Getting Ready to Rock and Roll (or Explaining What Happens for Me During Energy Therapy)

I had my first visit with the energy healer, Donnamarie Steffano, in September 2003. I went on the recommendation of two friends, with the goal of "collecting a new experience." Fifteen years ago, I was living in an urban commune of sorts, and exploring the hippie dippie side of my personality. I was a vegetarian, went to yoga dance sessions monthly, and worked for a nonprofit that helped rich people get in touch with their inner progressive. At the time, exploring energy therapies was not a stretch.

Energy therapy, as I've experienced it, takes place in a massage therapy room. After declaring my intention with the therapist (e.g., to get help processing lingering grief, to better understand an eating disorder, etc.), I take off all of my jewelry, and my shoes, and lie flat on my back on the massage bed - no pillows or bolsters. I close my eyes, and let the therapist do her work.

And her work simply sounds like someone moving around my body, exhaling or inhaling deeply. The audible breath sounds to me like that of a Sleestack from the television program Land of the The Lost. I peeked during my first sessions, and Donnamarie had her hands extended above my body, as if she was touching something.

The energy therapist asks for feedback during the session, so she can understand how my energy is responding. (OK, I know what you are thinking. This is the trick. She asks for feedback, and then adjusts her feedback to fit my narrative so I think something is happening, like a fortune teller. I get it. Just wait. There's more.)

She also gives feedback. During my first session, I remember  her telling me, "I have an overwhelming desire to recite the Lord's Prayer. What does this mean to you?"

I immediately remembered my grandmother's last day on this planet, When, after being in a coma for at least two days, her older sister (who was her best friend), came to visit and say good-bye. With the family minister, Aunt Esther was reciting the Lord's Prayer, when my Gramma opened her eyes and reached out her hand. I and the two sisters I was with at the time, alerted Aunt Esther to Gramma's movement, and she was able to hold her sister's hand as she finished the prayer.

I told this to Donnamarie and she replied, "Your grandmother was very short, yes? (She was about 4' 8" at the time of her death.) I can see her standing by your head. Know she is with you right now. She is telling me that she'll be with you when you need her."

With that, I was hooked.

I've seen Donnamarie maybe half a dozen times since then, most recently yesterday, when I went with the goal of finding my center. Here's what happened.

1. After we caught up with one another, I declare my intention of getting help being energetically unclogged.

2. I take my place on the bed and tried to relax.

3. Donnamarie says, "Oh wow. There is nothing moving in you."

4. So she starts doing the breathing thing. Within two minutes, I start to feel as if I am expanding so rapidly that I am going to pop, like Violet Beauregard in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It feels like an infection that is going to burst. I tell Donnamarie what's happening and that I am starting to freak out. She tells me to start doing yogic breathing - breathe in for four counts, hold the breath for four counts, breathe out through my mouth for four counts.

4a. At the same time, I am overwhelmed by the desire to stab myself. Repeatedly, in my abdomen. Maybe to relieve the pressure in my body? To this, I say nothing because I feel ashamed and afraid of this violence towards myself. But fearful of the impulse, another part of my psyche starts singing the refrain from  "All You Need is Love" by the Beatles. The war between the stabbing and the "love, love, love" goes on for a while. I'm also trying to tell myself to relax, to sink into the bed. But a part of my is fearful that if I sink, I'll be buried alive. I am imaging the bed as soft earth that swallows me whole. "The bed is not the earth. You will not be swallowed whole if you relax. Love, love, love..." I repeat. All without saying a word to Donnamarie. She has no idea what is happening with my self-talk.

5. Donnamarie says to me, "You are COVERED in something red and sticky. I don't know what it is. But I'm going to try and clear it." Spooky. I haven't told her I am psychically trying to stab myself. But she sees it anyway.

6. Then something shifts, and I feel myself being anchored at belly button to the bed. And my belly starts swirling. The motion is distinct, and I feel as if I'm slowly disappearing into the bed as I'm pulled deeper and deeper at the belly button down. The feeling is restricted to my belly button (or sacral chakra in energy talk).

7. Donnamarie says "The negative energy is starting to drain." I think to myself, "Oh, that's what this feeling is in my belly. It is like a bathtub emptying after a long soak." I start to relax.

8. As I'm draining, all I can see behind my closed eyes is a sheet of purple and indigo, the colors of the crown and third eye chakras.

9. Then the colors shift to green, the color of the heart chakra, which controls my ability to love. I start to feel as if I'm covered in the softest, puffiest, and strongest moss in the world. I think to myself, "The moss doesn't care who our president is. The moss won't be disturbed by this. I am covered in moss. I will not be disturbed."

10. Next, my hands start to feel as if they are swelling, not in the Violet Beauregard way. Instead, it feels like every cell is filling with water. Or maybe air. Or maybe loving kindness. It is pleasant. The feeling cascades up my arms. Donnamarie moves to the base of the bed and I can feel the gentle swell of loving kindness rush up my legs and into my belly, and it starts to move into my spine.

11. And then, Donnamarie ends the session. Inviting me to slowly come back to this plane, sit up when I'm ready, and be prepared to drink a glass of water.

