Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Farewell, German Christmas!
Predictably, I fizzled in my Reverb10 prompts. Oh well, I can always revisit them if I feel led.
Tomorrow morning, we'll fly to California for a month. Well, at least Daisy and I will be there for a month while Chris buttresses the holidays with interviews from coast to coast. We're very excited to see our families, specifically, to see Daisy with our families.
As a sort of goodbye to the wonderful Christmas season in Germany, here are some pictures I took last weekend at Muelheim's little Advent market in the Altstadt. It's become our favorite market we've seen, even though it doesn't have quite the selection of the big cities; the streets are uncrowded enough for Daisy to walk with us, the goods are local and handmade, and there are kids performing on violins, recorders, or singing carols on the cobbled lanes. This is our last German Christmas - we will miss it.
Tomorrow morning, we'll fly to California for a month. Well, at least Daisy and I will be there for a month while Chris buttresses the holidays with interviews from coast to coast. We're very excited to see our families, specifically, to see Daisy with our families.
As a sort of goodbye to the wonderful Christmas season in Germany, here are some pictures I took last weekend at Muelheim's little Advent market in the Altstadt. It's become our favorite market we've seen, even though it doesn't have quite the selection of the big cities; the streets are uncrowded enough for Daisy to walk with us, the goods are local and handmade, and there are kids performing on violins, recorders, or singing carols on the cobbled lanes. This is our last German Christmas - we will miss it.
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| Turned the corner to a bluesy "Silent Night" blaring from a loudspeaker; someone handed us some fireworks. Pretty awesome. |
Monday, December 13, 2010
Superstition and Religion
We were walking across the Charles Bridge on a crisp but sunny morning in Prague.
I was reading my guidebook as we sauntered, trying to learn about the statues we were passing and the history of the centuries-old structure. Much of the bronze we saw was worn away from the touch of so many pilgrims.
We passed a certain statue of a sainted priest from the 14th century. He is known for his piety in the face of threats from the king, who drowned him off this bridge. I read aloud from my book, "Devout pilgrims - from Mexico and Moravia alike - touch the engraving to make a wish come true. You get only one chance in life for this wish, so think carefully before you touch the saint." I thought about what my wish should be for a second and then skipped up to the engraving to seal the deal.
I've never had a problem with wish-making before. I know the "Star light, star bright" rhyme by heart, make a careful decision before I blow out my birthday candles, and toss coins into fountains. But something about the way that cold bronze felt to my hand and the image of the cross above me sent chills across my body. I instantly regretted my carefree decision to make a wish here. I'm a Christian, and the way I see it, Christianity is about actions like feeding the hungry, spreading truth, or treating others as well as oneself. It's not about mandatory pilgrimages and doesn't promote many "If, then" rules. It is certainly not about rewards for pilgrimages or making wishes at the right place at the right time.
I sheepishly turned back to Chris, trying to brush off my yucky feeling, praying repentant prayers in my head. Chris noticed my expression and asked, "Um, what did you wish for?"
You want to know, too? You're lucky, because I'm actually going to tell you because it's part of this story, even though it's embarrassing and even a little creepy. It's related to that part in The Lord of the Rings when Theoden is mourning after the funeral of his son. He says with conviction, "No parent should have to bury their child." So, morbid Holly strikes again, and instead of making a generic wish for something like snow on Christmas or peace in the Middle East, I wished that Daisy would outlive me.
"I wished that D would die before me," I shrugged, rolling my eyes. "Wait! I mean the other way around!" "Really - I mean - I think I did! Oh my gosh, what if I said it the wrong way in my wish!"
And there it is: the ugliness of wishes and magic and myth in its entirety. For an instant, I imagined my life unfolding as a modern Greek tragedy because of my stupid, potentially misspoken wish. The good news is that there is no rule in my religion like "A wish made can't be reversed." With full force, I realized the goodness of what the Christian faith looks like, especially in relation to the ancient superstitions: the spirit of the law instead of the letter of the law; the assurance that God knows what we say even when the don't have the words; the doctrine that the Holy Spirit is continually with us and that we don't just rely on point-to-point encounters; the equality of all people regardless of circumstance... These things seem human and sane. Just the sort of God that I would want to have out there working with us.
