Angels Landing

It seems as if my list of fears morph in conjunction with my life stages.  As a young mother I was afraid of things like choking, SIDS, and kidnapping.  Other fears have been constant and fairly irrational; high among them being mauled by a mountain lion, and plane crashes.  But my urge to have children, climb mountains, and travel broadly always outweighs my fears.  Most recently I developed a fear of heights.  In June of 2006 I climbed Mt. Shasta. The snow covered mountain required crampons, an ice pick and a 2am start to reach the 14,180’ summit by daylight.  Halfway up Avalanche Gulch, a steep incline that involved a series of switchbacks on packed snow, I began to feel queasy.  I glanced down to the thousand foot drop below and my knees buckled.  I stopped my group and suggested we tether together with rope and carabineers – an option our guide had offered in our training should anyone experience vertigo.  In less than ten minutes we heard the cries from climbers above that a loose rock from the summit was falling. Falling rocks are a common mountain climbing risk.  “RUN!” our guide yelled.  Tethered together wearing 30lb packs and crampons we ran forward along the side of the mountain.  The rock was bouncing down and as I forged ahead I sensed it was aiming straight for me.  The whole thing played out in slow motion – our running, the bouncing rock from hundreds of feet above, and finally, hearing the crack of the rock hitting my boot.  I went horizontal in the air, my legs taken out and I heard our guide yell: “Belay!”  Their ice picks dug into the mountain and as I landed hard on the snow I slid only the distance of the rope between me and the climber next to me.  I dangled at 13,000’ at the mercy of my friends. The tethered rope saved my life.  And because the rock hit the hard shell of my climbing boots, I didn’t break any bones. Pure luck.

I was reminded of that story last week when I went to Zion National Park.  Zion is nestled in southern Utah and is part of the Colorado Plateau that includes Bryce and the Grand Canyon. It is a geological wonderland.  Like rings on a tree stump, Zion’s geological landscape reveals a historical map that traces back as far as when dinosaurs roamed the region. 

Zion began as a flat surface but over time sand and rocks from the nearby Rockies eroded and were carried into the basin by rivers and streams. The weight of these sedimentary layers sank the basin, while the top layer remained at sea level.  Over the millions of years this occurred, ten thousand feet of sediment and geological material accumulated across enormous sand dunes.  While the earth’s crust was uplifting, forceful rivers carrying iron minerals flowed between the gathered sediment and cemented them into rock layers creating the diverse array of colors and thickness that defines Zion today.  Years of erosion and the force of water carved out Zion’s signature arches, narrow canyons and red cliffs of layered sandstone.  Zion’s Virgin River runs through the center of the canyon and with little soil to absorb water flash floods are commonplace. It’s the force of these floods (9000 cubic feet of water per second) that continue to deepen the canyon resulting in a perpetually changing landscape.

Arriving in Zion I immediately sensed the presence of something much larger than the place itself.  As I stood at the base of the canyon looking up I pondered how a particular layer of rock could reflect an era of time I only fathomed from books.  But here it was, the actual rock layer of the Jurassic Period.  And there above, the top layer of sandstone at 2000’ representing the sheer sliver of time humans have been on earth.   Zion reminds us of the certainty of impermanence. 

Zion’s colors are transcendent.  Sheer cliffs of wavy crimson, rusty orange, salmon pinks, and dusty whites flank the canyon’s grassy valley.  In November the aspens flicker yellow along the banks of the Virgin River and the dried grass turns oatmeal.  The beauty is astounding.  Standing amidst all the vastness I felt very small, but deeply connected and remembered something I recently read:  "We all want to be associated with something greater and more beautiful than ourselves, and nature is the ultimate."

On my first day in Zion I set out to climb the infamous Angels Landing.  I take note of the iconic warning sign with a triangular mountain outline, rock rubble and a climber falling in mid-air.  (Since 2006 five people have died from falls off Angels Landing.) I begin the five-mile hike with an ascent along the river peppered with cottonwoods, pines and junipers toward a steady and steep set of switchbacks on the West Rim Trail. With the path carved out of the mountain my vertigo periodically begins to rear.  I stay away from the edge as I zigzag my way back and forth for two miles along this steep grade of exposed trail.  Refrigerator Canyon leads me a mile back into a shady canyon toward the the next set of switchbacks, Squiggle Wiggles – a series of twenty-one steep zigzags that end at Scout Lookout, the final destination for those not willing to climb the razor’s edge of the fin.   It is here where I take stock on whether or not to brave this last half mile climb along an isthmus with sheer drops of up to 1400’ on either side.  I contemplate the warning sign again: “People have fallen to their death on this trail.” I’ve come this far and while my anxiety is mounting, I feel compelled to continue up the exposed ridge. Every step feels precarious as I worry about my balance or tripping. I cling to the steel rope that is periodically fastened along the trail.  There is a steady stream of hikers in both directions and as we navigate passing with only the one chain to cling to I feel my heart racing.  My son reassures me to keep going, go slow and hold on.  I do not look down once.  I focus only on the step in front of me, each one carefully made.

As soon as I reach the end of Angels Landing I am reminded why I chose to forsake my fear once again.  The panoramic view of the canyon extends in all directions and the refracted light of the sun off the red sandstone sparkles on the river below.  I sit perched on the edge of the cliff and take my place among the landscape. 

Trading Places

In the spring I administer oral exams to the graduate students I supervise.  The two-hour exam often takes on the form of a conversation as I probe further into students’ responses to questions that require evidence of their understanding of both theory and practice in their teaching. My favorite question this year asked students to reflect on the importance of teaching empathy. 

As educators we now know that empathy can help reduce the damaging effects of repeated stress in children which suggests that empathy has tremendous implications for achievement, both socially and intellectually. Furthermore, empathy promotes positive social relationships, helps mediate aggression, and allows us to relate to others, all of which make empathy an important emotion among children. The question asked my students to specifically cite ways they put that theory into practice.  As I listened to their responses I reflected on the recent examples of empathy in my own life.

