London Calling

It's Monday morning and I'm sitting in our new flat in Islington, London, wrapping my head around the fact that we're for the next 5 weeks. Sirens blaring from my open window, I view the bustle of the week's start as a bystander. It might be the first Monday in over a year that I haven't rushed to an appointment or scrambled to email a customer (although I did reach out this morning to a few). I get to jump off the hamster wheel of my working life and wander around the cage a bit with my kiddie hamsters as a tourist! This pause is a GIFT that I plan to embrace with all of my heart.

We checked into St. Mark's apartments yesterday, and had dinner down the street in a local pub. It all feels very normal and right. The apartment is smaller than we expected, but we're nestling into it.

Tim is working in the City with the Tower of London in his window's view. He's experiencing a professional bliss, probably pinching himself and wondering how LIFE brought him back to this wonderful city after he'd first fallen in love with it back in 1986. Bea is a bit overwhelmed with how we're going to spend our days. Frankie is champing at the bit to run every corner of the city. Josie's mind is still in the US, noticing more WiFi spots than British landmarks.

Time here will transform us all.

Today? Camden Markets, signing up for a local gym, grabbing an Evening Standard at the Tube to get the local feel of what's happening around here, and drinking it all in.

George

George, my dear neighbor, lay stiff in the hospital bed, the crisp sheet tightened just under his chin. Barbara says he looks much better than hours before when he was gasping for air, his mouth wide open, his body in distress. He’d had a stroke. I’d say an unexpected stroke, but when do we expect a stroke? His stroke came in the morning hours of a Tuesday just a couple of days after what Barbara describes as one of the best weekends they’d ever had together. Museum visits. Dinners out. Temple service. Friends galore.

Barbara and I sit on the couch-turned-bed in the hospital room staring at George, waiting for that moment when she would have to say goodbye to her husband of sixty-five years. We both know the moment is inevitable, but prefer to postpone it as long as possible. “What do I do with all the firewood that George put on our back porch? There is so much! I truly don’t know what he was thinking.”’

“Let’s not worry about that now,” I hold her hand. “I’m sure it’ll be put to good use.”

“His jewelry equipment!” she cries out. “It’s very valuable. I don’t know what to do with it.” Barbara bows her head. I could feel grief pressing around her frail frame like a vice. Just weeks from celebrating her ninetieth birthday, I cannot imagine her surviving its painful grip. It comes in waves, she says. For brief glimpses, she sits erect and eager, and is chatty. And then, without warning, she folds into me, first with her head and then collapsed shoulders until she is small like a child in my embrace.

“We don’t have to think about that now,” I stroke her back. “I’m sure your friend, Bill, can help you with that.” She talked about their close friend who owns a jewelry store in town, one of the many people who would miss George terribly.

“The Christmas cards!” Barbara yelps. “They’re halfway done. Every year, I would sign my name and hand the card over to George. He would then write something personal and sign his name. The pile is halfway finished. What do I do about the cards?” Her watery eyes burrowed within her small face stare at me, pleading for answers. The triviality of the wood, the jewelry equipment and the cards occupy Barbara enough to distract her from that moment in time. I prefer the talk of wood, jewelry and cards because I could actually do something about those things. 

I circumvent that moment in time right alongside Barbara. “You can wait and decide later what to do," I offer. "Lots of people are sending their Christmas cards later and later. Some people even send them as Valentine’s cards.” My blabbering only leads us back to the inevitable. George and Barbara were lovers like no other. George would have celebrated Valentine’s Day with some poignant acknowledgement of their love. He might have fashioned her a ring from a quarter. Or perhaps he’d leave her a tender poem on a napkin, a token she’d carry in her pocket and share with me, most certainly. Or they’d stroll down Craigmoor Road, a path they’d traveled as a couple, holding hands, every day for the seventeen years we have lived across the street from them. And on February 14, the skip in their step just a bit bouncier because it would be a day where they’d have an excuse to celebrate their love even more. Not that they ever needed one.

Mentioning Valentine’s Day invites the sadness back into the room. We both turn to look at George. The social worker walks in. She had just talked to Tricia, Barbara's daughter-in-law. Tricia is planning to head over to Barbara's house to meet her there. Isn't that great? The hint to move the process along falls like a lead balloon.

"I don't want to leave this room," she says.

"I know," I respond and pat her knee.

"Because I know what it means when I leave this room."

"Yes," I say. "I understand."

The pressure to say goodbye mounting, Barbara shouts out from the couch-turned-bed, "Why can't I come with you, George?" Barbara asks him in the same way she would have asked to go to the store. "I want to come with you! Please don't leave me here alone!" I feel tears welling up from my insides. I could sob right there, but stop myself, choosing instead to posture as something solid to support Barbara. She turns to me again, her eyes looking for a reprieve from the pain. “Do you know how he died?” she asks.