I've never had a problem with wish-making before. I know the "Star light, star bright" rhyme by heart, make a careful decision before I blow out my birthday candles, and toss coins into fountains. But something about the way that cold bronze felt to my hand and the image of the cross above me sent chills across my body. I instantly regretted my carefree decision to make a wish here. I'm a Christian, and the way I see it, Christianity is about actions like feeding the hungry, spreading truth, or treating others as well as oneself. It's not about mandatory pilgrimages and doesn't promote many "If, then" rules. It is certainly not about rewards for pilgrimages or making wishes at the right place at the right time.
I sheepishly turned back to Chris, trying to brush off my yucky feeling, praying repentant prayers in my head. Chris noticed my expression and asked, "Um, what did you wish for?"
You want to know, too? You're lucky, because I'm actually going to tell you because it's part of this story, even though it's embarrassing and even a little creepy. It's related to that part in The Lord of the Rings when Theoden is mourning after the funeral of his son. He says with conviction, "No parent should have to bury their child." So, morbid Holly strikes again, and instead of making a generic wish for something like snow on Christmas or peace in the Middle East, I wished that Daisy would outlive me.
"I wished that D would die before me," I shrugged, rolling my eyes. "Wait! I mean the other way around!" "Really - I mean - I think I did! Oh my gosh, what if I said it the wrong way in my wish!"
And there it is: the ugliness of wishes and magic and myth in its entirety. For an instant, I imagined my life unfolding as a modern Greek tragedy because of my stupid, potentially misspoken wish. The good news is that there is no rule in my religion like "A wish made can't be reversed." With full force, I realized the goodness of what the Christian faith looks like, especially in relation to the ancient superstitions: the spirit of the law instead of the letter of the law; the assurance that God knows what we say even when the don't have the words; the doctrine that the Holy Spirit is continually with us and that we don't just rely on point-to-point encounters; the equality of all people regardless of circumstance... These things seem human and sane. Just the sort of God that I would want to have out there working with us.
Obviously, this inner turmoil affected the way I saw Prague and the other "religious" sightseeing we did. I developed a distaste for what religion in the Czech Republic has become. (Interestingly, although it shares a border with Poland, the most religious country in Europe, the Czech Republic is the least.)
An example of other Christian draws in the city: Loreta Church
This old church has been "a hit with pilgrims for centuries" because of its Santa Casa (Holy House), considered to be part of Mary's home in Nazareth. It's also the traditional departure point for the long Santiago hike. We didn't pay the 5 Euros to go in.
One more illustration and then I'll quit my topic. Inside the Carmelite Church of St. Mary the Victorious, there's a special doll. Behold Prague's "most worshiped treasure," "a focus of worship and miracle tales in Prague and Spanish-speaking countries."
Religion in Prague, at least on the tourist track, seems to maintain a medieval flavor of superstition that surprised me. It threw into relief my own thoughts about prayer, and re-understanding religious convictions is always a good thing. Travel's fun.
Czech Beer
It's the land of the original Pilsner and the original Budweiser. We had heard a lot about the greatness of Czech beer and were excited to try it. Thus, we slotted our first lunch at the Strahov Monastery's brewery up near Prague's castle.
They serve a handful of varieties of beer, all unpasteurized and unfiltered. We got to try an IPA, an amber, and a dark beer called St. Norbert.
This was, without question, the best beer we've ever tasted. If we go back to Prague, we'll probably make a point to come here every day.
Since we were eating and some customers were just grabbing a drink, and since Daisy is a proven conversation starter, we got to know quite a few neighbors at these tables. One couple came from Vienna, where the man was a professor of German literature. Another couple came from London. This man kept exclaiming "Well done! Well DONE!" when he heard about Chris' position at the MPI. Another couple that we met came from Illinois, and they suggested that it was easier traveling with a 2-year-old than with a teenager. I can see their point.
During the rest of the trip, we checked off the rest of the beers on our list...
