Aught Not

The last day of 2009 dawned silent and white, with so many inches of fresh snow dusting the streets and catching on our rooftops view. After a late breakfast, I watched, unplanned, "Shadow of a Doubt" before giving in to the inevitable task of dismantling our Christmas tree. In one carefully packed box, I included a short note to myself. Folded and slipped between the ornaments, I'll come upon it one day next December, when I unpack our decorations to trim another tree, in another city, in another apartment. It will serve as a small reminder to my future self of how I'm feeling on this day, and what I'm hoping for and anticipating in the days that will pass between now and then.

Later tonight, Gus and I will honor a special tradition. One of us will slip a nondescript, black leather notebook from our bookshelf, and in it we will turn to a fresh page. After titling it "2009," a list will be made of that which we are most thankful for from this past year. The lists start out the same - our marriage, our health, our family and friends. Laughter, vacations, good meals we have shared. Included also, some things private, perhaps small but significant moments that have stood out over the course of the last twelve months. Once we reach the end of our list, or the end of the page, the notebook will be closed and returned to its place on the shelf, not to be opened again until this time next year, when what still awaits us will be remembered and recorded.

A happy and safe New Year to all!

The Year in Review

As is true most years, the week between Christmas and New Year's is a strange one. Six days caught between the past and future, without any pressing importance of its own, it hangs in the balance between what has happened and what it to come. It's stuck with being the inevitable letdown that follows the excitement of Christmas, but before the revelry of the year's end. Our tree still juts kindly into our living room, dry and and lonely without its buoy of gifts, while my Audrey Hepburn wall calendar, turned to its last page, itches to be recycled. Today I wrote 1-1-10 for the first time as I post-dated our rent check for the coming month. On the television and radio, Top Ten lists have been compiled for the last turn of the earth while predictions are made for the year that lies ahead.

The sentimental and silly part of me, despite everything, wants to hold onto the year behind, although I suppose it's mainly the Christmas tree I'm sorry to see go. Meanwhile, my inner sophisticate reaches for the year ahead and the splashy potential and flashy promise it holds. Inevitably the latter, I know, will win out. Plans have been made for New Year's Eve and Day, which include the dismantling of the tree, and 2009 becomes one more for the books.

This afternoon, I cracked open my new Moleskine calendar for 2010, transferring birthdays, holidays and other important dates to the fresh new year. I looked over what I had recorded of the last year and where I was at this time one year ago. It's been a long year -- a tumultuous one, as they all seem to be to my mind's eye. Not my best, and not my worst. At times I didn't think I would make it, but I did and here I am, staring down the year I've waited for for so long, it's seemed an enigma. The year that, now that it's upon us, I'm hoping will be one of my best and brightest, full of adventure, happiness, health, hope and wonder.

This Side of Paradise

For me, today always marks the beginning of the next chapter. I should say yesterday afternoon, since this is when the palpable shift begins. After the gifts have been opened and leftovers sufficiently picked over, my eyes draw away with some relief and exhaustion from the mood that has been building, in essence, since late October. Not even the bravest shoot is surfacing through the snow, yet I am drawn toward the shorter hemlines and longer days of spring. Unfortunately, the dark dullness of leftover winter still stands between those days and today, threatening to draw even the most spirited among us into its dank chill.

As with her biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay, I am entranced by my current read, Nancy Milford's exhaustive telling of the life of F. Scott's wife, Zelda Fitzgerald. I identify with the early days of their marriage, before it was marred by competitiveness (which I find strange inserted into a marriage), addiction and mental illness. Riding the wave of the Jazz Age, they spent countless hours talking and traveling, enjoying each other's company and their unique life together. They had many acquaintances and a few close friends, but preferred the companionship of each other over anything they could find outside their own home. The couple would stay up all night, remembering times in Paris or on the Riviera, their eyes bright with possibility. To paraphrase Zelda, she felt that she couldn't find the depth of conversation she had with Scott with other people, so wasn't terribly interested in the pursuit. Of course, I enjoy the company of a variety of people, but I also find such content and contentment in our own words, if these are all I have, I'm satisfied.

"I don't want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally."

                                                                                  --Zelda Fitzgerald

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over."

"The extraordinary thing is not that people in a lifetime turn out worse or better than we had prophesied; particularly in America that is to be expected. The extraordinary thing is how people keep their levels, fulfill their promises, seem actually buoyed up by an inevitable destiny."

                                                                                 --F. Scott Fitzgerald

Eve/ning

In the earlier dusk, Gus and I walked gingerly across the ice to our church's early service. For two people not used to attending on this evening before Santa has long been in the air, we were unaware that this earliest time slot is firmly kid-oriented. Indeed, the pews were full, but primarily of "C & E's" and their typically ill-behaved children, treating the pews as if at the local Chuck-E-Cheese. It was nice, but definitely not an event to be repeated. Following worship, Gus told me of the crotchety old priest of his childhood, Father Castellano, who would stop his sermon, point his finger and demand fidgety children be removed to the quiet room before he would continue. Hmm...

But now, by gosh, by golly, it's time for mistletoe and holly! Tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, countrysides covered with snow. Our two well-dressed birds are roasting in the oven as we enjoy a glass of champagne and savory hors d'oeuvres. Despite the atmosphere of cheer and the celebrations at hand, admittedly, our small evening has been punctuated with bouts and waves of good old fashioned homesickness. I miss my traditions and my people, the warmth of familiarity and family. I'm not be a person who wants to miss out on the holiday happenings. Neither of us has ever celebrated Christmas alone, and likely and hopefully, won't again after this year. Indeed, next year at this time, all our troubles will be out of sight. But until then, I'm told to have myself a Merry little Christmas now.

La Carte

Leftover snow still rests on non-essential ground, and slick ice forms in low lying areas as slush melts and refreezes each day. In the city, shoveled parking spots are claimed with plastic lawn chair placeholders and dirty, bulldozed snow is piled eight feet high.

After work, Gus and I braved the bitter crowds and bitterer cold to collect ingredients for the ambitious twosome Christmas Eve dinner we have planned. We are still trying to decide between the three services offered by our church - our decision likely lies with where we are in terms of food preparation tomorrow evening. By a stroke of luck, Gus' clinical sight gave him tomorrow off (after all, who schedules surgery for Christmas Eve?) and, since I'm hoping to only work until noon, we should be able to start in early on the oven-centric festivities.

To start, the legacy of Mme Ponsardin will supply the champagne to accompany chicken-liver crostini and pickled herring with crackers. The fish, a Scandinavian tradition, is affectionately referred to as "fish candy" by my Uncle and will serve as a placeholder for my mom's delightful Lutefisk we will miss out on this year. (The tomte won't come if you don't eat your Lutefisk...) For the main course, Noirmoutier Potatoes with Fleur de Sel, Carmelized Brussels Sprouts and the grande dame, Roasted Pheasant Stuffed with Sage and Granny Smith Apples. The birds, currently marinating in sage, olive oil and Greek yogurt, were generously supplied to us by a colleague of Gus' who enjoys hunting the wilds of Pennsylvania in her spare time. To accompany, a taste of home from Adelsheim Vineyard, a 2007 "Elizabeth's Reserve" Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley. For dessert, a Caramel Pear Terrine which required a shiny new Charlotte Mold, the purchase of which I was more than happy to oblige.

And so, with provisions unpacked and a last minute grocery list readied for Gus tomorrow, I have a few minutes to spend enjoying the tree and my latest read.

Merry Christmas Eve Eve!

_____________

My mind is unsettled. It dashes from one thought to the next, and will not settle on one long enough to form a paragraph or two to record.

