Staying in Bed

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One Sunday afternoon, the kids and I went to see our bff and babysitter, Josie, at her art show at Cooper Union. It was a multi-media art piece about her summer visiting the national parks. Awesome.

After Josie’s show, we wandered into a sparsely-attended lecture in the auditorium. It was all about the lessons of the sloth. (I think the organizers followed the sloth’s example and didn’t exert themselves by promoting this awesome, free event.) I learned that as Americans (New Yorkers?), we are over-worked and could learn a lot from the sloth.

This morning, I was on vacation. I lay in bed wondering whether to go for a run or work on my novel. I contemplated my choices. I clicked on my phone to check in with the Twitterverse.

Two links appeared on my Twitter feed. One link sent me to a website dedicated to mothers who aim low http://aiminglow.com/ (follow Amy Lo on Twitter), a comic reaction to the perfectionism thrust on modern-day mothers, and the other link connected me to an article in the United Methodist Reporter on The Wisdom of Stability: Rooting Faith in a Mobile Culture (interview with Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove by Robin Russell), all about staying put in a society that is perpetually on the go, http://www.umportal.org/article.asp?id=6959

The universe (Twitterverse) was telling me something.

I scanned the website and the article. (Nobody reads, we just scan.) It all made perfect sense. Why am I trying so hard? Why be an overachiever? Give it up! I hung out with my kids, laying (lying?) in the green grass and then laying (lying? whatevs!) at the beach. I was reading my book, hanging out.

And it was good enough. I’m a good enough mother (wife, friend, sister, what-have-you.)

Good enough. I’m staying put… I’m staying in bed.

Damn You, Gary Fisher!

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My Ross is jealous of the teal fleece-basketed hottie in the basement. In its day, my bike was boss. A 10-speed from like 30 years ago, it still goes far and fast. Ann Craig gave me the bike like 15 years ago; she’d bought it for five dollars at a yard sale in the country.

About 10 years ago, a bike shop (the one on Columbus and 81st — do NOT go there) refused to replace an inner tube on my Ross because they deemed it “unsafe.” That hurt my Ross’s feelings. Sure, only five of the 10 speeds work and sure, there’s a huge rust spot on the frame, which makes me think that one day, before my time, it was hit by a car.

But it’s not unsafe; please don’t say that. My Ross is sensitive. And so am I. The two of us never fell so in love with another bike as when we pulled into the basement last week and there was that teal Gary Fisher, standing in a beam of light. We heard a chorus of angels sing; she stood proud like a mannequin. It’s true, I fell for her too. She appears to be partnered with a red boy’s bike, also gleaming, shining, new, unridden. That cute couple, they have it all, holding court in the bike storage area of my basement.

I think the only time I ever got a new bike was when I saved up my babysitting money and got myself a dark blue Schwinn. I was 13. All of my NYC bikes, and I’ve had four or five, have been used. I used to buy them at Union Square. The last one was a Schwinn. It was stolen right outside of Marble Collegiate Church, one summer night when I was at a women’s spirituality group. Getting a bike stolen can bum your spiritual high. But my Ross has never been stolen.

The Gary Fisher looks like it’s never been any where. She looks like a bored housewife. I could take her places. But I have to take my Ross and head to work.

Damn you, you adorable bike! Why’d you have to be so cute and make me and my Ross feel so bad? You’re a girl bike and I ride a boy bike, so you can see, I am feeling a little curious by my new attraction. And so is my Ross. Honestly, I’ve always liked boy bikes. I still do. That Gary Fisher girl bike is just so sweet.

Yesterday, when I hopped on my Ross to head up Riverside, his pedal came off under my left foot. I pushed it back on, grease on my fingers. It was raining a little. My Ross has no fender. As I rode up to work, my bum got wet. Besides, I was wearing a floor length skirt that I had to knot up around my thigh. I’m either tying my long skirts up on that bike, or sliding my short skirts lower. I just felt miserable. A boy bike is not optimal when you wear a lot of skirts.

I think  the Gary Fisher has defeated my Ross. Why did she have to show up in the basement? So hot and so cool. Damn you, Gary Fisher! But look at her, isn’t she sweet? 

Writing Childhood Memories

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Loved teaching “Food and Faith” at St. Paul and St. Andrew’s last Sunday.

I love that childhood memories are treasure troves, little magical boxes full of light. Memories point our way. Remembering where I come from reminds me of where I am going and who I am.

One exercise in my workshop was to write about a childhood memory of food that brought you closer to your family. I wrote about my Norwegian grandmother’s Christmas lunches. The open-faced sandwiches. The mutton, head cheese, slim-sliced hard-boiled eggs. The meatballs. The herring. It was the one day a year we all sat down to eat on Grandma’s enclosed porch together.

In the workshop, Barbara wrote about her father teaching her to count by planting seeds in the garden. Memories are like shoots of green. The memories are the parts of the plant that are still showing. The memories lead to an ancestry that lies buried deep in the soil, connecting us to relatives who are long gone.