In my German guidebook that I borrowed from the library, I found a list describing the beers. It said that Branik brewery actually uses the river water of the Moldau in its beers. We couldn't find it on tap, so settled for a bottle. Unfortunately, it was so disappointing that I couldn't finish it. Now I know why it's not on tap anywhere!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Wooden Sled
Our downstairs neighbors have a classic European sled, which they lent us for a little try today. We are all in love! I think we've found a potential Christmas present...
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| On the "sidewalk" through the park |
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| Chris' last turn before going to work |
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| I taught Daisy to scream (happy screams) all the way down. |
Party
Reverb 10, December 9 – Party.
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans. (Author: Shauna Reid)
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans. (Author: Shauna Reid)
Fun, loud, crowded, friends.
Accordions.
Pretzels.
Lederhosen.
Dancing on tables.
Oktoberfest.
Munich, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Beautifully Different
Reverb 10, December 8 – Beautifully Different.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful. (Author: Karen Walrond)
Something about me is that I love trying new things. I'm sure practically everybody gets excited by novelty and escape from the hum-drum. My perfect calendar includes big plans for the weekend, new menus, and reading guidebooks. I'm a sucker for crystal-clear or blue or tie-die Pepsi. I avoid watching a movie for the 2nd time, cooking a recipe with the same ingredients I used before, and cleaning.
Something about trying new things is that they sometimes flop. I've spoiled way too many meals for guests than is appropriate for someone who "likes to cook," I routinely get my family lost in unfamiliar cities, and I have this bottle of dark blue nail polish that I will probably never open.
Something that makes me different is that, when trying New Thing and sensing Flop's approach, I never give up. I can almost taste the botched final product, but I continue on, bolstered by hope and giddy with nerves. Sometimes Flop wins, and sometimes I'm lucky. For better or for worse, I rarely follow the advice of my doubts.
Now, if you'll excuse me, my friends are coming over and I think that this would be a perfect time to try my hand at a cheese souffle.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful. (Author: Karen Walrond)
Something about me is that I love trying new things. I'm sure practically everybody gets excited by novelty and escape from the hum-drum. My perfect calendar includes big plans for the weekend, new menus, and reading guidebooks. I'm a sucker for crystal-clear or blue or tie-die Pepsi. I avoid watching a movie for the 2nd time, cooking a recipe with the same ingredients I used before, and cleaning.
Something about trying new things is that they sometimes flop. I've spoiled way too many meals for guests than is appropriate for someone who "likes to cook," I routinely get my family lost in unfamiliar cities, and I have this bottle of dark blue nail polish that I will probably never open.
Something that makes me different is that, when trying New Thing and sensing Flop's approach, I never give up. I can almost taste the botched final product, but I continue on, bolstered by hope and giddy with nerves. Sometimes Flop wins, and sometimes I'm lucky. For better or for worse, I rarely follow the advice of my doubts.
Now, if you'll excuse me, my friends are coming over and I think that this would be a perfect time to try my hand at a cheese souffle.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Community
Reverb 10, December 7 – Community.
Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? (Author: Cali Harris)
I am sure lucky that English is my native language at this point in world history. Our family can travel with the comfort of knowing that tourist offices, not to mention most educated people, will be able to understand us if we need help. We can move to Germany and, while trying to speak German, be able to develop deeper relationships in English than our German would otherwise allow us to. I love having people to really talk to about the culture and the insider hints about what's available for kids here.
The English-speaking German families who have reached out to me and Daisy are my most prized community this year. Here are some snapshots of Daisy and her friends this year; viewers must imagine the corresponding mother who was chatting with me while the picture was taken.
Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? (Author: Cali Harris)
I am sure lucky that English is my native language at this point in world history. Our family can travel with the comfort of knowing that tourist offices, not to mention most educated people, will be able to understand us if we need help. We can move to Germany and, while trying to speak German, be able to develop deeper relationships in English than our German would otherwise allow us to. I love having people to really talk to about the culture and the insider hints about what's available for kids here.
The English-speaking German families who have reached out to me and Daisy are my most prized community this year. Here are some snapshots of Daisy and her friends this year; viewers must imagine the corresponding mother who was chatting with me while the picture was taken.