“From a stroke?” I ask.

“No,” she explains. “How he died here in this room.”

I shrug my shoulders, still gulping back the salty waters that pool at the back of my throat.

“I was sound asleep and woke up startled,” she begins the story. “I don’t know what came over me, but I woke up thinking, ‘I need to kiss George. I need to kiss George.’ So I walked over to his bed where he was breathing very heavily. It sounded like his chest hurt. I took his face into my hands and gave him a big kiss. My George! I love you, George!” Barbara stops to blow her nose. I long to have a tissue of my own.

“After I kissed him, I stood back,” she continues. “Then he took a big gasp of air, the biggest of the night, and just died. Right then and right there after the kiss, he died. His chest stopped moving. He was gone.”

As sad as the story is that she is telling me, I sit thinking how perfect a death that was for George who in life would have had it no other way. Kissing Barbara. He would take her kiss with him always. That would be the only way for him to die, with her kiss on his lips. I drift in thought, imagining that sacred moment when Barbara’s kiss spurred George into the ocean of reality, the space of eternal love. I feel blessed to have witnessed their love.

The social worker returns to the room and encourages Barbara to get her coat. This gentle push is just the nudge Barbara needs to stand up and walk over to George. I suggest that I go and get the car, pull it out to the front, but the social worker asks me to stay with Barbara. She might need someone there when she says goodbye. But being there in their sacred space feels intrusive and awkward, like someone farting in church or watching home movies of a couple’s lovemaking. Wrong. The social worker smiles at me, assuring me that I need to stay so I do. 

I glance away, hugging my coat, as Barbara stands over George. “I wish I could go with you,” she sniffles. Then Barbara is quiet as she reaches over and kisses George's physical face one last time.

The Running Bear

The day’s weather is predicted to be dreary at best today. Rainy. Cold. The fallen leaves have left our trees barren, and are still blowing around in the air, sticking to the cars and the road. It’s dark when we wake up. It’s dark when we eat dinner. It’s darker than ever just because the sun is journeying towards winter solstice - that time when light is most scarce. The house is a bit chillier than usual and we find ourselves scrambling for that winter gear that’s locked up in an attic or basement bin. “Where are those warm gloves my mom bought me last year?”

Our lips are chapping and people around us are beginning to sniffle with colds. The holidays are rushing towards us like a flood, carrying debris of cookies and cakes and pies and all things loaded with sugar and fat. We eat more than usual and want nothing more than to stay in our cozy beds like hibernating bears.

But we’re not bears and we don’t want to fatten up during these next few months! So, what’s the solution?

GET OUTSIDE AND GO FOR A RUN!

Winter running might seem daunting at first. Looking out the window, you might picture yourself being soaked to the bone, cold, slipping on the wet leaves or snow. And all of the above can happen and has happened to a few of us. But there are benefits to a winter run that far outweigh any of those imagined pitfalls.

A winter run is exhilarating. Being outside in the elements when everything inside of you screams, “Just lay here on the couch in this warm living room with the clicker and that bowl of popcorn!” is an indescribable feeling. You stand there thinking at first that you’re nuts, but realize quickly how easy and refreshing a winter run can be. It really is just a matter of getting out there.

So, rather than succumb to the lazy voices in your head, and millions of years of hardwiring that is telling you to fatten up during the cold months, take these tips and give your winter a new mindset. Let that drive to feel good and get out there come from something on the inside. Don’t be deterred by anything on the outside. See the weather as irrelevant.

Read the following tips on cold weather exercise and revamp your holiday wish list accordingly:

1.    Layer up. Wear clothes that can be loosened or removed to regulate temperature. For your innermost layer, choose synthetic clothing that will whisk the perspiration away from your skin.

2.    Shield your extremities. Winter shoes should have more traction. Pus, make room for warm socks. Try thin, synthetic layers underneath heavier gloves. Minimize heat loss by wearing a wind-resistant cap. Protect ears with earmuffs or thick headband.

3.   Hydrate. Even in the cold, your body loses moisture as it humidifies the cold air you inhale.

4.    Just get out there. That is by far the most challenging part of a winter run.

Be the running bear!

Tips adapted from Consumer Reports on Health Vol. 23 Num. 12

A Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday so I’m treating myself to writing in the early hours about it. It’s 3:15 AM. Coffee is brewed. It’s dark everywhere in the house except for the glow of my laptop. I hear the fan whirring upstairs, a trick we used to muffle sounds that could potentially wake the sleeping baby. Seventeen years of whirring later, the girls still like their white noise makers.

When I think of the time that has passed, I picture someone flipping through a small day calendar at a fury’s pace. Days blur into months and years. I’m 48 years old. Seriously? That adds up to a lot of hours on earth and when I grapple with how I spent that time, I get a pang of anxiety.

Has it been wasted? Have I loved enough? Have I accomplished what I set out to do? Do I even know, yet, what that was supposed to be?