For my husband’s birthday this year I gave him the gift of offering to do one of his annual dreaded family chores.  At the end of ski season he spends a day driving up and back to Tahoe, a 6+ hour round trip, to clean out the cabin, pack up, and organize months of stuff, ski equipment and winter clothes.  Instead, this year I gave him the day off to spend at home and play golf while I went, worked the entire day and then drove the 180-miles home.  It was exhausting.  For years I viewed this job as one of his responsibilities, and since when it comes to household/family chores I carry the load, showed minimal appreciation for it. Simply putting myself in his shoes increased my gratitude and was an important reminder how much he does for us (with little need for recognition or complaint). 

At my son Charlie’s graduation, three 8th graders are invited to deliver speeches.  I was impressed with all of them but none as much as the speech delivered entirely in Spanish by Charlie’s friend Sydney.  My Spanish is rusty, to put it kindly, but my comprehension has always been better than my spoken and I was able to understand most of her speech, which brought me to tears.  Sydney’s closest friend at school is Mexican-American and had mentioned she was sad and worried her parents would likely not understand most of the graduation as they don't speak English. Knowing this inspired Sydney to not only to deliver her speech in Spanish, but to write it about the isolation and exclusion she feels when her mom and grandmother speak exclusively in Korean with one another. She thought if she could make the 600+ people in the audience feel, if just for the duration of her speech, what her friend’s parents (and the handful of other non-English speakers at our school) must feel all the time we might begin to understand the experience of all immigrants who don’t feel included because of a language barrier.  It was an incredibly powerful example of the power and importance of empathy.

As I write this, I am sitting in a somewhat dilapidated 17th century villa in Verona, Italy, recovering from jetlag. It is the first time we’ve taken the kids to Europe and the first time they've traveled extensively outside the country.  Last night at an outdoor café eating pizza margarita Charlie said to me, I don’t know what I expect of this trip.  I replied to him with my thoughts on the reasons we travel.  It is less about the kids having fun, (travel can be grueling) than it is about instilling a love of travel, a sense of wonder, and learning history and culture. But ultimately, I realized it is another way to develop empathy.  Until we step into the shoes, or country or culture of others we cannot fully understand what that life is like.  Books can take you places, and I will always argue an excellent substitute, but if one has the ability to see and experience first hand the lives of others, one should.  (In an interview with Alt-J the lead singer was asked why the band chose to record 30 classic guitars play simultaneously rather than create the same effect digitally.  He replied, “Because if you can do something right and well, you ought to.” I love that sentiment.  And it is exactly how I feel about travel: If you can, you ought to.

Empathy has the ability to be transformative, and when put into practice incites compassion, expands horizons, builds community and in some cases, a better marriage. 

Soul Cycle Wisdom

As a yogi, the token namaste that Soul Cycle infuses in its brand irritates me, but I do appreciate the efficiency of a rigorous 45 minute workout.  With over 60 days of rain this winter I found myself going to more classes than I would like to admit and now I am somewhat of a regular.  At first I found it ridiculous the instructors would try to make spinning on a stationery bike a metaphor for life, yet here I am writing about something my instructor said that truly resonated from Monday’s class.  Periodically the instructor will yell out “isolate” which on the spin bike means you keep the legs pedaling while your upper body remains completely still.  This is harder than it sounds - the leg muscles burn doing all the work.  This week we were isolating for what felt like forever and as they often do, the instructor yelled out,

“Stay in it. There is power in stillness.”

Last week I had lunch with an old friend and he asked me in the wake of my transition from selling my business what I was going to do with my life?  This might seem like an offensive question for a woman who works in teacher education, writes a blog, volunteers for numerous non-profit organizations, has three children, cooks family dinner nightly, and manages a pretty big life for herself and her family, but it wasn’t totally unfounded.  The abrupt decision to sell meta44 triggered somewhat of a career and by extension, existential crisis and I found myself wondering the same.  What should I do next?  With that question in mind and a million ideas swirling in my head I hired a career coach and for the past few months she has guided me through conversations and assessments that forced me to look closely at my values, strengths, interests, work habits and the way I spend my time.  It has been a highly valuable exercise in self-exploration and understanding the importance of meaningful work in my life.

In this search of what next it wasn’t completely surprising to discover that the work I already do does in fact align with my values, feels meaningful, and gives me a sense of purpose. Could it be possible that I already do enough? And instead of adding something else, could I simply lean in deeper on the work I already do? Marc Lesser, who writes about the perils of a busy life, argues that doing too much makes you feel distracted and scattered and hinders your ability to accomplish more of what matters to you.  Maybe doing less is more.

Furthermore, as a byproduct, the letting go of worrying about what I should be doing, and allowing myself to simply focus on what I do created an opportunity for my mind to rest which reminded me how true it is - only in that quiet space can you actually hear what your mind is trying to tell you.

And in my choice to just stay in it, I am finding the power of stillness.

Runners run, writers write

Yesterday morning while running in the Presidio I approached the cutest group of preschoolers headed to the playground.  I slowed a little because they were excited to see my dog Jackson, and a little boy looked up at me and asked curiously, “Who are you?” Without much contemplating or allowing myself to sink into existential crisis I quickly replied, “I’m a runner.”

For the past 34 years I’ve run almost every single day.  I fell in love with running on the soft dirt of Millbrook’s School Road when I was in boarding school.   I ran the New York City Marathon in 4:19 minutes, and finished each of the handful of half marathons I’ve run in under 2:00 hours.  I am not terribly fast, but I am steady and strong.  Mostly I run coastal trails and up mountains with my dog or a friend.  Some of my most meaningful relationships evolved through running and it’s the primary reason I love travel. I’d never go anywhere without my running shoes.  I can’t even imagine doing that.  I’ve run through the smoggy streets of Chengdu, China, atop the walled old city of Dubrovnik, around Central Park’s reservoir countless times, past Moscow’s Red Square, along the country roads of Quebec and on the beaches of Hawaii. I don’t think of myself as a serious runner, I’m more of a recreational runner but the fact remains: I am a runner, because I run.

