Like Cindy, But More So

Like the “Lost In Space” robot,
short circuited,
arms flailing,
I am confused.
Tight-chested,
my lungs are so tense
that the air won’t
come.

Feeling like the 21st-century, female version of Atlas,
overwhelmed,
yet simultaneously underwhelmed,
I am tired.
Reality hasn’t met expectations,
but when do they,
ever.

Desiring to be special,
a treasure,
someone’s beauty,
like a well-worn baseball glove or
a coveted pair of pumps,
flats—shoes of any kind really—
I am not.

Like the fabled Cinderella,
cleaning, laundry, shopping, cooking, dishes
some more laundry, yard work….
and if Cindy had kids, add in disciplining.
I am Mom.

(written winter 1996, never published anywhere until now.)

Choosing a Hero

How do you choose a hero? It seems that the word itself requires that the person have done a heroic act; this implies bravery, courage, leadership. For me, the choice transcends the simplicity, clarity of this definition. You see, their work and ideas feed my soul.

In retrospect, I have also realized that my choice of heroes required that they be alive and working during my lifetime. I need my heroes to be navigating the same complicated world that I am in. It seems that I need to be in the context that they are in. If my timeframe criteria weren’t in the mix, you could definitely add Rosa Parks and Jesus Christ to my list of heroes, among many others I am sure. Apparently I also can’t know my heroes personally, or I’d have to add my mom and husband to my list.

Since I was in my early 20s, I have had two heroes. I have had the thrill of meeting, and actually speaking with one of them…twice, actually! My heroes are nothing like me and for the most part, I don’t need or want to aspire to be them. But they have been a constant backdrop to my adult life and I am comforted that they are still doing what they do best. What my heroes have in common is that they are both performing artists.

Mark Morris is the artistic director of his own company, the Mark Morris Dance Group, which he founded in 1980 (he was 24 at the time). Since that time, he has choreographed more than 120 works including the most beautiful piece of art I have ever seen, felt, consumed: L’Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato. I met Mr. Morris the first time in 1990 when I was working at Jacob’s Pillow, the summer dance festival in the Berkshires. I was part of a team of summer staff that had the privilege of interviewing him. I was the oldest of all the summer staff and, I suppose not surprisingly, took the lead on the interview. Within an hour after the interview, his general manager (then Barry Alterman) came and told me that Mr. Morris wanted me to come work in his administrative offices. While that didn’t end up working out (I met Paul about two weeks later and my life went in another direction), I was elated that my brain, mind, thinking, personality was noticed by arguably one of the greatest dance minds of all time.

I also must note that I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Mr. Morris dance. He performed in Going Away Party at Jacob’s Pillow in 1990 and it was validating to know he was as unique in his qualities as a dancer as he is as a choreographer. It was also that summer that I got to sit in the JP gravel parking lot, sitting on a big rock with Mr. Morris’ mom, Maxine, drinking a beer and watching Fourth of July fireworks. We chatted about what it was like for her to raise Mark, and how much she enjoys being a part of his world. (Note: she was clutching her white pleather pocketbook whilst sipping her beer and gazing at the lights in the sky.)

The second time I spoke with Mr. Morris was after a performance in Fairfield during a talkback during which I actually got to tell him he was one of my two heroes. He was curious to know who my other hero is, but simultaneously didn’t want to know…he said he feared it would be Hitler and then he’d be tremendously disappointed!

Since this is getting long…I will devote my next post to my other hero.

Interesting Tidbit

Oh, and I do mean tidbit. Couldn't be a smaller morsel of info if I tried. But alas, it is all I can muster because I am so sleep deprived that I am losing my grasp on reality. Yesterday morning, I pulled out of my driveway to head off to work and an empty gallon-sized milk jug had blown out of someone's recycling bin onto my lawn. My immediate thought was to want to shoot someone. No lie. This is how I get when I have had waaaaaay too little sleep. Paul and the boys duck and cover.

Anywhoooo, back to my tidbit. The black and white photo of dancers' feet at the left belongs to me and my boys. Thought you'd like to know. Hayden's ridiculously high arches are at the left, Turner's darker-skinned, long, slender calves are in the middle, and that's me on the right.

Snow Day Creations

My boys wanted to do projects today. Hayden decided to use iron-on fabric crayons to draw the logo for his spy society: the Society for Integrity Defenses, which he then ironed onto a t-shirt. Turner applied fabric paints on a t-shirt to draw a new logo for one of his baseball teams: the CT Cobras. And I decided to create new pieces of jewelry. We spread everything out on the dining room table, cranked up the iPod (Beastie Boys and Coldplay were today's playlists of choice) and set about making stuff. So fun.

Scrumptious in the Slow Cooker

This was a bit of an impromptu, late in the day creation, but it was so delicious that I just had to share!

Creamy and Zesty Chicken
Ingredients
2 lbs cubed raw chicken breast (about 4 boneless chicken breasts)
4 oz. neufchatel cheese
1 can cream of chicken condensed soup (though if you prefer cream of mushroom, I bet that'd be good too)
1/4 cup wine (red or white, you choose, gives it some zip)
1/4 cup zesty Italian dressing
1 lb thin spaghetti

Put the cubed chicken into the slow cooker. Whisk together the cheese, soup, wine and dressing and pour this mixture over the chicken. Cook on high for 2-3 hours or low for 4-5. Cook the pasta just before serving and pour the sauce and chicken on top.

