We Went to Sicily...Then Stuff Happened

Before I can recap our trip to Sicily in late September/early October, I feel the need to add some context. You see, we returned from two magical weeks in Italy on the night of Friday, October 6. My dad died hours later in the early morning of Saturday, October 7. We got to Syracuse and my mom by 8pm that night. Simon tested positive for Covid on Sunday. I tested positive for Covid on Wednesday. Simon recovered then got a rebound infection the next Sunday.

I think that might be why I haven't really processed the trip much less documented it here. Honestly, I'm not sure I remember it with that re-entry being the absolute shock it was. There's a lot to unpack there and a lot of detail - emotional, quarantined, grief-riddled detail - between each of those above sentences, but that's how it happened. Naturally I abandoned all thoughts and memories of Italia in the interest of pure old fashioned survival.

I live to tell the tale, but I now live as a different person. Grief is a funny thing - your entire context, your entire world has changed yet the groceries still look the same on the shelves, the car engine still turns, the same trees still stand in the yard, and the soil is still in the garden, rich with years' worth of plantings. Yet those things all scream to be different. I want the groceries to be spilling from the shelves with their contents spewing about in anger - flour ravaging the air and pasta careening down aisles. How can the car just turn on without even a grinding, cranky revolt at the absurdity of that expectation? How can those trees he planted so long ago just stand there, dropping their leaves into crispy little piles like any one of the other 45 times they've done it? And how does the garden dirt, the dirt that fed humans, fueled a soul-defining drive to nurture, and provided a place to be alone - to be with the pain, to be with the memories, to be with the sun, to be with the trauma - how does that dirt just sit there, empty of its purpose, for the first time in half a century?

How do any of us just sit here?

Getting Unstuck

For years (12!!!), I've loved writing in this blog, capturing the seemingly unconnected connections between Merwin the dog and Merwin the poet, musing on this or that, posting Merry Merwins and now Jolly Ollies, sharing poems that resonated in one way or another, and using this practice as a method of creating something, a feeling I have always craved. 

In early 2022, I bought a new laptop, and posting on the blog became much trickier. Spacing was off, formatting was complicated and sticky, and all the procedures I had gotten down so well over the years seemed broken. Most difficult, posts kept defaulting to double spacing, which was incredibly prohibitive, especially when posting poems. It was a huge obstacle that I spent hours trying to solve. Alas, the complications just became too icky for me to navigate. I stopped writing.

I thought about how much I missed it every now and then and even came back to the site a few times to give it another go. But the formatting challenges were just too frustrating for this Type A selective perfectionist.

Now, literally years later, I realized one simple reason why everything was funky. One itty bitty thing that caused it all to go awry and led me to abandon this practice and place I had really loved.

For some reason, in a few different programs and on some websites, this Mac's "return" key forces double spacing. It was driving me batty yesterday when working on a client project and something made me try holding down the shift key while tapping return.

Lo and behold. Single spacing. It took me a good 12 hours to connect this discovery back to the blog's issues. All those years, all that agony, all those tiny little seeds of ideas for posts that are now nothingness, all those moments I could've found joy in crafting posts, rediscovering poems, savoring that feeling of making something, however small or insignificant. Gone.

In a time of my life where I have increasingly felt "stuck," whether stuck in inactivity as body part after body part seems to cooperate less and less often or stuck in a cyclical maelstrom of varying emotions and mental well-being, being so stuck with the blog for such an asinine reason just feels....wild. 

On the flip side, I am grateful that even though it took an age and a lot was lost, it's resolved. Forward we go into more Jolly Ollies and soap box tirades. Of course, now blogs are likely relics like rotary phones, but I'm glad to have this space back, whatever ridiculousness it took to get here.

There's likely a lesson here about "being stuck." A lesson about shifting a small thing to get unstuck, a lesson in just trying something to create that inertia to change. Maybe it's about realizing that just because you made your bed, you actually don't have to sleep in it the way it is. You can get new sheets, add a mattress topper, invest in a great pillow if that means getting you one step closer to a place you love. 

Or not. It could just be a lesson in learning how to use your damn laptop correctly.