We end each session debriefing what happened. It is during this period that I tell my energy healer that I was overwhelmed by a desire to stab myself at the exact time she was seeing me covered in something red and sticky. She said my energy created a luminous cocoon, one that looked this a diamond crystal, to protect me during our session. "Ahhh," I replied, "This must have been happening when I was afraid I was going to be buried alive."

Experiences like these help me believe in an energy, or maybe a spirit, that shapes our world, shapes our fundamental humanness. There is no rational, scientific way to explain how Donnamarie saw me covered in "something red and sticky" at the same moment I was doing internal battle over a desire to stab myself. Or explain how Donnamarie connected with my memory of the Lord's Prayer during our first session. Even BMG, someone who once went to meetings of the Boston-area skeptics society, says, "Yeah, that's crazy. I've got no explanation."

Right now the energy in many pockets of the world is ugly. I'm going to push myself to not let it take hold of me again. When I saw the neighbor taking his walk this morning, smiling and wearing his "Make America Great Again" hat, I subtly gave him the finger. Feeling the ugly energy start to creep in, I shifted to yogic breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out. From there, I decided that if he and I were to make eye contact the next time we saw one another, I'd ask him what parts of America he thinks weren't great. Luckily, I didn't have to do that (baby steps, right).

I think I can do this. I have to do this. I'll be ready.

Numbers and Letters

"Let's play the numbers and letters game," I would declare. Then whichever of my siblings wanted to spend an hour dreaming of a better life would pile onto the couch and the fantasy would begin.

It went like this:

1. The person sitting in the middle would hold the J.C. Penney catalogue.
2. We would claim a letter and a number. "A" and "1" were the best.
3. We would then flip through nearly every page of the catalogue, identifying which outfits, toys, and home furnishings would become "ours" based on the numbers and letters we had chosen. If you picked A or 1, whichever item bore that letter or number in the catalogue would go in your fantasy home. 

We would play this invented game for hours, going through nearly the entire catalogue, skipping only the men's fashion and tools. 

Numbers and letters was complemented by other games my siblings and I played together. Games that involved creating 2D architectural renderings of our dream homes, or building elaborate homes out of wooden blocks and Fisher Price toys. We would set up our tableaus in places where they could live for days at a time (i.e., under the dining room table, in the attic), because building a home took more than one day. 

As an adult who has had more than her fair share of therapy, I know now that, at least for me, the Numbers and Letters game helped satisfy the longings I had as a poor kid living in an increasingly wealthy and materialistic world. 

This week, The 52 Lists Project asked me and BMG to make a list of things we would do to rejuvenate our space, My brain immediately keyed into my own longings about the tiny space in which I live today, particularly the cluttered office and our pantry.  

The spare bedroom, aka the office, that I share with BMG today

The pantry/cat box space/utility storage/laundry room at The Tiny Bungalow

So let's play the grown-up version of the Letters and Numbers game. And instead of using the J.C.Penney catalogue, I'm using Houzz.com.

So, if I had all the resources in the world to rejuvenate my current space, I would:

1. Create a tidier, lighter feeling office space. Maybe something like this?

Photo by Swedish Blue Designs / LMF Design LLC - Browse eclectic home office photos

2. BMG uses the office almost entirely for storage. Which means he's ALWAYS in the living room - working, playing, relaxing, napping. If I could, I would add comfy seating to our office, so I can have a space to which I can retreat when I need some alone time or want to escape the inevitable sound of snoring on weekend afternoons. Maybe something like this?

Photo by Atlantic Archives, Inc. - Look for eclectic family room design inspiration

3. Moving on to the utility room, rejuvenating this room means creating a space that doesn't put food in such close proximity to cat poop, and doesn't require sweeping every day in the fight against the our cats' desire to pave the floor with cat litter. Something like this? 

Photo by Brickmoon Design - Browse eclectic laundry room ideas

4. I would also like to have a utility space with exceptionally efficient storage, solid shelves, and maybe a and a tidy counter, a place that doesn't overwhelm me with the constant need to rearrange things to make it look less cluttered, to make the food being stored more accessible. Maybe something like this:

Photo by Kapela Solutions - Search traditional kitchen pictures

5. While I'm dreaming about rejuvenating my space, I'd also like to request a tiny meditation space, where I can go to breathe. This would be a space that is all my own, a space where I don't have to share or compromise, where I don't have to navigate my husband's clutter, where I am not confronted by housework I have to do, bills I have to pay, obligations I need to meet. Maybe something like this:

Photo by Sheri Kaz Designs - Search Asian home gym pictures

I know I'm solidly middle class, living a life of privilege. BMG and I have enough money to shelter, clothe, and feed ourselves without having to struggle. By all accounts, mine is a good life and is typically one without complaints.

But, I still have longings. There is still a 10-year old self inside of me, who longs to have the finest things that she can possibly imagine. 

Thanks for the dream time, 52 Lists. 

What Does Thanksgiving Mean to You?

I have an acquaintance who actively refuses to celebrate Thanksgiving because she won't waste one iota of her time contributing to the misinformed adulation of the American mythology of peace, love, and happiness between the Pilgrims and the Wompanoag people.

I know this acquaintance is not alone in making this political statement. And I think it is a foolish one.