Writing down the memories of family meals or family gardens takes you back and takes you deep — into the heat of a summer garden in Pennsylvania or the  bright light of Christmas in Chicago.

Writing down your memories reminds you of where you come from, who you are. Writing takes you home.

The Gang on the Path

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I ran in Albany. I was worried, not because of the heat, but because of the unpopulated nature of the Hudson River walk. A runner had recently been attacked along my route in Riverside Park. Yes, Albany is not New York City (in fact it’s probably more crime-ridden), but I did wonder if it was such a good idea to run alone.

But this walkway/runway is historic American-a. I loved running along the Mississippi River in St. Louis. And I wanted to run along the Hudson in Albany, right where the Erie Canal, that awesome American achievement, begins (or ends?).

I just love running beside a rivers that runs.

I was right to be afraid. Fifteen minutes into my run, there was a gang on the path. About eight of them. They were bored. They were mischievous. They seemed to be daring me to cross their little standing-around party. I hesitated. I took out one of my ear buds in case they started squawking. Or pecking. But they didn’t do a thing. I ran around the big one who stood in the middle, unwilling to move. I was so glad to pass them without an incident.

Those Canadian Geese can be very scary. I wanted to take a picture of the geese to post on this blog to show you just how scary this little gang was. But I’ll admit it, I just wanted to run away from them. You’ll have to take my word for it.

The End of Men?

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A report by Hanna Rosin in The Atlantic‘s July/August cover article, “The End of Men,” subtitled “How Women Are Taking Control — Of Everything” is so good. http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/07/the-end-of-men/8135/

The previous month’s cover story, “Fat Nation” with an obese Statue of Liberty on the cover was also really provocative. The magazine is just so good at noting and analyzing trends in the nation. I love following trends. And this one’s pretty interesting.

One trend noted — and I so hope this is true — is that companies are looking towards an effective and new kind of leader, a transformational one.

My one worry about women taking over is that I like partnership. It’s cliche but it’s true. “Don’t walk ahead of me, I may not want to follow. Don’t walk behind me, I may not want to lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.” I thought that equality — not superiority — was what the women’s movement was all about. That, and equal pay.

I still think that’s what it’s about. Because while I am excited that women are taking over, I know that women are not being paid fairly for their new leadership and on-going labor. Women are still paid about 80 cents to every dollar that a man earns. Until there is no wage gap, men are probably not too worried that their end is near. Although, perhaps, it is.

Wired to Care

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I had an absolutely awful day at work last week. And I felt, “Shoot. My problem is that I care too much. I like getting a gold star. I like being appreciated. My caring for others, wanting them to care about me — This is my failing, my Achilles Heel. I should care less. I should be crabby. Then people will respect me. I will definitely get ahead if I am critical and negative in my job, instead of being caring and collaborative.”  

My sister has said that she and I are alike, “We are just wired to care.” Then I saw that same expression – Wired to Care — in someone’s Twitter feed. So I followed the link to this lovely website, promoting a book by the same name. (And as I’ve mentioned on this blog, I like reading book reviews and visiting book blogs and yes, occasionally, I like reading books too!)

http://www.wiredtocare.com/

On this site, the author of the book , Dev Patnaik, talked about how corporations like Target and Ford have discovered that if their employees care about their customers, care about their products, care about one another, the workers are more productive. I’m sure the workplace is more pleasant. Why does the power of empathy surprise me?  

My mouth hung open as I listened to Dev talk. I had to Google a management expert to be reminded that kindness and caring, these are not failings, these are assets. And companies like assets.

At St. John the Divine Church, about a year ago, I heard another lovely, smart person, Sharon Salzberg, talk about the Buddhist practice of Loving Kindness. In fact, she wrote a book called, “LovingKindness.” This is an excerpt:

http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/Buddhism/2000/07/Learning-About-Lovingkindness.aspx

I am glad there are authors and smart people promoting the practices of kindness and empathy in homes, schools, workplaces. It takes courage. And it affirms my way of being in the world, my way of caring too much. I have to admit that at times, I am afraid to be empathetic because my colleagues may see me as foolish or intellectually light-weight, neither of which I am. Should I turn cynical and critical to earn respect? I don’t know. I am trying to figure this all out.

Until I do, I will practice empathy and I will practice lovingkindness. It may not get me very far, but then, maybe it is about how you get there and not getting there. The journey and not the destination — And all that crap.

Synchronicity Happens Here

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I believe that synchronicity – those magical moments of epiphany – happen more frequently in New York City than anywhere else in the world. I don’t know if there are studies to back me up on this. But I swear it’s true.

Like, one day you wake up in New York City, and all of the yellow cabs’ hoods are covered with these super-bright Peter Max-type flowers. Another day, there are big orange flags flying above you in Central Park.

Another day you’re riding your bike on Central Park West and you see Leo DiCaprio getting out of a car and he’s talking into a phone. So, you slow down to hear what he’s saying. And he says, “Ah, love’s labor lost.” Real sad-like. 