Covid "Silver" Lining

I've always thought of myself as a little bit of an odd duck. Maybe I'm more "normal" than I think, but I often feel like I don't quite fit the mold of what I'm "supposed" to be. I've always felt that way to some extent...never really found my place in high school, felt torn between different worlds in college, embraced New York but little bits of me seemed to not quite belong, and always felt a little awkward throughout it all. Likely most of it is my head and that's its own thing, but lately I've realized that so much of it was this concept of being obligated to "the norm." Anytime my natural instinct was to do or be something "outside" of that norm, however large or small, I felt weird and conflicted.

Whew, that's a lot, but my point is, during the past few years when I've embraced those "abnormalities," I've found so much happiness. I can point to a few decisions that have led to really great places. Quitting my 9-5 job without a defined path forward? Brightspot emerged, my absolute favorite job ever. After a decade of tortured decision-making, finally deciding to turn my back on becoming a mother? An enormous weight lifted off of me and was replaced with a peaceful confidence that I never imagined I could feel.

And now, the silliest of all (especially amidst everything going on in this world), but somehow more difficult for me than the others. Letting my hair go grey. I started coloring it when I was 28, mostly to avoid any lurking greys during our wedding, but they needed coverage since that moment. When we moved to Portsmouth I switched from semi-permanent to permanent dye and the time between appointments shrank, my hair got super brittle and "orange," and I started to really dread forking over all that cash.

Until the pandemic, I couldn't even fathom letting it go. It felt like a forbidden thing...and even at 40, I was "way too young" to feel like I could have a head of grey hair.

Why? Why not? It's so funny how conforming to this imaginary ideal is so engrained. As the "silver" (I prefer to think of it as silver rather than grey, ha) filled in over the summer, I started to think about it a lot. Who was I dying it for? Was it for me? Or someone else? Sure, it's not as black and white as one of the other, but I landed in a place that helped me realize that this was another one of those things I was sort of blindly doing to not stand out. But in reality, I didn't mind the way the silver emerged, it didn't bother me, so why should I do anything about it?

I finally went back to the salon a couple weeks ago. My stylist was so excited I was growing out my greys and her enthusiasm really sealed the deal (still working on not needing external affirmation in my decisions). She applied a "toner" to the lower parts of my hair to remove some of the orange tinge, we lopped off a couple inches, and I remember being terrified my greys were gone. I feel like I worked hard to grow them out over the last few months...they had become a sort of badge of honor in "going against the grain." Along with that I was growing my confidence in the decision. 

I'm there now. I'm embracing this literal silver lining. (Eeek!)

Life As We Know It

I've started this post at least five times since mid-May, but never found the words to describe this moment. Months later, I still don't have them, but I'm craving the feeling of creating something so here I am.

It's hard to believe that this is life right now. Seven years of reading post-apocalyptic and dystopian literature didn't prepare me to actually live in one. I don't need to explain what I mean because even if you've been living under a rock, that rock is wearing a mask and is surely six feet away from all the other rocks.

I miss things. I miss "big" things like intelligent leadership, empathy, logic, truth, respect for science, compassion, and risk-free interactions with family and friends. I miss "small" things like in-person meetings with my business partners and clients, browsing the shelves at TJ Maxx, planning our next travel adventure, and walking into downtown Portsmouth for dinner at our favorite restaurant. Like all of us, I miss normalcy and life as we knew it. 

Compared to sooooo many others though, our lives are relatively unaffected. We're tucked away at our cabin in the woods and don masks when we go out in public, but aside from both of us working from home, not much else has changed. But then I remember. I remember the atrocity of how it is now September and this is STILL happening and how so many people are suffering in enormous ways, both seen and unseen. I remember how it really didn't have to be like this and how the virus pandemic, the longstanding racism pandemic, and the pandemic of a rapidly declining democracy are all colliding into one big mass of horrifying.

It's overwhelming. This is a new circumstance none of us have experienced. We're processing an ongoing trauma that has no end date and we're juggling life's new "normal" as we grieve what used to be. This is hard. But this is reality. We have to do what we can to stay sane, find the bright spots, and look out for each other. 

Lest you think this is a pep talk from the queen of pessimism herself, I also think it's important to go easy on ourselves. If ever there was a time to just not be okay, it's now. Allow it. And allow people in who want to support and help you. We could all use each other right now. It'll just have to be some virtual love.

Going To The Birds

I was laying (or is it "lying?") in bed last night when I indulged my bad habit of scrolling through Twitter before falling asleep. Bad idea. It's always a bad idea, but I read an article that truly alarmed me. Of all the things, of all the horrific stories in the news (especially on Twitter), this one won't leave my brain. 