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| Casper, Thea, and Daisy jumping on the bed at home |
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| Konstantin and Daisy at K's 3rd birthday party |
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| Berenike and Daisy out for lunch |
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| Daisy and Lis at the zoo |
2011? We'll be in a new place, so hopefully we'll get some more friendly fams around us. What would be truly wonderful would be to continue keeping in touch with these special friends we've made here for years to come. I dream of doing "exchanges" with them when our kids are teenagers!
Prague: Day 1
Right after we arrived at 7 AM from a loud and clunky short night's sleep on the train, we stopped at an amazing cafe for breakfast. It was my first time having the elongated Czech rolls, generously topped with caraway and salt. They're eaten with all toppings, even jams. I loved the savory/sweet combination.
Then, we checked into our nice little hotel. It shared a quiet square with a yellow church. There were three things that, besides a perfectly comfortable stay, would make us want to stay here again: 1) They have a bird named Beppa or something. Daisy loved him. 2) They have a bottle of champagne sitting out on the breakfast buffet. 3) One night, I was looking for Daisy's PJ's and eventually found them, folded and with one button done, under her pillow in the pack-n-play. What a sweet maid.
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| Brief walk from Hotel Hastal into the old town |
Tyn Church was Catholic before Hus, but the Hussites managed to maintain ownership of the building for two hundred years after his death. In 1620, the Hapsburg (Catholic) victory over the Czechs meant that the symbolic golden chalice once marking the building was melted down and created into the Virgin Mary still shining over the now empty niche on Tyn Church.
The mechanically advanced astronomical clock performs a little top-of-the-hour show. Like in Krakow, a bugler joins in with a call from the top of the clock's tower.
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| Prague's Astronomical Clock |
Charles Bridge, another famous landmark, is from the 14th century, and until the 1800's it was the only bridge over the Vlatava (Moldau) river.
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| Apparently, Dixieland on the bridge is a "thing" |
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| The waters of the Moldau, made famous by Smetana's Ma Vlast |
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| Chris and sleeping Daisy |
Even though we were exhausted, we decided to walk up to the top of the hill to see an old monastery. It took forever, but the trees glowed, the views were fabulous, and we had a special time in quiet nature.
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| Charles Bridge, Tyn Church, etc. Prague is known as The City of a Thousand Spires for a reason |
We had lunch at the monastery and toured Prague Castle, but I'll write about those experiences later. After that busy first day, we paused to watch the sun set by the banks of the Moldau before finding dinner and collapsing in bed. End of day 1.
Monday, December 6, 2010
St. Nicholas Day
As a boy, he was known for his benevolence. He climbed up people's homes to pour money down their chimneys so that they would think that it came from heaven. The townspeople of Myra found out it was him and made him their bishop. Although they had many good years, there came a famine, which led Nicholas to go to the sea and pray. The next day, a ship came, and Nicholas bargained with the captain successfully, which saved the city.
Nowadays, German kids wake up on the morning of December 6th, St. Nicholas Day, to find their boots filled with treats from Nicholas. The saint also found our door:
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| These Lindt Choclate Nicholases are perfectly boot-sized |
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| Excited to have a lollipop before 8 AM |
Make
Reverb 10, December 6 – Make.
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (Author: Gretchen Rubin)
I am always in the middle of projects. I start a new one and forget about the old one for a while, but I almost always return to it eventually when the inspiration returns. I guess I never really treat arts and crafts time as a rigorous operation. It's similar to the way I meander through stacks of books. Chris just told me this morning that I could never survive as him and that he could never survive as me. It's true. He doesn't read something unless it's cover-to-cover, with no breaks for other books. That's the discipline that makes him such a good chemist, though. I'm sure my non-discipline is useful somehow...
Anyway, my current projects include:
1) A sweater shirt that I am attempting to knit for Daisy without a pattern. I took her to the yarn store and let her pick out her yarn, which was fun. She chose a dusty orange cashmere blend which is easy to work with on my size 7 needles. I get overwhelmed with counting stitches, so I'm kind of estimating, which gives the whole project an air of suspense.
2) A set of folded golden stars that look kind of like gift bows. I'm making them out of strips of metallic gold paper, four strips per star. They're pretty, I like them a lot. It's supposedly a Danish pattern, which I'm actually following in this craft.
