It had been the weirdest week or two, right before we found out. I had been feeling … different. Fuller. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling by any means – kind of like a soft bloat. But it was so very different from how I’d ever felt before that I think maybe I knew before I knew. My husband certainly did, or at least he was hopeful. “I bet you’re pregnant,” he’d say, only half-teasingly. I scoffed at him. “No way.”
It soon became apparent that something was up. And when I took a home pregnancy test one evening upstairs, I called my husband into the bathroom, where I’d been watching the test during the three-minute waiting period with increasing agitation. “Honey …” I said, “… that’s not a second line, is it? I mean, it’s really kind of faint, and maybe it’s just there because of the way the litmus paper works.” His eyes like saucers, he said, “Nope – that’s a second line. You’re pregnant.” And then he wouldn’t stop saying it, in tones ranging from whispered delight to stunned disbelief. I still wasn’t buying it, so we turned to the instruction page. It stated clearly, “A second line means you’re pregnant.” And it added for good measure, “(Second line may be faint.)”
I think I started to laugh and cry at the same time, and remember feeling about 756 different emotions in rapid succession. Delight, awe, terror, amazement, sadness, anticipation, excitement, disbelief … I felt like a walking encyclopedia of emotions. We sat down in the office upstairs, and proceeded to talk about what we’d just discovered. We must have talked for an hour or more, during which time one or both of us was usually crying – with joy, fear, amazement, grief. We talked about how we felt (*that* took a while), when we wanted to share the news, what we’d do next (in terms of scheduling doctor’s appointments), how we felt again and more. And when he suggested finally going downstairs to get ready for bed, I shook my head. “If I leave the room, it will be real,” I said. “I never want to leave this room.”
But eventually, of course, I did. You have to -- life goes on and the evening must end and sooner or later you have to take the trash out or do the dishes or *something.* And after taking another test the next morning, it was undeniable. I marveled at the fact that I felt pretty good, aside from the aforementioned “soft bloat.” (What a pretty phrase.) The early weeks passed in quiet excitement as we tried to keep a lid on the news until I’d been to the doctor and we had digested it a bit ourselves. After a trip to my family doctor (who confirmed the news), I scheduled an appointment with my OB-GYN. And then we decided to tell family members. Their reactions ranged from the euphorically delighted (complete with tears and jumping up and down and simultaneous laughter), to the stunned, to the calmly accepting. And since we’d felt all of those things and more, we had decided ahead of time that everyone’s reactions would be fine, whatever they were, even if they weren’t what we thought they’d be.
Oh, and that “feeling good” phase of mine? I spoke WAY too soon.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The idea of children, part 2
Back in February, I posted a blog entitled “revisiting the idea of children.” In that posting, I wrote of my fears of having a child – of what it would mean to my career, my sense of self, my peace of mind, and especially my cherished relationship with my husband. I wrote that I was terrified of what the entire process would bring, and that the idea seemed one that I’d need to push into the distant future to have time to prepare properly for the life-changing event it would surely be.
What a difference a few months makes.
It must have been late March or April when I was driving to work, and I started listening really closely to a song that was on the radio. Called “100 Years,” by Five for Fighting, it’s not a new song, not one that’s making waves now, or enjoying any special comeback. But it had been long enough since I’d heard it that I really listened to the lyrics. In the second or third verse, the singer intones, “I’m 33 for a moment – still the man, but you see I’m a ‘they’ – kid on the way, and a family on my mind / I’m 45 for a moment – the sea is high, and I’m heading into a crisis, chasing the years of my life.”
Innocuous, right? The meaningless fluff of pop drivel, no doubt. Those lines had never struck me as anything special before. But that day in the car, they brought tears to my eyes. The idea of preparing to start a family, immediately punctuated with expressions of fleeting time, and heading into a midlife crisis, aware of how much of your life is already behind you … it suddenly became perfectly clear to me that life IS short, that the days and moments of a life do indeed fly by with ever-increasing speed, and that I was somehow ready to embrace the idea of having a child. I was still scared of what it would mean – that hadn’t changed. But the fear was different – it was closer to the excitement you feel before doing something really daring, like heading off for a travel destination you’ve never been to, or getting ready to ski down your first “blue” slope, or eating sushi at a strip mall.
The best thing, though, was the sure knowledge that no matter how afraid I was, I wasn’t in this alone. My husband and I – well, let’s say we’ve been through a lot together over the eight years we’ve been together. My confidence and faith in him is as integral a part of my life as air, food, water. It finally clicked in my mind and heart that when he kept telling me we’d go through this together, that’s exactly what he meant – and that no matter what I’d seen in the families and couples whose lives touched mine, we would do it our way, side by side and hand in hand.
So after months and years of the idea being terrifying and me pushing it away, it had suddenly become terrifying with me embracing it. And just in time, too. Because it was early June when we found out we were going to have a baby.
Stay tuned. There's more coming on this topic.
What a difference a few months makes.
It must have been late March or April when I was driving to work, and I started listening really closely to a song that was on the radio. Called “100 Years,” by Five for Fighting, it’s not a new song, not one that’s making waves now, or enjoying any special comeback. But it had been long enough since I’d heard it that I really listened to the lyrics. In the second or third verse, the singer intones, “I’m 33 for a moment – still the man, but you see I’m a ‘they’ – kid on the way, and a family on my mind / I’m 45 for a moment – the sea is high, and I’m heading into a crisis, chasing the years of my life.”
Innocuous, right? The meaningless fluff of pop drivel, no doubt. Those lines had never struck me as anything special before. But that day in the car, they brought tears to my eyes. The idea of preparing to start a family, immediately punctuated with expressions of fleeting time, and heading into a midlife crisis, aware of how much of your life is already behind you … it suddenly became perfectly clear to me that life IS short, that the days and moments of a life do indeed fly by with ever-increasing speed, and that I was somehow ready to embrace the idea of having a child. I was still scared of what it would mean – that hadn’t changed. But the fear was different – it was closer to the excitement you feel before doing something really daring, like heading off for a travel destination you’ve never been to, or getting ready to ski down your first “blue” slope, or eating sushi at a strip mall.
The best thing, though, was the sure knowledge that no matter how afraid I was, I wasn’t in this alone. My husband and I – well, let’s say we’ve been through a lot together over the eight years we’ve been together. My confidence and faith in him is as integral a part of my life as air, food, water. It finally clicked in my mind and heart that when he kept telling me we’d go through this together, that’s exactly what he meant – and that no matter what I’d seen in the families and couples whose lives touched mine, we would do it our way, side by side and hand in hand.
So after months and years of the idea being terrifying and me pushing it away, it had suddenly become terrifying with me embracing it. And just in time, too. Because it was early June when we found out we were going to have a baby.
Stay tuned. There's more coming on this topic.
Friday, May 04, 2007
From "Jane Eyre" to "Fight Club" ...
Here's something I found in my journal from four years ago. It's still true today.
** ** ** ** **
People often ask me why I enjoy reading so much. "What's so great about it?" they ask. "I'd much rather be surfing, or watching TV, or dancing than sitting and reading a book," they tell me, disgusted with my literary addiction.
My reasons always crowd together -- there are so many that I can't articulate them all at once. I read to relax -- the silence that usually accompanies reading is very soothing to me. I read to be alone -- I find that when I'm engrossed in a novel, others tend to drift away from me to carry on their more active, mobile lifestyles in another room. I read to escape -- the most well-written novels can pluck me from my couch or chair and plunk me down in the midst of a formal dinner party, a crowded Italian piazza, a lonely Scottish moor, or a rugged, pre-revolutionary American wildnerness (it's the cheapest form of travel I've discovered).
But most of all, I read to understand, to see, to get the reading right. Here's what I mean: when I open a book, my mind is clear. I stand poised on the brink of nothing. I don't mean a blank canvas -- that's too flat, too bounded by borders and edges. In my mind, there is quite truly nothing there -- a great, gaping emptiness waiting to be filled.
With the first words, that nothingness begins to fill rapidly. From the emptiness emerges a skeleton of what the author wants me to see. The word "forest" evokes tall trees, grassy clearings, and the occasional bit of moss. A few lines in, the word "frost" appears, and I quickly regroup -- now the trees are bare, their branches silvery-white, and the crisp dead leaves beneath my feet crunch as I break the ice crystals that lace them together. In another line, I read "breezy" -- and now the scene is alive with movement, the trees reaching and swaying in a coordinated dance, the tinkle of ice clear on the whisper of the wind.