Birds are Vanishing in North America

Maybe that doesn't seem so bad upon first glance, but the stat is truly terrifying. Nearly one-third (one-third! 30%!) of North American birds have just disappeared over the last 50 years. Gone. Vanished.

I really love birds. I've noticed that my interest in birds has steadily increased, mostly since being at the lake in a setting where they flit, chirp, and nest right outside our windows. When I'm on the deck and there are no whirring boat engines, target practice gun shots, or early morning chain saws, their twittering creates the most pleasing and peaceful background noise. Combined with the light breeze through the oak leaves, glittering sun on the lake, and water lapping at the shore, it's my idea of utter tranquility.

So there is the layer of trying to imagine places without that sound that is alarming, sure, but it's also a bit more concerning than that. How does this massive shift in bird populations affect other species? What happens if other species start dying off too (fyi, humans are a species...)? What does their disappearance say about the state of the earth? What the heck is wrong with us that we don't realize that something is seriously wrong and that our trajectory is troubling to say the least? All of those horrific, dystopian, apocalyptic books that I spent nearly a decade consuming will move from the fiction to the non-fiction shelf.

It's infuriating to read an article like this, and there are countless others about the scientific evidence of climate change's impacts, and have that juxtaposed with leadership that denies, ignores, and actively works against strategies and policies that would at least give the earth a fighting chance. All to bolster their power and financial position while ensuring that the rest of us (oh yes, all of the rest of us but mostly those most at-risk) will undoubtedly suffer. It makes me sick. Disgusted and absolutely disillusioned about the current state of the world, much less the future. Sure, I'm a pessimist, but I don't see a way back from this. And if one is miraculously found amidst the turmoil, chaos, and declining state of democracy, it's going to be too late for us anyway.

Have a great weekend. Live it up while you can.

Reflecting On Brightspot

A year ago today, two other NH women and I officially launched Brightspot Consultants, a collaborative specializing in strategy and fundraising consulting for nonprofits. To say I'm blown away by this entire thing is an understatement. I constantly find myself a little shocked that 1) I am a business owner 2) I did this with two other amazingly strong, fierce, and kind women 3) we are successful and 4) we have worked together to define success on our own terms, terms that are true to who we each are and how we want to work.

Beyond those surprises, I also realize that I still have A LOT to learn. I know a lot about nonprofits and fundraising, perhaps enough to be considered an "expert" on those subjects, but that is not always the most important element of being a consultant. Sure, nonprofits want how-to tips, content, and advice, but they also want someone to help them navigate the sticky dynamics of human nature inherent in their work. The nuances of communicating, of helping lead people to the solutions, of facilitating important conversations. That's the expertise I desperately want and am so enormously thankful to have in the form of my two partners. Without them, this would've been a failed enterprise. 

The power of collaborating is more clear than ever to me after year one. We each bring our own strengths, experiences, and personalities to the table, hopefully producing a collaborative that is full of knowledge but also full of genuine interest in supporting the sector, improving the work these organizations do, and in turn, making life a little better for our communities. And doing it all kindly and authentically.

I had rejected the idea of being a consultant so many times in my head, dismissing my weaknesses as too critical to be effective in this kind of role. And yes, I'm a work in progress (who isn't still learning after one year on the job?) but I am so happy to be engaged in this work. It's truly a bright spot. 

W.S. Merwin

Early last Friday morning, I came out of a dream hysterically sobbing. I couldn’t stop. In the dream, we were in this scenario where you could bring your dog back to life, but you could only do it once. It was time to send Merwin away again, and I was sitting on the floor with him in my lap, hugging him tightly, desperate to hold on to him awhile longer. I can’t think about this dream without losing it again. It was so real, bringing the grief and sadness surging back.

As it turns out, one of my all-time favorite individuals, the poet W.S. Merwin, passed away in his sleep early that morning around the same time I woke from my dream.

The oddities of that juxtaposition aside, the devastation came flooding back when I learned of W.S. Merwin’s death. I am hard pressed to put into words what his work has meant for the world, for poetry, for me. Arguably, he is one of the most decorated contemporary poets, having gathered almost all the prominent accolades and awards during his long career.

But beyond the awards and acclaim, I think that he likely had an uncelebrated and possibly unknown profound impact on hundreds of thousands of individual little humans. Me, for one.