The same is true for how I see myself as a writer.  I am not an author and I've never submitted work to be published, but I have spent a good deal of time writing in both my personal and professional life. I regularly write journal entries, lists (lots of lists), reports, observation notes, personal letters, emails, lesson plans, poems, essays and a blog.  And after a hiatus, I am writing daily again, which I suppose makes me a writer.  I write to discover, express, process and reflect. And perhaps, if I am lucky, to inspire, connect, remind or entertain. 

Lately I’ve been thinking about decisions, as I’ve had to make some big ones.  Earlier this year I made the decision to sell my stake in my business, meta44.  Not an easy decision to let go of something I had invested deeply in and cared so much about.   But the letting go gave room to recommit to something else I equally love to do.  By definition a difficult decision means the alternatives or outcomes of that decision are on par or in equal measure. One alternative isn’t better than the other, which makes deciding what to do difficult.  But, according to the philosopher Ruth Chang, who studies decision making, what is important isn’t so much the decision making itself (as the outcomes are equal), but rather our capacity to commit to that decision.  By committing, she says, you make reasons for yourself to live in a certain way– it is in the space of hard choices that helps us to understand who we are – they are opportunities to discover ourselves.  In decision making the agony exists not in the choosing of two things where the outcome will be unknown, it’s in the reluctance to commit to that choice. 

My recent decision to take a writing class and re-engage with my blog creates my identity as a writer, just as my daily decision to go for a run, even when I think I’d rather stay in bed, makes me a runner.  Our decisions enable us to create reasons to live a certain kind of life and if you view them as such, they become gifts.  I am a runner, so I choose to go on a run.  I am a writer, so I choose to write.

It is the act of making and then committing to our decisions, that allows us to figure out who we are and become the author of, if nothing else, our own lives. 

Do Unto Otters

I collect books and while my kids were little(r) we acquired hundreds of picture books.  They sit mostly unattended on our shelves now, although occasionally I still find a stack tucked under Teddy’s comforter in the morning. I was reminded of one my favorites while considering my resolutions for the new year.  It’s a book about manners titled Do Unto Otters.    It cleverly tells the story of a nice family of otters, The Otters, who recently move into a new neighborhood.  But the other animals worry they may not like their new neighbors, so Mr. Rabbit suggests they try to “do unto otters as you would have otters do unto you.”  And so the neighbors begin to list all the ways they’d like to be treated. Naturally, they’d like the Otters to be friendly, polite, honest, considerate, kind, and forgiving. 

The Golden Rule is a moral principal found in almost all cultures, meaning that it it might just be part of human nature.  So in essence, it should be easy to apply.  My problem isn’t how I treat others; it’s how I treat myself.

This year I am resolving to turn the Golden Rule around.  Instead of treating others how I’d like to be treated I am going to work on treating myself that way.  Like many women I know, I am a long sufferer of self-criticism and struggle with self-acceptance.

Just consider this:  I am a 5’9” and 140lb. 45-year-old woman.  I’ve given birth to three babies, carried a twin pregnancy to term, and breastfed each of my babies for a year.  I run 15-20 miles a week, practice yoga 2x a week, bike, ski, hike, play tennis, and swim regularly. With crampons and an ice pick I reached the 14,179' summit of Mt. Shasta, and last month I trekked 50 miles in the Peruvian Andes and climbed over the 15,200’ Salkantay pass.  And yet, on most days I dislike my body.  When I look in the mirror I see the imperfections, the signs of aging, the marks of past pregnancies. If I were reading this instead of writing it, I’d think I was crazy.  Who couldn’t love a body that allows them to do all these incredible things?  And if it were anyone else's I know I'd admire its' strength, ability, and imperfect beauty.

I started this blog on perspective because I heartily believed in the importance of broadening it.  But how we see ourselves is generally how we see others, too, which is why this feels like an urgent resolution.  Cultivating self-love means treating ourselves with respect, kindness, compassion, forgiveness and affection. 

Only then can we truly be an otter.

Poetic Voice

When I taught First Grade, I learned about the powerful nature of poetry.  For emergent and often reluctant writers, poetry’s condensed nature and freedom from structure makes writing accessible. Poetry eliminates the intimidation of writing.  The opportunity to simply play with words allows little writers to discover the beauty of language and more importantly, their voice.  

I took a blogging break, I’ve said, because my new business endeavor, meta44, took up all my time and creative energy.  But actually, that’s not the whole truth.  In fact, I am beginning to believe that creativity begets creativity.  The truth is I lost my confidence after reading a friend's published essay last summer. She’s a real writer, the voice in my head said, and who did I think I was writing for anyone but myself?   

But then, I thought again.  It’s the collective force of the world's creative output that makes life worth living.  Self-expression feels like a path to self-discovery: curating objects for meta44, expressing opinions, posting on social media, even my clothes. And I find it's much harder to judge others when I feel vulnerable, which is the byproduct of putting yourself out there. Perhaps this is what happens in your 40s, you start to care more about finding out who you really are and less about what other people think.  So whatever you have to offer, please do, offer it up to the world. 

It’s no wonder then, after falling asleep last night with the horrible dread you feel when you know your book is coming to an end, that I woke up to rediscover my confidence and writing voice with poetry.  

