Lindsey Jacobellis

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I feel really bad about Jacobellis wiping out. I know the feeling. I wipe out a lot. I wipe out almost everyday. But I glance around and hope no one is watching. Then, I get up. I dust myself off quickly and I go. I pretend nothing happened. “Huhn? Me? Wipe out? No! Not at all!”

It must be really stressful to have your whole future and identity depend on your balance on a board for a few minutes flying down an icey hill. A few minutes matters a lot. All the training. All the hours. All the work. Gone in an instant.

I gasp and feel sick when I see figure skaters fall too. I hate it. And yet, I keep watching and gasping and thanking God it’s not me. That when I fall, I hope no one laughs. I hope the cameras are not on me. That millions are not watching. Because life is hard enough. And everyone falls.

Media Bias Against Religion

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Terry Mattingly spoke yesterday to the Religion Communicators Council at the Latter Day Saint’s offices on Broadway at 65th. He’s a religion writer who can be found at:  http://www.getreligion.org/

Mainstream media may be biased against religion. But the reasons, Mattingly says, have to do with a lack of time, space, and resources in newspapers. Also newsrooms are ignorant and perhaps apathetic towards religion, but they are not particularly prejudiced.

To overcome media biases, Mattingly suggests religion journalists realize:

1. Words matter. Cover religious news accuarately.

2. Facts matter. Don’t condense church history and polity.

3. Praise the good; call out the bad, especially in blogs.

4. Do not hide. Use the internet for constructive sharing.

Mattingly advises church leaders not to ask reporters where they go to church. Better to question a reporter’s professionalism than their beliefs. Reporters can be effective at covering stories from faiths outside of their own traditions.

These RCC lunchtime meetings are good opportunities to provoke discussion and deeper thinking about the role of communicators in religion.

Soft Blanket of Snow

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The snow is like a soft blanket. It quiets the city. Like White Out erasing my screen, erasing these words as I type them. We have had the crunch of salt beneath our boots for a week. It felt like the salt was disappointed. It did not get to do its magic “make the snow vanish” act. And now the snow is piling up and the salt won’t be enough. It will need additional reinforcements. Poor beleaguered salt, can never win.

I have to run to the store now. To buy more hot cocoa. The kids are waking up. They are looking out the window. Eyes round. “Look out your window!” they call to one another.

I have to put the sleds by the front door. And find matching pairs of gloves.

I want to curl up in a soft blanket of snow. I want to put on a movie, one of those Netflix films I never get to.  Make popcorn. But I will be out in the blizzard. By the big hill in Riverside Park, watching the kids. Or maybe we’ll go to Central Park.

And, of course, I will take some runs down a hill too. If I can wrest the sleds from their clutches. Then we will come home and I will make them hot cocoa. I will try to make good memories of the blizzard of 2010. But wait. I am not in charge of their memories. I did not make this storm. The blizzard just blanketed the city. I did not have to do anything. Just look out my window.

God in Las Vegas

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They don’t call it America the Beautiful for nothing. God, this country is beautiful. I visited Las Vegas two weeks ago.

Wasn’t too interested in the usual things people go to Vegas for. To me, casinos are like Chuck E. Cheese for sedentary grown ups.  Not that I don’t like being sedentary. Not that I don’t like Chuck E. Cheese, but on the few times I’ve taken my kids there, I’ve left with a massive headache and a lot less money in my pocket. I’m not too interested in The Strip, because I have a problem knowing what to do when I’m overstimulated — too many lights, sounds, people. (That’s why I prefer Central Park to Times Square in NYC.)

I am into nature. I find God in nature. I find beauty in trees.

I am an unashamed tree hugger. I will hug a tree every chance I get. You can ask my kids. I make them hug trees too. I say out loud,  “Thank you, old tree, for being here.”  In Vegas, I didn’t hug a tree, but I discovered a canyon.

With only a couple of hours before I had to catch the plane back to NYC, I asked the front desk clerk what sight I should take in. “Red Rock Canyon,”  she said without hesitation. I never got to thank her.

It was other-worldly beautiful. The snow the night before made the whole thing look like a moonscape. The red of the rock. The white of the snow. The gauzy grey clouds. The ocean-blue sky.

Every turn on the 13-mile scenic drive caused a gasp in wonder. “Purple mountains majesty.” Indeed. 

When I left the scenic drive, and was back on the highway, I noticed so many cars pulled over on the shoulder. The drivers were all standing beside their cars, looking up at the canyon walls, the snow, the sky.

I bet just about everyone who saw the canyon that day pulled over to photograph it on their phones or pocket cameras. I did.