With every line, paragraph, chapter and page, I keep updating my scene, trying to get it just the way I'm meant to get it. Seasons are replaced, props interchanged, people re-dressed in my head as I fly through the descriptions. And if I've done it right, I begin to know the book, feel its live heartbeat pulse in my hands, understand the characters, hear their voices. I start to really smell the furniture polish in the drawing room, feel the sweat trickle down my back from the humid August air, taste the smooth-oily flavor of the buttered eels on the dinner plate, grow tired with fatigue at the end of an emotionally-charged argument. At that point, I'm no longer a reader -- I am instead a ghost, haunting the story and its inhabitants, walking beside them, hearing their thoughts, sharing their meals and their beds and their heartaches. (And the beautiful thing about it is that I can get it perfectly right, and so can you -- and yet if we were to be able to show one another the book's faces in our heads, they would probably still look completely different.)
In the end, then, that's why I read -- not to hear a good story, but to live it alongside the people who make it happen. I read to taste another's life and dreams and fears, and make them mine. And when I close a book, I am never the same person who opened it. I am always enriched and challenged and haunted in return for what it has given me.
** ** ** ** **
People often ask me why I enjoy reading so much. "What's so great about it?" they ask. "I'd much rather be surfing, or watching TV, or dancing than sitting and reading a book," they tell me, disgusted with my literary addiction.
My reasons always crowd together -- there are so many that I can't articulate them all at once. I read to relax -- the silence that usually accompanies reading is very soothing to me. I read to be alone -- I find that when I'm engrossed in a novel, others tend to drift away from me to carry on their more active, mobile lifestyles in another room. I read to escape -- the most well-written novels can pluck me from my couch or chair and plunk me down in the midst of a formal dinner party, a crowded Italian piazza, a lonely Scottish moor, or a rugged, pre-revolutionary American wildnerness (it's the cheapest form of travel I've discovered).
But most of all, I read to understand, to see, to get the reading right. Here's what I mean: when I open a book, my mind is clear. I stand poised on the brink of nothing. I don't mean a blank canvas -- that's too flat, too bounded by borders and edges. In my mind, there is quite truly nothing there -- a great, gaping emptiness waiting to be filled.
With the first words, that nothingness begins to fill rapidly. From the emptiness emerges a skeleton of what the author wants me to see. The word "forest" evokes tall trees, grassy clearings, and the occasional bit of moss. A few lines in, the word "frost" appears, and I quickly regroup -- now the trees are bare, their branches silvery-white, and the crisp dead leaves beneath my feet crunch as I break the ice crystals that lace them together. In another line, I read "breezy" -- and now the scene is alive with movement, the trees reaching and swaying in a coordinated dance, the tinkle of ice clear on the whisper of the wind.
With every line, paragraph, chapter and page, I keep updating my scene, trying to get it just the way I'm meant to get it. Seasons are replaced, props interchanged, people re-dressed in my head as I fly through the descriptions. And if I've done it right, I begin to know the book, feel its live heartbeat pulse in my hands, understand the characters, hear their voices. I start to really smell the furniture polish in the drawing room, feel the sweat trickle down my back from the humid August air, taste the smooth-oily flavor of the buttered eels on the dinner plate, grow tired with fatigue at the end of an emotionally-charged argument. At that point, I'm no longer a reader -- I am instead a ghost, haunting the story and its inhabitants, walking beside them, hearing their thoughts, sharing their meals and their beds and their heartaches. (And the beautiful thing about it is that I can get it perfectly right, and so can you -- and yet if we were to be able to show one another the book's faces in our heads, they would probably still look completely different.)
In the end, then, that's why I read -- not to hear a good story, but to live it alongside the people who make it happen. I read to taste another's life and dreams and fears, and make them mine. And when I close a book, I am never the same person who opened it. I am always enriched and challenged and haunted in return for what it has given me.
Friday, April 20, 2007
whole
I wrote this poem for my husband, more than six years before we got married. It's as true today as it was the day I wrote it. This is for him.
** ** ** ** **
whole
** ** ** ** **
I breathe
you are peace and calm
and in your sweet scent
there is warmth
(in all my life
I never knew
that love is something
you can breathe)
with my cheek
against your heart
the pulse of my life
slows to match
the steady beat of yours
and as our blood
ebbs and flows together
I ease into
the rhythm
I have always
sought but
never found
till now
a matching heart
your warm embrace
the sweetest scent
I pull you in
and in that breath
you fill me up
with quiet stillness
and with hope
and I am whole again.
** ** ** ** **
whole
** ** ** ** **
I breathe
you are peace and calm
and in your sweet scent
there is warmth
(in all my life
I never knew
that love is something
you can breathe)
with my cheek
against your heart
the pulse of my life
slows to match
the steady beat of yours
and as our blood
ebbs and flows together
I ease into
the rhythm
I have always
sought but
never found
till now
a matching heart
your warm embrace
the sweetest scent
I pull you in
and in that breath
you fill me up
with quiet stillness
and with hope
and I am whole again.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Sitting in a coffeehouse, not drinking coffee
It's the second day of the annual Nineteen-Day Baha'i Fast. During this time period, Baha'is (like myself) abstain from food or drink between sunrise and sunset. While it shares similar "rules" to the Islamic observance of Ramadan, and while I get questions all the time about whether it's the same thing, it is not -- it's not only a separate observance, but a separate faith entirely. And yet I think, from the little I know about Ramadan, the intent is quite similar. In fact, the more I reflect on this period of spiritual cleansing and detachment from the physical world, the more I realize that the Baha'i Fast is also a great deal like what I understand to be true (and what I remember) of the Christian observance of Lent.
I grew up observing Lent in various ways. Some years it was a challenge in and of itself to simply remember not to eat meat on Fridays, and observe the Catholic fasting on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday -- one skipped meal, one half meal and one regular meal on those days. Other years I attempted a greater degree of sacrifice and self-denial -- the year I gave up chocolate was one in which my entire family suffered along with me, I think. (I don't remember repeating that vow in subsequent years.) But all along, the small, inconsequential pain of self-denial was a constant reminder of the sacrifices made centuries before by One greater than myself, and also a reminder of the spirituality I wished to strengthen within myself.
The Fast is much the same for me. Now I keep at the forefront of my mind (as I bypass morning coffee, Shipley's donuts at breakfast meetings, lunch with friends, the quenching of my thirst as soon as I feel it with any variety of refreshing drinks like the blended Mocha Drift at my favorite coffeehouse [where I'm sitting], afternoon snacks of Girl Scout Cookies or crunchy apple slices with creamy peanut butter, and early dinners) the thought that with this small observance of detachment from the physical needs of my body, I turn instead to the spiritual needs of my soul. My dry throat reminds me to pray -- in the morning, when I begin my Fast each day, at noon in observance of the Daily Obligatory Prayer, at night when I break the Fast, before bed as I think back on the events of the day and wonder whether my actions have been pleasing to my Creator. My hunger, growing steadily all day, informs me that while my body will someday crumble ("From dust I created you, and to dust you shall return ..."), my spirit has been promised everlasting life, and that I should remember its needs well beyond the Fast each year. And when I gather with the members of my Baha'i community to worship together, to study the Writings we cherish, to lend support to one another in times of need, I am reminded too that we are blessed beyond measure in being able to gather openly, with no fear of retribution, no threat to our safety. Our fellow believers in Iran, in Egypt, in many other parts of the world enjoy no such guarantee. I am in awe of their simple bravery, their everyday courage, their devout faith. And suddenly, my hunger seems a trifling discomfort compared to the danger that is just a part of life for them.
My Fast this year is dedicated to my fellow believers in Iran and Egypt, where basic human and civil rights (such as hospital treatment, education, the ability to work and the right to travel freely) are denied Baha'is. May the strength of our shared community and the fervence of our prayers lift the oppression under which they live -- may our letters and our voices reach the ears of our national leaders to take measures to address these inequities -- may the hearts of the leaders of those oppressive governments be softened and changed through the power and steadfastness of the believers. Baha'u'llah, the founder of the Baha'i Faith, tells us that a gentle drop of water, applied with regularity to the hardest of substances, may over time erode away the most powerful barriers.
My Fast, then, is in celebration of those gentle drops of water.
I grew up observing Lent in various ways. Some years it was a challenge in and of itself to simply remember not to eat meat on Fridays, and observe the Catholic fasting on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday -- one skipped meal, one half meal and one regular meal on those days. Other years I attempted a greater degree of sacrifice and self-denial -- the year I gave up chocolate was one in which my entire family suffered along with me, I think. (I don't remember repeating that vow in subsequent years.) But all along, the small, inconsequential pain of self-denial was a constant reminder of the sacrifices made centuries before by One greater than myself, and also a reminder of the spirituality I wished to strengthen within myself.