Oh Paperback Novel

Oh paperback novel
On the shelf
Eyeing me
How long have you been there
Stagnating
I pick you up
Turn you over, eye your first words

Stacked beside my bed 
Get in line
I fan your rattling pages
Weigh your thickness

At first it’s 
Slow, I’m unsure
Can’t decide should I carry on
Who’s who
We go on like this for days
And then

You spit sentences like venom
They run through my veins
I devour your pages 
In waiting rooms, on planes
Speeding, skipping, 
Turning, turning, turning
Can't put you down

Oh no 
Wait
Savoring syllables
I lay you on my chest eyes closed
In another world

Outside my window 
Magnolias are blooming
There you go
Back up on the shelf

Moments of Awe

At first it was simply environmental shock: the contrast between the humid air and lush greenery of Connecticut and the arid, drought-stricken earth of Northern California. And then it was the harsh reality of my readjustment from the freedom and joy of our summer days and endless scoops of ice cream to a life of structure, schedules, calendars, carpools, activities, and homework that made my transition “back to school” so hard this September.

All summer long I exist in a state of minor panic.  I want summer to never end, which only makes the days seem to pass even faster.  Watching my children grow up feels the same. Recently I was hugging Charlie and realized he’s grown almost as big as me. How has this happened so quickly?

Lately I've been grappling with the concept of time.  Not just the rate in which it passes but also how I choose to spend it.  In the Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle posits that time is an artificial human construct. He believes there is no past, no future, only the now.  Why then is it so hard to stay only there, in the present moment?

In response to an article about the trend of everyone being so “busy” I wrote to my friend Kate. “I struggle between trying to live everyday as fully as I can and this subtle but very real panic that it's all going much too fast and wanting to slow it down.  How does living a full, adventurous, and inspiring life go together with a still, peaceful, and simple one?”  She replied, “That is the balance we are all striving for, right? So hard to find but embracing every moment whether it's adventurous or quiet.”   That’s exactly it.  It’s not necessarily what we are doing but rather the mindfulness around it that will help us live in the now, which according to Tolle, is all we have anyhow. 

In Judaism these ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are called the Days of Awe.  A period intended for introspection and reflection on the past year.  This year the Days of Awe coincide with my 44th birthday, a natural time to reflect on my own life.  So, today I intentionally sat down to write (after a long hiatus) and reflect on a few present moments and magically, I was awestruck:

A recent family reunion has piqued the kids’ interest about their relatives so I have been sharing stories. Yesterday I told Charlie about my great aunt and uncle who died very young in a plane crash many years before I was born.  We talked about the tragedy of dying young and discussed mortality and the relatively short lives all of us have on earth.  He looked at me and said, “Oh you mortals and your puny lives”.  He was quoting from a book he’d recently read.

Then today, Teddy and Cate spent the better half of it conceptualizing and mapping out a dream house for our family.  During their presentation (my birthday present) Teddy highlighted a feature that he said he’d made just for me: The Resurrection Room.  “This is where you can bring back all the people in your life that have died, so you can have your mom and dad.”  Then Cate showed me our dream backyard and in the middle of it was Mom’s Personal Mountain.  She told me this is where I can run on trails, hike with Jackson, or feel peaceful.

A philosophical and somewhat literary conversation with Charlie, and my 9 year old twins know me well enough that they can create my dream house spot on.  These are moments of awe, and in them time seems to stand still.

When the fog clears

I can usually count on the fog to settle in right about now as I pack up my family for the summer and head to Northern California and the East Coast for warmer weather, but yesterday brought one of those days that makes leaving San Francisco for two months almost unbearable.  I went on a long run and within the span of just over an hour I fell, once again, head over heels for my city. 

While running I basked in the beauty of my environment and realized it's the fog I needed to thank.  You see, I know that without the cold, wet misery of fog I might become complacent in my appreciation for a day like this one.  In other words, I need the fog, so I never take the sun for granted. 

While I don't usually run with my phone, I had it with me yesterday because school's out and the kids were home.   My run takes me from my house, up and down hills, through the woods, under the Golden Gate Bridge, to the beach and back home.  

Presidio trails

Golden Gate to the beach

Surfers under the bridge

Photography exhibit along the trails. Remarkably, the Presidio has regular art installations sporadically displayed along the trails, including sculptures by Andy Goldsworthy.

Inevitably the fog will return and when it does I'll remember to gratefully wear my down jacket in June.  

Taking notice

I recently learned that it’s not uncommon for women especially to become generative in midlife.   It’s a natural developmental phase in response to the years of taking care of others.  In other words, it’s “me time”.  This may explain my recent compulsion to write a blog or open a design store.  The creative process and output related to my new projects has been immensely satisfying, and since I care less about other peoples’ opinions in midlife (one of the benefits of getting older), I find it easier to take risks.  But in order to generate anything worthwhile, I find it’s even more important to take notice. 

The other day I was walking my dog in the Presidio on the same trail we walk every morning and noticed two pine trees I had never seen before.  Our trail meanders through a forest of big Monterey pines, cypress and eucalyptus trees but Ponderosas are rare here, so not noticing them was strange because they are my favorite type of tree.  It nagged at me all day that I had walked past these two trees for years and was just now seeing them for the first time.  What else was I missing?

Then I thought about Maya Angelou. The night she died I huddled my family together and we listened to her recite “I Rise” and her stirring eulogy of Nelson Mandela. I wanted the kids to understand her impact on humanity and feel the power of her poetry spoken in her beautifully deep, melodic voice.   It was a profound little family moment.  The next day a friend wrote me and said, “Could you imagine riding the 38 Geary when she was driving it?”  It had been at least twenty years since I read “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” and I had forgotten the details of her life.   How could it be that Maya Angelou had once been a Muni driver on a bus line that runs right through my neighborhood? The truthful and embarrassing answer to my friend’s question would have been: Yes, I could imagine it - I am certain I wouldn’t have noticed her.