I purchased his book, The Rain in the Trees, because it was required reading for a writing workshop at Hamilton College. With the guidance of great professors, his was some of the first poetry I worked to comprehend in any depth. He was the launch pad for a life-long pursuit. I hated that feeling of not grasping exactly what was going on in his poems, but also luxuriated in that same ambiguity. I loved the idea that each word could be dissected, analyzed, listened to, and savored. Every word was enormously meaningful in a poem - they were all placed there for a specific reason or, more likely, hundreds of specific reasons.

As part of my Creative Writing major, I spent hours writing poetry, always with a pencil and always the evening before the poem had to be submitted for review by my classmates. The best part about the process was deliberating over the “right” word. Those moments poring through the thesaurus, writing down, crossing out, hemming, hawing and then finally feeling that tiny thrill when the word “stuck.” Those moments were truly some of my favorite memories of creating anything.

This isn’t a story of Merwin inspiring me to become a poet. It’s a story of him inspiring everything. Of him being this beautiful thread in my life, one that started in college, carried me through New York, accompanied me through love and loss, and stuck with me so profoundly that we gave his name to our dog, who was, as absolutely ridiculous as it sounds, one of the most significant loves of my life. I used Merwin’s work and my love for the dog Merwin to start this blog, a context for reestablishing the thrill of creating that I hadn’t realized I had missed so dreadfully. I have never read another poet’s work and had the same reactions, feelings, or utter awe and admiration for what he could do on a page. I have never met so many of one poet’s works that absolutely just sang to me.

I realized this past year, first with Paul Taylor’s passing then with Mary Oliver’s that I hadn’t yet truly acknowledged the impact my artistic icons have had on me. As silly as it may sound, I feel such a profound loss now that this trifecta has moved on. These people shaped my interest in dance, in poetry, in understanding people, in creating, and in savoring how words or movement can brilliantly illuminate nature or grief or injustice or death in ways that evoke such compelling feeling around what it means to see this world and to be in this world. How amazing they were to share this beauty with us and how utterly sad there will be no more of it from their great minds.

There is so much more to say about W.S. Merwin, likely so many more important things to thank him for and to relay around his life's work, but for now, it just feels like the Merwins' "absence has gone through me / like thread through a needle / everything I do is stitched with its color."

Paul Taylor

Paul Taylor passed away at the age of 88 last week and I've been struggling to come up with words in response. Everything feels too small to describe this man, his work, and the role he played in my life.

Right out of college, I landed in a fundraising role at the New York Public Library completely by accident. I didn't know what nonprofits were or what development was and arrived for my first day on the job without fully understanding what my job would entail. It was a perfect fit. After remaining there for a few years, I realized that working for nonprofits was a way to merge my passions with my career. For most of my life, dance was at the top of that list. How amazing would it be to fundraise for a dance company!? 

Way back in college, I was introduced to Paul's choreography during a Company residency at Hamilton. We took a master class led by Amy Young and Rob Kleinendorst and I fell in love with the movement. So when a position in individual giving opened at Paul Taylor Dance Company, it seemed like the epitome of what I wanted. Though I had grown up wishing to be a professional dancer, this opportunity was a dream come true.

In my 4 years with the organization, I grew even more enamored with his work. I don't think there has or ever will be a more talented choreographer in the world. So often in dance, movement seems to respond to the music, but he had this uncanny ability to weave those two things together in a way that was truly singular. I will never hear the Brandenburg Concertos again without envisioning the swirl of green velvet skirts, the frenetic whirl of bodies, and brilliant patterns that swept across the stage. 

I have this pedestal of artists in my head - icons and heroes whose work has meant so much to me, whose art gives me tingles. W.S. Merwin is one. Paul Taylor was the other. It was an honor to be just a tiny part of his existence and to work on behalf of an artist that gave so much to this world. 

The Butterfly

Summer Sky
W.S. Merwin

July with sun-filled leaves drifting among the butterflies
I have been coming to this morning light since the day I was born
I saw its childhood as I sat alone in silence in the high window
no one else saw it no one else would even recognize it
it is the same child now who watches the clouds change
they appear from out of sight and change as the moment passes through them

The sun-filled leaves, butterflies, morning light, passage of time - it's all hitting home these days, and I've been trying to bring myself back to Merwin and Merwin to write about it. I can't promise much. I feel rusty. It's also so very odd to type the word Merwin now.