The quiet of the morning forces a pause. There’s no calendar. No worries. No place to be. Just stillness. I can give thanks in this place. Here, I don’t have to peruse my mind and obsess on the rough spots in my life or try to focus on all that is good. Here, I just sit and feel thankful.

Every bruise is just as wonderful as every smile. As I get older, I appreciate the rougher moments and see them like a roaring river after a storm. The fallen branches litter its bank as the waters gush, my heart that stone being tossed around. I bump along not even realizing how smooth those rough waters have made me. People who know me know when I tossed in that river. People who don’t will wonder. That’s life, isn’t it? We can’t know every detail. But I will say that what we should know is that everyone gets tossed about. It’s part of the journey. I’m also starting to believe that no matter how much we have endured in life, the endings are all happy.

The good news for me on this day is that I realize I am still writing my life’s story. I can still make choices.

Some promises I want to keep:

1. Accept I have hot flashes AND braces and it’s OK.

2. Don't take friends for granted, ever.

3. Encourage those aching knees as they walk down the stairs, remembering they've walked me to many places in my life.

4. Take risks in the creative realm because no one really cares.

5. Dive into my heart even if it hurts.

6. Eat to nourish, but never say no to chocolate.

7. Say thank-you more than please.

8. Notice light as it dances around the world.

9. Remember sexy comes from the inside.

10. Love. Love. Love. Especially those who have to put up with me on a daily basis.


Finally... Smile no matter what because all endings are happy.


"The wrong in the world continues to exist just because people talk only of their ideals, and do not strive to put them into practice. If actions took the place of words, the world's misery would very soon be changed into comfort."
'Abdu'l-Baha

It's Just A Face (or is it?)

Life busted my face, the one the world sees. Well, not “life,” actually, but an oral surgeon.

Either way, how can I not see that as a metaphor?

These last four weeks, watching my face transform from bruised and swollen to pale and thin from a life of pudding, I see so much more than a face. I see never-ending change with no idea how it will end.

A face is a funny thing. It is what we present to the world. We are humans with many facets, many sides. Our physical face is what we project into the world as who we are. It smiles. It cries. It contorts with pain. It expresses all of the emotion we have inside of us. It also holds the eyes that reach deep into our souls, telling our stories.

And mine is changing beyond my control. 

Although the changes I am noticing are jarring and unrecognizable to me because I’ve grown comfortable over the years with the only face I’ve ever known, I walk with faith through this thorny path of change knowing, on some level, that the face I show the world will be different in six months. How different? I don't know.

How can I not see this as a metaphor?

Right now, I still resemble Underdog’s girlfriend, Polly Purebred, with a swollen upper lip. As I brush with Colgate, the gappy teeth, punctuated with a darkened dead front tooth, smiles back at me. The stitches lining my entire jawbone sag into my not-so-pearly whites like a bad sewing job, and I scrub, hoping infection doesn’t set in.

The face I show the world is changing – literally -- and, with this change, I imagine I might show a new face -- figuratively -- as well. Perhaps a new side of me, more vulnerable or authentic, will surface.

Having one’s face disfigured and texting grotesque pictures to friends is vulnerable. There were a lot of “yucks and pity,” which might not be the response we’d like from showing our face to the world, but that's what happened. Many people thought Tim had abused me. Some people asked if I’d gotten a boob job and was distracting the world with this “jaw surgery” (more than a few!). Some quipped that they wouldn’t have had the guts to go out “looking like that” and even suggested in a joking way that I “cover up”. The structural change in my face rendered even Maybelline powerless.

I continue to lisp everywhere I go, trying to enunciate words that used to flow out with ease, and I cannot chew until June 10, which means slurping soups anytime I do go out. Of course, my face is still swollen and numb so the soup, more often than not, spills onto my morphing face and I don’t even know it.

So how has the physical change in my face changed me?

I don’t know yet.

But how can I not see this as a metaphor? 

When Food Isn't Fun Anymore

Diet books are nothing new. They’ve been littering our bookshelves forever and, even though they’re all glitzed with different titles, they all end up giving us the same broader-stroked message, “Just stop what you’ve been doing.”

I know it’s not that simple. Having practiced nutrition for over twenty years, I am intimate with the complexities of the simple human need to eat, but I’ve had the forced experience of “stopping what I’m doing” these past couple of weeks and am now asking a new question.

What if we took the pleasure and fun out of food?

Before you pounce on me, let me explain. I was diagnosed with maxillary hypoplasia a couple of years back (fancy word for tiny upper jaw) and finally took the plunge to surgically correct it. As a result, I cannot put my teeth together for six weeks while the broken upper palate bone heals. My food intake is now limited to what can be tossed down the gullet effortlessly – creamed soups, puddings, mashed potatoes, and shakes. I am a crunchy girl at heart, detesting the bland, white and mushy food world. I prefer the textured world of salads, vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds. Anything with crunch! I am now imprisoned in pudding hell, but can’t help but try to find a silver lining.