Thinking about Maya Angelou as a bus driver was the reminder I needed that noticing is really about humanizing.  Everyone has a story. That was her message, after all:

“We are all human; therefore, nothing human can be alien to us.”

Strangely, that same week this Pema Chodren quote arrived in my inbox.  She writes about humanizing strangers:

“Suppose we spent some time every day bringing the unknown people that we see into focus, and actually taking an interest in them? We could look at their faces, notice their clothes, look at their hands. There are so many chances to do this, particularly if we live in a city. It can be a daily practice to humanize the people we pass on the street.”

I’m grateful for this reminder to practice noticing.  You never know what you might find to inspire you: Ponderosas and Maya Angelou in your own backyard. 

Be in the choice

Since my parents passed away I've noticed I’ve become a little cynical about holidays and Mother’s Day was no exception.  Actually, I never even considered it a holiday until recently – maybe it’s the explosion of Mother’s Day posts on Instagram and Facebook.  Strangely, I don’t remember celebrating Mother’s Day growing up, probably because the world was less commercial then, or maybe because we were a dysfunctional family, or more likely it was because my mother wasn’t the least bit self-centered and didn’t need the attention. (I clearly inherited that trait from Dad.)

Mother’s Day is complicated.  Without a mother, I’m not sure if I am supposed to be sad or happy.  Secretly, I expect it to be a special day where everything will go my way and there won’t be any fighting, whining or resistance.  I lie and tell my family I don’t care about Mother’s Day, so they don’t make it a big deal.  They do the requisite things: breakfast in bed (last year the giant mug of coffee spilled on my gorgeous white linen duvet cover), cards (actually this year I got a verbal card), and encouragement to go to yoga or for a long run with zero guilt.  These things make me happy and I appreciate the gestures but when I come home the kids’ beds are unmade, the compost bin is starting to smell, the dog needs to go for a walk and we’re out of milk.  These are my jobs, it's true, but I’m pissed off I have to deal with them on MOTHER’S DAY!   And I am sorry, but why do we have to celebrate grandmothers on Mother’s Day? There should be an exemption clause: if you are not currently raising children, you are no longer eligible to receive benefits on Mother’s Day. 

During my Mother's Day rant, I thought about something I had experienced last week while I was in New York. I had the privilege of going to the Montefiore hospital in the Bronx to visit my friend’s patient, a stunning and brave 15-month-old Libyan girl named Maiar. She was recovering from a radical surgery to remove a “birthmark”, medically known as a giant congenital melanocytic nevus, which had eroded her skull. In the simplest of terms my friend, an amazing surgeon, grafted muscles and blood vessels to cover the exposed brain that was protruding through Maiar's skull.  RememberIng her mother's exhausted and desperate expression as my friend told her she’d be able to hold and nurse her daughter again after weeks of not knowing if she’d even survive jolted me and helped me gain perspective.

As long as I expect Mother’s Day to be about something more than the simple joys of being a mom it’ll likely be disappointing.  Of course the coffee will spill, the kids will roughhouse in the backseat of the car and we’ll run out of milk.  Frankly, that’s the good stuff.  Waiting for weeks to find out if your child will survive a surgery, that’s when you can rant.

In yoga today, as my teacher gave us options about how far to take a particular pose she said: whatever you decide, be in the choice.  As someone who went through innumerable rounds of in vitro to have my children, I definitely chose motherhood.  I admit, sometimes being in it is hard, but I don’t want to lose perspective that it should be anything more than what it is, because it is a beautiful thing.  

Someone might have to remind me of that next Mother's Day.

Dad's 75th

Today marks what would have been the 75th birthday of my dad.  I woke up this morning feeling entitled to a day of wallowing and self-pity but the Saturday morning bustle in my house, a thoughtful message from a friend, and this perfect spring weather made me think twice about having a lousy day.  In fact, I decided the best way to honor my father today is to live it well.

I’m still working to understand the complex nature of my relationship with my dad, as he was particularly hard on me.  The truth is he was flawed, which was disappointing to realize and difficult to forgive because I held him up high for so long.  But as it turns out, recognizing him as human and imperfect has helped illuminate my journey of knowing myself.  He was a really good father: I never questioned his love, but he made lots of mistakes both as a person and as a parent, one of which was not letting me see his flaws, or at least copping to them, because he thought it would discredit his authority over me. My strong tendency toward self-criticism is the result of that.  Kids need to recognize their parents as the imperfect people that we are, so that they can learn to accept their own flaws as part of their whole human package.  

I’m beginning to think that accepting my father and all his mistakes might be one of the keys to accepting myself.  And when I think of things that I loved most about him, I feel lucky I inherited some of those traits.

He loved to party. 

He never ordered dessert for himself, just a spoon.

He was always game, and mightily capable.

He had a great sense of style and a love of beauty.

He was his happiest in nature and always took his naps outside.

He was a people person.

And, above all, he lived by the simple credo that life was short, and in his case, it was, so you better get after it.

Well, that’s it for now, got to go for a hike with Charlie and then head to Oakland for BBQ & beer before seeing The National at the Greek.  Yee-haw!

Happy 75th Birthday, Dad.

My (w)hole self

Last week I judged the final oral exams for the graduate students I supervise and was reminded, once again, of the importance of reflection and self-awareness. The beauty of teaching is that it is never stagnant: learning depends on human relationships, which as we know, are complex.  In response to a question about the nature of a constructivist classroom my graduate student and I discussed the essential concept that there is no one perfect curriculum that works for all students, as each child has unique needs, interests and learning styles. A teacher’s real job is to practice observation and reflection in order to understand each of her students deeply so that learning can occur.  But, in order for that to happen, a teacher must first know herself.

I have an ongoing argument with a friend about the importance of the self.  He’s a cosmic thinker and is in the “individuals are just insignificant specs amongst the vastness of the universe” camp.  I, on the other hand, spend an inordinate amount of time on my self: ruminating, reflecting, and hopefully improving.  I am insatiably curious about other selves, too – what makes individuals unique and the universal traits we share.