Yesterday, National Public Radio aired a story on how to teach children about Thanksgiving in light of the holiday's muddy history. They offered two concrete ideas for using the holiday to:

1, Introduce children to different cultural (national and ethnic) expressions of gratitude. Thanksgiving, celebrated by in countries beyond the U.S., is but one way. (Did you know that President Abraham Lincoln made the U.S. Thanksgiving a national holiday in an effort to unite the country during the Civil War?)

2. Invite learners to explore the (lowercase) pilgrim experience, by exploring what it means to be a refugee or part of another oppressed people. This discussion could certainly veer in to the realm of Native American politics, by using the Trail of Tears as an example, or present day politics through an age-appropriate focused on the global reaction to the crisis in Syria.

*****

Thanksgiving, for me, is not a joyful holiday, but rather a reflective one.

While I enjoy spending time with family over a beautiful meal, that's not what defines Thanksgiving for me. Nor do the secular expressions of the national holiday make my heart go pitter pat - football, parades, the Christmas frenzy that follows.

Instead, Thanksgiving is an opportunity to express of gratitude for the privileges I enjoy, while raising my awareness of the privileges denied to many due to poverty, inequality, and injustice. It is a holiday I can observe while sipping a cup of coffee in the early hours of the morning as easily as I can celebrate it while enjoying a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

BMG was released from the hospital on Tuesday, after a 4.5 day stay for treatment of complications related to his Crohn's Disease. Today I'm thankful for my access to the highest quality health care, my ability to work in a job that provides good health insurance, my husband family, who has the means to pay for the best possible care and accommodations, and for the network of friends and family who I can call for moral and practical support.

Conversely, for the duration of BMG's visit to Brigham and Women's, I thought of the families that would be financially devastated by a 5-day hospital stay and all it entails; the people who don't have adequate health insurance to help bear the costs; and the people who don't have family who can work remotely or spend the night, so they are with a loved one night and day.

*****

I'm curious. Do you celebrate American Thanksgiving? If so, what are the rituals that you love the most? And why?

SFS Fall 2015: Positive Affirmations

I'm doing a six-week holistic diet with Liz Vequist in an effort to start feeling fit, active, and inspired. The diet started on Monday, October 26, 2015. 

*****

Week two of the diet starts on Monday, so I'm in prep mode this weekend. On the spiritual side of the diet, we're supposed to identify positive affirmations about our body that we can scatter around our homes, cars and workplaces to help inspire us to make the Slim, Fit and Sexy thing work. 

I actually feel pretty motivated already. This is, in part, a function of the pounds falling off (an indicator my body was ready to lose some weight), and the new Fitbit groups I'm participating in, which, in the first week, motivated me to amp my steps from 7500 each weekday to more than 10k. 

In the spirit of being "in it to win it," I'm creating affirmations anyway. I.m going to trust that even is my conscious self doesn't need them right now, the universe will hold them in readiness for me. 

So here goes:

I am grateful for (something positive about your body): my continuing good health.

I love my (something positive about yourself): enthusiastic and empathic spirit.

I can (positive habit): make better choices to maintain my health and soothe myself when I feel sad.  

What would your affirmations be? 

This is 45

Today I celebrated the successful completion of my 45th year on this planet. What does 45 look like to me, you wonder?

* Throwing away the last two tater tots because I know there is no room in my stomach for them

* A 6:15 a.m. phone conversation with my mom because she kniwsi'm up and likely at my best 

* A 6:30 a.m. txt conversation with a friend who knows I'm up and will txt back that early

* Choosing to skip dessert because I'd rather have a drink (and occasionally vice-versa)

* Being able to ask,y husband for EXACTLY what I want, and getting just a little bit more

* Unapologetically explaining my movie reviews come from both NPR and TMZ

* Delight in having a signature scent, and body powder to prove it  

* Understanding that love - for my husband, a childhood friend, family members - simply means wanting someone else to experience happiness, no matter what it means to them

I would be lying if I didn't say I wasn't a little panicked at being half-way to 90. And I know that if I (knock on wood) died tomorrow, people would say I was a good person who lived a good life.

Happy birthday to me.46 is looking pretty good from here.

What I Am Not:

• Upset about showing signs of aging
• Defined by what I do (or don't do) for my husband (or kids or pets or besties)
• Interested in the Kardashians or the Jenners or any "housewife" or "bachelor"
• Keeping up with the Joneses
• A tea drinker
• A dog person
• A car person, a logo person, a status person
• Ashamed of crying
• Afraid my best years are behind me

But, I am certainly not defined by what I am not. 

So what am I? I am: 

• Happily middle-aged
• Quirky
• A socially adept introvert
• Both utilitarian and empathic
• Energized by accomplishment 
• Tidy, but not always clean
• Immune to fads
• Terrified of obesity-related health complications and homelessness
• At peace with the cards I've been dealt

Little House in the Big Blizzard

My adopted hometown of Boston is experiencing a record snowfall. Over the last seven days, more than four feet of the white stuff have fallen on the pristine grounds of The Tiny Bunaglow.

I grew up in Central New York. I thought I could handle it. 

But, when I came home from work tonight, after the latest 15" had fallen from the skies, and discovered that the plow guy for hire who was supposed to clear the driveway hadn't yet showed up, and the municipal plow guys had pushed what appeared to be all of the snow from the neighborhood streets on my front lawn, blocking the only path to my front porch, I lost it. 

