters who make skating look like dancing.

I’m not particularly good at skating, but in the words of Valerie Plame from the movie “Fair Game,” “I have no breaking point.” I never tire.

I never tire of New York City’s beauty either, especially the parks. Here’s an example. This was my view around 5 pm as I waited for the downtown M5 bus on Riverside Park. 

Every night on Riverside Drive there is a show. It is the sunset. I just have to remember to look West to catch it. Sometimes I do remember to stop and notice the show. I make my kids come outside to see the sunset too. Sometimes they thank me.

Twitter versus Facebook

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Lately, I’ve received Twitter messages that say, “Follow me on Facebook too!” I thought Twitter and Facebook were two different worlds.

I thought Facebook was for people you had met in high school or real life; and Twitter was for people you wished you’d met in high school or real life. My Twitter friends are writer-types with names like SmartBitches, AmyLow, GottaLaff and HippieChick (I wish I’d thought up a clever name. I’m simply MaryBethC). My Facebook friends are also sassy-types, only they use their real names.

After being on the Twitter-verse when I log on to Facebook, the Facebook world feels slow and earnest. It feels like cross country skiing after downhill racing. 

Sometimes I like the random roll of the dice of Twitter. And sometimes I like the mashed-up friendliness of Facebook.

After I’ve been on Facebook a while, when I get on Twitter, I wonder Who ARE these people? Do I know them? But I can’t stop reading their updates.

I’d like to write more about this right now, but I’ve gotta check my Facebook and Twitter accounts. I’ve got to see what my friends — real and cyber — are up to.

Shampooing Everyday Is Not Necessary

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I shampoo every other day and I’m fine. But lately, I’m going three days between shampoos. Recent studies — okay, a handful of my friends at Happy Hour — have told me that they no longer shampoo every day.

One of my BFFs, let’s call her Grace, and I had the same therapist, let’s call her, June. June has gorgeous long wavy hair. June always looks fabulous in that pulled-together yet slightly-harried-Upper-West-Side-Mom kind of way. June told Grace that she has used no poo for years. My ex-therapist has not shampooed her hair in years and she is a great therapist (okay, I know, totally unrelated!). (If you’ve ever wondered What the heck do people talk about in their therapy sessions? Now you have an inkling —  ‘to shampoo or not to shampoo? That is the question.’ Yes, there are bigger issues to discuss in therapy, but who am I to judge? I’m blogging about going no poo.)

‘No poo’ is a  movement for a more natural cleanliness and a snub to corporate conglomerates who have drummed it into our smelly heads that shampooing daily is essential. It is not. It is better, especially in the winter, to go a few days.

My daughters can go a week between shampoos and they always look fabulous in that pulled-together yet slightly-harried-Upper-West-Side-Kid kind of way.

Grace said her stylist recommended that if she really must shampoo her hair, only shampoo the roots and condition the ends. I have not tried that. But one of my daughters tried it and reported it worked well. When I tucked her in that night and kissed her head, she still smelled delicious as always.

The smell of my kids’ heads releases my happy pheromones.

Trash Piling Up

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Snuggled as I was into our Adirondack Christmas, I missed the piles of snow. But rest assured, I got the piles of garbage. What the heck! Will someone get going and clean this city up! Someone, return it to My Beautiful New York? (Bloomberg, it’s a good thing this is not an election year.) This blog is dedicated to all of the beauty of New York, but lately it’s hard to find it beyond the piles of trash.

Tuesdays and Saturdays are usually pick up days outside of our apartment building, but I’m pretty sure nothing’s being picked up around here besides bed bugs. (Kidding.)

After a juicy conversation with my pals at lunch yesterday (about Toddlers and Tiaras), I was trying to get back into the swing of writing by reading the paper (I know, I know. There’s got to be a better way.) I was reading the New York Times about garbage pickup.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/03/nyregion/03garbage.html?_r=1&ref=todayspaper

There in the paper was a photo of my work friend Judith Santiago. Funnily enough, I had just bumped into Judith the day of the photo, Sunday, at the new Trader Joe’s on 72nd Street. I had met her mother who appears in the photo too.

I messaged Judith on Facebook, “You’re such a terrific writer, I always knew you’d make it to the New York Times! (But it’s only a photo of you today! Look on page A17.)”

Judith is very pretty and this photo does not do her justice. But the picture does capture the mountains of trash and the disgust we all feel as we walk around  them. Unlike the melting snow, the  trash piles do not seem to be disappearing; instead they are piling up.