I want to write something beautiful or profound or memorable, but try as I may, I find I cannot. Too many thoughts seem crowded together, without enough room for one to come forward and shine.

That's it. That's all I have today.

Snowed In

Today we are well and truly snowed in. The white stuff began to fall Friday night and increased in intensity throughout yesterday, finally tapering off early this morning. Our unofficial total? Somewhere between one and a half and two feet. Gusty winds blew flakes into every corner and crevasse - piling up in window sills and atop fences, even a tiny peak collected on top of our doorbell.

This morning, we had every intention of going to church and the children's Christmas pageant (really, we did) but I can't even open the back door to get outside! Given our landlord's penchant for avoiding all things maintenance related, I'm not holding my breath for a well equipped snow blower to show up on the scene any time soon. And so, for the time being anyway, another day spent holed up inside reading, crafting and baking.

Scenes from the storm and its aftermath:

 

And the fruits of my cabin-fevered labor:

 

 

TGIF

Today wasn't one of my best, a day long and cold and full of irritation, culminating in finding a three day shut off notice for the water in our building. This utility is not our financial responsibility but rather that of our irresponsible and flip landlord who suggested I "not worry about it" when I called to tell him about the notice.

But, I'm home now, safe and sound. The front stoop was stacked with packages and parcels filled with gifts sent from afar. I turned on the Christmas lights and arranged the added gifts under the tree. Gus will be home shortly to make a good, warm dinner. Best of all, a massive snow storm, nicknamed the Winter Wallop, threatens the mid-Atlantic, with predictions of up to a foot of snow to begin falling after midnight and possible blizzard conditions, meaning I can put off the very last of my Christmas shopping for another time and instead spend tomorrow baking and working on craft projects.

Noël

More than a few years ago, Gus surprised me with a week in Paris at Christmastime. In secret, he asked my boss for the time off, bought the plane tickets, booked a hotel and then, smartly, told me in time that I might pack my own suitcase for our winter getaway.

Unlike our previous visits to the City of Lights, sweating in the summer heat with all of humanity, that December it was though we had the city to ourselves. If other tourists were there, they were fewer and less conspicuous, having traded their Tevas and tube socks for parkas and long pants. We walked and ate our way through the city until our feet and stomachs ached. We admired the glittering window displays of Haussmann's boulevards and stumbled upon the medieval streets he spared, then tucked into a cozy bistro, its windows steamed with the broth of hearty pot au feu.

One evening, we crossed town to Notre Dame Cathedral to attend an Advent vespers service. A few visitors still milled about the entrance as we were handed a program and admitted behind a velvet rope to take our place among the other worshipers. The pew of smooth wood creaked as we sat, and we could feel its cold surface through our jeans.

As the service began, the incense ball swayed hypnotically, sending its fragrant offering high into the shadowy rafters above. Stone and mortar surrounded us, ancient and wise, heavy with the weight of countless prayers. Slender candles glowed in chapels around the cathedral's perimeter. Gus and I kneeled on worn velvet, shoulder to shoulder with the faithful French, and stumbled through unfamiliar words sung to familiar tunes. In that one hour we joined the thousands across seven centuries whose feet had rested on that same floor, people who came to hear the Good News and await the birth of Jesus in this spectacular setting.

When the service finished, and the organist began a breathy postlude, the ad hoc congregation silently filed out of church and scattered into the frosty December night. Today, that evening remains one of my most favorite and treasured Christmas memories.

Rainy Days and Sundays

After church, Gus and I braved the crowds and weather and headed to the mall to finish up our Christmas shopping. The sky and its clouds were so low and full of rain there was hardly room enough for us as we made our way across town. We thoroughly enjoyed one another's company, laughing, joking and teasing our way through store hopping and list checking. Gifts in hand, we returned to home against the driving rain, icicles frozen on cliffs along the highway like so many sinister grins. Safely inside, we made a nest of blankets and pillows underneath the tree to read, wrap and nap a quiet, cold Sunday afternoon away.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

This morning, as I stepped off the train at 30th Street Station and into the stairwell, the rush of warm air was a relief from the wicked wind that whipped across the open-air platform. I joined a sea of people as we trooped down the stairs and into the main walkway of the station, the air too thick with the smell of bacon, doughnuts and coffee. People crisscrossed this way and that, en route to various destinations within the city and beyond. Cheery poinsettias lined the florist's stall and shoe shiners bantered their way through early morning customers. Police dogs smartly ignored the wafting delights to focus their noses on passing parcels and packs. Two massive Macy's advertisements were unfurled down walls, bracketing a stoic and sparkly Christmas tree.
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Today marks the end of a short but wonderful visit from my stepdad John. We enjoyed his company over dinners at Osteria and Butcher and Singer. It was wonderful to hear news of home firsthand and have a touch of familiarity. For me, a stepdad is a person that I didn't realize I needed before he arrived on the scene. Now, I can't imagine life without him. What a wonderful early Christmas gift his visit was!

Insurgence

For Christmas last year, something possessed me to ask for a serger, which I did then receive. Since December 2008, it has sat on my sewing table, stocky and strange, collecting dust and intimidating me. Over the past year I've looked at various sewing projects that require the use of a serger, but have always decided against them as I've been afraid to make the acquaintance of this strange sewing apparatus I so pined for.

And so, as the Christmas season again approached and I began work on various homemade gifts, I once again ran into the problem of needing to use the serger. There aren't many people that I'd take the plunge for, but my little sister is one of them and so, since I'm making her a (It's a secret! Plus, it hasn't turned out yet.), I gave up and gave in. I bought four spools of thread, watched the set-up video, threaded two needles and two...other things...and, giving the beast one last sideways glance, tried my hand at serging.

At this point I can't say the machine and I are the best of friends, in fact I'm taking a break because right about now I really hate the darn thing. In time, I'm sure I'll get there. When it and its operator are in sync, it's an amazing piece of machinery. The rest of the time, including at this moment, it's a Class A Disaster.

Snow on Snow

The dreary cloud that hung above my head and spoiled my attitude for the good part of a week finally dissipated yesterday. The return of my sunny disposition allowed me to enjoy tapas, sangria and many laughs with friends last night at Amada in Old City.

Despite my bright outlook, though, another cloudy system rolled in off the coast, this time to coat the entire east coast in a soft blanket of snow. What started as a few errant flakes early this morning has turned into a great snowstorm, quieting and softening the world as only snow can.

I'm happy to use the weather as an excuse to stay in, working on sewing projects, wrapping presents and, yes, listening to more Christmas music. In honor of the snow, the words to my favorite Christmas carol, "In the Bleak Midwinter." 

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;

heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.

In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed

the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

What can I give him, poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;

if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;

yet what I can I give him: give my heart.

I Wonder

The season of Advent is here, a time filled with anticipation and wonder as we await the Savior's birth and the good news it proclaims. A time of profound waiting -- experiencing and enjoying the journey toward Christmas, marked by the four Sundays that lead up to that joyous day. For me, already waiting on a good many things, it's a daunting task to be asked to patiently sit for another event. I have in place various countdowns and goals, and yet here is another I'm told to embrace with excitement and joy.

With Gus at his last evening clinical, it's just me tonight, impatient and idle, searching our bookshelves and the internet for an Advent devotion to inspire the missing wonder within me. But try as I might, nothing I find conveys the inspirational message I'm looking for.

Admittedly as a last resort, I turned directly to the source, to reread firsthand Luke's telling of the birth of Jesus. Here, the story of Mary, whom I was recently told was likely no older than thirteen at the time of her pregnancy. Imagine her fear and isolation, all she must have faced and considered as she neared the birth! Her anticipation and impatience, yes, but also a quiet faith of such strength and joy, unwavering in the face of a great unknown. My heart fills as I consider her circumstances and, finally, I feel a flicker of excitement for the season flutter within me.