Yup. I was sitting in my car, parked illegally on the road in front of my house, sobbing. So I did what all rational people would do in a similar situation. I called my husband, who is stranded in Florida by a series of unfortunate events, and we had a screaming fight.

After I hung up in a righteous huff, now crying, angry and still barred from getting into my house, I thought, "What would Laura Ingalls Wilder do in this situation?" (Some people call on God in times of trouble. Me? I call on Laura.)

Laura would not let a six foot high bank of snow, hiding 15 feet of unplowed field and two short sets of unplowed steps, get in the way of her making it home. And she certainly wouldn't sit in her car crying. 

So I surveyed the perimeter of the yard, found what appeared to be the smallest section of the snow bank and I waded in. In fewer than five minutes, I was on the porch, and 30 minutes later I had removed the day's worth of powder from the stairs and most of the front lawn. I knew, through the efforts of BMG, that the DPW and police were en route to deal with the deep bank of plowed snow. But they hadn't yet arrived. 

I wondered, "Should I start tunneling through the 6' high bank? Or do I trust that the people who say they are going to help ARE in fact coming to help." I did a little tunneling, and then decided to trust.

While I waited, I counted my blessings. Because Laura would count her blessings, right? 

I spent nearly an hour trying to get into my house. But I am blessed to have a well-insulated house.

I was cold and wet after 90 minutes solving the problem of the impassable yard. But I am blessed to have a warm winter coat, sturdy boots, snow pants and multiple pairs of gloves so I can be sure to always have a dry pair on as I continue to work in the frigid cold. 

I felt hopelessly alone, shoveling in the dark as I waited for the DPW workers and police officers to arive. But I am blessed to have neighbors who both worry about my whereabouts and the accessibility of my home, and offer help in spite of their own exhaustion from digging their homes out from under all the snow.

And when the plow driver for hire never showed up and I had to clear my own driveway? Blessed again, this time with an ergonomic shovel and a strong body that made it possible for me to do the work myself. 

The latter part of my day sucked. But, sitting in the comfort of the little house in the big blizzard, I'm aware that I'm lucky. Really lucky. 

Changing to make change

The events in Ferguson Missouri have inspired me to change my giving plan in 2015.

A typical stingy New Englander, I have historically given away just 1% of my gross income. I have a budget and a plan, which helps me sort out the myriad requests I get in the mail, on social media and in the course of my daily life. My plan has looked like this:

• 25% to any number of local organizations or chapters of local organizations that alleviate the symptoms of homelessness and poverty - particularly for children and families (e.g., Cradles to Crayons, Horizons for Homeless Children, Housing Families, the Red Cross). I often feel guilty that I'm not funding root cause organizations, but then I remember that poverty is persistent in human culture, I can't do everything and it is the day-to-day suffering that hurts my soul. 
• 25% to conservation organizations, specifically the Trustees of the Reservation and the National Parks Conservation Association. I love these United States, and want to do my small part to ensure that our natural spaces remain preserved and accessible. 
• 50% goes to the causes my friends love, in the form of sponsorship of walk-a-thons, run-a-thons, hair-cut-a-thons, hair-grow-a-thons, etc. I do this because I know it is hard to raise money, and it is hard to ask friends for help. (I do have a practice of not giving to friends if I philosophically do not support the organization for which they are raising money.)

And when the budget is used up, I stop giving. (Sorry Movember, I was too generous earlier in the year.)

However, the events in Ferguson Missouri triggered a deep anger in me about the power of conservative fear in blocking efforts to reform gun laws. I perceive that this same fear - the fear of "other" and the fear of "god" - is also driving efforts to restrict a woman's right to choose. So, my giving plan is changing to look more like this: 

• 40% to human and civil rights organizations dedicated to reforming gun law and policing practices as part of their overall civil rights agenda
• 25% to organizations dedicated to protecting and expanding a woman's right to direct her own health care
• 25% to my beloved conservation organizations
• 10% to the causes my friends love

And, in 2015, I will double the amount of money I give away, budgeting 2% of my gross income. I want to be able to give bigger - albeit still modest - gifts to the organizations I believe are making positive change in the world. The doubling of my philanthropy budget will be complemented by the gift matching program at my office, which offers a match of up to $250 for employee's charitable gifts. 

I haven't worked out the details yet, and am excited to do the research to figure out who will get the money, and how I can use social media to help spread the word about their cause. 

 

But my giving won't end with the money I choose to give away. I recently took  new job, one that requires a shorter commute and therefore gives me more time to be a whole person. With some of my new time I will start volunteering. I will make my donations to organizations dedicated to alleviating suffering through volunteerism - at work and at home. This includes blood donations every eight weeks and preparing meals for my local community through Community Cooks. I am also trying to determine how I can participate in efforts to change the national conversation about race through efforts of organizations like the Public Conversations Project. 

I learned about the power of a giving plan when I worked for the people who started what is now known as Bolder Giving. I loved the idea of being strategic and intentional with my charitable giving, regardless of whether I was middle class or if I was running the foundation BMG said I could start when he wins the lottery. And it feels good to freshen it up for 2015, so I can put my money where my heart and my mouth is. 

Happy Giving Tuesday! 