What is it?

Well, for one, I’m being forced to evaluate what life is like when you take pleasure and fun out of food. It’s not the same for me as it would be for others because I prefer salads to ice cream, but pleasure has been ripped away from my eating experience. It’s no fun cooking a beautiful meal for my family and then sitting down to slurp my bowl of soup. This new reality brings me back to my original question.

What if we all took the pleasure and fun out of food? Even for an imaginary moment. How would that change your life?

Don’t panic. No one is going to actually do it. Let’s just examine the concept and the basic equation of eating.

Eating  = Necessity + Pleasure

We must eat to live, no? Necessity is eating to survive and choosing those foods that will enhance survival. Necessity is food for fuel. But we also enjoy eating food, which is a good thing. It gives us the drive to eat. If the pleasure component is missing completely, we might not be compelled to eat and we would risk malnutrition. In summary, we need both necessity and pleasure, but in balance.  

I can assure you that we’re collectively out of balance, which is a big culprit in our plight with obesity and obesity-related diseases. Our scales have tipped to pleasure (and it shows), but it’s not really our fault. After all, we are wired to get pleasure from food. It’s human, natural and wonderful.

However, food addiction is at an all-time high because the dopamine-releasing ability of food is at an all-time high.

Scientists are discovering that our human brains reach a bliss point, which is when our brain’s pleasure centers get bombarded and stimulated, when we eat foods with a triple threat power of sugar, fat and salt combined. We can all picture the salted caramel flavors flooding our markets and giving us that sublime eye-roll to the backs of our heads. It’s instantaneous pleasure. Chocolate-covered bacon, anyone?

Don’t think for a second that “food” manufacturers (do I have to call Cap’n Crunch “food”?) are not fully aware of food’s addictive powers. They’re jacking up our food every day. Even Bolthouse (sorry guys), which produces “healthy” juices, has a salted caramel flavor now. When I asked the booth guy at the food show why they went in that direction, with added sweet and salt, he explained, “It’s a healthier alternative to Starbucks.”

Is cocaine a healthier alternative to crack?

I can rant. And I will. But I’ll stop now and leave you with the original question.

What if we took the pleasure and fun out of food?

First off. Most food companies would go out of business because most of the food we buy is for pleasure, not necessity. Just troll the aisles and most of what we eat isn’t even food anymore by the time it goes into a box on a grocery market shelf. We eat it because it tastes good and our brains sing with pleasure. Is it really enhancing our survival? No. It’s probably killing us, but we still buy it because it is the pleasure part of the equation driving us to eat.

Is there anything we can do to reverse it? Food addiction is serious. In addition to obesity and obesity-related diseases, it can lead to a slew of mental health problems because our brain chemicals go whacky when we eat for pleasure. It starts a vicious cycle of highs and lows that begin to drive our eating behaviors. Skittles are just sugar-coated crack. Pretty and colorful and blissful sugar-coated crack.

Perhaps America could start a national twelve-step program.

“Hi, my name is America, and I’m a food addict.”

Admitting it might be the first step.

Now -- where is that salted caramel pudding?

(Photo robbed from www.meghaneatslocal.com)

So Long, Crunchy Friend

Dear Lettuce,

You have been such a dear, always there for me. I will miss you.

It’s only going to be six weeks, but I wanted to make sure I told you how I felt before saying goodbye. Honestly, the thought of living without you for six weeks is unbearable. I have perused my pantry and fridge, and felt no emotional tug with anything but you. There you sit in my crisper, so cool and versatile. Just looking at you, knowing you will not be in my life, brings a sadness I can’t explain. I’m not sure living without you can make me appreciate you any more than I do now because I am so grateful for all you have done for me, Lettuce.

I will miss you mostly as the foundation of my salads, something I eat every single day. Did I tell you how wonderful you are? I can dress you with a wide variety of flavors, nuts, seeds and crunch. I can take you anywhere – to a holiday gathering, a mourning friend or a picnic. You’re wonderful for my digestion, keeping me regular and healthy. You’re the perfect balance of crunch and water and you give me so many rich nutrients right from the ground.

Please know you will be the first I run to when I can chew again.

.

Forever in health and crunch,

Me

Why French Women Don’t Get Fat, But The American Women Who Go To France Do

OK, I’ll just speak for myself here.

Why do I get fat every time I go to France?

We know you French women, as a stereotype, are so “plus petite” (and you are) so I ask myself, "Why do I plump up every time I spend more than an hour there?"