And so this year, unexpectedly, it is Mary who has become the source of inspiration for my own Advent journey. An unwed, pregnant teenager from centuries ago an incredible example of patience and faith, joy and wonder.

"And Mary said: 

My soul glorified the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior." (Luke 1:46-47)

"Where there is patience and humility;

there is neither anger nor vexation."

    --St. Francis of Assisi, Admonition 27

(Ob)noxious

Like fuzzy frost that dusted the morning grass, a bitter pill languishes, coating my tongue with cantankerous bile. Beneath clear skies, the dawn cold rose up to grip my toes and and heart, turning blue my pursed frown and drawing down my eyelids like a velvet sash, heavy and dark with dust and ash.

Waking to such a venemous mood as this, I did what any right-minded, red-blooded woman would and made myself a hair appointment. A little pampering never hurt anyone and, indeed, as the weighty hair fell, my spirit seemed to brighten, but only just. What follows, the results:

Loving my new 'do, but still trying to shake the pervasive toxicity.

Bag Lady

Today I'm a grouch as a result of suffering (more than a) smidge of disappointment that left me feeling lousy and low. (Is it kosher to uncork a better day already?) I don't often do this, and even rarer do I admit it, but today I drowned my sorrows in a bit of self-indulgent online shopping. Coincidentally, my crummy day coincided with so-called "Cyber Monday," and said holiday meant numerous additional markdowns on my chosen acquisition, shown here:

My pretty should arrive within three to seven business days, at which time I hope to have fully digested today's bitter pill and be on to bigger and better, with a fabulous bag to boot.

Perfectly Perfect

This was the type of day I wish could be bottled up and kept for a lesser one ahead. Bookended as it was by the long weekend, today could bask in just being today, small and quiet and soft. Nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing pressing, just us and the familiarity of our corner of the world.

I awoke to breakfast in bed and the Sunday Times crossword (I admit it, I'm spoiled). Between a little of this and a bit of that, I gave our apartment a thorough head-to-toe cleaning while Gus worked his way through laundry and recipes. I finally got around to cutting out various inspiration and articles worth keeping from a year's worth of magazines and recycled the rest. I stored away our few Thanksgiving decorations and carefully unwrapped and displayed our Christmas trimmings, in anticipation of the first Sunday in Advent. We listened to Christmas CDs and talked about where to locate our tree in the weeks to come.

After dinner, I ventured outside for the first time today and we cut through the deserted streets for a late evening stroll. We remembered all the darkened streets we've walked through over the years -- post-meal in Montreal, late night store runs in Portland, jet lagged at 2:00 AM in Paris. As they did then, my head fit just so against Gus' arm and my hand wrapped safely in his as we walked in slow lockstep against the brisk wind.

Let there be many days like today in the years that lie ahead and mine will be a life well lived.

Black Friday

And so with the last crumb of pumpkin pie eaten and the city dozing on L-tryptophan, Old Man Winter awoke late last evening to blow a cold wind across the barren Delaware Valley. The icy gusts continued today prompting fresh flannel sheets and itchy woolen hats.

Swearing off the mall, Gus and I instead drove to my two favorite shopping destinations to jumpstart our holiday cheer. First, two darling shops in Hereford, The Cinnamon Stick and Homespun, the latter of which is housed in an 1860s General Store. Both were suitably bedecked for the holidays and offered cookies and spiced tea amongst their wares to a sprinkling of windblown shoppers. My purchases wrapped and sweet tooth satisfied, we hopped in the car and made our way down the Blue Route to Terrain at Styer's Nursery. The store sparkled with a particularly delightful array of decorations and housewares and, outdoors, the nursery's crisp air was a heady combination of freshly cut fir and woodsmoke.
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After a brief winter's nap, we veered from the day's deck-the-halls theme to see the highly acclaimed film Precious. It's a pretty incredible film, but one that is difficult to watch unfold. I know in my heart that I see girls like Precious every day. When Gus picks me up from work, we drive the streets of what could be the movie's set through West Philadelphia. I've cursed as her kids have darted out in front of our car and I've looked on in sorrow as she's trudged home in the pouring rain. At the hospital, Gus gives Preciouses epidurals day in and day out, the same story retold and relived by so many. It is an amazing human story and not one I will soon forget.

Vespers

Following a shortened workday and a quick grocery store stop, I tucked into the kitchen and soon had a pumpkin pie baking, my fingers crossed for a perfect, flaky crust. Against the oven's heat, I opened a window and heard the sound of our church's carillon calling out across wet roofs and bare treetops.

After a quick dinner, Gus and I walked together to attend a Thanksgiving Eve service. The sky sprinkled a fine mist and high above, a muffled moon hung amidst heavy clouds. As we arrived at church, the stained glass windows, lit from inside, were an impressive sight, and one we do not see often. A small group gathered for worship and song, and after exchanging Thanksgiving wishes, we returned home under a dark, low sky.

The First Thanksgiving

Recently, I read an article in The New Yorker that said you never forget the first Thanksgiving dinner you cook, and I'd have to agree. My first attempt was in 1997 in Evanston, Illinois. Gus and I lived together in a humble apartment (some things don't change!) -- a roomy one bedroom on the first floor of a red brick building. It was just around the corner from a coffee roasting store and to this day I can't smell that distinctive burnt aroma without thinking about that time in my life.

Today, I can't recite our menu dish by dish, but I am sure it included a dry turkey breast, Stovetop stuffing, crescent rolls and, the crown jewel, green bean casserole with extra fried onions. The meal likely wouldn't pass our more discerning palates today, but back then it was good, warm and there was plenty of it. Best of all, it was ours. Not only was this the first Thanksgiving dinner I had cooked, but it was also the first of the holiday that we spent together as a couple, instead of parting ways to return to our respective families.

As we sat at our square, unfinished IKEA kitchen table (again, some things stubbornly won't change) admiring our view of the alley behind the building, a down-and-out man came into view and began digging in the dumpster parked a few feet away. My heart ached for him, alone, humble and homeless on a day filled with warmth and abundance for so many.

After a quick discussion, Gus went out to ask him if he was hungry. He was, so I filled a plate of our amateur feast, topped it with two buttered rolls, poured a glass of sparkling cider and brought it to him with a fork and napkin. He didn't say much, and we went back inside. He sat on the stoop of our apartment and ate his fill, then left the empty plate and cup by the door and silently continued on his way.

I never saw that poor man again in our alley and don't know where life led him after that day. I'd like to think he spent his next Thanksgiving inside, cozy and full but I know that isn't likely. For me, he will always be a part of Thanksgiving as not a one goes by that I don't think of him and how our paths crossed so many years ago.

Saturday Evening Post

I spent today immersed in what I love most, working creatively with my hands. First thing this morning, I put together a tri-fold poster for my church's volunteer fair tomorrow. Construction paper, glue stick and markers, oh my! At the same time church members are asked to make a financial commitment for next year, the various committees are also asking for a commitment of time. Since I'm a member of the Social Ministry Committee, I volunteered to make a poster highlighting some of the work we do. Our volunteer opportunities include feeding the hungry and tutoring school children in West Philadelphia, delivering flowers to church members and helping homeless families right here on the Main Line. I hope my fellow committee members like it!

I also wrapped my first Christmas gift! Our church participates in a program called Christmas Ingathering through Lutheran Children and Family Services where members purchase gifts for needy children. I selected a 15-year old girl who wanted either a journal and pen or the Twilight books. I chose the journal, thinking maybe she's the next Stephenie Meyer and this would foster her own creativity.