My recent self-discovery has been a perspective-changer. 

I am convinced - and psychology confirms - most of us have “holes” of one kind or another related to our self-worth likely created long ago by our imperfect but well intended parents.  As adults it seems we try tirelessly like hamsters on a wheel to fill those holes.  In an effort to turn inward and rely less on others for my needs, I’ve been noticing my hole-filling habits.  I discovered that no matter what  - no amount of running, yoga, meditation, or ice cream, no accomplishment or relationship - nothing could fill that hole.  I felt frustrated and complained to my therapist with the hope that she’d have the answer. 

Nothing is working. I told her.

That’s just it, Charlotte. She said.  You don’t do anything.  You just wake up each morning and greet that hole.  It’s part of you.

It was a classic Piagetian moment.  The idea of accepting myself, hole included, and doing nothing (not something I naturally excel at) forced me to reconstruct my understanding of what it means to be whole.  

The hole can only be filled by simply embracing it.

Good morning, (w)hole!

Writing grit

For better or worse, I mainly rely on intuition as a parent.  However, I continually inundate myself with blogs, articles and books on the topic as I am fascinated by the current culture of raising kids.

As a child of divorced parents I was left mainly to my own devices and learned from an early age how to fend for myself.  Teaching self-reliance wasn’t a conscious parenting choice; it was a by-product of our family’s circumstance.  My sisters and I were loved fiercely but never coddled.   Our parents were very occupied with their own lives and the subliminal message to us was that we ought to get on with our own, too. I grew up in a city where I rode public transportation unaccompanied to and from school, divided time between two households, had almost no after-school activities besides homework which no one checked, and when I complained, “I’m bored” my mother always replied, “Then go read a book.”  We were allowed to fail, which I did, many times.  It was the 70s – no helmets, no seatbelts, no over-parenting.  It wasn’t always rosy, for sure, but we definitely learned how to cope with life.

Needless to say, I find it humorous, but also a little annoying that grit is the parenting topic du jour.  Grit isn’t something we need to teach, it's what naturally develops by not over-indulging and coddling children.   It seems when kids are faced with adversity the natural instinct is to mitigate any suffering.  While this tendency is well meaning, it deprives kids from having the kinds of experiences that develop essential life skills.  Also, I am bothered that “grit” is being hailed as a measure for predicting achievement:  if your child has grit they’ll be more successful. When it comes to parenting we’ve become so achievement oriented that we forget that “grit” isn’t about success at all, it’s about character.   Plus, our reluctance to let our children suffer is ironic: it takes parental grit!

I’ve been ruminating on this topic because I am conflicted on an issue I am facing with my 9-year-old son.  Teddy is a reluctant writer.  He has big, good ideas but is bogged down by the mechanics of handwriting.  At last week’s parent/teacher conference his teacher suggested that instead of writing he could speak into an iPad to transcribe his ideas. As a teacher, I wholeheartedly agreed with the suggestion, why not let him take advantage of technology - it’s the ideas that matter, not the mechanics.  (And for the record, I am a huge advocate for tools and accommodations in the classroom that enable learning for LD kids. In fact, Teddy uses sensory tools to keep him centered at school.) However, on this issue I hesitated because I wondered: have we too quickly found an easy way out for him? Practicing handwriting and strengthening his fine motor muscles is tedious and difficult: does the iPad accommodation let him off the hook to work hard?  What message does that send? 

Grit essentially means perseverance and resolve.  It’s precisely when you want to quit that those traits start to develop.  (This is a lesson I repeatedly learn in yoga: as soon as you think you can’t hold a pose any longer you stay in it, and that’s when the yoga begins.)  For now, I am going to trust my gut and make Teddy work a little harder to practice his handwriting and strengthen his fine motor muscles so the mechanics don’t inhibit him as a writer before letting him use the iPad. 

Maybe in the process, he'll develop a little grit.

Bar mitzvah in the woods

Fifteen minutes went by before I realized I was at the wrong bar mitzvah yesterday. When I arrived late I was relieved when heads were down in prayer so no one would see me sneak in. After I settled into the last pew I looked around to see which of my friends were there. Strangely I didn’t recognize a soul and was honestly surprised at the crowd - they weren’t what I had expected from my very stylish friend.  When a young girl (not Elliot) was standing at the front of the temple I was even more suspicious, but I thought maybe she was a relative of the family.  I persevered for a few more minutes before I knew something was askew.  I tapped my neighbor on the shoulder and whispered: “Is this Elliot’s bar mitzvah?”  She mouthed back, “No.”

Luckily, I was at the right temple, just in the wrong sanctuary. I’ve only attended a few bar mitzvahs in my life but have had the same feeling after each one – a subtle envy for such a rich and meaningful tradition. I admit I have struggled with how to incorporate religion and faith in my family life.  We belong to my childhood Episcopal Church but seldom attend.  The truth is I feel closest to God in nature, not in a pew.  However, the values instilled in our church are important and at times I regret that I haven’t made it a priority for my children.  Moreover, I value the community that church provides, and leaned on when both of my parents died.  And, I think a strong sense of belonging matters especially to adolescents.  Yesterday Elliot publically thanked not just his family but also his coined “Jew crew” – the kids with whom he’s gone through the very arduous journey of learning Hebrew and preparing for his bar mitzvah.  

The meaning of the word mitzvah is derived from the commandments (there are many) and essentially means an act of kindness or a moral deed. In addition to studying the Torah and learning Hebrew, acts of service are required. It is believed that these acts of service will be the foundation for living morally and faithfully. As an adolescent, bar mitzvah creates a rare moment to pause, reflect and learn about one’s identity and history.  At the service, Elliot’s parents are asked to share the values they’d like to instill in their son.  It’s a chance to formally (and publically) give advice.  I love what they said: Give back in service, and live thoughtfully; don’t just let life unfold.  Inherent in the day was a strong sense of pride, not just from Elliot’s parents or the Rabbi, but especially from Elliot himself.  He was beaming from his accomplishment and content from a feeling of a greater connectedness.