I lived in France many years ago and just returned from a five-day sojourn in Paris. Thank God it was only five days! After two, I could feel the familiar lull take over. It goes something like this. “Baguettes and croissants must not be fattening. They’re everywhere and the French women are so thin!” Or maybe it sounds like this. “A crepe here and there won’t kill me. Look at those tiny French women!” Or this. “Butter is real food, not like all those processed trans fat spreads over in America. Can’t be bad. Slather it on! Better yet, carve out a piece the size of a slice of cheddar cheese and wrap that baguette around it!”

When I spent my year abroad in France (a long, long time ago), I gained about twenty pounds. The “year-abroad twenty” was far more shocking than the freshman fifteen. Now in midlife, I only needed five days to gain five pounds. One whiff of the boulangerie and this healthy eating, gym-going, regimented mom of three let the epicure inside of me take over. Taste, pleasure, sensation and enjoyment became the rules of the food game. “Healthy” was implied, right? After all, the food is all real and magnificent and, as we have already established, the French women are doing something right.

But what happens when you put a typical super-sized thinking American into a culture of deliciousness? Five pounds in five days. That’s what happens.

I don’t come out looking French. I come out an even fatter American because I brought my over-sized, “may I have a third café au lait?” mindset with me to the land of small delicacies.

In England, we could order the “big white Americano” coffee. They sympathize with our gross perceptions of food. In France, the demitasse should suffice. But, of course, it didn’t. I needed three to get my eyes open.

So, OK, French women. I get it. I know you're all thin and mysterious about it. But I also know that when you're sauntering around your beautiful Paris, you're not drooling at the fromagerie windows or dreaming about the pain du chocolat you'll be having the next morning. I know you have perspective and balance about your food. 

Maybe someday I will learn to drink from a smaller glass.

I know that's what you do.  

Dear Newtown

To the people of Newtown,

Yesterday I had the privilege of joining runners from Roxbury who came together at the suggestion of Brian Vanderheiden to visit your town for a brief moment and pay our respects. He also wished to raise money from the run to benefit the Sandy Hook Elementary School Fund.

Many of us are confused about how we can help you. We have been asked to contribute money to a number of organizations working with outreach. We have been asked to make snowflakes for the school so the sweet and amazing children torn up by what happened in their school can return to a winter wonderland. (By the way, there will not be enough trees in the world to supply the outpouring of snowflakes coming your way.) 

These are concrete ways you have given us to show our love and support to you, Newtown. Thank you.

And I’m so sorry.

As you know, those of us not living in your beautiful town torn up by this horrific violence and left in its wake with impenetrable grief are so desperate to show our love and support. We understand you’ve been deluged by the media that has, too often, seen your town as more of an opportunistic story line than a town filled with real people experiencing real sorrow. The last thing anyone wants to do is contribute to your pain that has now come in the form of traffic frustration and an overflow of teddy bears now polluting your area (over 100,00 teddy bears arriving to a town of less than 30,000 people). We have read Sandy Scheibel Schill’s plea on Patch to please help by staying away. I think we can all relate to your need for privacy and quiet during this most unimaginably painful time.

Understanding that need, when Roxbury Races began organizing a memorial run into Newtown to quietly pay our respects, I balked. A number of us here in West Hartford wrestled with the invasive aspect of coming to your town. Some thought it might provide an uplifting moment for all of you. Others felt it inappropriate. Potentially, even our feelings about how to help your town could become divisive and the opposite of helpful.

After Newtown officials approved the journey and after talking with friends in Newtown, I decided to join the Roxbury runners who assured me our imprint would be insignificant, but the gesture very positive. We were instructed to park out of town and to enter only a small area very quietly. Thankfully, our runners carried little more than their racing and aching hearts into your town and I say thankfully because when I arrived at the memorial in the center of Sandy Hook, I was horrified.

I stood before the piles of cards and flowers and stuffed animals and notes – some inappropriately political – and my gut reaction was to flee. As we crossed the street towards the memorial as a group, we immediately clogged the four-way intersection where the state trooper stood repeating himself, “Please move to the side. Traffic needs to come through. Please move to the side.”

Standing with my daughter, I held her hand and cried. How unfair and brutal to have people streaming into your town, wanting to “do something” and then showing up with messages of their own pain, their own struggle with what has happened to your town. For a moment, I was ashamed for having contributed to this ongoing frustration. I thought about the over $5,000 Brian had received in donations,  which ameliorated my feelings of helplessness, but money cannot bring your loved ones back.

I looked across the street, desperate to become invisible at that moment, and saw my husband waving me back out of town, “Let’s go!” he yelled. “It’s not right that we’re here.”

I pulled my daughter’s hand and, without strolling by the hordes of sentiments in the forms of broken-stemmed flowers and teddy bears muddied by time and weather, we left the scene and met our friends, John and Margo, in the Demitasse Café. There, I was immediately struck by the generosity of the restaurant owners who insisted on giving us our coffees free of charge, apparently only charging the media. It felt counter-intuitive and, actually, wrong to have you, Newtown, treating ME to coffee when I was there for you. All that did was reinforce in me this sense that your town is that special.