Finally, a blackberry galette is cooling in the kitchen and will be brought with to Gus' program's "One Year To Go" party tonight. I squeezed in this quick blog and an even quicker run before donning, I must admit, a fabulous fashionable frock for the evening's festivities.

A fun and safe Saturday to all!

In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening

Tonight, a brisk walk through my neighborhood with a friend, turning and weaving our way through the dark streets. Large, warmly lit homes line the quiet streets, with only the shuffling of sneakers and leaves to accompany our voices.

Upon returning home, I moved my ironing board, sewing machine and supplies into the living room to work on a homemade Christmas gift. On the radio show Fresh Air, which hails from Philadelphia, a tribute to the lyricist Johnny Mercer. He wrote, among many famous tunes, "Moon River" and "That Old Black Magic." A bright lamp bows to garishly light my work against pitch black windows. The radiators hiss after being woken from late season naps.

I adore evenings filled with timeless elements. Through the years, out of necessity or hobby, women have carefully measured, pinned and sewn fabrics. Threads catch on pant legs and fingers are pricked. A proud iron puffs and gurgles as needles poke and scissors crunch through fabric. The radio's offering keeps a comforting background time.

I'm old fashioned/
I love the moonlight/
I love the old fashioned things/

The sound of rain/
Upon a window pane/
The starry song that April sings/

This year's fancies/
Are passing fancies/
But sighing sighs holding hands/
These my heart understands/

I know I'm old fashioned/
But I don't mind it/
That's how I want to be/
As long as you agree/
To stay old fashioned with me/
--"I'm Old Fashioned," lyrics by Johnny Mercer

Glory Be!

Well, I'll be darned, would you look at that! To the left of this post, 365 (or perhaps, fewer) days to go until Gus graduates from his Master of Science in Nursing Anesthesia program. One year left until that last puzzle piece is aha! turned upside down and snugly fitted into place.

For me, this whole experience is beginning to verge on the surreal. To be this close to a goal we've had our eyes singularly trained on for nearly a decade, a chance we took at taking control of our destiny and changing the trajectory of our lives. Over all this time, every decision made, every job taken, every move suffered has been in obsessive pursuit of this one ambition: To create for ourselves the best life possible. And to think it is almost here, to have actually done everything that we said we would do, is mind-boggling.

As anyone who has pursued an education outside of the straight-out-of-high-school model knows, ours is not always an enviable world. The spell of freedom and innocence that lingers over the typical higher education tract is gone and new responsibilities quickly rush in to fill the void. Life sometimes feels like a pressure cooker filled with an unbalanced recipe of commitments, sacrifices, finances, stress, responsibilities and impatience threatening to blow at any point. But, people do it every day and many, in circumstances much more difficult than ours, to better their lives and fulfill their dreams.  

And so tonight, with an extra spring in my step and the wind to my back, I head off to my second-to-last tap dancing class.

People always say you can do anything for a year, right? Well, try ten years. One year left feels like nothing!

Woman About Town

Whew! A busy weekend has come to a close and I find myself happy, relaxed and energized. We're enjoying the return of shirtsleeves weather with windows open, and at sunset, a beautiful blue sky laced with pink cotton candy clouds. On Friday evening, I tried out a popular locale, meeting a friend for drinks and tapas at Tinto, a wine bar owned by Chef Jose Garces, currently a finalist on The Next Iron Chef.

Yesterday, taking advantage of a generous coupon, Gus and I stayed the evening at a new downtown hotel, Palomar. We had Moroccan sandwiches for dinner and enjoyed walking around Old City and Rittenhouse Square. Today, after lunch at one of our favorite Vietnamese restaurants, we returned home to the Main Line to attend a ceremony at Villanova where Gus was inducted into Sigma Theta Tau, the nursing honor society. Students were honored for their academic achievement and leadership at a lovely ceremony and reception.

And now, finally, home for the evening. Just in time to tidy up and regroup, preparing for the busy week ahead.

Neither Feast Nor Famine

Today, the remnants of Tropical Storm Ida wreaked havoc on the mid-Atlantic shore, bringing our short-lived heatwave to a resounding close. Inland, a dark day of wind and rain. Tiny, icy raindrops pelted my umbrella to and from work, mimicking the sound of a thousand needles piercing taut fabric. The wind gusts jerked my brolly and me to and fro, and I was sure that at any moment we'd take off in a Mary Poppinsian adventure across town. 

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When Gus and I moved to Philadelphia, only a few accoutrements made the cut and came with, incidental items brought only to beautify and familiarize our new home. One of these carefully chosen items, a hand-me-down Devon Motto Ware plate, hangs above our kitchen window, its butter yellow face decorated with a small cottage surrounded by trees. Painted in an arc on its rim are these words: Enough's as good as a feast.

This simple saying is striking in its quiet contrast to the popular attitude that long prevailed in this country, before being cut short by the current recession. The notion of the bigger, faster and fancier, the better. Countless lives lived far beyond means, greedily consuming and acquiring like so many gluttonous and revelrous Bacchuses. Big cars, big houses and big talk, a pissing match of epic proportion. And now, in the haze of a nationwide hangover, there is something comforting and uncomplicated in the time-tested adage hand-painted on my plate. Just enough means no congealed leftovers, vinagered bottles and foggy memories. No broken banks or hearts or promises. No stomachaches, headaches or pains in the neck. No regrets. Just, enough. Enough to be satiated and satisfied and no more.

Yes, enough is as good as a feast. And in someways, maybe, even better.

Standard Deviations

Despite my ongoing love affair with the east coast fall, I'm enjoying our current heatwave, with the mercury hovering around 70 degrees. This warm interlude, if only briefly, gives a foretaste of the rebirth and renewal that lie beyond winter and has been a lovely surprise.

This evening, as I enjoyed a bare-shouldered run through the dark streets of Ardmore, I came to the conclusion that I am a person for whom it can be said, "She thinks too much." I find I often spend so much time analyzing, deconstructing and conjuring up various situations, scenarios and scenes that I become bogged down and lost in my own mind. Indeed, I recurrently cannot see the forest for the trees, finding myself in a dense thicket of worried and tiresome thoughts.

So in the spirit of continued self-improvement, I am taking a page from the practice of yoga and applying it to daily life. In yoga, when the mind's attention wanders away from the movement of breath through the body, we are told to quiet the mind and gently bring it back, to refocus it on the rhythm of our breath and its relationship to various poses. For me, this seems to have great relevance not just at yoga class, but in the broader context of life. When the mind ambles off into the dark woodlands, instead of allowing it to roam free, patiently coax it back to center, focusing on something positive, or, perhaps, nothing at all. For me, exercise and hobbies like reading and craft projects seem like great tools to use in this process. 

Just like with the body, training the mind takes practice and it doesn't come overnight. I've done well in keeping up my home yoga practice, particularly first thing in the morning. I feel like the more consistent I am with this, the better equipped I'll be to implement the teachings of yoga off the mat as well.

Cityscape

Today takes me back to my days in Chicagoland. It's sunny, cold and gusty, a classic Windy City forecast. A blinding sun lights a blanched blue sky. The wind whistles in ears and up pant legs and the biting air, devoid of moisture, gives an instant facelift. Crisp leaves scurry down streets, their uneven shapes skipping like stones across water. Foliage tornadoes swirl up against brick walls, catching various bits and butts in their impromptu funnels. A warm bouquet of hot dogs, onions and white bread wafts tantalizingly by. Like moths to a flame, construction workers queue to call out lunch orders at street carts. Whaddaya have, the usual? Strong voices debate sports and corruption on commandeered park benches. Dirty white taxis honk and weave down crowded arterials as a policeman directs impatient traffic with a shiny, shrill whistle, gloved hands and a frown.

