Author Archives: judithar321

An Icy Pause

21 Friday Dec 2012

Posted by in environment, health, inspiration, meditation, pets

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We woke up earlier this week to an ice-covered world. The dogwood tree outside the bedroom window greeted me looking like a cocktail hostess wrapped in a silvery sheath.

out the window

The glittery theme continued in the garden, where the lady’s mantle posed as a crystal chandelier resting on its side, and the lavender wore translucent stockings.

ladysmantle Lavender on ice

The driveway had a coating that was treacherous, but easily shattered like the best stained glass candy.

Driveway

In the woods, it took us a while to negotiate the trail — why didn’t we remember to dig out our ice cleats?

mananddog1

Still, we walked. We saw tree branches, wrapped in ice, reaching across the path with ET-like fingers.

Fingers1

There was evidence of fairies messing with trees during the night.

tree sculpture tree sculpture2

And shades of Dr. Seuss.

DrSeuss

Pine needles turned into elongated jewels.

holiday best

needles2

It was as if the ice, in coating the plants, the trees, the driveway, and the trail, had also frozen time, and encased us in a cold but protective cocoon. A magic trick.

All too soon the trick was over, and time resumed its normal pace, as the ice quickly melted away.

Next week, I hope to replicate that magic by slowing down and savoring every quiet and not-so-quiet moment with loved ones. I hope you can do the same: take a breath and reflect, before we all gear up for 2013.

I wish all of you safe, happy, holidays, and health and joy in the coming year.

GiftPup

“If It Were Up to Me”

16 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, meditation, music

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reflections of grief

Most likely everything that can be said about Friday’s tragedy in Connecticut has been said. Since Friday, I have been weighed down with a sadness that is punctuated by moments of extreme anger and disgust.

There are candlelight vigils to attend and petitions to sign, but nothing will undo what has already been done. As singer-songwriter Cheryl Wheeler sings below, “If it were up to me, I’d take away the guns.”

Right now, though, the one thing that has made me feel better at all, besides signing petitions and communicating with my own kids, has been to give money to organizations that advocate for children. There are plenty of them out there, but here are two that are near and dear to me.

Mom’s Clean Air Force: Like the proliferation of guns in our society, clean air is a public health issue. Air pollution hurts the most vulnerable among us. By pulling together the voices of mothers, fathers, and other engaged citizens, this organization works to counteract the lobbyists in Washington who fight for polluters’ right to dirty our air. The site provides up-to-date information and lists ways we can act in the interests of ourselves and our children.

Donate now, and for every tax-deductible dollar you donate by January 1, 2013, a dedicated funder will provide two additional dollars tripling your gift.

The Strong Kids Program at the McBurney YMCA in New York. I have a special interest in this program. My younger son taught these kids life skills for several years, helping them learn how to advocate for themselves, and my older son has done some academic tutoring there.  I was often privy to dinner table discussions about how much potential each of these kids—who hail from every borough in the city—have, and how, with some consistent, adult attention, their lives could be improved.

Click here to donate.

“Do we have the courage to stop this?” asks Nicholas Kristof in his column in today’s New York Times, where he makes an excellent case for gun regulation. I hope we do. And I hope that our leaders will exhibit the kind of heroism we need right now, and stand up to, and defy the all-powerful gun lobby.

Christmas Traditions Aren’t Just for Kids

13 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by in adult children, aging, friendship, mid-life transition

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A hint of light. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

A hint of light. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

Every year since he left home, a  few weeks before Christmas, our younger son, our very own Kris Kringle, sends us a message. And every year, he asks the same question, “Have you bought a tree yet?”

For a Jewish girl growing up in a decidedly WASP town in Massachusetts, a Christmas tree, and not a Chanukah menorah, on display in the living room was an object of both scorn and envy.

Scorn because part of me liked being different, it somehow made me wiser, more sophisticated than my Christian classmates. Envy because I also wanted to be part of the group. In truth, my classmates weren’t very sophisticated, and a few of them viewed my Jewishness as a “weird” difference.

Luckily, I was able to partially resolve this conflict during my teenage years by showing up at my next door neighbors’ house on Christmas morning. They always made me feel welcome as I sat next to their daughter, my best friend, and watched as presents were handed out and opened one-by-one.

I didn’t care that there were no gifts for me under that tree, I just wanted to soak in their yearly ritual, along with the love and togetherness that they shared with such ease.

Christmas Tree Tradition

That experience is why I agreed to a Christmas tree when it came time to celebrate the December holidays with my own family. My husband is not Jewish, and like me, not religious. But his family did celebrate Christmas. And so the yearly tree entered my life.

Given my Jewish roots, having one on display in my own living room felt embarrassing the first few times. The embarrassment eventually faded, but my ambivalence toward the pine needles everywhere, the disruption to my orderly house, the Christmas chaos, has not. Each holiday season, my inner protest — before I grudgingly give in — is as predictable as Kris’s query.