3) My grandmother has a quilt with specialty squares featuring embroidered names and images for the grandchildren. My job is to make a square for Daisy - I'm so not skilled in stitching (patience! carefulness!), but I love contributing to the quilt in my own puckered way.
Future project:
I would love to make a quilt for Daisy's bed, make a stained glass window, design a house, paint a canvas based on one of my photographs of Venice, write a pop song, assemble photo albums from our trips, write a book, carve wooden toys, and found an American version of the open air folk museums I've visited in Scandinavia. There is much much more that I can't remember right now. As I look at this list, I realize that I'll either lead a remarkable life or I'll never be happy.
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (Author: Gretchen Rubin)
I am always in the middle of projects. I start a new one and forget about the old one for a while, but I almost always return to it eventually when the inspiration returns. I guess I never really treat arts and crafts time as a rigorous operation. It's similar to the way I meander through stacks of books. Chris just told me this morning that I could never survive as him and that he could never survive as me. It's true. He doesn't read something unless it's cover-to-cover, with no breaks for other books. That's the discipline that makes him such a good chemist, though. I'm sure my non-discipline is useful somehow...
Anyway, my current projects include:
1) A sweater shirt that I am attempting to knit for Daisy without a pattern. I took her to the yarn store and let her pick out her yarn, which was fun. She chose a dusty orange cashmere blend which is easy to work with on my size 7 needles. I get overwhelmed with counting stitches, so I'm kind of estimating, which gives the whole project an air of suspense.
2) A set of folded golden stars that look kind of like gift bows. I'm making them out of strips of metallic gold paper, four strips per star. They're pretty, I like them a lot. It's supposedly a Danish pattern, which I'm actually following in this craft.
3) My grandmother has a quilt with specialty squares featuring embroidered names and images for the grandchildren. My job is to make a square for Daisy - I'm so not skilled in stitching (patience! carefulness!), but I love contributing to the quilt in my own puckered way.
Future project:
I would love to make a quilt for Daisy's bed, make a stained glass window, design a house, paint a canvas based on one of my photographs of Venice, write a pop song, assemble photo albums from our trips, write a book, carve wooden toys, and found an American version of the open air folk museums I've visited in Scandinavia. There is much much more that I can't remember right now. As I look at this list, I realize that I'll either lead a remarkable life or I'll never be happy.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Let Go
Reverb 10, December 5 – Let Go.
What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Author: Alice Bradley)
I really have no idea where to go with this prompt, even though I've thought about it for a while, but it makes me think of something that's more like "holding on."
This year was my 10 year high school reunion. I didn't go (did I let it go?), but I thought about it a lot as the date came and went. Of course, reunions aren't as meaningful these days, since we can keep track of who's gotten married and who has kids over the internet. But the theme of post-reunion chatter, that people grow up yet mainly stay the same - is fascinating.
Also this year, I had the opportunity to reconnect with a few old school friends (Jenny and Sara) who are now living in Europe. These are the kinds of friends who went to the same birthday parties as me but we never hung out one-on-one. People that I, under pre-Facebook circumstances, would definitely not end up scheduling weekend getaways with because we would have lost touch long ago.
I loved reestablishing our friendships. There's something special about spending time with people I've known since we were kids; we know each other. They've seen my mistakes and my parents and my teeth before I got braces. I know their laughs and who they danced with at our high school prom. Even though we've celebrated many milestones, learned new skills, made more mistakes, and met new people since then, our shared pasts are still part of us, which makes us almost part of each other. And now I'm starting to sound new agey and weird, so I think it's time to go to bed.
Anyway - here's to not letting go of childhood.
What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Author: Alice Bradley)
I really have no idea where to go with this prompt, even though I've thought about it for a while, but it makes me think of something that's more like "holding on."
This year was my 10 year high school reunion. I didn't go (did I let it go?), but I thought about it a lot as the date came and went. Of course, reunions aren't as meaningful these days, since we can keep track of who's gotten married and who has kids over the internet. But the theme of post-reunion chatter, that people grow up yet mainly stay the same - is fascinating.