An autumn Friday in a veteran city.

Screeching Halt

At 3:00 AM yesterday, after returning our town's revelers home from the World Series game, the SEPTA transit workers of Philadelphia went on strike, bringing to a standstill all bus, trolley and subway lines into and around the city. The regional rail service, which I take into work, is still in operation as these employees are under a separate contract. Since everyone flocked to these trains, there were long, snaking lines of confused and frustrated passengers at the station and the trains were standing room only. Needless to say, the highways and byways of Philadelphialand have been chuck a block, with commute times more than doubling.

The saga continues as this morning, I arrived at the station in Ardmore only to find out that the previous train had caught fire and all passengers had been evacuated, suspending all train service for the Paoli/Thorndale and Cynwyd lines. So, I have returned home to monitor the fate of my commute online and work a bit from home. My boss has been stuck on the Schuykill freeway for two hours already, not even close to our offices.

I've always considered myself a strong union supporter but I'm not so sure this time around. According to news reports, the transit workers have been offered salary increases of 11% over three years, no increase in healthcare costs and continued contributions to their pensions. In this economic climate with so many making do with less or sometimes nothing at all, I feel hard-pressed to support their cause. I guess for now, it's wait and see -- both on contract negotiations and my work day.

Update: Route R5 service has been restored following the fire, so off I go to work.  I'm taking plenty of snacks and reading material just in case.

Bucket List

Today marks the beginning of a difficult month -- it's the start of Gus' Obstetrics/Labor and Delivery rotation as a part of his anesthesia master's program. At this time last year, he spent the majority of his days in class, and was at a clinical site just once or twice a week. Now, he is at the hospital four days a week, has class on two evenings and simulation lab on Fridays. It's been like this, school on top of clinical on top of classes on top of labs, for months and months on end, like knuckles pushing into your spine, forcing you to walk faster and faster. A schedule that repeatedly leaves us teetering on the precarious edge of total burnout.

And now, double down, since for the next month, Gus will have to work shifts until eleven in the evening, sometimes being required to return to the hospital the very next morning at seven. To make matters worse, he is at a hospital in a seriously unsafe and unsavory area of Philadelphia, making his nearly midnight departure, frankly, a risky endeavor. In fact, the last time he was at this hospital, a resident he worked with was shot in the face on his way into work. I try not to worry, but, really, who wouldn't?

After our return from Montreal, I truly felt my well had been refilled to the brim. I was renewed and recharged, energy stored like provisions for the long winter ahead. But I'm starting to think there must be a serious leak somewhere, because the water level is going down fast, faster than I anticipated. Hell, we only just got back on Saturday and already I'm feeling drained. What am I going to do? Where will the strength come from this time? Where can I take my bucket and who will fill it for me? Are you there God? It's me, Stina...

Healer of our every ill,

Light of each tomorrow,

give us peace beyond our fear,

and hope beyond our sorrow.

You who know our fears and sadness,

grace us with your peace and gladness.

Spirit of all comfort, fill our hearts.

Healer of our every ill,

Light of each tomorrow,

give us peace beyond our fear,

and hope beyond our sorrow.

                                             --Marty Haugen, "Healer of Our Every Ill"

Jerk Face

This afternoon, I had a meeting to attend across campus and afterward, I walked back to my office by way of 35th, a busy street that creates the eastern edge of the pedestrian portion of Penn's campus. It rained over the weekend but today is dry and cold, with a pale sunny sky and a slight breeze. As I approached the crosswalk something caught the corner of my eye. I turned toward the street in time to see a massive SUV with tinted windows race through a deep, wide puddle, spraying up a massive fan of water that rained down all over my right side. My pants, coat and purse all were splattered with ugly Philadelphia street water. I would have easily hurled a juicy obscenity while glaring down the driver from the depths of my soul but he was long gone, racing through a red light toward wherever it is that assholes go on Monday afternoons in November. Already feeling fragile, I did the next best thing which was to hang my head and cry hot, frustrated tears while hurrying back to the safety of my office.

I'm trying to keep a positive post-vacation attitude but this is certainly not helping. What goes around, comes around pal!

All Hallows' Eve

Today, we returned to Philadelphia primarily by way of New York. The trees of the Adirondacks that just a week prior had been engulfed in a panoply of autumnal fire now had leaves only of a dimming dark red, if any at all. Those already naked exposed their bony knees and elbows, standing silently intertwined against a low, gray sky.

Here in the Delaware Valley, we found an unseasonable warmth, although accompanied by a persistent southerly wind. I took advantage of the nice weather to prepare my garden for winter, removing the last of the tomato vines, an overgrowth of parsley and my remaining nasturtiums. I took down my rabbit-proof fence and turned over the good, dark brown soil one final time.

Just as a trickle of trick-or-treaters begins to make their way through the damp streets below, our senescent television gets into the spirit as well, choosing Halloween night to give up its long-awaited ghost. The old girl sparked and sputtered, taking her final breath as I warily watched Clarice meet Dr. Lecter for the first time. Not to worry, as a set the size of a postage stamp was unearthed from the attic, dusted and tested to be ready in time for tonight's game.

Happy Halloween!

Page Turner

I'm at that point in our vacation where there is more time spent than in what lies ahead. Still to enjoy is the remainder of a quiet afternoon, then a 7 o'clock dinner reservation at Au Pied du Cochon, a restaurant we return to fondly having celebrated our wedding anniversary there in 2007. Tomorrow, a quick stop at Fairmount Bagel before we make our way south toward all that awaits us at home.

And so, resigned to an inevitable return to reality, my mind looks again at the life I left behind. I peek in the window and peer around the corner at the responsibilities and requirements that await. A glance at my calendar. A look at my inbox. I find this reentry process is the same every time I go away. It starts with a desire to be completely removed from reality, both physically and mentally. As the vacation days progress, unconsciously the fluff and nonsense cluttering life is swept aside so when I look again, as I do today, it's so much easier to see my real priorities. Things I want to do differently and where to focus my attention. What I've been doing right and areas I've gone astray. I always return from vacation feeling so inspired to live my best life!

In this way, I think vacations serve as a lovely bookmark in life. Just as we start to lose focus, reading and rereading a paragraph without retaining so much as a word, we mark our place and set the book aside. After a spell, we return to this page with a clear mind and renewed attention, to not only finish the chapter at hand but to enjoy the sentences along the way.

In Our Time

Just now, I'm sitting up in bed, surrounded by a cozy mess of soft cottons and down. A wall clock insists the precious seconds as they pass. Our rented studio is warm and shadowed in the early dusk of a brisk Montreal. Outside, a scooter crescendos by, momentarily drowning out the lilting French of two young women as they crunch through the yellowed fallen leaves on rue Laurier. Having just awoken from a long autumn's nap, I finally feel the urge to write, to begin to record our time away.


Up until now I've been reticent to do so, afraid I might break the spell that has encapsulated this time so far. Thinking if I turned to these pages, rejoining the world, that our purported night at the ball might become a Cinderellian jack-o'-lantern, past its prime with moldy eyes and blackened underbite.



But wait! Listen! This hasn't happened at all. Indeed, the magic of the last four days still lingers and the crackle of the next four still beckons. The clock keeps its rhythm and only the cold wind shifts the street's leaves. Long walks and good food remain, shopping, sleeping and exploring yet to do. Still uninterrupted time to talk clear to the end, without duties and responsibilities rudely interrupting. To wake with the sun and sleep when tired.

Tonight, dinner at O'Thym followed by a dry, windy walk back to our temporary home. Tomorrow? As of yet, who knows. A clean slate and open calendar -- the beauty and freedom of time owned.