The Fast is much the same for me. Now I keep at the forefront of my mind (as I bypass morning coffee, Shipley's donuts at breakfast meetings, lunch with friends, the quenching of my thirst as soon as I feel it with any variety of refreshing drinks like the blended Mocha Drift at my favorite coffeehouse [where I'm sitting], afternoon snacks of Girl Scout Cookies or crunchy apple slices with creamy peanut butter, and early dinners) the thought that with this small observance of detachment from the physical needs of my body, I turn instead to the spiritual needs of my soul. My dry throat reminds me to pray -- in the morning, when I begin my Fast each day, at noon in observance of the Daily Obligatory Prayer, at night when I break the Fast, before bed as I think back on the events of the day and wonder whether my actions have been pleasing to my Creator. My hunger, growing steadily all day, informs me that while my body will someday crumble ("From dust I created you, and to dust you shall return ..."), my spirit has been promised everlasting life, and that I should remember its needs well beyond the Fast each year. And when I gather with the members of my Baha'i community to worship together, to study the Writings we cherish, to lend support to one another in times of need, I am reminded too that we are blessed beyond measure in being able to gather openly, with no fear of retribution, no threat to our safety. Our fellow believers in Iran, in Egypt, in many other parts of the world enjoy no such guarantee. I am in awe of their simple bravery, their everyday courage, their devout faith. And suddenly, my hunger seems a trifling discomfort compared to the danger that is just a part of life for them.
My Fast this year is dedicated to my fellow believers in Iran and Egypt, where basic human and civil rights (such as hospital treatment, education, the ability to work and the right to travel freely) are denied Baha'is. May the strength of our shared community and the fervence of our prayers lift the oppression under which they live -- may our letters and our voices reach the ears of our national leaders to take measures to address these inequities -- may the hearts of the leaders of those oppressive governments be softened and changed through the power and steadfastness of the believers. Baha'u'llah, the founder of the Baha'i Faith, tells us that a gentle drop of water, applied with regularity to the hardest of substances, may over time erode away the most powerful barriers.
My Fast, then, is in celebration of those gentle drops of water.
Friday, February 23, 2007
*MY* taxicab confessions
I recently took a trip to California for work. One night I was there, I met friends for dinner in LA, and after our delightful evening together, I got into a cab to go back to Newport Beach, a suburb of LA about an hour south of downtown, where I was staying and working. What ensued was by turns infuriating, terrifying, frustrating and hilarious. I'm sure I'm not doing it justice -- to fully appreciate the events, you have to imagine that you're exhausted in the back of a cab in a strange city, with a cab driver who, with each passing moment, is rapidly descending from competent-sounding to stupendously dumb.
It was a little after 10 p.m. when the craziness began. I figured it would take about an hour to get from the restaurant to my hotel. The first unorthodox thing that happened was that we stopped for gas -- disconcerting in the neighborhood where we were, but understandable. I asked the driver to pause the meter, which he did (and looking back, I don't know whether he would have done so if I hadn't asked him to). We then got stuck in traffic, at which point the driver swivels his head around to look at me and asks, "Aw, man -- is there a Laker game tonight or something?" I thought, "I'm in a taxicab with YOU because I'm from out of town -- how should *I* know if there's a flippin' Laker game tonight?!" It's only because my friends had mentioned it that I knew there was one, and I told him that. He said the traffic was a result of the Laker game and "it will clear up here in a minute or two." Twenty minutes later, he was exiting the still-in-full-swing traffic jam to get onto another highway to keep heading south -- by then I'd lost track of which highway we were on. We proceeded to drive south for over an hour -- I was starting to get sleepy, but I was determined not to fall asleep with this guy at the wheel. Around 11 p.m., I asked him if we were getting close, and he said we had about 10 miles left, and wanted the address for my hotel, which I gave to him. (John Wayne Airport had come and gone on my right, so I figured we were on the 405.) He finally exited and said, "I missed my exit -- I'll give you a break on the fare when we get there." I looked at the meter, which read "$155.10" at that point and thought, "You BET you are." (And to make it all crazier -- the entire time I was in the cab, he was listening to some talk radio conspiracy theory program about how Timothy McVeigh of the Oklahoma City bombing fame was working with the FBI and was brainwashed. The segment after that one was asserting that the reason Americans haven't been back to visit the moon through the space program was because aliens told us not to come back. I'm not kidding.)
We then got on the 55, took that until it ended, and drove around Newport Beach for 40 minutes. He tried getting directions from at least two other cab drivers, and then spent 10 minutes on my cell phone talking to the concierge at my hotel, whom I'd called. No matter what anyone told him, he couldn't seem to figure out how to get there. At one point (and this sounds like melodrama, but I swear it's true), I actually started to wonder if this guy would drive me out to some remote place and murder me. Nothing looked familiar outside the window of the accursed cab -- I had no idea how we'd gotten lost, or what to try next, besides calling 911, which I might have done, given 10 more minutes with the guy. We finally *stumbled* upon a Marriott that wasn't mine, but the second time we passed it, I just told him I was getting out. This was after we'd driven on the Fashion Island Loop Road for 10 minutes as he looked for some highway or street he was obviously never going to cross -- and he had a map in his hand. When he handed it to me, I took one look at it and demanded to be let out at the Marriott we could see (it finally dawned on me at this point that he wasn't a murderer -- he was just a moron. I'm still not convinced he was literate).
By then it was 12:15 and the fare had climbed to $240 and change -- I told him I would pay him what I'd expected to pay to get to Newport Beach (which was about $120) and no more. He didn't raise a fuss, because at that point I was thunderously pissed (in fact, he turned to me and said in a wonderous voice, "That's funny -- that's exactly what I was going to charge you!" Yeah, right.). Caught another cab to my hotel which was NO MORE than 3.5 miles away from where we were. Took 3 minutes. The only thing that could have made the ride more of a challenge would be if I'd gotten motion-sick or something that whole time.
What did I learn? As Mad-Eye Moody would say, speaking to Harry Potter, "Constant vigilance!" Thank God I hadn't just fallen asleep as I might have done, easily -- I might still be in that taxi. And if I hadn't insisted on getting out of the cab at the other hotel, who knows how much longer we would have just driven around the city. I've never known a cab driver for whom a street address was not enough information to get someone to their destination. Even if a driver's not familiar with an address, doesn't he have the wherewithall to call headquarters for directions, use his GPS system, or unfold a flippin' map? It was nuts.
It was a little after 10 p.m. when the craziness began. I figured it would take about an hour to get from the restaurant to my hotel. The first unorthodox thing that happened was that we stopped for gas -- disconcerting in the neighborhood where we were, but understandable. I asked the driver to pause the meter, which he did (and looking back, I don't know whether he would have done so if I hadn't asked him to). We then got stuck in traffic, at which point the driver swivels his head around to look at me and asks, "Aw, man -- is there a Laker game tonight or something?" I thought, "I'm in a taxicab with YOU because I'm from out of town -- how should *I* know if there's a flippin' Laker game tonight?!" It's only because my friends had mentioned it that I knew there was one, and I told him that. He said the traffic was a result of the Laker game and "it will clear up here in a minute or two." Twenty minutes later, he was exiting the still-in-full-swing traffic jam to get onto another highway to keep heading south -- by then I'd lost track of which highway we were on. We proceeded to drive south for over an hour -- I was starting to get sleepy, but I was determined not to fall asleep with this guy at the wheel. Around 11 p.m., I asked him if we were getting close, and he said we had about 10 miles left, and wanted the address for my hotel, which I gave to him. (John Wayne Airport had come and gone on my right, so I figured we were on the 405.) He finally exited and said, "I missed my exit -- I'll give you a break on the fare when we get there." I looked at the meter, which read "$155.10" at that point and thought, "You BET you are." (And to make it all crazier -- the entire time I was in the cab, he was listening to some talk radio conspiracy theory program about how Timothy McVeigh of the Oklahoma City bombing fame was working with the FBI and was brainwashed. The segment after that one was asserting that the reason Americans haven't been back to visit the moon through the space program was because aliens told us not to come back. I'm not kidding.)