After Simon's mom passed away, we were gathered in Rhode Island trying to make sense of things and coping as best as possible by being together. We kept seeing yellow butterflies - around the house, on walks in Colt State Park, everywhere around us. Since then, I've associated the yellow butterfly with Janey and her memory. But I haven't seen them with nearly as much frequency as during those early days of her loss.

Until this summer. Nearly every time I am outdoors at the lake, whether on the deck, in the driveway, or laying out on the raft, the yellow butterfly flutters by. The other day Simon was working down in Portsmouth, our visitors had departed, and I was reading in my favorite spot on the deck. I felt movement in front of my face, glancing up just as the butterfly darted out of view. It's uncanny the way it always appears, particularly when I'm alone or finding a moment of solitude amidst a full house. 

There is varied symbolism associated with seeing yellow butterflies. In some Native American cultures, the yellow butterfly brings guidance and a sign of hope. Some cultures believe that it symbolizes re-birth while Irish lore goes so far as to describe them as indicators that departed souls are resting peacefully. They represent joy, creativity, happiness, prosperity.

Of all the things I imagined when facing loss, I never thought this would be so important, comforting, poignant. I never thought I'd believe in something like this, but I feel Merwin and Janey so strongly through the butterfly's presence. I imagine them having grand adventures together. Swimming alongside each other, romping through the woods, happily side by side in quiet moments, savoring the companionship.

I don't care if it sounds ridiculous. It's such a happy moment in my day, this little visit. Those wings, that little fluttering blur, is a hello from somewhere else, from those two other beings who I miss so much. 

A Poem For A Tuesday

To Daffodils
Robert Herrick

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not yet attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

I forced Simon to read this poem because I found it both timely (daffodils at the lake were emerging) and amazing (for myriad reasons). Great word, "myriad." Anyway, Simon obeyed and said, "I read it as equating human existence to being short in the span of life as daffodils are to spring. Is that the wrong interpretation?" I think it's a spectacular interpretation. In the first stanza, the narrator describes his desire for the daffodils to survive a bit longer into the spring. Slowly the stanza starts to bring humans into the picture with "having pray'd together, we / Will go with you along." Then the second stanza makes it clear that the narrator is comparing the daffodils' brief existence to our own little blips of life. We grow to meet decay and our hours, our time here, slowly dry away like a summer rain or morning dew, each drop or each life unique but never to return. Naturally though, the daffodils return the next year...I wonder how that fits in.

It's intense. A poem I initially imagined would be about bright yellow daffodils breaking up the winter gloom turns into a statement on their short life span, and ours right along with them. Dark, but also perfectly practical. It's true. We're here. We're gone. Pretty standard fact.

More than his interpretation though, I was intrigued by Simon asking if it was wrong. I think this is one of the most challenging things about poetry, or ballet, or modern dance, or visual art, or music. The notion that there is a "right" thing to feel or understand after viewing it. Sure, the artist or poet or choreographer likely has an intention when they create a piece. Maybe some driving thing they want to express, but that doesn't mean any differing interpretation is "wrong." Nothing can be right or wrong when it comes to understanding art. It's not arithmetic. You can't prove any one interpretation is any more or less "correct" than another. There is no answer. That's the beauty of it and why we need art. It inspires people to imagine, create, and think in response. To know what's it's like for something not to be A or B but somewhere between. To live in that space where there is beauty in the varied palette of interpretations. Where people talk to each other about what they think without  being entrenched in what they view as "right" or "wrong." You know, like basically everything else in our country right now.

We need more art.

Spending Time With This Guy

Ever since Merwin's cancer diagnosis, it has been harder to leave him home alone. I want to be with him, savor what it is like for the two of us to occupy the same space, go on long walks together, and just be. I'm grateful I'm not commuting long distances daily and have the flexibility to spend so much time with him. 

Thus far, the chemo hasn't been effective in reducing the cancer cells in his lymph nodes. The most commonly used lymphoma-fighting strategy, CHOP, involves four drugs and a series of treatments over 15 weeks. We got through three of those drugs with absolutely no side effects but also no discernible reduction in the disease. So we're waiting for test results that will tell us a bit more about the specific type of cancer he has, his prognosis, and where we go from here. 