I left wanting to create a rite of passage for Charlie, Teddy and Cate that includes hard work and the joy and pride of accomplishment, connecting meaningfully with our family history, feeling the reward of giving back through service, and developing a spiritual self that will sustain them through life.

Maybe we’ll do it in the woods.

Fat Tuesday

The genesis of this blog was in part due the compulsion I often feel to share whatever it is that has recently inspired or moved me. This week I've had a few of those moments.  My work and family schedule is fairly routine, but I am mindful of trying to regularly incorporate new experiences and opportunities for learning, part of a grander plan of saying “yes” overall to life. San Francisco seldom disappoints in its ability to provide such opportunities.

Earlier this week while celebrating a friend’s birthday with what else but Vietnamese food and a good scrub down at a Korean spa in the Fillmore, I realized it was Fat Tuesday - a moment to really see our diverse city in its glory. I love the vibrancy of the Fillmore: Fat Tuesday brought out partygoers with elaborate Mardi Gras costumes, sounds of music seeping out of the Boom Boom Room and the smell of BBQ emanating from food trucks and restaurants. The Fillmore reminds me why I love this town - you walk through it and you feel alive.

In a strange coincidence, the next day I was a guest at an event for the San Francisco Foundation where black women entrepreneurs from the Fillmore were being recognized. These are women who have almost every chance for success stacked against them: they have no experience running a business, few resources, poor credit, and live in a socio-economically challenged neighborhood. But what they do have is an entrepreneurial spirit. With the help of an organization called Urban Solutions designed specifically to empower black women through business training, mentoring, and financing, these driven and passionate women are opening up businesses in the Fillmore and revitalizing this historic gem of a neighborhood. One of these businesses, Bumzy's cookies, even catered the lunch dessert. I loved what the Executive Director of Urban Solutions said about her work: "Helping these women helps the family, helping the family helps this neighborhood, helping this neighborhood helps our city, and so on.”

Then today I attended an event for NARAL, an organization I’ve long supported, and heard the very reasonable, smart, up and coming politician, Sandra Fluke talk about the ongoing attack on women’s reproductive rights.  The opposition movement to rapidly close local abortion clinics and restrict access to birth control is effectively eroding a right that many of us have come to take for granted.  NARAL is the political arm of the Pro-Choice issue and deals with the governmental policies that can affect big change and yet when Sandra was interviewed about her role in politics, instead of talking about herself, she turned to us in the audience and said, “What will defeat us is silence. Our best weapon is for everyone to come out in the same way that ‘coming out’ raised the issue on GLBTQ rights. However you do that, whether it’s running for office or simply speaking with a friend about your values at lunch, we must come out and be heard.”

Somehow the culmination of these experiences this week left me thinking mostly about how even the littlest of acts can make an impact. Sometimes it takes hearing another person’s story to remind you of the value of your own. Instead of feeling dwarfed by the enormity of the issues of poverty or abortion rights, I felt both validated and inspired. Offering to bring a sick friend to the doctor, speaking out on issues that I care about, trying to raise good kids, volunteering at school, or even taking time to celebrate a friend in the Fillmore – these matter. Because it’s the collective force of each of us doing something good and meaningful, even if it’s small, in our own lives that will affect change in the world.

For my gals...

I’m not a romantic in the classic sense.  I don’t want a box of chocolates or a dozen roses and the image of holding hands down a white sandy beach makes me cringe, so Valentine's Day is pretty much wasted on me.  However, I do appreciate taking a day to reflect on love and friendship. 

Growing up I always had guy friends, maybe as a reaction to having only sisters or going to an all-girls school I sought male friendships. And now I’m grateful for and cherish the handful of close male relationships that I've maintained (and continue to make).  I love the unique way men view the world and rely on my guy friends to counterbalance my predominantly feminine perspective.

Even so, when I think about the people in my life who truly sustain me, it is my girlfriends.  It is extremely comforting to know that I always have company to share the joys of womanhood and motherhood. And no man can partake in the collective suffering of maternal exhaustion, self-doubt, occasional self-loathing, and hormonal volatility. And since lately I have been on a vulnerability kick, I appreciate my girlfriends for their ability to emote and expose themselves in a way most men can’t.  Knowing we are more the same than different allows us to connect on a deep and meaningful level.  Without my girls, I'd be lost.

Incidentally, as I was writing this post, one of my good guy friends texted me the below image. (To be fair, I give most men more credit for complexity, but still, well conceived.)

So, today I am sending my gratitude and love to all my gals.

Happy ‘Gal’entine’s Day.

You don't know...

I have a dear friend who regularly sends me nuggets - quotes, articles, podcasts - to inspire blog ideas. This morning she sent me the link to a blog in the Huffington Post written by a woman in her 40s:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/emily-mendell/this-is-45the-eye-of-life_b_4648004.html?utm_hp_ref=tw

It resonated because lately I’ve been feeling a little middle aged, not in a bad way, but more that I am noticing subtle differences in myself. For one thing, I’m discovering more and more that I care less and less about what others think of me. So far, my forties has been a period of tuning inward and finding out what I want instead of what others might want from me.  By the way, it’s hard work trying to sort those apart, and perhaps not a coincidence that my dad died just weeks before my 40th birthday - without parents to “please” there’s no one else to listen to beside myself.

And lately, I’ve been telling the truth (“sweeping my side of the street” they call it in AA) when my feelings are hurt without worrying about the outcome because I’ve decided it’s always better to be honest than carry resentment or anger. Telling the truth takes courage, but authenticity should be at the heart of true relationships, and at 43, I don’t really want any other kind.

