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.
---
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. 

---

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!