After sitting with John and Margo, I felt blessed to have come to your town even for a moment. You are special, Newtown. I heard the story about how during Friday’s moment of silence, 28 – not 26 – bells tolled throughout the town. 

This made me cry because it is inspiring to see how a town responds to such tragedy. You inspire me every day. The unthinkable has happened in your town and you are moving through it with grace. 

We are all waking up each morning, still, with that perpetual ache in our hearts knowing it is but a speck compared to the enormous pain you are walking around with. In spite of that, you are not only walking around, but showing the world your generosity and spirit.

You are inspiring all of us with your strength, Newtown.

I only met John and Margo for the first time yesterday, although we’ve been “friends” for a while. I will never forget being in your town and hugging two of your loving townspeople who took the time to lift me from the pain you're all suffering. That seems to be who you are, Newtown. 

I am here for you. I will knit scarves and cut snowflakes and pray. And I will stay away until I am invited back in a helpful way.

Our hearts are bound forever.

Finding the Light in Dark Times

Just a day ago, I was staring up at the sky in the middle of the night, hoping to see a shooting star during the Geminides meteor shower. As if the sky held some kind of power to lift me from the quagmire of my everyday. As if that shooting star could pull me from the doldrums and into Life’s Mystery that is magical and open to possibility. I stared and didn’t see one. Twice, I sat out on my deck in the middle of the dark night and waited. Nothing.

And then when I least expected it, on a run with friends, a star fell right in front of us and we all screamed with excitement. It was a joyous moment. A gift.

That was about 4 hours before I would read about the Newtown shooting. I contemplated the word “shooting” and felt sad and ashamed by the folly of my quest to see a "shooting" star. Such a tragic turn of events darkened everything and even the stars felt silly and lost their light.

Today I am wrestling with the concept of darkness all over again. How could something like this happen? No one’s mind can wrap around such a senseless act of violence perpetrated against our most innocent. Debilitated by sadness and rage, I am scouring my soul for some light. Instead, I sit in the wake of the wreckage of one man’s insane moment and feel only the pain of the families who lost loved ones and just cry and cry.

I suppose in these dark moments, I still look for the stars that fall unexpectedly out of the sky.

For me, the stars are the people and their stories. In dark times like this, I cling to stories of people helping other people and suppose that it is here where I find that flicker of light.  

It is the teacher heroically protecting and loving her students, kissing them and telling each one that she loved them, fearing those would be the last words they heard. The light is the state trooper, my brother-in-law, who was a first responder who helped the survivors and heroically helped young children exit the school. The light is friends hugging other friends and opening up their hearts, crying with honesty, pretense gone forever. The light is the awe I feel reading Facebook messages back and forth from a couple in Newtown to their friends in Uganda. This couple gives so much of their time helping people in a country torn up by violence and war. On this day, the Ugandan friends are sending heaven prayers for their Newtown friends torn up by violence.

          Okello Sheikh We in uganda we appreciate ur effort towords the sitation stil we are togather with u in prayer
.





Margo Deselin Woodall Thank you, Okello Sheikh. You know more than most people in the world what this kind of suffering is like. We appreciate your thoughts and prayers.

The light is my children asking how we can help the Newtown families. It is the witnessing of people organizing community events so that we can do what comes most naturally for us during these dark times – gather and hold each other up with a hope we can’t see, but collectively desire desperately. 

So maybe I am staring up again at a dark sky.  

And maybe that unexpected light is the human spirit.

Let’s keep that flicker alive for the sake of our Newtown friends.

Raising Money & Other Things

“How much for the Barbies?” a woman hunched over with age asked as she picked up the plastic doll, fiddling with its hair. Our first customer.

“I don’t know,” I said. “A dollar?”

“I’ll give you fifty cents.”

“Great,” I replied.

We held the tag sale with the dual purpose of cleaning out our basement and raising money for Hurricane Sandy victims so the concept of haggling didn’t play into either scenario. I’d take what people offered.

“Do you have any Barbies with long sleeves?” she asked as she tugged on the doll’s dress.

I looked at the dolls lined up on the blanket, so relieved they had any clothes on, remembering how the girls loved to bring them into the bathtub. Naked Barbie indelibly marked on their little girl brains. My thoughts veered to Valeria Lukyanova, the human Barbie who splattered the news all week.

I reminded the woman that Barbie wasn’t known for her modesty. “It’s not like they have Burka Barbie or anything,” I joked.

The woman looked up at me, “Don’t laugh,” she said. “There’s a market for it, you know.” I stopped and considered the market for Burka Barbie. Sounded more like an oxymoron than anything that would end up on the shelves at Toys R Us, but surely Muslim women are curvy and attractive underneath their layers so why not?? Maybe there is a market for it.