To me, the sights of the natural world around Vegas are so much more compelling than the lights of the Strip. Maybe the tourism board doesn’t promote the natural world near Vegas because the visit doesn’t add to the region’s economy the way casinos do.

Yet the sight of Red Rock Canyon covered in snow stimulated me in a deep spiritual way. In a way no manmade luxury hotel could ever do.

I twittered that afternoon that seeing the Red Rock Canyon covered in snow made me believe in God. Someone replied, asking me then if Ansel Adams was an atheist? I don’t know. All I know is that trees, rocks, clouds, and natural beauty inspire awe.

That afternoon reminded me that I am small and the world is big. For me, that’s a God moment.

Admiring Starry Night

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If only Vincent could have had a thicker skin. If only the church valued his contribution. If only there was medication for his manic depression. If only there was a support group for self mutilators. If only he’d hung on a little longer.

If only.

He was so young, so passionate, so troubled, so smart, so hard-working, so confident, so insecure, so religious. Vincent van Gogh was such a good writer as well as a great painter.

For my Literature of Art class at the Art Students League taught by Ephraim Rubenstein we read Vincent’s letters to his brother Theo. They break your heart. He writes to his brother with enthusiasm about the first sermon he preached. Yet the strict religiosity of his father failed him. He did not have the proper degree and could not obtain it. His father was an arbitrary, withholding, judgmental preacher. Vincent converted his religious zeal into his art. This schism of art and religion is a theme in his life and letters.

Vincent became itinerant. Though he lived in extreme poverty; he was always hopeful that the next place, person, teacher would help him. That good was just around the next corner. He died at 37. His best work happened in just 10 years.  If only he had hung on a little longer.

The savior of his work and legacy was his sister in law, Theo’s wife, Johanna Gesina van Gogh. She kept his letters and his paintings together. Would you do that for your husband’s mentally ill brother?

I doubt I would. There was so little to indicate that his work had value.

A current running through van Gogh’s letters is a desire to help mankind. To be useful.

And another theme is the way he prods Theo to admire other writers and painters. It’s true. We do not admire each other enough.

“Admire as much as you can; most people do not admire enough.” God. So true. I admire van Gogh for his writing and his art, but not for his life. I do not admire him for giving up on himself.

I was at the MoMA last week. After reading his letters, it’s amazing that his work persists. His Starry Night, (see above) it can suck you in.

In my water color class, I tried to paint like him on Saturday. The teacher told me, “That tree or that bush, or whatever that is, that’s too big.” She did not see the resemblance of my work to van Gogh’s. But I see it.

Train your eyes to see and to admire.

Joined the Manhattan JCC

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The weather is just way too cold to go running in Riverside Park. It’s like 20 degrees out. I’m sure some crazy people run in this weather, but not me. Sorry. So, two weeks ago, I got a pool membership for me and the family at the Manhattan Jewish Community Center (Like, $1,700 for a year! NYC!). Yesterday, I packed my bathing suit and cap. I said to myself, “MB, all you have to do is swim eight laps or stay in the pool for 12 minutes.” If you recall, I seem to only be able to run for 13 minutes and then am completely exhausted. So I was cutting myself a break.

I got to the pool deck and handed the guy my membership card. The big lap pool looked so cold. Just so big and daunting. But the small lap pool, was I imagining it? A steamy, warm mist floated above the little pool. “Can I swim in there?” I asked the nice young woman. “Yes,” she shrugged.

And I ran in the warm pool. I ran back and forth and I lasted 15 minutes, that’s longer than I had planned. And I felt so good.

Prezi.com So much fun

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Learning Prezi.com

You picture your presentation as a big white board. You zoom in, zoom out, link here, link there, post pictures and words, mind map, point to tangential ideas. Am playing around and using this to summarize my sabbatical. If anyone at work asks for it.

http://prezi.com/lf5xhnrhhz1y/communicate/

So much more creative than power point. Click, square, click, square. Although I have loved making power points, have wasted days changing the ways a page flips onto the next.

I just simply like creating. And I don’t care what it is I’m creating. But given that I have to make something, I like using new technology to make something new. I like getting feedback and feeling affirmed (“Wow! Mary Beth! That’s so cool!”) I like and need to think in a non-linear fashion.

Yet, in my writing, let’s face it, I do and have jumped around and sometimes, yes, occasionally at work, people (one editor in particular) want me to be all chronological and probably she prefers the  click, square, next. Click, square, next.

The big circles, the jumping off points, the tangential thinking, the creative asides – some people don’t get that. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I can play by the rules and I can (and prefer to) play without any rules. Both And!

