Winning Connections

13 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in inspiration, writing

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Once upon a time, when writers like me were well paid for their work, an editor I wrote for joked that just for fun, he’d like to print the next issue of the business research newsletter we were working on in Wingdings font. “Just to see if anyone will notice.”

Back then, writers didn’t interact with readers so much. This particular editor always enclosed a short thank you note when he mailed me my print copies, acknowledging a job well done, and any particular challenges we’d faced in completing the article. I miss him.

And while those checks and thank you notes are no longer rolling in, I have found that writing online comes with its own set of perks. For one thing, I am connected to my readers. They respond to my ideas and we have an online conversation. I also can reach out to other like-minded souls by commenting on their posts. Holed up in my little home office, I value those connections more than I can say.

Even better is that these connections are not limited by geography. One of my favorite online friends is Heather Robinson, whose blog, Lost in Arles provides a guided tour of Provence. And this tour doesn’t take you to the usual tourist spots. Mais non! When you tag along with Heather and her faithful dog, Ben, you are traveling with a local, eating as a local, and experiencing the region as a local.

Velvet eyes © Heather Robinson

Antiques Market © Heather Robinson

As a fellow redhead, lover of dogs, nature, and all things beautiful, I often wonder if Heather and I were separated at birth. So I was surprised, flattered, and delighted when Heather announced that she was awarding me and four others BOTH the Blog on Fire Award and the Liebster Blog Award. Thank you Heather, and bisous to you and Ben.

As part of accepting the Blog on Fire Award, I am asked  to share five things about myself that you may not know.

  1. I recently accepted a part-time job at a wonderful little store in Concord Center. What do I like most about this job? The fact that I can channel my inner fashionista and dress up two days a week.
  2. My 16-month old puppy Karina and I are taking a class in “household manners.” Here’s the question, Who is being trained: her or me?
  3. I secretly, desperately wish I could speak fluent French, how else will I ever move to France and have a regular coffee date with Heather?
  4. I swim 3/4 of a mile 3 times a week. After two years of consistent effort, I am still waiting for the chiseled upper arms to emerge.
  5. I don’t cook as much as my foodie friends might think. Without my husband to shop and cook, I’d probably exist on tofu, eggs, toast, and the occasional vegetable.

As a winner, I also get to pass these awards along to my own favorite five. As Heather noted in her post, “Something wonderful that both of these awards have in common is that they are in recognition of blogs with under 200 followers.” A couple of my own favorite five may have exceeded the 200-follower mark. However, they all meet my criteria:

  • I  faithfully “follow” each of them, rarely missing a post
  • They post regularly
  • Their topic makes my heart sing, challenges my brain, and/or whets my appetite
  • We are “connected” (see paragraph 3 above)

*For the winners, please see the “rules” at the bottom of this post. 

And the winners are:

Kathleen Volp artblog —Fine artist Kathleen Volp brings you into her exploration of language and image as she shares the process and thinking behind her artwork. Here’s your chance to learn what makes an extraordinary artist tick.

A Coastal Point of View — For those who know her, Cheryl Fuller Sparks exemplifies what it means to navigate life’s joys and sorrows with patience and grace.  Join her behind the camera as she explores life through her lens.

Food and Fiction — First and foremost, Jane A. Ward is a writer — but she also happens to be an amazing cook. Her blog is a delicious combination of engrossing writing, photographs, and recipes that make your stomach growl.

Econesting — Ronnie Citron-Fink shares her expertise of environmental issues ( the “eco” part of the equation) and her love of all things we use and do in our “nest.” Her posts help me understand the science and politics of air pollution, inspire me to become reacquainted with my knitting needles, and help me relax.

Martha’s Singapore Column — Follow writer and editor extraordinaire Martha Nichols as she explores Singapore alongside her intrepid 10-year-old son, Nick. Martha’s musings cover the food, culture, and daily challenges she encounters as an American abroad.

The Rules for the Winners

To keep these awards going (and I realize the slightly chain-mailedness of that phrase), please recognize blogs with under 200 followers and…

1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their blog

2. Choose five blogs to nominate and let them know by leaving a comment

3. Request that the chosen blogs pass the Award on to their favorite five

4. Copy and paste the award on your blog post

5. List five things about yourself……

Number 5 is just for the Blog on Fire Award, so if you don’t want to divulge (it really isn’t that painful), there is always the Liebster Award…

Heather and Ben

Judith and Karina

Confession: I don’t really hate pink.