**All photos taken in Westmount, Montreal, Quebec.

On The Eve Of

And today, the end of yet another countdown; one we have, for the most part, clutched closely and quietly until the moment was to arrive. Tomorrow, we'll rise before dawn and steal out into the darkness toward an eight day sabbatical in Montreal, Quebec.

At a difficult point last summer, we decided to set this time aside for ourselves, instead of visiting family and friends, instead of doing nothing at all. To press pause, to jam a stick in the wheel, to turn off the lights, close up shop and leave it all behind for one precious week.

Over the years, our time away has been like a balm for fresh wounds, a warm bath and clean pajamas after a rotten day, a deep, dreamless sleep after a good cry. Time away, whether long or short, has given Gus and me the chance to exist outside of the present and to be in control of our days. To reconnect and renew, and to strengthen ourselves and one another for the next leg of the journey.

I can't promise what these pages will look like over the next week. I don't know how far away I need to be or how much I need to leave behind.

"To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change." --Charles Horton Cooley

Tabac

Every year on this day I take in a deep breath, fill my lungs to capacity, and offer myself a hearty congratulations. On October 21, 2001, I quit smoking, making today the completion of my eighth cigarette-free year.

Today, I cannot imagine lighting up, but in a former life I was hooked, line and sinker. It started the day my parents moved me into my college dormitory room. My roommate hadn't arrived yet and, feeling both shy and bold, I scurried past the sprinkling of students in the common area to set out alone across campus. In the cool September dusk I walked to the Gyro-cery, a Lebanese mini mart, and bought a pack of Camel Lights, choosing these over Marlboros as I wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce this Philip Morris offering. This nod to the freedoms of adulthood progressed over the following seven years, culminating in an expensive and reckless pack-a-day habit.

Quitting "cold turkey" has been one of my best choices and greatest accomplishments. The decision to stop this self-destructive behavior significantly changed the tenor of my life, and, although I didn't know it at the time, was the first step toward putting myself first on my priority list. This experience increased my awareness of self-preservation - learning to say no, staying true to my ideals and giving my health the attention it deserves.

I'm not going to lie -- there are moments, on cool, clear nights or summer at dusk that a long, languid drag sounds heavenly. Occasionally I catch a sweet waft of smoke that tickles my nose and I breathe it in and arch an eyebrow in interest. But, those days are long gone, just hazy memories of a truly bygone era.

When at first I learned to speak/

I used all my words to fight/

With him and her and you and me/

Ah, but it's just a waste of time/

Yeah, it’s such a waste of time/

...

What you were then I am today/

Look at the things I do/

...

Three words that became hard to say/

I and Love and You.

                                  --The Avvett Brothers, "I and Love and You"

Sorry, Love

I feel at times I've fostered the impression that I hate Philadelphia, but honestly, it's not true. I have already copped to a certain amount of fear and loathing when we first arrived, but that was to be expected. Pond hopping brings with it great growing pains, a fact to which anyone who has swapped cities can attest. But that was eons ago, and nowadays any harsh words I utter have less to do with my actual environs and everything to do with impatience at our current situation. Unfortunately, Philadelphia turned a raw deal in the circumstances that brought us to its gates. I truly believe even if we had moved to the veritable gardens of Eden, I would have faced the same feelings and frustrations I've encountered here.

Indeed, as recent as yesterday, I thought how nice it would be to live here as regular, non-matriculating adults. Don't worry, mom, just a thought, but there is a small part of me that is wary of the return to Seattle post-graduation. In many ways, it would be so much easier to stay here and transition to the next chapter without another uprooting and replanting. To accept one of the job offers Gus has here and start house hunting in zip codes that begin with 1 rather than 9.

Because despite my initial intentions otherwise, I've put down roots here. As hard as I may have tried, it's impossible to hold a place at arm's length for three years; I now truly consider this distant place my home. I have friends here that I cannot imagine life without, plenty of favorites and familiars and I've grown genuinely fond and proud of this place, this pace, this east coast way of life.

Sometimes I worry I won't like it in Seattle. Have I been away too long, seen too much, outgrown my hometown? Has my eye been caught by something bigger, brighter and shinier? What if she and I don't get along after all this time apart? Unlike with Seattle, I don't know the sordid details of Philadelphia's past and it doesn't know mine. This city doesn't haunt me with who I was or what I did so many years ago; it takes me as who I am today and I return this gift in kind. Philadelphia holds the possibility for anonymity and reinvention without tattling over my shoulder tales of contradiction and contempt.

Tonight, as I walked home from running errands under a brisk black and blue sky, every pub, deli and pizza joint along the way was brightly lit with a television tuned to tonight's game. Townies gathered together in their red and white garb to cheer on our reigning World Series Champs as they face off against the LA Dodgers. If nothing else, it is so refreshing to be associated with an abundance of half-priced wings and the Philadelphia Phillies instead of all-you-can-eat gluten-free dog biscuits and the Seattle Mariners. Go Phils!

And Counting

I've always had a thing for countdowns. So many weeks left here, this many days to go there. With so much to get through - days, weeks, quarters, semesters, years, degrees, it's encouraging to look towards a date and eventually pass it by. I've written before about our monthly calendar, and it continues to serve us well. But lately, other countdowns have made significant gains and, inspired by their progress, I feel myself chomping at the bit for more. Tonight I can physically feel my neck straining forward of my body in a vain attempt to pull time itself ahead toward the next milestone.

The first marker is directly to the left of this post - we are at sub-400 and counting until Graduation Day. Our Philadelphia experience began at day 920 and we have bitten off, chewed and swallowed 525 bitter, sweet and everything-in-between days. At this point, we are closer to the end of this endless chapter than the beginning.

On Friday, we met up with some of Gus' classmates. It feels good to be around these people, folks in the same boat who get what we're experiencing. The other spouses and I always compare and commiserate on countdowns, and we all dream about life post-anesthesia program. This time, though, something new! A "One Year To Go" party has been planned for next month, to celebrate and mark the passing of this important moment.

And finally, a new date to train an eye on. Today, Gus spoke with the chief CRNA at his top hospital choice, and she encouraged him to apply six months prior to graduation, which means May of next year. With the final year laid out before us, this allows for a goal halfway through, with the strong potential of having the reward for our labor in place for the final half year stretch.

How do you eat an elephant?

                                             One bite at a time.

Dark, Stormy Night

A early Nor'easter has descended upon us in a fury. Icy cold rain falls steadily, accompanied by a wind that whips and weaves its way through layers to settle deep within my bones. Snow and sleet have been reported in and around the area as temperatures continue to drop below normal. It's dark when I wake, and behind the heavy clouds the sun never seems to rise before we descend again into the damp darkness of evening.

The Arctic air seems to have pushed the trees into autumnal color and loosened leaves from their perches above to coat the sidewalks underfoot. The guilty pleasure of woodsmoke is caught on the air. The unseasonable chill sent me crawling into the recesses of the attic to unearth hats, scarves and gloves, all tucked away with the bloom of the first crocus last spring.

As night and rain fell on Thursday, Gus and I bundled up and made our way to an old warehouse among the wharfs at the southern edge of the city. There we saw Haunted Poe, an interactive production of the works of Edgar Allen Poe, put on by an avant garde theater company. The suspenseful recitations and spooky sets stirred the spirits of Halloween, and the Philadelphia we drove home through harkened back to the city of the Gothic poet himself -- wind howling down deserted, rain swept streets, choked gutters and inky shadows catching the yellowed lamppost light.

"A sombre yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded all things...the shade of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness."

                                                  --Edgar Allen Poe, "The Island of the Fay"

Judgment Day

At my day job, I work in and amongst many Highly Educated People, folks who tack various combinations of letters after their names and, apparently acrimoniously, spend some time putting up with The Rest of Us.