While we wait, I'm having a hard time leaving the house. It seems a bit pathetic, but it's how I feel. Granted, he hates when we're not home and suffered through severe separation anxiety for years, but this is about wanting to maximize whatever time I have left with the little guy. Even if it's just moments that he's dozing in a sun patch and I'm doing laundry in the other room. His presence is punctuated by tiny movements, sighs, and paws clicking across the floor, a little symphony of companionship. But more than that, and it's hard to explain, I feel him in the background, a constant presence that fills this place with his little spirit. Merwin, and all the doggies, are always just there, steadfast in their willingness to give everything to the ones they love. 

Travel Mugs

There's something super appealing about a kitchen full of matching dishes and cookware. Look at me talking about cookware, that's hysterical. Anyway, I love the look of a uniform cabinet chock full of matching dishes. Or something like my friend Melissa's dishes. She has a great eye for pottery and has amassed a thoughtful assortment of coordinated ceramic dishes and mugs. With similar style and color, she's curated a great collection.

We don't have matching or even coordinated stuff. However, as I was putting away the dishwasher yesterday, I realized that our mugs tell a bit of a story. There are the two yellow and blue painted ones from Castellina in Chianti, Italy, a stop on our first adventure overseas as a couple in 2006. We wandered into a little pottery shop and fell in love with everything. In one of the largest purchases of our young relationship, we ordered a matching set of plates, bowls, and mugs for delivery to our Brooklyn apartment. A lot of it has broken over the years, but those two mugs remain. 

Or the duo of mugs sketched with the Brooklyn skyline. The pair of striped mugs in bold, bright colors we found in Barcelona on a 2012 trip with our buddies Kristi and James. The yellow and orange touristy souvenir mug with "Antigua" splashed across it in postcard-style print from our group getaway in 2016. The tiny terra cotta mug with a red macaw for a handle we grabbed at a gift shop in Costa Rica. The pale blue mug with hand-painted sheep from a local pottery shop in Scotland. The blue and white speckled mug purchased along the mother-daughter road trip through Nova Scotia. A small pale pink and natural clay mug with bits of yellow and black made by an artist in Uruguay. The vibrant, vivid painted mug from Costa Rica that had been a favorite of mine when visiting Janey on the Vineyard. 

I rarely think about this when I sip my morning coffee but a journey through the mug shelf is a little trip through time and places. It's fun to reminisce and remember. So it's a hodge podge and a mish mosh, but it's our little hodge podge of life and journeys and memories and travels and friends and family and love. 

End Of Year Giving

Usually around the time of year, we donate a super small sum of cash to a couple different non-profit organizations. Simon has a few groups he feels strongly about, I have a few, so we divvy it up and do our best to make some sort of small impact. 

But this year, I am lost. The world is dramatically different than it was at this time last year and the issues seem to have multiplied with the need to help pressing more heavily than ever. I have no idea how to do something. I could have millions of extra dollars and would still feel confused about how to effect change. Sure, my $100 contribution is unlikely to really shift any of these things, but I'm just completely and utterly despondent. It feels like there are thousands more people at risk, hundreds more urgent issues threatening from every direction, and dozens more nauseating daily news headlines. 

But then I talked to my husband, the guy who works for a community foundation and often advises donors on how to match their interests with non-profits. Um, duh. We had lunch one day last week, I explained this feeling to him and he helped connect some of my concerns with organizations in our area that address those issues.

For example, I've been thinking a lot about media as related to its effect on the election, post-election issues, and truth. I've also always felt that social media plays a big role in reducing people's empathy toward one and other. Without empathy, how do we bridge the increasingly polarized political divide to understand other perspectives and converse about compromise? So yeah, how on earth could I direct a gift to increase empathy? Well, a local NH organization, Media Power Youth teaches youth how to make the connection and distinction between media messages and impact and their own lives and actions. They learn to think critically about what they see and hear and how to responsibly engage and participate in social media. Boom!

Or concern about growing economic disparity. The New Hampshire Fiscal Policy Institute is dedicated to promoting public policies that foster economic opportunity for all NH residents. Or concern about how immigration policies may be effecting some residents. Catholic Charities of NH has immigration and refugee services that provide support, guidance, and legal representation for various immigrant related issues.

These are just a few examples of how amazing Simon is at his job but also how there are organizations and people working on things that are seemingly unsolvable and overwhelming. Obviously none of these places are going to march into the White House and fix it all, but they are working every day to help the people these policies and laws negatively effect right here in NH.

That's worth $100 any day.

Lives Of Purpose

I keep hearing the same advertisement on Pandora. It's a few kids talking about what private schools they will soon be attending and how well a particular private elementary school prepared them. A narrator mentions that the school grooms children to have "lives of purpose." Possibly it's the manner in which she says those words, but I find my feathers ruffled every time I hear it.