The First Thanksgiving

BMG and I were multi-tasking while watching the DVR version of the Plimoth Plantation episode of Top Chef 12. As Padma announced that the chefs were preparing a traditional Thanksgiving feast for descendants of the first Thanksgiving - both the first pilgrims and the Wompanoag peoples, BMG and I looked at each other and observed we were both moved to tears by the premise of the episode.

And then we started laughing.

As we moved towards one another to hug each other BMG said, "I am so glad we found one another. No one else would understand, let alone share, my tears in this moment."

Me too darling, me too.

A pal recently sent me a chain letter, inviting me to share words of inspiration with her and a friend.

"Send a quote? I'm full of quotes!" I thought, so I passed it along with this message to eight friends:

My pal Angie invited me to play Buddhist chain letter. Who can't use a little more inspiration in their lives? (And luckily, you won't die if you don't play.)

Here's how it works.

I'm participating in a collective, constructive, and hopefully uplifting exchange. It's a one-time thing and I hope you will participate. We have picked people we think would be faithful, and make it fun. Please send an encouraging quote or verse to the person whose name is in position 1 below (even if you don't know him or her). It should be a favorite text verse/motivational poem/prayer/meditation that has lifted you when you were experiencing challenging times. Don't agonize over it--it is one you reach for when you need it or the one that you always turn to.

(Minimally, I invite you send some inspiring love to Angie.)

Imagine two names and email addresses here

After you've sent the short poem/verse/meditation/quote/etc. to the person in position 1, and only that person, copy this letter into a new email, move my name to position 1. and put your name in position 2. Only my name and your name should show when you email. Send to 20 friends using BCC. (I can't think of 20 people to send this to! Pick as many as you think is appropriate.) If you cannot do this in five days, let us know so it will be fair to those participating. It's fun to see where they come from. Seldom does anyone drop out because we all need new ideas and inspiration. The turnaround is fast, as there are only two names on the list, and you only have to do it once.

Enjoy!

I share with you what I received in return. 

1.  You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.  Desiderata

2.  Art & Fear:Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking by David Bayles and Ted Orland
ON PERFECTION:

The ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the "quantity" group: fifty pound of pots rated an "A", forty pounds a "B", and so on. Those being graded on "quality", however, needed to produce only one pot - albeit a perfect one - to get an "A". Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the "quantity" group was busily churning out piles of work - and learning from their mistakes - the "quality" group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.

3. THE WILD ROSE” – BY WENDELL BERRY

Sometimes, hidden from me in daily custom and in ritual
I live by you unaware, as if by the beating of my heart.
Suddenly you flare again in my sight
A wild rose at the edge of the thicket where yesterday there was only shade
And I am blessed and choose again,

That which I chose before.

4. See everything, overlook a great deal, correct a little.
-Anonymous

5. "Dear Crazy, Crying Heart" by Barbara Pescan

Oh, my hear

dear foolish on,
sweet crazy keening heart---

Get ready -- hush ---

let the winds sweep clean the hidden corners of your lies
Stop crying and wrap your arms

around that child in htere
the one in the crash helmet

the one with the broken leg
the baby in the dark

the one with the broken heart
the baby knowing its hand for the first time
the child full of milk and lullabies
the child with not food in its belly

It is all God

It is all God

the food         the baby     the hunger
the starfish hand with translucent fingertips
the wrinkles of your face

the memories of seventy years
and knowing your wholeness at another's touch
the brokenness
the cry at the bottom of the mine

the song from the top of the tree

All God, All God

all pouring itself out 

for you, heart

dear crazy crying heart

hush

listen to your song.        Ah.      Amen.

6. "I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will." ~Edward Everett Hale, Unitarian minister

7. Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart. 

--Anonymous

8. Some lines that I love, from Dylan Thomas's Fern Hill (I hope he'll forgive me for chopping his poem down to a few lines):



Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,



Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. 

Why I Love CES

CES, the Consumer Electronic Show, is held in Vegas the first full week in January.

I love CES. Why? Because I'm home alone for eight full days. Hooray!

This is what CES 2014 looks like to me:

• A rearranged living room - NOW the room makes sense and has more space. I feel like I can fully relax in the space
• The addition of120 square feet of living space to The Tiny Bungalow by clearing out and organizing the office (hooray)
• A fridge full of vegetables and vegetarian, whole grain plans for dinner
• Meals prepared for the next two days 
• A home lit by candles and table lamps - overhead lighting be gone
• No football on Sunday (or Monday or Thursday). Instead I watch re-runs of Bridezillas and Criminal Minds. 

I love BMG. I love the home we share together. And truly take appreciate it when he isn't home. I'm an introvert and I need alone time to keep myself centered and whole.

When BMG is away on business, I only have to clean up after myself. The bed is made EXACTLY the way I like it. I don't have to compromise on what I cook for dinner. I have no excuses to not take 100% responsibility for myself (e.g. "I can't go to the gym after work; I need to get home to make BMG dinner"). I watch whatever I want on television, and sleep so much better absent my true love's snoring. I love finding ways to maximize my alone time so I can be a better Clownface when BMG gets home.

What makes CES really perfect is that it happens at the start of the new year, so those reluctant resolutions I have yet to give voice to have the opportunity to spill out. What is on deck for 2014? More vegetarian and whole foods eating, more stretching and meditation, less TV, continued efforts to have a more regular sleep schedule.