“We must have a coat for her somewhere,” I said. "I mean, the woman must get cold."

Josie and I rifled through the toy bins and found a white one with a leopard fur lapel. “Would that do?”

“Oh yes! Perfect,” she said as she grabbed the coat from us and yanked it onto the naked doll. “Do you have anything else?”

Sure enough, we did. We found a nice Western style shirt and a pink sweater. “I’m buying these dolls for an Orthodox Jewish family,” she explained. “This is why I need them to have their arms covered.”

I pictured Burka Barbie next to the Orthdox Jewish Barbie on the shelf. Thoughts drifted to Israel and Hamas fighting. Before I got lost in the warring stereotyping of Muslims and Jews, I went back to outfitting the “blonde bimbo”.

After about fifteen minutes, the woman left with a nice bag of modestly dressed Barbies and we earned about $5.00 for Hurricane Sandy victims. Josie, Frankie and I high-fived one another. This might be fun.

Our next customer was a minister at a church in Hartford. He saw the tag sale sign and came looking to get toys for his church. He works primarily with people who had been drug-addicted and were getting a new start in life. The toys would be for the children of these people. We encouraged him to just take whatever he thought people could use. And he did. We were happy to see the Madeline dollhouse that the girls had loved over the years find a new home even though I felt a pang in my heart as he carted it away.

The man smiled and waved as he left, “The Lord rewardeth those who give. God bless you all.”

“God bless you, too,” we shouted.

Our loot dwindling and only $5 in the coffers, we waited for our next customers. A neighbor visited, looking for books for her boys. I had no idea our children’s book library was so gender-biased! Where were all those DK books, the ones with the dinosaurs that my girls never opened?? After taking the only non-girl-centric books we had, she donated $10.

During the post-lunch lull, I sat amidst all the stuff: furniture we’d collected over the years, household items we’d never used; games; toys; junk.

It looked like our house had vomited onto our front lawn.

Setting up for the tag sale that morning, Bea couldn’t get away from the house fast enough. She was mortified. “See ya, Mom! Off to the football game!”

Tim, too, struggled with the idea of a tag sale, preferring instead to just toss everything in a dumpster. I said, “Who cares what people think? If people want the stuff, they can take it. If not, we’ll dump it. At least I’ll know we tried.”

Tag sales are strange. You do feel a bit exposed as people you don’t know come to your house and look through your junk for their treasure. But I had no idea how beautifully strange this tag sale would be.

There was the man who bought the three stuffed animals for his cats. Said they fight and hiss at each other too much. He was hoping the stuffed dogs would distract them because he gets so annoyed by their fighting. I told him that only the television stops my kids from hissing at each other.

He explained that he saw the tag sale sign on his way home from bringing his neighbor to work, which he says he’s been stuck doing now for four years and doesn’t know why. “Every day, I bring her to work.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I do.”

Then there was the family who just moved here from Kansas. Mom and three boys. So lovely. Her oldest played soccer with the kids on our front lawn for about 30 minutes. Nate was his name. Loved meeting them.

Cannot forget when the beat-up van with one duct tape window pulled up and out popped a smallish, Spanish-speaking man with a bright smile. After an abundance of misunderstanding, I remembered him as the same man who had taken a bike we’d put out onto the curb a few years ago. It was so nice to see him again. He loved the bike with the baby seat on it. Then he said he gave it to his neighbor who also enjoyed it. At least, that’s what I thought he said.

He looked around and decided to take the metal furniture. I think he was going to sell it for metal scrap. Again, I wasn’t sure.

He asked, “How much?”

I explained about it being a donation. He tossed all the change he had in his pocket into our donation jar and loaded up his van with the furniture.

And, of course, I will not forget the guy who bought our gold mirror. He asked if I could please get it to reflect back to him someone who wasn’t ugly or old. He joked about how people said he looked like Tyrone Power. "I tell them Tryone Power is dead! And then they say to me, ‘You look dead!'"

Disappointed that when he looks in the mirror he has no idea who’s looking back at him, he asked me to change the glass. We laughed and he handed me $5 for the mirror. He also prayed over our house and for those living inside of it and for Israel to win the war.

In the end, this tag sale raised about $82 for the Hurricane Sandy victims, but more importantly, it raised a level of awareness in my family that people in general are very curious and wonderful.

Halloween Is A Dumb Holiday!

Someone has to say it.

Or am I just jaded and angry because I have lost my little girls to Teenager Halloween?

I never really liked Halloween. It was always tradition so I went along with tradition. But now that the kids are getting older, Halloween is intolerable.

I admit having enjoyed sewing their toddler costumes and watching my girls glow under the light of the carved pumpkin we’d gutted for decoration and seeds. I even bought the Halloween accoutrements; my favorite being the witch’s hand bowl that will grab yours as you dig in for your treat. Yes, those were good times except for the Halloween hangovers filled with exhaustion, sore throats and runny noses, all biological consequences of deluging your body with sugar.