Obviously I don't have children so maybe that makes me immediately disqualified from commenting. Maybe it's obvious that every parent's main goal is to have children with "lives of purpose." I don't know about that, but I can comment on society's obsession with "purpose" and "meaning." Why has having "purpose" became an end all be all measure by which we judge success? Why can't we just be happy? Everything is go go go, achieve achieve achieve, do more more more. 

Capitalism plays a role. In our current society, having money equals power, having power equals success, having success equals everything. But to what end? And at what expense? Why do we work so hard? It seemed that there was a time when you could have a job, leave the job at 5pm, and have enough to have a home, enough to make ends meet, enough to be well-respected and appreciated. Now everyone is always "so busy," stress is more common than non-stress, and it's a constant rat race just to come out even. There has to be a backlash at some point...right?

In my time not working (at least in the traditional 9-5 sense), I've noticed a shift in myself. When people first asked what I was doing with my time, I quickly mentioned that I was working with a career counselor, doing some consulting, and learning yoga. I felt pressure to name accomplishments, ensure others that I was doing something to "stay in the game." Why? Why couldn't it be okay for me to be reading crappy books and floating on the raft in the sun? I was happy. Happier than I'd been in a  long time. Why did I feel the constant need to demonstrate "success?" I've started to admit that my summer was for me, for my relaxation and rejuvenation, and admitting that I read historical romances, colored mandalas, and enjoyed being with my dog.

There are more layers to this. For example, somehow women are supposed to have demanding, high-powered jobs and also be amazing mothers. Don't get me wrong, I am enormously grateful for the fact that being part of the workforce is even an option for women, but it sure would be nice if caregiver policies caught up, the impossibility of one-earner households would be addressed, and the continued prevailing notion that if you're not a mother, you're not a woman might be challenged.

All I'm saying is that I think it is 100% legitimate and even the best option for some people to just be. To not choose a path where long hours and stress are pushing you up the rungs of a hierarchical ladder. To not strive for some greater purpose, deep meaning, or extreme success.  

At lunch with a friend earlier this week, we chatted about this very notion. She said she thought it was time for a revolution. So take a deep breath. Drop the expectations and the pressures and the external motivations. Know that you being you is enough. Or try anyway. It's all easier said than done.

October Mist

It has been interesting to be here so regularly this time of year when we were so infrequently present for this seasonal shift in the past. I remember the slow reduction of humans around the lake, the larger presence of other animals, and the emergence of golden leaves, but what I don't recall is the morning mist rising up from the water. The last few mornings have provided a real visual treat with the cool pre-sunrise air pulling the heat of the lake into the atmosphere. It has also been fascinating to watch it slowly burn off as the sun hits the water. 

These moments are the ones that, when I look back on this time, I want to remember. The little delights I get to experience, the quiet solitude of savoring something I'd otherwise miss out on. I'm so fortunate. I am grateful. 

Discovering Yoga

Well, duh, you might say. As a former dancer and someone who knows many people who love the practice, embracing yoga seems like a no brainer. But it has taken quite some time to do so. My first memory of trying it out was a yoga on the beach class led by Janey. It was perfect in a way I knew I'd never find again. Subsequent attempts proved incredibly painful and I grew impatient with myself in classes. It hurt, I was too inflexible to even get close to the poses, everyone already seemed to know what they were doing, and exploring the various styles felt overwhelming. Plus, with the commute and limited "me" time, how was I going to fit it in?

Now there are no time constraint excuses and I decided to give it another try. My sister in law pointed me to Yoga Anytime, an online community of teachers and classes of all varieties and levels. I found a coupon code for a free month-long trial and took the plunge. The website has a seemingly endless supply of video led instruction and a handy search tool to find exactly what you're in the mood for. I'm sure I'm missing things by not having fellow students and a teacher alongside me, but being able to explore yoga comfortably at home has been amazing. I found an instructor I really like (thanks Linda!) and have been completing "flows" almost daily. It has been exciting for the poses to become easier and to slowly start to feel better. Less inflexible, less creaky, and little by little a bit stronger. I feel more centered and grounded after each session. Plus with the last couple days of beautiful weather, I've dragged the mat onto the deck and downward dogged with a fantastic view out over the lake. I only wish I had embraced it earlier! 