We then got on the 55, took that until it ended, and drove around Newport Beach for 40 minutes. He tried getting directions from at least two other cab drivers, and then spent 10 minutes on my cell phone talking to the concierge at my hotel, whom I'd called. No matter what anyone told him, he couldn't seem to figure out how to get there. At one point (and this sounds like melodrama, but I swear it's true), I actually started to wonder if this guy would drive me out to some remote place and murder me. Nothing looked familiar outside the window of the accursed cab -- I had no idea how we'd gotten lost, or what to try next, besides calling 911, which I might have done, given 10 more minutes with the guy. We finally *stumbled* upon a Marriott that wasn't mine, but the second time we passed it, I just told him I was getting out. This was after we'd driven on the Fashion Island Loop Road for 10 minutes as he looked for some highway or street he was obviously never going to cross -- and he had a map in his hand. When he handed it to me, I took one look at it and demanded to be let out at the Marriott we could see (it finally dawned on me at this point that he wasn't a murderer -- he was just a moron. I'm still not convinced he was literate).
By then it was 12:15 and the fare had climbed to $240 and change -- I told him I would pay him what I'd expected to pay to get to Newport Beach (which was about $120) and no more. He didn't raise a fuss, because at that point I was thunderously pissed (in fact, he turned to me and said in a wonderous voice, "That's funny -- that's exactly what I was going to charge you!" Yeah, right.). Caught another cab to my hotel which was NO MORE than 3.5 miles away from where we were. Took 3 minutes. The only thing that could have made the ride more of a challenge would be if I'd gotten motion-sick or something that whole time.
What did I learn? As Mad-Eye Moody would say, speaking to Harry Potter, "Constant vigilance!" Thank God I hadn't just fallen asleep as I might have done, easily -- I might still be in that taxi. And if I hadn't insisted on getting out of the cab at the other hotel, who knows how much longer we would have just driven around the city. I've never known a cab driver for whom a street address was not enough information to get someone to their destination. Even if a driver's not familiar with an address, doesn't he have the wherewithall to call headquarters for directions, use his GPS system, or unfold a flippin' map? It was nuts.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Revisiting the idea of children
My husband and I were at a friend's house last night. One of their other guests brought along her three-year-old son. A charming little boy at first glance, he quickly reminded me why I'm still not ready to be a mother. Although he tried hard to stay quiet (with admirably self-controlled whispers to his mother as he played, albeit loud ones) while the grown-ups watched a short feature film (about 45 minutes in length), his efforts at self-amusement soon grew too loud to ignore and his mother prepared to gather him up to leave. That's when the fireworks began.
Within seconds, the little guy's protests had ratcheted up from loud stage whispers to outright shouts. "I don't want to go!" he cried, over and over, as one by one, we gave up all pretense of ignoring him and turned to watch the unfolding drama. His mother levered him toward the door with a great amount of difficulty, owing as much to her own advanced pregnancy with angel #2 as to the little boy's amazingly sure-handed grabs for whatever furniture he could reach to hold on to as she tried to get him outside.
Most of the guests were amused. I was disheartened greatly, myself. Was this the joy of motherhood -- to be the center of attention while your offspring create disruptive scenes in other people's homes? More importantly, could this poor woman's life ever be the same again as it had been? I'd never met her before, but in my mind, her life before becoming a mother was busy and satisfying, one in which she shared evenings with her husband and their friends and families in laughter and joy, one in which her days were spent working or running errands, to rest at the end of a productive day -- a life much like my own. What did she have now? My brief glimpse into her life told me that getting herself and her son up and dressed to face each day might be in and of itself a challenge.
I have other friends with children. Many of the women I know have either taken breaks from or set aside permanently their careers to be stay-at-home mothers. I cannot think of a more noble and self-sacrificing and necessary job -- and yet for myself, I do not know that I am capable. If we have children, I would want no one else to have the daily care of them but me and/or my husband. All the same, that choice represents a change in lifestyle I shudder to contemplate.
I like my life. I work from home most days. The work is computer-based, and when I'm not on the phone with clients or colleagues, it's quiet work. The only noise I might hear aside from the tapping of keys is the delicious hum of the clothes dryer, warming clean towels and blue jeans and sweaters. While I work, I sit in a living room decorated in shades of rust and gold and chocolate, grown-up colors that soothe me. My husband and I have been known to take midnights walks on foggy nights, just to enjoy the strange sensation of losing one another within 6 feet, even though we can still hear our shared laughter. We've gone to IHOP or Whataburger at 11 at night, just for fun. We sleep in on Sundays. We run errands together, and if they keep us out three hours longer than we thought they would, it's no big deal. We throw parties that get loud with the laughter of the friends we love, and we never worry about waking up the kids.
And so, because I have no concept of what life will be like after children for us, I'm forced (in my lack of imagination) to pit that life against the one I have. I see clutter -- primary colors everywhere, plastic things obscuring my view of the wood furniture I love, fingerprints on glass, crayon marks on the crisp ivory colored walls of our home. I see long nights of sitting up with the baby, piles of laundry that don't ever seem to diminish, dishes in the sink. I hear thumping from upstairs as children run and fall, shouting and crying. I sense that the only places we'll be going at 11 p.m. in this new world is to the store for more diapers or, heaven forbid, the emergency room to treat a fever that won't respond to Tylenol. And what pains me the most is that I see myself looking always at a child, and my husband doing the same, and we so very rarely look at one another anymore.
I'm afraid. I guess any woman might be, or any man. I'm afraid to lose the life I love. While it's natural, it's also powerful. And I know my husband doesn't share my fear -- his view of a life with children is one of joy and laughter and pride and play, while mine is filled with effort and loss. In four years I'll be at an age at which pregnancy becomes riskier. I feel like I'm running out of time to enjoy the life I have, to develop a happier imagination about being a mother, to reconcile how I feel with the fact that I've always felt motherhood was in my future, to weigh how much my husband wants to be a dad with how afraid I am of being a mom.
Within seconds, the little guy's protests had ratcheted up from loud stage whispers to outright shouts. "I don't want to go!" he cried, over and over, as one by one, we gave up all pretense of ignoring him and turned to watch the unfolding drama. His mother levered him toward the door with a great amount of difficulty, owing as much to her own advanced pregnancy with angel #2 as to the little boy's amazingly sure-handed grabs for whatever furniture he could reach to hold on to as she tried to get him outside.
Most of the guests were amused. I was disheartened greatly, myself. Was this the joy of motherhood -- to be the center of attention while your offspring create disruptive scenes in other people's homes? More importantly, could this poor woman's life ever be the same again as it had been? I'd never met her before, but in my mind, her life before becoming a mother was busy and satisfying, one in which she shared evenings with her husband and their friends and families in laughter and joy, one in which her days were spent working or running errands, to rest at the end of a productive day -- a life much like my own. What did she have now? My brief glimpse into her life told me that getting herself and her son up and dressed to face each day might be in and of itself a challenge.
I have other friends with children. Many of the women I know have either taken breaks from or set aside permanently their careers to be stay-at-home mothers. I cannot think of a more noble and self-sacrificing and necessary job -- and yet for myself, I do not know that I am capable. If we have children, I would want no one else to have the daily care of them but me and/or my husband. All the same, that choice represents a change in lifestyle I shudder to contemplate.
I like my life. I work from home most days. The work is computer-based, and when I'm not on the phone with clients or colleagues, it's quiet work. The only noise I might hear aside from the tapping of keys is the delicious hum of the clothes dryer, warming clean towels and blue jeans and sweaters. While I work, I sit in a living room decorated in shades of rust and gold and chocolate, grown-up colors that soothe me. My husband and I have been known to take midnights walks on foggy nights, just to enjoy the strange sensation of losing one another within 6 feet, even though we can still hear our shared laughter. We've gone to IHOP or Whataburger at 11 at night, just for fun. We sleep in on Sundays. We run errands together, and if they keep us out three hours longer than we thought they would, it's no big deal. We throw parties that get loud with the laughter of the friends we love, and we never worry about waking up the kids.
And so, because I have no concept of what life will be like after children for us, I'm forced (in my lack of imagination) to pit that life against the one I have. I see clutter -- primary colors everywhere, plastic things obscuring my view of the wood furniture I love, fingerprints on glass, crayon marks on the crisp ivory colored walls of our home. I see long nights of sitting up with the baby, piles of laundry that don't ever seem to diminish, dishes in the sink. I hear thumping from upstairs as children run and fall, shouting and crying. I sense that the only places we'll be going at 11 p.m. in this new world is to the store for more diapers or, heaven forbid, the emergency room to treat a fever that won't respond to Tylenol. And what pains me the most is that I see myself looking always at a child, and my husband doing the same, and we so very rarely look at one another anymore.