Today, sugar is the least of my worries.

You’d think I would be upset about our material world gone crazy obsessive about making money to the point of convincing people we must now string orange lights around our houses.  A commercial nightmare, Target has eight aisles filled with sugar and Chinese plastic. Also, who is splaying their bushes with that white cotton?  One might assume that Halloween stuff, having quadrupled its volume of sales in a year (don't quote me on that), is what’s irritating me.

But that’s not it.  People can string lights. That’s fine. I’m a capitalist sympathizer. No worries. What does bug me though is when I walk through the store and see young moms tossing bags of candy into their carts and reaching for the fairy costume as their daughters beg for the purple one. It is then that my heart breaks. I want to pull those moms aside and say, “Enjoy this while you can! Take lots of pictures! Hold your babies at night!”

I stand there and want to yell, “Yeah, you just wait. That Little Mermaid grows a rack and – overnight – turns into iParty’s sex object. Your cute little kitties become all grown-up and fodder for gawking men. What was sweet and pumpkin just turns all slutty and scary.” I want to scream in the middle of Target. “You just wait!”

Long gone are the simple hayrides where we curled up under a blanket with a full moon overhead, and a possible sheeted ghost flying from the tree branches. In Teenager Halloween, it is a full-blown chainsaw massacre with the damsel’s boobs hanging out of her frightened chest as she traipses across the theme park donning her fishnets. Now she holds a knife dripping with fake blood repeating to herself, “I didn’t mean to kill her.” She follows your babies onto the roller coaster with her eyes glazed over, “I didn’t mean to kill her.” She’s probably got a “handle” of vodka stashed in her car. “I didn’t mean to kill her.” This is Teenager Halloween.

I shudder and go to my happy place where they are still begging to dress up like Hermione from Harry Potter and visit Grandma.

Lately, I’m lost looking at pictures of the Halloweens I thought I hated. I miss those days. At dinner, I beg the girls to carve the pumpkin with me. No time. Too much homework. I ask if I can sew something. Nah, I’ll just grab something at iParty. Do you want to go buy candy with me? Silence.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll go with you. You’re not buying pencils this year, are you?”

“No, I’ll get all the chocolate you want,” I say.

I’ll take the Halloween hangover.

(Photo credit: Lifted from Google images)

Nourishing Our Children with Good Food Messages

School is back in session and the kids are gearing up to learn. As parents, let’s take this as an opportunity to learn something, too. Let’s think about we’re teaching our children about health, nutrition and body image. Our children will reflect back to us what we teach them and I’m here to say that it’s not always good.

The childhood obesity rates have been slowly rising and public health experts have officially pushed the panic button. A world strewn with processed foods is now being condemned and shamed – and, possibly, taxed. The pendulum of eating fast foods and gaining weight is shifting towards being “healthy” and everyone is desperately trying to define what that means exactly. As we scramble to reverse the obesity trend, too many mixed messages are being impressed onto our children’s minds.

Everyone seems confused, but, for children, we must pay particular attention to these messages.

My daughter was informed that it’s OK to bring a corn muffin to school as a snack, but not a small bag of potato chips. Kids are now starting to talk about food like they’re experts, regurgitating the latest nutrition factoid they hear at home or on the news.

“Corn is fine because it’s a vegetable, doofus,” says one of the kids at school.

“But my mommy says corn muffins are like cake and cake is fattening,” says the other child. “And my mommy is always trying to lose weight.”

It’s bad enough that the Twinkie-taxing people are fighting with the food libertarians in the adult world, but now we’ve got a whole generation of kids confused about what to put into their bodies.

The implications? For the fearful child, a serious eating disorder could be lurking in her future. There are new ones popping up every day with kids being afraid to eat now. Food is “fattening” or “bad for me” or “dangerous”.

We have a generation of children in need of nourishing words about food – not confusing and negative ones. This means focusing on the whole and unprocessed foods, putting them at the center of our kids’ lives and teaching them where food comes from, how it grows, its strengthening values. However, it also means allowing them to enjoy foods that might be processed or “fattening” so as not to instill fear at such a young age.

Our goal should be to empower our children with knowledge and discernment, not to scare them or teach them to be judgmental towards others who like to eat six cupcakes for lunch.

“Well, it seems the corn muffin ingredients look an awful lot like what we see here on the Betty Crocker cake mix,” we could say. “I suppose potato chips could be considered a vegetable like the corn muffin because potatoes are a vegetable, too, no?” These words might be a good place to start.

Then it is important to empower them. “What do you think?”

Rather than have the kids fighting over the virtues of a corn muffin or the potato chips, just have your child toss the apple in the backpack.

Most importantly, teach them to think for themselves. Empower them with knowledge and the ability to discern the crazy messages being tossed around.

This might mean doing it for ourselves first.