05 Sunday Feb 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, health, politics

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In light of Susan G. Komen for the Cure’s recent decision, now reversed,* to stop funding Planned Parenthood’s program providing breast cancer screenings to low income women, this post was going to be about how much I dislike pink —especially the pink ribbons that have come to symbolize breast cancer.

I was going to insert the following quote from Barbara Ehrenreich’s article, “Welcome to Cancer Land,” in which she describes her “induction into breast cancer,” and eloquently documents how the color pink and teddy bears associated with it infantilize women diagnosed with this deadly and dead-serious disease. (And by the way, men get it too.)

For me at least, breast cancer will never be a source of identity or pride. As my dying correspondent Gerri wrote: “IT IS NOT O.K.!” What it is, along with cancer generally or any slow and painful way of dying, is an abomination, and, to the extent that it’s manmade, also a crime. This is the one great truth that I bring out of the breast-cancer experience, which did not, I can now report, make me prettier or stronger, more feminine or spiritual — only more deeply angry. What sustained me through the “treatments” is a purifying rage, a resolve, framed in the sleepless nights of chemotherapy, to see the last polluter, along with, say, the last smug health insurance operative, strangled with the last pink ribbon. Cancer or no cancer, I will not live that long of course. But I know this much right now for sure: I will not go into that last good night with a teddy bear tucked under my arm.

I was going to talk about how the pink ribbons, teddy bears, product placement, and corporate cancer-related branding strategies go hand-in-hand with our inhumane health care system, where the need to throw a bake sale to help pay for an uninsured neighbor’s heart surgery or a child’s leukemia treatments is considered acceptable.

But I’m not going to write about any of that. Why should I let those annoying pink ribbons spoil my appreciation of a perfectly good color? Instead, I’m going to take back the pink by sharing a few of my favorite rosy-hued objects.

First, a painting that hangs on my bedroom wall. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather, Jacob Scheinfein. It was probably my last gift from him as he died shortly before my 11th birthday.

Birthday gift

Then earlier this week my friend, Jane Ward, published a post about birthday cakes that included this memory from me.

My father was born on February 13. Every year on that day, my mother would pull out her heart-shaped cake pans, purchased just for that occasion. Being the 1960s, we opened a box of Duncan Hines cake mix, added an egg and water, poured the batter into the pans, and put them in the oven. The frosting was always pink.

In fact, it has been a week filled with pink. Yesterday, I came home with this bouquet of tulips. What’s not to like?

Bedroom bouquet

And just this morning, I had to make an emergency trip to CVS to pick up this item for my son.

Pepto Bismol pink

He’d eaten something that made him extremely and violently ill. The fact that he is now well enough to sit up, drink some ginger ale, and eat a few crackers makes me appreciate this particular shade of pink most of all.

*This short clip on NPR includes an interview with Dr. Susan Love, a pioneer in breast cancer treatment. Dr. Love emphasizes the importance of funding research into the causes of breast cancer.

“Paradise” Is in Our Hands and Now Theirs Too

29 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by in adult children, environment, politics

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Every time I see this image from NASA that has been floating around the internet this week, I am reminded of a verse from “How Long,” a song by Jackson Browne.*

If you saw it from a satellite

With its green and its blue and white

The beauty of the curve of the earth

And its oceans below

You might think it was paradise

If you didn’t know

You might think that it’s turning

But it’s turning so slow

You might think it was paradise. If you didn’t know…. This beautiful orb is as close to paradise as any of us will ever get.

The song came out in 1989, when one son was in nursery school and the other was finishing kindergarten. At ages three and six, they were just stepping onto the path leading them toward the men they would become. The song’s opening verse resonates as powerfully for me now as it did back then.

When you look into a child’s face

And you’re seeing the human race

The endless possibilities there

Where so much can come true

And you think of the beautiful things

A child can do

Our boys lived in a protective bubble created by my husband and me. We couldn’t completely block out world events, but we could put a kinder, gentler, and hopefully more well-reasoned spin on them. Back in those days, we could still make our sons feel safe.

But we didn’t shield them too much. When the local teacher’s union called a strike, my boys and I joined their picket line. We wanted them to know that when you see something that isn’t right, you speak up, and that when you add your voice to those of others who share your vision, you become stronger.

They both still believe that. They were transfixed and elated by recent events in the Middle East, and they both support the Occupy movement.

As they were growing up, I often wondered how their father and I would feel if one of them began leaning towards the right. In fact, I remember experiencing a flash of recognition at a plot line in Woody Allen’s 1996 movie, “Everyone Says I Love You.” When Alan Alda’s character is relieved to learn that his son’s increasingly radical Republican leanings are caused by a brain tumor, I tittered nervously.