Also this year, I had the opportunity to reconnect with a few old school friends (Jenny and Sara) who are now living in Europe. These are the kinds of friends who went to the same birthday parties as me but we never hung out one-on-one. People that I, under pre-Facebook circumstances, would definitely not end up scheduling weekend getaways with because we would have lost touch long ago.
I loved reestablishing our friendships. There's something special about spending time with people I've known since we were kids; we know each other. They've seen my mistakes and my parents and my teeth before I got braces. I know their laughs and who they danced with at our high school prom. Even though we've celebrated many milestones, learned new skills, made more mistakes, and met new people since then, our shared pasts are still part of us, which makes us almost part of each other. And now I'm starting to sound new agey and weird, so I think it's time to go to bed.
Anyway - here's to not letting go of childhood.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Wonder
Reverb 10, December 4 – Wonder.
How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)
I definitely never set out to cultivate wonder this year, but it was there just the same. Off the bat, I can think of three things in my life that made this year especially wonder-ful.
1) Learning // We're living in Europe and we travel a fair amount. For me, travel equals learning. Beyond absorbing the specific facts in my guidebooks or on commemorative plaques, the way my understanding of history and culture shifts from cloudy to clear when I travel has given me what feels like another college degree. I know that there will always be things to learn, even when we're not scampering around Europe; the tricky part will be having the sense to honor whatever is new around me with the same expectation of wonder that I grant famous landmarks. And maybe I just stumbled upon it right there - the cultivation of wonder is the expectation of it.
2) Watching // Specifically, the way my daughter explodes with new skills and ideas, the way she demands order and routine, the way she differs from other kids her own age... Life is amazing, and watching someone grow up is very Front Row.
3) Suspending // I don't know where we will be moving next summer, but we will be moving and starting a new chapter of life. Watching the pieces fall into place - albeit slowly - is riveting.
How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)
I definitely never set out to cultivate wonder this year, but it was there just the same. Off the bat, I can think of three things in my life that made this year especially wonder-ful.
1) Learning // We're living in Europe and we travel a fair amount. For me, travel equals learning. Beyond absorbing the specific facts in my guidebooks or on commemorative plaques, the way my understanding of history and culture shifts from cloudy to clear when I travel has given me what feels like another college degree. I know that there will always be things to learn, even when we're not scampering around Europe; the tricky part will be having the sense to honor whatever is new around me with the same expectation of wonder that I grant famous landmarks. And maybe I just stumbled upon it right there - the cultivation of wonder is the expectation of it.
2) Watching // Specifically, the way my daughter explodes with new skills and ideas, the way she demands order and routine, the way she differs from other kids her own age... Life is amazing, and watching someone grow up is very Front Row.
3) Suspending // I don't know where we will be moving next summer, but we will be moving and starting a new chapter of life. Watching the pieces fall into place - albeit slowly - is riveting.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Out of the Quiet
Reverb 10, December 3 – Moment.
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)
Between the ages of 10 and 21, I sat under many conductors in various bands. Since I played the flute, I became accustomed to life in the Front Row. Front Row meant that I sometimes helped by picking up the conductor's baton, which was accidentally flung in a dramatic moment. Front Row meant that I felt the sweat drops and spit flung in other dramatic moments. Front Row meant that I made eye contact and paid attention to everything the dramatic conductor said. I learned the right answers to all the questions.
"What is staccato?" the conductor would put his arms down and innocently ask.
"Short!" someone from Back Row would shout.
"Wrong!" came the gleeful answer.
I volunteered my FR wisdom, "Dry and separated."
We had some brief eye contact conveying approval, and then the conductor would say (spray?), "You're playing the staccato notes too short - give them some more lift." And he'd pick up his baton and on we would go.
Something else I learned was how to make a crescendo get louder. By blowing harder? Nope. By leaning forward? No, but creative idea. The Front Row answer is: by starting softer. Only by creating that contrast, by expanding the decibel spectrum, can the loud sound be heard for what it is.
At first, when I saw this prompt, I wished that I had gardened in the past year. Or given birth, that would have been a good one. However, I'd like to consider the idea that the moments that I've felt most alive have actually corresponded with revelations about the frailty of life. Call me morbid, but I feel most alive when I consider life's end. It sounds loudest when it comes out of the quiet.