I'm afraid. I guess any woman might be, or any man. I'm afraid to lose the life I love. While it's natural, it's also powerful. And I know my husband doesn't share my fear -- his view of a life with children is one of joy and laughter and pride and play, while mine is filled with effort and loss. In four years I'll be at an age at which pregnancy becomes riskier. I feel like I'm running out of time to enjoy the life I have, to develop a happier imagination about being a mother, to reconcile how I feel with the fact that I've always felt motherhood was in my future, to weigh how much my husband wants to be a dad with how afraid I am of being a mom.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Pain, truth and good writing
When I was in college, there was always something lodged painfully in my heart. Whether it was a guy thing, a family thing, a "what the hell do I want to be when I grow up" thing, a job thing or something else, the point is ... it was there. I recently ran across some old journal entries of mine from those years. While they're a trifle melodramatic, they're real. They're honest and true and very, very real.
And now I'm well beyond college and grad school. All those "guy" things resolved themselves into learnings I brought with me to my marriage to my best friend. The family things have either mellowed, or I've learned how to deal with them more productively, or they've melted away entirely. The "what to do when I grow up" and "job" things -- well, I just do what I do. I may not yet be grown up and this may not be it, but the doing of it takes time, brings me some satisfaction -- and earns a living. The stuff that was stuck in my heart has turned into light and joy, or has shored up its walls at least.
And I wonder if, in the gaining of great happiness and deep peace, I've lost a part of myself. What do you do when the pain and frustration that identifies you and defines you melts away, like sugar in coffee? Life's not bitter anymore -- it's sweet, though there are still moments of darkness. And to write about joy seems boastful, whereas to write about suffering seems to be a way out of it.
I asked a very special friend this question about a year ago. I woke up one day panicked, realizing I hadn't written anything real, or of emotional substance, in a long time. So I did what I'd always done in college -- I wrote a long, jumbled letter to my friend. He's known me forever, and he's been there as my writing changed from junior high scribblings to moments of coherence in high school, to honest and clear-voiced thoughts in college and grad school. And this is what he said.
"What makes good writing 'good' isn't pain, though sometimes good writing can break your heart with its suffering. What makes it good is truth. If what you write is real and honest, you can write well, beautifully, profoundly."
And he's right, of course. I can't help but reflect, though, on writing that's changed me -- fiction, non-fiction, poetry, prose, letters from friends, someone's dream journal entries -- and they're overwhelmingly powerful because of something hard, something difficult that the author was growing or pushing through. I possess a handful of memories and impressions of powerful writing that was about great joy, but much more frequently the passages that haunt me, the ones I can quote by heart, are about loss and grief and ache and suffering.
I have always called myself a writer. But what kind of writer am I now, with only the memory of deep sadness to call upon as inspiration for my craft? Even those distant memories of pain have had their edges dulled by the passage of time and the healing of hearts. I live now in days that are buoyed by the laughter I share with a man I am too lucky, really, in marrying -- days in which I am loved and I can love freely, days in which I have found comfort and peace.
I'm deeply thankful for the abundance of blessings I've been given. And so in tribute both to God, who has given me the amazing gifts that grace my life, and to the past I remember living through to get to now, I make a commitment: I will remember. The ease I've found now (which may be fleeting in any case) will not keep me from understanding pain around me, because I've walked those paths myself.
So I'll remember.
Watching someone I loved being hurt by someone who never deserved to be with him.
Loving someone who was completely wrong for me.
Forgetting how to be myself, and how miserable I felt as a result.
Making the same mistakes over and over, because I was unwilling to quit a bad habit ... or a bad person.
Being lonely, even when I was surrounded.
Being outside, aching to get in.
Fighting inside, desperate to get out.
Hating myself deeply and viciously, even when I couldn't articulate why.
For to forget these things is to dishonor what I've learned and been given now -- faith, knowledge, understanding, companionship, trust, honesty, belonging, and peace. Whether or not any of that makes good writing, it is truth.
And now I'm well beyond college and grad school. All those "guy" things resolved themselves into learnings I brought with me to my marriage to my best friend. The family things have either mellowed, or I've learned how to deal with them more productively, or they've melted away entirely. The "what to do when I grow up" and "job" things -- well, I just do what I do. I may not yet be grown up and this may not be it, but the doing of it takes time, brings me some satisfaction -- and earns a living. The stuff that was stuck in my heart has turned into light and joy, or has shored up its walls at least.
And I wonder if, in the gaining of great happiness and deep peace, I've lost a part of myself. What do you do when the pain and frustration that identifies you and defines you melts away, like sugar in coffee? Life's not bitter anymore -- it's sweet, though there are still moments of darkness. And to write about joy seems boastful, whereas to write about suffering seems to be a way out of it.
I asked a very special friend this question about a year ago. I woke up one day panicked, realizing I hadn't written anything real, or of emotional substance, in a long time. So I did what I'd always done in college -- I wrote a long, jumbled letter to my friend. He's known me forever, and he's been there as my writing changed from junior high scribblings to moments of coherence in high school, to honest and clear-voiced thoughts in college and grad school. And this is what he said.
"What makes good writing 'good' isn't pain, though sometimes good writing can break your heart with its suffering. What makes it good is truth. If what you write is real and honest, you can write well, beautifully, profoundly."
And he's right, of course. I can't help but reflect, though, on writing that's changed me -- fiction, non-fiction, poetry, prose, letters from friends, someone's dream journal entries -- and they're overwhelmingly powerful because of something hard, something difficult that the author was growing or pushing through. I possess a handful of memories and impressions of powerful writing that was about great joy, but much more frequently the passages that haunt me, the ones I can quote by heart, are about loss and grief and ache and suffering.
I have always called myself a writer. But what kind of writer am I now, with only the memory of deep sadness to call upon as inspiration for my craft? Even those distant memories of pain have had their edges dulled by the passage of time and the healing of hearts. I live now in days that are buoyed by the laughter I share with a man I am too lucky, really, in marrying -- days in which I am loved and I can love freely, days in which I have found comfort and peace.
I'm deeply thankful for the abundance of blessings I've been given. And so in tribute both to God, who has given me the amazing gifts that grace my life, and to the past I remember living through to get to now, I make a commitment: I will remember. The ease I've found now (which may be fleeting in any case) will not keep me from understanding pain around me, because I've walked those paths myself.
So I'll remember.
Watching someone I loved being hurt by someone who never deserved to be with him.
Loving someone who was completely wrong for me.
Forgetting how to be myself, and how miserable I felt as a result.
Making the same mistakes over and over, because I was unwilling to quit a bad habit ... or a bad person.
Being lonely, even when I was surrounded.
Being outside, aching to get in.
Fighting inside, desperate to get out.
Hating myself deeply and viciously, even when I couldn't articulate why.
For to forget these things is to dishonor what I've learned and been given now -- faith, knowledge, understanding, companionship, trust, honesty, belonging, and peace. Whether or not any of that makes good writing, it is truth.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Slipper friends
I don't know how I got so lucky, but I have some amazing friends. It's not just that they listen well, that they don't judge me, that they're accepting ... they're all those things, but there's more to it than that. I'm blessed with more than my share of slipper friends.
Remember when you were in second, maybe third grade, and you went to school to meet your best friend every day? In all likelihood, she had a note for you, and you had one for her. If you didn't, well ... you were usually snarled at in some way. At that point in your lives, you and your friends needed constant connection, ceaseless reassurance to stay linked. Without the daily refresh of a note, a conversation, a secret shared, your friendship weakened, like an old cell phone battery that won't hold a charge anymore.
Slipper friends are different, though. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you spoke, slipper friends are comfortable -- warm and inviting. They open their arms and hearts to you, and you step in easily for a good hug, and settle in to catch up. There's never a hitch in the stride of a friendship like the one a slipper friend extends to you. That connection always fits, just like a pair of comfy slippers.
Sometimes you're lucky, and you find slipper friends among your family. I attended a cousin's wedding reception this past weekend, and found that while I remembered him being a slipper friend all my life, I was delighted to learn that his new bride shared the same approach to friendship -- a warm, complete and unreserved approach.
More often, though, you find slipper friends beyond the reaches of your genealogical tree. I grew up spending summers in my mother's hometown, playing with the kids who lived next door to where we stayed, and 25 or 30 years later, we each still look forward to our much-shortened but still heartwarming summer visits. We've even vowed to continue this tradition in spite of our marriages and eventual families -- a vow we've kept up devoutly.
I'll make another vow -- to be that kind of friend to others, the kind of friend I've been lucky to meet over and over again. I vow that if an old friend calls me, years after our last conversation, I won't be the one to say, "Why haven't you called?" or "What took you so long?" I'll be the one to say instead, "I've been thinking about you. It's been a long time and I'm so glad we got back in touch."