I am gratified that both our sons have remained on the same page with us politically, yet I am also torn when their comments about current events reflect a skepticism that I can’t argue with but wish they didn’t have to have.

For example, one son sent us a link to Ralph Nader’s response to President Obama’s recent State of the Union address, characterizing it as a “… good counterbalance to all the rah rah cowboy stuff as well as the false populist posturing.”

They are involved and thinking adults now. We trained them to question authority and they do. They ferret out hypocrisy more cooly and quickly than I ever could. And that makes me feel guilty, sad, and proud all at once.

Guilty because this beautiful blue orb isn’t the paradise that it could be. In spite of all our idealism and political action, my husband and I are passing on to them a world that may look beautiful from a distance — or benignly imperfect when viewed from inside a parentally-created bubble — but that quickly reveals some pretty ugly flaws once you scratch the surface.

Sad because I’ll always want to protect them, even when I know I can’t. Even now that they are capable of protecting themselves. Sad that the struggles their father and I continue to engage with are becoming theirs.

Proud because they and others of their generation are caring, perceptive, and unafraid. They know what is right and they aren’t going to settle for less. When we do leave this flawed paradise, it will be in good hands.

Occupy Boston, fall 2011.

*Full lyrics to “How Long” are here.

It’s Not Your Age, It’s Your Attitude

22 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by in mid-life transition

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Middle age is definitely on my mind these days. After all, it’s the theme of this blog.

One thing I have struggled with is the concern that others may view me as somehow less interesting because I am “over the hill.” Lately, however, as I have stretched my legs and tried some new things, I have realized that my experience makes me more interesting, not less.

Age truly is an attitude. What does that mean? Well, for one thing it means chucking one’s rearview mirror and instead staying open to what’s ahead on the other side of the windshield.

In fact, hanging on to that rearview mirror can hamper you in the workplace, an idea that emerged in an interview I did a few weeks ago with business guru Margaret Heffernan.

In answering my question, What is your advice for a woman over 40 who has lost her job during this ongoing recession and is trying to get back in the game? She said,

One of the hardest things around this, that I’ve noticed with a lot of my former employees and friends, is that when they get stuck, it’s because they are looking for things to be the way they used to be.

Nothing ages you faster than talking about the “good old days.” Don’t like today’s online communication, for example? Well maybe getting a Twitter account will help you stay abreast of your adult son’s comings and goings. Following a blog might take you to some new and exciting places and inspire your imagination. And yes, there is nothing like receiving a letter in the mail, but isn’t it also great to see a loved one’s face as you video-chat with them over the internet?

My concerns about aging are also based in vanity. No one will ever mistake me for a 30- or even a 40-year old again, because the skin doesn’t lie. But lately, I’ve also realized that it’s better to accept these changes rather than obsess over them. Maybe beauty can come from something more than lucky genetics. It’s also in the way you carry yourself and approach the world. This theme cropped up in a couple of places last week.

First, in a piece by Garance Doré, a photographer whose subjects are often young, beautiful, and impossibly stylish. In this particular post, she focused on a 48-year old woman who has her own line of beauty products. Upon learning the woman’s age, Doré documented her inner reaction this way,

I don’t want to say that she ‘seems much younger’ (even if that’s the first thing I thought) because ‘seems much younger’ shouldn’t be the ultimate compliment. The ultimate compliment would be something like she’s ‘in amazing shape.’

She went on to say that, “…aging gracefully requires an attitude, coolitude, and a certain serenity.” These words felt downright uplifting coming from a style icon in her  thirties, whose work is steeped in the youth-obsessed fashion industry.

The idea that beauty is epitomized by being in “amazing shape” rather than looking young was echoed later in the week in a piece by my friend, Ronnie Citron-Fink over at Econesting. In “Stay Fit,” Citron-Fink mentions winning a Nastar ski race at age 50 and then shares a video of a 95-year old ballet dancer going through her daily exercise routine. Talk about serenity!

As I work to shed old attitudes and preconceptions, I’m learning that getting older has its advantages. My inner revolutionary hasn’t died. In fact, she is more alive than ever. And because I am learning to please myself as much as others, I’m also gaining the confidence to let her speak.

Yes, I am middle-aged. It’s time to let go and be who I am.

The Value of “Showing Up”

14 Saturday Jan 2012

Posted by in art, inspiration

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I just love meeting new people, don’t you? This past Thursday night I met a bunch of riveting new people — or composites of people — created by painter George Herman. I interviewed Herman last year for Talking Writing. His landscapes and paintings of dogs, houses, and people, drew me in and sparked my imagination.