My daughter is almost three and I recently - two days ago, in fact - needed to take her to a Children's Cancer Clinic at the University hospital. Her pediatrician was concerned about some large, resistant lymph nodes and just wanted a specialist to look her over. It was an emotionally draining visit; I am not even going to go into the sounds and smells and voices in that clinic because I would never stop bawling. I'm unspeakably relieved that she has since been declared healthy, but during the hours of unknowing I forged an empathy for parents who only dream of hearing that happy news. Perhaps the worst thing on this earth is suffering children.
During this whirlwind of an experience, I rediscovered the simplicity of parenting. Like I was in a centrifuge, I felt the superficial, life-sucking worries and dilemmas of parenthood float away. A noble sediment was revealed: My desire is [still] to take care of my darling child. I don't need her to be any different from the way she is. I will help her find joy in life. That's the same graceful, loving responsibility that I've admired so much in other caregivers I've seen. Beyond this simple realization, I've been jolted into activism. The questions of "What am I passing on to my daughter?" and "How can goodness and beauty and truth and justice and health be spread?" as well as "How can I support cancer research?" are the spurs that have been kicking me into "alive" mode these past couple of days. It's nice to have all of these questions in the Front Row again.
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)
Between the ages of 10 and 21, I sat under many conductors in various bands. Since I played the flute, I became accustomed to life in the Front Row. Front Row meant that I sometimes helped by picking up the conductor's baton, which was accidentally flung in a dramatic moment. Front Row meant that I felt the sweat drops and spit flung in other dramatic moments. Front Row meant that I made eye contact and paid attention to everything the dramatic conductor said. I learned the right answers to all the questions.
"What is staccato?" the conductor would put his arms down and innocently ask.
"Short!" someone from Back Row would shout.
"Wrong!" came the gleeful answer.
I volunteered my FR wisdom, "Dry and separated."
We had some brief eye contact conveying approval, and then the conductor would say (spray?), "You're playing the staccato notes too short - give them some more lift." And he'd pick up his baton and on we would go.
Something else I learned was how to make a crescendo get louder. By blowing harder? Nope. By leaning forward? No, but creative idea. The Front Row answer is: by starting softer. Only by creating that contrast, by expanding the decibel spectrum, can the loud sound be heard for what it is.
At first, when I saw this prompt, I wished that I had gardened in the past year. Or given birth, that would have been a good one. However, I'd like to consider the idea that the moments that I've felt most alive have actually corresponded with revelations about the frailty of life. Call me morbid, but I feel most alive when I consider life's end. It sounds loudest when it comes out of the quiet.
My daughter is almost three and I recently - two days ago, in fact - needed to take her to a Children's Cancer Clinic at the University hospital. Her pediatrician was concerned about some large, resistant lymph nodes and just wanted a specialist to look her over. It was an emotionally draining visit; I am not even going to go into the sounds and smells and voices in that clinic because I would never stop bawling. I'm unspeakably relieved that she has since been declared healthy, but during the hours of unknowing I forged an empathy for parents who only dream of hearing that happy news. Perhaps the worst thing on this earth is suffering children.
During this whirlwind of an experience, I rediscovered the simplicity of parenting. Like I was in a centrifuge, I felt the superficial, life-sucking worries and dilemmas of parenthood float away. A noble sediment was revealed: My desire is [still] to take care of my darling child. I don't need her to be any different from the way she is. I will help her find joy in life. That's the same graceful, loving responsibility that I've admired so much in other caregivers I've seen. Beyond this simple realization, I've been jolted into activism. The questions of "What am I passing on to my daughter?" and "How can goodness and beauty and truth and justice and health be spread?" as well as "How can I support cancer research?" are the spurs that have been kicking me into "alive" mode these past couple of days. It's nice to have all of these questions in the Front Row again.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I'm Not a Writer
Reverb 10, Prompt #2:
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Author: Leo Babauta)
First of all, I signed up for this program without being able to preview the prompts. I would never have agreed to write about how I'm a writer, treating writing like some sort of lofty aspiration. My writing is basic and unpolished and definitely a low priority in my life. Sniffing at something that "doesn't contribute to my writing" seems appropriate for Nicole Krauss or J.K. Rowling or even Sandra Boynton, but not for me. Please don't get the impression that I think very highly of my word choice or structure or that I pride myself on finding that resonant metaphor - because I don't.