Remember when you were in second, maybe third grade, and you went to school to meet your best friend every day? In all likelihood, she had a note for you, and you had one for her. If you didn't, well ... you were usually snarled at in some way. At that point in your lives, you and your friends needed constant connection, ceaseless reassurance to stay linked. Without the daily refresh of a note, a conversation, a secret shared, your friendship weakened, like an old cell phone battery that won't hold a charge anymore.
Slipper friends are different, though. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you spoke, slipper friends are comfortable -- warm and inviting. They open their arms and hearts to you, and you step in easily for a good hug, and settle in to catch up. There's never a hitch in the stride of a friendship like the one a slipper friend extends to you. That connection always fits, just like a pair of comfy slippers.
Sometimes you're lucky, and you find slipper friends among your family. I attended a cousin's wedding reception this past weekend, and found that while I remembered him being a slipper friend all my life, I was delighted to learn that his new bride shared the same approach to friendship -- a warm, complete and unreserved approach.
More often, though, you find slipper friends beyond the reaches of your genealogical tree. I grew up spending summers in my mother's hometown, playing with the kids who lived next door to where we stayed, and 25 or 30 years later, we each still look forward to our much-shortened but still heartwarming summer visits. We've even vowed to continue this tradition in spite of our marriages and eventual families -- a vow we've kept up devoutly.
I'll make another vow -- to be that kind of friend to others, the kind of friend I've been lucky to meet over and over again. I vow that if an old friend calls me, years after our last conversation, I won't be the one to say, "Why haven't you called?" or "What took you so long?" I'll be the one to say instead, "I've been thinking about you. It's been a long time and I'm so glad we got back in touch."
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Things I learned from Randy
When I started my professional career, I worked with an awesome guy named Randy. I learned so much from him that, years later, I thought I'd write it all down so I'd never forget it (my Randy-wisdom is listed below -- I figured the best thing I could do with the gift he gave me is pass it on). I sent this list to him recently. He tells me it's one of the best e-mails he's ever received.
- Always put on your suit jacket when you leave the floor where you work.
- When you enter an elevator with others, turning your back to the door and facing them is a nice way to show that you're engaged in the conversation. It's also useful if you wish to unnerve people on elevators who don't know you. NO ONE ever expects someone they don't know to turn to face them while you're both rocketing upward 37 floors. :)
- Giving your long-time girlfriend a ring in a plain velvet box on a major holiday and then not saying anything can get you in trouble.
- Learning to drum is one of the coolest things a person can do.
- There's no reason whatsoever to be intimidated by the boss. Or his boss. Or any of them.
- Irreverence is healthy. So is laughter. Both can be expressed at work (just use your head).
- Sometimes the best thing you can do for your co-worker is introduce them to someone else. ("Hey, you really need to meet this guy I know in the engineering department -- you'd like him ...")
- Greeting your colleagues with a smile can turn their day around instantly, especially if you call them "friend."
- Hard work doesn't always pay off. So you can't EVER forget to take charge of your own career and find ways to advance on your own, because no one will do it for you.
- Keep your chin up as you walk through your office. Take pride in your abilities, and know what you're worth.
Friday, October 27, 2006
What's your passion?
A good friend of mine from Rice recently sent me a simple question. He was struggling with his own answer to the question himself, and thought that if he asked his friends what their answers might be, it would help him formulate his own. The question is, "what's your passion?" It's the very rare person who ever asks himself or herself that, at least with any regularity. It was the single most thought-provoking thing anyone had asked of me in a long time. My answer is below.
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Let me say up front that I have had to define for myself the "things I am passionate about" versus "the things that I love." I think there's a real difference. The passions on this list make up who I am. Without them, I wouldn't be me. The "things I love" are different -- I sometimes have to go long stretches without them, and if I could never experience them again in quantities I'm used to, I'd be sad, but still myself. So I thought that was a useful criteria to share.
"People things" I'm passionate about
The first thing I am passionate about is my husband. And I don't mean just in the obvious sense (though that's important to any marriage) -- I really mean in terms of my commitment to him and to what I bring to our marriage -- devotion, energy, enthusiasm for his and our success together, support in his endeavors, and above all, honesty and respect and love. He and I have spent time with a number of couples who always seem to treat each other with real, deep, genuine respect. They're good for our souls, we've found, and they've inspired us to make that a priority. We don't show it and live it in order for others to know it -- but we try to live it every day, and what happens is that our attention to it as something important to us spills over to others, we think, as a coincidental side effect. He has NEVER said anything mean or degrading or "cutting" to me in public or private, in seven years together, neither I to him. And that's an accomplishment we're proud of, considering that any couple will argue and disagree. We've worked hard at keeping our mutual respect and our commitment to honesty (to ourselves and each other) nurtured and growing, and I think it will serve us well -- the love's really the easiest part. Being the wife, partner and best friend he deserves is one of my deepest passions.
I'm passionate about the Baha'i faith (check it out at www.bahai.org). It's not a people thing, but it's what I believe at my core, in my soul, with my spirit, with all my heart. The idea of unity throughout mankind is what I'm all about, as well as the basic core beliefs that men and women are spiritually equal, there's only one God and we all worship Him (sometimes from different faith perspectives), He only has one plan and He's shared it with mankind through different Holy Messengers, and that everyone should embark on their own personal independent investigations into the truth of faith and God -- those things are the fabric of who I am. I often do a crappy job of living the way God has asked me to, as a Baha'i, but I take comfort in my efforts, in the staunchness of my beliefs even when my deeds are lacking, and in His eternal forgiveness.
I'm passionate about people making connections -- with others, with ideas, with activities, etc. When I'm at a party and there seems to be someone who's kind of drifting on her own, I can feel it, and it compels me to go and talk to that person and see if I can help her feel more comfortable. When I'm having lunch with a friend I haven't seen in a really long time, I want to really click with that person, not just sit in front of each other and eat things from the same restaurant and talk about other people we know. When two family members have disagreed over something, I'm not settled and calm until I've learned they have talked through it and resolved the issue. It's why I enjoy writing -- not for its own sake, but as a means to an end of deeper understanding. So this passion spills into my own connections with family and friends, as well as the connections I like to help facilitate between people I know and other people or things that I think they'd enjoy, or need to understand better, etc. In particular, it means I'm passionate about my core family members and their well-being (are they happy? are they well? are they challenged and growing and learning and excited about life?), and my good dear friends and their happiness (all the same questions).
"Activity things" I'm passionate about
I'm passionate about solitude. Weird, huh? I consider myself to be pretty friendly and engaging. But I've learned that I absolutely must have time alone to recharge. I can't appreciate the fun of being with others if I have not had my own quiet time to reflect, to still the chaos in my mind that a busy lifestyle can create, to find out where my center is and if the craziness around me has shifted it or affected me in some way.
I am passionate about teaching swing dancing. I love sharing something physical with others that I really enjoy and have gotten good at. It can be difficult to do correctly, and I love working with people to find ways for it to "click" for them. Whether that's through a good analogy that means something to them ("your arms should have a nice toned quality -- we call that frame. It's like they're good shock absorbers on a car -- they give a little, but not too much... "), or through physical demonstration, it's a challenge to get that kinetic message across. I love being the reason people's eyes get wide and they go, "Ooooohhh! Now I get it!" And I love watching them progress from hesitant to confident, from slightly clumsy and new to accomplished and smooth. It's such a high to know I helped them learn how to do something that's good exercise, socially engaging and fun to watch. The heart of the matter is that I spent a lot of time as a young person sitting -- either reading or studying or whatever -- and watching athletes with envy at their grace and skill and beauty. And though I'm FAR from an athlete, dancing is the way God gave me to taste the joys of movement and coordination. I'm addicted to that feeling.
I'm passionate about Rice. My husband and I have both grown to taking our roles as Associates very seriously. Last year, we were named two of the "outstanding Associates for the year" and it meant so much to us, and we want to continue to be deeply connected at Rice and at Hanszen, and to be engaged with the amazing young people who come through the university and the college. We're honored by our association with the university in this regard, and I can't imagine how it took me so long to get involved again. I've started to consider seriously a career change that might take me to campus every day for my professional life, that's how much I love Rice. And it's not just "undergrads" in general I'm passionate about helping -- it's RICE undergrads and the Rice experience that turn me on, surely because it meant so much to me and changed me in many ways.
I'm passionate about fiction. I love reading good writing, and will recommend books I enjoyed to anyone who shows the slightest interest. I still dream of becoming a good enough writer to make a living at the creation of fiction. In fact, I'd stretch this to say that I'm passionate about great writing. I've read life-changing books that weren't fiction at all, and poetry that made me want to cry, and even someone's blog that touched my heart. If it's written well, I'm drawn to it.