Born in the dead of winter, Kris (not his real name) is a hard core Christmas enthusiast. The cold air, the snow, the gifts, and the tree, resplendent with lights and ornaments, and emitting its piney scent, have always excited him. In adulthood, his appetite for gifts has diminished— this year’s list was comprised almost entirely of necessities — but his love for the Christmas tree has grown stronger.

Christmas tree in the storm. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

Christmas tree in the storm. © Cheryl Fuller Sparks

This year, however, Kris won’t be coming home. He’s in Morocco with the Peace Corps. His older brother enjoys the holidays too, but his is a more relaxed attitude. He doesn’t make it his job to call in and check on our progress with holiday preparations. He and his girlfriend, whose family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, will arrive on the 24th.

So I wondered whether we could forgo the tree. After all, Kris won’t be here to keep us in line. Then, the first week in December, this chat message popped up on my computer screen:

Kris: hey! christmas tree made

me:  wow, cool! send a photo!

Kris:  it’s more like a christmas pile-of-twigs-and-branches ….

Olive, palm, and fig. © Karsten Syversen

Olive, palm, and fig.

As soon as I saw this photo, I knew that I wanted a tree in our living room this year.  And not just because Kris will be looking for it on his computer screen during our Christmas Day video chat. His makeshift tree made me realize something.

Empty Nest and Family Traditions

Those family traditions aren’t just for our kids, they’re for us, too. If we discard them, our empty nest will feel even emptier. It doesn’t matter that we ultimately went for a tree, and not a menorah in our living room. The point is that we did something every year and we did it with joy and open hearts.

No matter how far apart and different our Christmas trees may be from year-to-year, putting them up in tandem will help us feel close — even when there is an ocean between us.

This year’s tree will honor the nearly 30 Christmas trees we’ve had as a family, and the 25 or so we’ve had since Kris was born.  And it honors the love I felt in my neighbors’ home all those years ago.

I’ll think of that family as I do every Christmas morning. The parents are elderly now, and the kids live in separate states, but each of them will be gathering around a tree this year too.

Photo Credits:

“A hint of light” and “Christmas tree in the storm” by Cheryl Fuller Sparks.

“Olive, palm, and fig.” by Karsten Syversen.

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This piece was written as a guest post for Second Lives Club.

Finding Happiness on Mount Misery

08 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by in environment, friendship, health, inspiration, meditation, pets

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Reflection

We woke up this morning to the steady patter of rain. A raw, gloomy chill hung over the house. Plus our newspaper was late. Blech.

Then at 9 am sharp, my phone rang. It was my friend Kathleen calling to invite Karina and me for a walk with her and her dog Zoe at Mount Misery.

After a few deep sighs, I accepted. After all, as Kathleen said, we have to walk the dogs anyway. We might as well go someplace different and more interesting.

Not nearly as bleak as its name suggests, Mount Misery is a set of trails a few minutes’ drive from our respective houses. Bordered on one side by the Sudbury river, its trails lead up a hill, through the woods, and past a pond. There’s farmland in the area as well.

The woods always feel so peaceful in the rain.

Heading to the riverKarina in the mistMist cloudriver bendLinesThe mist and wet wood make all the colors and textures stand out in sharp relief.

Eel-log close up

Foot fungus

Rhododendron leaves

Karina and Zoe had a blast.

on the trail

They even made some new friends.

GinnyBlue eyes

There was a remnant from Hurricane Sandy.

ShardAs well as some remnants of hard work by squirrels.

Squirrel work

Squirrel work close up

A tree eating a sign …

No swimming

and a lost and found.

lost and found

It was a beautiful walk. In the end, I was grateful for the rain.

Pond

And my walking companion was ready for a nap.

Post-walk naptime

Stitches of Gratitude

28 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in friendship, inspiration, meditation, writing

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This fall Paul and I have gone on a crime-watching spree. We’ve been turning on the TV, and taking in episode after episode, season after season of detective shows.

We began in pre-World War II England with Foyle’s War, traveled to Sweden for the Wallander series, and are now back in the U.K. following Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect.

Like Madame Dufarge in Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities, I have been sitting in my chair, quietly knitting, whilst bedlam breaks out before my eyes. I’m not as clever as Madame Dufarge, I can’t knit names into my work.

But like her I am keeping a list. Names of people I’ve had the luck and pleasure to connect with during this past year. People who, in this online world, have been both supportive and inspiring.

And so, stitch by stitch, I’ve been knitting my gratitude into a series of hats.

One recipient likened my stitches to a row of brussel sprouts.

Knitting is one of the few places in life where I have even a ghost of a chance at mimicking nature’s perfection.

My original concept for this post was a question: Why can’t writing, or even life be more like knitting? I’ve since realized that I don’t want either of those things to be as straightforward as knitting.