This new series, which he describes as “realistic portraits of imaginary people,” exemplifies what can happen when an artist shows up for work day after day, year after year. That combination of wisdom, regular practice, and ever-growing technique takes the results to a whole new level. Herman may have entered his sixth decade, but his light is only getting brighter.

His starting point for the series was a face with an interesting structure that he saw in a newspaper ad. From there, he took photos from a variety of sources, played with them on the computer, changing, for example, the tilt of a nose, chin, or mouth, and creating a completely new face. The hair of Shalom Aleichem launched one portrait.

These faces may remind the viewer of someone they know. “Girl 2,” for example, with her red lips and dark hair could be my mother. (These photos don’t do the work justice.)

And I found “Woman 5” just plain intriguing. Who is she? A singer? A dancer?

Herman creates characters with paint the same way a writer creates them with words. As he notes in his statement, “The process of painting, scraping, painting, and scraping continues until the head, the face, the expression, the light fall into place. And they become who they are.”

To see Herman’s exhibit, “Mans and Other” visit Albright Art gallery & supply in Concord, Mass.

When a Spouse Retires

13 Friday Jan 2012

Posted by in mid-life transition

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At the last minute, on a rainy Thursday, my husband suggested that we go into Boston to visit a favorite museum. With this seemingly innocuous request, my personal tectonic plates began grinding away. Thursday is a work day. I should be at my desk writing, not wandering around a museum like a person on vacation. Didn’t he understand that I was on a schedule? That routine is the anxious person’s lifeline when navigating unfamiliar terrain?

In the end I calmed my inner earthquake, put my work aside, and went. I wasn’t on a tight deadline, and after all, spontaneous weekday excursions are exactly the kind of thing we had fantasized about when we were both working full-time.

Such a choice is a great problem to have. Yet ever since Paul announced his intent to retire after 32 years at the same company and start working for himself, I’ve often found myself trying to steady my roiling emotions.

He was already working for this large technology company when we met. Over the years he worked his way up from quality control inspector to mechanical engineer. That work, combined with my own income, helped us to buy a house, to raise, educate, and launch our two sons, and to do a bit of traveling.

When I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer, the benefits that came with that job covered my treatments. With the exception of the year when Paul was bumped down in pay and position due to cutbacks, his company seemed, from my perspective, both steady and reliable.

The same has not been true for my own employment. While I have worked for a variety of organizations since my youngest son was in nursery school, I was laid off the summer before Paul’s announcement. Now in my mid-50s, I am nowhere near ready to retire. Yet the prospects for regular employment, especially for a writer in an evolving publishing environment, are uncertain.

So I was nervous—at times even panic-stricken—about letting go of that security blanket. But I also wanted to support Paul’s dream of being his own boss and doing more satisfying work. For the past couple of years he’d been doing carpentry for friends. Now, at age 62, he wanted to turn that hobby into a second, part-time career.

After a lot of talking, we began some serious research. Together, we met with a financial planner. She believed that Paul’s modest pension, combined with his carpentry business, could keep us afloat, especially when she factored in his retirement savings and Social Security.

We both left those meetings elated. Yet, while he remained buoyant, my nagging fears would seep back in. For me, those meetings brought up a host of issues— and they weren’t all financial.

Having faced my own mortality at the early age of 39, I was suddenly faced with his. Why else would the financial planner recommend that he take out a generous life insurance policy? Because he might die someday and leave me alone.

Also, even if he wasn’t going to die soon, he was clearly getting older. Would the day come when my still-agile husband couldn’t climb ladders, use power tools, or beat our sons at ping pong? It might.

Well, if that’s the case, then he should retire. Today! I countered to myself. After all, stress takes years off your life. His previous job was a hotbed of stress. Also, if he’s getting older, then so am I, and we’d better have a few adventures while we still can!

My mood swung back and forth as reliably as a pendulum. I’d go from being the supportive, enthusiastic spouse I wanted to be to one who got snippy at the slightest provocation. My inner control freak went into overdrive—a few crumbs left on the kitchen counter suddenly became a major offense.

Eventually, the happy thoughts outshouted the grimmer ones. And as we kept talking and planning, we were both convinced that it was time to turn what had become a shared dream into a reality. So he set a date for early June.

Six months later, the alarm clock is silent. We get up when we wake up, eat breakfast, and discuss our plans for the day. There are still many adjustments. For example, because he no longer keeps a set schedule, he’s often at home when I need to work. He doesn’t always remember that writers can’t write and answer questions at the same time.

He’s learning though. In fact, we both are.

***

This piece was originally posted on Women’s Voices for Change.