My 3 Words

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image

On my walk to the subway this morning, I received this message. It was being thrown out with the Christmas trees on Amsterdam Ave.

I had been wondering What are my 3 inspiring words for 2011? Here they were: Become. Your. Dream.

Social media guru Chris Brogan http://www.chrisbrogan.com/my-3-words-for-2011/ suggests giving yourself 3 guiding words for the New Year.  (I love this guy’s blog. My Connected Life blog http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/ is my homage to Brogan.)

Become

I decided to visit a church. The image on the sign seemed to be a helicopter. Move. Go. Do the thing you say you will do. For me that means Visit a church a day. I tried to go to St. Paul’s Chapel at Columbia University, but it was locked. Columbia U. must still be off for the New Year’s  holiday.

I wish church doors were never locked. The gates nearby were locked too.

So  I  wandered out of Columbia towards Morningside Drive. Morningside is such a great name for a street. Here it was morning and I was on Morningside. I remembered the ephiphany I had on Morningside last time I walked there — gratitude. My heart was full of gratitude for every single person I knew.

Yesterday was Epiphany Sunday. I thought of James Joyce’s epiphany in The Artist as a Young Man. I think it happened as Stephen Dedalus watched a flock of birds in the sky. I thought James Joyce is gone, but I am alive. Yes, that was my epiphany. I am alive. I looked up at the sky in honor of James Joyce. Because he could no longer look up. And I saw a hawk or eagle circling. It was my ephiphany. I took it in, the literalness and then the symbolism of it – to dream, to helicopter, to fly. I am alive.

I remembered another message from yesterday’s Epiphany Sunday at Rutgers Church —  love is hard.

Your

I decided to go back to the Mary in a grotto church again. https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2010/09/25/a-cave-for-mary/

Although I’ve said I will try to visit a new church everyday, maybe any old church is just as good. I had to get to work.

Since the Montreal Notre Dame Church, I’ve started to feel an affinity for any Mary or Notre Dame church. I love Mary. Maybe because my name is Mary or the idea of Mary reveals a softer side of God or religion.

Dream

The church doors facing Morningside were wide open. Two priests and a woman in a coat were saying prayers towards the altar. I marveled at how bright the church was. I love bright. But who pays the electric bill? (My mind leaps from epiphanal to logistical in a moment!) I sat in the last row. I remembered a dream I had last night about a woman holding a bird and a snake, laughing while her picture was being taken.

I could not understand a word the three at the front said. It was all a mumble until after about five minutes when they concluded, audibly saying, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Those were their three words.

I remembered to cross myself as I left. The holy water at the Church of Notre Dame is flown in from France.

Loneliness of the Short-Distance Runner

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I exercised for the first time in two weeks, swimming my eight laps at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Montreal. I zigzagged kickboards and babies in floaties.

Exercise is my anti-depressant. Swimming made me feel great.

Since my basal cell surgery two weeks ago I’ve had to lay low. I don’t like that. The winter doldroms set in. My overall mood is down if I don’t exercise (or write!)

It is better for everyone if I work out (and write) a few times each a week. So the other night I considered running a 5K on New Year’s Day in Ticonderoga.

I still had a bunch of stitches on my chest (where the basal cell was removed) and was not supposed to exert myself. I didn’t want to pop a stitch like an overstuffed teddy bear (which is how I felt after eating and drinking my way through Christmas). I hesitated. I had a lot of housework to do.

I had to pack up my family after 10 days in the country. That’s at least as much work as running a marathon. I had a cappuccino (also an anti-depressant) and had an idea. 

“Kids, we’re going to have our own race — to the old school house. You could win! It’s a race against me!”

At my 15-minute mile pace, almost anyone could beat me! But my kids are lazy. Yes, they are lazy, lazy, lazy. And it’s my fault. I’ve spoiled them. They’d rather goof off on Facebook than run.

The girls did walk/run for the first five minutes then they turned around and slogged back to their computer screens. It wasn’t even cold.

I had a weird experience as I ran. There was no wind. Yet I heard a flapping near me, like someone snapping clean sheets while making a bed. I looked around. Nothing. Not a breeze. It happened again. I kind of wished I wasn’t alone so I could ask someone, “Did you hear that? Wasn’t that weird?”

The front runner is the lonely (and possibly delusional) runner.

I came back, declaring victory, like Rocky on the steps of Philadelphia. When you’re the only runner, chances are good you’re the big winner! But I received neither a medal or champagne. Instead, I made myself some more coffee and folded the laundry.