Note: This would be a great dish for a dinner party; really simple and totally luscious. The ingredients listed above serve 4-5, but there was plenty of extra sauce so you could easily add another breast or two. Also, if you wanted to fancy it up, you could garnish with parsley.

Everyone in my house loved this, even my eldest who is the finickiest eater ever!

My Words for Haiti

Words just won’t come. For once, perhaps I have nothing to say. For days my emotions have been raw, taking in the suffering that is happening in Haiti. Worry pervades my thoughts. Worry for the moms and dads who can’t find their children; for the children whose parents have died and they’re now orphans; for the leaders who no longer have the tools to lead; for the already desperately poor who now have even less; for the lack of infrastructure (roads, water, communication) and the enormity of how to go about replacing it; and crushing sadness at the massive loss of life.

Paul and I immediately made a gift to Bethesda Evangelical Mission www.bemhaiti.org, run by a Haitian-born pastor who is a friend of ours, with the full confidence that our meager resources will combine with the resources of others to allow BEM to bring a measure of relief to those it serves in Haiti.

However, I don’t feel satisfied that I have done enough. I have no medical training at all. And, you need only ask my family about the time my Mom’s greyhound died in the middle of our living room while she was vacationing in Maine to find out how inept I am in an emergency. Suffice it to say that my actual labor would be of very little use to anyone in Haiti right now.

So, then what? What am I good at? How can I help those in Haiti?

A passage from Tracy Kidder’s account of Paul Farmer’s work in Haiti (Mountains Beyond Mountains) comes to mind. “How could a just God permit great misery? The Haitian peasants answered with a proverb: 'Bondye konn bay, men li pa konn separe,' in literal translation, 'God gives but doesn't share.' This meant, as (Dr. Paul) Farmer would later explain it, 'God gives us humans everything we need to flourish, but He's not the One who's supposed to divvy up the loot. That charge was laid upon us.'”

Here’s what I know: I am a good communicator, leader and motivator of people. Perhaps I can use this big, gregarious, energetic, thoughtful personality of mine to encourage long-term “sharing” with the truly desperate in Haiti.

Small groups of people in my church have sponsored sugarcane villages (bateys) filled with Haitian workers and their families who come to the Dominican Republic seeking a better life and a living wage … albeit barely. Perhaps we could work with BEM and sponsor one of the orphanages they work with. Perhaps we could work with the pastors of BEM and sponsor a family in need?

Our world convinces us that we must plan for the future: for our children’s educations, for our own retirements, etc. While I totally understand the wisdom in this thinking, I am struck by the fact that I am quite literally ferreting extra money away while the people of Haiti are starving and suffering TODAY.

For me, something’s got to give. What about you?

Perhaps I did have a few words after all.

More than the Sum of its Parts

Here in the middle of winter, while everything is cold and stark, my mind, like yours probably, is already turning to spring. What is it about us that is wired to always be thinking about the next thing? Why is it so hard to live in the moment? Perhaps that is fodder for a future blog?

To me, Spring means two things: gardening and baseball.

I am already imagining the schedule change that takes place in my house beginning mid-April: where homework must be done as soon as school is over and dinners are eaten on the bleachers of the Yalesville Little League fields while my boys are practicing or playing. I’ve also already begun searching the seed catalogues for what new items I want to put in my vegetable garden and considering an expansion of the amount of space I’ve allotted for it.

My thought this morning is about the commonality of these two pursuits; the idea that in both cases, the whole is often more than the sum of its parts.

Right now, in mid-January, my garden is merely an eyesore. The plot is piled high with leaves from the garden that, once the ground thaws, will be turned into the soil. The stakes that hold up the fence that keeps deer and Turner’s size 10-and-a-half hoofers out of my garden stand gawking against the snowy ground. Yes, more than once, a child chasing an errant fly ball in our backyard has landed square on top of a tomato plant. It’s amazing how a few five foot pieces of lumber sticking out of the ground will suddenly make my boys more careful.

But I know that come June, July and August, this otherwise insignificant plot of land will be bursting with the greens, reds, and purples of my basil, lettuce, cukes, tomatos, eggplant, beets, etc., and I can’t wait!

Similarly, when the baseball season starts, the teams are comprised of children with a very wide range of playing ability. Coaching staffs haven’t necessarily gelled yet. And sometimes, emotions run high.

Yet, by mid-June, individual players have mastered numerous skills and strategies (I still can get giddy remembering Turner’s 56 pitch shut out during all-stars last summer), and teams have coalesced into … well ….teams.

While none of this may be particularly surprising or miraculous ... it all signifies something more to me. As a parent, I eagerly wait for the fulfillment of possibility in my own children. Where will they excel? Where will they meet their fullest potential? What pursuits, traits, and rigors of their childhood will they carry into adulthood? This to me is when they will become more of the sum of their parts. Just as the combination of seeds, water and sunshine can yield one surprisingly perfect tomato, I wonder what habits of mind, body and spirit will push my children toward excellence? In the same way that running, batting and fielding drills create muscle memory so game play is instinctive, I wonder which of our family’s drills or traditions will become instinctive?

It happens to each of us. Suddenly, magically, we all mature and assemble all the gangly, disparate elements of our youths into one, recognizable adult persona. This Spring will find me, once again, taking the lessons of gardening and little league and applying those truths to my children. I am confident an adventure awaits my spirited boys and, indeed, our entire family. I wonder what it will be.