Remembering My 7 Rules

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1. Pile on the people (modified to pile on the useful people)

2. Escape through literature (modified to escape through the arts)

3. Remember your hoops of steel (priorities! priorities! for me, my work and my kids!)

4. Create a secret garden (shhhhhh! it’s a secret)

5.Expect the best, love what you get (from horses, kids, and yourself!)

6. Live everyday as if it’s your last

7. Embrace uncertainty

The underside of the upper bunk

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It is a spiritual experience looking up at the underside of the upper bunk. The fabric of the covered board is a retro brown and orange pattern. Yes, my twin 10 year olds’ matching Target quilts are trendier and prettier – purple and pink and full of LOVE. But there is something soothing about that orange and brown tacky plaid when I’m snuggling Catherine and looking up at the underside of Charlotte’s bed.

More than the look of the patterns or the feel of the fabrics, it is that moment in the warmth of my middle child that I treasure.

Soon, so soon, my girls will be taller than me. They will want me to give up our nightly cuddle. I can’t bear to think about that. I love the smells of the three kids as they’re about to tumble down the rabbit hole of sleep: their peachy, dewy, freshly brushed smell. So delicious.

I lay beside each of my darlings, cuddling them to sleep. For years, the first one to get snuggled has been Catherine, the middle child on the bottom bunk. I feel safe beside her, cocooned there, looking up. Then, the little one will call for a snuggle, and then, from the adjoining room, my 12-year old son, will call, “Mom, tuck me in!”

And then, after all that cuddling and tucking, I’ll drag my own sorry self to bed where no one snuggles me to sleep and there’s not much of a view to look up at.

Fondle My Kindle

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With all the hype today about the iPad, the Apple tablet, I want to tell you about my love for my Kindle.

I’m on my second one because my first was stolen about a month ago at “Once Upon A Tart” in SoHo. Cute place, literary thief. Of course, I should never have left my purse hanging over the back of my chair.

Any way, about the Kindle, when you read on it, the words and meaning still penetrate, though perhaps not as deeply. But these days, who wants to go deep? Better that words, like ink, should float on the surface.

I wonder how writers will write differently knowing that a majority of their readers will be reading on an eBook.

I am always in the middle of writing a book. The heft, the immortality, the importance, the perfection, the editor who corrects my problems with sentence fragments and too many dashes — Brilliant!

I still want to write a book, but now I want to write an eBook.

I’m falling out of love with the printed word. It’s been a great ride, books, magazines, newspapers, but farewell. I’m moving on.

Except, of course, for longhand. Every morning I still write my three pages, longhand. And after a couple of months, when the journal’s filled, I throw the journal up to the top shelf of my closet and then I duck. Because sometimes the journal doesn’t land on the shelf — but hits me on the back of my head and conks me out and I die (just kidding about the dying part!) But in all seriousness, notebooks falling from a few feet high can really hurt! Words can hurt, just so you know!

I wonder how my writing will be different if I writing my Great American Novel for the Kindle instead of for the hardcover, Booker Prize. (I may have to be English to be eligible for the Booker Prize, but I do love the name of that prize. What better name for a book prize than the Booker Prize?)

Writing for the web has changed my style — shorter, sassier, punchier at the beginning — more fragmented and boring the more you scroll down. Because, really, most people don’t read any more, they skim. And they don’t mind sentence fragments either. Not at all.

Another important question — what about the trees? All those books = all that paper = all those dead trees. Yes, the Kindle requires a little zap of electricity now and then and that can’t be good for the environment either.

Random question — Do words from the Kindle go to another part of the brain than printed words? Have scientists done those pretty fluorescent MRI scans — like a Peter Max poster — to show which areas of the brain light up when reading a book versus the areas lit when reading from a screen?

Random point — I love the feeling of reading the Kindle on the subway when people look at me enviously. (I should’ve known my first would get stolen.)

Some smart-looking guy on the subway invariably asks, “Is that a Kindle? I want one!” I gush, “Yes, look at how you can change the font size. Listen to this ‘text to speech’ feature. One of my nine-year olds is reading The Mysterious Benedict Society, and I’m reading — well, I do hate to admit it, “Dumas Key” by Stephen King. And I’ve downloaded “White Tiger.” And you can have like 200 books on the Kindle. And you don’t go by page numbers, you go by percentage read.” But by the time I’ve finished my little sales pitch, that handsome guy on the subway and I have both missed our stop at 116th Street. We’re too busy fondling my Kindle.

Okay, honestly? Most of the time, no one notices my Kindle. I get lost in reading. That’s why I miss my stop and land in Harlem at 125th Street. Because, hey, no matter the conduit, the story’s still the thing.

For they record, my Kindle wasn’t stolen in Harlem, it was SoHo.