That’s what I’m talkin’ about. This blog is an homage to my city. It is a city I dreamed about when I was growing up in the Chicago suburb of Park Ridge, Illinois — also, Hillary Clinton’s hometown, which the New York Times once called the “lily whitest of towns.”

I remember as a kid looking at a picture of the skyline of Manhattan and wondering what life would be like inside that picture. Now, I know.

Living in NYC is not all glamorous celebrity sightings. I live in the slow lane alongside the fast lane of NYC. I don’t go out clubbing or to socialite events. But I do try to see every new show at the MoMA.

I try to get to every one of my kids’ AYSO soccer games. To do that, I usually have to drive through Harlem to get to Randall’s Island where they play. That’s when I wonder if I’m the only Soccer Mom in the country pointing out the historic Apollo Theatre on the way to the day’s game.

Sometimes I wonder if it is the city that keeps me going or is it possible that people like me — people in the slow lane who live in and love NYC  — keep the city going?

I love NYC theatre, museums, schools and parks. I love parenting my kids here. I love the brilliant people you meet and the amazing places you walk by every single day.

I did not write today

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image

I did not start my day writing. I usually wake at 6:30 to write my morning pages. Every day, three long-hand pages. Just about every single day for the last 10 years, inspired by Julia Cameron’s creativity course, The Artist’s Way. But I wasn’t feeling it today.

I did not write about the sacred or the profane. I did not write about the underside of leaves. The way they turn white when the wind blows on an early summer day as I ride my bike through Riverside Park.

I did not write about my kids. Or my woes — the way I feel lonely or overworked or unaccomplished. No, I did not write about any of that today.

But I wrote about what I did not write about. So I wrote something. I wrote this. This.

And this is all.

Country Road

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I always walked the same loop in the mornings from my husband’s Big House. It starts with an uphill dirt road, moves to the paved Dudley Road, past the 1812 School House (my graphics of my girls doing headstands is photographed there); down a dirt road, through the field at the Stable Inn, across some brush, along the unpaved Cold Spring Road, through a whisp of a path in an old Cedar woods, across the lawn, and back home. 

“I’m back!” huffing and puffing. Arrived at the Big House. No one missed me, no one knew I was gone.

The path is lovely, if not a bit treacherous. Lots of challenges – the cars on the paved road, the steep downhill to the field, the German Shepherd that barks in front of the seemingly abandoned Stable Inn cottage, the possibility of Poison Ivy in the brush. Not to mention the loose rocks on the uphill horsetrail, the creaking trees about to topple on me in the woods, the spongy wetness of the Big House lawn. 

So I figured this trail, which takes me about 30 minutes to walk, was about 3 miles or so. I don’t know why I thought that. But this weekend, I used the free app that I downloaded and love, Cardio Trainer, and discovered to my utter dismay, the loop is 1.8 miles and it took me (in my run 5 mins./walk 1 min. method) 25 minutes, which the app informed me was about a 14:04 mile pace.

Okay I did stop and chat with the neighbor, Fran, for, I don’t know, maybe two minutes.

It’s just so disappointing. All these years, I thought I was walking for miles only to discover, I’ve not gone as far as I’d thought. At least I’ve overcome all of the above-mentioned obstacles as I walk or run. And for sheer beauty, I don’t think you can beat it. There must be a lesson in this. Enjoy the beauty; pay no mind to your app. Keep running. Keep walking.

Your Messy Life

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It’s amazing that when authors admit their flaws, weaknesses, suckishness on their blogs or in books like Donald Miller’s “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,” people love it. Admitting you have a lousy life frees people to admit they do too. Being brutally honest creates some kind of safety net or hope.

If I blog about how awesome I am, how brilliant my kids are, how pristine my house is, I will lose readers. But if I write, ‘Dangit, I am having the worst day. My husband and my job are so annoying.  My kids are spoiled. I have caught three mice in my kitchen over the last month,’ I will keep my 29 readers (and hope to eventually lose the mice). 

I don’t know why this works. Maybe readers feel, ‘Thank God I don’t have her life. She’s a mess. My life’s not so bad. My house is much tidier.’

The trick is not to make the everyday honesty seem like a perpetual state of complaining or whining. Throw in a little bit of your awesomeness after you hook people with your chaos.

And make the mess of your true life story seem real and funny. Like, you don’t take yourself or your sucky life all that seriously. Because it is true, this difficult life will pass, perhaps to be replaced by challenges even more difficult, and therefore potentially even more humorous.

My advice to bloggers? Throw open the curtains to the mess of your life and you find you are not alone.

So you open the shades wide into the living room of your difficult life and let everyone, including the sunshine, in. Let the party start. Eventually, the party will wind down. Let everyone go to home.

And then, close your curtains again. Create mystery. I’m not really sure how to do this. I personally am much more with the TMI camp — I like hearing all the details about peoples’ messy lives. I don’t like that my life is difficult. But I like that your life is difficult. That makes me happy – and human.