I want both my writing and my life to include the unexpected, the good, and the bad. Those detective shows on TV would be pretty boring without the false leads, wild goose chases, and surprise endings. Writing and life would be pretty boring too if I always arrived on time, and at the expected destination.

In fact, those hats might be getting a bit too straightforward. So for my next project, I’m thinking … SOCKS!

Socks knitted by Ronnie Citron-Fink, photo by Jen Kialba.

This Year Will Be Different

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by in adult children, friendship, mid-life transition

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This family of turkeys has been patrolling our neighborhood for weeks. There are five in all, and lately, they have taken to roosting outside our ground-level basement window.

We first spotted them over the summer: two adults, three chicks. Now we can’t tell who is who.

They stick together these five. And when they appear in our yard, I always check to make sure each one is present and accounted for.

They remind me that this year, Thanksgiving will be markedly different for Paul and me. Like other years, we will be sharing the meal with friends, but for the first time ever, neither of our sons will be at our table.

Older Son will be celebrating with his girlfriend’s family in Connecticut, and Younger Son will be cooking and eating dinner with a group of fellow Peace Corps volunteers in Morocco.

While this change makes me a little sad, I’ve begun to embrace the new order. Planning a meal and hanging out with friends —without the pressures of family— is a lot of fun. And this year, just like our sons, Paul and I will be doing that too.

I know I will miss them. Especially Younger Son, who is so far away and won’t be home for Christmas either. But I also know that the love they feel when they sit at our table will be with them on this day too.

Both of our boys have grown into loved men. They carry home with them wherever they go.

For that, I am truly grateful.

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This post was published today on Women’s Voices for Change.

We Are the Good Guys

14 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in environment, politics, writing

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A couple of summers ago, my sons encouraged me to read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a novel about a father and son fighting for survival as they traverse a cold, sunless, ash-covered landscape. What touched me most about the book was the way the father tried to explain, even normalize, this post-apocalyptic world for his son.

In this fictional world, other people pose a threat. They may help you, but they are more likely to kill you. The father helped his son understand this dangerous world by dividing it into good guys and bad guys.

“This is what the good guys do,” he told his son. “They keep trying. They don’t give up.”

Amid the devastation left by Hurricane Sandy, I imagine parents up and down the Eastern Seaboard are doing the same for their children. They have to put a hopeful spin on their new reality and project an optimistic future.

Fortunately, in today’s post-Sandy, nonfiction catastrophe, most people are “the good guys.” Together, they are helping each other navigate their devastated lives.

I’ve watched this video taken in Rockaway Queens over and over again.

I can’t get the images out of my head: streets buried in sand, cars scattered into piles like pick-up sticks. “It’s like a scene from some end-of-the-world movie,” says the film’s narrator. It has been weeks since Sandy raged through this neighborhood, and many people are still without power, heat, or hot water.

This is where we are. We can’t go back. We can only move forward. But the fork in the road that will take us toward McCarthy’s dystopian future is ever closer.

These superstorms are the new normal. And while it will take decades to bring our planet back from the brink, actions we take now can slow and maybe even halt climate change tomorrow.

We have to be like the good guys in McCarthy’s book, who keep trying  and don’t give up.

Fighting for a clean and safe environment is like every other battle we’ve undertaken.  We haven’t made progress in attaining civil rights, equality for women, or gay rights by asking politely. We demand those rights, loudly, consistently — because we are entitled to them.

We must do no less in our fight to stop climate change. Not only are we and future generations entitled to a clean and healthy environment, our lives, and theirs, depend on it.

A slightly different version of this post appeared on Moms Clean Air Force. Click here to act now and join the good guys.

This Zine Is the Real Thing

07 Wednesday Nov 2012

Posted by in aging, art, friendship, inspiration, writing

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“Age” © Elizabeth Cohen

Sometime during the summer of 2009, I received an email from my friend, Martha Nichols, inviting me to participate in a literary blog she was starting called “Talking Writing.” A seasoned writer and editor, Martha sent the email to several of her writing colleagues asking them to participate in and comment on her new endeavor.

A year later, in the fall of 2010, Martha and the equally experienced, Elizabeth Langosy, with some help from me, launched Talking Writing: A Magazine for Writers. Since that time, I have had the great luck and pleasure to be a part of this groundbreaking endeavor.

Working long hours, Martha and Elizabeth have poured their brilliance and passion into creating a fully formed magazine that is beautiful to look at and loaded with thoughtful and unique voices and perspectives. If you haven’t read it, you should.

In fact, I’d encourage all of my blogging friends to think about pitching a piece or two. TW can’t offer you money — what literary magazine can? — but  you will have the satisfaction of working with its talented team of editors, and your byline will appear in the pages of a zine that receives close to 9000 hits per month.