And that's exactly the kind of very eliminate-able thinking that does not contribute to my writing.
What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?
(Author: Leo Babauta)
First of all, I signed up for this program without being able to preview the prompts. I would never have agreed to write about how I'm a writer, treating writing like some sort of lofty aspiration. My writing is basic and unpolished and definitely a low priority in my life. Sniffing at something that "doesn't contribute to my writing" seems appropriate for Nicole Krauss or J.K. Rowling or even Sandra Boynton, but not for me. Please don't get the impression that I think very highly of my word choice or structure or that I pride myself on finding that resonant metaphor - because I don't.
And that's exactly the kind of very eliminate-able thinking that does not contribute to my writing.
Reverb 10: First post
I laughed out loud at a cartoon I recently saw in The New Yorker. A mother and her teenage daughter were going through the mom's boxes of memorabilia from her youth: yearbooks, journals... The mom smiled fondly at a book labeled Diary. The caption, spoken by the daughter: "What was the point of having a blog that no one else could read?"
At the risk of joining in the sin of over-sharing on the internet, I'm embarking on a series of creative prompts via Reverb 10 designed to encourage end-of-the-year reflection. In other words, I'm publishing my journal on my blog. It's only for one month and then I'll be done, I promise.
After that enthusiastic introduction, here is my entry for December 1.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today. What would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Author: Gwen Bell)
2010: Suitcase
It's true, we've done a lot of traveling this year. Our number of nights in a hotel exceeds 40. However, even our time at home has been suitcasey. Everything we buy is weighed in terms of if it's worth shipping back to the US when it's time to leave. This leads a bizarre collection at home: we have a tartan blanket from Scotland and a poster from Oktoberfest, but I have lived without a microwave or hair dryer for two years. Even more abstractly, our time in Europe has been filled with moments of not feeling at home; we can't help people who ask us for directions even if we understand the question in the first place. Chris and I don't have a regular doctor, and we're lucky if we make it to the dentist once a year. We're living out of a suitcase, metaphorically.
2011: Settling
Once Chris starts his new job as a professor, it will be first time that we've decided to live somewhere for an open-ended period of time. We will finally haul all of our old boxes of memorabilia out of our parents' garages, yearbooks and outmoded diaries included. We'll take seriously our role in the community. I hope that, in the midst of saying goodbye to Europe, we will be excited by this change and be happily spreading out roots in our new American home by this time next year.
At the risk of joining in the sin of over-sharing on the internet, I'm embarking on a series of creative prompts via Reverb 10 designed to encourage end-of-the-year reflection. In other words, I'm publishing my journal on my blog. It's only for one month and then I'll be done, I promise.
After that enthusiastic introduction, here is my entry for December 1.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today. What would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Author: Gwen Bell)
2010: Suitcase
It's true, we've done a lot of traveling this year. Our number of nights in a hotel exceeds 40. However, even our time at home has been suitcasey. Everything we buy is weighed in terms of if it's worth shipping back to the US when it's time to leave. This leads a bizarre collection at home: we have a tartan blanket from Scotland and a poster from Oktoberfest, but I have lived without a microwave or hair dryer for two years. Even more abstractly, our time in Europe has been filled with moments of not feeling at home; we can't help people who ask us for directions even if we understand the question in the first place. Chris and I don't have a regular doctor, and we're lucky if we make it to the dentist once a year. We're living out of a suitcase, metaphorically.
2011: Settling
Once Chris starts his new job as a professor, it will be first time that we've decided to live somewhere for an open-ended period of time. We will finally haul all of our old boxes of memorabilia out of our parents' garages, yearbooks and outmoded diaries included. We'll take seriously our role in the community. I hope that, in the midst of saying goodbye to Europe, we will be excited by this change and be happily spreading out roots in our new American home by this time next year.
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