Things I love
I love food. I love preparing it, seeing it on the plate, the aromas food can generate, the way meals make a house feel homey, the flavors and textures of food, the satisfying feeling you get when you're full. And most of all ... SUSHI! Yes. I could eat it every day if it weren't for the risk of mercury poisoning. :) Someone asked me and my husband recently in a Newlywed Game kind of way, "What two foods would she absolutely require if she were stuck on a desert island and could have only two kinds forever?" The answers? Sushi and chocolate. That's me.
I love music -- all different kinds. My iPod is NUTS with random music back-to-back. I'm cool with that.
I love the movie-going experience. I love how you have to decide what you want to go and see. I love getting dressed up or down to go out. I love the smell of popcorn in the lobby (SO MUCH). I love choosing seats. I LOVE previews for other movies, especially when they're so good or so fun that you temporarily forget what you went to see originally (I do that every time!). I love letting a movie "get in" -- handing over your emotions to the film and letting it take you for whatever ride it is. I love leaving the theater and thinking about it later, and maybe talking about it with friends and discussing the different ways you understand what happened. I love quoting good lines later.
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Wow, that's enough. It's a lot to care about -- it's even more to be thankful for. I realize that these passions may seem to be small-scale stuff. Everyone has friends who are passionate about affecting great change in the world and that may lead them to be driven by the need for political reform, long-term commitments to amazing efforts like missionary work or the Peace Corps or Habitat for Humanity or living among the poor in India. I am amazed and humbled by people who have these passions -- but I've had to accept that this is how God made me. He made me, in His infinite wisdom, with passions for caring most for those around me, for sharing messages on smaller scales, for affecting differences in the circles in which I am already located. Who am I to doubt His intent? I am happy to entrust and support the brave souls who work and are driven in those ways. So I'll keep doing the little things that my life's passions compel me to do.
So what's YOUR passion?
** ** ** ** **
Let me say up front that I have had to define for myself the "things I am passionate about" versus "the things that I love." I think there's a real difference. The passions on this list make up who I am. Without them, I wouldn't be me. The "things I love" are different -- I sometimes have to go long stretches without them, and if I could never experience them again in quantities I'm used to, I'd be sad, but still myself. So I thought that was a useful criteria to share.
"People things" I'm passionate about
The first thing I am passionate about is my husband. And I don't mean just in the obvious sense (though that's important to any marriage) -- I really mean in terms of my commitment to him and to what I bring to our marriage -- devotion, energy, enthusiasm for his and our success together, support in his endeavors, and above all, honesty and respect and love. He and I have spent time with a number of couples who always seem to treat each other with real, deep, genuine respect. They're good for our souls, we've found, and they've inspired us to make that a priority. We don't show it and live it in order for others to know it -- but we try to live it every day, and what happens is that our attention to it as something important to us spills over to others, we think, as a coincidental side effect. He has NEVER said anything mean or degrading or "cutting" to me in public or private, in seven years together, neither I to him. And that's an accomplishment we're proud of, considering that any couple will argue and disagree. We've worked hard at keeping our mutual respect and our commitment to honesty (to ourselves and each other) nurtured and growing, and I think it will serve us well -- the love's really the easiest part. Being the wife, partner and best friend he deserves is one of my deepest passions.
I'm passionate about the Baha'i faith (check it out at www.bahai.org). It's not a people thing, but it's what I believe at my core, in my soul, with my spirit, with all my heart. The idea of unity throughout mankind is what I'm all about, as well as the basic core beliefs that men and women are spiritually equal, there's only one God and we all worship Him (sometimes from different faith perspectives), He only has one plan and He's shared it with mankind through different Holy Messengers, and that everyone should embark on their own personal independent investigations into the truth of faith and God -- those things are the fabric of who I am. I often do a crappy job of living the way God has asked me to, as a Baha'i, but I take comfort in my efforts, in the staunchness of my beliefs even when my deeds are lacking, and in His eternal forgiveness.
I'm passionate about people making connections -- with others, with ideas, with activities, etc. When I'm at a party and there seems to be someone who's kind of drifting on her own, I can feel it, and it compels me to go and talk to that person and see if I can help her feel more comfortable. When I'm having lunch with a friend I haven't seen in a really long time, I want to really click with that person, not just sit in front of each other and eat things from the same restaurant and talk about other people we know. When two family members have disagreed over something, I'm not settled and calm until I've learned they have talked through it and resolved the issue. It's why I enjoy writing -- not for its own sake, but as a means to an end of deeper understanding. So this passion spills into my own connections with family and friends, as well as the connections I like to help facilitate between people I know and other people or things that I think they'd enjoy, or need to understand better, etc. In particular, it means I'm passionate about my core family members and their well-being (are they happy? are they well? are they challenged and growing and learning and excited about life?), and my good dear friends and their happiness (all the same questions).
"Activity things" I'm passionate about
I'm passionate about solitude. Weird, huh? I consider myself to be pretty friendly and engaging. But I've learned that I absolutely must have time alone to recharge. I can't appreciate the fun of being with others if I have not had my own quiet time to reflect, to still the chaos in my mind that a busy lifestyle can create, to find out where my center is and if the craziness around me has shifted it or affected me in some way.
I am passionate about teaching swing dancing. I love sharing something physical with others that I really enjoy and have gotten good at. It can be difficult to do correctly, and I love working with people to find ways for it to "click" for them. Whether that's through a good analogy that means something to them ("your arms should have a nice toned quality -- we call that frame. It's like they're good shock absorbers on a car -- they give a little, but not too much... "), or through physical demonstration, it's a challenge to get that kinetic message across. I love being the reason people's eyes get wide and they go, "Ooooohhh! Now I get it!" And I love watching them progress from hesitant to confident, from slightly clumsy and new to accomplished and smooth. It's such a high to know I helped them learn how to do something that's good exercise, socially engaging and fun to watch. The heart of the matter is that I spent a lot of time as a young person sitting -- either reading or studying or whatever -- and watching athletes with envy at their grace and skill and beauty. And though I'm FAR from an athlete, dancing is the way God gave me to taste the joys of movement and coordination. I'm addicted to that feeling.
I'm passionate about Rice. My husband and I have both grown to taking our roles as Associates very seriously. Last year, we were named two of the "outstanding Associates for the year" and it meant so much to us, and we want to continue to be deeply connected at Rice and at Hanszen, and to be engaged with the amazing young people who come through the university and the college. We're honored by our association with the university in this regard, and I can't imagine how it took me so long to get involved again. I've started to consider seriously a career change that might take me to campus every day for my professional life, that's how much I love Rice. And it's not just "undergrads" in general I'm passionate about helping -- it's RICE undergrads and the Rice experience that turn me on, surely because it meant so much to me and changed me in many ways.
I'm passionate about fiction. I love reading good writing, and will recommend books I enjoyed to anyone who shows the slightest interest. I still dream of becoming a good enough writer to make a living at the creation of fiction. In fact, I'd stretch this to say that I'm passionate about great writing. I've read life-changing books that weren't fiction at all, and poetry that made me want to cry, and even someone's blog that touched my heart. If it's written well, I'm drawn to it.
Things I love
I love food. I love preparing it, seeing it on the plate, the aromas food can generate, the way meals make a house feel homey, the flavors and textures of food, the satisfying feeling you get when you're full. And most of all ... SUSHI! Yes. I could eat it every day if it weren't for the risk of mercury poisoning. :) Someone asked me and my husband recently in a Newlywed Game kind of way, "What two foods would she absolutely require if she were stuck on a desert island and could have only two kinds forever?" The answers? Sushi and chocolate. That's me.
I love music -- all different kinds. My iPod is NUTS with random music back-to-back. I'm cool with that.
I love the movie-going experience. I love how you have to decide what you want to go and see. I love getting dressed up or down to go out. I love the smell of popcorn in the lobby (SO MUCH). I love choosing seats. I LOVE previews for other movies, especially when they're so good or so fun that you temporarily forget what you went to see originally (I do that every time!). I love letting a movie "get in" -- handing over your emotions to the film and letting it take you for whatever ride it is. I love leaving the theater and thinking about it later, and maybe talking about it with friends and discussing the different ways you understand what happened. I love quoting good lines later.
** ** ** ** **
Wow, that's enough. It's a lot to care about -- it's even more to be thankful for. I realize that these passions may seem to be small-scale stuff. Everyone has friends who are passionate about affecting great change in the world and that may lead them to be driven by the need for political reform, long-term commitments to amazing efforts like missionary work or the Peace Corps or Habitat for Humanity or living among the poor in India. I am amazed and humbled by people who have these passions -- but I've had to accept that this is how God made me. He made me, in His infinite wisdom, with passions for caring most for those around me, for sharing messages on smaller scales, for affecting differences in the circles in which I am already located. Who am I to doubt His intent? I am happy to entrust and support the brave souls who work and are driven in those ways. So I'll keep doing the little things that my life's passions compel me to do.