Boy do I love CES.

Elf on the Shelf: Savvy Auntie Edition

My sister tells her kids, ages 8 and 6, that the family's semi-feral cat would eat the "Elf on the Shelf." Their cat is a renowned hunter, so the kids believe this is the reason why there is no elf wreaking havoc at their suburban Baltimore home, tattling on the kids to Santa and the elves.

But this does not mean they are off the hook when it comes to good behavior in the weeks leading up the Christmas.

My sister does not need a successful commercial enterprise, masquerading as a Christmas tradition (in spite of being fewer than ten years old), to keep her kids in line during the holidays.

It used to be, before the age of the Internet and cell phones, merely humming a few bars of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" was enough to keep Christian children (and their non-secular counterparts) on their best behavior throughout the month of December. When I was a kid we KNEW that he knew if we'd been bad or good, so we had better be good, for goodness sake.

I think children are a little savvier than we were back in the 1970s. And my youngest sister KNOWS her kids are savvy consumers of parental legend.

So every year, right after Thanksgiving, she changes my contact name and photo in her cell phone from "Auntie Clownface" to "Santa Claus."

And then I start getting random text messages and cell phone calls, from my sister, ostensibly to Santa, asking for verification that I am in fact real, that I did in fact shake her son's hand at the local tree lighting ceremony, or I did receive her daughter's light mailed just a week ago. They always start with a "Hi Santa" greeting, so I know it is time to turn on the "ho ho ho." So I glibly reply, savvy auntie that I am, with a recapitulation of her message, affirming that the alleged incident (e.g. shaking Santa's hand at the local tree lighting, or an incident of mischievous behavior at school) did in fact occur, followed by a reminder to the kids to be good because I'm watching them carefully from the North Pole.

I love being able to do this for my sister because she lives 400 miles away, and I rarely have the opportunity to be hands-on in my support of her parenting. I love that this happens effortlessly. One day, maybe three years ago, I randomly received a text addressed to Santa and just picked it up and ran with it. We never rehearse, I never know when a message is coming, and I haven't dropped the ball on her yet.  And nearly 35 years after an early end to my belief in the physical manifestation of Santa, I am still delighted by my child's eye view of Santa and the magic that happens at the North Pole.

Are you a savvy aunts or uncle who celebrates Christmas? I invite you to share this post with the parents of the little ones in your life, and invite them to play along. It is a great way to get the effect of elf on the shelf, without kowtowing to the relentless pressure of developing new, hijinks-fillled tableaus to showcase the elf's worst behavior, and it is a wonderful way for you to be involved in your siblings' Christmas traditions beyond gift giving.

I am the 1%

I finished my 2013 charitable giving while sitting in horrid traffic today. I have an anemic commitment to give away 1% of my net pay each year. I'm not solving the world's problems with my 1%, but I am creating a routine of giving that makes me feel good about myself, and is likely to have more impact as my earning potential grows.

This year, the squeeze on my checkbook that resulted from both hosting a wedding and finishing major house renovations within two months made, "I just don't have anything extra to give away this year" such a tempting position to take. I was desperate to say this.

But as the wedding and the house renovations put a squeeze on me, they also continue to remind me of the privilege I enjoy in the world.  I believe that generosity shouldn't be defined by giving away what's extra. Generosity, in my opinion, is about giving away something you would like for yourself, sacrifice for the greater good.

(Think about it - when you clean out your closets to make way for new clothes, it is NICE to give the stuff you no longer want to your favorite clothing give-away program, but is it generous? I'd say no. It is nice and convenient. But you are giving away what is, to you, trash.)

So, give I did. While sitting in two hours of Boston morning traffic.

Here's where my money went:

The bulk of my giving - 37.7% - went to local organizations that help children and families in crisis. I'm not making a dent in the long term causes of poverty. But, because my empathy is nearly disabling, I know I want to use my time and treasure, right now, to alleviate suffering. The charities I give to include Cradles to Crayons, the Hingham Interfaith Food Pantry and Catholic Charities in Central NY (where my mom works as a case manager for families moving out of homelessness.)

The next largest chunk of my giving - 24.5% - went to environmental conservation - the National Parks Conservation Association is my fave, followed by the local Trustees of the Reservation. I give to the Trustees in part so I can get free admission to my favorite public lands to walk and be still.

I have a commitment to giving to charities if a friend asks - for a bike race, marathon or other cause. This year, at least 21% of my giving fell in this arena. Charity Water, the oral cancer foundation, and Raising A Reader MA are among the groups I supported from this bucket this year (and I know I missed some that BMG and I gave to from our joint account). Unless I really can't support the cause for personal reasons. For example, I'm not against the death penalty, so if you do a pray-a-thon to raise money to fight the death penalty, I won't give. I DO admire you for your commitment to a cause that makes your heart go pitter pat, but it isn't my cause.

Finally, while it doesn't touch my day-to-day life, I do give money to global disaster relief, through Doctors Without Borders. And, because it touches my life nearly daily, I give to my local library.

I know my gifts are small. And small helps. And small grows. It grows by invigorating me, and by inspiring me to do more. I'm making the time for regular blood donations, and starting to wrap my brain around carving out time to volunteer somewhere regularly - perhaps for an organization getting at the root cause of an issue that tears at my heart strings (because so much of my giving is focused on immediate problems rather than chipping away at the source of the problem).