While I enjoy the freedom of writing unedited on my own blog, it also feels good to put myself in the hands of these capable and talented women. They help their writers develop their pieces in the most supportive way possible. Martha and Elizabeth are great teachers and they always make my work better.

So I was flattered when they asked to republish a post from my blog. Martha assured me that it just required a “few, minor edits.” And while she was true to her word, those edits helped turn a blog post into a publishable piece.

“Porcelain Bones,” appeared here last March as “Inside a Potter’s Studio, a Daughter Finds Answers.” I hope you will give the edited version a read. While you are there, check out the rest of TW’s November/December issue — and if you haven’t already, take a few extra seconds to subscribe.

Turning Back the Clocks

05 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in aging, environment, meditation, pets, politics

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Last weekend we turned back the clocks. We do this every autumn in the U.S. — excepting Hawaii and parts of Arizona. I always savor the extra hour in the morning, yet as the day progresses, and the light thins, that bonus hour is soon forgotten. During this annual transition, evidence of time’s passage is everywhere.

The heat of late summer is long gone, and the brilliance of early fall is fading fast. The winds from Hurricane Sandy expedited the process. But a few, last gasps of color remain.

Changing the clocks marks the passage of Time.

Those turkey chicks that sashayed through the yard last August are all grown up.

Time.

We buried our 16-year old cat, Boots in September. She was a plump bundle of thick black fur that padded around on dainty white feet. Boots, I should mention, was an excellent mouser, and she proudly announced every kill in a loud, guttural, yowl. When she joined our family, she was tiny enough to fit inside a teacup, and our boys were aged 10 and 13.

Time.

She has been gone less than two months, and yet her grave has already weathered its first major storm.

And more Time.

The race toward winter has begun. This dogwood shrub, for example, has already donned its red winter coat.

With most of the leaves down, we can now see through the woods behind our house into the farmer’s fields and beyond.

We can turn the clocks back, set them ahead, and stop them. But no matter what we do to our timepieces, the future arrives with every minute.

Tomorrow is election day. The future of our country’s 99% hangs in the balance. Will the voters turn back the clock, erasing hard fought gains and reopening old battlefields? Or will they keep up with Time and allow the country to continue moving forward?

48 Hours in Portland, Oregon

02 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by in friendship, inspiration, travel

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We left on the Thursday before hurricane Sandy made its way up the East Coast. We knew it was coming, but nothing was certain. After one, slightly tense discussion, we decided to take our chances and head west.

From the plane

We stayed in a tiny bungalow — 750 square feet, to be exact — that included a sofa bed, TV, kitchen, dining area, and bathroom. The inside was Ikea-made from top to bottom.

We’d rented a car so that Paul could take some side trips to visit his brother, who was in a hospital in nearby Vancouver, Washington.

On our first morning, we awoke to rain that continued throughout our visit. While Paul was with his brother I spent a good deal of time in Powell’s Books and drinking tea.

At this particular cafe, the teacups were dainty, but the music was not. It had an edgy, tough vibe. And yes, that’s my hat on the table. I’m conflicted about hats. I love them, but not the resulting “hat hair.” This particular hat had been sitting on my desk at home, unworn, for months. I’m glad I brought it, it was the perfect shield for Portland’s drizzle.

But enough about hats, Portland is all about the food. Our first breakfast took place in a French bakery near our place. Perhaps not the best croissants in town (more about those later) but they sure were buttery.

Perfectly poached eggs atop grilled tomatoes and pesto with squash and home fries, croissant also included.

The rain prevented me from taking many photos but it let up on Saturday, while we were at the farmer’s market at Portland State University.

“Hot” peppers

The kids at the market had a chance to show off their formidable pumpkin-carving skills.

Some of the farmers also displayed their Halloween spirit, like these friendly “scarecrows.”

By Saturday night, it was clear that given Sandy’s trajectory, our flights back to Boston on Monday would likely be cancelled. Luckily, we were able to reschedule our departure for early the next morning.

But not before we had a fabulous meal with some new friends. Can you believe I met Leslie online, through my friend Heather in Arles? It was a match made in heaven.

Leslie and her husband Scott insisted on taking us out to dinner. We ate at the Bent Brick. Scott convinced us that we’d be doing him a tremendous favor by taking the “whole menu” option. Yes, dear readers, we ate the whole thing.

The food was amazing, the company even more so. It felt like we were reconnecting with two old friends. The conversation covered our careers, our kids, our homes, our dogs, and politics — our mutual desire to live in a country of “we” and not one of “me.”

As Paul said, we could have talked to them all night. We closed down the restaurant. When we said good-bye, Scott handed us a care package for our trip home. It contained the day’s New York Times, the best croissants, and a bag of local hazelnuts from their food co-op.

We went to bed at midnight and got up at 4 am to make our plane.

I want more. We’re going back.