However, my greatest realization occurred just recently. As hard as I try, I still grapple with judgment. In some ways it’s the flip side of having a broad perspective and deep relationships.  I feel compelled to help the people I care about live happier lives. Giving advice is my specialty! The other day I was telling my therapist about a friend I thought was making a potentially bad life decision and wondered what I should do about it. So she told me this story:  One day she was with her mentor and lamenting about a friend she was very worried about, just as I was.  Her mentor said to her, “Ok, I am about to tell you the most important thing I have ever told you.  It’s so important you should write it down.”  So my therapist got out her notebook and a pen and looked up to her mentor.  She said, “Are you ready?  Here it is, it’s four words:  you don’t know shit.”   It was so simple that for the first time it really hit me.  I don’t.  Forty three years in and am finally beginning to understand that I have NO idea what path another person should take. Or whether or not the mistake they are about to make isn’t a mistake they are supposed to make to learn something about them self or set them on another course.  And God knows I am making mistakes. Big ones.  But they are a part of my journey, and just maybe all of my mistakes have led me to this moment of realization that at least for now, I don’t know shit. 

Letting loose (on paper)

This year, one of my non-stated resolutions (I read that if you say them aloud that simulates the accomplishment and therefore you're less likely to keep them) is to not yell at my kids. Parenting a child with sensory issues where inflexibility and explosive reactions are common can sometimes trigger losing my temper. I hate yelling at my children. Intellectually I know that it is ineffective, damaging, and even hypocritical, but sometimes in moments of deep frustration and anger (when meditative breathing just doesn’t seem to work), I lose my shit.  I can only imagine how unsettling it is for my children to see me lose control in a fit of rage.  Possibly even worse is the horrible hangover of regret, self-loathing and remorse I feel afterwards. So I am really making an effort for their sake and mine to stop yelling.

Last Saturday, while my husband was away, I suggested we go on an outing to the farmers market at the Ferry Building.  The idea was not well received, to say the least.  "I don't want to go to the stupid farmers market." "That's a horrible idea." "Why do we always have to do what you want to do?" “We want to go to Pier 39 (my worst nightmare)!” "I'm not going."  Maybe because my idyllic (and ridiculous) vision of us perusing locally grown organic produce in beautiful San Francisco weather was squashed or because the kids had already been fighting that morning or because I forgot (again!) that I’m not perfect and neither are my children, I was mad, really mad.  I felt like yelling.  But instead, in that heated moment, I got an idea - I went to my desk and wrote down in the form of a letter what I would have screamed.  I wrote vehemently as I shouted my words onto the page. It was so liberating!  

Just expressing my anger was the release I needed with no harm done and the time it took to write helped to diffuse the situation. We were then able to talk about our frustration with each other calmly and decided on a compromise –we’d first go to Pier 39 and then the Ferry Building for lunch. It was kind of a perfect day. 

Happy kids at Pier 39.

Cherry blossoms in January

Last week I visited the Getty Museum in LA and was totally put off by the scale of the architecture.  It's enormity overwhelmed me and even my experience with the art was unsatisfying, as if the buildings themselves had dwarfed the paintings.  Navigating a museum that size was almost paralyzing so after only a short visit I left (on that slow crawling tram).

I tend to react to large scale problems in the same way.  When I consider big, global issues like the impending drought in California, I often feel overwhelmed and helpless.  A balmy, dry winter is pleasant but very unsettling, to say the least.  

Even the cherry blossoms on my street are in full bloom.

Our dry winter has spurred long overdue conversations and thinking about the reality of global warming and  climate change. The outlook is very scary. But instead of worrying helplessly or resting on the hope that other people will tackle the problem, I'm downsizing my perspective to a manageable and smaller scale: What can I actually do to feel like I'm contributing to some solution.  Action, even in the littlest ways always makes me feel better.

So, here are the ways I am conserving water: we installed artificial grass in our backyard that requires no watering, we limit our showers to under 5 minutes, I'm turning off faucets when washing dishes or brushing teeth, and using only low-flow toilets. 

And, I am re-committing to mindfully reducing my carbon footprint by eating less meat, recently weather-stripping my doors, reducing waste through careful composting and recycling (thank you San Francisco for making that so easy), trying to consume less overall (not as easy), and driving less.  

Incidentally, people report that the best thing about the Getty is the sweeping panoramic views of Los Angeles.  The January day I was there the temperature was 85 degrees and due to the dry conditions a major forest fire had ignited on the outskirts of the city.  The air was so filled with smoke it clouded the view.

For now

When I was younger my friends and I used to add “in bed” to the end of a fortune cookies’ message. In retrospect, it was only mildly funny, but still, we’d laugh at the silly fact that no matter what the fortune, “in bed” at the end always seemed to apply.

“Conquer your fears or they will conquer you (in bed).” 

“Good news from afar may bring you a welcome visitor (in bed).” 

“You will have a pleasant surprise (in bed).” 

“Do not fear what you don’t know (in bed).”

Lately I have been applying a new phrase to the end of things: “for now”.  It’s a seemingly subtle alteration, but those two little words at the end of a sentence can profoundly change my outlook and help put things into perspective.

I am feeling a little depressed (for now).

My child is struggling with sensory issues (for now).

The kids are fighting a lot (for now).

There’s no snow in Tahoe (for now).

And when life is good, "for now" reminds me not to get too comfortable or sanctimonious about a situation, as it may not last.

My kids have become so independent (for now).

Everyone is doing really well in school (for now).

The Dow is up (for now).

In either case, remembering that nothing is necessarily permanent is an important perspective for someone (like me) who struggles a little with impatience.  Enduring pain is tolerable when I know it’s not lasting.  And in those times in life when I am feeling damn lucky, impermanence reminds me to be grateful and humble.