When I first was first hired at my current position, I traipsed down hallowed halls naively saying hello to anyone that passed me in the hallway, not knowing who was whom or who did what and where. Some of my coworkers responded in kind with a smile and a cheery "Good morning!" but many, to my surprise, upon seeing me, became intensely interested in the worn linoleum, their stained coffee cups or a yellowing poster of Heinrich Hertz tacked haphazardly to the wall. Anything, anywhere to avoid making eye contact with me, let alone say hello.

It took me a couple of months, a few curious conversations and some pretty painful one-on-ones to realize that there are actually people that I work with that consider themselves superior to me because of the differences in our educational backgrounds and what we each do for a living, and therefore refuse to acknowledge my existence in this world.  During my tenure in higher education, I have attended meetings where, because I can't include PhD after my name, I have been completely ignored, as if I do not physically exist in the room. A non-entity. Without feelings or an opinion or anything of any worth to say.

So then, really, of what can I speak? It is almost 11:00 PM and I've struggled since I left work with how to put into writing my feelings on this subject. I wish I could say that I just laugh it off, call the group a bunch of assholes and move on, but honestly, it's painful and it hurts. To interact (or not) with people who find you a second class citizen is unlike anything I've experienced before. It's a raw experience to find yourself sub-par in another person's eyes. Call it an overabundance of self-confidence, but I've never fashioned myself someone others should feel particularly superior to.

I think the take away message in all this has to be that you just never know. You really can't judge a book by its cover; you never know why people are the way and the where that they are. Indeed, every time I've made an assumption about someone based on an initial perception, I have been completely wrong. We don't know what lies beneath and beyond and we never get the full answer from a simple "What do you do for a living?"

I'm not out to dismiss anyone, especially those that have invested much time and effort into their names, numbers and careers, as these can be admirable and laudable accomplishments.  All I am suggesting is that before one scrambles to the top of a mountain to admire the view, consider what you are resting your laurels on and your proximity to the sun.

Hair Brained

I've never quite known what to do with my hair. In an ideal world, my scalp would sprout an inky mane that tucks neatly into a chignon and when let down, swirls around my shoulders like a fine mink stole. Instead, I'm left with hair that requires maximum poking and prodding resulting in minimal effect. In terms of hair, I may indeed have been born in a barn as my head is covered in a drift of unruly cowlicks.

On the bright side, my hair is a nice color of brown, it's not falling out and despite the city's best effort, Philadelphia has given me only a sprinkling of wiry, white hairs. But beyond these few positive points, my hair fails to impress. It straddles not exactly straight and not entirely curly, not baby fine but far from thick. In some ways, it's a microcosm of me - moody, stubborn, prone to change, and with a serious mind of its own. I've worn it pixie short (Gus' favorite), down my back (mom's favorite) and everything in between (none of which are my favorite). More-often-than-not, I just give up and give in to the Perpetual Ponytail.

In terms of tools, you name it, I've tried it. Oils, sprays, mousses and gels from the drug store, salon and then some. I admit to an unhealthy addiction to hair spray and brushes. I have an exorbitantly priced hair dryer, fancy flat irons, multiple barreled curling irons and various and sundry clips, ties and claws.

My attempts to concoct something wonderful with my hair have made us late on more than one occasion. These desperate moments end with me throwing my hands up amidst a cloud of hairspray, doing up my makeup and spritzing on a little Chanel No. 5, hoping all this will distract attention from the top of my head, although being a foot shorter than many partygoers doesn't bode well for this bit of wisdom.

And so this morning, when I set out to tame the beast with my usual arsenal in tow, I was pleasantly surprised to find that, after all these years, I actually got it all right. I finally found the right combination of haircut, washing schedule, shampoo, volumizer, liquid gel, hairspray, hairdryer, hairbrushes, hair dryer, curling iron and more hairspray. My hair looked really good and, 15 hours later, it still looks good. It's taken me a good many years, but I think I've finally, miraculously, figured out what to do with my hair!

Unfortunately, in my excitement over my fabulous hair, I forgot to put on deodorant before I left for work. Oh well, can't having everything, right?

Din Din

Along with ten other ambitious ladies, I'm participating in a "Julie and Julia"-esque experiment. Every two weeks, one chef selects a recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, tries it out and emails it to the group along with any additional suggestions. We have two weeks to make the chosen recipe before the next selection arrives in our inbox. Obviously the Julia Child cooking blog has already happened to critical acclaim and I won't attempt to repeat what's been done already, but I would like to make a short record of this evening.

The first choice was Poulet Rôti and, after an initial flurry, the chicken is roasting in the oven and the brown stock to make the sauce is on the stove top. Haricot verts and a simple green salad wait in the wings as its accompaniments. With basting required every ten minutes, the chicken is labor intensive, but as Julia herself said, "Nothing is too much trouble if it turns out the way it should."

As the sky darkens, I sit at my tiny kitchen table eyeing my even tinier oven, its eyes alive with bubbling pots and its mouth exhaling a heady combination of chicken, bubbling fats, carrots and onions. My glass of Pouilly-Fuisse sweats from the heat of the kitchen and The Swing Years and Beyond streams from our laptop's tinny speakers. In many ways, this evening could just as easily be Julia's Paris of the 1950s as it is the Philly 'burbs in 2009. Classic food, good wine, timeless music.

Bon appétit!

Hot Date

Since the moment I heard of its existence, I have been anxiously awaiting the release of Coco Avant Chanel, and tonight marks the film's long-awaited arrival in a town near me. I adore period films, Audrey Tatou, fashion and France (if you hadn't heard), and this film appears to serve up such a delicious concoction of all four that I am anticipating two hours of complete rapture, with the cherry on top of a small popcorn and a medium beverage.

Before the movie, Gus and I plan to tuck in to a Vietnamese dinner, which for me is a real taste of home. Quite a few years ago, my extended family had a habit of meeting for dinner at a now-closed Vietnamese restaurant; I have fond memories of arriving at the restaurant and seeing everyone seated inside, chatting with the restaurant's owners. When I worked off Eastlake Avenue in Seattle, Gus would often pick me up from work with two Vietnamese sandwiches and two sodas and we would drive to a little known park under the freeway to eat and chat for an hour.

For years I shared an office with a delightful young woman from Vietnam who, in addition to introducing me to the prolific and annoying world of Vietnamese pop music, did me right by giving me my first taste of pho. She and her sister would take the bus to Seattle's International District and return to work laden with styrofoam containers of foreign wonderment. Unfortunately, these were the days before I was an offal lover, so I struggled with what to do with the chicken hearts and kidneys floating in my soup.  No matter, though, as they eventually sank, no one was the wiser, and I was able to go about enjoying the wonderful broth and its then more palatable ingredients.

Looking forward to a lovely evening out. Happy Friday!

Red Letter Day

Recently, Gus took a very difficult exam that he is required to pass in order to graduate from his program, and he has been anxiously checking the mail (of the snail variety) ever since to find out his results. Students take the test once in their first year and once in their second, and it's a pretest to measure how students will perform on the actual board examinations following graduation.

Today the highly anticipated letter finally arrived and my dear husband, who was worried he would fail the whole thing outright, did far more than just pass the test, he scored in the 97.5 percentile of all CRNA students nationally!

For me, the fact that he not only passed but, in fact, did so incredibly well is concrete proof of just how hard I know he has worked. The exhausting amount of time and energy he has put into his studies and clinical work shows in his score. Every single class from the very humble beginnings up to the sophisticated and independent anesthesia work he doing now has brought him to this watershed moment.

I am truly in awe of Gus and what he has accomplished, and today, even more than usual, I'm as proud as a peacock!