I am the 1% and I'm proud of it.

What organizations do you support - with your time, talents or treasure? Why?

Five things I still don't miss about my non-profit job

My heart belongs to the non-profit sector.

I have graduate degrees in Social Work and Public Health, and I think of myself as a community organizer at my core.

But, after 20 years working in the non-profit and municipal sectors in Massachusetts, I decided to call it quits this spring and move into the corporate world.

There is a lot I miss about the non-profit work environment. Things like the feeling that "we're all in this together," the unflagging, personal commitment to mission, the flexible work environment which often compensated for pay that undervalued employees' skill sets.

But, six months after I made the jump, that I don't miss about a non-profit workplace, particularly my last office. These include:

• Having to step over homeless people to get into the office 
• Inadequate basic desk and office equipment (e.g. voice mail and a phone at my desk)
• Lack of administrative/operational systems (e.g. system for sorting and distributing mail)
• Decision-making based on relationships before the interest of the business, and its dirty cousin, excusing mediocrity and poor performance to avoid hurting someone's feelings
• Executive whining when one's sense of mission did not override one's desire to be with family, manage illness, have work/life balance, etc. 

Don't get me wrong. The corporate sector is far from perfect. But, at the end of the day, there is no question about motive or purpose. Whether manufacturing widgets or operating in the service economy, business exists to do the best job it can at the lowest possible price in order to make money. I like what I do and I respect the company for which I work. But I'm under no illusion that I'm saving the world. And this makes it a whole lot easier to take a sick day, walk somewhere to grab lunch, or to leave after eight hours at my desk. 

I look back on my last position now with incredulity. How did I - how did anyone on the team - survive in these conditions? It is nearly impossible to get work done efficiently - a necessity when every dollar you spend is a dollar you need to raise - when there was no consensus on who should check voicemail and distribute phone messages, let alone no professional telephone system.  

I love working with a sense of mission. But, at the end of the day, work is work. So, until I find the perfect non-profit or government sector job, I'll stay where I am, marketing widgets and checking my voicemail. 

It's raining! It's pouring!

My first bridal shower gift arrived in the mail yesterday.

I came home from work, and espied two packages along with a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Before I even fed the very noisy cat I tore into the packages. The first was bow ties for two of my nephews to wear in my wedding.  (They aren't quite the right color, so I may return them. Or I may not care. Still deciding.)

I then turned to a small square box, trying to remember what I had ordered from Amazon.com that would be in this shape. As I sliced the white paper packing tape that sealed the box shut  I realized it wasn't from Amazon.com, but rather Crate and Barrel.

I stopped what I was doing, feeling confused. "What did I order from Crate and Barrel?" I thought. I drew a blank.

And then it dawned on me.

It was a bridal shower gift.

I knew BMG's godmother was embarrassed that she had not yet given us an engagement gift. Even though I told her it was 100% fine for her to wrap up an unused tension shower curtain rod. (We need one, she has one, voila! Present!) But, knowing the godmother was asking about our registry, and thinking she might be of the generation that believes regifting isn't appropriate for engagement gifts, I thought the box was from her.

As I broke into the box, I discovered a tiny note card. In it was a kind note, not from BMG's godmother, but from the wife of one of BMG's friend who will be invited to our August nuptials. I've never met Mrs. Friend, but she sent a lovely gift and an even lovelier note.

The process of showering me and BMG with love and stuff has begun. I'm feeling excited. And grateful.

Worst Way to Die

Transfixed and horrified by the news of the death of 37 year-old Jeff Bush of Seffner, Florida this weekend, I have decided that death by sinkhole may, in fact, be the worst way to die.

Photo by ABC Action News-WFTS TV.

Let freedom ring

It was with tears in my eyes that I read my nephew's "What Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Means to Me" essay aloud to BMG a few moments ago:

"He fought with his voice and with his voice he heard Freedom! Freedom! And because of his voice me and my moms can live together. Oh! How thankful it makes me that my family lives together. Living in the same house, eating the same meal, drinking the same water and sharing the same love together. Thank you! Dr. King!"

Juxtaposed against the beauty of the inauguration - in which President Obama paid homage to the writers of the U.S. Constitution, President Lincoln and the men and women who advocated for the end of slavery in the U.S., Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the principled men and women who fought back in the Stonewall riots - my nephew's words strike a powerful chord this morning. 

*****

Blogger's note: Nathaniel is nearly 8 year-old young African American boy. He is adopted and lives with two Caucasian moms and his adopted older sister from another mother. Nathaniel is of above-average intelligence and he struggles with an emotional disability. He loves Pokemon and the color orange. 

Priorities

In the early evening of December 13th I was trying to balance a retirement party for a dear acquaintance and former colleague, and dinner with my future mother-in-law. A meeting at work ran late and I decided to skip the retirement party, rationalizing to myself, "I'm terrible at big parties (which is true) and I can make a date to see my friend later."

The person whose retirement party I missed had a heart attack the following day, on Friday, December 14th. He was hospitalized, and died eleven days later, on Christmas morning. His name was Peter Lee.

I never sent Peter a card.