So what's YOUR passion?
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Fear, food ... and finally, freedom
I started eating when I was 10.
I must have eaten before then, but I have no memory of any food passing between my lips before I turned ten and started to plan the next opportunity I could eat something. Sure, I remember meals -- meals of fresh sweet corn and home-made pickles with my grandparents, food so fresh you had to dust the garden dirt off of it before you cooked it. I remember pan-Asian spreads of barbecued pork, snappy spearmint leaves and plates of tender rice paper at my father's family's home, meals with so much food that each family would leave with a packed grocery bag, double-lined and tied at the top in a knot that would be pulled so tight from the weight of the leftovers that it had to be cut open when we got home. I remember cafeteria food at school -- rectangular slices of flat pizza which I inexplicably loaded with additional salt before cutting into twelve square bite-sized pieces with my dull knife and fork. All this I remember with no sense of taste, because it happened before I really cared about it all.
When I turned ten, though, I remember realizing that food was good, food filled you up, food made you feel full and happy and safe. I remember looking forward to each meal, then to snacks -- later I would begin planning out snacks days in advance, even without knowing whether or not I'd actually be hungry. If there was food at school that someone had brought in to share, I had some, even if I had just eaten a full meal. Years later, if a colleague's work meeting ended with leftover bagels or cookies, cheese or fruit, I'd snag some to munch, no matter what time of day or what my own stomach told me it needed.
That was the problem. My stomach was mute. Every now and then, it would send up a weak signal that it had had enough -- other than that, it seemed indifferent just how much I crammed into it. What I listened to was something else -- heart or brain or mouth, it kept telling me I needed more. And it wasn't a blood sugar problem. It wasn't that I was too scrawny and wanted to become voluptuous and curvy -- it wasn't that I hated myself and wanted to sabotage my own attractiveness. It was that I was afraid.
*** *** ***
Here's how most people know they're hungry. A few hours after their last meal, their stomachs are empty, and begin to send signals to their brains. "Hey!" they shout, through nerves and synapses and bloodstreams and brain cells. "Wanna do something about this situation you got down here? We're empty!" Acid begins to build up in the stomach -- acid that can cause rumbling very soon. In a matter of time, the acid builds to uncomfortable levels, and begins to etch away at the stomach lining, slowly but surely. With nothing else to digest, it's just doing what it's supposed to do.
Here's what happens when most people get scared. At the onset of a sudden traumatic or alarming event (say, a voice is raised in anger, a hand is raised in violence, an item is thrown in rage), the adrenal glands atop each kidney ready the body for self-preserving behavior by flooding the bloodstream with adrenaline. This is the famous "fight-or-flight" response -- you get ready to either run for your life or duke it out to protect yourself and the ones you love. It's an age-old response, and it's very compelling -- there are numerous examples of people doing superhuman things when caught up in the chemistry of this powerful moment. One of the side effects of that influx of adrenaline, though, especially if you don't use it up through vigorous activity, is an increased production of stomach acid. And what do you know -- stomach acid doesn't care WHY it was released into the stomach -- it just knows it was. So it starts searching for something to break down and process. In the absence of food, that good old stomach lining will work just fine. So if you're afraid all the time (say, when you're ten or fourteen or twenty-four), turns out that the easiest way to treat your stomach pain is with food.
At some point, food became safety to me. Not only did it keep me from hurting, it was the only way I indulged in anything. My reward for any kind of achievement was always food (think about your own life -- birthday cakes, graduation parties with groaning picnic tables of barbecue and potato salad, work get-togethers catered by Italian restaurants ...). So it really shouldn't have surprised me that I was tied up in eating in ways that were deeply ingrained, but completely unhealthy.
A few weeks ago I started a new eating program. With the help of a national weight loss program, I'm eating smaller, balanced meals three times a day, with healthy snacks in between. I like the program. It's working for me. I'm shedding pounds, feeling stronger, working out like a fiend three to four times a week, eating healthy, feeling better in my skin. And yet I think about food a lot, missing foods that are definitely not on the plan (like French fries, and movie popcorn, and big, juicy burgers with cheese and bacon and guacamole). I imagine it will take some time before I'm able to completely decouple what I eat with how I feel about eating.
God willing, I'll get there. Freedom from that connection between eating and comfort is near. I just have to work for it.
I must have eaten before then, but I have no memory of any food passing between my lips before I turned ten and started to plan the next opportunity I could eat something. Sure, I remember meals -- meals of fresh sweet corn and home-made pickles with my grandparents, food so fresh you had to dust the garden dirt off of it before you cooked it. I remember pan-Asian spreads of barbecued pork, snappy spearmint leaves and plates of tender rice paper at my father's family's home, meals with so much food that each family would leave with a packed grocery bag, double-lined and tied at the top in a knot that would be pulled so tight from the weight of the leftovers that it had to be cut open when we got home. I remember cafeteria food at school -- rectangular slices of flat pizza which I inexplicably loaded with additional salt before cutting into twelve square bite-sized pieces with my dull knife and fork. All this I remember with no sense of taste, because it happened before I really cared about it all.
When I turned ten, though, I remember realizing that food was good, food filled you up, food made you feel full and happy and safe. I remember looking forward to each meal, then to snacks -- later I would begin planning out snacks days in advance, even without knowing whether or not I'd actually be hungry. If there was food at school that someone had brought in to share, I had some, even if I had just eaten a full meal. Years later, if a colleague's work meeting ended with leftover bagels or cookies, cheese or fruit, I'd snag some to munch, no matter what time of day or what my own stomach told me it needed.
That was the problem. My stomach was mute. Every now and then, it would send up a weak signal that it had had enough -- other than that, it seemed indifferent just how much I crammed into it. What I listened to was something else -- heart or brain or mouth, it kept telling me I needed more. And it wasn't a blood sugar problem. It wasn't that I was too scrawny and wanted to become voluptuous and curvy -- it wasn't that I hated myself and wanted to sabotage my own attractiveness. It was that I was afraid.
*** *** ***
Here's how most people know they're hungry. A few hours after their last meal, their stomachs are empty, and begin to send signals to their brains. "Hey!" they shout, through nerves and synapses and bloodstreams and brain cells. "Wanna do something about this situation you got down here? We're empty!" Acid begins to build up in the stomach -- acid that can cause rumbling very soon. In a matter of time, the acid builds to uncomfortable levels, and begins to etch away at the stomach lining, slowly but surely. With nothing else to digest, it's just doing what it's supposed to do.
Here's what happens when most people get scared. At the onset of a sudden traumatic or alarming event (say, a voice is raised in anger, a hand is raised in violence, an item is thrown in rage), the adrenal glands atop each kidney ready the body for self-preserving behavior by flooding the bloodstream with adrenaline. This is the famous "fight-or-flight" response -- you get ready to either run for your life or duke it out to protect yourself and the ones you love. It's an age-old response, and it's very compelling -- there are numerous examples of people doing superhuman things when caught up in the chemistry of this powerful moment. One of the side effects of that influx of adrenaline, though, especially if you don't use it up through vigorous activity, is an increased production of stomach acid. And what do you know -- stomach acid doesn't care WHY it was released into the stomach -- it just knows it was. So it starts searching for something to break down and process. In the absence of food, that good old stomach lining will work just fine. So if you're afraid all the time (say, when you're ten or fourteen or twenty-four), turns out that the easiest way to treat your stomach pain is with food.
At some point, food became safety to me. Not only did it keep me from hurting, it was the only way I indulged in anything. My reward for any kind of achievement was always food (think about your own life -- birthday cakes, graduation parties with groaning picnic tables of barbecue and potato salad, work get-togethers catered by Italian restaurants ...). So it really shouldn't have surprised me that I was tied up in eating in ways that were deeply ingrained, but completely unhealthy.
A few weeks ago I started a new eating program. With the help of a national weight loss program, I'm eating smaller, balanced meals three times a day, with healthy snacks in between. I like the program. It's working for me. I'm shedding pounds, feeling stronger, working out like a fiend three to four times a week, eating healthy, feeling better in my skin. And yet I think about food a lot, missing foods that are definitely not on the plan (like French fries, and movie popcorn, and big, juicy burgers with cheese and bacon and guacamole). I imagine it will take some time before I'm able to completely decouple what I eat with how I feel about eating.
God willing, I'll get there. Freedom from that connection between eating and comfort is near. I just have to work for it.
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