Forestation

On mornings like today's, when the night rain has dampened all, with spider webs sparkling like tinsel and the plop of raindrops on fallen leaves, a flicker of magic comes alive inside of me. It’s a bit of my childhood that I’ve held onto, a mischief and a sparkle that I’ve continued to cultivate all these years. Let me attempt to explain:

I love the forest world. Acorns, nests, mushrooms and moss amidst fallen logs and ferns. Foxes, hedgehogs, raccoons and owls, enclosed in a damp world of perpetual dusk. Insects traveling under layers of leaves and pine needles, furry tails disappearing down holes, shadows and sounds filled with mystery and delight.

I grew up in a home where the possibility existed for an elaborate animal world that we humans were not a part of. Could it be that animals spoke to one another, had hopes and dreams, walked up on two legs and even donned a vest or hat from time to time? I was often under the impression that I might have "just missed" seeing something spectacular in the forest of the animal world. My imagination was further stoked by some pretty draconian No Television rules and a wild backyard, where tall evergreens and tiny ferns grew, large enough where I could sequester myself far away, pretending and creating within the natural world.

I spent a great amount of time outdoors -- gardening, camping, beach combing, hiking and building bonfires. I read until I memorized the Beatrix Potter books, Old Mother West Wind, Frog and Toad, Little Bear and the strange world of Finn Family Moomintroll. I played with Woodsies and the board game Forest Friends. I believed in tomtes that guard farmhouses at night and Reynard the fox eating porridge. Before dinner we were told to "Fold our paws" for grace, something I continue to say to this day. Even our pets had an extensive array of thoughts and feelings, and these members of the family often weighed in with their opinions, for example, when I had been naughty. Imagine my guilt knowing not only my mother’s disappointment, but now a green-eyed kitty shook her head and wagged her finger paw in my direction.The line between fantasy and reality was blurred enough that, mix in an overactive imagination, and the glimmer of mischief has yet to fade, even today.

I don't think I could have married a man that sees animals as either dinner or a mild annoyance. Somehow, I found someone who had the beauty and mystery of animals and nature nurtured in him as well. More than once I've been called to the window to watch birds flying south or see a squirrel burying nuts in our garden. I'm not the only one that leaves bits of string outside in the hopes that a bird will use it in building a nest. Someone who, like me, notices and briefly mourns every dead squirrel or raccoon along the side of the road. A guy who willingly helps me collect acorns and pinecones at the park, no questions asked.

The misty, moisty morning has metamorphosized into a warm and sunny day, that, although beautiful, isn't quite the same for conjuring up the possibilities of the forest. So, I put the enchantment in my back pocket for another day, but keep my eyes bright and on the lookout...just in case!

Prose All Stars

I'm completely enamored by the book I'm reading. It's the type of book that when you're not reading it, you're thinking about it and when you are reading it, you're completely lost in the story, to the point where you almost miss your train stop, both on the way to and from work (ahem...)!

The book is Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford, and it tells the life story of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The author was made famous by her bestseller Zelda, the biography of Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott, for which she was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. I hadn't read Zelda when I picked up her more recent offering, but now it's on my book list.

At over 500 pages, I can't offer a definitive review of the entire book, as I'm only 1/6 of the way through. But if this is any indication, last night I chose reading it over watching Law and Order: SVU, and I love me some Stabler and Benson!

P.S. I bought some sweet footwear that I am l-o-v-i-n-g, a pair of black Converse Chuck Taylors. I think they make my feet look long and thin, which is always a good thing, even if it's just feet, right? Hey, I'll take skinnyizing anytime I can get it!

rɪˈgrɛt

Many years ago, a co-worker of mine completed one of those emails where you answer 25 questions about yourself. One of the questions was "What do you fear?" and she answered "Regret." Most people had answered "spiders" or "clowns" and like them, an answer of some depth hadn't occurred to me. I was so struck by her answer that it has remained with me since then.

A few years later, while working for a hospice program, I heard the stories of patients who, facing death, reflected on their lives, including their regrets. Time and again, these lists were nearly the same. I should have worked less and spent more time with my family. Traveled more. Spent less time in my counting house. Loved more, laughed more, worried less. Taken a risk. Thrown caution to the wind. Lived in the moment. Danced as if no one was watching.

Around this same time, someone gave me a card with a quotation from Mark Twain: Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

And so nine years ago, as Gus and I devised a ten-year plan for ourselves, these words rang in my ears. As we worked out a detailed timeline, sketched in a notebook, of what we wanted to accomplish in the coming decade, we talked about regret and what it meant to live life to its fullest. Our main goal was that Gus would become a CRNA, but we also made a pact to really live along the way and to regret little amidst what we knew would be a crazy, intense and drawn out dream.

Signing on this dotted line, in some ways, freed us from expectations that might have hindered us. We knew mortgages and babies and pets would have to wait, but we also knew our freedom was finite. We had ten years to just be a twosome, exploring, dreaming and discovering while we checked off countless semesters and jumped through endless hoops. And, assuming we made it to the end in one piece, no regrets. So we folded up that precious piece of paper for safekeeping, grabbed each other's hand and set out to make the best of it.

Looking back with almost a year to go, I think we stayed pretty true to our promise. We traveled abroad a whopping 313 days, 150 of those spent in our favorite lodgings, a tent. We visited all but 3 of the 22 regions of our beloved France. We ate and drank our way through countless babysitterless dinners, did stuff on the spur of the moment, went away for the weekend, slept in, stayed up late, splurged, purged, and called someone else to deal with the broken water heater. We took up new hobbies, read tons of books, started (and sometimes finished) countless projects, and bought beautiful things. Best of all, uninterrupted and unencumbered, we have grown to know and love one other in such a way I didn't know was possible.

Regret? How can I? Yes, absolutely, at times it has been unbearable and more than once we have wanted to throw in the towel and be done with it. But now that the end in sight, I can honestly see and say that it was all worth it. Every stinking, beautiful minute of it. 

Homebody

Today I feel every inch between me and my roots, the town of my birth and where my people are. The entire country is wedged between here and there, blocking my view of home. Thousands of miles, millions of people, across plains and forests, mountains, valleys, through countless towns and cities. Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington.

Recently, my mom sent me a few things I had left in Seattle, and when I opened the package I tried to catch the scent of home, burying my face in a forgotten blazer, searching for a breath of comfort, of that familiar Mom Smell, but it wasn't there. Somewhere along the way it had faded, unable to make the journey of 2,822 miles from her doorstep to mine.

I'm searching our apartment for something that connects me to home. We brought with so few non-essentials -- too few as I'm unable to find what I'm looking for. An object with the patina of childhood, timeworn and of no use to anyone but me, to bridge the chasm between. A string stretched across the country that I could tug on and there would be a tug back. To cry out "Hello!" and hear my family's voices answer back in unison. To stretch my hands to the west and feel fingertips touch mine. Something soft and threadbare, carried in on a breeze, to cool and dry my tears.

Little Things

I don't have anything of much importance to say today. We're hosting friends for dinner, so spent the morning cleaning and collecting ingredients. All our laundry but a set of sheets on the line is done, as is the ironing. I just took a plum galette out of the oven that smells heavenly. Gus is drying the last of the dishes as I steal a minute to write down a few thoughts.

Outside, comforting Saturday neighborhood sounds. Birds that decided to stick it out for the winter, a weed-eater, kids riding bikes down the street.  The late afternoon sun falling on the trees, some beginning to turn. A breeze through the window flutters the newspaper on the couch. This morning, I collected a few leaves that had fallen along with some acorns. Along with a tiny pumpkin, they add to the few fall decorations I put out.

Nothing much fancy, but I'm happy. Content and happy.