I'll never have the opportunity to catch up with Peter one-on-one afterwards.

He wasn't a close friend. But I'm pissed that I didn't stand up for myself and leave that work meeting when I said I would leave the work meeting. Instead, I let the slow-talking consultant take an extra 25 minutes of my time, when I had made it clear I didn't have the time, to reiterate points to the assembled group that I already knew. I did this because I had been arguing with the consultant about the soundness of his practice and his inability to define his deliverables and his timelines ahead of time. Because I felt bad about being firm with him on the phone, I politely acquiesced when he took extra time at the meeting on December 13th.

And now I've missed the opportunity to tell Peter Lee how much I appreciated working with and learning alongside him.

I'm pissed at myself for once again letting my work relationships get in the way of my life relationships.

Every Day is Turkey Day

There are many things I love about the sleepy hamlet in which I live. Fifteen miles south of Boston, I have the benefits of being near a major city, but also live within five miles of three beaches.

My house is at the end of an unpaved road, considered a "private way" by the town so they won't have to claim responsibility for paving and plowing. We have a wooded area to the right of the house, separating us from a neighbor. A small pond in the woods to the left of the house is used by neighborhood kids in the winter for outdoor ice hockey games. This helps to make the neighborhood feel idyllic.

What I love best about my neighborhood, however, are the two enormous rafters of wild turkeys that roam the streets. Few things are more delightful to me than espying movement outdoors, poking my nose outside, and seeing fifteen hens, toms and poults grazing under the birdfeeder.

Talking to Strangers can be Good for You (or how I met my friend Barb)

Boston is famously inhospitable to strangers. But not in my experience. I know one of my closest and oldest friends as a result of our respective willingness to start a polite conversation while standing in line together.

"My Sister Gerri" is the name of the documentary film broadcast at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts in Fall 1993. As an introvert who was new to Boston screwing up the courage to go to a movie solo, took considerable work on my part. The film, which tells the story of the woman whose lifeless body became a grotesque icon for the pro-choice side during the early 1970's iteration of this national debate, was premiered. Arriving early I took my place in the growing line of well-heeled ladies who lunched, the Planned Parenthood donors who didn't need to work and instead spent their days in meetings for their important causes.

I was 23, a full-time secretary in a juvenile prison, and a part-time graduate student at the BU School of Social Work. I felt alone and conspicuously out-of-place.

I wish I could remember the self-talk that reverberated in my head as I waited. I'm sure it went something like this,

Says the tortured devil on my shoulder: "What are you doing here? You don't belong here."

"I paid my money, I can be here if I want," spouts the brave angel who gives me precarious balance. 

"Where will you sit? Who will you talk with? Does anyone even know you are here sad, fat alone girl?" came the retort.

And so on, and so forth. 

But, this time, the angel on my shoulder won out over the tortured devil and I stayed.

Not only did I stay, but my angel gave me the chutzpah to strike up a conversation with the stranger next to me in line. A young , professionally dressed woman, also alone. "What brings you to see this film" was the likely start to our polite and reserved repartee. However, through our discussion I learned she was considering applying to the same graduate program I had just started, was living and working in Washington, DC, where I had lived during college, and was familiar with the parts of Central NY. We sat next to one another during the movie and both stayed for the talk-back with the filmmaker. As the event wrapped up this stranger handed me her card and we parted ways.

But that wasn't the end of it. While face-to-face interactions with strangers take an enormous amount of effort for me, I'm great with the written word. And I love a good handwritten note. So I dropped the stranger a note in the mail, thanking her for sharing the movie with me and wishing her luck with her graduate school decision. Letter dropped in the mail, I promptly forgot she existed.

That is until the following fall when I attended the new student breakfast reception on campus. Still largely alone at school (it was a hard program to do as a part-timer), I may have been chatting with an acquaintance when a woman approached me. She had been searching for me in the crowd because she wanted to thank me for helping her to make and achieve her graduate school goal.

"Huh?" I'm sure I said.

The stranger reminded me of the movie at the MFA and told me the note I'd sent to her later moved her to finish her application to the program she herself was now starting.

The stranger became Barbara and we became fast friends, sharing stories about our transition to Boston, bonding over classes and field work, and considering our professional aspirations as we moved through the professional training portions of our education. 

Our band of buddies grew. Eventually there were five of us living in one block of nearby Central Square in Cambridge, and two more who would join our crew we called Stitch and Bitch. Long after we marched the stage to receive our diplomas we continued to meet weekly for happy hour beer and curried French fries. 

Because we were both willing to talk to a stranger, Barbara met her now husband, and I was introduced me to my therapist. Barbara had a wonderful cat to love as her own when a move forced me to give him up. And I had the privilege of receiving the first afghan she ever crocheted from start to finish. 

Because we were both willing to talk to a stranger, we've experience the comfort of having a friend bear witness to our respective heartbreak, job loss, physical ailments, and family traumas. We have shared the joys of new love, new homes, new children, and many new years.

It has been 19 years since Barbara Charton Lambiaso and I first met. Just this week we shared wishes for a new year, and made plans to go to a lecture together. I am so touched by this friendship with my Gal Pal Barbara. Touched by the longevity and depth of our connection, and touched with the knowledge that we still love each other as much as we did when we first met, and at least as much as we will when we are old women.