Just A Little Moment

These flowers, these zinnias, were started from seeds by my dad, driven to NH and planted by my mom, watered by me, and placed in a vase brought to us by visitors from Denmark. Tiny flowers, big love. 

Zen Moment At The Pond

Sometimes when you need a reminder of something, it comes. This little box decorated in blue was part of MJ's yoga studio, greeting students and offering Zen quotes that may make you "smile or shake your head." I was hanging out with my five-month old buddy Helen Jane this past week during her family's visit to Round Pond, and she helped me select a slip of paper from the box. I was struck by how fitting the words seemed in this moment. Maybe it's like horoscopes which are so cleverly written to speak directly to each reader's issue, but it really felt like this blip of poetry was perfectly suited. A reminder to just be - no pressure to feel a certain way, desire anything in particular, or work towards any goal or usefulness. A message I was grateful to receive during this little life pause. Delivered with the help of guardian angels and those they watch over.

Excerpt from Sonnet IV Personal Talk

William Wordsworth

To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,

And listen to the flapping of the flame,

Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

Times They Are A Changin

In the time since I last posted, it feels like everything changed, though it has really been just one change with resulting impacts that accumulate into feeling like an entirely different life - in a good way. I resigned from my job! I don't have another one! We're living at the lake for the summer! I'm taking my time to figure out next steps, trying to be in this incredible moment and savor the opportunity to pause from the 9-5 hubbub and be thoughtful about what I really want to do.

The moments prior to resigning were fraught with stress, anxiety and constant questioning of the reality of taking this cliff dive (it really isn't but it felt like it to me). This job has been my life for 7 years and I've learned so much about arts management, development strategy, best practices in the field, etc. etc. Almost more importantly, I learned a lot about my values and my beliefs. A passion for social justice emerged in a way that I certainly didn't expect. I'll be forever grateful to this job and its people for helping me meet and embrace that part of me.

But it wasn't working anymore. I didn't have the energy, motivation, or enthusiasm for reengaging in a positive way or even for pursuing something else. So here I am taking advantage of this unique time in adult life to take a break, clear the brain, and start applying some thought to what type of work would excite and energize me. Maybe it has nothing to do with non-profits. Maybe it has nothing to do with anything from the first 15 years of my career. Maybe it has everything to do with selling doggy sweaters and matching bowties out of a pickup truck. Who knows, but hopefully this time will serve to both recharge me and bring clarity to my own life and career goals.

My last day on Friday was surprisingly emotional. Change has always been hard, but this was really hard. I think it will take a long time to peel back all the layers of the job, emotions, stress, personalities, and sadness that are swirling about, but the lake provides a relaxing setting to start the process and see what emerges.

World Poetry Day (A Day Late)

In celebration of World Poetry Day (yesterday...oops) I will now rant about poetry. Rejoice.

I love poetry. I wish more people loved poetry. Alas, we live in a world where "reality" shows are the leading form of entertainment and people need everything fed to them in flashing lights competing with all the other flashing lights to be the flashiest lights. Subtlety and sparseness are not exactly the tickets to success these days. And stillness. And effort. It seems that people aren't patient enough to sit with something, think about it, imagine what it could mean, parse out the sound, the images, the feelings it evokes. Instead, we instantly react, critique, bully, and boost ourselves by beating down others. 

On initial glance, poetry doesn't seem to fit our culture anymore. But if I love reading it, wouldn't you imagine others take delight in it? Maybe people could find respite from this crazy world in poems. Maybe poetry could do more to create those pauses and that space for real reflection to happen, like it does for me. Maybe that could somehow reintroduce the idea of real thinking into our society. Maybe people would develop that skill of thought and start to dig one layer into what they see, read, and hear to understand how to determine its truth and value. Wouldn't that make people better and in turn, communities better? Pshaw.

This morning my colleague mentioned a version of an "art CSA" that the local arts council is sponsoring. Similar to organic farm CSAs, where you sign up to receive boxes of locally grown produce throughout the season, the arts version provides you with locally created works of art. In total, you get nine pieces of visual art throughout the year. Brilliant!

I envision a poetry version. Maybe it's new poems by local poets, or maybe it's more of a curation thing like this blog, or maybe the focus is encouraging amateur writers to take up the pen and create something. I know it's a barely formed idea and a pipe dream at best, but at least I have a name.

We'll call it "Poetry to Make America Think Again."